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sweetheartsofpanem · 2 days ago

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Did You Just Whimper? - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

this is pure filth as an apology for not posting yesterday and not posting this until late😭😔

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 7.39k

series masterlist | main masterlist

Peeta opens the door before you can even knock.

“Aweeee,” he says, already beaming. “We get to babysit my sister.”

You blink at him.

Soot shrieks from inside the blanket in your arms.

“She’s not your sister,” you mutter, adjusting the lump of demon kitten currently digging her claws into your shirt. “She’s a baby gremlin who doesn’t understand boundaries.”

“She’s family,” he argues, already reaching for the bundle.

“She’s chaos,” you say, refusing to let go until he uses both hands to support her properly. “And I want it on record that if she knocks anything off a shelf, eats something weird, or screams between the hours of midnight and four a.m., I warned you.”

Peeta just grins. “She’ll be an angel for us.”

Behind him, Katniss snorts.

You glance at her over Peeta’s shoulder. “You’re okay with this?”

Katniss crosses her arms. “She’s quieter than you two when you think you’re being subtle.”

Your ears go hot immediately. “We’re very subtle, thank you.”

Katniss lifts an eyebrow, and you decide it’s not worth defending.

Peeta’s already cradling Soot like she’s the Capitol’s most precious jewel, cooing at her while she flattens her ears and growls.

“She hates that,” you say, trying not to laugh.

“She loves it,” he says confidently, already walking her inside.

You turn back to Katniss. “You really don’t mind? It’s just one night. She won’t sleep unless we leave the door open, and she loses her mind if she can’t see us.”

Katniss shrugs. “It’s fine.”

You squint at her. “Is this real ‘it’s fine,’ or your usual ‘I will suffer in silence until I die’ kind of fine?”

She gives you a look.

“Right. Got it. Real fine.”

You linger a moment longer, awkward and grateful and weirdly anxious, before calling, “Thanks again. Seriously.”

Peeta calls back from inside, “Don’t worry, she’s already our daughter now!”

Soot yowls like she deeply disagrees.

You close the door behind you, turn back toward Haymitch’s house, and feel it settle in your chest.

Silence.

Alone.

A whole day and night with Haymitch.

No tiny creature screaming outside your door. No claws on your thighs. No urgent meows mid-kiss. Just you and him.

You let that thought bloom slowly.

And then you walk home a little faster.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the stillness hits instantly.

No meowing. No claws against wood. No feather-light paws batting at your ankles the second you step out of your shoes.

Just air.

Just quiet.

Haymitch is already leaning against the banister at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, watching you with an expression that’s hard to name.

You blink at him.

“What?” you ask.

His voice is low. Even. “We’re actually alone?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. They took her. Overnight.”

He doesn’t say anything.

He just straightens, walks toward you in three steady steps, and takes your hand.

No sarcasm. No smirk. No warning.

He just threads your fingers through his, turns, and tugs you gently toward the stairs.

You follow without question.

He doesn’t speak until you’re halfway up. “Two weeks, honey.”

Your chest stutters.

“I know,” you say softly.

He squeezes your hand. “I’m losing my mind.”

You smile, barely.

When you reach the bedroom, he opens the door without letting go of you. You expect him to pull you into a kiss or make some half-witty comment—but instead, he just leads you to the bed, drops his weight onto it like he’s been holding it in for days, and opens his arms.

You don’t hesitate.

You crawl in beside him, immediately curling into his chest, your face tucked under his chin, your leg draped over his hip like you’re trying to mold your body into his.

His arms wrap around you tight. One hand in your hair. The other splayed over the small of your back.

He doesn’t say anything else.

He doesn’t have to.

You just breathe into each other’s silence, the weight of separation finally sliding off your shoulders.

You don’t think you’ve ever felt this safe.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been lying there.

His hand’s been stroking slow along your back for what feels like hours, your fingers resting lightly on his chest. You’re half-asleep but too content to drift off completely. Just breathing, just touching, just here.

Haymitch shifts beneath you slightly. You hear him exhale.

Then—grumbled into your hair, voice raspy with sleep and mild resentment—“I love the damn cat, but she’s really cock-blocking my whole life.”

You snort against his collarbone before you can stop yourself.

He grumbles again. “I’m serious. I haven’t been able to touch you properly in weeks.”

“You’ve touched me,” you mumble, still smiling.

“Not like this. Not without that little demon screaming like we locked her in the basement.”

“She has separation anxiety.”

“She has issues.”

You laugh again, quiet and warm, and tip your head back to look at him.

His eyes are half-lidded, his hair a mess against the pillow, and he’s got that look he only gets when he’s been holding something in too long—not angry. Just aching.

Your smile softens.

“I missed this too,” you say.

He exhales through his nose, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “Thought I was gonna lose my damn mind.”

You press a kiss just below his jaw. “You almost did. You sat on her tail twice.”

“She bit me.”

“She had every right.”

He scoffs.

But he doesn’t argue.

And when you settle back against his chest, you swear he holds you even tighter.

He doesn’t say anything else for a while.

But he doesn’t stop touching you, either.

You shift slightly, tucking your nose in tighter against his neck, and whisper, “We should just move out into the woods.”

He huffs. “And do what, build a cabin?”

“Yeah. Raise chickens. Be feral.”

He snorts. “You’d die in a week.”

“I wouldn’t,” you argue. “You would. You’d get so annoyed with me singing to the chickens and picking flowers instead of actually helping.”

He smirks, mouth pressed to your temple. “That I believe.”

You grin and close your eyes again.

It’s so quiet.

Just the buzz of summer outside the window. The weight of his hand on your back. The lightest press of his leg tangled with yours beneath the blankets.

You whisper, “I really missed this.”

He hums low in his throat. “Yeah. Me too, honey.”

And it’s the way he says it this time—not grumbled or teasing or half-asleep—but there, full and soft and real, that makes your throat tighten just a little.

You don’t say anything else.

But you press your palm to his chest, right over his heart.

And when he covers your hand with his, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you don’t move.

It’s quiet. Still.

You trace a small circle with your thumb just above his collarbone, not thinking much of it.

Then his hand moves—up from your back, over your shoulder, fingers brushing along your jaw.

He tilts your face toward him.

You look up without hesitation.

And he kisses you.

No warning. No pause.

Just the soft press of his mouth to yours, easy and steady like it’s something he needed.

You kiss him back without thinking.

Your hand curls into the front of his shirt.

And for a long, slow moment, that’s all there is—just the warmth of his mouth, the way his thumb brushes your cheek, the way he exhales when you kiss him a little deeper.

His thumb strokes gently along your cheek as his mouth moves with yours—slow, sure, never pulling too far back. Each kiss lingers a little longer than the one before. Like he’s tasting something he’s been missing for weeks and trying not to be greedy about it.

You shift closer, chest pressing against his, one hand sliding up to cup the side of his neck. He breathes out softly through his nose like the touch settles something in him.

He kisses you again.

And again.

No rush, no tugging, no hungry need—just that slow pull of wanting. Of missing. Of finally.

His hand finds your hip, fingers pressing lightly there like he needs to keep you close even though you’re already tucked into him, already half-draped over his side. His lips part slightly the next time they meet yours, and the kiss deepens—not urgent, but sure. Like he knows exactly where to go, and he’s in no hurry to get there.

You sigh against him, and he kisses you again.

And it’s enough to forget the time. The heat. The quiet stretch of days where you couldn’t have this.

This is all you want right now.

Just his mouth on yours.

Your fingers curl more tightly at the base of his neck.

He kisses you deeper this time—no hesitation, no teasing. Just his mouth warm and open against yours, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to rest at the curve of your waist. His touch is careful. Not uncertain, just… steady. Like he’s not trying to rush anything. Like he just wants to feel you again.

You melt into him, your thigh sliding higher over his hip, chest pressing flush to his. He groans—soft and low in the back of his throat, like the sound slips out before he can stop it.

It goes straight through you.

You kiss him again, slower this time, and his hand moves up your back, under your shirt, dragging gently along your spine until your whole body shivers.

“Missed this,” he murmurs against your mouth, barely a whisper.

“I know,” you breathe.

You shift to straddle him, movements quiet and careful, like you’re both afraid to break the spell. His hands find your hips instantly, and you can feel the way he holds you tighter now—closer. Like he’s afraid to let go again.

You cup his jaw, kiss him with more weight behind it, and he leans up into you like he’s been waiting to feel you like this for days. Weeks. Always.

