#peeta mellark drabble

[bruisedboys]

peeta mellark !!!! who loves all your insecurities likes it’s breathing <3 and who worships the ground you walk on because you’re his sun!!

peeta who loves your stretch marks even if you don’t. he’ll run his hands over the soft ridges, up and down, over and over. he’ll kiss the ones on your hips when he’s feeling lovesick (which is always) and he likes how you shudder under his mouth, say his name all breathless while you bury your hands in his hair.

peeta who doesn’t care if you don’t shave, it couldn’t bother him less. and if you do want smooth skin, he’ll offer to do it for you, claiming, “I’m an expert, sweetheart. c’mon, can I please?” you never say no, you can’t. he’s unbelievably careful and kisses your knees when he’s done.

peeta who loves your tummy and your thighs!! he’s always got a big warm hand on your thigh, or one under your shirt, kneading your stomach. they’re kind of his favourite parts of you. the parts he can squeeze all his love into. his favourite thing ever is when you wear a big t-shirt to bed so he has easy access to your thighs and tummy <3 better if it’s his t-shirt, of course.

peeta who braids your hair back for you before you sleep, no matter how tired he is. you sit on a cushion on the floor while he sits on the bed, fingers gentle as they card through your hair. sometimes you’ll fall asleep against his knee. he never has the heart to wake you up, so he lifts you into bed himself. you wake for a handful of seconds, enough to murmur a sweet, “thank you, pete.” he kisses your forehead, his way of saying you’re welcome.

peeta who takes your face in his hands when you cry, endlessly gentle. he swipes at your hot tears with his thumbs and curls his fingers behind your ears. “did you know you’re pretty even when you cry?” he’ll say. “how do you do that, hm?”

peeta whose love is hot like stars and infinite. he’ll go to the moon and back for you and he’s not afraid to let you know that <333

[mcsstydia]

Dance with me in the rain - Peeta Mellark

prompt: from these prompts ''I'm right here baby, it's okay'' ''Dance with me in the rain''

pairing: peeta x reader

warnings: nightmares, otherwise only fluff

word count: 1.9k

Masterlist

Peeta and you, you were friends. Well, kind of. You were pretty sure you were in love with him. You weren't as sure regarding his feelings. But you needed him too much, too often, to ruin whatever was going on between you by telling him how you really felt.

What you really felt was electricity whenever he touched you. It was your stomach getting warm and turning at the thought of his lips ever touching yours. It was thinking about him, each and every day, the whole day. It was the desperation of being near him, of having him around, of hearing his laughter and seeing his smile. So you chose the safest way to keep him close: staying friends.

Well, as already mentioned, friends and whatever it was that was going on between the two of you. Because most nights, well, almost every night now, he held you as you went to sleep, and was still there when you woke up, either from nightmares or from the sunrays coming in through your bedroom window.

It had been the same last night. Peeta came over to your house. You opened the door, he took your hand into his warm one, and you went up to your bedroom in silence.

When both of you finally got under the covers was when you really started to talk. In the darkness, in the comfortable silence that came with Peeta's presence, it was alsmot easy talking about what moved your heart the most.

You talked about poverty, about the hunger, Peeta talked about the games. Your problems had decreased ever since Peeta won the games, and you tried to lessen the pains of his memories by drawing circles on his skin when he talked. You held him through his nightmares about the games, he held you through yours about losing him. You never told him exactly about what the darkness of your nightmares consisted of, but you had the vague feeling he knew anyway.

So he held you, this night, as he always did, when you woke up screaming his name frantically. You sat up and your arms flailed around your body, feeling around the matress in panic. Peeta's arms were around you in an instant, stopping your arms from further flapping around. ''I'm right here baby, it's okay.'', he whispered into your hair, and pressed a soft kiss against your temple.

Your fingers tightly warpped around the arm that was draped acrossd your upper body as Peeta rocked you back and forth. His chest pressed into your back as a stream of silent tears flowed down your face. The arm that wasn't wrapped up between your fingers moved soothingly through your hair. Peeta's fingers solved and created knots between your hair strands but whatever he did, it did its part in calming you down, even if it was just the lightest bit.

As your body slowly recovered from the violent shivers that shook it, Peeta pulled you closer, so you leaned fully into him. What had he called you? Baby? Since when did he do that? You tried recalling a time when he had ever said that to you, and you failed. Had he done it accidentally? Where did this come from? What did it mean?

Even now, his lips lingered in your hair, touching your head without pressing them into your skin. The sound of rain splattering against your window began filling the silence of the room. Peeta suddenly shifted behind you, and you thought you did something to ruin it, to make him want to run. Had he realised what he had called you? Had he finally figured out that you were in love with him?

Your heart rate sped up as the thoughts raced around in your head. But instead of getting up and leaving, he shifted his body so his legs were around your body, and tried to catch your gaze. His arms never leaving their embrace around your upper body. You felt completely engulfed by him, you felt safe. You finally caught his eyes, making the corners of his lips twitch into a smile.

''Dance with me in the rain,'', he whispered. To your surprise, he pressed another light kiss onto the skin of your upper arm, and then leaned his head onto your arm, searching your eyes for an answer. In turn, you searched his eyes for a clue of whether he was joking around or whether he really meant it.

Peeta must have sensed your doubts, because he repeated his request. ''I mean it,'', he said, wiping a tear from your cheek and then tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. ''C'mon, let's go outside and dance.'' The tears did not stop filling your eyes when you answered. ''I can't dance.'', you whispered back, hesitant.

A small chuckle escaped Peeta's lips as he rubbed one of his hands down your back. ''Of course you can,''. Slowly, he got up. He didn't let go of you, always touching some part of your body, always keeping you close. As he stood in front of your bed, he held both of your hands. ''C'mon, baby.''

There it was again. Baby. This time it was for sure no accident. It couldn't have been. You let him tug at your hands and pull you out of bed. As you let him pull you to stand, you stood directly in front of him. He closed his arms around you again, and your head rested on his chest in comfort.

When he broke your hug, he did it gently, still never fully removing his touch from you. Downstairs, you put on your shoes. Peeta opened te front door and a shower of rain greeted you, accompanied by the smell of it you adored so much.

Peeta took the first step outside, his hand still in yours. He looked back at you to catch your gaze, encouraging you to follow him. Rain dops were already collecting in his hair, making his blond hair look slightly darker than it was.

Finally, you could feel yourself beginning to smile and you stepped out of the comfort of your home into the rain. Peeta pulled the both of you onto the empty and deserted street. He stopped when you were right in the middle of it, then he took both of your hands into his and pulled your body close to his.

One of his hands grabbed yours firmly, the other landed on your waist. You placed your free hand onto his shoulder, then also leaned your chin upon it. Peeta took the lead, if you could call it that, and swayed both of your bodies from side to side.

The rain fell down onto you, wettening your hair, your clothes, your skin, until you were soaked to the bone. ''What are your nightmares about?'' Peeta suddenly asked, still swaying from side to side. You lifted your chin from its position on Peeta's shoulder to be able to look him in the eyes, contemplating about telling him the truth.

The look in his eyes suddenly told you that you could. ''About losing you,''. Something changed in his expression, but you couldn't quite decipher it. He freed the hand that was clasped in yours and placed it in the back of your neck. He pulled your head into his chest and placed countless kisses on the side of your head, into your hair, onto your temple and your forehead.

Then silence overtook you again, though Peeta was still swaying your bodies from left to right. ''Aren't you gonna ask me what mine are about?'', he whispered into the wet locks of your hair, then placing another kiss into them. His hand was still placed on your neck when you pulled back, just far enough so you could look at him again.

You did so tentatively, still not knowing what your confession did to him. A glint of amusement glistened in his eyes, yet you could not make out why. ''They're about the games.'', you stated, matter-of-factly. His hand came to rest at the side of your face, and you leaned into it out of habit.

''Sometimes, yes,'', he began, never once breaking eye contact when speaking. ''Most of the times, they are about losing you.'' The statement surprised you to say the least, and for a moment you felt dizzy. Your eyebrows rose up in genuine confusion as you stammered for an appropriate answer. ''Wha-.. what? I mean... what? Really?'', you sounded helpless, stupid even. Nonetheless, whatever you stammered, it made another chuckle escape Peeta's lips, his fingers absentmindedly caressing the skin of your cheek.

''Did you not know?'', he asked, smiling. Your confusion and lack of answer made his smile vanish from his face, and his eyebrows drew together in concern. ''Seriously, did you not know?'', he pressed. ''No,'' you asnwered silently, but really, how could you have?

You were about to argue, ask him where he had given you signs, where he had made it obvious, when he cupped both of your cheeks into his hands, as if to shake some sense into you. ''It doesn't matter now,'', he whispered, staring so deeply into your eyes you thought he wanted to read your mind.

''I am desperately in love with you,'', he confessed, shocking you again, your face a clear display of it. ''So much that I cannot stand it when you are not with me, not talking to me, not by my side in any way.'', he continued. Your heart skipped a beat, or two, you didn't know how many, really. Yet you didn't, couldn't, answer him.

''Can you say something?'', he asked, desperate at your lack of reaction other than utter confusion. ''I..'', you began, not knowing why you couldn't voice your feelings. The rain still poured down on your bodies, wettening your faces to a point where water was dripping down your cheeks, your lips, your chins.

Lips. Peeta's lips. You stared at them, then back into his eyes. Then something overtook you, you gripped Peeta by his shirt and pulled him into you, pressing your lips onto his in one swift move. You grasped at his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. Something clicked in him and he tried to pull you closer as well, pressing his lips onto yours with an urge you could not describe. His lips were wet from the rain but still warm.

Your chests heaved heavily with your breaths as you kissed and kissed as though you thought you could never kiss again. One of his hands left your cheeks and he draped it across your back, to keep you as close as possible when your lips finally stopped moving against one another. He leaned his forehead against yours, all parts of your bodies still touching except of your lips.

''I love you,'', you chuckled, making a smile spread across his lips. You have never been as good with words as Peeta was, but you had to let him know either way. ''That's why you are the only one who can calm me down after a nightmare, because it is only you I care about. It is you I love, you whom I cannot spend a day thinking about, spend a day living without.'', you finally confessed.

The smile did not leave Peeta's lips after that. ''I love you too,'', he answered. ''So much.'', he continued, then leaned down to place a delicate on your lips.

Afterwards, you went to Peeta's house, changed into dry clothes, and cuddled up in warm blankets. Peeta held you, and he kissed you, and it was the first night the both of you spent without any nightmares.

[janitorhutcherson]

if you need creamer for your coffee feel free to get it from my pants

[theaawalker]

the last snow to fall ❆ peeta mellark

Pairing: Peeta Mellark x fem!oc Song Inspo: Tethered by Sleeping at Last Word Count: 2,348 Summary: Snow is dead, but his heiress still lives. Does she deserve to be executed? Coin is dead, but her successors still want to have the Capitol Games. How can Peeta Mallark, still recovering from the loss of Katniss, stop it and save her? Warnings: mentions of family death, mentions of whipping, mentions of public executions, mentions of massacres Masterlist: see fandoms (pc-friendly)

"They found the girl," said the nurse.

"What girl?" asked Peeta. He didn't really care, what he wanted was news of Katniss. But he wanted to be polite, and the nurse was careful to keep him up to date on the news while he was stuck in the hospital.

"President Snow's grand-daughter. She disappeared the day of the Slaughter of the Innocents. Turns out that her nanny was hiding her. I hear, that they're both going to be whipped, at the least."

"WHIPPED?" echoed Peeta, his attention suddenly caught.

Peeta frequently thought in visual images, an advantage to a painter. The word WHIP evoked the horrible day in District 12 when Thread was torturing Gale at the whipping post, and Katniss accidentally got hit in the face by the lash trying to rescue her friend. Now take the image of Gale's bleeding back, and imagine a frail Primrose-like girl being tortured instead, and you got an image of utter horror. "Why would they whip them?"

"I don't know," said the nurse. She seemed nonchalant. Maybe she was from a District where beatings were common. Or, more likely, she was numbed by all the recent events: the invasion of the Capitol by the Districts, the Pods that didn't seem to care if they shot innocent bystanders along with the invaders, the Slaughter of the Innocents, the announcement of new Games, the assassination of Coin, dying within minutes of her defeated enemy. But the nurse had promised to bring Peeta news: Peeta was her patient and a Victor and she wanted to keep him happy. "Do you want me to ask?"

Peeta thought about it. It was likely that the city was still in chaos, there was still no reliable news service, and it would be impossible for the nurse to get a credible story.

"No. But please send a message to Plutarch Heavensbee, and tell him that I need to talk to him."

Her eyes opened wide. "HEAVENSBEE? He's involved in all sorts of government business – probably impossible to pull away –"

"Please. Just send the message and I'll see what happens."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you, you're being very helpful." It wasn't her fault that civilization was crashing around them.

After she went out Peeta sank back in the hospital bed, feeling helpless. The last coherent thing he remembered was preventing Katniss from taking the suicide pill, after the assassination of Coin. He had thought that he was saving her life, but had he just saved her for a worse fate?

He had blacked out frequently since then. It was a combination of the pain medicine that he was taking to soothe his burns, and the residual effects of his hijacking. "At least now you're going catatonic instead of flying into homicidal rages," Dr, Aurelius had observed. "I suppose that's an improvement."

Whenever he got coherent and asked about Katniss, he was told that she was still in prison, and seemed to having severe psychological problems of her own. Peeta wanted to help her, but how? And now he had a new worry.

To the nurse's astonishment, Plutarch came the next day – and what's more, made no complaint of being dragged away from important tasks.

"I know that you want to know about Katniss," said Plutarch, "but there's been no change in her legal situation, though basically the debaters have formed two factions. Irene Gold was one of Coin's most trusted assistants, and she wants Katniss executed as an assassin. Paylor claims that Katniss was a hero who cracked under the strain, and can't be held responsible. Popular opinion seems to be on Paylor's side, but nobody has enough power to override the other side."

Peeta was careful not to ask what "side" Plutarch was on. He knew that the old schemer was trying to play one faction against another and try to remain on top. But as far as Katniss was concerned, Peeta knew that Plutarch wanted to save the Mockingjay, even if it required some political chicanery, and Peeta would simply have to trust him.

"There's something else that I wanted to ask. I heard that Snow's grand-daughter has been found and they want to whip her for committing a crime. What's that about?"

"It has to do with the proposed Hunger Games. Gold insists on carrying out Coin's wishes and having a Games with tributes from the Capitol. The rules for the Capitol tributes have not been drawn up yet, but the grand-daughter is an obvious target, and Gold says that she was trying to flee getting reaped into the Games. It's a powerful accusation. What happened in the Districts when somebody eligible for reaping didn't show up?"

