#so i hope he enjoys reading it hahah 😅🥲

[adore-gregor]

My homework asignment for uni is like way too deep and way too personal 😅🥲

[katnissmellarkkk]

hi bestie! any drabbles of everlark in district 13, assuming they were both originally rescued that you could bless us with?🥰 maybe along the lines of Katniss going to visit Peeta’s bunk during the Capital’s bombing on 13 bc she knows his family isn’t there to share his space with him (and also bc she’s in love with this boy & starting to realize that)? :)

P.S omg pls never doubt your skills as a writer. I’m a big-time rhetoric major & think that your characterization & writing in general is one of the best!!! (and I’ve read A LOT of everlark stuff hahah, but they never hit the same as yours always seem to!) 💖

Hi, anon my bestie!!!! Okay so I started writing this like forever ago and it got lost in my drafts so I just found it again 😭😭😭. But better late than never, am I right? Please say I’m right 😅. Well anyways, I hope you enjoy this! I got a little carried away but I think I generally followed your prompt. And I can honestly say this is my favorite thing I’ve written in a while 🥳. And I don’t say that lightly. So I hope you and anyone else who reads this likes it too 😘❤️.

Oh and thank you for the compliment, you’re so sweet 🥲.

-

That's when the first bomb hits. There's an initial sense of impact followed by an explosion that resonates in my innermost parts, the lining of my intestines, the marrow of my bones, the roots of my teeth. We're all going to die, I think. My eyes turn upward, expecting to see giant cracks race across the ceiling, massive chunks of stone raining down on us, but the bunker itself gives only a slight shudder. The lights go out and I experience the disorientation of total darkness. Speechless human sounds--spontaneous shrieks, ragged breaths, baby whimpers, one musical bit of insane laughter--dance around in the charged air. Then there's a hum of a generator, and a dim wavering glow replaces the stark lighting that is the norm in 13. It's closer to what we had in our homes in 12, when the candles and fire burned low on a winter's night.

I reach for Prim in the twilight, clamp my hand on her leg, and pull myself over to her. Her voice remains steady as she croons to Buttercup. "It's all right, baby, it's all right. We'll be okay down here."

My mother wraps her arms around us. I allow myself to feel young for a moment and rest my head on her shoulder.

Out of the corner of my eye though, another figure captures my attention. Broad shoulders and strong back muscles — that not even the food rationing here in Thirteen could make lanky — look unusually hunched in the bunker’s dim light.

I wait for a long moment, anticipating another bone rattling explosion to sound. When none do though, my legs act on their own accord. I slip out from beneath my mother’s arm, murmuring to her and Prim that I’ll be right back.

Neither of them humor me with an answer. They both are well aware of what direction I’m heading towards. Of who I’m heading towards. And they know I probably won’t be back any time soon.

Ever since being rescued from the Quarter Quell, I’ve become more and more drawn to Peeta than ever before. He visited our home in Victor’s Village often enough after our first games, at first to just keep up appearances for the cameras, and then later on to keep me entertained while waiting for my foot and tailbone to heal. But not even his presence then compares to how clingy we’ve become to one another now.

My mother doesn’t even keep up pretenses anymore, always biding me a sleepy goodnight as I tiptoe by her bed. At this point, she is well aware of my tendency to slip into Peeta’s room after dark, to crawl between his sheets and into his arms whenever my nightmares come knocking. And she doesn’t even bother hiding this knowledge.

Not even Gale can pretend to be oblivious at this point. I sense his gaze on me now, his eyes locked on my back as I reach Peeta, sitting alone under the giant M, with not a single family member in sight. All others who share his initial are grouped off with their loved ones, leaving him to sit in this damp bunker in total solitude.

“Peeta,” I say quietly, alerting him of my presence. He jumps at the sound of my voice, clearly lost in the quiet his isolation provided.

But he recovers relatively quick and wordlessly reaches for me, wrapping an arm around the small of my waist as I sit down on his lap. Before he can say anything though, President Coin’s voice bleeds through the intercom system.

She thanks us for making a swift and orderly trip to the underground shelter, despite being given only a two minute evacuation warning. She also orders everyone to please stay with their assigned groups, beneath their initials.

“Oops,” I murmur dryly, shooting Peeta a guiltless look.

He snorts loudly, earning us some strange glances from the people nearby. Either because of our disruption or because Katniss Everdeen— who everybody in Thirteen knows by full name — is sitting with the M’s and clearly breaking protocol. I wonder if any of these citizens in Thirteen have ever even broken the rules themselves. Or even bent them a little. It’s hard to guess, with the way this place is run. It seems like no one, not even men three times my size, have the nerve to challenge their leader.

Which means to them, we must look like complete rebels.