You pull back just a little, barely enough space between your mouths to breathe. Your forehead rests against his, noses brushing, both of you catching your breath in the quiet.

His hands stay at your hips.

Yours stay cradling his face.

And when he opens his eyes, it knocks the wind right out of you.

Because he looks at you like you’re it.

Like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than right here with you in his lap, legs tucked around him, mouth swollen from kissing you and eyes so full of love it makes your chest ache.

Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to.

“I love you.”

His thumbs stroke along your waist.

“I know,” he says.

Then, quieter—like it’s only for you—“I love you too, honey.”

It’s not dramatic.

Not breathless or shaking or wide-eyed.

It’s just real.

The way he says it like it’s fact. Like it’s never been anything else.

You smile—soft and full and maybe a little overwhelmed.

You kiss him again.

You’re still in his lap, hands buried in his hair, mouths moving slow and deep like you’ve got nowhere else to be.

But then his grip shifts—one hand bracing at your lower back, the other sliding up beneath your shirt, fingers warm and steady against your spine.

“Wanna lay you down,” he murmurs against your mouth.

Your breath catches. You nod.

“You okay with that?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

He exhales softly—like he was holding something in.

And then he moves.

Keeps his hands on you the whole time, slow and careful as he eases you onto your back, settling between your legs like that’s where he’s meant to be. He holds himself over you, arms braced beside your head, your thighs snug around his hips.

Your fingers slide down his back, over the curve of his shoulder blades, anchoring yourself to him.

He leans in and kisses you again—slower now, deeper. One of those kisses that makes you forget your own name. One of those kisses that says I missed you. I missed this.

His hand traces up your side, under your shirt, palm spread wide over your ribs. He doesn’t move any further, just stays there, grounding you.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. “Yes.”

He kisses your cheek, your jaw, the edge of your throat.

“Tell me if anything’s too much.”

“It won’t be.”

He exhales again, hand drifting lower, fingers curling just beneath the waistband of your shorts.

“Still okay?”

You nod, more urgently this time. “Yes, Haymitch.”

He hesitates again, even though you can feel the way he’s barely holding himself back—the heat between you, the tension in his arms.

And then you reach up, cradle his face, and whisper, “Please just do whatever you want to me.”

His whole body shudders.

“Honey…”

“I mean it,” you say, voice barely holding together. “You don’t have to be so careful. I trust you. You don’t have to ask. Just—please.”

He groans—low and wrecked and completely gone.

And then he kisses you like he’s starving.

“Okay,” he whispers into your mouth. “Yeah. I will.”

He doesn’t move fast.

Not after that.

Not after what you said.

He just kisses you—over and over, deeper every time, like he’s trying to memorize your mouth again, like he’s still not sure how much of you he gets to have. His hand slides slowly under your shirt, palm warm against your bare skin, gliding up your ribs, over your sides, tracing the shape of you like it’s the first time all over again.

You arch into it.

You can’t help it.

You’re already breathing harder, already aching everywhere he touches and everywhere he hasn’t.

His fingers brush just under the swell of your chest, not quite going further, like he’s letting you feel every second of how slow he wants to take this—even if the rest of him is straining with the effort.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. Your jaw. Down your throat, tongue dragging along the pulse point just to hear you gasp.

“You’re so soft,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough. “Every inch of you.”

Your breath stutters. Your hands clench in his shirt.

He slides his hand higher, finally cupping your breast, thumb brushing lightly over your nipple—and it’s like your whole body lights up.

You gasp, legs tightening around him.

He groans. “Fuck, honey. That good?”

You nod—desperate, eyes fluttering. “Yes. More. Please.”

He grinds down just enough for you to feel him—hard, heavy between your thighs—and you swear you could cry from just that alone.

But all he does is lean in and kiss you again, thumb still brushing, his other hand gripping your waist like he’s trying to stay tethered to the moment.

“Gonna take such good care of you,” he breathes. “Just like this. Slow.”

You shiver beneath him, thighs tightening around his hips.

And then—so quiet he almost misses it—“…What if I don’t want it slow?”

He stills.

Pulls back just enough to see your face, eyes dark and wide and glassy with heat.

His breath catches. “Yeah?”

You nod, biting your lip. “I want you to do whatever you want to me, remember?”

His jaw flexes.

One of his hands slides down your thigh, grips it tighter—possessive now, not just steady.

“You sure?”

You nod again. “Please.”

He leans in, mouth grazing yours, and his voice is low and rough and completely gone when he says, “Good. Because I don’t think I can go slow anymore.”

He kisses you again—rougher now, fuller, less patience and more claiming. His hands are already moving, one dragging down your side, slipping beneath your waistband, gripping your hip like he owns it.

“Need these off,” he mutters against your mouth, fingers already working your shorts down.

You lift your hips automatically.

He sits back just enough to tug them past your thighs, your knees, down your legs and off entirely. They hit the floor behind him, forgotten, and he’s already reaching again—already kissing down your stomach like he has to touch you everywhere he can.

His hands find your thighs next.

He spreads them apart slowly, wide enough to make you gasp. And when he looks at you, it’s not a question anymore—it’s hunger.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

Then he leans in and bites—just the softest scrape of teeth against the inside of your thigh. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make your breath hitch.

You whimper. “Haymitch—”

He kisses the spot right after. “Want everyone to know you’re mine.”

He does it again—higher now, closer to where you’re throbbing for him.

Another mark.

Another kiss.

“Gonna leave you covered,” he breathes. “Everywhere I can reach.”

You moan, hips lifting off the bed, fingers clutching the sheets.

He presses one hand to your thigh, pinning you still, and kisses higher.

Then higher again.

And when he finally slides your underwear down, slow and rough, and tosses them aside without looking?

You forget how to breathe entirely.

He doesn’t move fast.

Not now that your legs are bare and open for him, not now that you’ve said please and meant all of it.

He shifts back just a little, eyes dragging up your body—slow, dark, hungry. And then his hands slide under your shirt, palms flat against your ribs, and he sits up just enough to tug it over your head.

You lift your arms wordlessly, letting him pull it off.

It hits the floor behind him, forgotten.

His gaze drops.

And the look on his face—like he’s just been handed something sacred—makes your breath catch hard in your throat.

“Fuck, honey,” he mutters, one hand dragging up your side, thumb brushing just under the curve of your breast. “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”

You don’t get a chance to respond.

Because he leans down, sinks lower between your thighs again, and bites—just above the spot he knows you want him most.

Not hard.

Just enough to make you gasp.

Then he soothes it with his tongue.

And does it again.

You twist beneath him, fingers clutching at the sheets. “Haymitch—”

“I know,” he murmurs against your skin. “I know, honey. I’ll give it to you.”

But not yet.

His mouth keeps moving up, slow and unhurried, tongue dragging, lips brushing, then—bite.

Higher.

A bruise blooming just where your thigh meets your hip.

“You’re gonna be fuckin’ covered by morning,” he mutters, voice ragged.

You whimper. “Good.”

He groans at that and leans in to mouth at your hip, his hand sliding up to cup the underside of your thigh, squeezing like he can’t stand how soft you are.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he breathes.

You try to respond, but he’s already kissing up your stomach—biting just above your navel, then licking over it, slow and deliberate, leaving wet heat and flushed skin in his wake.

Another mark. Another kiss. Another gasp from you.

He mouths over your ribs, your side, up to the edge of your breast, and grins against your skin when your back arches to meet him.

“Fuck, honey. Look at you,” he mutters, voice shaking.

And then he bites again—higher, right where your breast curves soft and perfect beneath his mouth.

You moan—loud and helpless.

He groans like he’s losing it.

He licks the mark he just left—just under the swell of your breast—then lifts his head, eyes dragging down your body like he still can’t believe he gets to have this.

You’re already breathing hard, chest rising and falling, fingers twisted in the sheets like it’s the only way to keep from flying apart.

His hand slides back down your side. Over your hip. Between your legs.

He groans when he feels how wet you are.

“Jesus fuck, honey,” he mutters, voice cracked open. “You’re soaked.”

You whimper, thighs tensing.

And then he moves.

Fast.

Drops between your legs like he’s starving, hands spreading your thighs wide again as he leans in without hesitation, mouth open, breath hot against your skin.

And when he licks you—one slow, deep drag from your dripping entrance all the way up to your clit—you cry out.

He groans into it. Like the taste of you hits too hard.

“Fuck, honey,” he pants. “Missed this—missed this so much.”