"It never happened in 12 – nobody dared," replied Peeta. "But I suppose something nasty would happen to them."

"It's happened occasionally in other districts, and yes, it could be pretty nasty. So now that the shoe is on the other foot, Gold is saying that the Snow girl should be treated equally badly. It's a popular stand, in the Districts."

"But the girl did nothing. She's just a scapegoat."

"So were you. The Hunger Games was always about scapegoats."

Peeta thought it over. "What's Paylor's take on this?"

"She challenges the validity of the vote that you Victors made. She interprets it like this: if Katniss's sanity is in question, her YES vote should be thrown out. Heymitch said he was following Katniss's choice, so his YES vote should also be thrown out. That leaves a 3-2 vote AGAINST the Games. But it's rather legalistic, and popular opinion in the Districts favor the Games. The Capitol doesn't get a choice, of course."

"What's your stand?"

"I don't think I can stop the Games, so I don't think I'll try," Plutarch said frankly. "But until they're set up, you can't accuse the girl of trying to escape them. I tell people that it was perfectly natural for an innocent girl to want to disappear when her grand-father was about to be publicly executed. But I'm not getting many takers. Too much hate going around."

Peeta thought through it. Why was he so concerned about Snow's grand-daughter, of whom he knew nothing? For all he knew, she could be a spoiled brat. But that very lack of knowledge enabled Peeta to think of her as a symbol. She was a child caught up in somebody else's vicious quarrel, just like Rue, like Prim, like -

An idea started forming in his head.

"Plutarch, could you arrange for me to make a speech to the whole nation?"

"A speech? Yes, I'm in the communications ministry, and since you're one of the few remaining Victors, people will be curious about what you have to say. But I don't think you should get involved in the fray at this point. You don't want to make an enemy of Irene Gold."

"I'm not going to challenge Ms. Gold. I'm not even going to talk about Snow's grand-daughter."

"Then what DO you want to say?"

Peeta told him.

"People of Panem, I'm Peeta Mallark, co-Victor of the 74th Hunger Games, and I want to talk to you about those games." It was a weak beginning from the narrative-hook point of view, but Peeta was counting on the public curiosity about Hunger Games Victors, and the 74th Games in particular.

"I'm not going to talk about me, or about Katniss, but about another tribute. Katniss and I didn't even know her name; we called her Foxface, because she was red-headed and smart as a fox. She was the girl from District 5."

"Foxface had high ethical principles. She never touched a weapon during the Games, never tried to hurt anybody. Sheer hunger drove her to pilfer food, but she took only what she needed to survive, and left the rest to the "owner". But as the Games wound down, the food supplies dwindled, and she started to starve. Eventually she became so desperate that she ate some unfamiliar berries, and died."

"Later, stopping at District 5 on our Victory Tour, I tried to learn more about her." That was hard to do, because Snow was trying to make it difficult for the pair to contact fellow Victors, or rebels in general, but Foxface was unimportant enough that Snow didn't mind Peeta's inquiries. "Her real name was Finch. She was studying engineering, so that she could get a job in District 5's power industries when she grew up. Her teachers told me that she was one of their best students, even working on a new battery that would store energy better. But before she could finish her work, she was reaped into the Hunger Games and spent her last days dodging murderous tributes in a forest arena and dying of hunger when she could have been advancing science. What did the inventive, decent girl do to deserve such a horrible fate? Nothing. She was the descendant of a generation and district who had rebelled against the Capitol, and that was enough to make her life worthless in the eyes of the Capitol."

"So once more we talking once more about having a Hunger Games. About declaring a group of children worthless and throwing their lives away. Is that how we want to start the new Panem, slaughtering innocents again? Think about it."

"Your speech worked," said Plutarch. "The Council responded to the new public mood, and abandoned the planned Games. Gold eventually gave in, but only after losing a lot of support. Paylor's more powerful now, and maybe she can protect Katniss. And from a much broader view, I think you've persuaded the empire not to stick to Panem's bloody path, but to try to transcend them."

"Good. But I can't claim all the credit. I just encouraged people to think it through."

"Whatever. Now, I've brought a guest who wants to meet you." Plutarch went to the door of the hospital room and brought in a young blonde girl who was wearing her hair in a one-sided braid like Katniss's.

"Hello, Mr. Mellark," she said respectfully. "I'm Jan Snow. I wanted to thank you for saving me and the other Capitol kids. Mr. Heavensbee said all this started because you were shocked about the threat to me, so I owe you special thanks."

"You're welcome."

"There are a couple of things I think you should know. My mother was assassinated when I was a baby, you know. Just recently I was able to get hold of some letters she wrote to friends. She told them that she hated the carnage of the Games, and that she would try to reform them if she became President. I think somebody learned about her views, and murdered her to keep the Games going. It – it might even have been Grandpa."

"Sounds like your mother is a hero, then."

"There's another thing. I'm grateful for your attempts to protect me from punishment, but I've decided to let them w-whip me." She shuddered.

"WHAT? You were innocent!"

"Am I? I've heard a lot about the suffering out in the Districts. Children dying in infancy, or being malnourished, or killed in the Games, or beaten for not following orders, all so that Capitol kids like me could be spoiled rotten. People hate the Capitol, and particularly my Grandpa, for a reason. I ought to pay for it."

"No, no, no. If you've done something wrong and feel guilty, that's one thing. But you – you're acting like Katniss. She keeps feeling guilty about killing tributes in the Games, or encouraging fighting in the rebellion, and supposedly provoking Snow into bombing District 12. Katniss can't see the big picture, that she was caught up in a worldwide crisis. It's healthy to feel responsibility, but not to seek out punishment for stuff that was far beyond your control."

"But—"

Peeta felt sorry for the girl. Katniss had been guided by the inspiring memory of her dead father. Jan Show had had no moral guidance at all but an evil grandfather. She was now learning horrid stuff that she had probably been hidden from her during most of her life, and was trying to figure the right thing to do. Maybe Peeta could give her that guideance.

"I saw a friend tied to a whipping post and flogged. Nothing moral or redeeming about it. It just HURT him, a lot. It was part of a Panem that doesn't exist anymore. The nightmare is OVER. No more Games. We're going to build a new Panem now. You want to do penance for something? Help build it!"

A month later Paylor was elected President of Panem, defeating her rival Irene Gold. She confirmed the abolition of the Games, banned the use of whips for punishment, and commuted Katniss Everdeen's sentence to exile on the grounds of diminished mental capacity. And along with some supporters, she is hailed in history books for leading Panem into a new enlightened age.

THE END

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𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬

kiss it better ᯓ after being struck by a peacekeeper, coryo puts aside his differences to clean you up.

here we are ᯓ you and coriolanus decide to visit the lake.

take care of you ᯓ coriolanus needs to learn how to relax.

wildflower ᯓ you make coriolanus feel like he's losing control.

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[slaymitchabernathy]

& remember kids, the next time you think, “oh, the government wouldn’t create an annual pageant where twenty four children fight to the death until one of them comes out alive as a punishment” & base the entire thing off of a drunk joke.

oh yes they would.

[anatay004]

𝐨𝐧𝐞 - 𝐭𝐰𝐨 - 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 - 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 - 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 - 𝐬𝐢𝐱 - 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 - 𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

𝐨𝐧𝐞 - 𝐭𝐰𝐨 - 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 - 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 - 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞

𝐢𝐦𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤

ꜰɪɴɴɪᴄᴋ ɢᴇᴛꜱ ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰʟɪʀᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘᴇᴇᴛᴀ. ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴘɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ᴏꜰꜰ. ꜱᴏ, ʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ

won’t you let an innocent woman be? (coming soon)

𝖥𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖥𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖾. 𝖤𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀. 𝖸𝗈𝗎, 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾, 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗍. 𝖮𝗋, 𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁, 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝖥𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀.

[bruisedboys]

reader and peeta showering together after a hard day (just some innocent intimacy nothing suggestive) 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻 love this man sm 😭🤞🏻🤞🏻

!!!!!! thank you for the req angel <3 this inspired me so so much! thanks for kickstarting my writing for peeta era hehe

peeta mellark x fem!reader 16+ please for non-sexual nudity. not really in universe but can read as post mockingjay if you want it to!

Peeta’s sketching on the bed when you come inside. One knee propped up with his back against the wall behind the bed, his sketchbook pressed against his thigh. His golden hair falls over his forehead, messy where he’s been too distracted by his drawing to push it back.

He looks up when you enter, smiling a bruising smile you don’t feel deserving of.

“Hey. Hey, sweetheart.” It’s alarming how quickly he sets aside his book and pencil to reach for you, as if he hadn’t been immersed in his sketching mere seconds ago. “C’mere, I missed you.”

As much as you’d like to be wrapped in his strong arms right now, you’re filthy, and he’s just changed the sheets earlier today.

“I can’t. I’m all dirty, see?” You wiggle your dirt-covered hands at him. You’ve been in the garden all afternoon. Time drifted away from you as you planted a new batch of tomato seeds. By the time you were done, the sun was setting and you hadn’t even realised. Your knees are stained dark brown and you’ve got dirt up to your elbows. “I’ll shower first, then we can cuddle. Sorry, baby.”

Peeta looks decidedly put out. You turn away from him before he can convince you any further, because you know if he looks at you like that for much longer you’ll give in. You pull fresh clothes from your side of the dresser and then move down the hallway to the bathroom.

The showers warming up and you’re starting to undress when Peeta knocks on the door. It’s unlocked, and he doesn’t have to, but he knocks anyway.

“It’s me,” he says. Who else would it be? You think. Silly man. “Can I come in?”

You pull the door open for him instead of answering. You’re halfway out of your clothes but it doesn’t phase him. Sure, he looks, but not for long, and not in a way that would suggest anything other than affection.

“Hey,” he says. He pushes the door closed behind him. The shower runs in the background, a peaceful thrum. “Do you mind if I join you? You can say no.”

You huff a soft laugh. He should know by now that saying no to him is a near impossible feat. “Yeah, of course. I don’t mind.”

You finish undressing quickly, eager to be clean and warm. Peeta leaves to get fresh towels while you hop in under the hot spray. The majority of the dirt on your skin has been rinsed by the time he gets back. You hear him moving around the bathroom for a minute or so before he pulls the shower curtain aside. You let him in, moving aside to make space for him. It’s tight, but it’s not uncomfortable. Weirdly, it’s almost a perfect fit for the two of you.

Peeta moves under the shower head and the water quickly drenches one half of his hair and one of his shoulders. His big hand slides over your hip and he carefully moves you into a position where you’ve both got equal spray.

“Hi,” he says, smiling. He’s so close you could count his freckles, each light brown spot scattered across his collarbones.

“Hello,” you say back. His thumb rubs your hipbone, up down, up down. “Is it too warm?”

“No, it’s perfect.”

You smile and touch your palm to his cheek. “You okay?” You’re not asking because he seems out of sorts. You’re asking because you want to know, and if he’s not he’ll tell you. He does the same for you. It’s just how you love each other.

Peeta nods. “Yeah, I’m okay. How did your gardening go?”

You beam. You love that he cares about what you care about. “Good. We’ll have tomatoes growing out of our ears by summer, I think.”

Peeta laughs. It’s a brilliant sound that bounces off the shower walls and warms your chest. “Awesome,” he grins. Then, “Hey, you’ve got dirt under your ear.” He reaches behind you to grab the flannel hanging on the shower caddy. “Look that way for me?”

He holds you still with a hand at your jaw and rubs the dirt from your skin so gently you barely feel it. His touch is like a magnet — you’re drawn to it over and over again, no matter how generously he gives it to you. When he asks if he can wash your hair, you’d be crazy if you said no.

“Yeah, please,” you tell him, past caring how desperate and needing of his touch and love you are. He knows, anyway.

Peeta turns you by the hips so your back is to him, then gently tilts your head backwards. You hand him your shampoo and he squeezes a dollop onto his hands, rubbing his palms together before spreading the bubbles over the top of your head. He’s very, very gentle with it, much more than you’ve ever been, massaging the soapy, sweet-smelling bubbles into your hair, fingers rubbing circles onto your scalp. His dedicated touch, along with the gentle thrum and warmth of the shower spray, is enough to almost put you to sleep.

“Okay, you can rinse now,” Peeta speaks up. His tone is soft and you suspect he’s noticed your sleepiness. He gets very soft with you when you’re tired. “Shut your eyes, please.”

You do as he says and he directs you under the spray. He holds a hand over your forehead like a barrier so the bubbles can’t escape and sneak into your closed eyes. The action in itself makes your chest ache. He cares more than you could ever comprehend.

When he’s done rinsing you finish scrubbing the dirt from your knees, your elbows. Peeta washes his own hair, and you help him rinse the same way he did for you.

“Thank you, angel,” he says. Warm water and soapy bubbles stream over his shoulders, his neck. His eyelashes are wet, clinging to each other in sparkly triangles. He dips down and kisses your shoulder, then your cheek. “Love you.”

You beam. You love him more than anything. You get on your toes to kiss him properly, a warm press of your mouth on his, a promise for more of the same later, when you’re clean and dry and fed. “Love you too, Peeta.”

-

thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if u enjoyed 🤍

[mcsstydia]

Protect you - Peeta Mellark

prompt: you won the 73rd hunger games. and now you've fallen for the male tribute of the 74th. although he made it out alive, the two of you are now tributes for the third quarter quell.

pairing: peeta mellark x reader

Warnings: angst about the games

A/N: what can I say? I'm in love again....

word count: 2.2k

Masterlist

It was the sound of an earth-shattering thunder that finally awoke you from yet another nightmare. You opened your eyes just in time for them to catch a glimpse of a lighting through your open window. You slowely got to your feet and walked towards the window. Droplets of rain were already making their way onto your bedroom floor.

You leaned against the window still and gazed out into the stormy night. Rain and storms had always been something that calmed you. Whereas most other people groaned upon the arrivl of a storm, or fled into their homes when their skin began to wetten, your eyes lightened up whenever the skies cloudened.

Your nightmare had, of course, been about the upcoming quarter quell. You were scared to death about it. Not about dying, no. The 73rd hunger games, in which you had participated (and won) had already done their part about scaring you about dying.

No, this time, you were scared about Peeta. The boy from your district, who was just one year younger than you, and who you had, unfortunately, deeply fallen in love with. You see, when haymitch chose Katniss to survive in the arena of last year's games, you chose Peeta. You did everything in your power to protect him.

You flirted with sponsors, you spoke so highly of Peeta anything someone else would say about him would be uncomparable. Hell, you would have even slept with a sponsor had it meant you would get Peeta out of the games alive. Then you had the idea with Katniss and Peeta playing the star-crossed lovers.

the idea tugged at your heart, yes, but the feeling was nothing compared to the small sense of hope it gave you that Peeta could actually live a full life after the games. You knew in an instant that would mean that you could never be with him, not in a romantic sense, anyway. But it didn't matter. You would have given up everything for him. Even your own life.

