#post-mockingjay

[ashyblondwaves]

Can you write Peeta giving katniss a bath after a particularly messy day in the woods and she comes home happy but muddy?

This is such a fun little prompt! I had a blast with this one, thank you!

Move Me, Darling

Rating: Soft M

I’m on the porch painting when she comes home with mud from her boots to her forehead, twigs in her hair, and the brightest smile I’ve seen in weeks. When I see a smile like that, I don’t even care if she tracks dirt across every surface in the house. 

I should’ve known the overnight storms would make for a muddy visit to the woods for Katniss today, but she insisted she go. Perfect conditions for finding mushrooms, she’d said. She must’ve found them, because her game bag is full, and she looks like the cat that caught the canary as she trudges up the cobblestone to our house. 

She stops at the edge of the porch and raises her eyebrows, as if daring me to say something. I set my brush down and give a smile back that matches hers.

“So,” I start, meeting her at the bottom of the first step. “Do I want to know what happened to the rest of the woods?”

“Well, most of it’s in my boots,” she says, plucking a twig from her braid. “And my hair.”

“Successful hunt, or did you roll down a hill for fun this time?” I ask with a smirk. 

“Both, actually,” she snorts, rocking back on her heels.

She looks so innocent. Younger, somehow. Like the girl I remember from school.  

“Should I get the hose or draw you a bath?” I finally ask. 

“Depends,” she grins. “Are you joining me?”

I can’t help the smile that breaks out across my face. These days are few and far between, where Katniss is at ease with herself, carefree enough to just have fun in the woods, and truly be the young adult she actually is. 

“I think I can do that,” I say with a nod. 

She steps closer, reaches for me with her grubby fingers, and grins. Before I can dodge her, she presses a damp kiss to my cheek, leaving a perfect muddy handprint behind on my shirt

“There,” she says, walking past me and up the porch steps, undoing her braid as she moves. “Now you match me.”

I watch her disappear inside, one muddy boot already half-off and clunking against the floorboards as she goes. There’s a trail of damp footprints and tiny leaves in her wake, and I don’t care at all. Not when the culprit is a happy Katniss. 

I press my hand to the kiss she left on my cheek, but not too hard. I like the reminder.

By the time I head inside, she’s already peeled out of her jacket and is working on her shirt, dirty fingers made stiff by drying mud. 

“You’re leaving a path of destruction, you know,” I say, brushing past her toward the stairs. “At this rate, I’ll be scrubbing the floor until next week.”

“Then you better make the bath worth it,” she tosses back without looking up, her voice half-laugh, half-dare.

I’m already smiling as I take the steps two at a time.

The tub in the upstairs bathroom is old but deep, claw footed and charming. Just big enough for the two of us. I twist the tap, test the water with my fingers, and reach for the jar of mint leaves we keep under the sink. She likes those. She says they smell like early mornings.

The water’s steaming by the time I hear her pad up the stairs. I turn to find her in the doorway, shirt loose and hanging open, her breasts on display. Her cheeks flush from the way I am looking at her, but she stands her ground.

“You gonna gawk or get in?” she asks, arms crossing with a smirk that tells me she already knows the answer.

I extend my hand toward her, and she takes it willingly, shimmying out of her shirt and letting it drop to the floor as she moves closer to the aromatic bath. Once she’s out of her clothes, I take her hand again and help her step in. She hisses at the heat, but it’s followed by a soft moan as she sits and submerges her body in the water. 

“That good, huh?” I ask, watching the way her eyes flutter closed. Her head tips back against the porcelain.

“Mmm,” she hums. “Almost worth getting stuck in a landslide for.”

“You what?” I say.

“Nothing. Get in here,” she says, cracking one eye open.

I strip without ceremony, her gaze shameless as it drifts down my body and lingers. The water is hot when I dip my good leg in, waiting just a moment to acclimate myself before fully sitting down. The warmth soothes my joints immediately, and I can see why Katniss let out that sound. It feels good. 

She shifts, her legs brushing mine underwater. It could be accidental, but the look she gives me says otherwise.

“You smell like mint and mischief,” she murmurs, reaching to trail wet fingers along my jaw.

“You smell like forest and trouble,” I shoot back, dipping my head to kiss the inside of her wrist. “Irresistible.”

Luckily, the mud was contained mostly to her clothes, so the water is only slightly murky from what was on her hands. I use a wet wash cloth to rid her face of the mud, and she leans into my touch with every swipe, sighing in that way she does when she’s content, and with a new wash cloth, I move downward. 

I start with her shoulders, gliding the warm cloth over her skin in slow, deliberate strokes. The faint sheen of dirt lifts easily, revealing the soft skin beneath. She closes her eyes again, her head tilting just enough to give me better access to the slope of her neck.

“You’re going to spoil me,” she murmurs, her voice low and lazy.

“Good,” I whisper back, tracing the line of her collarbone. “You deserve it.”

Her breath catches when I move lower, the cloth passing over the swell of her breasts with the same reverence I might give something sacred. I don’t rush. I let my fingers linger as I rinse, the barest pressure guiding the warmth of the water down her sternum, between her ribs, across the plane of her stomach. Her skin twitches under my touch.

She doesn’t speak now. Doesn’t need to. Her body does, in the way she sinks a little deeper into the tub, in the way her legs shift slightly, brushing against mine under the surface.

I lift one of her arms, careful, like I’m handling something fragile, and run the cloth along its length. Then the other. Her hands rest on my knees now, grounding us both, the water lapping gently between our bodies.

