#cinna's preludes

[cinnajun]

PRELUDE: atlas cried | ljn

summary | they say your soulmate is your perfect other half—whatever you lack, they have, and whatever they lack, you have. when lee jeno, your academy’s golden boy, approaches you and says you’re his soulmate, you can’t begin to understand how he—rich, gorgeous, never had to work a day in his life—could be the perfect match for you—poor, exhausted, and barely hanging onto the scholarship covering what would be a 65 million won tuition.

genre | high school au (rich boarding school style), soulmate!au, prep!jeno x fem!reader, prep!jaemin & reader (platonic), angst, slow burn, enemies-ish to lovers, kind of academic rivals but in a way that the rivalry is created by other people, im ngl y/n and jeno just don’t like each other

warnings | mentions of abusive parenting, a bit of internalized misogyny (full warnings list tba w/ official posting)

wc | 0.7k

a/n: "atlas cried" is my first full-scale project, i think !! now that i've gotten the hang of things, i think i'm going to try and create something big like this at least four times a year (assuming this blog is long-lasting, hopefully), but consider this my first ever test run :-) i expect the finished product to be around 25k (if i manage to make it that far) but i felt as though a prelude was in order !! i hope you enjoy!

progress log

INSTEAD, HE LEANED OVER to the coffee table in front of you, pushing a small coffee cup towards you. You stared at it for a second, confused and a bit freaked out, but you picked it up nonetheless, thankful he’d thought to get you something warm. He continued to sit in silence, leaving you with a couple of moments to study him thoroughly.

Before today, you’d never really looked at him. Sure, you’d given him a couple of nervous glances, but there was something about Lee Jeno that made you feel inferior. He was the son of a major CEO, one of the biggest conglomerates in all of Korea (and maybe even Asia), somebody you would’ve never even dreamed of meeting three years ago. He was above the rules of the school, above the rules everywhere, dangling his parents’ name and a wad of cash above anyone who tried to tell him no.

His hair was bleached blonde, but it seemed so healthy that you could’ve mistaken it for his natural hair color if you hadn’t known any better. He’d shed all his snow-protectant layers, which were sprawled out along the remainder of the couch next to him. Despite the lack of need for it today, he was dressed in his usual uniform—a black blazer, white turtleneck, and black and green plaid pants—which was a blatant violation of the dress code due to the lack of a polo shirt, but you’d never see him get in trouble for it. He sat with an aura of regality that you could only try and imitate, with his leg lazily crossed over the other and his arm resting on the back of the couch. In his other hand was a cup of coffee like yours, but his was so hot that it was steaming from the lid’s opening.

“I didn’t know your last name until Mark told me,” he finally said, taking a sip of his burning hot coffee. You mimicked his movements, taking a sip from your own, trying to fight off any physical reaction to the bitterness of it.

“What do you mean?”

Jeno sighed, holding up his hand. You stared for a moment, narrowing your eyes in an attempt to make out the small letters on his palm. Then, all too quickly, the truth flooded your mind—the initials on your hand, LJN, and the initials on his, your very own set.

It shocked you so bad that you nearly dropped the cup of coffee. The reveal did nothing to soothe your nerves and, instead, amped up the panic a lot more. Your head spun at the thought, and, while you hated to say it, all you could think about was the negatives.

What would your parents say when they found out your soulmate was Lee Jeno, of all people? The son of a CEO-and-politician, the son of a man who drowned in money, a person who was born rich and would die rich? They’d never leave you alone once finding out, demanding check after check to ensure they never said a word about their relation to the Lees. They’d torment you for the rest of your life, and you’d forever be stuck under their reign of terror, forever their child, forever their moneybag.

On top of that, you’d never have an accomplishment that was fully tied to you again. People would see you as a connection, and they’d give you opportunities based upon that connection rather than based on your natural ability. You’d be respected because of who your soulmate was, not because of who you were, and you’d end up like the women you saw on TV—lifeless dolls with the title of “wife” and nothing else.

You thought meeting your soulmate was supposed to be this fateful encounter under the stars, the moment where you met the one person who would love you most. You expected to be mystified, sent to a world of love and comfort, sent to a world where your problems were nonexistent and the sun was shining and the birds sang tales of love and togetherness. You wanted to feel as though you were being embraced by constellations, struck by Cupid’s arrow as you stared at the person the universe decided was your fateful match.