His tongue moves fast, messy, desperate, flattening over your clit, then circling it, then sucking until your hips jerk off the bed.

You gasp, hand flying to his hair, tangling in the messy strands.

“Haymitch—”

“Uh-uh,” he growls, pulling you closer, hands gripping your thighs like he’s anchoring himself there. “Don’t start talkin’. Just let me eat, honey.”

And then he does.

Fucking devours you.

His tongue moves in sharp, slick circles, flicking just right—every time, like he knows the exact rhythm that makes your toes curl. His mouth seals around your clit and he moans against it, the vibrations sending sparks all the way up your spine.

You’re shaking.

You can’t stop.

“God—fuck, Haymitch—”

“That’s it,” he rasps between licks, “that’s it, honey. Come on. Give it to me.”

He doesn’t slow down.

Doesn’t ease up.

Just keeps going, licking and sucking and groaning like he needs this more than air.

Like he’s addicted to the way you taste, the way you move under his mouth, the way you break for him.

And when you do—when you finally come, loud and gasping, thighs clamping around his head, back arching off the bed—

He stays there.

Mouth locked on you, tongue still flicking, dragging it out until your whole body trembles and your voice gives out trying to moan his name.

Only then does he pull back.

His lips are wet, his breathing rough, and he looks wrecked.

And proud.

So, so proud.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” he whispers, dragging his hand up your thigh, soothing where he held you so tight. “Look at you.”

You try to speak.

Fail.

He grins, smug and breathless.

“Think you can take more?”

You don’t even realize your eyes are closed until the mattress shifts beneath you—just the smallest dip from where he’s still kneeling between your legs.

Your breath is still catching in your chest, thighs trembling where they’ve fallen open again, skin flushed and damp with sweat.

You blink up at the ceiling.

It takes a few seconds before you can focus.

Before your mind catches up to your body.

And when you finally glance down—

He’s just watching you.

Propped on one hand, the other dragging lazy strokes over your thigh, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, lips swollen and glistening. But he’s not cocky anymore. Not smug.

He’s looking at you like you’re something sacred.

Like he can’t believe he gets to look at you like this.

You try to speak—just his name—but your voice catches.

He smirks, soft and crooked. “Don’t strain yourself, honey. I’ve got time.”

His hand keeps moving, slow and reverent, fingers tracing the edge of a bruise he left on your inner thigh like he’s proud of it. Like it means something.

You shift slightly, still breathless, and he leans in just enough to kiss the inside of your knee.

“You’re the prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, barely loud enough to hear.

You exhale shakily, legs still open for him, too undone to close them. Too his to even think about it.

He smiles like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

His hand moves from your thigh to the soft skin just above your knee, slow and warm, dragging lazy lines up and down like he’s got nowhere else to be.

You’re still catching your breath.

Still flushed.

Still half out of your mind.

And he’s grinning like he knows it.

“You look a little wrecked there, honey,” he drawls, voice low and teasing.

You shoot him a look—exhausted, flushed, and still somehow defiant. “You act like that’s not your fault.”

“Oh, it’s definitely my fault.”

His fingers slide a little lower.

“You want me to apologize?”

You hum, stretching under his touch. “Might be nice.”

He leans down, kisses your hip, and murmurs against your skin, “Sorry you look so good when you come.”

You swat at him weakly.

He catches your wrist, brings it to his mouth, kisses your palm, then presses it back to your side like he’s tucking you in.

“You ready for more?” he asks, fingers dragging just a little lower now, dipping between your thighs—but not touching where you want him most.

“Maybe,” you breathe.

“Maybe?”

You roll your eyes, chest still rising and falling. “If you stop talking so much.”

He huffs a laugh and finally slides one finger through your folds, slow and easy.

You shiver.

He groans. “Still so wet for me, baby. I barely did anything.”

“You did something.”

“Did I?” he says innocently, sliding his finger back up, circling your clit with maddening lightness. “Could’ve sworn I was just being polite.”

You let out a sound that’s somewhere between a whimper and a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

His grin turns crooked, voice low and full of heat. “And you’re fuckin’ perfect.”

Then he slips one finger inside you.

Your mouth drops open.

“Still good?” he asks.

You nod—fast.

He kisses your thigh again, adds a second finger, curling them just right, and you arch into his touch instantly.

“God—Haymitch—”

“That’s it, honey,” he murmurs. “Let me hear you.”

And when his thumb brushes your clit again, slow and steady, watching your face the whole time—

You know you’re about to come all over again.

And he knows it too.

His fingers move slow—deep, steady, curling just right like he’s savoring every inch of you. His thumb circles your clit in soft, perfect strokes, and he’s watching your face like it’s his favorite thing he’s ever seen.

You whimper, already trembling.

He leans in closer, voice low and warm. “Already gonna come again, honey?”

You nod helplessly, breath catching. “Yes.”

He grins, all soft affection and quiet smugness. “You’re just so sweet like this, huh?”

You let out a shaky breath. “You’re so annoying.”

He laughs under his breath, kissing the inside of your thigh. “Yeah, but you love me.”

You do.

You don’t say it now, but it’s in the way your hips move under his touch, in the way your hands twist in the sheets like you’re trying to stay grounded, like the sound of his voice is the only thing holding you together.

He strokes deeper, thumb a little firmer, just enough pressure to make your whole body stutter.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Just like that.”

You gasp, mouth falling open, legs starting to shake again.

“That’s it, honey. C’mon. Let go for me.”

Your breath hitches.

And then it crashes over you.

The second orgasm hits harder than the first—full-body, toes curling, heat flooding through you so fast you can’t even get his name out, just a broken moan that could mean anything and only means him.

He keeps his fingers moving, slow and steady, until your hips finally twitch and you try to squirm away.

“Too much?” he whispers.

You nod, barely able to speak.

He kisses your thigh again. “You did so good for me.”

You let out a shaky, breathless laugh. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He smiles against your skin. “You’re not complaining.”

You aren’t.

Not even close.

You’re still gasping, thighs twitching around his hips, arms limp at your sides like your bones forgot how to hold you together.

Haymitch eases his fingers out slowly—carefully, like he’s afraid to break you any more than he already has.

You whimper at the loss.

He shushes you gently, kissing the inside of your knee.

Then your thigh.

Then the soft skin just above your hip, as he crawls up over you again, slow and warm and steady.

You blink up at him, dazed and flushed, lips parted, skin damp with sweat.

He looks at you like you’re everything.

His hand slides up your side, over your ribs, the back of his knuckles brushing your breast as he leans in. You feel his breath on your cheek before you feel the kiss—soft, slow, pressed to the corner of your mouth like he’s asking.

You turn your head and kiss him properly.

It’s not needy this time.

Just full. Deep. Slow.

The kind of kiss that makes you feel loved.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Every fuckin’ inch of you.”

You close your eyes, overwhelmed.

He kisses your cheek.

Your jaw.

Your throat.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever touched,” he murmurs, trailing soft kisses down to your shoulder. “Don’t know what I did to get this lucky.”

Your breath catches.

You reach up, fingers brushing through his hair, and he leans into the touch like it undoes him.

“Haymitch,” you whisper.

He kisses your collarbone, breath still rough against your skin.

“I got you, honey,” he says. “You just breathe. I’m right here.”

His lips trail back up to yours, kissing you slow, open-mouthed, like he’s trying to pour everything he feels straight into your skin.

When he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand finds yours—lacing your fingers together beside your head, grounding both of you.

“You still with me, honey?”

You nod, breath catching. “Yeah. I’m with you.”

He presses his forehead to yours for a second, breathing you in.

Then he shifts his weight, one hand reaching between you. You feel the way he strokes himself, slow and rough, the soft gasp he lets out against your cheek.

And then you feel him press against you—just the tip, just enough to make your legs tense and your breath stutter.

He pauses.

“Still okay?”

You nod again. “Please.”

He exhales, and you can hear how tight his voice is when he whispers, “I’ll go slow.”

And he does.

He pushes in with aching care, inch by inch, every part of him holding still until you’ve taken more—until you’re gasping and arching and shaking underneath him.

You moan as he fills you, and he groans like it hurts to go this slow, like he’s holding back everything in him just to make this right.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel so good. So goddamn perfect.”

You clutch his arm, fingers digging into his bicep. “More,” you whisper. “I want all of you.”

He leans in, mouth brushing your jaw as he sinks the rest of the way in—deep and slow and so careful.

