#everlark drabbles

[toastyeverlark]

a cute lil everlark drabble in the works — in which katniss’ secret crush isn’t…that secret anymore

[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.”

[thesweetnessofspring]

Of course there's grief when, after a long life of love and pain and recovery, Peeta finally goes on to the thereafter.

Their children expect their mother to be devastated and inconsolable. No one has ever seen a wife love her husband as deeply as the huntress loved the baker.

But resting in her old rocking chair where many a baby had been soothed and a twilight hour spent in companionship, Katniss's wrinkles crease in a smile and she says, "He got his wish. He died as himself."

[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

[nightlocked-in]

peeta tells katniss she snores

(scene from a modern au wip)

EDIT: you can find the completed fic here

***

“Why don’t you sleep with white noise anymore?”

“What?” he asks groggily. He’s half asleep.

“Your white noise sound thingies. You haven’t put them on since, like, the first night I stayed over. I’m starting to think you’re a liar.”

We’re cuddling in my favorite position, facing each other where I’m able to hold his head against my chest and his arms are wrapped around my waist. We’re completely clothed. Well, I’m in a tank top and underwear, and he’s in boxers. We didn’t have sex tonight. Sometimes we don’t have time for anything other than studying and sleep. I don’t know when it became okay to have sleepovers with no sex, but now I can’t usually sleep without his arms around me. Even if I had to fuck him every night just to sleep next to him, I’d take it in stride and count my blessings. But he doesn’t seem to mind this way, either.

He chuckles, and the sound tickles the skin on my shoulder. I instinctively tug on his hair some, and I know it makes him wake up more because I hear his breath pick up speed a little. “I haven’t had to play them. When you stay over.”

I pause my scratches on his scalp. “What do you mean?”

His hands tighten around me and he seems to hesitate. “It’s um, easier… to sleep when you’re here, sleeping with me.”

My brows furrow at his nervousness, making me sense he’s hiding something. “What are you saying?”

He sighs. “Katniss… there’s no easy way to say this.”

“Spit it out, Peeta.”

He rubs circles on my back in a comforting manner. “You snore.”

I fake-slap him on the back of his head, sitting up. “I do not!”

He holds up a hand in a surrendering gesture, smiling. “You do, unfortunately. Well, not unfortunate for me. The sound helps me sleep.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re lying. I’ve never snored a day in my life.”

“A night in your life.” I roll my eyes. “And you do.”

“My sister and I have had sleepovers my entire life! She’s never once mentioned something like that!”

“Baby,” he reaches out to rub my thigh, and I’m used to the feel of his body on mine, but the new term of endearment makes my eyes widen and my face heat. “I’m sorry she never told you.” He smiles. “But I’m not lying.”

I look at him for a moment too long, then scoff. “Whatever.”

I pretend to be making my way off of the bed, but he wraps his arms around me, “Uh-uh, not so fast, Everdeen.” I giggle while he pulls me to lay flush against his chest, so we’re face to face. His eyes are slightly crossed from looking at me so closely. His eyelashes are so long. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

He sighs in what seems to be contentment. “I really like being around you.”

My heart skips a beat. “I like being around you, too.”

“And I like it when you stay over. It means that my white noise won’t be top five on my Spotify Wrapped for this year.”

I scrunch up my nose. “I don’t know about that one, Mellark. It’s already November.”

He rolls his eyes, “Fine. Then I like it when you stay over because…” he trails off to gesture between the two of us.

And I thought he was so good at words. “Because the sex is great?”

His brows furrow, and his grip on me tightens. “No.” He observes me a second longer before continuing. “I just like who I am when I’m around you. Don’t you feel like that with some people?”

I search his eyes. I feel like that with Annie. “Yes.” With you.

He gives me a soft smile that I match, and then we both lean in for a kiss, slowly. Just when our lips touch, I pull back a centimeter, taunting him. “Peeta?”

“Yeah?” His lips move against mine.

“I don’t snore.” I try to keep a straight face.

He chuckles against me, grabbing the back of my neck to bring me closer. “Whatever you say, baby.”

[katnissmellarkkk]

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

-

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To me, the choice barely takes any consideration.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Always.”

[endlessnightlock]

If you feel inspired, #10 “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.” from the random prompt list <3

Her dad's guitar takes up a fair amount of space in Katniss's lap, boxy but lightweight, with room to hide behind when her nerves get the better of her. Slightly battered and smooth from use, the balsawood is cool to the touch when she picks its strings and makes it sing. But she's getting antsy, so she puts her guitar in its case and wanders over to the corner of the stage. She's careful to stay hidden behind the heavy velvet curtain. Ms. Trinkett will give her the devil if she catches her peeking out.

People are trickling into the high school auditorium: classmates, a few teachers, and a smattering of parents. She sees Gale and the rest of her cousins file into a row near the stage with Hazelle. Prim and her parents have been here for a while. Katniss hopes the auditorium won't be too full when Principal Flickerman starts the show. She's not a confident performer. Singing and playing are more of a compulsion for her, a hunger she has to feed rather than a bid for attention.

When the clock ticks down to zero (performance time! Ms. Trinkett brightly states), she's waiting for her turn to go on stage with the guitar strapped to her chest.

Madge starts the show with a classical piece. The school's piano is out of tune, but her best friend makes it work. Katniss can't keep the smile off her face. Madge is the shyest person she knows, and she's proud of her friend for getting over that fear to play tonight.

"Wow. Did you know she could play like that?" Peeta Mellark asks. Somehow he'd wandered away from the group he was standing with and up to her side.

Katniss gives a sharp nod, surprised he said anything at all. Not that he doesn't talk. He's popular, friendly, and always hanging out with one group or another. He just never talks to her.

"I mean, of course you do," he laughs at himself. "Is that why you're such good friends? Shared talent?"

She shrugs. "Maybe." She's never considered that before, but he might be on to something.

"Nothing like twenty questions before we go onstage. I'm just a little nervous. Talk too much when that happens."

"No, it's okay," she says. A strain of nervousness makes her insides tight, too. She decides she likes talking to Peeta. He says what he's thinking, but in a more thought-out way than she can pull off. Words stumble across her lips, leaving her embarrassed more often than not. "You can talk. It's not too much."

Peeta grins at her.

"Um, what are you doing?" she asks. "Not like, life in general. For the show."

"Comedy. Going to try getting laughs out of my dumb jokes."

"Oh. I didn't know you did that."

"Me neither, until two weeks ago when they posted the sign-up sheet. I had to find a way to get into the show."

"I was dragged here kicking and screaming. That's brave of you to try something new."

"Or stupid. We'll see." Peeta says. "I know you have a beautiful singing voice, but I didn't know you played."

"My dad taught me. This is his, actually." She pats the fretboard, keeping her eyes on the strings, feeling shy at the compliment. "I didn't know you'd heard me sing."

"I think it was your first public appearance. Kindergarten. Mrs. Paylor asked if anyone knew The Valley Song. Your hand shot up, and when you stood on your chair and sang, my fragile 5-year-old heart was lost," he says.

"That didn't happen," she says.

"Swear to god. You had on a red checkered dress, and your hair was in two long braids. I like your hair tonight, too. It's really pretty."

"Thank you," she murmurs. Katniss pats the braided, pinned updo her mother did for her. She likes the old-fashioned style because it feels in keeping with her mountain heritage.

Vague memories of that red and white dress invade her mind. She does her hair in a single braid most days because it's long and gets everywhere if she doesn't, and she did wear it in two as a child.

"You have an incredible memory."

Peeta shrugs, smiling down at the tips of his shoes.

"Peeta, you're next dear," Ms. Tinkett says, bringing Katniss back to herself. Madge's song was over three students ago in the rotation, and she hadn't even noticed.

"Wish me luck?" Peeta asks her quietly.

"Good luck," she says, kind of dumbfounded by their conversation. She'd caught Peeta looking her way when he thought she didn't notice but never considered what that meant.

She couldn't hear most of Peeta's stand-up routine, but she caught amused laughter from the audience. When it was her turn to go onstage and stand in the spotlight, their conversation was still in the forefront of her mind, and she found her fingers moving over the strings, playing The Valley Song and remembering the little curly blond headed boy from kindergarten.