“You cold?” I ask, my voice hushed.

“Not even close,” she says, opening her eyes.

“Good,” I smile and lean in, pressing a soft kiss to her damp temple. 

“Your turn next,” she says, turning her face toward me, her lips nearly brushing mine.

She shifts, the movement sending a small ripple through the water, and takes the cloth from my hand. Her fingers graze mine purposefully as she does, her eyes not leaving my face.

“Lean back,” she says softly.

I do as she asks, resting against the curve of the tub while she wrings out the cloth and begins her work. Her touch is different from mine, more teasing than reverent, but no less gentle. She starts at my neck, brushing away the sweat and faint trace of paint from earlier in the day that somehow always manages to get in places they shouldn’t. The cloth is warm, but it’s her hands I feel more than anything else. Sure, slow, unhurried.

“Oops, I missed a spot,” she says playfully, tapping the center of my chest.

“Oh? Better get it, then,” I murmur, keeping my eyes closed.

She presses the cloth there, dragging it down the line of my sternum with maddening precision. Her knuckles brush skin as she rinses, and I open my eyes, unable to help the small intake of breath that earns me a satisfied look.

“Hmm,” she murmurs, letting the cloth trail lower before shifting to my side, wrapping one arm around me for balance. Her breath is near my ear now. “You're flushed.”

“I’m in a hot bath with a beautiful woman,” I say, my voice lower than I intended. “Kind of inevitable.”

She huffs a quiet laugh, but I feel the way she presses closer, her chest against mine now, slick and warm and bold. The cloth floats, forgotten, as her hands settle instead against my shoulders, then trace lightly down my arms, curling at my wrists.

We sit like that for a long moment, the only sounds the gentle splash of water and the quiet stutter of our breathing as the heat wraps around us. There's no rush. There never is with her. Not in moments like these.

“Stay a while,” she whispers.

“Try and get rid of me,” I say with a nod, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek. 

Her legs shift again beneath the water, draping over mine now, her knees bracketing my hips. Skin against skin. Warmth against warmth. She moves like she’s always known how to unravel me, and I let her, breath hitching as she settles more fully into my lap.

Her fingers slide up my chest again, this time without the cloth, tracing the line of muscle, the dips and rises she’s memorized in the moonlight, she now reacquaints herself with in daylight. The air between us crackles, but her movements stay slow, indulgent. Like she’s savoring. Like she wants to draw this out for as long as she can.

“You’re staring,” she says, voice soft but sultry, lips brushing just shy of mine.

“I’m memorizing,” I murmur back. “Every freckle. Every breath.”

She doesn’t argue, just tilts forward and kisses me, slow and deep, like we’ve got all the time in the world. And we do. The water laps against the porcelain with every shift, every gentle press of her body to mine. Her hands move again. First down my arms, then my sides, anchoring herself as she deepens the kiss, tongue brushing mine with a languid tease that makes my stomach clench and my fingers grip her hips beneath the water.

She gasps against my mouth when I pull her just a little closer, the slick heat of her skin sliding over mine, and for a breathless moment we just stay there, touching, tasting, breathing each other in.

Her forehead rests against mine, our noses brushing.

“We’re going to overflow the tub,” she whispers, smiling like she doesn’t care one bit.

“Let it overflow,” I say, catching her mouth again before she can respond.

The water has cooled by the time we pull apart, our breathing uneven, our skin flushed for reasons that have nothing to do with temperature anymore. She leans back just enough to look at me, her eyes heavy-lidded and full of heat.

“Come on,” she says, her voice husky and low as she stands, water cascading from her skin like silk. She doesn’t reach for a towel, she just holds out her hand, bold and bare and beautiful.

I take it without hesitation and let her help me from the tub.

We step carefully onto the mat, her fingers still wrapped around mine, leading me out of the bathroom and down the hall, dripping footprints in our wake. The bedroom is dim and warm, the sheets already rumpled from this morning. The scent of mint still clings to her skin, but it’s mixed now with something headier. Something wholly hers.

She turns to face me as we reach the bed. There’s no rush in the way she moves, just certainty. Just intent.

She brushes a hand along my jaw, tilting my face toward hers.

“No more interruptions,” she whispers. “Just us, here, together.”

“Just as it should be,” I murmur. 

And when she pulls me down with her, I follow willingly.

[thepigeonsart]

At the lake 🧡

[francixoxoxo]

⋆.˚ ℬ𝒶𝓈𝒽 𝒜𝓇ℴ𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽ℯ ℋℴ𝓊𝓈ℯ𓅰˚ .✧

Peeta Mellark x Reader

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧. 𝐏𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐡.

Basically hurt/comfort with a katniss insert

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 was a personal attack.

Breakdowns were irregular, for you. The trauma rarely boiled to the point that you were perched on right now— your heart was racing to combust, your eyes wild and unfocused, chest heaving with lagged breaths that were needy gulps of crisp mountain air more than anything.

You stumble out of bed— the man beside you was a heavy sleeper, though you weren’t in the state of mind to consider that, nor where the fingers of your nightstand-clock were pointing. You only saw your own visage in the thin glass covering those thin needles. Your bare feet were damp on the hardwood as you bashed around the house, poison staining your mouth.

You pass a mirror in the hallway, seeing your own crazed expression, recoiling from it, and as if it was encoded into each strand of DNA in your body, your fist is curling, arm winding, you think of the arena, this adrenaline didn’t feel so different, it’s rushing through your ears and it’s driving your fist into the glass of this poor mirror Peeta picked out from the market a year ago.