But neither Peeta nor I care at all. Coin has never been the biggest fan of me and the feeling is completely mutual. She did like Peeta originally. From a distance, before they ever met, that is. Before any of us knew District Thirteen was still alive after all these years and someone named President Alma Coin even existed.

But Peeta and Coin’s first meeting soured him almost immediately on her leadership. I don’t know if it was her insistence that the hospital release us both to film propos before we were ready and recovered — me from the aftereffects of the concussion Johanna Mason gave me, Peeta from the knife wound he sustained as he snapped Brutus’ enormous neck — or if he just didn’t like her point blank, after finding out she tried to get the hovercraft to leave me behind in the arena. But either way doesn’t make much of a difference at this point.

Coin’s feelings for either of us one way or the other doesn’t affect where we are right now. Sitting in a dim bunker, hoping that Thirteen is as prepared for a brutal, nuclear attack as the president claims.

And if there were any issues with me sitting in the M section, I’m sure my upcoming wedding date would help clear them up.

I must be shivering — out of anticipation and dread or from the chilled underground air seeping through the material of my standard issue jumpsuit — because Peeta’s hand subtly moves from my waist to rub circles on the small of my back. “What’re you thinking about?” He asks a few seconds after Coin’s voice fades out from the audio system.

And I know I could make up an utter lie but I don’t even have the wherewithal to think of one. So instead I just blurt out the truth. “I’m trying to think of just about anything besides my father.”

His brows knit together in utter confusion. “Your father?”

“He died in an underground explosion,” I remind, watching as comprehension flickers quickly across his features.

“Katniss,” he murmurs empathetically. “I didn’t even think about that.”

I shrug it off though, wanting to move my mind further away from images of collapsed mines and mangled bodies stuck underground with no way out.

I never actually saw my father’s dead body, of course. After the mines exploded, they told my mother there was nothing left of him. That’s why for months after he died, a part of me couldn’t accept that he was really gone. My eleven-year-old brain couldn’t wrap itself around the idea that he would never again walk through the front door at nightfall. That he would never again sneak into my room in the morning to kiss me goodbye before he left, making every attempt to never actually wake me up. That he wasn’t there to take me into the woods, to hold my hand as we walked through the Hob together, to sing Prim to sleep at night.

My attempts at not thinking about my father’s death have only served in reminding me how much I miss him in life. I’m about the change the subject to something else entirely when a realization hits me like the tidal waves in the clock arena.

The reason Peeta is alone in this bunker in the first place lands on me, like a brick falling from the sky.

“Oh, Peeta,” I say in a tone so unlike myself. “I didn’t even think about your family.”

I know it probably was the least helpful thing I could have said, that my wording inevitably just made him feel worse if anything at all but I don’t even try to rectify it. I’m suddenly too overcome with heartache for the boy who lost his whole family in one fell swoop.

Their cause of death being me, of course. All because I blew out the arena. Snow decided to bomb the entire district and killed every single member of Peeta’s family — alongside the rest of the merchant class, save a couple handfuls — in a matter of moments.

And he doesn’t even pretend that his mind wasn’t already on the subject, even before I spoke. “I just hope they died quick,” he says before giving me a sheepish look.

He doesn’t look ashamed of his wording though. Because he knows of all people, I would be the one to understand.

And I do. I’ve had the same thought about my father in the mines countless times. I’ve always hoped he died before he could realize just how bleak his fate ultimately was.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper as I feel the bunker shake again, as I feel Peeta’s arm tighten around me, squeezing me against him hard enough to leave a bruise.

We wait for the explosion, all of us locked down here behind the steel doors, but it doesn’t seem to come. At least, if it did, I must have missed it.

“Katniss, don’t apologize for what you did in the arena,” Peeta murmurs, as if we didn’t just pause the conversation to wait for a bomb explosion. “And do not apologize for what Snow did to Twelve,” he adds on, his voice turning a shade darker than I’m used to, even now after everything.

I nod, only half listening to him. My mind is still fixated on the explosion that never came, that was more than expected after the initial impact. “They must have missed by a wider distance this time. That’s why we didn’t feel it as much,” Peeta rationalizes, practically reading my mind. But I still don’t turn to meet his eyes. Just like all those times in the arena, I know Snow isn’t going to stop until he gets what he wants, until he hits his desired target. I know there’s more coming. And until it does, I’m stuck, frozen in place, waiting for the explosion to hit me.

“Come on,” Peeta insists, pushing me out of his lap, succeeding in finally breaking me out of my trance.

“What’re you doing?” I say in a voice that comes across more irritated than I am. My stress leaks out as anger half the time. Peeta ignores it anyway. I didn’t even realize until now how good at ignoring my ire he’s become.