You gasp, overwhelmed, and he moans into your neck.

“Shit—there you go, honey. Just like that.”

He holds there for a moment, buried inside you, both of you shaking with it.

“You okay?” he whispers again.

You nod, eyes wet, voice cracked open. “You feel so good.”

His thumb brushes your cheek.

He starts to move—slow, steady, deep.

Each roll of his hips draws a soft gasp from you, his name slipping out like a prayer you can’t stop saying. His hand finds your waist, the other still laced with yours beside your head, grounding you while his body undoes you piece by piece.

“God, honey,” he breathes, mouth brushing the corner of your jaw. “You take me so good.”

You whimper, tightening your legs around his waist, trying to pull him closer, deeper.

He groans at that—low and rough—and shifts, angling his hips just right so every slow thrust hits perfect.

You cry out.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Right there, huh?”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut.

“Feels good?” he whispers.

“So good,” you breathe.

His pace deepens—still slow, still deliberate, but more now. More pressure, more weight, more need. Every movement dragging along your walls, pulling a sound from your throat you don’t even recognize.

“You’re perfect,” he says again, voice breaking around it. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

You grip his shoulder, holding on, your breath stuttering under the weight of him—his body, his words, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

“You’re mine,” he says, kissing your throat. “You know that, right?”

You nod, barely holding it together. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

He groans like that’s the only thing he’s been waiting to hear all night.

And then he thrusts a little harder—still slow, still full of care—but deeper, dragging a broken moan from your mouth as your nails dig into his back.

“Love this,” he murmurs. “Love you. So fuckin’ much.”

And when you look up at him—eyes wide, lips parted, flushed and ruined and his—

He kisses you like it’s the only way he knows how to breathe.

His hips start to move with more purpose now—less restraint, more need. The pace still isn’t fast, but it’s deeper, heavier, full of that sharp, aching hunger he’s been holding back for too long.

You can feel it in every thrust—the way he pushes into you like he’s trying to stay there, like he wants to carve out space inside you and live there.

You moan—loud, wrecked—and he groans right back, forehead pressed to yours, his breath shuddering with every movement.

“Fuck, honey,” he pants. “You feel so good—so fuckin’ tight—I don’t know how I’m holding it together.”

You whimper, hips arching up to meet his. “Don’t.”

His eyes flicker open, finding yours in the low light.

You’re flushed, glassy-eyed, your mouth open, breath catching with every thrust—and you look so gone for him.

He growls, low and broken. “You want it?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “More—please.”

He kisses you hard—no more teasing, no more control—just mouths crashing, breath and teeth and want. One hand grips your thigh, pulling your leg higher over his waist as he thrusts deeper, harder now, the bed creaking under the weight of it.

Every sound from you makes him move rougher.

Every gasp, every moan, every broken little “Haymitch” whispered like you’re trying to hold on.

“I love you,” he murmurs, voice shaking as he presses a kiss to your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “I love you—I fucking love you—”

You cling to him, arms around his shoulders, body trembling under every slow, hard thrust.

“I love you too,” you whisper, breathless. “Always.”

He groans, burying his face in your neck like he can’t take it.

Then he fucks you harder.

Passion in every drag of his hips—every thrust like he’s trying to brand it into you, like he wants you to feel it for days.

You don’t know how long you’ve been moving together like this—bodies flush, skin slick, mouths finding each other between every thrust.

Haymitch presses in deeper with every roll of his hips, dragging those low, full moans from your throat like he’s collecting them. His mouth stays close—your jaw, your throat, your shoulder—all of it kissed and kissed again, like he can’t stop needing you under him.

“You’re so good,” he murmurs against your neck, voice thick and raw. “Always so fuckin’ good for me.”

You arch into him, gasping when he hits that spot again, and he groans like it tears something out of him.

“Feel like you were made for me,” he breathes. “Just—fuck—just like this.”

Your hands slide up into his hair, tugging, anchoring.

“Haymitch,” you whisper, completely gone.

“Yeah, honey,” he says, panting. “I got you.”

His hand finds your face, thumb stroking your cheek as he fucks into you—deep, perfect. His forehead presses to yours.

“Look at me.”

You do.

And it hits you so hard it makes your chest ache.

Because his eyes are blown and desperate, and full of love.

Not lust. Not heat.

Love.

“I never wanted anything like I want you,” he whispers, like it hurts to say.

You make a sound that doesn’t have a name.

His hand slides down, finds your thigh again, pulling you closer, deeper—like he needs more of you even when he’s already buried inside.

You feel the tremble in his arms. The way he’s trying to hold it together because he doesn’t want to let this go yet. Doesn’t want to miss a second of it.

And you don’t either.

Because this—this—is everything.

His thrusts slow, just for a moment, like his body knows what’s coming. Like he needs one more second to hold it in, to stay in this moment where you’re still wrapped around him, still his.

You feel it too.

The trembling in your legs. The tightening in your chest. That pressure rising so fast you can barely breathe.

He leans in again, mouth brushing yours, eyes locked on yours like he’s afraid to blink.

You kiss him slow—like a promise.

And when you pull back, breathless and flushed, you whisper, “Let go with me.”

His eyes flicker, and you feel it—the way those four words knock the last of his control right out of him.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Fuck—yeah, honey. I’m with you.”

He thrusts into you harder, deeper, more desperate now. Your hips meet his in wild, broken rhythm, and the sound of your moans and the bed and the soft, wet drag of skin on skin fills the room like heat.

You come first.

It crashes into you fast and full, pulling a cry from your throat as your body tightens and shakes beneath him, hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, anything you can grab.

And then he follows.

He lets out a rough moan—then a sound he probably didn’t mean to make.

A whimper.

Sharp. High. Completely undone.

You feel him spill inside you with a choked breath and a soft curse into your neck, his hips jerking one last time before he goes still, holding you so tight it’s like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You’re both panting, trembling, still tangled together, sweat-damp and clinging.

You let a beat pass.

Then you murmur, smug and breathless, “Did you just whimper?”

His body tenses against yours.

You can feel the eye roll before you even see it.

“Shut up,” he mutters.

You grin. “No, no, I liked it. Real soft. Real pretty.”

“Gonna smother you with a pillow.”

Your legs are still trembling under the sheet, useless as wet paper. You’re trying to convince yourself to move. To clean up. To do anything other than melt further into the mattress.

Haymitch is still half-draped over you, face pressed into your shoulder like he has no intention of going anywhere.

“Okay,” you breathe, trying to shift your hips. “I should get up.”

He doesn’t move.

You squirm a little. “I need to clean up.”

Still nothing.

“Haymitch.”

A groan into your neck.

You huff, batting weakly at his shoulder. “You got me so messy, I swear to god—”

“Not my fault you asked so nicely,” he mutters, voice hoarse with smug satisfaction.

You shove at him again, but it’s more fond than annoyed. “My legs don’t even work.”

“Then you’re not going anywhere.”

“I need to shower.”

Another groan, more dramatic this time. “Fine. But if you fall over, I’m not catching you.”

“Romantic.”

“Realistic,” he says, finally lifting himself off you with a grunt.

He stands beside the bed, completely naked and not even trying to act like he’s not feeling it in his legs too.

You’re still sprawled there, flushed and ruined and leaking, and you scowl at him. “You could at least help me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You want me to carry you?”

You blink.

Then smirk. “What, you can’t?”

He stares at you like that’s a challenge.

Then sighs, muttering something about “difficult little brat” under his breath before scooping you up bridal style—like it’s nothing.

You yelp, arms flying around his neck. “I was joking—”

“Well I’m not,” he grumbles, walking you toward the bathroom. “Apparently you’re too delicate to walk, and somebody made a mess.”

You snort. “You are the mess.”

He smirks down at you. “Yeah? And you’re full of my mess.”

You gasp. “Haymitch!”

“Just sayin’.”

You laugh, breathless and bright, hiding your face against his shoulder as he nudges open the bathroom door with his foot.

And even though he’s grumbling the whole way, he sets you down so gently on the counter and starts the water with the same hand that held you steady through everything else.

Like he’d carry you every day, if you let him.

And maybe you will.

The water’s hot, steam already curling through the air as Haymitch tests the temperature, adjusting the handle like he’s done it a thousand times—which he probably has, in the exact same distracted, grumbly way.

You sit quietly on the counter, watching him with flushed skin and jelly legs.

“C’mon,” he says, offering a hand once the temperature settles.

You raise an eyebrow. “You gonna hold me the whole time so I don’t collapse dramatically?”