And you were right, it didn't matter that you could not be with him. Because at this year's quarter quell, you would die anyway. President Snow wanted as many victors dead as possible, you knew that. Especially you, since you had the idea with the star-crossed lovers that led to two victor's in the games of last year.

So it was only fair that you volunteered when Katniss's name was drawn for the quarter quell. It wasn't her fault. It was yours. You didn't have anyone to come home to, anyway. Your family was dead, hers was still alive.

What did not make sense, and still does not, is why Peeta volunteered when Effie drew Haymitch's name. Peeta was in love with Katniss. You could see it, everytime he looked at her. Also, he was supposed to be in love with Katniss, otherwise everyone of you four would be in great trouble. Well, you were now, anyway. So why did he volunteer? Why did he throw away his life, the one you fought so hard for? The one you wanted him to have?

Another lightning struck, bringing you back to reality. You looked down onto the street of the victor's village. You had a direct view of Peeta's house, as it was across from yours. This is the reason you could see Peeta so clearly standing in his kitchen on the ground floor.

You cought his gaze, saw him looking up at you. For a moment, he looked almost embarassed. It was a facial expression you had never seen on him, which brought a smile to your lips. He averted his gaze and turned around and you thought he would just go back upstairs into his bedroom again. Instead, you watched him put on shoes and a jacket, turn off the light in the kitchen, and then open and close his front door.

You had to wonder for about one second about where he could possibly go before you noticed he was heading for your house. Your cheeks heated up and you shook your head, willing the redness to go away before you had to open your front door.

Peeta didn't knock or rang the bell, and you opened the door in silence after you ran down the stairs. There he stood, a shy grin spread on his lips and hands burried deep into the pockets of his sweatpants.

''Hi,'', he whispered, and it took everything in you not to grin out od excitement. But why, though? Why should you pretend the sight of him at your front door didn't set your heart ablaze? Who should you pretend for, anymore? In a few days, you would be dead, so why not let the boy know you were happy to see him?

A cautious, but genuine smile began to occupy your lips as you stepped aside, further opened your front door, and let him enter your house. You quietly closed the door behind him, and as you turned towards him, he had already rid himself of his jacket and shoes.

You took him in. All of him. You had to, for the last few days of your life. You could not let anything about him go unnoticed. You wanted to die being able to draw him from memory, to know every detail about him. You cuaght his gaze and you could tell he knew you were studying him.

It was no longer embarrassing. Why should it be? Nothing mattered anymore. ''Tea?'', you asked, voice quiet but not hoarse. ''Sure'', Peeta replied, his voice smooth and calming. The two of you went into the kitchen. You stood on opposite ends of your kitchen table as you waited for the water to boil.

The silence was not uncomfortable, yet you had to break it, you had to ask him, to finally know why he had to put himself in the games again when you worked to hard to get him out of the first ones.

''Why did you do it?'', you asked, staring out of your kitchen window, watching the rain fall mercilessly onto the ground. You turned towards Peeta now, but from the look on his face, you could tell he knew what you were talking about.

His gaze faced the floow, before finally, slowly, setting on you. He took a breath. ''You deserve to know,'', he said, to no one in particular. Your eyebrows drew together in confusion, yet you didn't push him, you knew he would tell you what you wanted to know anyway.

His gaze again dropped to the floor, but when he focused his eyes on yours again, this time, they stayed there. Peeta took another breath, this time seeming sure, seeming certain, his eyes not looking away from yours for even a second.

''You.'', he breathed out. Before you could react at all, either in confusion or acceptance, he continued. ''Because there isn't anything in this world I wouldn't do for you. Because I would rather die protecting you in the arena than live a life without you entirely. Because I want you to be the last person I see before I die. Because you are everything, everything to me. Because I love you.''

For a moment, it was so quiet all you could hear were the deafening sounds of the rain outside, and the blood pumping in your ears on the inside. Your breath got caught in your throat for a second too long, so when you exhaled, it was loud, almost a sound of relief.

Your heart was beating rapidly, telling you to go to him, kiss him, hug him, cry, for god's sake, do anything! But all you could bring yourself to say was: ''But, Katniss?'', it wasn't a full question, let alone a sentence, but yet again, Peeta seemed to have the ability to understand you without further ado.

''If you haven't noticed, I'm a pretty good actor,'', was all he said. He searched your eyes for a sign for, well, anyhing. Peeta took a tentative step towards you, still trying to decipher what you were thinking now.

''So it was all...'', you began. ''The act you proposed? Yes. I did everything you asked of me. Nothing more. I love Katniss, yes. As a friend. But who I cannot spend my life without is standing right in front of me. And I could not let you go into that arena, let alone let you die, without telling you.'', he explained.

The words were still registering in your head, your heart still beating loud and fast, urging you to finally give in to the feelings you had harboured for so long. This changed everything. ''But,'' you began.

''I'm your mentor,'', you said stupidly. There were a thousand things you wanted to tell him, and this was the one you came up with? Your statement actually elicited a laugh from the boy you would, quite literally, die for.

''Actually, your my fellow tribute now.'', he corrected you. You stayed silent, eyes trained on him, mouth shut out of fear. What good would it be, to tell him you felt the same way? You would be dead in a few days, and you would, again, do everyting so he could live.

''Look,'', he began, and with another two steps finally closed the distance between the two of you. Tentatively, and all the while looking for clues on your face that you wanted him to stop, he raised his right hand and cupped your cheek. This was it. You finally gave in. You leaned your head into the comfort of his warm, smooth hand and closed your eyes in contentment.

''You don't have to say anything back, but I wjust wanted you to know. I wanted you to know why I volunteered. And I wanted you to know why I will do everything in my power so you get out of that arena alive.'', his voice was quiet now. You had opened your eyes again, and he searched your eyes for a clue about what you were thinking.

Stupid boy! Stupid, stupid boy. To think you would let him die for you! To think your heart was yearning for anyone's but his!

''I love you,'', you finally whispered. Although you were furious with him. ''I love you so much it hurts. It hurt seeing you with Katniss, but it was the only way to get you out of there alive. I had to pretend it didn't hurt, when I knew I could never be with you. Oh, but hurt it did! It hurts even more now, to know you will go into that arena again!'', you averted your gaze from the blue of his eyes, afraid your body would betray you and tears would start pouring from your eyes.

Peeta's hand on your cheek guided your head back so you had to look at him again. ''I wanted to protect you,'', he whispered, and leaned his forehead against yours. ''And I wanted to protect you!'', you almost exclaimed, overwhelmed will all orts of feelings.

You looked deep into his eyes, a place where you wished you could stay forever. ''I can't let you do this Peeta, I can't-'', you were cut off by the soft feeling of this lips on yours.

For a moment, everything around you started spinning. You could now feel both of his hands engulfing your face. You could feel the warm breath fanning over your face, intermingling with yours. You ciuld feel the warmth of his body, drawing you into him. Your hands found the hems of his shirt and you held on tightly, afraid you would pass out if you didn't.

And, of course, you could feel his lips, and how they felt as they pressed and moved against yours. You had dreamed about this experience before. You had wondered how it would feel like, how he would taste, and smell. But nothing could have ever prepared you for how your stomach turned into excited knots, and how his lips were so smooth and how he tasted of toothpaste and smelled what you could only describe as home.

After some time, you had no telling of how long it had been, the both of you slowly pulled apart. Your eyes stayed closed a little while longer, your lips wore a genuine, content smile. When you opened your eyes, Peeta looked at you as if you were his whole world, and you wondered how you had missed this look for so long.

''I love you so much, you could never understand just how much,'',he whispered, and placed a delicate, but far too short-lasting kiss on your lips. ''I have a feeling I understand it quite well,'', you replied and took one of his hands into yours, caressing his fingers with yours.

''Will you stay with me tonight?'', you asked, hope glinting in your eyes. Peeta softly put a strand of losse hair behind your ear. ''I would do absolutely anything for you, love.'', he replied, and you believed him.

Tea long forgotten, the both of you went upstairs int your bedroom. You spent the night together. You cuddled, you kissed, neither of your knowing how much time you had left together, but both of you knowing you would do everything for the other.

[janitorhutcherson]

Apocolypse (Mike Schmidt Fluff)

haiii guys mike schmidt fluff that’s not edited that i wrote for sophie girl plz enjoy💕

——————

It was cold, rainy, dark, and the mild smell of mildew wafted through the kitchen from the leak we were far too broke to fix as I stirred a pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove for the 100th time this week. Abby’s comfort food, spaghetti, had been the only thing she’d promised to scarf down this week, since she’d reverted back to her state of pre-teen defiance. Mike had refused to oblige in the beginning, but I reminded him that this was not the first instance of this, and that a week later she’d be back to normal.

There was a constant tsunami of negativity in my head, convincing me I belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once. The Schmidt family were my family, too. I knew this. Mike reminded me of this every day he called me ‘wife’ as an endearing pet name, when he would remind me that we need to go grocery shopping for our shared space, or when he’d mention a planned future vacation. Abby called me her sister, told me she loved me, and even called me names during fights as if I were blood.

This was home, but why couldn’t I allow myself to relax as if it was?

Abby was currently in her room, finishing up some homework she had so desperately tried to avoid until Mike demanded she get it done before dinner. Mike was nowhere to be seen, that is, until a pair of arms drifted around my waist, kissing my neck and interrupting my endless flow of mind numbing thoughts. My brain refocused on the task at hand, the sound of Apocalypse by Cigarettes After Sex playing from the low radio in the background, adding a softer ambience to what once felt like a tense space.

Mike’s body tensed up against mine as our skin touched, almost as if my muscles had sent him a single of distress, calling out for help like some sort of helpless stranded person at sea. His chin fell down to rest on my shoulder, his breathing heavy against my ear as he slowly began to sway to the music as he always did. He loved music and always had. Soft melodies quickly replaced the habit of crickets and rustling leaves at night, something I’d soon grown accustomed to after many nights of sleeping aside a snoring Mike Schmidt.

“You okay, baby?” Mike asked sweetly in my ear, continuing to sway side to side as I stared down at the spaghetti sauce that was seconds from burning if I didn’t refocus my attention. I leaned forward, turning the eye of the stove off and pushing the pot back, allowing the boiling pasta to continue to cook. I didn’t react to Mike, causing him to shift from foot to foot, the change in his weight distribution felt in my back. “C’mon, honey, talk to me,” he mumbled out, spinning my body around so that my back was leaned against the stove, my eyes facing into his worried hazel ones.

A sigh escaped my lips as I noticed the worry etched into his face, a sight that always made my stomach drop and my heart pound in a bitter sweet way.

He cared, but he cared so much he was hurt.

My eyebrows furrowed as I forced a smile and Mike frowned, shaking his head. He didn’t say much else but instead mumbled a simple ‘come here,’ and once again his arms were wrapped around my waist, this time in a loose manner. He began to sway our bodies back and forth again, this time with his forehead placed on mine. I could feel his breath and hear the loud ‘thump’ of his heartbeat and I couldn’t help but to smile, closing my eyes and basking in the moment.

Got the music in you, baby, tell me why…

As the music played, Mike leaned over and turned the radio up, his hips now moving with mine at a less subtle but still melodic pace. His hands rubbed gentle circles at the small of my back as his giddy smile seeped directly into my core, causing my cheeks to heat up as he looked at me with that love struck look that hit every single receptor possible in my body.

You’ve been locked in here forever…

“God, you’re so fucking gorgeous,” Mike muttered to me, furrowing his eyebrows as he leaned forward to press a soft, sweet, tender kiss to my lips. Fireworks went off in every part of my body as I felt like I was vibrating, my head starting to spin.

And you just can’t say goodbye…

A small laugh left my lips of embarrassment as I looked into his eyes, my arms hooking around his neck as I moved my body with his now, pressing my body to mold with his perfectly as it always did. We were like complex decorative lego pieces clicking into place every time, made for each other in a way that we couldn’t fit with anyone else. I closed my eyes for a moment, basking in everything I could.

“Your lips, my lips,” Mike sang out loud this time, his teeth showing with his cheesy grin. He was off key and he sang it low, his voice cracking, but god, I didn’t care. It was like an angelic siren song from heaven to me.

“Apocalypse…” We finished off singing together, both of our eyes now closed as we basked in the love that beamed off of the other. I became painfully aware of my silence, the thoughts that once drowned my brain like a tsunami taking over subsiding. I took a short but steady breath as I played with the baby hairs on the back of his neck.

“I love you, Mike Schmidt,” I said, my voice dripping with sap that it always did when my feelings for him became overwhelmingly apparent. Mike’s eyes opened to lock with mine once more as once of his hands came up to rest on my check. “And how I love you, sweetheart,” he practically sang out, our lips locking in one final quick peck.

Perhaps I did belong here, because even in the simpler moments where everything was suffocating, Mike Schmidt was there, his lips, my lips, a perfect puzzle piece snapping into place

I am always home in his arms.

[x-gabrielle-x]

Tides Of Survival | 3

Pairings: Finnick Odair x Reader.

Warnings: Blood, gore, violence, murder, swearing, major and minor injuries, death, (eventual) smut, mentions of prostitution.

Summary: The white swan of the Capitol; gracious, elegant, and innocent. You catch many of the Capitol's attention in your games, whether that was due to your agility, cleverness, or looks in all, even managing to capture the gaze of your young mentor and old friend, Finnick Odair.

Series Masterlist | Pinterest Board

"The female tribute for the sixty-fifth Hunger Games... Gwenn Livestone!"

You felt a wave of relief wash over you as soon as the name was spoken. It wasn't you; you were safe for another year. A pang of sympathy struck when you saw a younger girl crumble to the floor in sobs. Blonde and small, she couldn't have been any older than twelve. Her body shook violently in trembles, and her desperate cries filled the hall in echoes. Nobody spoke, only watched as the girl at her side, possibly a friend or classmate, attempted to get her back onto her shaky feet.

Two Peacekeepers strode over within seconds, grasping the young girl from under her arms and practically dragging her up the stairs of the stage. Her wails grew louder, and her face was streaked with hot tears. You watched as the two Peacekeepers roughly threw her to the floor in a heap, her crying out at the impact against her knees.

You noticed Electra Vantell, the escort for this year's tributes, visibly cringe at the noise. There was no sadness you could detect on her painted face, only the wide grin that practically split her face in half. She went to awkwardly cover her ears, waving her hand dismissively at the girl, Gwenn.

"Oh, hush now. You don't need to make your cries any louder," she spoke, and you watched as Gwenn tried desperately to hold in her tears.

Electra dressed head to toe in a twinkling blue as if to match with the sea. Her hair was styled as if to mimic the District Four waves, and you could faintly see the small details of what looked to be fish on her dress. You wondered how it could ever be comfortable to wear, your skin feeling itchy just by looking at it.