I watch as he pulls a mattress onto the ground, situating it as far as possible from the others grouped off in the M section. No one seems to be paying us any mind, thankfully. The last thing I want is an audience peering at me as I take Peeta’s proffered hand and crawl into the makeshift bed alongside him.

I lay my cheek against his heart as he tucks a blanket around us, listening to the faint, consistent beat through layers of fabric. Hoping it’ll soothe me now. Hoping it’ll lull me into even the faintest sense of relaxation.

“Are you still cold?” Peeta whispers, his mouth right by my forehead. Before I can give him a shrug, he’s already unzipping his jacket and waiting for me to scoot closer. And I oblige, without hesitation. I press myself against him, wondering for a second why this moment feels so very familiar.

“Remember when you shared your jacket with me on the cornucopia?” I say, as he fastens it around us.

It doesn’t take him long to recall. “Yeah, I remember. Kind of.” Off my look, he says, “I’d lost a lot of blood at that point. All I vividly remember is you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” he repeats, a little sardonically. “I remember thinking you were so beautiful. That I was so lucky to be there with you. And I just wanted to get you home alive and in one piece.”

I chuckle a little at that. I have to ignore the compliments, because I don’t know what to do with those. But I emphasize deeply with the last part. “I just wanted to get you home in one piece.”

“You almost succeeded,” he says, and then we’re both laughing. We’re both laughing unironically, our chests pressed together, one big huddle of anxiety and sleep deprivation and hysterical giggles filling our corner of the bunker.

But our reprieve is abruptly chopped off at the knees, as a wave of impact catches us both by surprise, the walls vibrating without warning. And then an explosion follows this time, only a second later.

Unlike the last time, this explosion is absolutely impossible to miss. It rattles me down to my core, bringing forth once more the definitive, gut-wrenching assertion in my mind that this whole bunker is going to give in and we’re all doomed.

The tears in my eyes must be visible, at least from a couple inches away, because Peeta starts to whisper soothing words to me now. He leans down and places an open mouth kiss on the side of my neck, and tries to calms me down. “Coin was right, this compound is made for this. There’s no way any of Snow’s bombs can touch us here. We’re safer than we’ve ever been.”

“I know you don’t think Coin is right about anything,” I say absently, searching nervously over my shoulder for Prim and my mother. I see them both faintly, underneath the E on the wall. They both seem unharmed, though their blue eyes are wide with fear, and I feel a wave of guilt for not being there to comfort them.

But I don’t want to leave Peeta and I find myself — much to my utter remorse — glad that I’m here, wound up tightly in his arms, instead of over there with a hissing Buttercup blowing stinky cat breath in my face.

“They’re okay,” Peeta promises, his eyes on my family as well. “Unlike us, Prim’s actually gone to class here. She knows better what to expect.” He’s joking again, trying to cut the tension pulsating so strongly within me, it’s bound to overtake my entire body, until I combust. “Katniss,” he murmurs, his voice more serious now. “Sweetheart, you need to calm down.”

“Distract me,” I say, knowing it’s a pretty impossible task. The shaking and shuddering of the bunker though seems to subside and that helps marginally to alleviate my nerves.

A rather melancholy look crosses his features as he opens his mouth to speak. “Have you heard any more of the details about our wedding?”

That does the trick. I let out a shaky laugh, feeling just as unhappy about our upcoming marriage ceremony as he appears to be.

Of course, we both should have seen it coming. After all, it’s only natural that the rebels would want to show the “Star-Crossed Lovers” tie the knot, in a national propo for their side of the war.

At least, it’s only natural for Coin.

I shake my head though, trying for once to keep our conversation light. Trying not to dwell on the fact that no matter where Peeta or I are, no matter who’s in charge, we’re always mere pawns in their eyes. We’re always pieces in someone else’s game.

“They offered to try and scrounge up a seamstress here to make the dress.” I make a face at the memory. “I said no.”

“Of course,” he agrees instantly, sounding rather certain. “You should wear a dress Cinna made you. Even if it’s not a wedding dress. Like that red one you wore in Seven.”

“I knew you liked that one,” I shoot back wryly, but my cheeks flush pink in embarrassment. I burrow deeper into his chest before he can notice. “I grabbed everything Cinna made me when the hovercraft took us back to Twelve. Told Plutarch to have someone else decide which one I’ll wear.”

“So the wedding dress will be a surprise for us all?” Peeta says, a clear attempt to make me laugh again. And it works, just a little. I let out a small chuckle just as Coin makes another announcement over the intercom. She explains something about missile attacks and that we could potentially be stuck down here for the next four or five days.

I feel Peeta sigh against me, not loving the idea of being trapped here any more than I am. Any more than Finnick or Haymitch — wherever the old drunk even is — must be.

Being trapped any place is never fun, in even a normal person’s book. But it’s infinitely worse for a victor. It’s infinitely more terrifying when you’ve been trapped before and it was also related to the threat of imminent death.