He smirks. “I’ll probably have to, you’re gonna fall the second you get in.”

You roll your eyes, but take his hand anyway.

He helps you in first, his other hand bracing your back like you’re glass. The moment your feet hit the floor, your knees do wobble, and he’s right there—pulling you against him with a smug hum.

“Told you.”

“Shut up.”

“You love it.”

You do.

You press your back to him, head tipped back against his chest as the water runs over both of you—warm and steady, washing away the ache and the sweat and the mess, leaving nothing but skin and closeness.

His hands find your waist.

And then your hips.

And then they don’t stop.

“Haymitch,” you warn, half-laughing as one of his palms drags up your stomach.

“What?” he says innocently, fingers splaying under your breast. “I’m just cleaning.”

“That’s not—you’re not even trying.”

He ducks down, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Can’t help it.”

You shiver.

“You’re too perfect,” he murmurs against your skin. “Right here. All mine. What the hell else am I supposed to do?”

You go quiet.

Because there’s no teasing in his voice now.

Just truth.

You turn and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer under the spray, your bodies slick and flushed and steady now, not because the world’s stopped spinning—but because you’re holding each other still.

He kisses you again—slow and deep, like it’s the first time all over again.

His hands don’t stop moving.

Even as the water slides down your back, even as his mouth trails lazy kisses along your shoulder and collarbone, his palms keep exploring—gentle, slow, like he’s still mapping you out, like he hasn’t already memorized every curve.

You lean into him, the warmth of his chest against yours grounding you as much as the tile under your feet.

“Thought this was a shower,” you murmur, lips brushing his throat.

“It is,” he says, running his hands over your hips, then cupping your ass with zero shame. “I’m just thorough.”

You snort, breath catching at the squeeze. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm,” he hums, nose in your hair. “And you’re soft. What a coincidence.”

You laugh into his chest, and his arms tighten around you like he doesn’t want to lose the sound.

Then softer—just a breath above the noise of the water—“Feels nice. Just havin’ you here.”

You blink up at him.

He doesn’t look away.

“You know that?” he says. “Even when you’re bossy and dramatic and make me carry you around like royalty.”

You grin. “You liked that.”

He smirks. “Yeah. I did.”

His thumb strokes over your lower back. “Could get used to this.”

You go quiet, heart thudding.

“Me too,” you say softly.

And then his hands are back on your waist, dragging slow over your sides, fingertips grazing the outer swell of your breasts as he leans in close again, mouth brushing your ear.

“Still gonna give me hell for whimpering?”

You smirk. “Oh, absolutely.”

“Figured.”

He kisses your cheek, all fond exasperation.

You tangle your fingers in the back of his hair, tilting your face up toward his.

And when he kisses you again—warm water, slow hands, full body press—you think maybe you’ll stay in here forever.

Next Part

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natti-ice · 8 months ago

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every time i remember my favorite person isn’t real

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watchtowerlibrary · 5 days ago

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“Y/N…Y/N…you look…beautiful, stunning, ravishing…Have you seen Annie?”

Yep, that's my perception of Finnick too. That man is a hopeless romantic for Annie. 🥰

greedy | p. mellark

my masterlist.

summary: after months of being in what you think is a situationship with peeta, you finally confront him about whether or not there's anything truly there or if you're just another girl who has fallen for his kindness and misinterpreted the signs.

pairing: peeta mellark x reader (college!au, fratboy!peeta if you squint)

fandom: the hunger games

warnings: nothing too serious. implied nsfw at the end. afab reader. sorta ooc peeta...it's mostly environmental because we all know peeta's a flirt.

notes: based on greedy by tate mcrae even though the verse at the end gives me everlark vibes. also, this has been beta read. :)

word count: 2.8k

He’s here. Are you coming?

You looked at the blue and gray text thread, Clove’s name, and contact picture with a little clover emoji sitting right on top of it. A sigh escaped you as you looked up from your phone at the fraternity house that was positioned in front of you. You’d been leaning against the fencing that surrounded the yard for what felt like an hour, but in reality, it’d only been a few minutes.

As of late, facing Peeta Mellark has always been an unpredictable situation. While he was kind, polite, and charismatic, that charisma oftentimes led to him getting entangled metaphorically (at least you hoped) with other girls. You couldn’t tell if he didn’t know how to say no, was weighing out his options, or if he was what Clove often referred to as a “fuckboy”.

Fuck it. You rolled your eyes, stuffed your phone into your jacket pocket, and made your way across the cement walkway leading to the house. Having second thoughts, you pulled your phone back out, pulling up the same conversation with Clove.

Is she here?

The person you were speaking of was none other than Katniss Everdeen. She was the most recent girl that Peeta had been hanging around with and was simultaneously the cause of your latest installment of confusion. According to some of your other friends, she’d been friends with Peeta for a while and the study date you ran up on in the library was nothing but a platonic catch-up amongst busy friends.

However, one Madge Undersee had more than the opposite to say. All it took was one group mirror shot in the bathroom at a nightclub posted on Instagram, featuring you and Peeta in the outskirts of the photo, his arm wrapped securely around your waist, for her to send you a heated DM saying that he and Katniss had been a thing for forever and that you were coming between them.

You very quickly sent back, “Funny how the alleged ‘other girl’ always gets shit while the dude gets to slide by.” with a sarcastically placed upside-down smiley that was left on read still to this day.

A typing bubble appeared in Clove’s thread.

I don’t think so!

You let out another sigh, relieved that for now, Katniss wasn’t a worry. You walked into the house, looking around. There was a cloud of smoke in the air, presumably from various substances and/or a smoke machine, and bright lights coming from various directions. You squinted, trying to make out anyone you knew, but specifically trying to find Clove.

“Hey!” The greeting was slurred, long, and drawn out as an arm was all but dropped onto your shoulders. Finnick Odair was standing beside you, laughing at what appeared to be nothing. Finnick was a grad student that you’d met while waiting in line for coffee, quickly discovering that you two had mutual connections.

“Y/N…Y/N…you look…beautiful, stunning, ravishing…Have you seen Annie?”

You chuckled at how rapidly his thought process changed. “Nope, I just got here! Maybe try calling her?”

“Ha,” he let out, “I don’t…I don’t know her number…”

“But she should be in your… never mind, you’ll find her I’m sure.” you grinned, shaking your head.

“Alright, sweet!” Finnick started to walk away, but then quickly turned on his heel back to you, pointing in your direction.

“Almost forgot…Peeta’s looking for you!”

“What?”

The question was ignored as he walked away, approaching another male at the party the same way he’d approached you. Peeta was looking for you? Was he serious or just on another planet from the amount of alcohol in his system?

You kept maneuvering through the crowd, trying to locate the kitchen, knowing that’s where most of the snacks and drinks were. The kitchen also usually served as a good place to wait around if you were looking for someone.

You pulled out your phone, shooting a text to Clove to meet you in the kitchen. You stared down at the screen, hoping for a speech bubble to pop up saying she was either on her way or giving you simple directions to wherever she was located. You then felt yourself collide with someone in a way that wasn’t painful, but most definitely was going to lead to an awkward exchange.

“Oh shit…I’m so sorry…”

You were met with blonde hair and a black hoodie and then a beautiful set of oh-too-familiar blue eyes.

“Don’t be!” Peeta smiled, “I was looking for you! I sent out Finnick to look for you and everything.”

You rolled your eyes with a smirk, “Well, you might want to find someone sober enough to complete the mission next time, just saying.”

“You are probably absolutely correct…but it’s fine. Why send someone else when it’s something you can do on your own way better, right?” he smiled, leaning on the wall, taking a sip from his cup, “Do you want something to drink?”

“What is that?” you gestured to the cup, raising a curious yet somewhat fearful eyebrow.

Peeta shrugged, “I think it’s some kind of jungle juice. The base has to be Hawaiian Punch because of the color if that helps.” He extended the cup towards you, “Want to see for yourself?”

You nodded and took the cup, taking a sip. It was definitely Hawaiian Punch, and it wasn’t as strong as you thought it would be, which could either be a help or a hindrance.

“Pretty good, right?” he asked. You nodded in response, handing the cup back to him. “Do you want me to get you some of that…or I can try to mix you something myself?”

“Whatever that is, that’s fine.” you answered, following him over to a large orange Gatorade dispenser that had the word “NOT” written on a piece of tape, stuck above the label. You chuckled under your breath as you watched the blonde grab a cup, scoop out some ice, and then fill the drink. As he did this, you took the time to take in his appearance as your brain had been busy keeping up with the conversation instead of taking a good look at him.