It shatters, your image splitting into a million, and perhaps that’s the boom, crash, bullet-rip that scares the wild animal in you into the bathroom down the hall.

There were no victors, you’d been told by one dear friend. You’d dare call him a father. Only survivors.

As your breathing comes in rasps, you grip each side of the bathroom sink. Things were meant to be good now, weren’t they? The Capitol no longer loomed over your life. You lived in a comfortable house with the love of your life. Haymitch lived down the street, as did your mother, in a rebuilt District 12. The victors you had grown close to, they were a quick letter away, though the furthest friend lived all the way in District 7. Peace was working its way into the fibers of your muscles, the marrow of your bones, flowing through your arteries and cooling the sharp awareness your blood had carried before the rebellion.

Bread was sitting on the kitchen counter from yesterday, fresh and wrapped in a towel. Two toothbrushes sat in a cup by your thumb. If you were to open the cabinet inside the mirror, you’d find shaving cream sitting beside your perfume.

And still, you couldn’t dispel each bruising memory. Each person you’d lost was another crack in your knuckles, which, looking down at now— they were bleeding, and a small shard of glass was lodged in your pointer’s knuckle.

As you grabbed the tweezers to pry out the mirror bit (too rashly, mind, you were picking and ripping at the raw skin with your shaking hand,) you can’t stop your mind from reeling. Spinning with thoughts of a little girl in the arena you couldn’t save, could only sing to. With memories of a man you’d come to trust, slipping down a ladder and falling to faceless, groping hands. Thoughts of a sister, a baby, her visage disappearing behind a blinding light and ear-splitting, horribly man-made sound.

Your eyes are blurred from tears. Just your luck, you continue to pick fruitlessly for that little shard of glass. Eventually you get it out, you throw the tweezers in the sink like it was refuse.

Meeting your eyes in the mirror, you take a sharp inhale. Was that you? Jesus. Your attention darts all over yourself— regaining a little bit of composure, you fix your sleeping-tank to cover your bra. You try to run your fingers, the unharmed tips of them, through your dark tresses— they’re tangled from tossing and turning in bed, though, you don’t get very far. You try to rip your nails through, thoughtlessly, and grunt at the sting at your scalp.

Your hands are moving, but your mind lags behind, as you reach inside the cabinet above the sink again, taking away your sorry image in the mirror. Bloody, cracked fingers find the scissors you use to cut Peetas hair— the memory of sweet conversations, his bare back to you, his comment about the cool steel on his nape, it reminds you to breathe.

You’re grabbing the ends of a lock of hair, tugging tight, pushing the scissors through, just below your chin, baring your teeth with effort and avoiding your image in the mirror. Saltwater once again creates a blurry mask over the bathroom, your vision leaving you a bit of a comfort right now.

A frustrated cry splits your lips, you blink the tears down your flushed cheeks— so, when Peeta appears beside you, you see him perfectly clear, his sweet brown eyes wide for a man who just woke up, his shirt wrinkled and sleep-shorts rumpled from sleep.

Peeta breathes your name, taking in what’s in front of him. He points over his shoulder as he steps to you, as if to mention the mirror, but he decides against it. His brows knit as he steps to you, he can’t help gawking a little. “Jesus, baby, what’re you doing?”

His calloused, strong hands reach for the scissors, you let him take them from you. He sets them down, his eyes darting over his wife. What a sight you must’ve been, just then, your words coming in teary gasps. “I— I just..”

“Nightmare?” You swallow hard and nod. He mirrors you, mouth hanging open slightly. He gets them too.

Peeta grasps your hands, first and foremost, inspecting them with a gentle grasp on your undamaged fingertips. You breathe deep so that you don’t speak in a sob, though your voice is terribly hushed to try and keep it even. “I’m sorry about the mirror.”

“Don’t be. Just a mirror.” Peeta dismissed, a hand on your shoulder guiding you to sit on the toilet seat. He closes the lid for you, keeping one hand grasping your fingers and the other one reaching into the cabinet, finding the hydrogen peroxide. Like he knew what to do, like there were directions on how to care for you etched behind his eyelids.

You’re just grateful he shut his dropped jaw and wasn’t looking at you with any pity. Worry, definitely. Not pity.

Peeta goes wordlessly about pouring some of the clear liquid on a towel, dabbing your knuckles. Eventually, he speaks, his voice soft as it falls on your currently-sensitive ears. “A bad one, huh?”

You nod vigorously. Peeta frowns, glancing up at you often, but you only meet his chestnut gaze once, as he’s pulling away from you. He stops, leaning over to kiss your temple. He fondles gently the cropped section of hair, pressing his lips together and raising his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, your voice still wobbly as a woman on crutches. Peeta shakes his head.

“Why would you be sorry?” He murmurs, his hand moving from your hair to your flushed, wet cheek.

“You liked my hair,” A quiet bawl rips from your lips, your fingertips rubbing your eyes raw. Peeta pulls your hands away from your face with a featherlight touch, and leans close to you to drop a kiss into your hairline.

His voice is low, but sweet as a birdsong, “Baby, I like you. It’s just hair.” When Peeta pulls away, your eyes are on him, and he can’t help but see just a teenage girl again, ripped up in the mind, but never more beautiful regardless. He can’t help but see the girl who nursed him to health in that first arena, and the girl who made the second one bearable. The girl he’d fallen in love with, twice.