Clearing her throat into the microphone, voice chirpy as ever, she spoke.

"And for the boys..."

As if it were instinct, you turned your head to the left in search of a pair of green eyes and a mop of blonde hair. Through the crowd of boys, you managed to spot Finnick hidden within them a few rows back, however he wasn't looking at you. His gaze was set forward, stoic and hard, his shoulders tense with nerves. Usually, you could read Finnick easily, but now as you looked at him, you wondered what was going through his head. His jaw was clenched and hair dishevelled, and you found yourself unable to look away. Even as your stomach was churning at the small possibility, Finnick seemed to be holding his emotions much better than you.

Electra's voice broke your thoughts, and you watched with your heart hammering as she reached into the round fishbowl, digging her hand in and swirling the slips of paper around as if taunting. Finally grasping a small slip between her thin fingers, she eagerly unfolded it before reading over the name.

"Finnick Odair!"

The bile rose into your throat, heart plummeting like it had been ripped from you.

Finnick Odair was now a tribute.

You hoped, prayed, that it was nothing more than a horrible nightmare. A nightmare that you'd be able to laugh about with him when you woke up, but reality set in when you turned back to where you originally saw Finnick. He stepped out of the crowd and began walking his way toward the stage, no falter or hesitation in his steps.

This was very, very real.

He sauntered past, all eyes trained on him and even some small gasps emitting from the crowd. Finnick was a well-loved boy within the district. You could barely hold yourself up right when for only a brief moment, his gaze flickered to yours. Still, you couldn't place his expression, and it bothered you beyond belief. He shouldn’t ever have to be hiding his emotions from you.

You even felt the stares of many others on you - all filled with pity. It was no secret that the two of you were close. His gaze averted away from you quickly as he stepped up the short steps and stood tall beside a trembling Gwenn.

Despite the pain in your chest, despite the loss you felt, despite your fear, you didn’t feel any tears. You couldn't, wouldn’t cry now. You could only keep your eyes locked on him, looking over him and all his features as though it may just be the last time.

Perhaps it was.

You didn't listen to any more of Electra's ridiculous comments. You didn't even notice the hall slowly begin to empty out. It wasn't until you watched Finnick and Gwenn being escorted into a smaller room behind them that you were already moving on your feet, practically stumbling due to your knees nearly giving out.

You ran to the Peacekeepers stood in front of the door they'd just entered, the wood and paint chipped away with age. Your heart was pounding with fear, the thought that they'd leave without getting a goodbye was terrifying.

The Peacekeepers only stood in silence as you swallowed thickly, fingers itching to pull at your dress uncomfortably with every passing second.

"I need to see Finnick Odair. Please." Your voice cracked at the end, and this time you could feel the hot tears gathering at your waterline, threatening to spill. With only a curt nod, the first Peacekeeper swung open the door.

"Three minutes," he said behind the mask, but you were already running in before he could finish. You heard the door click quietly behind you, and looking over to your right in the small room, there he sat.

Finnick was already facing you, and instead of the stoic expression he held only minutes before, his face was streaked with tears. He was sat on a poorly made wooden chair, knuckles white as he clenched them into fists.

"Finn." Your voice broke, and your tears began to fall freely.

Upon hearing your voice, his head snapped up just in time to see you throwing yourself into his arms, sobbing. He held you tighter than ever, your tears soaking into the fabric of his sea-blue shirt. You felt his body shake in your hold as you grasped at him tighter, feeling his warmth and inhaling his scent.

"Please, Finn." Your voice was muffled with sobs, and you weren't even sure he could fully understand what you were saying. Not with him sniffling into your shoulder, holding back his own cries. "Please come back home.”

You pulled away only slightly to get a good look at his face. Despite his eyes being slightly red from crying, they were still their vibrant green.

He bit his lip, hard, looking at you as his gaze flickered over your face as if trying to remember every curve, every freckle, every dimple. He lightly shook his head, mind searching for words.

"I will," he assured. You could hear the unease in his tone despite him trying to appear confident. "I will," he repeated as if trying to make himself believe it. He even attempted to flash a small smile, though it barely masked his fear.

"You will," you confirmed with a wobbling lip. You glanced down at your hand, taking a step away from him and pulling off the small bracelet from your wrist. Finnick watched with furrowed brows as you took his hand into your own, placing the bracelet onto his wrist.

He examined it carefully. Seashells of varying colors and a small worn string. He knew this bracelet well.

He shook his head. "I can't take this, Y/N."

He tried to take it off, but you quickly stopped him.

"I want you to have it as your token." You attempted a weak smile. "It was important to my Ma; I want you to have it."

He stared down at it, glancing back up at you and pulling you into one last crushing hug. You accepted just as fast, your grip tighter when you heard the door swing open again behind you.

"Times up."

Before you were pulled away from him, he whispered one last thing into your ear.

“I’ll win, I promise.”

You felt your grip slip when the Peacekeeper took you by the arm, and the last you saw of Finnick was his piercing eyes locked on your own.

You didn't know whether you were relieved that Finnick quickly became a Capitol favorite or unsettled by the fact he was adored so much.

The first few days after Finnick had arrived in the Capitol, it was no secret that he quickly became a favorite. His charm, confidence, cunningness and striking looks had them obsessed. He showed none of the fear he held when you last saw him. He refused to let them see. Instead, as his carriage strode through the streets, he held his bright, dashing smile that caused for loud cheers and praise. His hand was up in the air as he waved into the crowd, though you knew Finnick all too well. You could see the hesitation in each wave through the small television in your home, the unease in his eyes behind every smile, the way his fingers gripped at the edge of the carriage like a source of stability.

They loved him, but for all the wrong reasons.

He was layered in beautiful fabrics, a combination of bright blues and greens as if to mimic seaweed and the shimmering ocean. A knotted rope dangled from around his neck like a necklace and his torso was left bare. Jewels and pearls were weaved delicately into the fabric at his waist that glimmered within the bright lights. Beside him, Gwenn was dressed mostly similarly, though her hair was curled into loose waves and adorned in seashells. The clothes she was dressed in did little to cover her body, and you couldn't imagine how she must've felt with all the prying eyes. She looked so tiny and out of place compared to Finnick who stood beside her looking tall and proud, shrinking into herself and hands desperately trying to cover anything they could.

Throughout the rest of the week, Finnick and the rest of the tributes hadn't been shown much. You figured it was because they'd be training within the Capitol, preparing for what the games were to bring. It made you physically ill, and every few hours you were running to the bathroom to empty the contents within your stomach at the thought. Your poor father had tried everything in his best efforts even whilst at work. He couldn't afford to take any days off, so he'd ask friends from your school to come and check in on you every so often. Later in the evening when he was home, he'd sit beside you and offer any bits of food he could get you to eat.

“You need to eat, baby,” he pressed his lips to your forehead as he held up a fork to put into your hand. You took it, but only poked and prodded at the food set on the plate before you.

“Finnick is strong and smart,” he said, hand brushing through your hair. “He’ll be fine.”

Even during the night, your father would slowly peek through the crack in your door only to find you curled up into a ball and crying into the sheets on your bed. All he could do was sit beside you and hold you close, murmuring apologies into your ear which only made you feel worse. Why was he apologising for things that were beyond his control? He shouldn’t have to apologise; it wasn’t him bringing you, or Finnick, this pain.

The day the interviews were being broadcast you were already at the edge of your seat. It had been a while since you'd seen Finnick’s face, heard his voice. The moment Caesar announced for the District Four male tribute to enter the stage, you nearly jumped off your seat when Finnick walked into view. Clad in fishing nets and seaweed-like fabrics, he strode in as if he'd owned the stage. Again, his expression held no signs of fear or anger, only the act that he'd seemed to have perfected for the audience over the weeks. Caesar's booming laughter filled the room at every one of Finnick's jokes and comments to the crowd. The Capitol's Sweetheart, Caesar had named him.

"Finnick," Caeser cackled, wiping away a fake tear. "Your District must love you! You do plan to win these games, don't you?"

Finnick, charming as ever, flashed a grin into the crowd. "Of course. I'd be leaving too many good things behind if I didn't. Plus, I made a promise.”

When the morning of the games arrived, you found that you didn't sleep at all throughout the night. Plagued with nightmares and what you hoped would never happen. You were a wreck. Your head was throbbing from days without proper food and water, and you were exhausted. The moment the games had begun to be live-streamed, you refused to move from your seat, gaze glued to the screen. A part of you wanted to watch, to ensure that Finnick was ok and well protected, though the other part of you wanted nothing more than to look away from the bloodshed and gore. You had to keep a bucket at your side, face pale and flushed.

The fear within you was haunting. You weren't sure how you'd cope if somebody were to drive a giant blade through Finnick's abdomen or watch as he struggled to survive without food.

The moment the gong had gone off; you watched as he launched himself off his plate and dashed toward the cornucopia. Within seconds there was death and bloodshed. You'd realized early on that Finnick had managed to join an alliance, retrieving a spear from within a crate and fending off anybody who came at him. Your heart was pounding so hard you swore it was about to burst out of your chest. Finnick was fighting off a girl, the one from District Six, you'd realized, and you swallowed thickly as his spear drove into her chest. Her body fell limp to the floor in blood, and you noticed the way he hovered over her, eyes trained on the crimson that spilled from her and pooled at his feet. Finnick was good at hiding his emotions, but you knew him better. You wanted more than anything to assure him, to help him forget his fears and worries, the regret in his gaze was almost haunting. Without a word, he drew the spear out from her corpse and made his way over to his formed alliance.

The arena was surrounded by water, small islands and tall trees. You began to have more hope that perhaps he really could win, even more so when he began to receive sponsor gifts; medicines, food, and a golden trident that was beautifully crafted and detailed. Finnick, though littered with cuts and small injuries, was easily making it through the days in the arena.

On multiple occasions, you’d been terrified that he wasn’t going to make it. Betrayed alliances, wounds beyond what his medicine could heal. You were relieved every time he managed to overcome what the gamemakers threw at him. Even now, as he stood over the corpse of the boy from District Two with his trident, the announcement confirmed what you'd been waiting desperately to hear.

Finnick Odair, winner of the sixty-fifth hunger games.

He was battered and covered in blood, no doubt exhausted and pained from all the injuries he'd gathered, but you couldn't have been happier. He was going to come home. You felt a pang of regret and selfishness. You wondered what Finnick would have said if he knew you were so relieved... ashamed? Disgusted? You weren’t sure.

After days of waiting, Finnick had finished his last interview with Caesar and stepped off the train into District Four. The moment he stepped off, he didn’t even get a chance to glance up before you were almost knocking him over, crushing him into a hug.

He was here. He was real. He was alive!

You swore you'd never been so happy to see anybody more than this. But as you glanced at him, your smile faded. His gaze shifted into an expression that, for once, you didn't know. His eyes were saddened and his face worn with tiredness. His arms didn't wrap around you like yours did, only stayed limp at his sides. He held his chin high, even as your grip slipped from around his neck, and you looked at him quizzically.

"Finn," your voice broke from happiness, confusion and rejection. Your eyes searched his own, looking for any hint of what he could be thinking. You were quiet for a moment, searching for words. "You’re home.”

He inhaled a sharp breath, his gaze flickering over the platform as if unsure where to look first. You supposed it must have been a lot for him to process.

This time, your voice was quieter. “I missed you.”

Finally, he looked at you, and for a moment you swore you saw his eyes soften. "I did too," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. His gaze flicked past you as if he couldn't bear to look at you anymore.

He was already stepping off the platform before you could say anything else. Confusion and hurt struck you like lightning as you watched his figure retreat into the crowd.

Maybe he really did die in that arena.

©x-gabrielle-x. Do not steal, copy or translate my works.

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

the five stages | f. odair

masterlist

summary: a journey back to a golden period of time of polaroid pictures, white knitted sweaters, and lively sea-green eyes. why? because in the present, those same pair of eyes are ruthlessly unrelenting and you have no other chance of their escape.

pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader

warnings: heavy angst, vomiting, implied smut, depression, maggots, hallucinations, relieving fluff, mild horror. I don’t want to spoil the story too much, so I won’t be adding any more warnings, sorry y’all. this could be very triggering so please read at your own discretion. some descriptions are quite graphic!

notes: I’m super proud of this one—it’s sorta based off “little talks” by of monsters and men and “on the nature of daylight” by max richer. this fic probably won’t get many views, so I’ll be incredibly grateful for any—if any at all—type of engagement! <33

word count: 8k

The bedroom was cold; dark; empty. Empty even though I still resided in it.

My alarm had gone off two hours ago, yet I hadn’t moved an inch. When I finally turned my head to the side, I found that the space beside me was vacant. Cold; dark; empty—I reached out my hand anyway.

Thirty minutes passed before I wrestled myself out of bed and started making breakfast downstairs. The otherwise warm and flavourful plate of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast left my mouth feeling dry and my throat lodged.

It used to be one of my favourite meals. At least, when he was around.

Dishes were piled in the sink, dirty and untouched. I sat on the couch, pondering whether today was the day I would finally get to cleaning them. It wasn’t. I couldn’t. We always did that together. I wondered—if I left them in the sink long enough, would he return? Even just for five minutes to help me put them away? One month and seventeen days had passed, and yet I still entertained this thought religiously.

I wasted an hour running circles round the same contemplations before deciding fresh air, as cliché as it was, might do me some good.

Grey clouds concealed the sun’s warm golden light when I stepped outside, but that was fine—I didn’t like anything golden anymore. But he would want me to leave the house at least once a day, so that’s what I would do. I would go down to the beach beside our—my house and feel the sand collect between my toes as I walked to the water’s edge.

But wasn’t that where he was when it happened? Wasn’t he in water? Didn’t those things pile on top of him? Didn’t they sink their fangs into his neck and tear at his flesh until he was blown to…

Bits of egg, yoghurt and stomach bile sat at my feet. My legs buckled, and I collapsed to the ground in a sandy, tear-stricken heap. Since my lower body had refused to cooperate any longer, it took me until midday to crawl back up the dune and to my front doorstep.

Fuck. I needed to rest.

“I need you to rest, sweetheart.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” I whined. “I’m not sick.”

Finnick placed a bucket on the ground beside the bed. The room smelled of lemon disinfectant—a joy I often found in being sick… That is, if I were sick, which I was not. I must have drunk spoiled milk or eaten something bad during breakfast. Nevertheless, Finnick was not having it.

“You’re throwing up everything you manage to get down, and you’re shivering like it’s the middle of winter,” he said adamantly, tucking the comforter up to my chest. “It’s summer, and you’re very much not fine.”