[oolhan]

our little games

Wordcount: 1.7k

| Post-mockingjay. Peeta and Katniss making up their own guessing game with pastries that he brings home every night from the bakery |

No warnings! It’s literally a fluff fest following my realization about what Peeta and Katniss smells here and @mollywog’s replies conceiving a sudden birth of this prompt. Lol. This is my first time writing for everlark and I kid you not I oiled up my rusty writing skills from lit classes. Thanks also for @distractionsfromthefood for your support! Unbeta-ed, but enjoy!

It started when I came home early from the bakery, surprised to find Katniss curled on the couch covered with her oversized hunting jacket. She looked up from the arm rest and her cheeks were red and dry with tears. Nothing surprising, honestly, it’s just one of those days. I automatically walked up and knelt on her side, forgetting to take my shoes off in the foyer.

“Who is it this time?” I hushed, giving attention to her black strands clinging dry on her cheeks, softly flinging them aside while her head rested on the arm rest.

“Dad…”

“In the woods?” I glanced at her father’s hunting jacket she used as a blanket and carefully move it to wipe her tears, tucking its collar under her chin.

“No, couldn’t get past the door…”

“Okay, do you want to stand up now?”

“No…” A silence.

“Stay with me though?” Ah. There it is. Yeah, alright. Always.

She scooted on the couch to give me space and I obliged, lying down cramped with my shoes still on, faces inches from one another.

“What do you want for dinner?” I whispered, caressing her brow with my thumb. I’ll never get tired brushing her face this way.

She scoffed a smile. “Pancakes?”

“Pancakes?” my eyebrows shot up. Pancakes for dinner?

“Yeah, you smell like maple,” she chuckled, her eye wrinkles right under my thumb.

“Probably because of the maple butterscotch brownies I made for Sae’s granddaughter today,” I murmured, tracing lines on her nose. “She said she didn’t know what maple tastes like,”

“That’s so Peeta of you to do,” she grumbled, mustering all seriousness with her brows. That made me snort.

“Yeah, well.”

“I want those butterscotch stuff now.”

My smile got wider.

----

The next day, I set aside some of the cupcakes I frosted for the seamstress’s kid’s birthday to bring home for Katniss. I never got to take my shoes off when she wrapped her arms around my neck, her face on my chest, the boxed sweets held on my free arm as I put the other over her.

“Hello, again,” I say, giving her a kiss after leaning back. “I’ve got you something,”

I hid the blue box behind me, smirking at her head tilting in curiosity. “You have to guess it first!” I played.

“Is it food?”

“Mhm.”

“Cheese buns?”

“No, I just made those for you two days ago.” I chimed. Her and her obsession with cheese buns.

“Those butterscotch brownies?”

“Unfortunately sold out,”

“Wait,” She reached for the front of my jacket, sniffing it. Then she’s whiffing off my undershirt, my hands, my chest, my neck. I tried not to shiver when her nose pressed under my earlobe.

“Buttercream…”

I tried not to grin.

“Cupcakes?” She eagerly tugged on my jacket.

“Oh, Katniss,” I chuckled, presenting the box wrapped with a simple red bow. She unties it and quickly picks the one with green frosting.

“This would be dessert after venison!”

----

After that, I practically came home everyday bearing random pastries for her to guess. I never get my shoes off in the foyer when she hauls herself on me and give my daily hugs.

“Ooh, something creamy today,” she quipped, leaning back from my undershirt. “Is it a cake?”

“Not even close.”

“Tarts?”

I shake my head.

“Something with custard?”

“Probably.”

“Custard pie?”

“Warmer,”

“Egg pie?”

“Warmerrr,”

“Ice cream? Vanilla cake with cream frosting?” She tugs on my jacket repeatedly, almost shaking me to give up my answer.

“Sweetheart, you’re cold again.” I tried not to laugh at her growing impatience when strands from her braid fell on her face, the box still unreachable behind me, and my free arm curling those anrgy locks between my fingers. Her eyebrows are beginning to crease the way they do when she gets close enough to Haymitch’s geese.

“What is it, Mellark?” Oh, I love nothing more than seeing her scowl.

“Guess, Everdeen. Or I’ll eat this alone after din—” She cut off with a grasp on my head and a kiss on tiptoes.

“Tell me now, Mellark!”

“That’s coercion!” I teased. She leaned up for more pecks, but I backed away chuckling.

“Peeta!”

“Alright, let’s make a deal. Guess this right with three tries, or give me a kiss every time you bite to it.” I challenged, plastering an impish grin.

“How am I supposed to guess it? All pastries have cream!” Her eyebrows are close to meeting now.

“Oh yes, minced meat pie is creamy.”

“Is it minced meat pie?”

“No, it’s not savory.” I clued in, getting impatient myself. I didn’t even take my shoes and jacket off and we’ve been playing this guessing game for minutes now.

Just pick the latter and let me kiss you.

She crossed her arms playfully, “Screw you, Mellark. I’ll take the second option just because dinner is getting cold. Now give it.”

“Groundbreaking choice.” I thumbed her annoyed forehead and unraveled her angry arms, revealing the box from behind and untying the red ribbon.

Her creases came back when she saw the hidden pastry.

“How is bread pudding close to a pie?!” She exclaimed, all angry tone and yet she’s pinching off a piece from the pudding. I made some batches up from the stale ones.

She bites through the pinched bread. I took the first peck.

----

It became a routine. Coming home at dusk. Stomping my shoes on the foyer. Her arms clinging briefly, nose sniffing, her guessing every item right, a peck on the lips, a dinner and a dessert.

“You smell dill and garlic today,”

“Did it cling that strong?”

“Doesn’t matter. I like it, it’s soft, like a little savory treat.” She murmured in my ear, rendering me still when she softly nipped my earlobe.

She never does that.

Her arm swooped under my elbow, taking the blue box from my hands and revealing a bed of focaccia sprinkled with dills. “Hmmm,” she moaned through her bites and I fought the urge to kiss that crumb off on the side of her mouth.

Is she trying to kill me?

I coughed, brushing off her innuendos and finally taking my shoes off.

----

Assuming her favorite days were cinnamon and buttercream, she does more than just short kisses whenever those days come. The soft bites on my neck and earlobes happens only when I come home smelling like it. That’s the time I sink down my fingers in her hair a little deeper or my hands grip her hips a little tighter.

Today, I grasp her braid a little stronger, my arm roping around her backside, giving her neck some nips of my own. I breathed her in, taking a whiff of her own scent—woods, sweat, something feminine, and entirely Katniss—wishing I could store away some of her in this manner, freezing this moment. I let her lift my head and kiss me senseless, mouths meeting, tongues twirling.

“I, uh, frosted someone’s wedding cake today,” Taking a peck on her nose, I tried to catch my breath when we break away.

“requested something with cinnamon and buttercream frosting,” I sighed, brushing off her brow, noticing her now diluted eyes. I failed to bring anything home because of those three tiers.

“Good for them,” she breathed.

“Couldn’t bring home anything,”

“Good for me,” She gulped and collided our mouths again. She took my shoes off along with my jacket. Dinner got cold that night.

---

Fall had a slow welcome. It was a seasonably cold day when she doesn’t push herself to me after I opened the front door. Disappointed, I took off my shoes and head to the living room, finding her standing up from near the fireplace when she noticed me. Our memory book laying on the carpet along with some papers.

“Hey you,” her cold form wraps around mine and I tried not to ask her what’s wrong too quickly.

“Guess?” I quipped, pecking her red cheeks. Did she just come back from outside?

“Butter cookies?” even with her wavering tone, she was right. Although I don’t point out the way she hid a small choke when she hugged me.

“You okay?” I let out warm breath on my palms, placing them on either side of her face and this time I felt her visibly holding her breath, her nose scrunching. “What’s wrong? Who is it this time?”

“No, no episodes. I just… I was nauseous the whole afternoon and tried to walk it out. I think I just miss them,”

“Hm. Come here, let’s warm up,” I led her to the fireplace and sat down together, the memory book lay open in front of us.