Wordlessly, he’s taking the scissors again after a quick inspection of your cleaned knuckles. He guides you by the elbows (the hand holding the scissors simply pushes his knuckles against you, obviously not wanting to cut you,) to stand.

It’s silent, as you lean slightly over the sink and let him snip away at the rest of your hair, slowly bringing the rest of the locks to the same length. The dark strands fall into the ceramic sink, floating like feathers, and you focus simply on that. Peeta looks up from his task to check up on you through the cabinet mirror, his brown eyes cautious and warm. Soft as anything. The only sound is the occasional owl that lived in the pines near your home.

The look of a man in love, a man who’d be in love with you in every scenario, and through every hardship. You’d been through so much together already— there wasn’t anything worse the world could throw at you that you couldn’t handle, not with Peeta beside you. Baking you bread. Making your chin tip back with unabashed laughter. Dipping your mattress at night, before drawing you close.

Cutting your hair over the sink over a meltdown, not shaming you, not scolding you, not even questioning you— just doing what he knew you needed him to, without your spoken instructions.

Eventually, though, your Peeta speaks, setting down the scissors and grasping your shoulders to get you to face him. He mutters your name, his brows drawn. Your eyes dart around the room, the soft yellow tiles, the Chantilly-curtained window letting a breeze rolling down from the mountains into the bathroom.

When he repeats your name you finally look at him. There it is, rolling over you in waves— shame. Embarrassment.

And there it is, receding like the tide pulling back into the ocean, a warmer feeling replacing it, when Peeta brushes a knuckle across your jaw and offers you an easy smile. “You look beautiful.”

You sniffle a little, huffing almost indignantly. He looked beautiful. His golden hair was smashed to his forehead, his sun-freckled cheeks pushed up and creasing his oak-colored eyes. After all these years, he still brought a flush to your own cheeks— if they weren’t already flushed from that breakdown. You were certain that you didn’t look as good as he did. “I look a mess, Peeta.”

“No, no. You look beautiful.” Peeta insists, shaking his head, closing his eyes a moment as if this was final. The smile that creases your tear-tracked cheeks broadens his own. “This haircut suits you.”

You hummed indifferently. Peeta tucks your freshly cropped hair behind your ear, mimicking your hum. He manages to work a soft, almost-laugh from you. That’s enough for him.

“I don’t know what got into me,” you murmur, eyes darting twixt his own. Your husband shakes his head, and it goes unsaid, but you know what he means. He knows. He understands. And it doesn’t change a thing.

“It’s okay,” Peeta cooes, his voice quiet, just for the two of you. He’s close enough to thump his forehead against yours, his hands roving up and down your upper arms. “Look at what we went through. It’s only natural.”

You press your lips together, nodding a little. You realize for the first time, that your mind is the clearest it’s been in the past ten minutes. Your breathing comes in soft, even puffs, your eyes swollen and red, but vision clear as glass. Silently, he leans forward just a bit, presses his warm lips onto yours, and you think that you could stay there forever, letting him lift you out of the mud, guide you through the murkiness that rose to your neck.

You couldn’t begin to describe just how good he was, your Peeta. Just how little you deserved him. Just how golden his heart was. Almost under your breath, you tell him, “Thank you.”

He shakes his head. Don’t worry about it, his warm eyes mutter. I’d do it again, his hand brushing up your shoulder speaks. I’m here, and i’m not leaving, a sweet, boyish smile on his face yells.

With his words, though, Peeta mutters, “I love you.” Easy as breathing. Easy as the sun rises— easy as the room lightens, just a little, as that long-forgotten nightstand clock’s fingers point a bit closer toward 5:30.

You whisper it right back to him, “I love you too.” And you mean it, from your split knuckles to your wracked mind, you mean it with your whole being. Peeta was the type of man you could trust that whole being with.

The type of man who’d wake up in the middle of the night, wordlessly cut your hair over the sink, silently take your rash bite and turn it into something beautiful. Love you in your worst moments. The type of man you could trust to take care of the wounded animal in you.

Peeta was exactly what you needed to heal.

[everlarkfanquit]

I could lowkey see Everlark going into a cottage core era. Anyone else????

[charcoalseraphim]

when you close your eyes, do you think of me? by @charcoal_seraphim on ao3

a post-mockingjay, grow-together fic, set one year after peeta's return to district twelve. excerpt from chapter five “Come here.” I say, and she leans forward. I part my clenched hands just enough for her to peer in at the tickling insect.  “Oh, Peeta!” She looks back at my face, awed. “Give it to me! Please, I can never catch them!” “You can’t?” I’m surprised. “With reflexes like yours?” “Shut up,” she says, reaching her hands to cover the opening of my fists. I widen the gap, and the firefly flees eagerly into her waiting palms.  There’s glee on her face like I haven’t seen in years. Affection swells so rapidly in my chest it threatens to spill out my eyes. I blink it away. Ridiculous.  “What would I do without you?” She laughs breathlessly, peering through her fingers at the orange glow inside. “Me or the bug?” I tease.  She rolls her eyes at me. “You.” I grin. It’s like what she told me a few weeks ago. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t need you, she’d said. I can’t live without you.   Heat builds in my chest at the memory, delightful and exhilarating, growing steadily warmer until it blazes too hot. Then the words begin to darken and shift, and I close my eyes to a damp basement, my body wrapped in furs beside a bleeding Gale, whose voice is low and certain through the dark: Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can’t survive without.