I sat up, ready to heatedly debate the subject, but the room began swirling, and my ears were hissing like a staticky television channel without a signal. A quiet whimper buzzed in my throat as I hunched forward. Damn him, I was sick.

The mattress dipped as Finnick sat beside me. His hand was on my back, rubbing it soothingly as he used his other hand to tuck away the curtain of hair concealing my face. I huffed, half in annoyance, half in an attempt to suppress the nausea rising in my throat, and then sunk back against the pillows.

“Not sick, she says,” he jested, smiling down at me. I rolled my eyes, though unable to hide the weak, betraying smile creeping across my lips. “Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he said, a gentle command. “I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

The wooden flooring welcomed me with hard, cold arms as I hauled my sandy body through the front door. Images of fangs, bloody flesh, and panicked sea-green eyes flooded my mind.

More breakfast, more bile. No lemon disinfectant.

My knees were folded beneath my body; my body was hunched over my knees. I was sobbing now, so hard that I threw up again (was there even anything left in my stomach at this point?), creating a thick puddle of vomit and tears beneath me. Cries and gasps for air bounced around the house. To call me a mess would be an understatement. I was a disaster. A disaster wrapped up in an unmendable tragedy with a ragged, threadbare ribbon barely holding me together.

And in case I wasn’t aware of this fact, the floorboards were so shiny that they mirrored a reflection of myself. My hair was a being of its own, all wild and unkempt, and my face was another story entirely—a red, blotchy thing I wasn’t too interested in delving into.

But the most unsettling aspect had nothing to do with me, it was that there was someone else in the reflection. Two green balls of light were glowing above my head.

Dishevelled golden hair…

Dimpled cheeks…

My forehead was pressed to the floor as I screamed.

“I don’t want to make you sick as well,” I said, contrarily enjoying the feeling of Finnick’s skin warm against mine, hot blood flowing through his veins.

A day had passed since I first became unwell, and the sickness had continued to wreak havoc inside me.

We were both under the thick covers, our limbs tangled together as he held me atop his chest. (my body didn’t register the scorching summer temperatures. I actually felt as though my core temperature was a few degrees below freezing. Meanwhile, Finnick was characteristically toasty warm. It was perfect for me, but not so much for him, evident in the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. Nevertheless, he made no complaints).

My body rose and fell with each breath he took. I was trying to inhale whenever he exhaled in a weak attempt to prevent the festering sickness in my body from entering his, and though it was a futile gesture, I did it anyway.

“In sickness and health, remember?” he said.

I smiled. “We’re not even married.”

“Yet, you mean,” he countered. “I plan on spending the rest of my life with you, sweetheart. You know that.”

My heart fluttered at the thought of spending an entire lifetime with him—waking up in each other’s embrace each morning, the warm sunlight peeking through the blinds of our bedroom; Finnick calling me “Mrs. Odair” or “My wife” at every opportunity because doing so made us both giggle like two moronic, love-struck teenagers; and being unable to prevent the deep smile lines on both our cheeks as we age, a constant display of our perpetual happiness.

“Sixty more years of having and holding you,” he continued with a gentle musing in his tone. “For better or for worse... For richer or for poorer.” He then stroked the side of my face and brushed away the sweaty strands of hair sticking to my forehead. “In sickness and in health…”

“…Until death do us part,” I finished, my voice slow with fatigue.

Two fingers sat beneath my chin and tilted my head upward. My eyes connected with Finnick’s. They were soft. Heartfelt.

“Not even then. I’ll love you beyond the grave,” he murmured. Then his lips were slowly curving into a pensive smile. “When we’re both ghosts and haunting the next owners of this house.”

I was now smiling, too. “I’d hoped you would say something like that.”

How could he lie like that? There was no we. There were no next owners. There was only me, alive and alone in a comatose house. And mind you, I was sane enough to know that it wasn’t actually his ghost haunting me, though I wish I weren’t because having that knowledge was even worse. It meant he was truly erased from existence.

“Go away,” I whispered to the reflection on the floor.

He didn’t. His vacant green eyes kept staring down at my crumpled figure.

I shot off the floor and spun around, hot tears streaming down my face. “Go away!” His face remained expressionless. He looked like himself, only colder. “You said sixty more years! You said we’d be together!” I mindlessly picked up and flung a small picture frame at him, only for it to pass through his body and shatter on the floor behind him. “Why did you lie to me?!” My voice was frayed with fury, though underlined with grief.

He said nothing, did nothing. All he did was watch.

My legs buckled, and I was on the floor again. I was whispering, half-sobbing, the same question over and over until the words slurred together. “Why’d you lie? Why’d y’lie?” The only time I stopped was when my tongue grew too heavy to move anymore.

To my surprise, he eventually came and sat beside me, remaining cold and silent—as I too had become.

Glass fragments from the picture frame were scattered across the floorboards. The photo within had fallen out and, ironically, drifted towards me. I didn’t bother acknowledging him as I moved onto my hands and knees and began crawling forward—my palms slicing open and blood seeping out—until the photo was in my hands. My shins had granules of glass pricking into them, but I couldn’t feel the pain; all I could do was stare at the memory in my hands.

The picture had been taken in District Thirteen, a day before he signed up for… the mission.

I was drifting in and out of sleep when a sudden bright flash lit up my eyelids.

“Oops.”

Heavy eyes fluttering open, I was met with a small camera pointing down at me, which was being held up by a lengthy muscular arm, which was connected to an even more muscular and broad shoulder, which was connected to—okay, sorry, I think you get it.

“Finnick!” I shrieked, pulling the covers over my naked figure.

He laughed, the vibrations rumbling deep within his chest, beneath my ear. A soft whirring sound accompanied the polaroid sliding out of the camera, its black film hiding the doubtless embarrassing picture beneath. He placed the film on the sheets beside him, letting the photo develop in darkness.

“I was supposed to cover the flash,” he said, still chuckling.

I rubbed my eyes, which were twinkling with little sparkles of light. “I think you blinded me.”

“Lucky you,” he jested. “You’re finally free from my repulsive exterior.”

I started to reach for the picture beside him—“You’re an idiot”—but then he was rolling us over until his arms were pillared on either side of my head and he was hovering above me.

His hair was a mess, a testament to the night before (and very early hours of the morning), and he was sporting a beautiful, lazy grin. “Yeah? Well, you’re engaged to an idiot,” he said, tilting his head in an arrogant manner. “So what does that make you?”

The sea-glass ring hugging my finger gleamed in the lamp’s dull light as I reached out to touch his face, my fingertips brushing along the edges of his pronounced jawline. Tangled strands of hair and a beaming smile were reflecting back at me in his eyes. No one had ever loved anyone as much as I loved Finnick—disregarding the one exception that was staring down at me.

“Blinded by love,” I whispered.

Brief yet poignant emotion trickled through his features, his eyes. Then, like a flick of a switch, he covered it up and lowered his face into my neck, groaning the words, “So corny.”

My fingers were tangled in his hair, holding him close to me. “Liar,” I laughed. “You loved it.”

“I love you, which is why I put up with your corniness,” he murmured into my skin.

Even after all this time, my heart still leapt whenever he said those three words, even when he was being a jerk about it. I kissed the top of his head. “I love you, too.”

We laid like this for a short while longer—Finnick keeping his face buried in the warmth of my neck, his arms curled beneath my body; me playing with the golden waves of his hair that were somehow softer than my own. He was so heavy on top of me that it was starting to become difficult to breathe, but in no universe would I ever tell him to get off. It was a blissful sort of suffocation.

A sort anyone would snap a picture of just to keep as a reminder of how beautiful it feels to be smothered with love. With that being said, the picture that lay awaiting beside me was brought back to mind.

“Oh no,” I moaned, picking it up and taking a short glance at the developed photo. I covered my face with my hands, repeating the words, “Oh no.”

The photo was plucked from my fingers, and Finnick began humming contentedly to himself.

In the photo, my face had been nuzzled into his bare, muscular chest, eyes closed in sleep-drunken serenity, hair thrown over my shoulder and spilling across the pillow. My hand rested on his contoured stomach with just enough of my upper arm and low light to conceal my breasts. Finnick had a delicate hand draped over my waist. He was gazing down at me with a smile that was just… full of pure love.

I had to admit—it was a beautiful picture. Despite my initial disapproval.

“Beautiful,” I heard him echo my thoughts, his eyes still scanning the photo. Then his brows furrowed, and his head slightly inched forward as though he had just noticed something peculiar in the picture. “Oh, and you are too, I guess.”

My head tilted back against the pillow with an abrupt laugh. I shook my head, looking back at him. “I hate you.”

“Liar,” he said, leaning in closer.

His lips were on mine for what must have been the millionth time in the past few hours. The bedside clock announced that breakfast was soon approaching, though it was clear neither of us would make an appearance within the next hour (or two).

“You love me,” he whispered as he slid inside me.

And I did.

I really did.

The muscles in my cheeks were straining due to how hard I was smiling.

It wasn’t my idea to keep a picture of us half-naked in the entryway of our home. He always was a bit unusual like that. Completely unashamed of who he was and how he acted. Sometimes a little too boisterously, but that’s what I loved so much about him—how confident he was in his love for me, so much so that nothing else mattered, no one else’s opinion.

God, I love him so much.

Love…?

Wait.

That’s not right.

Shouldn’t it be “loved”?

And why was I smiling? I didn’t have anything to smile about anymore. He was gone. Our wedding never occurred. Our faces never wrinkled with smile lines. Our clasped hands never weathered with age. He was gone.

The polaroid slipped from between my fingers. My hands were covered in glass and blood, blood that had painted a dark red splotch in the middle of the shiny film. Figures.

After a short while of staring blankly at the scattered debris decorating the floor, I finally found it in myself to start climbing back onto my feet. My straightened legs wobbled and ached beneath me with the little energy I had. That’s what happens when you can barely stomach food anymore: no energy, always sleeping, always swamped by nightmares or bittersweet memories—at this point, they were one and the same.

Not a strand of gold or a fleck of green was in sight when I glanced over my shoulder. For now, at least. He liked making an appearance once or twice a day.

Pieces of glass crunched beneath my bare, stinging feet as I made for the stairwell. A mess for another day, I reasoned. Just like the dishes. Sticky red footprints stamped each wooden step I ascended, growing less prominent as I reached the second floor.

After taking a right down a short hallway, the encompassing walls littered with magnificent seashells and dried ocean flora, I turned the knob to the furthest room and entered. The floor was landscaped with mountains of clothes which drenched the room in a familiar, all-consuming smell. The scent kind of reminded me of receiving a warm hug, albeit from someone you know you should let go of in more ways than one.

His hair, golden and tousled, caught my eye as I passed the wall of string-hung polaroids in our… sorry, my bedroom. His smile was all dimpled and brilliant, and he had his tanned arms wrapped around my middle. Just moments after the picture was taken, he had tackled me into the water and rightfully earned a smack on the back of the head. In turn, he did it again.

But before that, we were both looking into the camera with the most joyful expressions—huge grins, bright eyes. Frozen in time.

I never let myself look too long at that picture anymore. And I never, ever looked into his eyes. Green used to be my favourite colour. I didn’t have a favourite colour anymore. It was safe to say I didn’t have a favourite anything anymore; everything favourable was a reminder of him.

I picked up a white knitted sweater off the ground and tugged it over my head, staining it with splotches of dark red. Knowing him, he would wear it regardless—whatever was mine, was also his, and was equally the same in reverse, even things as grotesque as blood.

Well, he would have worn it, I should have said.

The sweater had been specifically tailored for him. I remembered how the soft sleeves hugged his arms so well that every fluid curve of his biceps was visible, similar to a building wave before it crested. On me, the sleeves swallowed my arms whole, which I liked to think in their own unique way had also been unintentionally tailored for me, like someone out there knew one day I would need some way to drown in him when he was gone.

Finnick’s fingers tugged at the silk ribbons, unwrapping the opulent gift box that sat on our dining table. Capitol devotees would send extravagant parcels weekly, turning up in abundance on our doorstep. Sometimes Finnick didn’t even bother opening them; sometimes we opened them together just to get a good laugh out of whatever ridiculous item was inside.

He never, though, opened the perfume-scented letters marked with lipstick stains.

“Oh,” I said in surprise as he lifted the lid. Inside was a folded piece of fabric, knitted and cream-white and intricate, though still simple. It was soft to the touch; thick enough to retain warmth. I held it up with two hands, admiring the hand-sewed threads of cotton. Whoever’s handiwork this was, it was nothing to laugh at.

Holding it up to Finnick’s torso, I smiled and said, “Try it on.”

“What?” He shook his head and smiled quizzically. “No.”

“Yes. I think it will look good on you.” I pressed it further against him with conviction. “Try it on.”

He tilted his head and exhaled deeply through his nose, giving me a begrudging, squinty-eyed look. From that, I already knew I had won him over, and watched as he snatched the sweater from my grasp and tugged his shirt off with one hand. I averted my eyes, feeling the tips of my ears flush with heat—we’d been together for over a year now; you would think I’d have grown accustomed to seeing him shirtless.

His head slipped through the neckline and he pulled the sweater down his body. I was right. It looked really good on him. Perfect, actually. The measurements were so precise that the fabric sloped off his shoulders like a compact mountain of snow. The thick-knitted collar dipped into a deep, uneven neckline that partly revealed his chest and made his neck look like a strong, contoured pillar. He looked at me expectantly, as though to ask, “Well?”

“It makes your neck and shoulders look really nice,” I blurted out, instantly cringing inside.

His expression contorted into something of amusement and surprise as he took a slow step towards me. “My neck and shoulders, huh?” he said, grinning devilishly. Oh, now I’d done it. Leave it to me to rocket Finnick Odair’s already atmospheric ego. “Anything else?”

I began backing away, but his prowling strides were so long that the space between us only shortened. When my backside hit the edge of the dining table, I knew I was done for.

“You know,” I began, avoiding his unrelenting stare. “I think it was just a momentary lapse of judgement.” He was closing in now, placing his hands on either side of my body to trap me in place. “It—It actually looks terrible on you,” I said, feigning sincerity and adding a little nod to help further my case.

His eyelids drooped as he gazed down at me, lips curving into that seductive smirk he had mastered long ago. “No takebacks,” he purred, voice low and gravelly. Dear God, I could only pray I wasn’t going to melt into a puddle on the floor. He always did this—took every opportunity to flirt and render me a stuttering, bashful mess. It was his favourite game to play. “This is now my new favourite shirt. All thanks to you, sweetheart.”

But, given the right timing and ever-wavering amount of confidence, I liked to play too.

I inhaled deeply, hoping my voice wouldn’t betray me. “Maybe you should take it off then,” I said, cocking my head to the side. “So you don’t ruin it.”