Instead, you stared at Lee Jeno, and all you could feel was an overwhelming sense of disappointment.

published 08-06-22

(p.s. if anyone wants a taglist for this, just send me an ask and i will add you!! updated taglist will be on the progress log)

[loveinpanem-blog]

Queen of Hearts

Written by: @katnissdoesnotfollowback

Summary: We spend a couple of hours quizzing each other on military terms. I visit my mother and Prim for a while. When I’m back in my compartment, showered, staring into the darkness, I finally ask, “Johanna, could you really hear him screaming?”

“That was part of it,” she says. “Like the jabberjays in the arena. Only it was real. And it didn’t stop after an hour. Tick, tock.”

“Tick, tock,” I whisper back.  

Roses. Wolf mutts. Tributes. Frosted dolphins. Friends. Mockingjays. Stylists. Me.  

Everything screams in my dreams tonight.

– Suzanne Collins, Mockingjay, The Hunger Games Trilogy

An expanded series of scenes from Mockingjay. Text taken directly from the book in italics.

WARNING: RATED T+ for disturbing images, blood, mentions of torture. If you are expecting fluff or whimsy without some heartache first, this is not the fic you’re looking for.

Plutarch droning on about military history would be boring and awful under most circumstances, but having to listen to him during the late afternoon after several hours of running and push ups makes it unbearable. Johanna gave up on staying awake twenty minutes ago and my eyes are drooping. All of us are ready for dinner, a chorus of grumbling bellies rolling through the room periodically. The only excitement arrives when Plutarch uses a several terms that few of us recognize, not even the soldiers from Thirteen. Queen. King. Empire. Monarch. I only know the words from watching Peeta and Haymitch play chess. I didn’t realize they meant something in terms of our ancestors’ history.

A soldier with graying hair asks Plutarch to explain and I drift in and out of the discussion, my mind really focused on the food I should be eating soon. When he finally finishes droning on, York shouts at us to form back up. I jab Johanna with my elbow to wake her. She flops comically for a second before rising from her chair and joining the line of us making our way back up to the surface and the training field.

We push ourselves hard for the last bit of training, a few laps and then rifle assembly. Today, Johanna actually manages to assemble her rifle without help. The fresh air and exercise work wonders to reinvigorate us after the dull lectures. By the time we reach the cafeteria, we are famished.

“Johanna, could you really hear him screaming?”

“That was part of it,” she says. “Like the jabberjays in the arena. Only it was real. And it didn’t stop after an hour. Tick, tock.”

“Tick tock,” I whisper back.

We lay in silence, fearing the night and the visions it brings. I can’t find the line between sleeping and waking. “Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick. Tock.”

There are always sounds in Thirteen. The constant whir of the ventilation systems. Strange clicks as electrical systems cycle on and off. “Tick tock,” I whisper, and they fall silent. The entire world freezes and then the gears resume.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The beating sound echoes in my head and calls me forth. The air warms around me, thickens with humidity. Buttercup leaps onto my bed and cleans his paws, staring at me with shining yellow eyes. I try to shoo him and he jumps down. His paws leave glowing paw prints on the floor.

My footsteps follow him and the cadence of the clock. Reaching out, I touch the door and it dissolves beneath my hand, as do the walls. The jungle springs forth in their place. The awful buzzing of the insects creates a rumble, a prelude to the lightning that will soon strike the tree in the distance.

Peeta. I have to get to Peeta before the lightning starts.

Buttercup’s footsteps light the way, but as I get closer, the ground roils beneath me. A sea of litterfall that heaves and crests. Frosted dolphins breach the surface, screaming shrilly into the night before they once more disappear into the soil waves and are silenced. Over and over again.

“Tick tock. Tick tock.”

Still, the clock chimes on as I reach the beach and leave the dolphins behind, only here, the wolves prowl. Snarling with blood dripping from their fangs. Their human eyes watching me.

I cover my ears and break into a run, the screams of the dolphins growing more distant as I circle the Cornucopia. The wolves follow, their stinking breath washing down my spine, their greedy claws grabbing for vengeance. For me.

“Tick tock. Tick tock.”

They follow me as I crash into the jungle, still following Buttercup’s luminescent trail. As soon as the wolf mutts’ paws reach the dirt, their screaming intensifies. Grisly howls of pain and anguish. Then come the birds.

My legs ache with the effort of running. My chest with the pounding of my heart and the need to stop. To take deep gulps of air. But I keep going, ignoring the screams of friends as they swoop around me on dark wings. Gale, Madge, Prim, Rue, Cinna.