[hayffiebird]

Taste of Strawberries, chap. 58

Hayffie Post-Mockingjay (Canon divergence) Multi-chapter, Rated M

Four years have passed since the end of the war when Effie becomes a fixture in Haymitch’s life once again. An old friendship is rekindled. Will it lead to something more?

Meanwhile, Panem has entered a new era. The rebellion’s over, the borders are open but in the shadows, anger and mistrust are smoldering. Something which will affect Haymitch and Effie’s life in a way they never saw coming. READ MORE. AO3. FFNET.

Author's note: A few ⚠️SUNRISE ON THE REAPING SPOILERS AND EASTER EGGS⚠️ down below! As always: Thanks for reading! I really appreciate the lovely support you bring. The steady flow of published chapters is much thanks to you. You really inspire and motivate me to keep on writing. ❤️

Chapter 58, Under the fluorescent light

”I have to be there with him! I’m his mother! He needs me!”

They stood just outside the OR, the three of them. Four, if you counted the child life specialist. Some stranger assigned to them, dressed in scrubs with a name on the tag Haymitch couldn’t pronounce.

Amy’s wails echoed down the hospital corridor. Too young to understand what was happening but overwhelmed by her mother being overwhelmed.

Rocking her, Effie all but crushed her daughter against her chest. She stared frantically at the doors, through which Ian had just been wheeled in. Her eyes, the eyes of someone who hadn’t slept a full night in days.

“You can’t let them take him away from me, Haymitch! You can’t do that! I’ll never forgive you!”

“No one’s taking anyone away.” Haymitch rested a hand against the small of her back. Found the fabric soaked with cold sweat. “They’re just gonna give him the help he needs to feel better.”

“Our surgeon’s very skilled, ms Trinket”, the specialist added. “Appendectomies are one of the most common medical procedures in Panem. She performs them all the time. Everything will be alright.”

“I don’t believe you!” Effie cried at him. “Why should I believe anything that comes from your mouth?”

”Princess, you need sleep”, said Haymitch softly. “That’s why you’re in a spin. How about you go and lie down? Just a moment. They have rooms here for that very purpose. Right?”

“Absolutely”, the specialist nodded.

“A nice good rest,” Haymitch said, “while I hold the fort.” He gave her shoulder a soft squeeze. “I promise I’ll wake you the moment there’s news.”

“No!” Effie shook his hand off of her. “I’m not leaving! Stop telling me what to do!”

Haymitch’s eyes found the specialist.

“Can you give us a minute alone?”

“Sure thing”, he said. “I’ll be nearby if you need me.”

Haymitch led Effie over to a plush settee. She still clung to Amy, as if afraid someone might come and take the child away from her at any given moment.

“Effs, listen …” He wanted nothing more than to put his arm around her, hold her close, but decided against it. Better not push things. “I know how much you want to be in the room when he gets the anesthesia, and I adore that about you, but please … let me do it, OK? It can be really hard to watch, and you’ve already carried so much. Too much, for anyone. Let me handle this part, yeah? That way you’ll be in a much better place once he wakes up.”

Eyes brimming with tears, Effie rested her forehead against Amy’s hair.

“What if they hurt him”, she whispered, pain etched into every word. “What if they do something to him? Something horrible.”

“They won’t, sweetheart. These aren’t Gamemakers. They’re just regular healthcare staff. They’re like Mrs Everdeen. Here to help.”

“I can’t leave. He will think I abandoned him.”

“You’re not. You’re really not. We’re both here for him, just in different ways.  I’ll be in the room. You’ll be right outside. Afterward I’ll tell you everything. Every little detail. And you’ll see him again soon, sweetheart. Real soon.”

The doors of the OR whooshed open, and a nurse appeared. Dressed in green scrubs.

“We’re ready to begin, ms Trinket. Mr Abernathy.”

Haymitch nodded but his eyes never left Effie.

“You know what you would’ve said”, he murmured, “if it was you and Katniss sitting out here. With her little ones.”

xXx

His son looked so small, so breakable, lying on the operating table. Dressed in a ghastly surgical gown. Surrounded by strangers.

Too stunned to even cry, the little boy’s eyes roved the room, searching for something familiar but finding none.

Until dada pulled up a chair by his bedside.

“Hey, pumpkin.”

A pitiful whimper came over the two year old’s lips.

“It’s OK. It’s gonna be OK, sweetheart.”

Haymitch smoothed his hair back. Smiled while trying to ignore how warm the boy had gotten during the short ride over. He took his little hand and kissed it.

“I know you’re scared. But I’m right here, peanut. Nothing bad’s gonna happen. Not on my watch. You’re safe as can be. All these nice people around … they’re only here to help you. They’re gonna take away the owie in your tummy. Mama’s just outside that door. She really wanted to be here but only one mommy or one daddy can be in the room during. That’s the rule and that’s why I’m here. But afterward, we’ll all be together again. You and me and mama and Amy.”

Haymitch didn’t know how much of his words the two year old understood, but Ian’s gray eyes hung on to his. All around them, the surgical team exchanged information, while they made the last few preparations. Quiet words Haymitch didn’t understand.

He never let it show, but Haymitch’s heart beat hard and thick in his chest, when the anesthesiologist approached with the mask.

It was all Haymitch could do not to hurl forward and snatch the thing out of her hands before she got even near his son.

He swallowed with difficulty and smiled down at Ian.