His mischievous expression revealed his next words before he even spoke them. “Maybe I will,” he said, and then he was tugging his sweater over his head, and I was tearing off my own. As his hands slipped beneath my thighs and lifted me onto our dining table, I prayed the wooden legs wouldn’t collapse under the weight of our next actions.

My fingertips ran over the soft, rippling patterns on the knitted sleeves, my arms crossed in a self-soothing manner. After that day, the sweater had become a sort of good luck charm—or so we agreed upon as we lay panting on the tabletop. He started wearing it to a multitude of events and parties in the Capitol (basically any place in which he needed a pick-me-up, a reminder of what he had to come home to, who he had to come home to).

He even wore it the day we got engaged.

So many happy memories were associated with this one white sweater. So many times, those cloud-soft sleeves were wrapped around my body, suffocating me in the scent of him—if nothing else, at least that remained.

The last time he had worn it was the day of the Reaping for the Quarter Quell; the last time our lives were ever semi-normal. I had fought tooth and nail to reach him before he was escorted onto the train, despite being ordered, “No goodbyes,” by one of the Peacekeepers. In modest terms, I had significantly decreased his chances of reproduction.

When I reached Finnick, he had brought me into a kiss so harsh and fervent that my lips were bruised the next day. He then yanked off his sweater, leaving his upper body completely exposed to everyone around us in complete disregard for his trauma-induced fear of doing so, and shoved it into my hands.

I had just stood there frozen in bewilderment, watching as he called out, “I love you, sweetheart!” Two Peacekeepers were forcing him onto the train, but he too fought for the last word. “Don’t forget—I’m always with you!”

That statement had never been truer than it was now. For better or for worse.

My vision unblurred as I returned to reality. Dismal, grey light was peeking through the shutters that formed the balcony doors, the daylight hours seeming to tick away at a snail’s pace. I used to wish for the days to be longer, for time to move slower, so I could savour the moments I had of happiness and sunlight which used to be plentiful.

Why do wishes only come true when you grow to desire nothing but the opposite?

Slothfully, I crawled onto the unmade king-size bed, my limbs crumpling and balling to my chest as the side of my head hit the pillow. The imprint on the mattress beneath my body didn’t match my own. It was much larger and broader. How long would it take for the springs to forget his body weight and recoil back into place as though he never existed at all?

I inhaled the sweater’s scent with every breath I took (and I tried not to wonder how long it would take for his scent to disappear as well) and hugged my arms around my waist. No pain was worse than the fleeting moments I forgot the embrace was my own and not his.

Hours passed, and so did the evening. A beautiful orange sunset hadn’t slipped through the shutter’s cracks because the clouds never dissipated. Night-time brought no consolation either. Not even the stars or moon made an appearance. Everything that once gave me a shred of optimism was hidden behind a veil of gloom.

I knew tomorrow wouldn’t be any different—the weather, my mood, his absence. Because the end of autumn was closing in, and the days were becoming bleaker. Trees would start shedding their leaves; the leaves would start to die.

I hoped I would too.

I was still curled up on my side, my body aching with stiffness, when my face began scrunching into this ugly, twisted mess of despair. My tears were slow yet heavy, synonymous with the day I had incurred.

But then something strange happened.

Someone called my name.

No. That couldn’t be right. I was the only one who occupied a house in the Victor’s Village; the others had either relocated after the war or were… dead.

But there it was again—my name, distant and eerie, yet spoken with a tone people often used to beckon over and aid a frightened, injured animal. My vision blurred, both from tears and concentration on the voice.

“Hey.”

I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment my surroundings transformed into a kitchen, just that they had and that I was no longer in my bed but standing upright.

Ahead of me, in the distance, the sun was beating down on the crystalline water, and white frothy waves were cresting on the smooth, golden sand. It was a perfect day; not a cloud was in sight. The only blemish that smeared the blue sky was the reflection staring back at me from the window I gazed out of.

In my hands was a soup bowl and a damp dishrag.

“Sweetheart?” That once distant voice, concerned and beckoning, was standing right beside me.

Blinking, I snapped out of my daze and turned away from the window.

He stood tall beside me, despite being half hunched over the kitchen sink and scrubbing the last of the few dirty dishes stacked neatly on the bench top. His head was turned towards me, his enamoured sea-green eyes peering into my own as though he was searching behind them for what troubled me.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, standing up straight. His touch was warm and gentle as he reached for my hand, leaving soapy bubbles on my palm and fingers. “Where’d you go?”

Three odd things seemed to occur at once: first, I flinched away from his touch, overwhelmed by its paradoxical unfamiliar familiarity; second, I felt an inexpressible relief from seeing him standing before me, seeing his cheeks painted with a soft pink hue as though blood-red roses were hidden just beneath his skin.

The third was an onset of disorientation. I couldn’t tell you why I felt disorientated standing in my own kitchen with the love of my life, just, simply, that I did. There was an answer—it was close by, right under my nose, yet unreachable. We did this every day, didn’t we? We would eat meals together and then wash up together. So, why did I feel so unsettled?

I shook my head, dispelling the confusion that muddled my brain. “Sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t know what happened.” I laughed uneasily, without a hint of mirth.

He laughed too, not to poke fun or because he found my obvious turmoil amusing, but rather to comfort me, so I would feel less alone in my unease. “It’s alright,” he said gently.

Neither of us addressed what had happened; we simply resumed our routine of washing and drying in domestic silence. And as seconds turned to minutes, and as the sky remained sunny, I found myself smiling. All that mattered was that he was standing beside me and that the sun was beaming in the sky. So, I kept smiling.

After I finished drying the last dish, we began placing the plates, bowls, and an abundance of cutlery in their assigned drawers and cupboards, weaving past each other and giggling anytime we got in one another’s path. I was carrying a stack of white plates, eyeing the high cupboard they needed to go in, but before I could even attempt straining onto my toes, the plates were out of my hands and taken into another much larger pair.

The smell of sea salt and expensive cologne wafted from behind me as he towered over my shorter frame and placed the plates in the cupboard.

“I could have done that,” I said, smiling as I turned around to face him.

He had a playful glint in his eye. “Yeah, right. What are you, like, four feet tall?” he joked.

It was an extreme exaggeration since I was no way near that height, but I suppose everyone was miniature in comparison to him, being over six feet tall and all. I feigned open-mouthed offence, to which he gave the side of my head a quick, playful kiss of apology.

He then leaned against the counter with crossed arms. “Plus, when was the last time you actually put these dishes away? I’m surprised you even remember where they go.” He was grinning at me in a teasing manner, but every ounce of humour had drained from my body.

My eyes drifted to the floor.

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it—when was the last time I put the dishes away?

I couldn’t remember. In fact, I couldn’t remember what had happened this morning or the day before. Hell, I couldn’t even remember what we were doing before the dishes.

To be standing in a room, in a place you call home, and have a sense that nothing is in its right place, even though that is where everything has always been, is a disconcerting feeling beyond belief. To be perplexed by your own state of being—your existence—is even worse. I could almost describe it as a nauseating bout of vertigo.

My hands found the counter’s edge behind me, and I exhaled a shaky breath.

He stepped in front of me, one large and gentle hand reaching up to cup my jaw. “Are you okay?” he asked, his forehead wrinkling with shallow worry lines as he inspected my face. I hated that. I hated that I worried him so much. Sure, partners were supposed to lean on each other for support in a relationship (as he too did with me when needed), but I always felt so guilty doing so. Hadn’t he already suffered enough… pain in his lifetime? Who was I to cause him any more?

A sunbeam suffused the room, oozing across his face. The illumination lightened his eyes into a refreshing mint green, though, in contradiction, unearthed a pain that had been previously been concealed. Pain from what, I wasn’t sure. From concern regarding my unusual behaviour? Maybe a thought that was troubling him? Or perhaps he too was enduring a spell of confusion and had an inexplicable feeling that he was out of place.

Whatever his pain regarded, seeing it had rattled the deepest structures in which held my mind together.

It was then that I suddenly realised I hadn’t answered his question, so I gave him a wan “I’m-not-too-sure-myself” smile and then began slinking back to the sink window.

He followed behind me. I could feel him staring into the back of my head, could feel his brows draw together and his lips pull into a tight line, patiently waiting for a further explanation, though I wasn’t sure I could offer him one.

I hadn’t noticed before, but on the windowsill was a small picture frame containing a polaroid picture of us in bed—I was lying on his chest, half-naked and asleep, and he was looking down at me, smiling fondly yet with a sort of mischievous knowability. Running down the middle of the protective glass was a small, jagged crack.

I plucked the frame from the windowsill, inspecting the picture in my two hands. It seemed to uncover a place in my mind—once clouded by disorientation—I’d forgotten. Whether this place was real or imaginary was beyond me, but the fear I felt upon its recollection was incandescently genuine.

“Do you think,” I spoke tentatively, “people can have nightmares while they’re wide awake?” My thumb ran over the crack.

I might have heard him inhale a quiet, sharp breath, but it also could have just been the waves breaking on the distant shore. “Like a flashback?” he asked, an unidentifiable unease in his tone.

“No, not exactly.” I searched my brain for the right words, the right way to tell him how I was feeling, but it was difficult when I could only conjure vague fragments. And it was all I could do to tell it to him elliptically, as I knew saying the words in any other manner would shatter my heart.

“I had this vision,” I began, my words apprehensively staccato, “where I was somewhere else.” My eyes flickered over the picture. “Somewhere… bad. Everything was grey and heavy, and I was alone. Sometimes you were there, but you—you weren’t really you anymore.” I paused and looked up to find him staring at me in the reflection of the window. He looked pained; it was then suddenly hard to recollect a time when he didn’t. My throat started to constrict. “You were gone and…” my voice quietened to a broken wisp of wind, “you were haunting me.”

The room was silent.

He said nothing in response

The transparency of his reflection in the glass was so familiar—so haunting—and it was like another forgotten matter had been dredged from the depths of my mind. Stinging tears brimmed my waterline, and, due to my inability to bear the sight of his translucent appearance, I forced myself to turn around.

I glanced up at him, smiling weakly as I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head as if my need to apologise was nonsensical (even I was unsure of what I was apologising for), and he then pulled me into a tight embrace. His chin rested atop my head; my face was buried in his chest, and his arms held me like I was some dilapidated structure that relied on his support to remain upright. Part of me knew this sentiment was correct.

I expected his next words to be ones of consolation or reassurance, maybe an “I’m right here, sweetheart” or an “I’ll never leave you”. Instead, I felt his head turn and heard him say, “Think it’s going to storm?”

With a sniffle, I turned my head towards the window. The arms wrapped around my body tightened as if he somehow knew I would need the extra support. Because when I saw the wall of dark, opaque clouds rolling through the sky towards us, an unshakeable dread zapped through my heart.

My hands clung to the fabric of his cream-white sweater, which then brought to my attention that an inexplicable tingling sensation was spreading down the fingers of my right hand, numbing them.

Lightning flashed on the horizon, and the once serene waves began cresting violently on the shoreline. The dread grew.

Before my attention could drift too far, my name was called again.

I looked up to find those green eyes gazing down at me, swelling with tears. He was crying. Why was he crying? And why was his hair wet? His usually golden strands had darkened to a deep brown and were drenched with cold water that dripped onto my cheeks, and his hair was swept haphazardly across his forehead, a reflection of someone who had just endured an intense storm or had just been fighting for his life against a swarm of—of—

No.

My own eyes began to burn.

“It’s killing me to see you this way,” he spoke, every second word breaking and wavering in volume.

The world seemed to tilt on an axis. Return did the disorientation, ravaging my mind more violently now. “What do you”—My chest was rising and falling with heavy breaths—“What? What do you mean?” My lower lip was quivering, and my eyebrows were scrunched together in confusion. His words replayed in my head: It’s killing me to see you this way.

It’s killing me.

His hair was dripping—no longer with water, but with a thick, red substance that both dripped down and clotted on his skin. He didn’t look pained anymore; he looked like he was in pain.

It’s killing me.

But that can’t be right, can it?

It’s killing me.

Why?

It’s killing me.

Becausemy Finnickwas already dead.

I staggered backwards and out of his, no, this imposter’s arms. He stared at me as blood streamed down his forehead, pouring over his eyelashes and down his cheeks. I was going to be sick. This had to be some sort of cruel joke, a newly invented punishment from Snow. But that wasn’t right either: Snow was dead too.

“F…Fi…” I tried saying his name, my top teeth prodding the inside of my bottom lip, but I couldn’t make a sound.

He took a step towards me, and I almost stumbled onto the floor. “Remember what I told you?” he asked, though it sounded more like an urge.

I frantically shook my head. No, I didn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember anything.

Something dark and mountainous appeared in my peripheral vision, and an odious smell singed my nostrils. My head snapped to the left. Stacks upon stacks of plates and bowls mounded the kitchen sink, each crawling with maggots that were falling to the floor in white, wriggling heaps.

Nausea boiled in my stomach; horror brimmed my eyes.

I quickly turned away, my eyes meeting green again. His face was no longer stained with blood, and his hair was dry, shiny, and golden with life. I was as speechless as my face was drained of blood.

He took one more step toward me, but this time I didn’t back away, either frozen with fear or desperation for one last experience of closeness with him. My heart thrummed as he reached out to cup my face. It isn’t him, it isn’t him, it isn’t him, I repeated madly in my head. Oh, but it felt so much like him when his warm hand met my skin.

“I told you I’m always with you, sweetheart,” he murmured. And I knew engaging with him, in whatever form he took, affirmed my mental unwellness, but I couldn’t stop from leaning into his touch anyway. “Remember that.”

My cheeks were wet with tears. “I love—”

A bolt of lightning flashed, and thunder boomed throughout the house.

I was back in my bed.

My eyelids were heavy with sleep as they fluttered open. I felt detached, destabilised, and unsure of my existence in the world for I wasn’t sure which of the twoI was currently in. Real or fake?

A few minutes went by before I managed to get a grip on reality, which, in fact, was the real one. The Somewhere Bad. I pinched the corners of my eyes, not only finding them damp with fresh tears but also realising that my right hand—previously tucked beneath my head—was numb.

None of it had been real…

The entire time, my body was trying to alert me, to save me from the inescapable heartache I would feel upon waking. He hadn’t held me in his arms. He hadn’t cupped my cheek nor helped me wash the dishes. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t anywhere (not even in his own marked grave because there was nothing left of him to be buried).

Even despite seeing the familiar tall outline standing in the doorway, his features illuminated with each flash of lightning, I knew it wasn’t really him.

Rain was pummelling the roof, almost loud enough to subdue the perpetual rumbling of thunder (apart from the one sky-splitting thunderclap that had woken me). In another time, I would’ve been scared—of the raging storm, of my phantom lover who was watching from the shadows of our bedroom. But not now.

In recent months, I had found that no emotion, not even fear, surpassed the soul-crushing realisation that you have irretrievably lost the one thing you lived for.