I unconsciously run my fingers up and down Peeta’s side, trying to soothe him the way he has so many times me. “We’ll be okay,” I promise, though I don’t even know what I’m talking about. The only people who know are Coin and her higher ranks. And something tells me they wouldn’t tell us, even if the bunker was about to collapse in on itself.

“Yeah,” he pretends to agree and presses his lips to my forehead for a long moment, letting them linger there. “We’re going to be just fine.”

And I guess because there’s nowhere else to go, and because I’ve been wanting to say it for weeks now and just haven’t had the time or the courage, I suddenly blurt out, “Peeta? I really am sorry.”

His bleary eyes grow wide for a second, as my abrupt change in demeanor registers. “For what?”

For blowing out the arena. For starting this war and throwing both our lives into chaos. For not faking being madly in love well enough to satisfy Snow. For getting his whole family killed. For the wedding we’re both now being forced into, for Plutarch’s stupid propo.

For all the things I never said and everything I didn’t do. For everything I didn’t understand until it was far too late.

Instead of reiterating any of this back to him though, I simply murmur, “I’m sorry for everything.”

I feel his arms tighten around me and his heartbeat speed up a little. He doesn’t reply right away and after a couple minutes pass, I just assume he’s not planning to. But then, in the quiet buzz of the night, as the generator lights flicker for a split second, he murmurs, “Katniss, listen to me.”

I lean away from his embrace, trying to catch a better look at his face. “What?”

“I know neither of us are having a great time right now.” He can’t even finish that sentence with a totally straight face. The panic attacks, hospital stays, gruesome nightmares, the constant filming of rebel propaganda and arguments with the district leaders themselves, all likely flashing before his eyes. “But I want you to know that I am happy about the wedding.”

I give him a puzzled look, not believing my ears. “You are?” I thought we were both dreading our wedding, the same way you dread getting a perfectly good tooth pulled.

He chuckles at my expression. “I’m happy that I’m marrying you,” he continues, the corners of his mouth lifting up. “I’m not excited about anything else but… I do feel really lucky that you’re going to be my wife.” He punctuates the sentence with a real smile now. A happy smile, with the slightest hint of shyness. Visible to maybe only me.

And I don’t have the words to respond. Peeta’s gift isn’t just the way he can paint pictures in people’s minds with the stories he tells. It’s the way he can reduce me to a dumbfounded seventeen-year-old with just a couple sentences.

He really deserves a wife who can tell him how she feels, who doesn’t do a pendulum swing nearly every other week. Who doesn’t tell him she needs him the night before she thinks she’s bound to die, and then refuse to speak about the instance for over a month in a foreign district.

But instead he’s stuck with me. Me and my nonsensical statements, that come pouring out of my mouth before I can stop myself.

“I promise I’ll keep you safe,” I vow, because that’s the one thing I know deep in my veins that I can guarantee. The one thing I can swear by for the rest of our lives, whether spent here in Thirteen, in a free country or in Snow’s personal torture chamber. I can promise to defend him with everything there is inside me. “I’ll always protect you,” I say, my eyes boring deeply into his now.

“I feel safer already,” he says and then forces a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. He’s still trying to make me feel better. “I’m going to be the safest husband in all of Panem.”

“Shut up,” I retort, rolling my eyes but he got to me. And I’m smiling once again.

I’m smiling way too much for someone hiding in an underground bunker during an air raid. For someone who has the biggest target in the country on her back. And for someone who’s marrying the second biggest target in almost no time at all.

Peeta catches me by surprise once again. His leans in, closing the minuscule space between our faces and presses his lips to mine in a quick kiss. I catch myself even more by surprise though, my mouth instinctively returning his kiss. And I don’t regret it either, I realize.

“Go to sleep, Katniss,” he instructs, pulling me closer into the circle of his arms again as our lips part. “Close your eyes and go to sleep.”

I let out a sigh, breathing in a scent so familiar to me, in a place that still feels so completely foreign.

I do find myself dozing off relatively quick, as with my eyes shut nothing feels any different from falling asleep at night, curled up in Peeta’s bed.

His fingertips even run up and down my spine, repeating same motion I was doing to his side minutes ago. And it does the trick. Slowly and gently, he lulls me to sleep.

“Peeta,” I whisper as my dreams — more like low-grade nightmares — begin to pull me under.

“Don’t worry. If anything big happens, I’ll wake you up,” he promises, his cheek pressing against my hair.

But that’s not the only thing I wanted to ask. “And you’ll stay?” I ask, not wanting to wake up here, on this cold stiff mattress, without him by my side. “You’ll stay with me?”

I barely hear the word as sleep overpowers all else. But I catch it at the very last moment.

“Always.”

-