“Actually Peeta, I think I’ll prepare dinner.” She suddenly stood up, giving me a kiss on the forehead before heading to the kitchen. That was uncharacteristic of her.

But I didn’t question it. Not yet.

I started to wonder when she doesn’t meet me in the foyer anymore. Our guessing game slowly turned from minute hugs to silent smiles. It was when I brought home some seasonal apple pie that she couldn’t hold back a gag when she tried to hug me.

Doesn't she like apples? Can’t I recall if she hated apples?

“God I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to gag at all. I just, I don’t know, it just smells sour.”

“I baked them fresh this morning so they’re likely not foul. But yeah, okay, I’ll just drop these off to Haymitch—”

“No, Peeta, your hands. They smell so apple-y.” Her expression was a twist of scowling and being disgusted. I sliced dozens of apples today so the scent clung too much even when I washed off with some soap.

“Sweetheart, we chopped all day at the bakery, the smell will last for some hours I think,”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why, I always liked apples,”

“It’s okay, let me give these to Haymitch and then I’ll scrub off in the shower.”

----

The next day I brought home some of the extra orange cake slices, dreading she’ll also hate these.

They were never put down on the table.

She devoured three slices in minutes.

Also gobbled my orange scented fingers.

----

Still mildly unhappy we didn’t return to our guessing games after a week, I didn’t bring anything with me today. I was taking my shoes off when I saw her beaming by the couch, her face tinted red with anticipation and she looks like she’s about to cry.

“What? What is it?” I rushed to her in my loose shoes and jacket still on.

“Peeta, I think I know why.”

Eyebrows crinkled. My hands on her elbows.

"You know I always love what you make but...

Her fingers fidgeting. Her blushing cheeks and silver stare the only things registering in my mind.

“I think I’m pregnant.”

She guessed right.

[everlarkism]

You voted, I delivered! Just a small drabble of Katniss getting injured while hunting and Peeta takes care of her. Short and sweet, I apologize for my rusty writing, it’s been a while.

Katniss returned home with a few scrapes on her hands and a limp after a hunting session. Usually she had an animal with her, but not this time. She was on a trail with a lot of tree roots that were above ground, took one wrong step and tripped. Once inside, the bow was hung up on a rack and the quiver of arrows were resting against the wall.

“I’m home.” She exclaimed, walking into the living room and leaned into the doorway. Peeta was folding a page in his book and getting up to greet her.

He furrowed her brows, noticing Katniss had no game with her. “No luck?”

She sighs, shaking her head,”I fell. I could always go back out later.”

“Are you alright?” His voice is full of worry as he gently takes her hands into his own, but pulls away as he sees her wince. Katniss turned them over, revealing the small scrapes on them.

Already, the boy was heading to the bathroom for the first aid kit. “No way you’re going back out there, Katniss.”

“But-“

“No.”

Katniss sighs, carefully making her way over to the sofa and sitting down. Why did she even bother to argue? This girl could have a bruise, and Peeta would be worried like this - but that’s the thing she liked about him, he always cared for her. He just never wanted to see her hurt in any way possible.

He returned to the living room and crouched down, placing the first aid kit on the floor. “Do you think you fractured your ankle?” He asks, starting to remove her boot and sock.

“Peeta, I swear I’m fine.”

Her ankle was swollen and not bent at an odd angle, so it must’ve been a sprain - nothing more. He still ended up wrapping it with an elastic bandage so it could reduce the swelling at least. Once the foot injury was dealt with, he sat on the cushion next to Katniss and asked to see her hands. She laid them flat, palm upwards so he could examine. There ended up being splinters, which he carefully took out with a pair of tweezers and disinfected the scrapes then bandaged them up too.

“Didn't know you were a doctor and a baker.” Katniss teased, a smile forming on her face. “But thank you, Peeta.”

“Learned from the best.” He replied, packing away the equipment,”We take care of each other… It’s just what we do.”

“So, doc… What do you suggest now?”

“To rest.” Peeta gestures to her bandaged ankle,”You’re not hunting until that is healed, I’m afraid.”

“Are you saying you’re going to be the one to hunt?” She jokes.

“I’d never dare to take the Girl on Fire’s place.” He shook his head with a chuckle,”Now let’s get you to bed, hm?” Peeta stood and carefully picked Katniss up in his arms, bridal style.

[fyreflys]

Prompt if you’d like it! Peeta giving his cold to Katniss on accident but since she no longer has a spleen, it turns into a more flu like illness for poor Katniss and Peeta must nurse her back to health (similar to her caring for him in the cave but ya know… #married)

Oooo this is an adorable idea! And I got another prompt that I think I can include that would work perfectly together. MERGE TIME!

Chicken Noodle Soup

(Katniss’s POV) - Love and Some Verses, Iron & Wine

Everlark period/sick-fic, just fluff fluff fluff

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get you sick.”

Is what Peeta keeps telling her. Constantly apologizing for transferring his cold. Even though Katniss didn’t even bother trying to keep her distance to avoid getting sick, so really it’s her own fault.

Katniss is pretty sure that no one ever really intentionally tries to get others sick, it’s always an accident. Happens as a result of what being sick means. And she knows Peeta didn’t do it on purpose, he couldn’t possibly have wanted to make her sick as a dog. So the fact that he keeps apologizing, as if there’s any possibility that he did do this on purpose, is beginning to make it feel like maybe he did. That, and it’s getting annoying. Very quickly.

“Peeta,” she groans, “Just- shut up.”

She doesn’t actually mean that. He’s really the only thing keeping her sane right now. She’s been bed ridden for three days now, and if her body didn’t feel like shit, there’s nothing she wouldn’t do for a hike in the woods.

“Sorry.” He whispers, dabbing the wet washcloth on her forehead.

Yesterday Peeta dragged her to the doctor, because he’s convinced she’s dying. The doctor just confirmed it’s a bad cold, made worse by the fact that Katniss no longer has a spleen to help her immune system. He gave them some medication that “might” help, and then sent them on their way.

Needless to say, Katniss was not happy. Mostly because Peeta had dragged her out of the house when she felt like shit for no apparent reason.

Peeta was angry too. Kept mumbling something about “malpractice” and the doctor being an “idiot” and then trying to convince her that they need to go to the Capital, to see a “real” doctor.

“Peeta, I’m not sure if you have forgotten, but I’m in exile. Banned, to stay here in twelve for the rest of my life. So no, we cannot go to the Capital.”

She doesn’t mention the fact that she really doesn’t want to be re-reminded of all the terrible things that they’ve seen and had happen to them; most of which happened in the Capital.

“You’re the mockingjay. If something was majorly wrong with you, they’d have to save you.”

“I don’t want to be the mockingjay, anymore.” She’d grumbled as he tucked her back into bed, “and I’ve lived through worse than this.”

He frowned. Much like he is right now, as he looks at her with those big, blue, pleading puppy dog eyes.

“What?” She rasps.

He licks his lips. “I just…I’m so sorry you’re sick.”

She swears his heart is too big for his own good.

“You know what would make me feel better?” She sighs.

He perks up. “What?”

“Cuddle.” She whispers. She’d usually reach out to grab him, but her body feels too much like lead to exert that much energy.

He smiles. “I can do that.”

He peels back the bedsheets, and Katniss shivers at what feels like freezing air. He curls in behind her, gently squeezing her close. She melts against him. The arm around her warm and comforting. Until his hand slips under her shirt and his fingers start tracing patterns on her side, and he begins to pepper kisses to her shoulders. Despite them being small and gentle touches, her nerves feel overly sensitive with how feverish she is, and each soft graze almost feels painful.

“Stop- please,” she whispers, “that- too sensitive.” She mumbles.

“Oh. Sorry.” He places one more peck to her cheek, and then leaves her be.

She falls into sleep like a rock tossed down a ravine, skipping sleep entirely and diving straight into dreams. The world feels like it’s tilting and spinning around her as she dreams. They start out as strange and uncomfortable, but somewhere along the way they get more and more unhinged, twisted visions persisting, until finally-

She startles awake suddenly, eyes snapping open as she gasps for air. The nightmare feels plastered to her eyelids.

“Peeta?” She croaks softly, heart hammering in her chest as a tear slips down her cheek.