On a defeated whim, and for the first time since his death, I let the singular, weighted word breeze past my lips.

“Finnick.”

It was a trembling plea, a desperate beckon.

And he indulged.

His footsteps were silent as he walked towards the bed. I couldn’t see his legs from my position, prompting me to wonder if he even had legs at all. Or did he only have legs when I could see them? That would then insinuate that if I couldn’t see him at all, he didn’t exist.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? In my case, the answer was simple: no, it didn’t.

It wasn’t really Finnick. It wasn’t even his ghost. It was my mind.

He reached the bed’s edge, and I scooted over to my side of the mattress, allowing him enough space to lie down on his. His weight neither dipped nor shook the bed as he laid down and turned on his side to face me. His eyes were sad, and I’m sure mine were too. We stared at each other for a long, long time, long enough for my fatigued body to start playing tricks on me.

If I focused hard enough, I thought I could hear the sound of his breathing (the wind was picking up outside), feel the warmth of his skin spreading onto the sheets (the remnants of my own body heat were left behind each time I moved), and smell the musky scent of cologne and sea-salted hair (the sleeves of his sweater were tucked beneath my nose).

Maybe for a moment—just one sickly, self-indulgent moment—I could pretend it was really him.

I inhaled deeply through my nose. “You really weren’t kidding when you said you would haunt the next owner of this house,” I whispered as light-heartedly as I could, my voice obscured by the heavy rain pouring onto the roof.

He smiled, and it was one of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful things I had ever seen. I think I might have given him one in return, though I couldn’t be too sure because the concept of smiling had become so foreign. The last time I was truly happy was… the last night we spent together. In each other’s arms, safe and warm and together.

And then he was gone. Just like that.

Cressida, whom I had only spoken to once in Thirteen when the war ended, was the one to tell me how it happened. Katniss was too personal, too close to him; Peeta’s instability rendered conversation futile. So, I had asked Cressida to tell me every detail—every expression on his face, every word he screamed. I don’t know why. Maybe it was so I could cling onto those last few minutes where he was still alive and breathing, despite dying and bleeding; or so I could replay the moment over and over in my head, as if somehow, someway, I could change his fate.

“He talked about you all the time,” she had told me. “Actually, I don’t think he ever spoke of anything but you. No one minded, though. While we were out there, no one ever really smiled, but every time your name was mentioned, Finnick would get this great big grin on his face, and it was impossible not to look at him and start smiling as well.

So, we all started asking questions about you: ‘What colour is her hair? Her eyes? Where did you meet? What are her hobbies?’—just to see him smile… A week passed, and it was like we all knew you inside out. It was all we could do to hang on to some shred of happiness, even if it meant talking about a girl who, to all of us, was a stranger.”

I was inconsolable after that.

She kept talking, but my sobs had drowned out most of her words, so much that I had asked her to retell me everything later in the day, despite inducing the same outcome. So, she told it to me again, just as she did the day after that and the day after that and so on until I returned home to District Four.

“He also spoke about how you never felt comfortable living in the Victors Village. He had this idea that the two of you would move somewhere far away, outside the borders of District Four­, though he emphasised remaining by the sea was very important—something about how you looked while swimming during sunset and the water was all sparkly around you.”

At this point, she had been holding my hand, knowing full well how debilitating it was for me to hear. Then she had spoken with a quiet incredulity and a facial expression to match, as though she’d never encountered a love like ours before. “He wanted to build a house for you…”

He wanted to build a house for you.

And now he never would. Our love was too ephemeral for that to happen; destined to remain history; to be a memory.

Finnick's eyes stared into mine, the green hue now a dark grey from the overshadowing dimness of the room.

“I would’ve gone anywhere with you,” I whispered to him, placing my hand on the sheets between us. “I would’ve travelled thousands of miles away from this place. Would’ve lived in solitary, just the two of us, for the rest of our lives.” A warm tear tickled the bridge of my nose. His eyebrows scrunched together in shared anguish. “God, Finn, I miss you,” my voice broke. “I miss you so much.”

I contemplated crying, sobbing, screaming, or begging for him to come back, but I was just too tired. All my energy had been spent on grievance throughout the following day, and my eyes were growing heavier by the second as my body was sinking further into a state of relaxation.

Between slow blinks, I watched Finnick’s large hand move to rest atop my own, and at that point, I knew sleep would soon catch me because I swear I could feel his warm touch.

Images flashed through my mind—incomprehensible and melting together, yet somehow still graspable.

Sky blue water rippling with calm waves, the surface glittering in the setting sun. A white stonewall cottage fronted by soft, white sand and tall palm trees. Two plates of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast. Three pairs of footprints in the sand, one larger, one smaller, and another between them so delicately tiny I could fit them into the palm of my hand.

Sea-green eyes above me. Golden hair tangled between my fingers. Finnick standing in the wooden doorway of our white stonewall cottage wearing a cream-white sweater and rolled-up slacks. Finnick grinning deeply and then throwing his head back with laughter. Finnick standing in front of our bed, taking my hand in his and guiding me towards him. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick.

Finnick holding our child.

I was between worlds now, both indistinguishable from the other. My eyelids were drooping, and I was quickly growing insensate. Just before my eyes closed completely, I saw Finnick’s—he who wasn’t really my Finnick—lips move. It wasn’t in my bleak reality in which I heard him speak, but rather in my mind, and God, did his words offer the sweetest relief.

“I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

[thedelicatearcher]

i love when on catching fire after katniss' leg injury, she spends days with peeta working on the herbal book. and now i can't stop thinking about an alternate universe where katniss is a writer and peeta is her illustrator

[afriendstolovers]

Hi there! :)

It's been long years since I last wrote anything for Everlark, but my Hunger Games obsession came back in full force after reading Sunrise on the Reaping and somehow I got inspired enough to write again. I didn't know what to title it, so I guess it will remain untitled lol. Also: please excuse any mistakes as English isn't my first language and I'm the one who did the beta work.

There's a little reference to this lovely drabble from one of my favorite authors ever here, by the way, because everything she writes is gold and her fics also deserve credit for my burst of inspiration.

Well, without furder ado, here it is! I hope you like it!

• • •

When she opens her eyes, there’s shy sunlight coming from outside through the open windows along with a gentle, fresh spring breeze that blows the curtains like a gentle caress. Under the covers, she barely feels anything other than the warm presence of her husband, arms wrapped around her middle and face perfectly fit in the curve of her shoulder, his rhythmic breathing a ticklish and comforting reminder of his peaceful sleep. She wants to move before doing something like accidentally giggle, but to relish in the rarity that is waking up before him and being able to watch him lost in quiet unconsciousness is enough to convince her to stay still.

As the birds sing to welcome the new day, she loses herself in his features for what are either minutes or hours or even an entire lifetime: straight, freckled nose, long, gold eyelashes and soft, marked skin – he is so beautiful and he loves her and it feels so unbelievable that he’s chosen her once again despite everything. It feels right that they both found their way back together.

Sighing in pure contentment, her fingers absentmindedly find their way through blonde curls, running between them in soothing moves the way she knows he appreciates. She feels the smile against her collarbones not much later, not a bit surprised to notice there’s a mirrored one on her lips.

“Morning, my love”, he breaks the silence, voice husky and sweet. “You were staring, weren’t you? I could feel it.”

She snorts, gray eyes full of mischief facing blinking crystalline blue ones. “Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t?”

“Not really”, he admits, adjusting his body so they’re face to face. “But whatever you say, I guess.”

She grins. Then, she kisses him. A long, impossibly tender kiss saved for days like this, when she’s feeling especially grateful and, like he says, more romantic than usual.

“Katniss, my Katniss”, he whispers when they part, a prayer of sorts that stops everything until all that exists is just them and that blissful kind of hunger that never truly ceases.

“My Peeta”, she claims back in between vows of adoration and promises of eternity, tears falling from her closed eyelids and a breathy sob escaping her lips as the burst of delirious happiness inside her explodes.

Later that morning, there will be cheese buns for breakfast because she’ll ask and he can’t really deny her anything. Lunch with Haymitch will be a little late and their old mentor will complain he’s hungry before handing this month’s gifts that Effie sent, watercolors for Peeta and a couple of knitting yarns for her. The afternoon will pass by as they work on their books side by side, sipping chamomile tea and sharing thoughts with each other. At night, she’ll eat squirrel stew and a slice of strawberry cake for dinner before having a cold shower and laying in bed again. Surrounded by her lover’s safe embrace, belly full and heart serene, she’ll be reminded that life can be good and that it can also get better, one day at a time.

[stone-age-brownie]

The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced Everlark's daughter is named Clementine. I know most fans have headcanoned her to be named Willow, but I think Clementine is more fitting.

It's still a plant name, fitting in with the Everdeen naming traditions.

It's a colour, which can be linked to Covey naming traditions.

It's also from a song (oh my darling clementine) which we know exists as it is sung by Maude Ivory in TBOSAS. Linking this name to Covey naming traditions as well.

[anatay004]

"DON'T BE SCARED," Dean's voice slid into your thoughts; breaking into your reverie as you visibly flinched. Instinctively, you looked up to meet his gaze, allowing his hand to squeeze your arm comfortably. "The fabric is light, not thermal," Your stylist revealed, referring to the wetsuit you were wearing, trying to dissipate the tension in the air. "So, I'm guessing tropic."

You swallowed hard, trying to take in his words. You were in the Launch Room in the arena, waiting for the countdown to begin as Dean finished braiding your hair down your back.

"And tropic means water," Dean acknowledged, offering you an encouraging smile as you slowly nodded. "You're good in water."

He was right — you were good in water, that's how you'd managed to win your first games. You remember it all too well; an earthquake breaking the dam, the flood in the arena, and you swimming for your life. You swallowed hard at the memory, trying to ignore the pain that tormented your chest. After all, you supposed Dean was right; having an arena close to home could be a great advantage to you and Finnick.

You exhaled sharply.

"Sixty seconds to launch."

You swept Dean a glance. He was looking back at you with a familiar warmth in his eyes — one you'd seen before, and you couldn't help, but reach for him. "Are you still beating on me?" You whispered in his embrace, and his arms immediately tightened around your frame.

"Always." He answered, a little strained.

And with that, he stepped back — wiped the tears in his eyes, and watched as the glass cylinder slid down around you. You watched him blow a kiss at you before you felt the plate underneath you moving upwards. The plan was simple in your head as you leaned against the glass: get to Finnick, get some weapons, and run the hell away from the blood bath.

Simple, simple, simple.

You eventually forced yourself to straighten up when the glass started to retreat, but you found yourself frozen in place when the arena stumbled into your line of vision. For a moment, you faltered as you took in the sight of water in every direction you turned. Only one clear thought formed in your brain as you took in the landscape: Snow was beating on you too.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games begin!" The voice of Claudius Templesmith, the Hunger Games announcer, suddenly broke into your reverie. And, instinctively, you searched for Finnick around, but panic quickly flitted across your features when you couldn't find him.

"He's on the other side of the Cornucopia," Peeta's voice slid into your thoughts, and your shoulders slumped in evident relief when you heard his words. "Don't lose focus."

Belatedly, you realized Peeta was standing on the plate next to yours. And he was watching you with concerned eyes, trying to quench down the panic that threatened to break you in front of the cameras, but you didn't notice. You were far too preoccupied with staying alive.

Eventually, you dived into the water.

Hence to your ability to swim, you were quick to reach the spoke of land that balanced your plate and Peeta's. But, to your surprise, you didn't run towards the Cornucopia right away like the others; instead, you found yourself looking back for Peeta. He was struggling to reach the land, so, you impulsively offered him a hand and pulled him out of the water. 

"Allies?" Peeta asked, trying to catch his breath as he climbed onto the land.

You didn't answer, but your silence was quite telling, and it took everything in you to ignore the smile that curved Peeta's lips, before sprinting towards the Cornucopia. Within a few minutes, you eventually reached it and immediately grabbed the closest weapon at hand — a trident. A satisfied smile twitched your lips as you balanced the weapon in your hand, but the moment was fleeting, before you knew it; Peeta was already back in the water fighting a tribute.

"Peeta!" You shouted and made to run in his direction when a steady hand dropped on your shoulder. Instinctively, you made to throw the trident, but another hand on your wrist stopped your movements altogether. "Oh." You breathed out, in sudden relief, when you realized it was just Finnick. "Are you okay?"

"Stay with Katniss, I'll get Peeta," Finnick commanded, dismissing your question, his voice powerful enough to make you obey him. In that moment, as Finnick dived effortlessly back into the water to help Peeta; you realized he'd made his alliances too. Katniss was close by, watching the scene with a horrified expression on her face. At the sight of her distress, you couldn't help but wonder if this was all an act like everyone else said. Or, if Mags was actually right, and there was something real about it?

You couldn't quite piece together an answer yet.

When the canon finally fired, your heart skipped for a moment, but relief quickly washed over you when you caught sight of Peeta's moving figure and Finnick pulling him back onto land.

The other tribute had died.

"You okay?" You eventually turned to ask Katniss, when Peeta was finally out of danger and you were both waiting for him and Finnick to come back. Katniss threw you a skeptical look, one that underlined you were not friends. "The baby, I mean."

Realization quickly dawned on her face, as if she'd suddenly remembered she was supposed to be pregnant. "Yeah, we're fine."

You nodded.

"Are you alright?" Peeta was quick to ask you, when he rushed back to the group, with Finnick strolling right behind him. The concerned tone in his voice caught you off guard, but you decided not to show it as Katniss watched you.

Carefully.

"Are you?" You asked instead, scrutinizing him for a moment; just to make sure he wasn't terribly hurt. To your surprise, he wasn't. "I barely even left you." You mumbled as you recalled he was running right behind you before he was even thrown back into the water.

"Don't." Peeta scoffed, a little faintly.

And you blinked in surprise.

"Hey," Peeta suddenly turned to Katniss, as if he'd suddenly remembered the cameras. "Are you okay?" He asked, before pressing a kiss to her cheek. You watched their interaction with curious eyes, unable to hide the perplexed expression on your face as you studied the scene.

"Yeah," Katniss replied, offering him a faint smile before turning to look at you. The weight of her gaze made your muscles tense; for a moment, you could've sworn she was throwing daggers at you. "We're okay."

The atmosphere suddenly grew thicker.

"We need to head to the jungle." Finnick suddenly spoke, breaking the tension, before sliding his free arm unexpectedly behind your waist. "We need water and a place to rest before night falls."

You nodded and made to move forward, but Finnick kept you in place; making sure Peeta walked past you first. "What?" Finnick asked innocently when you raised an eyebrow in silent question. "He can take the lead."

You opened your mouth to reply something along the lines of, " We should probably separate" but he muffled your words with his mouth— silencing you with a kiss.