On and on I run until the charged air makes my hair stand on end and I skid to a halt in front of the great tree. Lightning splits the sky, cleaving the tree in two, revealing a pristine white throne, a man perched upon it dressed all in white. The remnants of the tree twist into bushes that sprout snow-white roses.

The screaming stops.

“Kneel,” a voice orders, and I have no choice, zapped into obedience by a current not unlike the one on the ladders of the hovercraft.

I cry out at the pain, and when I again lift my head, the jungle is gone. Replaced with a chessboard that stretches to the horizon and beyond, the sky above me crackles with lightning cavorting in storm clouds.

The man on the throne watches me, his face hidden behind a marble mask.

“Who’s been painting my roses red?” he asks. I command my limbs to move so I can kill him. The serpent voice behind the mask who will steal everyone I love from me. But I cannot move and shriek with rage.

“Who’s been painting my roses red?” he roars again. The wolves, dolphins, and birds resume their screams for a moment. Until he commands their silence. “You, Miss Everdeen, you dare to stain with blood and pain, my perfect flower bed?”

I open my mouth to deny it and choke on my words.

“She can’t speak, My King,” Plutarch informs him, sweeping into a grand bow before standing upright. “Allow me.”

He claps his hand, making thunder boom through the land. The screaming resumes until the King shouts for silence. Talons dig into my shoulder. A mockingjay perches there and begins to sing.

“Yes. Yes, go on,” Plutarch urges as the King leans forward in his throne.

“What does it say?” he demands.

“She did not act alone, your Grace,” Plutarch states. “She had help from the Ace.”

“The Ace, you say? Bring forth the prisoner!” the King bellows and the creatures of the night scream in answer. “Silence! Or someone shall lose their head!”

Plutarch claps his hands and two chess pawns drag a limp form across the board, his wrists in thick iron manacles. They drop him to kneel, facing me, in one of the black squares. His ash blonde waves are matted with blood, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Peeta!” The mockingjay on my shoulder screams with my voice the instant that I think his name.

A bird perches on his shoulder, a mockingjay’s direct negative. White with black underwing stripes.

“Katniss! Katniss!” the bird howls with his voice.

The king rises and walks to stand behind Peeta as the screams begin anew, a low hum that gradually grows to an unbearable lament. I cover my ears but am otherwise unable to move, forced to watch as Peeta lifts his head to look at me with pained blue eyes. The white bird flaps its wings and tries to lift him from the ground, but his knees are as useless as mine.

“No, not your head,” the king decrees. “Your heart.”

Peeta’s mouth falls open with shock, the white bird screams for him, an agonizing sound that goes on for hours. My black bird joins the chorus as my throat turns raw with the screams I can’t seem to get out, the bird releasing them for me. A red blossom forms on Peeta’s chest where I know his heart to be, growing in size apace with the agony of our screams. His eyes turn cloudy and angry and still our mingled screams fill the night, only his transform from pain and fear to a murderous rage. Blackness taints his eyes, erasing the blue. The white roses on the bushes bleed red from their centers and soon, the roses scream, too.

“Tick tock. Tick tock. Now die by the clock.”

Midnight chimes. And everything screams.

I wake thrashing in my sheets with Peeta’s name a soft wail on my lips. In the dark, I search for my pearl and hug my knees to my chest once I find it. Hold in my real screams as I press the pearl to my lips, biting the lower until I taste blood mingling with the salt of tears. And I promise myself again.

I will kill Snow for this. For taking him from me.

But more words tumble out. “You’re a painter. You’re a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces.”

Then I dive into my tent before I do something stupid like cry.

Sleep does not come easy, and when it does, it brings no relief. There’s no clock here and still, I hear the ticking. Tick tock. Tick Tock.

Buttercup’s glowing paw prints lead me once more through city streets, littered with rubble and bodies. Tick tock. Tick tock.

Peeta’s memories are here somewhere and I must find them before midnight. Always midnight.

I get trapped, caught in tangles of wire that slither and writhe like snakes. I try to scream for help and can’t. They sprout legs, insects of great length crawling over me. My mockingjay lands nearby and pecks at them, but the insects overwhelm the creature and we are both swallowed, consumed in a black pit, falling for ages until the world flips upside down.

Lightning flashes and I land, poised on a throne overlooking the giant chess board. The bird perches on my shoulder as I survey my surroundings. Broken chess pieces cover the checkered surface. Great chasms split the squares. I glance down and find myself dressed in my Mockingjay uniform, only it’s made of blood red instead of black. When I look back at the chess board, Peeta’s there, kneeling once more, his eyes fierce black chasms of tracker-jacker rage. Hands bound, body neglected. Tortured. He looks the same as he did on the day they rescued him.