But she’s alone. Peeta is nowhere to be seen. She forces herself to reach across the bed behind her in search of him. But he’s not there either.

Momentarily she fears he’s abandoned her, but then she realizes that’s ridiculous. She couldn’t escape him even if she wanted to.

She tries to shake the nightmare from her head. Desperately trying to imagine something else, like- Deer. Deer and squirrels, prancing through the forest. The nightmare was not real not real not real, as Peeta would say.

She takes a deep breath. Her entire body aches painfully. Specifically her lower back and her hips and- oh.

Even sick, and aching all over, she knows this feeling well.

“Damn it.” She huffs.

She supposes it was about time this happened again. She doesn’t bother keeping track. There’s no use with how irregular she is.

“Peeta.” She calls, but her voice is weak.

He doesn’t come. Where is he? She sighs. She’s going to have to do this herself, isn’t she?

She wills herself to gather any remaining energy she has to sit up. It takes a few minutes to convince herself.

I could just wait here, until he comes back-

No.

She sits up suddenly, impulsively, not giving herself a chance to talk herself out of it. Her head spins, pain pounding through her skull. She coughs, clutching her head.

When the throbbing passes she manages to will her legs to dangle over the side of the bed. And then on the count of three she stands. She’s shaky, and the air is freezing agaisnt her feverish skin, and it’s awful.

Just get to the bathroom-

She makes it a few steps towards the door. And then she stumbles. She just barely catches the doorknob. She sends the door slamming closed as she falls.

“Katniss?!” Peeta shouts from down stairs.

She rolls over onto her back, and the world feels like it’s still spinning. He comes rushing into the bedroom, crouching down when he sees her.

“Oh my god are you okay?” Hands are immediately at her head, feeling for any bumps or bleeding, “What happened? Why are you out of bed?”

He sits and sets her head in his lap, brushing hair out of her face.

“Bathroom.” She whispers. “Just. Fell.”

“You should have called for me I would have helped.”

“I did.” She breathes, and even talking is exhausting. With Peeta right above her the world finally stops spinning.

He frowns. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. I was making pasta.”

She takes in a breath through her mouth, nose too stuffy. “Bathroom.”

“Well- I think we should take a moment. You just- what, fell trying to walk? That’s pretty concerning,” He feels her forehead, “and you’re really burning up, gosh.”

She could have told him she had a fever. It feels like it’s radiating through her bones.

“Toilet,” her tongue clicks softly in her mouth, feeling dry, “Bleeding.”

“Bleeding? What- where? Why didn’t you say you were bleeding! Oh my god-“ he starts to shuffle, pulling at her clothes to find the source.

“Period.” She groans, just about fed up with him.

“Oh.” He pauses. “Right. Okay. Let’s get that taken care of then.”

He shuffles to sit her up against the wall, and then scoops her up bridal style. He carefully sets her down by the toilet, holding on as he pulls down her sweats and underwear in one fell swoop.

And yep- there it is. A massacre in her pants.

Peeta helps her sit, making sure she’s stable enough to sit up on her own. He pulls off her sweats and underwear, turning on the sink to set them in.

“Cold,” she whispers.

“Cold? You’re cold?”

Well- yeah, she kind of is. Despite feeling like she’s burning up from the inside, the floor and the toilet seat and the air is freezing against her skin. But she’s referring to the water.

“Yeah,” she breathes, “But-water. Cold water.”

“You need cold water? I can get you water. You’re probably thirsty you’ve been asleep for like four hours.”

Okay, yes, that too. She could use a glass of water.

“Yes, but- blood. Needs cold water.”

“Oh! Yeah, okay. Cold water. Right.”

She closes her eyes, slumping on the toilet as she pees. Peeta leaves to grab stuff from the bedroom. He returns with a fresh pair of clothes. He holds a cup of water up to her lips, and she sips. It feels like heaven down her throat.

“Thanks.” She breathes.

He just pecks her forehead. “How bout I run you a short bath? Luke warm. Try to get your body temp down. And you could really use a shower.”

She groans.

“I know- I know. But it will make you feel better, I promise.”

She just grumbles. He gets to work running a bath, and then scrubs the blood out of her underwear under the sink. He struggles to get a pad into the clean pair of undies, and Katniss finally wills herself to use the little energy she does have to show him. He kisses her cheek.

“Right. Got it. Now let’s get you in.”

She complains, but doesn’t have the energy to fight against him. He pulls off her sweaty t-shirt, and picks her up and sets her down in the tub. The water feels freezing at first. She yelps, clutching at him.

“I know- I know it feels cold but I promise it will help. You’re burning up Katniss. We need to cool you down.”

She holds onto him, and he presses kisses against her head. After a few minutes it starts to feel okay. He gently pours water through her hair. He scrubs in shampoo and rinses. He gently scrubs her with a warm soapy washcloth after he pulls the drain, just under her arms and between her legs, barely batting an eye at the blood. They’ve both seen enough of it for a lifetime. He turns on the shower head to rinse her off. The water feels like freezing needles against her overly sensitive skin. By the time he gets her out and finishes toweling her off she’s pissed.

She glowers at him from the toilet as he dresses her. He ignores her scathing eyes as he sprays in conditioner and brushes her hair, fumbling to put it in a makeshift braid.

“There! See, all better!” He smiles when he’s done.

She is not amused. Yes, her body feels less like a boiling fire, but she still hurts. And despite him doing all the work, she’s exhausted. But she’s too angry and stubborn to admit it, or even consider closing her eyes for some shut eye.

He chuckles. “You’re such a sourpuss when you’re sick, you know that?”

“That was hell.” She snips.

He rolls his eyes playfully. “Yeah yeah, okay Haymitch.”

He pulls her off the toilet and pulls up her underwear and pants. He gently scoops her up.

“You want to set up camp downstairs on the couch? That way it’s easier to get my attention if you need something. Also I’m making you soup.”

She gives a grunt, and winces as the pain that radiates up and down her spine and belly.

“I’ll grab you some painkillers.” He adds on.

She would usually turn those down. But at this point she’ll take them.

He gently lays her on the couch. He runs back upstairs to grab linens. He comes back down with arms full of blankets and pillows. He drops them in a heap on the floor. He leaves again. Katniss looses track of all the things he runs off and gets, eyes slipping closed.

He takes her temperature.

He hisses, “One o’ two. Yeah. You’re definitely getting meds.” Which he shoves into her mouth very shortly afterward. He tries not to look worried, but she can tell that he is. She’s worse than she was yesterday. He forces her to take the medication the doctor gave them the day before. She doesn’t have the energy to fight him.

He tucks her in under one blanket, but gives her plenty of pillows. He sets tissues and a glass of water on the side table next to her head. He kisses her forehead.

“Anything else you need?” He says softly.

Probably. But right now she’s exhausted. And talking is too much energy. So she just hums.

“Okay. Soup should be ready in thirty minutes or so. Do you want me to wake you up or let you sleep?”

Truthfully, she wants him to curl in beside her on the couch and not leave her side. Because with him pressed against her, she has a semblance of relief.

Instead she just grunts. He pecks her forehead again, chuckling softly.

“Okay.”

And then she’s left alone. And despite being tired, she can’t seem to fall sleep. The pain is just too much. Enough that she’d toss and turn, but she doesn’t have the energy to do so. So instead she lays motionless in agony, waiting for meds to kick in.

It’s possible she does drift off. But it seems like each time her eyes open the grandfather clock by her mothers old bedroom door hasn’t moved an inch.

Finally Peeta reappears, with a steaming bowl in hands.

“Chicken noodle soup, for m’lady.” He bows, just for the dramatics.

He helps her sit up, and carefully spoons it to her lips. With how much pain shes in, the thought of food makes her nauseous. But Peeta coaxes her to eat. And she does. One small spoonful at a time. With how stuffed her nose is she can barely taste it, but what she does taste is good.

And it reminds her of the cave, in their first games. As she spoon fed him. Monitoring his leg. Trying everything she could think of to keep him alive.

Thankfully, now is nothing like that. This is peaceful, and warm, and safe.

With food in her belly she realizes how hungry she is. And she just about scarfs down the rest of the bowl, along with the hunk of bread he dips in the broth. And she feels like she has a little more energy.