“Just a quick nap”, he reassured him as they placed the mask over the little boy’s nose and mouth. “You won’t feel a thing.”

���Starting induction now”, the anesthesiologist said. “Oxygen levels look good.”

“Vitals are stable”, one of the nurses replied. And, to Ian: “You’re doing very well, sweetie.”

The boy wiggled slightly. Whined. Disgruntled over the mask held over his face. Haymitch’s chest tightened at the sight, but he kept his voice low and soft.

“You go to sleep now, precious. When you wake up you’re gonna feel loads better. And we’ll cuddle and play and read all of your favorite books.”

Ian’s lids grew heavier. Fluttered softly, like butterfly wings. Once, twice, until they closed completely.

His tiny hand went slack. His body too.

It was like he died there on the table and all at once it wasn’t his son he saw, but Maysilee.

Her image swam before his mind’s eye like water down a window. His sister, right after the bird attack. Their hands clasped together, in her last moment of life. Her pinkie locking around his, for a final confirmation of the promise they made to each other.

And with her, came the others. The ghosts of his allies all merged together into one horrible picture, sending his heart into a wild beat. His throat closing up. Eyes filling with tears.

Ampert. Sweet, smart, funny Ampert. Eaten alive by squirrel mutts. Nothing left but his small white skeleton.

Wellie. Her head in Silka’s fist. Blood dripping into the pine needles. Eyes still open. Mouth agape.

Lou Lou. Cradled in his arms. Her skin turning blue as convulsions racked her body. Blood pouring from her eyes, her nose, her mouth.

Louella. His little sweetheart of old. So tiny. So still, in the chaos after the chariot crash. Him trying to rouse her. Find a pulse.

Blood leaking from the back of her skull, cracked open against the pavement. Her pigtails floating in a growing puddle of red.

No! No, no, please no!

Clutching his child’s lifeless hand, Haymitch pressed his eyes shut. Willed the other children away, as the room made an alarming tilt.

Not here! Please! Not now!

The hum of machines grew louder; the sterile smell stronger. His breathing came short and quick, as he struggled to breathe the air. Oxygen which seemed to have been sucked out of the room completely.

Dizzy and nauseous – forehead clammy with sweat – he forced his eyes open. Forced himself to breath slow and steady, to try and stave the panic attack. Keep it at arm’s length.

Nasty black spots nibbled on the edges of his vision but with each strained breath, reality came back to him. One fractured piece at a time.

And he heard it. Heard something.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The glowing screen by Ian’s bedside. Haymitch’s eyes clung to it. To the single green line, tracing each tiny, perfect heartbeat.

His son’s heartbeat.

Pained, his gaze flitted to Ian. The slow but steady rise and fall of his chest further cleared Haymitch's vision, leaving only a soft ringing in his ears, diminishing all the time.

He blinked back the tears, and found one of the nurses watching him. Brown eyes filled with concern and not for Ian's sake.

Haymitch sniffed. Tried to get a hold on himself. Rubbed his arm over his eyes and said,

“Can I just … stand back? In a corner somewhere? I won’t be in your way.”

“I’m sorry”, the nurse replied, and she looked like she meant it. “That’s against protocol, I’m afraid. You must step out during the procedure.”

The words heated his blood, no matter how kindly spoken.

Why don’t you make me! his eyes said.

The message hit home, but the nurse stood her ground.

“You should go take care of the rest of your family, Mr Abernathy. I know this is hard, but you have to trust me when I say, he’s in good hands. And the sooner we begin, the sooner he’ll be on his way to recovery.”

Unable to speak, Haymitch just nodded. What else could he do? Not fly the boy over to District 4 and have Tessa Everdeen perform the surgery. The only doctor in Panem he trusted.

So, he leaned in and brushed a kiss on the boy’s cheek. Whispered, for only his son to hear,

“I love you more than all the stars in the sky.”

xXx

The full tray rattled when he tried to lift it. Like a vitrine in an earthquake.

Cursing inwardly, Haymitch settled it back on the counter. Balled his hands into fists. Gave them a violent shake, fingers flailing.

Anything to stop the damned tremors. Tremors that had nothing to do with any withdrawals.

Late evening light filtered through the kitchen window. The polka dotted curtains fluttered. Merrily, as if mocking him.

The second time he lifted the tray, his hands co-operated. Jaws clenched, Haymitch carried the food back into the furnished room.

An area designated for parents and siblings waiting on news about their loved ones in surgery.

It was disturbing how much this place looked like the penthouse. Soft carpets, muting your every step. Upholstered couches. Plush armchairs. Horrible art on the walls.

Racks for magazines. Flower vases. Tables and side tables, made out of some shiny wood he had no name for. Not mahogany.

The only real difference were the toys lying about – and the lack of a good sturdy bar.

He could really use one. A good sturdy drink. Even here. Even now. Especially now.

Fuck me so hard.

Not that Effie noticed. Not the room. Not him. She paced the linoleum like a tiger in a cage. A tiger clutching its cub.

Poor Amy, exhausted by the day’s ordeal. Too tired to cry, she only whimpered in her mother’s arms. Cheeks red and wet from tears.

Haymitch settled the tray on a vacant table.

“Effs …”

The sound of her name, only made Effie clutch the girl tighter – as if he posed a threat.

Haymitch held out a soothing hand. Approached her, like she was indeed a wild animal.

Or someone just out of the arena.

How long has this been going on? How could I allow any of it to happen?