He was in a black hoodie with a small logo on the chest; his blonde hair falling into his face a little. He also was wearing gray joggers with his university lanyard sticking out of the pocket, falling onto his leg with a pair of somewhat beaten-up sneakers. Despite his relaxed appearance, he looked put together. He looked good.

Peeta turned back to you, handing you the cup, which you took with a smile. “Do you wanna go somewhere quieter?” he asked, gesturing to the surroundings before refilling his cup.

Your stomach turned with nerves. He probably just meant to talk, but what if he didn't? You knew for a fact that your bra and underwear were not fancy, nor did they match, and you probably had the lowest body count in your friend group. You took a hard swallow.

“...To talk…” Peeta laughed, his tone sounding a little nervous as he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly and took a sip from his cup. The lights well-hid the red flush on his face.

“Oh…okay, yeah!” you laughed back, watching as he extended his hand. You took his hand, noticing how he immediately laced your fingers together as he walked you through the main hallway that you’d just walked through and up the stairs.

Someone at a distance must’ve seen you both making your way upstairs, because someone wolf-whistled and then called Peeta’s name, causing him to sharply turn over his shoulder to try and identify the person. He quickly stuck his middle finger up at no one in particular, given the culprit was never identified, and then sped up a little as you both got up to the top of the stairs.

“I'm sorry. People are dumb and make ridiculous assumptions…like I’m really not trying to…”

“Peeta, it’s okay.” you reassured him, “If Clove had seen me, she probably would’ve been ten times worse and reminded me of one of her ridiculous tips to supposedly eliminate your gag reflex that she learned on TikTok.”

Peeta somewhat choked on the sip of his drink that he was taking, laughing at your comment, “Who said you couldn’t learn something off of the internet.”

He led you down a shorter hallway to a door. He knocked twice before opening it, finding it just as he must’ve left it, as you quickly put two-and-two together that this was his room. He shut and locked the door behind him, took another sip from his drink, and sat it on his bedside table before flopping on the bed as you leaned against the wall.

You took a big sip of your drink, hoping the alcohol kicked in sooner rather than later to get some control of the nerves that were bubbling up across your entire body. You watched as the blonde turned on his side and looked over at you.

“I'm not gonna bite, sweetheart…unless you’re into that.”

You couldn’t refrain from rolling your eyes at his cheesy line before you walked over to sit your drink next to his. Then, you removed your jacket, hanging it from his footrest. Before you could even turn your attention back to him, you could feel his eyes on you. It was like he was bearing a hole into the exposed skin on your back that was left uncovered from your dress now that your denim jacket had been discarded.

When you turned back around, he rolled onto his back with his hands behind his head, smiling up at you. “You’re gorgeous.”

It was spoken so matter-of-factly as if he was telling you the most basic of observations…as if it were obvious to anyone who looked at you. You could feel your chest swell slightly at his words. Your instinct was going to be to tell him to stop or to refute what he said, but you took a breath and let out a small, “Thank you” in response as you sat on the edge of his bed and then slowly inched your way back onto the bed, laying next to him.

The room was silent, aside from the bumping music that was playing behind the door and down the stairs, and your eyes were fixed on the ceiling fan, watching it spin to avoid meeting Peeta’s eyes, fearing the burning blush that would overtake your body if you did.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, breaking that silence.

“Nothing…” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the full truth either. You weren’t giving your full thought process to anything. Instead, your brain was in several places at once. You’d thought about the makeup tutorial you’d seen earlier set to the song that was playing downstairs. You’d thought about how close Peeta was to you. You’d also thought about Katniss and Peeta’s study “date” from a while back too.

“Baby, if something’s bothering you, you can tell me.” he said. You finally glanced over at him. He was on his side, facing you, leaning against one hand while the other played with his hoodie string.

Baby.

Before you could stop yourself, the bigger question tumbled out of your lips, “What’s up with you?”

His features scrunched together in confusion, “What do you mean?”

“You take me on dates. You kiss me. You hold my hand. You call me baby.” you paused, “But then, I see you at the library with Katniss Everdeen and I have one of her stupid little friends in my DMs accusing me of being a homewrecker because you have your arm around me in a photo I didn’t even post…and I’ve seen you talking to other girls too, Peeta. You do the same thing, leaning against the wall, standing close to them. You’re smiling and laughing and the girl is playing with her hair and laughing back at you. What is all of that? Am I just the one you know will answer your random texts and calls to hang out…go to the club… make out in your car? Am I some weird escape from reality like…who…”

You were quickly silenced by his lips on yours, one hand coming up to your cheek, pulling you in closer to him. It was almost second nature at this point and your body quickly betrayed you despite your frustrations and melted into the kiss as it deepened, your hand coming to rest on his ribcage, progressively snaking onto his back and then upwards into his blonde locks as he moved over top of you.

The motion of him nudging your leg with his knee so he could position himself knocked you back into reality like a harsh slap to the face. You put both hands onto his chest and applied just enough pressure to jerk him back into the present as well. He looked confused. His chest was rising and falling rapidly and his lips were slightly swollen.

“Did I do something?”

You propped yourself up, causing him to move, rolling back onto his back, his arm dropping across his chest as he rather obviously tried to cool himself down. You sat up, looking down at Peeta, whose eyes met yours.

“You never answered my question.”

“Yes, I did.” He looked at you like you’d missed the most obvious sign in the universe, but you already knew he meant the kiss, and that was not the answer you were looking for.

You shook your head, “A kiss isn’t an answer. If anything, it just proves my point. I don’t understand you. You clearly, in some way, want me. So, what is it? Are you just playing the field…fucking a bunch of random girls…Are you in love with Katniss still?”

“Katniss?” Peeta looked like you’d slapped him clean across his handsome face.

“Yes, Katniss…” You repeated, glancing from him to the door, wondering if it’d just be better to get up and go home. You knew fully well that he’d follow you. There was no getting out of this.

“I get it. You’re hot. You’re nice. I genuinely don’t think you’d try to intentionally hurt anyone, but…”

“That’s it, right there.” He pointed toward you as you spoke, “You talk about me and my mixed signals…what is that? You go from basically saying I’m some piece of shit heartbreaker to saying I’d never hurt anyone. You do that a lot. You’ll go from dancing with me and kissing me…letting me hold you while you’re sleeping to acting completely disinterested in anything outside of a friendship. I’ve never dealt with anything like this before. Girls are usually pretty forward with me…regardless of whether I feel the same or not. I don’t know if it’s intentional…like you think it’ll make me want you more or what, but it’s driving me crazy. Other girls may want me...I don't know for sure, but I know for sure that I want you, not them. I’m trying my best to show you that…but you just keep pushing me away and I wish you’d stop.”

Your eyes dropped to the floor, suddenly hyper-aware of a scuff on the toe of your boots. Your heart pounded as you tried to process what he’d said. He was usually so confident and sure in his abilities to keep sucking you back in, but the wavering tones in his voice indicated otherwise. He was serious.

You turned back to him, “I…I like you a lot…a lot more than just a friend…which is why seeing you with those other girls drove me fucking insane. I want you and for you to only want me. I don’t want to just be some kind of convenience for you. I’m either your girlfriend or nothing at all.”

His lips curved into a smile as your arms crossed over your chest, waiting for a response from the blonde. Peeta sat up and moved in closer to you, his forehead resting against yours, lips inches from your own.

“As you wish, girlfriend.”

His lips were on yours as soon as the title was spoken, moving slowly and sensually. His hand came to your waist as you fell back onto the bed, pulling him down with you as you finally let him move over top of you. The kisses grew needier and more passionate as your hands moved to the hem of his hoodie, pulling it and his white undershirt over his head and allowing for him to toss them behind him.

The articles of clothing caught your jacket, bringing it to the floor as well. Your phone slid out of the pocket as it vibrated, going completely unnoticed next to the clothing.

Where are you?

Hello?

Oh my god, Cato just said he saw you going upstairs with Peeta. Good luck. ;) Remember what I told you about spelling your name. Trust me, works every single time.

#fic rec #peeta mellark x reader #watchtowerlibrary

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waitimcomingtoo · 1 year ago

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Line Without A Hook

Pairing: Peeta Mellark x Reader

Synopsis: Peeta freaks out when you get hurt in the arena and gets teased for how much he takes care of you (catching fire arena)

Masterlist

Peeta had barely gotten out the words “stay by me” when the cornucopia on the island starting to spin. Tributes flew off and fell into the water as others struggled to grip on to whatever they could.