“You want more?” He asks softly.

She shakes her head. She feels too full. Any more and she might puke.

“Your appetite is back. That’s a good thing.”

“I feel like I’m going to puke.” She grumbles.

“Like- actually?” He freezes, shifting as if ready to grab a bin.

“No- just- a lot of food. Nauseous from the pain.”

He frowns. “The pain meds should have kicked in already. You look better. Less pale.” He feels her forehead. “You don’t feel as hot.”

She winces. “Cramps.”

His face relaxes. “Oh.”

She closes her eyes. With a full belly she’s ready to pass out.

“What if…I tried to rub them out?” He says softly.

Her eyes flicker open lazily. “Please. And- my back- please.”

“Yeah, yeah of course.” He leans in press a kiss to her forehead.

He gently pushes her to lay down. He tugs up her shirt and pulls the waistband of her pajama pants lower.

“Where does it hurt?” He asks softly.

She slowly moves to touch, fingers almost feeling numb against her own skin as she traces just inside of her pelvic crests, and down below her belly button. His warm hands are still almost too much against her feverish skin when he reaches out. But she needs this.

He’s far too gentle.

“Harder,” she whispers, “like bread.”

He’s good at kneading bread.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you-“

“There’s no way you could make me feel worse than I already do. Please.”

And finally his palms and thumbs press in. She urges more, and more, and finally gets impatient and shifts his hands to press right there and- oh. It feels so good she actually moans.

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Oh?”

“Shut up.” She gasps.

He grins wickedly. But doesn’t comment on any more of her breathless gasps as he digs in and finally gives her relief.

“When- you’re done,” she breathes, “gonna need- bathroom.”

He pauses, “Do you have to pee? I’m literally pressing like right on your bladder-“

“No- new pad.” Because he’s quite literally kneading the blood right out of her. Which would usually be disgusting, but right now the relief feels too good for her to care.

“Oh. Okay.” And he keeps going.

She nearly falls asleep with his hands on her stomach. She still hurts, and the pain still radiates through her bones, but the stretch of her cramping muscles is almost heavenly. She closes her eyes, and Peeta presses kisses to her shoulders, trailing down to her stomach. He rubs softly after he pulls back, hands sliding over her hips.

“You want me to do your back?” He asks softly.

She hums. He helps flip her over. His hands and fingers roam over her skin, pressing and pulling all the way up her spine and between her shoulders. She practically melts into the couch as he soothes her aches. His lips ghost over her skin in subtle kisses, and she never wants it to end.

Eventually he pulls away, tugging her shirt back down.

“Bathroom?” He asks.

She grumbles. “Don’t wanna move.”

He hums. He forces her off the couch anyways, and drags her to the bathroom. She changes things herself, and then he helps her back to the couch.

“I’m gonna eat and then we can snuggle. If you want. I can turn on the TV.”

She just grunts. He turns on the screen above their fireplace mantle, and flips through channels. He lands on a show they’ve binge watched over the years, and then leaves for the kitchen. She zones out the sounds and clatter that he makes. Finally he sits down by her feet with a bowl of soup, and her eyelids feel heavy. She drifts halfway between awake and asleep, until he curls up with her. He presses a kiss to her temple.

“Thank you.” She whispers. He’s done more than enough for her. And she knows he’d do everything if he had to. And she is thankful.

“Of course.” He breathes. And pecks her lips.

She smiles, and uses the little energy she does have to snake an arm around him and hold him close. Their foreheads knock together.

“I love you.” He breathes softly.

She hums, “Love you too.”

[thesweetnessofspring]

Post-war Everlark drabble. Rated T.

I wake with Peeta at the end of our bed, gripping onto the brass bedpost, hunched over and breathing deeply. He's in one of his episodes. After three years of therapy they are fewer and farther between, but they still happen.

I crawl out from the covers and make my way to him, flattening myself against his back. I stroke the back of his hands and then up and down his arms, waiting for him to come out of it. I start to worry as it goes on for several minutes–much longer than it's been for quite some time.

I start to talk to him in soft tones, letting him know that I'm here and he's safe.

Slowly, his grip relaxes and the muscles in his body underneath me ease. His breathing retains its deep nature and then he's letting go of the bedpost. My arms slide up his and around his torso, feeling his heart underneath my palm.

"We protect each other. Real or not real?" he says.

"Real."

"We live together. Real or not real?"

"Real."

He pauses and takes a few more deep breaths before he asks, "You love me. Real or not real?"

"Real."

I hear the speed at which his heart is still beating and the way he's still tense around me. We've been working on talking to each other more about what's bothering us, but Peeta can still keep so quiet about it.

I pull back to scoot to his side and look at his face. He's weary and pained, and I want to take it away from him.

I kiss his cheek and wind my arm through his. "Peeta? What is it?"

"I've just...I've been thinking," he says, gaze forward and away from me. "When the episodes come, I have so many words in my head that I'm trying to use to make sense of who you are. And when it's bad, I get confused."

Ally. Friend. Lover. Enemy. Fiancée. Target. Mutt. Some of the terms Peeta had once used to describe me batter around in my head. Who knows what others he had never said? And it hurts to think that there are still moments he's not sure what I am to him.

"It might seem silly," he says, "but sometimes I think if I had one word I could tell myself, one word I could use to ground me in what's real, maybe the episodes could get better."

"That makes sense," I agree.

"What do you think I should use?"

Other people have thrown around words to describe what I am to Peeta and he to me. Lover. Girlfriend/boyfriend. Partner. Sweetheart. It hadn't mattered to us. We'd never defined ourselves to each other before. We'd gone from friends to sleeping in the same bed to making and professing love, and finally living together. I'd never cared for those terms others had used, none of them fitting everything we meant to each other. Now for the first time, Peeta's asking me to tell him what it is I think I am to him, to help him come back from these frightening episodes.

Only one word clicks into my head as the right one.

"Wife," I say.

His confusion grows deeper and he shakes his head. "We aren't married."

"Is that all?" I ask, a smile growing on my face. "We can take care of that."

"You would...marry me?" His voice is in awe and somehow my smile still grows wider.

"Real," I tell him. And then he scoops me up in his arms and peppers kisses on my mouth, my cheek, my jaw.

"Wife," Peeta says, low and husky in my ear. "You're my wife."

"Mmmm," I hum as his lips kiss my neck and he touches me, eager and heated. "And what a lucky wife I am."

[bbyannabeth]

silly little everlark drabble based on this post bc i couldn't get it out of my head xo

katniss’s breath falls even again after about ten minutes. he’s surprised it took that long considering it took almost an hour to talk her down from her nightmare. 

they’d only been sharing her bed for a week now, but peeta can’t help but feel like this is exactly where he was supposed to be. in the few months he’d been home before this, he had been able to hear her screams from across their lawns and he’d wanted nothing more than to help her. it hadn’t been his place, though. 

until he mentioned something to her once about how he could hear her and she’d reminded him of their nights on the train when he would rush into her room, hold her in his arms until she was quiet again. 

“we started sharing a bed, right?” he had asked.

“real,” she’d nodded. “effie gave us shit for it, but i never cared.”