Seeing her like this, he couldn’t escape the image of her standing at the top of a cliff, where even the softest gust of wind could make her fall, right over the edge.

“I got us food”, he said with a gesture toward the tray. “Fruits and sandwiches. Apple juice. Let’s have some, yeah?”

Effie just stared at him, rooted to the spot. Like she couldn’t understand the words. Not take them in.

He took a tentative step forward. Then another. And another. By their side, he gave Amy’s back a soft caress.

“Why don’t you let me take her? Just to hold.”

Effie shook her head, vehemently. Her strawberry hair fell in curtains around her face.

”Just to hold”, he said. “While you have something to eat. I’ll give her back right after. You know I’d never hurt her. Nothing bad will happen, I swear.”

He rested a hand over hers that clutched Amy.

“Come on, princess. You can let go”, he murmured. “It’s OK. I’m her daddy. I’m her daddy.”

With the repeat of the last sentence, it finally seemed to register. Sink in.

The hold on the girl relaxed. Loosened, just enough for Haymitch to lift the child from her arms.

“Hi there, my baby girl”, he cooed and settled Amy comfortably against himself. Giving her a little hug, he dropped a butterfly kiss to her temple. “You hungry? Want a snack?”

Amy sniffed. Blinked those gorgeous gray eyes.

“Stawbuhwees”, she said.

“I’m sorry, precious. We don’t have strawberries.”

“Hmmph”, Amy pouted, eyes dangerously shiny.

“But there’s lots of other yummy stuff. Mashed banana. Grapes. Boiled eggs and apple wedges and that string cheese you love. That sound good?”

With his daughter on one hip and his hand in Effie’s, Haymitch settled all three of them on a couch. A puffy thing that almost swallowed you. Like raisins in a dough.

There were toddler highchairs – over by the kitchen area – but he didn’t want to risk things by getting up again. Not when he finally got Effie to remain in one place.

Instead, he just settled their daughter on his lap and reach for the nearest mug.

The little girl gaped like a baby chick as Haymitch helped her with some yoghurt and unsweetened applesauce. He dabbed a napkin against her chin, but his attention was never far from Effie.

Elbows on her knees, hands pressed into her forehead, she remained hunched forward. Barely moving. As if in pain.

He took a sandwich from the tray.

“Here, Eff. Have one. They’re delicious.”

“What’s taking them so long?” Effie whimpered to the carpet, ignoring his offer. “They said two hours. It’s been two hours!”

“Only one hour, 55 minutes”, Haymitch said. “It won’t be long now. Please, sweetheart. Try it. It’s roast beef with cheddar on rye.”

“I already told you, I don’t want any food!” Effie spat, not looking up. “Leave me alone!”

“You’ve hardly eaten all day. Come on, Effs. Humor me. You need to keep your strength up for when he wakes.”

Effie gave a joyless laugh. Something that could just as well be a sob. She rubbed her eyes, then straightened up. Face flushed.

He held out the sandwich and this time she accepted it. Took one miserable bite and chewed slowly. Eyes vacant.

Haymitch fed Amy another spoonful of yoghurt. Smoothed her hair back to try and distract himself from the painful thoughts that penetrated his mind. Not just Effie’s.

Thoughts of all the things that could go wrong. All the things they’d make go wrong.

I’m sorry, Mr Abernathy. He had a bad reaction to the anesthesia. I’m sorry, Mr Abernathy, there was an accidental injury to nearby blood vessels. I’m sorry Mr …

No! he shouted at himself. Shut the hell up!

He coaxed the rest of the sandwich into Effie. Was just reaching for the glass of apple juice, when a sound made them both look up.

The child life specialist, at the door.

”Miss Trinket? Mr. Abernathy?”

Effie sprung to her feet, with Haymitch and Amy bringing up the rear.

“How is he?” she asked, out of breath. “Is he okay?”

“Quite”, the man replied. “Surgery went well. No complications. He’s in the PACU now, while the anesthesia wears off.”

“Did his appendix rupture?” Haymitch asked.

“Not at all. We caught it early. It was a good thing you brought him in as fast as you did.”

“Can I see him?” begged Effie, voice breaking.

“Certainly. He's doing just fine, ms. Trinket. Brave little soul. But we'll keep him here for the next couple of days or so. For observation.”

“I'm not leaving him here alone!”

“Effs …”, Haymitch said but the specialist reassured the both of them.

“No need to fret. We encourage parents to stay close. A room is being prepped for him as we speak. He’ll be transferred there as soon as he's in the clear. No reason why you couldn’t all stay the night.” He smiled at Amy’s yoghurt-smeared face. “All four of you.”

[hungergameshyperfixation]

I think I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I don’t think I have a specific preference when it comes to Katniss and Peeta’s last names post-MJ.

I do want to make the unconventional (?) argument for:

Katniss Everdeen-Mellark

And

Peeta Mellark-Everdeen.

They keep their original names but have the addition of sharing the other’s name as their last. Idk, I can see a number of name combinations working for them. But Katniss Mellark does not sit right with me (at least it hasn’t before, maybe that’ll change one day?)

She’ll always be Everdeen in my eyes. Whether it’s Mellark-Everdeen or Everdeen-Mellark, if she chooses to take Peeta’s name I don’t think she’d sacrifice her own.