“It moves?” Finnick shouted to no one in particular as he gripped the first arm he could see through the salt water spray. The arm belonged to Peeta, who looked to his side and panicked when he realized you were no longer there.

“Where did Y/n go?” Peeta shouted over the sound of the waves.

“I think she went over by the weapons.” Finnick shouted back as the dial began to rotate faster. Peeta looked into the center and saw Johanna and Mags struggling to stay aboard but no sign of you.

“Well she’s not there anymore.” Peeta shouted back as his anxiety grew.

“I’m kinda busy here, Peeta. I don’t know where your girlfriend went.” Finnick replied.

“There!” Wiress called and pointed towards one of the arms. Peeta followed her finger and saw you fighting with one of the careers on the edge of a spinning arm. You were winning the fight until another career threw an axe your way and got you right in the rib cage. Peeta just about lost his mind when he saw you go limp and fall into the water. He let go of the center and grabbed the first weapon he could see before sprinting toward where you had been.

“DON’T TOUCH HER.” He shouted as he threw his weapon at the career you had been fighting. It buried in his chest and sent him flying into the water. Peeta then dove into the water and forced his eyes open in an effort to find you. He followed the wavering trail of blood until he found your body floating in the water. By the time he pulled you to the surface, the dial had stopped spinning. Finnick helped him pull you out of the water and tried to give you CPR but Peeta pushed him out of the way. He did chest compressions and mouth to mouth as tears fell from his eyes and onto your face. Finally, your eyes opened and you coughed up some water. Peeta gently rolled you on your side so that you could get it all out and held your hand when you were done.

“Y/n? Are you okay, sweetheart?” Peeta asked as he held your hand to his lips and kissed the back of it.

“Peeta?” You coughed out.

“I’m here. Are you okay?” He asked again and brushed your wet hair off your face.

“I’m okay. It’s just a knick.” You said and winced from the pain of the wound in your side.

“I watched it happen. It was a lot more than a knick. And you’re still bleeding.”

“It’s fine. I just do that sometimes.” You tried to wave it off but Peeta was not budging.

“Come here. We gotta get you off this thing.” Peeta looked at the cornucopia angrily before carefully lifting you off the ground. He and Finnick brought you back to the beach and helped you lay down on the sand.

“Really. I’m okay.” You tried to assure Peeta once you were on the ground again.

“Let me see how bad it is.” He said and tried to rip your suit around the wound.

“Peeta, I’m fine.” You insisted and pushed his hand away.

“You’re not fine. Just let me see.” He pleaded. You knew he wasn’t gonna let it go so you sighed and unzipped the back of your suit. You’re gingerly rolled it down to your waist, leaving you in the black bikini top you had underneath. It was the least amount of clothing Peeta had ever seen you in so he blushed and adverted his eyes at first.

“How bad is it?” You asked him, making him snap back to the moment. He looked at the wound on your side and relaxed a little when he found it wasn’t nearly as bad as he thought.

“It looks worse than it really is. We just need to get it clean.”

“We?” You raised an eyebrow.

“You took care of me once. And I’m not gonna let you die from infection after everything you’ve survived.”

“But-“

“Just shut up and let me take care of you?” Peeta whined.

“Okay.” You smiled softly. “Fine.”

Peeta returned the smile before carefully picking you up. He walked into the water with you in his arms and went deep enough that the salt water could clean your wound. You winced and arched your back to stay out of the water.

“Sorry. I know it hurts.” Peeta apologized and bent his knees to put you back in the water.

“It really hurts. I want to get out.” You told him and flinched when a wave stung your side.

“Not yet. You have to keep it clean.” Peeta said sympathetically. You gripped his shoulder and hissed in pain as he dunked you in again.

“Look at them.” Finnick snorted and nodded towards you and Peeta.

“You think it’s real?” Johanna asked as she sharpened her axe with another knife.

“What?”

“The whole lovelorn star crossed lovers plot. Think it’s all an act?” Johanna asked as she watched the two of you in the water with the sun beginning to set behind you.

“I used to.” Finnick replied.

“Used to?”

“Yeah. I thought it was an act at first. I think we all did. But that boy loves her.” Finnick said most assuredly.

“Okay. That’s enough.” Peeta decided and carried you back to the shore.

“I can walk.” You chuckled when he continued to carry you up the beach.

“I know.” He said simply and continued carrying you. He gently laid you down by the rest of your group and knelt beside you.

“I need something to cover this.” He realized and looked around but all he saw was sand.

“Can you please get me some leaves from the jungle?” Peeta asked Johanna.

“Get them yourself.” She scoffed.

“I can’t leave her. Please, just help me this once.” Peeta asked again.

“Peeta, it’s okay. Really. You can go.” You assured him by taking his hand and squeezing it. He blushed when you did this and nodded his head.

“I’ll be right back.” He promised before running off into the jungle. He returned shortly after with a couple leaves and water in a coconut shell.

“I got some leaves and water. Can you sit up?”

“Yeah. Thank you.” You smiled in appreciation as you painfully sat up. Peeta held the coconut shell to your lips and helped you sip some water before using the leaves to create a bandage for your wound. The sun had set below the horizon at that point and you were definitely ready to go to sleep.

“You can sleep. I’ll keep first watch.” Peeta said as he read your mind. You usually protested and let others sleep first, but you were too tired to do that today.

“Thank you. Wake me up in a few hours so you can sleep too.” You told him as you laid down on the sand. Peeta sat beside you until the morning came and when you woke up, you realized he was in the same exact position as he was when you had fallen asleep.

“Hey.” You said through a yawn that hurt to complete. You winced and touched your side as you tried to sit up. Peeta put a hand on your back to help you sit up and immediately handed you a coconut shell full of water. You smiled graciously at him and drank the whole thing.

“When did you sleep last night?” You asked when you were done.

“I don’t know. Sometimes after-“

“He didn’t.” Finnick cut him off. You looked at Peeta for an explanation and he was red with embarrassment.

“What? You didn’t sleep?” You asked and smacked his arm.

“I tried to take over after I got a few hours but lover boy didn’t let me. He said he needed to make sure you didn’t bleed out.” Finnick continued as he headed towards the water to fish for some breakfast.

“P, you need to sleep. I was fine.” You said and shook his arm.

“I was too. I wasn’t tired.” Peeta replied and you knew he was lying. You gave him a look but he just looked to the side.

“I’m really okay. The salt water helped.” You tried to assure him.

“Oh, yeah. Salt water. We have to keep it clean.” Peeta remembered and stood up. Before you could protest, he scooped you up and carried you to the water. You didn’t complain this time even though it hurt to be in the water. You knew he just needed to take care of you or else he’d lose his mind with worrying. Once he was satisfied, he carried you back to the beach and gently laid you down.

“Are you hungry?” He asked once you were back on the sand.

“I’m all right.” You answered.

“Are you hungry?” Johanna mocked Peeta’s voice in a high pitched manner. You looked at her angrily as Peeta turned red.

“Instead of mocking me, why don’t you do something to help?” He said to her.

“Help how? No one else can get near her because of you. You should’ve seen the way he was watching you last night. I don’t think I ever saw him blink.” Johanna snorted. You looked over at Peeta and he was looking down at his hands with embarrassment. You put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it endearingly.

“It’s nice that Peeta cares so much. He’s right about infection. A lot of people have died from it in these games before they even realize what’s going on.” You defended him, making him smile at you.

“Oh, give me a break.” Johanna groaned. “Why don’t you two make out some more and get us some sponsors?”

“Yeah. Put on a show so we can eat.” Finnick laughed. Peeta shifted uncomfortably and you felt bad for him. You knew your fake relationship was a sensitive subject for him and now he had to listen to his allies mock it.

“Stop it.” You stated. “We’re not doing that.”

“Please? Just say your vows again in front of the camera. I’m starving.” Johanna whined.

“Then go hunt.” You snapped.

“Come on. What’s the point of being allies with the star crossed lovers if you’re not gonna kiss and get us some parachutes?” Finnick asked with a teasing smile.

“I know. I thought we’d at least get something when Peeta nearly lost his mind after not being able to find you for-what was it- two minutes? I thought his head was gonna explode.” Johanna added on.