“i remember we both started sleeping better.”

katniss had nodded. a moment of silence had passed between them before she said, quietly, “would you… want to do that again?”

he’d jumped at the opportunity and he’s barely been to his own house since. he likes her house more, anyway. there are more memories of life. peeta’s family had stayed at the bakery when he moved into victor’s village so his house is filled with nothing but loneliness. katniss’s house has ghosts but at least there are happy memories, too. 

he looks down at her, the way she’s resting against his chest. it was like clockwork, the way they fell back into each other so quickly. he’s almost amazed at how she can do this. he’d tried to kill her at one point, not too long ago, and now she sleeps on his chest with her guard completely down. 

though, he supposes it’s not too different for him. he’d been forced to fear this girl like his life depended on it, and now he has no issues trusting her when his mind is in the right spot. on days when he has his flashbacks, it’s another story but they both know that’s not really him.

carefully, so as not to wake her, he brushes her hair back from her forehead. she leaves it down most days now, and he loves it. she only braids it when she goes hunting or on particularly windy days she doesn’t want it in her face. 

even as gentle as he was, katniss shifts slightly at the movement. she doesn’t wake, but her hand curls into his shirt. she lets out a quiet sigh, almost peaceful. 

he isn’t sure what it is about the moment, but the realization slams into him. 

i love you, he thinks. 

nothing about it should be shocking, because hasn’t he always loved her? but again, the capitol had forced him to believe katniss was his biggest enemy. he hadn’t even realized until this moment that the love he’d once felt for her has been creeping its way back into his brain. now that it’s there, though, he thinks it was inevitable. peeta mellark was made to love katniss everdeen.

he isn’t sure what to do with himself for a moment. he wants to tell her, wants to kiss her, wants to do something to show her that he’s still really here. not even snow’s worst could take all of him away from her. but he knows doing something drastic will only scare her. they’re only beginning to mend things. 

he places his hand on top of hers, resting them nearly over his heart. his thumb glides over her knuckle. i love you, he repeats in his head over and over again, hoping she’ll catch the message in her dream. 

if there ever comes a moment that’s right, he’ll tell her. for now, though, he’s okay with letting this feeling live inside him. he always has been. 

[nightlocked-in]

katniss crying about k and p breakup

The last final I have is online and on Saturday morning. It’s open book, and I mindlessly answer the short-answer questions and half-ass the essay at the end. I have such a high grade in that class that I could fail this test and still get an A, so I don’t care. I just submit it and plop down on the floor of my room again.

I sniffle a little, as now that my finals are over I don’t have a way to hide from my problems. And if Peeta came to my apartment, I wouldn’t be able to avoid him. And I could hide out at my house, but I know Prim would rat out my location anyway, since they’re such close friends apparently.

I feel my eyes prick with tears at the thought of him, so I lay down on the floor. My eyes are blurry from new tears, but I wipe them away, heaving a big, taxing sigh. And from this angle, I can see underneath the couch.

A piece of gray fabric. I grab it. I sit up.

It’s Peeta’s jacket.

My lip starts trembling as I hold the jacket, the jacket that is the same color as my eyes. And my dad’s eyes. And Peeta painted them the right shade, but I’ll never have the chance to tell him that now. He’ll probably go off and paint some other chick, and fall in love with her, and have beautiful blonde babies that look nothing like me.

And it hurts. It hurts so, so bad.

So I let myself have this. I let my tears drip onto the jacket. I let my vision go blurry. I let my hands clench around the fabric like they used to hold onto his hair. I lock my legs together like I should have done, all those weeks ago, and I hold my knees to my chest. And I drop my head to the jacket. In between shuddering breaths, I try to smell it, to breathe in his scent left there.

I let myself crack and crumble, collapsing and crying into the carpet.

[katnissmellarkkk]

Hiiii! I wanted to write a little something simple for Everlark and decided to lowkey mix two requests! “A kiss on the chest” and “Katniss learning what they did to Peeta in MJ and kissing his scars”. It was supposed to be set Post-Mockingjay but I instead made it a sequel to my “Peeta wasn’t hijacked in MJ reunion oneshot AU”. If you haven’t read it, it’s fine, the title right there tells you everything necessary to know 😂.

I hope everyone who reads this likes it! I loved writing it and I would really appreciate anyone who enjoyed this to like/reblog! It makes me so so so happy 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹. Also thank you to all my constant encouragers, you guys make my day with all your sweetness 🥹🥹🥹🥹.

Summary : Katniss learns more about what they did to Peeta in the Capitol and sets out to try and make him better. [Non - Hijacked Peeta Mockingjay AU].

-

Burned. Check mark.

Whipped. Check mark.

Starved. Check mark.

Shocked. Check mark.

Tortured (with water and [redacted][redacted]). Check mark.

I toss the file back onto the table where it was left by Peeta’s doctors, unable to stare at it any longer. Unable to stomach reading every which way Peeta was harmed while held prisoner in the Capitol. Again. I’ve already read it upwards of ten times tonight.

It never gets easier. Reading the extensive list of his injuries, reading the details they managed to pry out of him, visualizing what horrible acts were done to to him, listening to his doctors confer among themselves in sympathy and disgust, they themselves deeply disturbed by what he experienced at the hand of the president himself.

“Sweetheart, would you make up your mind?” Haymitch snaps. He’s in the worst mood he’s been in a while.

“Huh?” I furrow my brow and glare up at him.

“Either read that thing or stop messing with it.” He indicates toward Peeta’s file. “I’ve sat here and watched you throw it down and pick it back up a dozen times already. It’s pathetic.”

“You’re pathetic, Haymitch,” I say back but there’s little bite in my tone. I’m too preoccupied with the image of Peeta trapped in a freezing cold cell, naked and bloody and alone and terrified, and it’s driving me absolutely insane. It’s suffocating me, from the inside out. It’s taking up all of the space in my head, leaving no room for even bickering with Haymitch.

And Haymitch knows it too.

Of course, he of all people should be able to read me. After all, the same stupid file — and his crippling remorse — is undoubtedly what’s put Haymitch in such an awful mood in the first place.

“Just go see him, Katniss,” he murmurs, giving me a pointed look. “Go. You’re of no use to him just sitting out here, reading about what’s already been done. Get up and go see him.”

He’s right and I know it. As much as I hate to admit it, I know Haymitch has me there.

But still, I stall. It’s not that I don’t want to see Peeta. The opposite, in fact. Since his rescue thirty-seven days ago — not that I’m counting exactly — I’ve spent copious amounts of time with him. I’ve spent every waking moment that I could in his presence and as many of my sleeping ones that I’m allowed.

The doctors aren’t really thrilled about our arrangement there. They want to keep watch on Peeta as he sleeps, to watch and study and take notes and examine him further, but evidently it’s rather hard to analyze his nightmares with me wrapped around his torso all night, like a protective pretzel.

It’s not that I don’t want to see Peeta right now. It’s the fact that I don’t think I can look him in the eye, after reading exactly what those monsters Snow hired did to him, and pretend it isn’t all my fault.

“I don’t think the doctors are done with him…” I mumble, avoiding Haymitch’s eyes now.

“Cut the crap, Sweetheart.”

“Go away, Haymitch.”

“Go see the boy or I’ll find a way for you to spend tomorrow filming a propo.”

I glare at him again. “Would you stop?”

“Coin is getting hungry for some new ones.”

“Okay, fine, you win!” I exclaim, springing up out of my chair. “Congratulations, Haymitch. You blackmailed me into going to see my own boyfriend. Happy?” I hiss, kicking him in the shin as I walk past his chair.

Not hard enough to hurt him apparently. Not even hard enough for him to care. Instead he picks apart my wording with a smirk. “Your boyfriend? How darn cute.”

“Shut up,” I call as I exit the room.

The last thing I hear is him making loud, obnoxious kissing sounds in my wake.

-

I slip past the doctors, both the head and the medical, and beyond the nurses and supply carts and trays of food, into the room where I’ve spent more hours in the last month than I can count on two hands.

“Hi,” Peeta whispers softly as I close the door behind me. He’s shirtless, in bed and seemingly half-asleep already, laying on his side beneath the sheets. Waiting for me.

He looks so much better than he did the night of his rescue. His bruises are healing nicely, he’s gaining weight and muscle back, his hair is clean and curly again — thanks to me and Thirteen’s strong, medicinal shampoo — and his skin is starting to lose that scary, pale, translucent look.

But he’s still so hurt. He’s still injured — internally far more than externally — and I swear, I can feel my heart swell up and break into pieces just looking at him too long.

“Hi, baby,” I murmur softly, crawling beneath the blankets and folding him into my arms. Even with all the weight lost, he’s much too large for me to hold completely, so I make due wrapping my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist and stroking the back of his head tenderly.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says, burying his face where my neck and shoulder meet.

A wave of guilt ripples through me. “Sorry I took so long.”

But he shakes his head, still having no room for spite in his body. Even after everything he’s been through, he’s still so sweet. He’s still so warm and kind and generous.

Well, towards me at least. The same can’t be said for his behavior toward Haymitch, who he blames for leaving us both in the dark about the rebellion.