All around him, crushed white roses bleed crimson onto the marble ground. The white bird reposes on his shoulder, hissing angry words and accusations, all of them true. I left him. I left him in the arena and then I left him without a hope of recovery, leaving him in the hands of the questionable head doctors of Thirteen. With each accusation, the blood flower on his chest grows larger until he begins to fade away into it.

I will it to stop, but when I move to stand, I can’t use my hands. Glancing down, I scream at the beating mass in my palm. I try to run to him, to return what belongs to him, but I smash my toe on something solid and fall to the ground. Look back to find Snow’s visage captured in marble, severed from his marble body and seeping blood from his hideous, puffy lips.

“We painted his roses red,” Mutt Peeta’s voice snarls at me. “Tick tock.”

I scream and sit upright in my tent.

“It was the waste of a trip. She’s not here,” I tell him. Buttercup hisses again. “She’s not here. You can hiss all you like. You won’t find Prim.” At her name, he perks up. Raises his flattened ears. Begins to meow hopefully. “Get out!” He dodges the pillow I throw at him. “Go away! There’s nothing left for you here!” I start to shake, furious with him. “She’s not coming back! She’s never ever coming back here again!” I grab another pillow and get to my feet to improve my aim. Out of nowhere, the tears begin to pour down my cheeks. “She’s dead.” I clutch my middle to dull the pain. Sink down on my heels, rocking the pillow, crying. “She’s dead, you stupid cat. She’s dead.” A new sound, part crying, part singing, comes out of my body, giving voice to my despair. Buttercup begins to wail as well. No matter what I do, he won’t go. He circles me, just out of reach, as wave after wave of sobs racks my body, until eventually I fall unconscious.

Buttercup limps along the forest path lined with primroses, leaving softly glowing prints for me to follow. We trek through gauzy violet clouds that swirl around me like silk when I wave my hand through their mist. I hear faint screams and wait for the horrors to descend. A silent Mockingjay lands on my shoulder and remains.

He’s waiting for me at the edge of the woods, where the trees open up upon a wide black and white chess board. A soft meow encourages me, and I walk alone across the squares until my feet ache and my throat is parched. I pass a crumbled throne set inside a split open and charred tree. There’s no sign of the carnage caused by the occupants of the throne. Because the monster is within.

I continue to walk. The throne is not my goal.

Eventually, trees rise up from the horizon and my pulse quickens. Smoke drifts across the edges of the board as I reach its end. I kneel in the dirt and stare at the burning rose bushes that block my path. Through the smoke and the flames, I see a figure in a red-stained shirt, kneeling in the dirt. His hands work with assurance, planting seedlings.

The bird on my shoulder takes flight, soars over the burning roses. It’s reverse leaves it’s perch on his shoulder and they cartwheel through the air for a moment before disappearing into the woods.

I want to touch him, to hold him and know that he’s alright. I call out his name. He stands and as he whispers my name, the blossom shaped sain begins to recede, leaving soft yellow in its place. The roses burn. And he waits with me.

My eyes flutter open to my room. Buttercup sits perched on the end of my bed, his tail swishing rhythmically. Tick tock. Tick tock. Eyes glowing yellow and alert in the moonlight. Guarding me until I can get past the burning rose bushes.

He’s still there in the morning. And eventually, after many lost days, both of them guard me in the night and wait for me to wake in the mornings. The yellow-eyed cat and the blue-eyed boy.

Author’s Notes:

My thanks to @titaniasfics for editing this odd little piece and making some wonderful suggestions to tie it all together. Thank you also to @peetabreadgirl for accidentally providing the inspiration for this rather last minute piece. And finally, thanks to @titaniasfics, @akai-echo, @louezem, and @thegirlfromoverthepond for running Love in Panem and this challenge. Keeping the love and the fandom alive, ladies! Thank you so much for your time and brainpower.

<3 KDNFB

[everlarkbirthdaydrabbles]

My birthday is February 27.

Happiest of birthdays to you @bandathebillie!! To help you celebrate in style, the always sweet and generous @thegirlfromoverthepond has written this bit of Everlark fun, just for you. Enjoy!

Districtvision - Part 4 - Jitterbug

rated M

A/N: Happy birthday, @bandathebillie !!!

My huge thanks to the always awesome @xerxia31 for her betaing skills !

She heard his laugh as soon as she entered their apartment - rich, in his deep voice, with something childish still, reminding her of their time at school when she would pretend he didn’t exist. Try and fail.