"Come on," Finnick whispered against your lips, beckoning you to follow behind the group. You hesitated and lingered there for a moment before he lifted your chin to look at him. "Trust me."

You pressed your lips together and — for a split second, you thought back to the conversation with Haymitch you'd overheard from the previous night. Perhaps, this is what it was about, you thought, about this alliance with them. So, with that in mind, your grip tightened around the trident in your hand and you turned to follow Peeta and Katniss.

With Finnick right behind you.

Peeta took the lead, cutting through the patches of vegetation with his long knife as you walked through the jungle. Now and then, Katniss turned back to look at you and Finnick; as if she was almost expecting for you to attack them at any moment. You supposed you couldn't blame her for that.

You, yourself, didn't trust her either.

"God, it's hot," Peeta hissed, stopping suddenly on his track to catch his breath after a few miles. The jungle was hot and humid; you could feel your hair damp and plastered over your forehead from the sweat. Simultaneously, your lips were chapped and dry from the lack of hydration. "We need to find fresh water."

"You don't say." Finnick deadpanned, to which Peeta threw him a glare in response.

"What if we move to the other side?" You suggested, cleaning some of the sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand. "Maybe there's a spring or something."

"There isn't." Katniss limited herself to answer.

"How do you know — " You started, but the words quickly froze on the tip of your tongue when the cannon started to go off again; indicating more deaths.

"I guess we're not holding hands anymore," Finnick quipped, stifling a chuckle as he counted the number of times the cannon fired.

You counted three.

"You think that's funny?" Katniss hissed, throwing your husband a heated glare.

"Every time that cannon goes off, it's music to my ears," Finnick replied, matter-of-factly, before he added. "I don't care about any of them."

"Good to hear," Katniss scoffed, reaching her arm back to pull an arrow from her quiver. Instinctively, you aimed the end of your trident at her, but Finnick was quick to lower your weapon.

"You want to face the Career Pack alone?" Finnick questioned her, rather indifferent to her threat. His reaction took you aback; for some reason, he seemed certain she was not going to shoot him. "What would Haymitch say?"

You, on the other hand, were not.

"Haymitch isn't here."

You tilted the trident towards her direction again, but Peeta was the one to break the interaction this time. "Come on, let's keep moving." He said, beckoning Katniss to move along. And, from the corner of your eyes, you could've almost sworn he threw you an apologetic smile.

You watched them walk ahead of you for a few seconds without a word. She's going to kill us, you thought to yourself, as you watched the girl on fire with cautious eyes. And if she doesn't, she's certainly going to try to — at one point or another.

You nibbled your bottom lip pensively. Would this be a good time to separate? You wondered again, trying to think of a coherent plan. To turn the other way and let them face the Career Pack on their own? It's what Snow would want. But what about Peeta?

You paused, the question caught you off guard; as if you'd suddenly realized what you'd asked yourself subconsciously.

What about him?

"Put the trident down, baby," Finnick's words slid into your thoughts, and you blinked; belatedly realizing that you were still holding the trident up defensively. "They're harmless."

"You sound a little too sure about that," You questioned him, tilting your head suspiciously. "As if she didn't just threaten to shoot you."

"Just — " Finnick paused as if he were choosing his next words carefully. " — just trust me, love."

Your eyebrows knitted together. "I'm trying to."

Finnick's lips twitched, clearly dismissing the seriousness of the conversation. "You're gorgeous when you're mad."

"I'm not mad," You clarified, but the annoyance in your voice betrayed your words. "But if it has to come down to choosing, I'm choosing you."

Finnick looked at you for a moment, eyes softly lit with vulnerability. "I know."

You opened your mouth to say something else, but the sound of Katniss screaming quickly cut you off. In a split second, you watched as Peeta flung back from a force field he'd just hit, bringing you and Finnick down along with him.

"Peeta!" You screamed, rushing over to his motionless body, where Katniss was trying to shake him awake — with no luck.

"He's not breathing!" She yelled, almost frightened. "His heart's not beating!"

At the sight of this, you suddenly remembered something Mags had taught you a few years ago — when your dad had almost drowned once, and you didn't know how to bring him back. Instinctively, you pushed Katniss aside, ignoring the way she immediately reached for an arrow.

Finnick yelled something at you, something along the lines that he would do it, but there wasn't time. So, you pinched Peeta's nose and pressed your mouth over his to blow air into his lungs. You did this for a few minutes until a cough eventually slipped out his mouth and you leaned back to look at him in relief.

"Shit." You breathed out, subconsciously resting a hand over his chest as you watched his eyelids part. For a few seconds, he lay there on the ground, simply looking up at you as he slowly regained back his consciousness.

"Careful," He eventually mumbled, wrapping his fingers around your wrist harmlessly. "There's a force field up ahead."

A small laugh escaped your lips. "Thanks, I almost didn't notice."

Peeta smiled, despite the evident pain he was in, and you were just about to help him get back to his feet when Katniss slightly shoved you aside. You didn't mind, you supposed she was in the right too. But you could've sworn Peeta's grip tightened around you — for a split second as if he almost didn't want to let go.

You decided to dismiss it, thinking nothing of it as you made your way back to Finnick and Katniss pulled Peeta into an embrace.

One that made you look away — for some reason.

"I thought you wanted to separate." Finnick confronted you sometime later when you were both leaning against a tree, trying to catch some sleep before sunrise. Your head rested on his shoulder sluggishly as you watched Katniss take the first watch from a comfortable distance.

"What?" You returned, unable to hide the confusion in your voice as you looked up.

"You saved Peeta." Finnick suddenly pointed out, but his tone was hard to label. Was he angry? Unhappy? Nonchalant? You couldn't tell.

"You said they were harmless." You answered, throwing his words back at him. But he didn't answer, instead, he looked down to scrutinize your features carefully — as if he almost wanted to decipher something, but couldn't. "What?"

"You saved him twice."

Your eyebrows knitted together. "I didn't — "

" — During the blood bath, when he was pulled into the water, you were willing to jump back in to save him," Finnick interjected, and you supposed he wasn't entirely wrong. You did go back for Peeta, but only because you considered him a friend. Someone who would, strangely, do the same thing for you. Or, that's the first thing that came to your mind anyway.

"Where are you going with this?" You eventually asked, trying to read the emotions that flitted across Finnick's face, but — like always, there was nothing you could place a finger on.

"It's — just an observation." He simply said.

But you didn't like the tone of his voice, it made your skin pepper with goosebumps. If you didn't know any better, you were almost certain his tone was accusing. But of what exactly? You didn't know, he didn't elaborate any further.

"Mhm," You hummed, trying to move the conversation elsewhere. "I'm starting to get the impression you just want me to yourself."

Finnick stifled a chuckle, grasping onto the fact that you wanted to change the subject. "You? My gorgeous wife? I don't think so, no."

Your heart skipped at the word "wife". The truth was, you were still not used to it. And the word alone was enough to have your heart hammering against your chest. "Dork," You quipped, snapping your eyes to the side, but Finnick didn't miss the pink hues that tinged your skin.

"You're pretty when you blush." He teased, dissipating the tension in the air, as he curved the side of your face with the palm of his hand to make you turn to look at him again.

"I'm not blushing.” You argued, but it was a futile attempt when you felt the heat rolling up your cheeks. Naturally, Finnick pulled your face closer to his; until you could feel his breath pressing against your skin and there was barely a gap between you. Instinctively, your eyes dropped to his lips and he took the opportunity to brush them against yours.

"Sure you're not," Finnick whispered into your mouth before he allowed his tongue to sweep past your lips in a passionate kiss. As if he was almost needy; as if he almost needed to prove something. Whether it was to the cameras or himself, you weren't exactly sure, but you kissed him back — with equal fervor.

Until the sound of the arrival of a silver parachute broke you apart. For a moment, neither of you reached for it; allowing the item to land before you peacefully. After a few seconds, Katniss walked over to your spot and, subconsciously, your eyes traveled past her frame in search of Peeta.

"He's sleeping," Katniss informed you, just as Peeta's body stumbled into your line of vision. He was a few feet away, curled on the ground — sleeping almost peacefully. You nodded, trying to ignore the fact that she'd just read your subconscious thoughts.

"Whose is it?" Katniss eventually asked, eyeing the parachute on the ground with curiosity.

Finnick shrugged, pushing himself back to his feet. "I have no idea."

"Open it." You encouraged her, ignoring the way she narrowed her eyes at you. "Or not."

Katniss sighed audibly, but she eventually took your advice and opened the parachute. Curiously, you peeked over to catch a glimpse of a metal object inside alongside a note. "It's a spile!" She informed you, to which you only blinked — dumbfounded. "It's to access water."

Relief washed over your features when Katniss took the metal object and hammered it into the green bark of a tree. For a few seconds, nothing happened as you stood there watching; until a stream of water eventually ran out. After Katniss, you rushed to hold your mouth under the tap, allowing the water to wet your parched tongue.

And, it wasn't until Katniss was waking up Peeta and Finnick's back were facing you when you finally decided to search for the note that was attached to the parachute. But a chill soon kissed down your spine when you took the parchment paper in your hands and read through the letters:

Remember why you're here for.

— S.

Finnick was sleeping next to you, his arm was wrapped around your waist and his face was buried in the crook of your neck. The jungle was quiet — too quiet to your liking, but you supposed you could appreciate the silence as you warred with the thoughts inside your head.

To say the note scared you was an understatement. You were terrified. Because Snow was watching each and every one of your moves; listening to every one of your words. Unsure of how everyone else would react, you fisted the note in your hand before anyone else could read it. And when anyone asked about it, you simply answered it was from Haymitch.

But, now that you were lying down and thinking about it — one thing was clear; Snow wasn’t content with your choice of alliances.

He didn’t approve of them.

How could he? If you and Finnick were both reaped for a purpose and one only: to kill the Mockingjay. To annihilate any chances of her winning, to win over her sponsors, and to make the fight seem fair. And, so far, Snow had done his part of the deal; he’d placed you and Finnick under the limelight, made you both the Capitol’s favorites and even incarcerated you inside an arena close to home.

With tridents, especially made for you.

So, now, it was time for you to do your part too.

You swept Katniss a look, then Peeta. They were both sleeping on the other side of the ground; just a few feet away from you.

One wrong move and everything could go wrong very quickly. For you — for Finnick, and the thought alone forced a sickening feeling to retaliate in the pit of your stomach. Because you didn’t want to kill Peeta or Katniss, as much as she managed to get under your skin.

But if it had to come down to that, would you do it? Was Katniss right in mistrusting you after all? Would you really kill her and Peeta?

You exhaled pensively as your eyes searched for Peeta again — almost subconsciously. The mere sight of his chest rising and falling with each breath he took made your heart skip. Would you be able to kill him? His soft features, the strands of blonde in his hair, and his kind heart.

No, you thought quietly, not Peeta.

And then, as the thoughts quietened inside your head, something in the distance caught your attention. For a moment, you watched as a wave of fog slid into the jungle. Instinctively, the hairs of your arms rose and you pushed up on one of your elbows to examine the scene a little closer.

Simultaneously, Katniss stirred awake and quietly turned her attention to the mysterious curtain of fog too. In a matter of seconds, you watched as she reached to touch it with the tips of her fingers — and a scream quickly erupted.

“Run!” She yelled in pain.

Finnick snapped awake instantly, pushing your body behind him; ready to encounter an enemy, but to his surprise, Katniss clarified. “It’s the fog! It’s poisonous! We have to run, Peeta!”

Katniss helped Peeta climb back to his feet as Finnick beckoned you to run. For a few minutes, everyone sprinted, but the curtain of gas was expanding in every direction you turned. And it didn’t help that Peeta was tripping over everything on the ground either — he was weak, you could tell, perhaps it was the aftereffects of hitting the force field. So, without thinking, you gripped his arms securely and pulled him forward.

“Come on!” You encouraged, but your eyebrows jumped when he pulled his arm back. You opened your mouth to berate him — tell him there wasn’t time for this, when he intertwined his fingers with yours instead. Amidst the circumstances, you didn’t have time to coherent a reaction or a reason to let go.

Droplets soon sprung free of the vapor and landed on your bodies. You hissed in pain, it burned your skin searingly — like a chemical. After a few minutes, Peeta eventually fell to the ground and, despite your and Katniss’ efforts to pull back to his feet, his legs gave up.

“I’ll have to carry him.” Finnick eventually sighed, when there was a good distance between the fog and your group, and Katniss nodded.

For about a mile, you watched as Finnick carried Peeta on his back until he eventually collapsed on the ground too. You rushed to him, but the pain that seared your skin was equally as defeating, and, along with Katniss, you hit the ground almost instantly. But Finnick mumbled something under his breath, something along the lines of “go to the water” when you belatedly realized you were just a few feet away from the water that surrounded the Cornucopia.

After a few tries, however, you eventually faltered and turned to face the curtain of fog. But the chemical didn’t suffocate you as you’d expected. Unlike, it grew thicker and condensed as it suddenly pressed against a force field.

After a few minutes, it eventually went away.

“It’s gone,” Katniss murmured, but her voice was strangled and barely audible. “The fog.”

Your body was still twitching when you heard a wail slip out of Katniss’ mouth from somewhere close. Then you heard Peeta’s and then you heard Finnick’s. You tried to part your eyes when you eventually felt someone slide his hands under your armpits, but you couldn’t even do that. Naturally, you hissed in pain, but the action was abruptly interrupted by another pair of hands on you.

“I’ll do it.”

“I already got her.”

“Peeta.” The voice, you later recognized as Finnick’s, was dangerously low — as if he was suddenly speaking through his teeth.

Giving out a warning.

The only thing you could remember after that was your skin being torched. As Finnick pulled you into the water, a heart-wrenching scream ripped out your lips; as if you had suddenly been thrown into an open flame.

“I know, baby,” Finnick cooed, pressing a gentle kiss on the top of your head. “I know…”

After a bit, the blisters in your skin slunk back into your flesh and disappeared along with the pain. “Motherfuckers,” You cursed, falling back against your husband’s chest in evident exhaustion. “I’ve never run that much before.”

Finnick laughed, incredulous at your sense of humor. “You and me both.”

You didn’t say much after that, instead, you allowed yourself to indulge in the fleeting moment of peace in Finnick’s arms. But the moment didn’t last for long when you began to wonder if maybe— just maybe, this was a warning from President Snow.

And you needed to do your part of the deal soon.

Author’s Note

I’m back after a horrible writersblock! It took me so long to write this, I’m sorry, besties, but don’t worry, I have the rest of the chapters planned already. Anyways, I would really appreciate you guys could interact with the story! Lately, I don’t have that much motivation and reading you guys thoughts and comments on my inbox helps so much!

With that being said, I left some Peeta content for those of you who are #teamPeeta. Enjoy!

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