“You were worth the wait,” he whispers. “You’re worth every wait.”

I feel myself blush and cover it swiftly by kissing his cheek. “How was your tests today?” I ask, smoothing his hair back.

He shoots me a sardonic look now and I giggle like a little kid. Every day when his dry humor peaks through the darkness, I get filled with ridiculous, unparalleled — uncharacteristic — delight.

“Still tedious as ever?” I murmur, rubbing his shoulder with my pointer finger.

“Boring as ever,” he mumbles before closing his eyes again. He’s clearly exhausted from all the probing they did today. And I know I should sleep too.

I usually sleep whenever he sleeps, wake only when the doctors make me leave, spend as much time with him as I can before getting sent away. But tonight I just can’t. I can’t make my brain shut off, despite the fact that at least half the compound is in bed, the other not far behind.

And of course, even tired as he is, even with everything going on in his mind, he still notices my distress.

“What is it?” He whispers, not even opening his eyes.

“Hmm?” I feign oblivion.

“Katniss, I can see something’s wrong.” He opens his baby blues, peaking down at me through his long, tangled up lashes. He has the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a boy.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I reassure him, kissing his upper arm because it’s the closest thing within my reach.

“You saw my file?” He’s fully awake and coherent now, his voice much stronger than before. His tone leaves no room for question, even if I could lie straight to his face.

“Yes,” I whisper, feeling suddenly nervous he’ll be angry. Maybe it was an invasion of privacy to read it, I don’t know. The doctors left it out, I just assumed it was okay. “Are you mad?”

“No.” He chuckles lightly before moving his hand down to my hip, tugging me closer if even possible. “No, I don’t care. Read it as much as you want.”

He really means it too. He really doesn’t care if I invade his privacy, dig into his business and overstep my bounds. I don’t know if I’d be so generous if the situation were reversed.

Then again, going by the things I just read, he’s already been tortured and humiliated beyond belief. I doubt he has any concern for privacy left.

“You can ask me anything, you know,” Peeta says after a minute and I cup his cheek in my hand, shaking my head instinctively. I can’t ask him to talk about what they did. That would be cruel.

Instead I lean up and kiss him on the mouth, slowly and softly. Conveying every feeling I have for him, conveying every ounce of affection and gratitude and longing pent up inside me.

“You don’t have to tell me anything, Peeta,” I whisper against his lips.

I feel his hand cradle the back of my head, massaging my scalp. “I don’t want to keep anything from you,” he finally says, resting his forehead against mine. “Not anything that you want to know.”

My eyes fall, breaking contact with his. I have questions, yes — understatement if I ever heard one — but I refuse to pry and I’m terrified to ask and I don’t even know where to begin after what I read.

But then something catches my attention. A thick, red, angry line, splayed right in the middle of Peeta’s chest. It stands out vividly against his pale skin and blonde chest hair and I can’t look away from it now.

“What’s this?” I murmur, running my finger lightly across the surface, clocking the way Peeta cringes a little at the contact. “Does that hurt?”

He looks at the wall behind my head for a long moment before nodding. “That’s from a whip.” He meets my gaze again before casting his eyes low. “I don’t remember what I did to earn it.”

“Nothing,” I immediately gasp, my head shaking and brows knitting together. The idea that Peeta earned anything that happened in that mansion blasphemous to my ears. “You did nothing, baby.”

“I know,” he agrees, pressing his lips to my forehead lightly. “I just can’t remember why they whipped me that day.”

That day. Because there’s so many days where he was whipped to choose from. Of course.

My eyes land on another mark, this one dark purple and almost circular, high up on his torso, almost on his shoulder. It’s not a bruise, although at first glance it could be mistaken for one. No, it’s definitely a scar. From what, I can’t tell.

I trace it with my thumb, rubbing it back and forth. It’s raised and rough to the touch, a little jagged even, like it never properly healed.

His hand comes up to touch my arm, almost out of reflex, halting my ministrations. “That’s from the early days,” he explains, with almost a touch of humor in his voice. “They were more creative then… and they had a lot of matches on hand.”

It takes me a beat to figure out what he means by matches. “Fire? Fire matches, Peeta?”

“Yeah.” He nods sheepishly. “Snow had a big supply evidently.”

“I will burn him alive,” I say through gritted teeth before I can think better of it.

“Calm down, firecracker,” Peeta laughs but I’m fuming. I’m fuming mad and ready to fight at a moments notice. I probably could even make a half-decent propo right now, the amount of venom coursing through my veins.

I encourage my own anger, feed it, in fact. Because I want to be angry. I want to feel this rage.

Because if I don’t, I’ll start crying. And that’ll only serve to make Peeta feel even worse. Which I can’t let happen.

I’ve already done that too many times.

I don’t tell him any of what I’m thinking. Nothing good could come from that. Instead I search for a way to mask my anger, protect him from seeing it.

I stretch up and press a kiss against the corner of Peeta’s mouth, traveling to his chin, down the side of his neck and over his collarbone.

He responds by letting out a deep sigh, clearly enjoying the attention.

I journey further down his body until my lips land on his chest, exactly where his scar is.

“What are you doing?” He asks breathlessly, peering down at me now. “You don’t have to-“

“Let me,” I whisper, tracing it again with my finger. He shudders a little at the contact. “Let me make it better.”

I hear him swallow hard. “Okay.” He nods a little, quietly inhaling and exhaling.

I lean in slowly and press my lips to the mark, the whip scar, soft and tender.

I can feel him relax beneath me, deflating almost. I don’t sense any sign of discomfort, so I take that as my cue to continue on, kissing the same spot again and again, moving up and down the length of his wound, creating a circuit and following it repeatedly, waiting until he tells me to stop.

“Katniss,” he murmurs, sounding almost pained, like my name hurts.

“Yeah?“

“Thank you.” His voice is almost inaudible, almost a praise or a plea. Tears leak out the corners of his tired eyes.

I have to fight to keep my lip from trembling, to stop myself from crying too. Instead I crawl up his body, keeping my legs wrapped around his waist and fold my arms loosely around his neck.

“Let me kiss them all,” I say into his skin. My mouth travels across the top of his shoulder, my eyes closed, moving by the touch of my lips alone, not stopping until I land on his burn.

I press kiss after kiss into the bumpy, rough scar, until I feel Peeta’s breathing even out against me. I feel his heart beating against me and his chest rise and fall with mine, and an ember of hope that my method may be working grows stronger.

“Roll over for me,” I urge, keeping my voice as gentle as my touch.

“You don’t have to do them all,” he says but I can tell he’s enjoying this immensely. I can tell this helping him more than any treatment the doctors have recommended.

“I want to, Peeta,” I insist, no question in my tone.

Slowly and lethargically, he complies, rolling over so his back is facing me. I keep my hold on him, both my arms and legs wrapped around him like a baby animal clings to their mother.

He has a plethora of scars and wounds on his back. More than I’ve been able to stomach yet. Not once since his rescue have I been able to truly face the sight before me now.

I begin at the top, resting the palms of my hands on his shoulder blades, pressing my mouth to the center of his spine, to the back of his neck, the back of his ribs, anywhere with a painful mark or dark bruise.

I keep going, never tiring, as if I can kiss him better. As if my kiss can take away everything that’s happened, everything that I unintentionally caused and everything I ache to go back and stop. I kiss him like I can make him whole again. Like I can heal his fractured heart.

Eventually he relaxes underneath me, his breathing evens out again and he goes slack.

Even then, I keep kissing him. Even in his sleep, I refuse to stop trying to heal his hurt.

“I love you, Peeta,” I whisper against his arm, knowing full well that he cannot hear me anymore. “I love you and I’m so sorry that I couldn’t save you from this. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

My lips are still on his back when the doctors order me out of the room.

-

[mega-aulover]

Tease

This is for the wonderful @gremlinddrawss who drew a wonderful Everlark This DRAWING Named the TEASE

thank you for your wonderful art...Rated T - unbeta'd - all mistakes are mine-

Katniss and Peeta’s first time was a few weeks ago, but since then they had been dancing around the other about doing it again. It wasn’t good. It was awkward, but the promise of more was there. The tension was thick between them. They exchanged shy glances. Anytime they brushed each other, Katniss would get goosebumps all over. Yesterday evening, Katniss felt flushed due to Peeta’s heated stare as she ate his flaky aromatic bread. Afterward, she’d poured water over her face to cool herself down. Cold showers were becoming the norm.