She followed the sound until she reached their bedroom, leaning on the doorjamb, taking in the scene in front of her.

On the bed, several bags were lined up, all with “The Green Room” signature on them, a sure sign that Effie had succeeded in her mad project. After getting away from being an escort for the Districtvision Song Contest, she had helped Cinna in the marketing of his and Portia’s brand, all the while wanting to create her own touch. The result of which was now spread on the bed, Peeta opening bag after bag and taking the clothes out.

Katniss walked silently, putting her arms around Peeta’s waist, a small smile tugging her lips as she felt him jump in surprise as she encircled him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“So, what is this debauchery of green?” she asked, curious about the clothes on the bed, all looking like a lurid forest had taken place on the bed.

“It’s not green, Katniss darling, it’s ‘pear’, according to Effie…” Peeta answered, mimicking their favorite escort’s tone.

“Well, according to me, it’s pale green. Why did she send these?”

“I think she’s hoping we’re going to wear them …. someday?” Peeta shrugged, before digging into the bags again.

“In front of an audience?” Katniss eyes opened with surprise. Effie did not REALLY expect them to wear something like these ever?

“The note she sent…” Peeta rummaged around the clothes displayed in front of them before finding an envelope from which he extracted what looked like an invitation to a wedding. “You want me to read it to you?”

Katniss nodded, preparing herself for the worst. Or even worse than the worst. With Effie, it was always better to be prepared.

“‘Dearest Katniss and Peeta - Or should I say, dearest Everlark’ and it’s followed by at least ten exclamation marks… “ Peeta tried to go on without bursting out  laughing. “‘I had the brightest idea that you should wear the clothes from the Green Room collection, seeing how fitting the name is with the next Districtvision! I’m sure you will find something you love, and if not, I still have tons of clothes just for the both of you! Lovely love, lovebirds! xoxo,’ and the signature is Effie-esque … lots of flourish thingies. I’m pretty sure she perfumed it too”. He handed her the letter, on which Katniss recognized Effie’s trademark signature. Then she realized something was all over her fingers.

“And she added glitter too… I don’t know what her parents fed her when she was a kid, really. How can someone live for glitter ?”

She tried to get rid of the sparkling thingies stuck to her fingers before looking at the clothes that covered the whole quilt her mom had made for them, as a housewarming present when she and Peeta moved in together.

“What did she send?” Katniss asked, as she started to sort the feminine ones in categories (too short, too revealing, too colorful). “Peeta?” she asked, as she saw her boyfriend hiding one of the packages away. “What’s in the bag?”

She saw the blush appearing on his cheeks before he answered. “You don’t want to know, really.”

“Peeta…..” She was quicker than he was - she knew it, he knew it - but he still tried to keep the bag away from her prying hands. Unsuccessfully.

“So, what did she send?” Katniss looked inside the bag, removing the silken wrapping protecting the clothing and dropping it carelessly on the bed to get a better view of what was underneath. “Oh, she didn’t?”

She turned to Peeta, pointing out the bag with one hand.

“She sent them back! Yellow and violet !”

“Lavender and dandelion, Darling” said Peeta with his voice as high as possible.

“And she expects us to wear those for Districtvision?”

“Apparently.”

“She knows we’re wearing Cinna and Portia’s clothes, right?” Katniss added, looking at the two garment bags hanging from the large wardrobe. “I’m not wearing these …. what are they? Panties? She can’t call them shorts, right?”

Peeta laughed. “It’s Effie! In her mind maybe they are completely fashionable and irresistible pants, you know?” he said, taking another bag, from which he extracted only one tee shirt, in a lovely shade of yellow.

“She’s frightening.” Katniss said, seriously.

“She is. And apparently, there’s only one tee shirt,” Peeta checked the size before handing it to her “which means she either forgot mine, or wants me to go shirtless. Knowing Effie….”

“She wants you to go shirtless… did you see how she ogled Mans last year?” Katniss could feel her scowl creeping up her cheeks at the thought of Effie wanting to see her boyfriend half naked. “I’m the only one who can see you naked, capisce?”

She walked towards Peeta, grabbing the infamous tee shirt from his extended hand, before rising on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his mouth.

“Give me that, I need to get rid of it.” She added, walking away from the bedroom.

After closing the door on Peeta’s laughter, she looked at the clothes in her hands, an idea forming in her brains. What if??

She smirked, before heading into the bathroom.

She exited a few minutes later, all dressed in bright yellow, her legs made longer by the tiny shorts Effie thought were appropriate, her upper half tucked into a very form-fitting top. Very see through, too, despite the color of the fabric.