Not to say that changing or ‘taking’ your partner’s last name is inherently sacrificing your own, but in this context (aka a fictional/narrative one) I think Everdeen will always be a part of her. Her name is her connection to her father, her sister, and even her mother—all of whom she lost (at least partially in her mother’s case). She can still have that connection without her last name, and one could make the argument that it can almost be beneficial that she ‘sheds’ or evolves beyond her past life and takes on a new name/identity of her choosing (one based on love and all that)

But still!! I subscribe to the Everdeen propaganda!! I much prefer Katniss Everdeen being the name she stays with.

I also have a similar ish argument as to why PEETA would take on the name Everdeen.

[realmermaid333]

I like to imagine that Katniss started singing again and maybe even picked up guitar or something post-mockingjay.

I feel like it would be a part of her healing process since she loved music as a child but fell out of it when her dad died. And at the end of mockingjay she sings to herself in the shower and that is the first moment she seems to realize that she doesn't want to die, and that things could get better.

So, I headcanon that part of her healing and finding hobbies, and an identity after the war was her practicing singing and learning guitar. Cause one thing I noticed in the books is that Katniss didn't really have any hobbies. Which makes sense, I mean she spent all of her time taking care of Prim, parenting her mom, being the breadwinner, and going to school. She'd be too burned out to do anything else. But after she is free from the Hunger Games and poverty, and able to heal and grow in her new life, I think music would be soothing and the beginning of her figuring out who she is and what she likes to do for fun. Also, writing lyrics/poems is a common therapeutic method.

[sparemoon]

real or not real 1

[madzthemenace]

“I just stare into those burning blue eyes, letting her know she’s not dying alone. She’s with family. She’s with me. In her last moments, she released her grip enough to lock her pinkie around mine. Looking, I think, for a final confirmation of the promise we made to eachother. I not so she knows I understand and that I will try my best to bring the Capitol down, although I have never felt so powerless in my entire life.” (SOTR 307)

In the end, he does fulfils his promise. To Maysilee. To Ampert. And to Lenore Dove.

[happyvoltz]

book pita

[charlunday]

Just a quick one of mama and babies that I've had in the sketchbook for a while 🩵

Alternately titled: Why buy maternity wear when your husband's clothes fit perfectly?

come claim 20% off commissions!

[everlarkfanquit]

i Am a weird human being. I am obsessed with Everlark...they consume all my waking moments. (Not mad abt that) tehe

[callmeizukunotdeku]

I was a kid with a Hunger Games hyperfixation and, from time to time, I'll get reminded of the books. With Trump's inauguration and the TikTok ban and unban, I can't stop thinking about a political tactic called panem et circenses, or bread and circuses.

In Mockingjay, Collins writes "'It’s a saying from thousands of years ago, written in a language called Latin about a place called Rome,' he explains. 'Panem et Circenses translates into "Bread and Circuses." The writer was saying that in return for full bellies and entertainment, his people had given up their political responsibilities and therefore their power.'"

In Collins' world, the Hunger Games was the entertainment. In ours, it's social media. Twitter, Meta, TikTok, are all controlled by political powers. Musk, Zuckerberg. TikTok is owned by Yiming and Rubo, but with the ban and unban, the content it shows in America is filtered to fit Trump's political agenda.

It's entertainment at the cost of information.

[hayffiebird]

Taste of Strawberries, chap. 57 - Sneak Peek

Hayffie Post-Mockingjay (Canon divergence) Multi-chapter, Rated M

Four years have passed since the end of the war when Effie becomes a fixture in Haymitch’s life once again. An old friendship is rekindled. Will it lead to something more?

Meanwhile, Panem has entered a new era. The rebellion’s over, the borders are open but in the shadows, anger and mistrust are smoldering. Something which will affect Haymitch and Effie’s life in a way they never saw coming. READ MORE

Chapter 57, Out of the ashes, into the fire

*ring ring*

Hello? McCoy residence.

Sae? *twins crying in the background* It’s me.

Effie! What a lovely surprise.

*chokes back a sob* I’m sorry. I know it’s really early. I just didn’t know who else to call!

That’s quite alright, my girl. Of course you can call me. I’m always up with the sun, anyway. Why don’t you tell me what’s the matter, dear? Something about the children?

It’s everything! I don’t know what to do anymore! I feel like I’m letting them down all the time! Every day! No matter what I do there’s always someone hurting and crying. I tried vanilla essence. I tried ice and clove oil and nothing works!

Their schedule’s completely out of whack, none of us are sleeping and I can’t call Haymitch because he’s got his own problems! There’s just too little of me to go around! I only have two hands! What am I going to do, Sae? I don’t know what to do! I don’t know what to do! I need help!

OK. Effie. Breathe. Take a deep breath. It’s gonna be fine. We’re gonna fix this, alright? First thing’s first: Do you have anyone nearby? Someone in the Capitol who can come be with you now?

No. Everyone’s busy. I can’t cut their vacations short just because I don’t know how to take care of my own children! *sobs* I’m a horrible mother.

That’s just the exhaustion talking, dear. So you go ahead and brush those thoughts right off your mind, you hear? Listen. This is what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna get dressed now and then I’ll head over to Haymitch’s place.

In the meantime, Katniss or Peeta will call you up while I put Haymitch on the next available train. I’ll get back to you after and then I’ll stay on the phone with you for as long as you need me to.

*draws a shaky breath* What about the diner?

I’ll ask Hazelle or one of my kids to put up a note. “Closed until further notice��.

You can’t do that …

I can and I am. You’re more important, and that’s final. You would’ve done the same for either of us. What else is a family for?

[itsajollyjester]

Family Portrait

The only family he has.