Katniss couldn’t take it anymore and she prepared.

Sunday morning Katniss couldn’t wait to spend the day with Peeta. He normally didn’t bake or paint on Sundays. It was their day to lounge about and do nothing. Katniss took a deep breath, as she dressed. It was chilly outside, and she wished for it to be warmer so that she could wear one of the pretty dresses that Cinna had designed. Instead, she wore a sweater her mother had knitted for her, on top of a crisp white shirt and comfortable pants.

She bounded down the stairs to find Peeta drinking his tea at the breakfast table. He had cooked a hearty breakfast of thick fluffy pancakes, and mounds of bacon and eggs. Typically Katniss would've devoured the food, but today she had a different breakfast in mind. She had a game in mind, something pleasurable.

“Morning,” Peeta said as he took a sip of his tea.

“Where are you ticklish,” Katniss blurted, she felt the way heat flooded her cheeks.

Peeta spat out his tea. “I’m sorry,” he said immediately grabbing a towel to dry himself off.

The situation made her want to laugh. A small giggle escaped her lips and it was followed by an unfeminine chortle.

Peeta began laughing.

“What was that about,” he asked when the mirth died down.

Katniss took a deep breath, “I want to…” Her cheeks burned, and even her hands looked flushed. “You know… upstairs.”

“Really?”

Katniss took his hand and gently tugged him forward as a way of answering his question. Peeta followed behind obediently. When they were both kneeling on the bed, Katniss noticed he shared her goofy grin.

“You first,” Katniss said biting her lip, glancing up at Peeta from beneath her lashes.

Peeta nodded and reached out and tugged off her sweater.

Katniss jovially raised her arms. Her head got wedged in the sweater, and he laughed when it finally came off. She began snorting like a pig and couldn’t help herself.

“That was graceful!” Peeta began laughing.

Couldn’t help but feel giddy and laughed a full belly laugh, as she said, “Capitol worthy!”

“You would make Effie proud with that level of etiquette,” Peeta said his blue eyes shining.

Katniss loved the fact that she could be her authentic self with Peeta. There was no pretension, no expectations, he loved her unconditionally. Her heart bee-bopped in her chest, as she leaned forward to take his sweater off. “You next.”

His muscular torso appeared slowly. Katniss was taking it slow, enjoying the show.

“Kanmifff,” Peeta said from behind his sweater.

Katniss suddenly became nervous and pulled his sweater off, dragging his head down. She could hear his laughter at her jerky movements. He then snorted loudly.

This caused her to smile uncontrollably. “I think you missed some of those classes on etiquette.”    

“I think you ripped my ears off,” Peeta said.

Katniss leaned forward and gently placed her hands on his face, giving him a teasing smile, gently cupped his face. “Real,” she whispered, as she gave him a kiss on each ear. Then she whispered, “Catch me if you can baker boy.” Katniss popped off the bed and ran.

Peeta sat there momentarily stunned, as she opened their bedroom door Katniss could hear him laugh-shout, “TEASE!”

She laughed as she ran out, anticipating the chase, this was one of the good games to play.  

[lemonluvgirl]

Hi! Ohmygod your drabble of Katniss going down on Peeta for the first time was ASTOUNDING 🔥 🥵 Truly love your work for this couple!!

If it isn’t too much, could I request a drabble! Maybe one with some more dirtytalking!Peeta in the post-mj universe? Maybe from the same vibe as the other drabble wherein K finds out how much she LOVES dirtytalking!Peeta? THANKS A BUNCH!! LOVE AND APPRECIATE YOU ALWAYS!! ❤️

Ok, here goes nothing!

He ran a finger down the middle of her lips tracing around the outline of her mouth back and forth.

"Open up sweetheart," He requested, voice low and husky.

If it had been anyone else in the world she would have refused. But this was Peeta. He was the exception to all of her rules.

She slowly opened her mouth and flicked her tongue gently against the skin of the pad of his finger, gentle but eager. At her easy compliance, he pushed his finger in just a little ways and she latched on and started to suck.

"Fuck," He breathed out the word in a tortured growl, eyes heavy, lids lowered, his body swaying towards hers.

"You look stunning wearing just my shirt, my finger in your mouth, your cheeks all flushed and eyes wild." He told her, dipping his finger in deeper and pumping it in and out of her mouth in mimicry of the new version of lovemaking she had recently learned. It brought back the sensations of his cock, heavy and hard in her mouth, pulsing with need and tasting like some beautiful forbidden fruit, all salt and musk and Peeta. She couldn't wait to try it again soon and wondered if that's where this little encounter was going but then her thoughts scattered at the feeling of him tracing across her skin again.

His finger slipped out of her mouth, brushing against the corner of her mouth before he continued down the column of her throat, past her collarbone to just between her breasts, their sharp peaks hidden beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

He lowered his head to the point of her straining nipple of sealed his mouth over it, hot and wet, sucking her through the tin material of his shirt. He looked up at her and gave her such a knowing look, full of intention and desire.

A moan tore out of her throat. The space between her thighs was hot and tight, slick and clenching in anticipation.

He didn't leave her waiting for too long. His hand snuck beneath the hem of his shirt and found her easily, fingers parting and sinking into her dripping heat like a hot knife through butter.

"Peeta," She gasped, full of his delicate ministrations, and then his tongue was in her mouth, thrusting in and out slowly, but deliberately in a way he knew drove her mad.

She opened her mouth to him eagerly, sliding her tongue against his, sucking on his bottom lip, and kissing him back with abandon.

He pulled back after he had kissed her senseless and lowered his mouth to whisper in her ear.

"I love the way you sound when I'm inside you. Your voice gets so high and sweet, so desperate. Do you know how sexy you sound? How much it makes me want to just push you against the nearest surface and fuck you? Good and hard? Or maybe you want it nice and slow? Do you want me to fuck you like a gentleman? I'd go slow, but deep. Nice and steady. Over and over. I'd have you begging. I wouldn't go faster until you were nearly sobbing for it."

His words made her clench down on his fingers hard and dragged a needy whine from her throat. She loved it when he talked like this. He always knew the right words to say to make her come unglued.

"Please," She cried out in that high, urgent voice that he liked so much.

"You know what you need to do sweetheart. What do you need to say?" He prompted while his fingers stroked inside of her perfectly, curling up to pet a deep sensitive spot inside of her and she whined again, so close.

"I--" She cut off, breathless, panting, twisting her hips only to have him still her motions in an iron grip, unrelenting and unwilling to let her cheat.

"Say it Katniss." He ordered.

"I need you--" She broke off again, losing her ability to speak coherently when his fingers were playing her like an instrument.

"To do what? Use your words, my love." He encouraged, voice rough and slightly strained.

"Fuck me. Make me come Peeta! Please!" She finally got the words out, her volume at a near shout.

"Of course darling, all you had to do was ask." He said quietly, a throaty chuckle escaping before he lowered his mouth to suck against her pulse point, his fingers speeding up their movements, the heel of his hand pressing harder against her, grinding, at just the right spot until she broke, and hurtled over the edge, with a breathless cry.

It was a quick and brilliant spark that lit up her veins, searing through her nerves and her skin like fire, taking over her until all she could feel was Peeta. His body pressed along her skin, his clean masculine scent invading her mouth, her lungs, his lips on her neck, his fingers wringing the pleasure out of her slowly, torturously, until there was nothing left for her to do but murmur his name in rapture over and over.

"There you go, just like that sweetheart." He said, hand smoothing over her hair and lips pressing against her temple sweetly.

"That was one. How many more do you think I can give you tonight before you beg to come on my cock?" He asked in a conversational tone.

She couldn't answer him. She was still incapable of speech, as the after-effects of the orgasm he had just given her wound itself down slowly.

"Don't worry love, we're just getting started." He said in a reassuring tone as he flexed his hips against her, grinding his rock-hard erection into the tender skin of her stomach.

Katniss looked up at him and smiled.