There was no way Katniss would ever wear that on a stage. Never.

But here, in the comfort of their house, hidden away from prying eyes…. She quickly went to the shoe cabinet, put on her pair of (very) high heeled nude sandals before releasing her hair from her usual braid, knowing full well Peeta enjoyed them loose on her shoulders.

She took a deep breath, then opened the door.

She wasn’t prepared for what she saw.

The only thought that came to her mind was that lavender wasn’t really  Peeta’s color.

As for the rest … on the other side of the door, Peeta had had the same idea, dressing up in the tiny lavender booty shorts he must have found in one of the bags.

Katniss looked at him, never tiring of his broad shoulders, muscular but not too muscular, his defined arms on which she could spend hours tracing the veins and sinews knowing full well what it did to him.

But today, her mouth watered at the sight of the lavender shorts, hugging his ass like a second skin, with the added bonus of sparkles. Lifting her eyes to meet his, she was startled by what she saw inside. Hunger. Desire. Fever.

So raw it made her shiver, made goosebumps rise on her arms, made her lick her lips - which never failed to make Peeta do the same, as a prelude of what they both knew was coming.

Katniss walked inside the bedroom, swaying her hips exaggeratedly, focused on Peeta’s eyes turning a darker shade. She stopped a mere foot from him.

“One thing can be said about Effie, though - she has an eye for the right size,” she said, as she lifted her hand, starting to trace the lines of muscle on Peeta’s chest with her index finger.

She could feel him clenching as she let her finger wander up the line of his pecs, onto his shoulder. Then she moved around him, still tracing every ridge and plane she could find with her finger.

His back always fascinated her. She could spend hours watching the play of muscles under his fair skin, the motion of the freckles on his shoulders, the line of his spine until it reached the hem of his boxers - she was mesmerized.

Every time she saw him naked she was amazed by his body - but today, this was something else.

She now understood why Effie wanted him to wear these pink shorts.

Katniss could feel the now familiar hunger for him building up in her belly. And if she could guess, it would make every woman watching them hunger for him. Vote for him.

“She’s good, yeah.” He answered, turning to face her again. “But you could wear a size down….”

Katniss stopped, looking at the blouse she was wearing, straightening the material on her chest.

On purpose.

Knowing his eyes would be riveted on her chest.

“You think so?” she asked playfully, her finger starting a new route, from her chin to her sternum. “Wouldn’t it be too tight in a size down?” she could play the shy ingenue when she wanted.

She loved foreplay.

“Or maybe, I should just …” She didn’t finish, her hands fishing for the hem of the shirt before she just took it off.

“Oh god, Kat…” were the only words she heard before Peeta’s mouth was on hers, hot, needy, sweet and warm.

His hands were everywhere too - she could feel them on her waist, grazing the side of her now bare breast - she might have forgotten to put a bra on - in her hair, on the curve of her back, on her thighs - everywhere but where she wanted them.

Chest to chest, skin on skin, glittery shorts to glittery shorts, moans answering to whimpers, hands discarding clothing in practiced movement, until there wasn’t any barrier between them.

With a perfect move born of years and years of wrestling, Peeta had them on the bed, in the middle of the Green Room clothing bags, but Katniss couldn’t find it in herself to care even the slightest. And from the look in Peeta’s eyes, she could see he didn’t either.

The gentleman in him, though was never too far, and he pushed the bags away from Katniss, laying her on her back, her black hair crowning her like a halo, a contrast to the clear grey of her eyes shining in the light of the day.

“You are so beautiful….” Peeta whispered, taking his time to look at every part of her. She could feel his eyes lingering on the curve of her neck where the slender and supple olive skin met the pulsing veins, just under the surface, or the valley between her breasts, heaving under her quick breaths, the muscles of her belly, her legs, long for days in those damn heels that she knew were his undoing each time she wore them.

But it was her arms as they moved above her head, stretching her whole body that mesmerized him the most and she realized how such a simple gesture was a gift, for him only. She offered herself to him only - the soft curves and smooth skin were only his to discover, only for his hands or his lips to get lost in, only for his ears were the moans and whimpers that came out of her lips, only he could discover the pleasure of being inside of her.

Because she had decided to give him all of herself.

To open herself under the blue of Peeta’s eyes, to let his hands wander the territory that was his, to let his lips discover the taste of her skin, to feel him inside of her, shattering her world over and over, as she exploded in waves of pleasure.

Jitterbug, indeed.