“So did I.” Finnick agreed. “If you think about it, we don’t even have to kill the other tributes. Let’s just hide Y/n for a few hours and let Peeta kill everyone while he tries to find her.”

“Leave him alone. No more jokes.” You ordered all while Peeta stayed silently looking out at the waves. Everyone was quiet for a minute and you assumed the jokes were finally done. Peeta looked at you and smiled sadly so you took his hand and squeezed it.

“If they show us how they made that baby, I bet the Capital would send us a feast.” Johanna said to cut the silence. Finnick burst out laughing, making Peeta get up and walk away. You watched him walk into the jungle before looking at Johanna and Mason angrily.

“Look what you did. Why’d you have to tease him?” You asked and smacked Finnicks arm.

“Sorry. Go check on him. Tell loverboy I didn’t mean to make him cry.” Finnick pouted teasingly. You rolled your eyes at him and got up off the floor.

“You guys don’t know him. He’s a lot stronger than you give him credit for. Don’t forget that he won his games.” You said in Peeta’s defense. That left Johanna and Finnick silent as you walked off into the jungle in the direction Peeta had gone in. You found him using the spile to get some more water from you. You weren’t even thirsty from how often he’d been getting you water but you weren’t about to tell him that.

“Hey.” You said as you approached him.

“Hey. I was getting you some water.” Peeta said without looking at you. You could tell he was upset by what the others had been and you hated that you couldn’t even talk about it without the cameras picking it up.

“Thank you.” You smiled softly at him as you took the water.

“If you’re hungry, I can go pick some stuff. I know Finnicks been catching a lot of fish so if you need something sweeter, I can try and go find a berry bush.” He offered and still didn’t look in your eyes. You took him face and turned his head so that he had to look at you. He finally looked into your eyes and smiled sadly.

“Thank you.” You said sincerely. “But really, I’m really okay. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I know you can take care of yourself.”

“I can. But I appreciate you taking care of me. I just don’t want you to worry about me so much. We all need to be on high alert. I can’t be taking up your thoughts all the time.”

“But you do.” He said with a sad smile. You smiled back before pulling him into a hug. He hugged you back and was careful not to put his hands anywhere near your wound.

“I’m sorry they were teasing you.” You said into his ear.

“It’s okay. I deserve it for being so sensitive.”

“I like that you’re sensitive. It’s one of my favorite qualities of yours.” You told him as you pulled out of the bush but kept your arms around him.

“One of?” He raised an eyebrow.

“I like your banana bread too.” You replied, making him roll his eyes.

“Oh great. She likes my banana bread.” He chuckled. “That’s not one of my qualities.”

“I know. But I think about it all the time. I smell it sometimes in my dreams.”

“I’ll make you some when we go home. Your own loaf.” He promised you.

“I can’t wait.” You said through a sad laugh. You knew there was no possibility of that happening, but it made you happy to imagine anyway.

“Do you think we’ll go home?” Peeta asked after a beat of silence.

“I don’t know. We did last time.”

“Yeah but what are the chances of that happening again?” He said quietly.

“I try not to think about it.” You admitted.

“Me too. That’s why I spend so much time thinking about you.” Peeta replied. You looked into his puppy dog eyes for a while and stayed in comfortable silence. Peeta stared at you and touched your hair to keep himself grounded.

“I killed that guy.” Peeta said suddenly in a quiet voice.

“The one who attacked me?”

“Yeah. Him. I threw an axe at him. I could’ve just punched him but I didn’t. I went for the kill.”

“Why?” You wondered. You weren’t mad, it just wasn’t like Peeta to kill someone.

“Because he attacked you.” Peeta said simply.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you kill.”

“I didn’t either.” He admitted. “Do you think differently of me?”

“No. As long as you don’t try to kill me now that you’ve tasted your first blood.” You joked.

“I would never hurt you.” Peeta said sincerely.

“Oh, I know. I was just kidding.” You assured him.

“I know. I just…I don’t think you understand what you mean to me. I saw that guy put his hands on you and I just lost it. I saw red. I’ve never been so scared in my life. I thought he was gonna take you from me.” Peeta’s voice cracked on the last part so you pulled him back into a hug. You swayed back and forth and rubbed his back to calm him down.

“Hey, hey, hey. I’m okay. You saved me.” You said in his ear.

“I can’t lose you.” He sniffled and hugged you tighter.

“You won’t.”

“I can’t.” He repeated. “So when I’m a pain about keeping your wound clean or drinking some water, please just listen to me. I need to know that you’re okay.”

“Okay. I can do that.” You assured him.

“You better. Because I swear to God, if you die-“

You cut Peeta off by pulling out of the hug to kiss him instead. Peeta stiffened for a moment at the unexpected contact but then melted into the kiss. The kiss didn’t last very long because Peeta got in his head about the motive behind the kiss.

“You don’t have to kiss me if you don’t want to.” He pulled away to whisper to you.

“I know that.” You said simply and reconnected his lips in a kiss. Peeta cupped your face to keep you close as he kissed you back. His insecurities melted away into the kiss and he let himself believe you really did feel the same.

“Hey, lovebirds. Get a room or join us for breakfast.” Finnick called from the beach. You pulled out of the kiss and rested your forehead against his.

“I wish he’d leave us alone.” Peeta sighed.

“I got this.” You told Peeta and turned to Finnick.

“I thought you wanted to see how we made the baby?” You called back. You could hear Finnick laugh as he walked back to the water to catch more fish. All while Peeta was a blushing mess over what you were implying.

“You hungry?” You asked Peeta once you were alone again.

“Can we just stay here for a while?” He asked you. You smiled and nodded your head to show him you weren’t going anywhere.

“As long as you want.”

#peeta mellark whump #peeta mellark x reader #peeta mellark fluff #peeta mellark angst #peeta mellark fanfic #peeta mellark fanfiction #peeta x reader #peeta mellark x you #peeta mellark #the hunger games peeta

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moonlit-imagines · 5 days ago

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warnings:

a/n: this is yall’s chance to join the hunger games taglist before i go insane and start posting a shitload of fics!!!! also love u sm anon <3

requested by anonymous

As Peeta arrived home after working on the garden for half the day, you’d been crafting the perfect anniversary gift for him. You weren’t a professional baker or anything of the sort, but you had all the ingredients present and enough time to make it happen. Hours went by and flour was scattered around the kitchen counters, along with sugar, cocoa powder, and maybe a bit of frosting, too. Okay, I can’t sugarcoat it—it was a mess.

Peeta returned late in the day, welcomed by the smell of freshly baked goods and a smile grew on his face. “Y/N? I’m home!” He called out as he shut the door behind, holding a bouquet of hand-picked flowers behind his back. You carefully rushed to the living room with a haphazardly frosted cake, awkwardly presenting it to your boyfriend.

“Happy anniversary.” You giggled. “It’s not much, but I thought I’d bake for you for a change…sorry it’s so, um, ugly.” You stared down at the lumpy frosting and looked back up at the huge smile on his face.

“It’s…it’s really amazing, y/n.” Peeta said sincerely, admiring the effort you put into it. “My recipe?” You nodded and he swiped his finger across the bottom of the plate where some frosting sat alone, a quick taste, “Perfect.”

“What do you have?” You peeked over his shoulder and he revealed the flowers for you.

“Happy anniversary.”

taglist: @summersimmerus //

#peeta mellark #peeta mellark x reader #peeta mellark x you #peeta mellark imagine #hunger games #hunger games imagine #hunger games x reader

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jaidens · 1 year ago

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#♬ — jaidens rambling #josh hutcherson #peeta mellark #peeta mellark x reader #mike schmidt #mike schmidt x reader #josh hutcherson x reader #whatever you say gorgeous.

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mcsstydia · 9 months ago

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Faking it - Finnick Odair

prompt: you won the hunger games, now snow forces you to sell your body. your mentor, finnick odair, proposes the both of you fake a relationship so the capitol citizens won’t be interested in you anymore.

pairing: finnick odair x reader

Warnings: mentions of forced sexual labor

word count: 2.2k

Masterlist

You won the hunger games. After weeks of fighting to survive, of hiding, of pure fright, of killing children who were not much older than you, you won the games. Now, a lifetime of glory and wealth awaited you, right?

You could have never been more wrong. You could have guessed that there was a flaw to what was promised to you. Sometimes, before and also after the games, your mentor, finnick odair, would look at you with a kind of concealed sadness, as if he knew there was something just as bad as the games would wait for you once you survived.

Finnick was 19, only two years older than you, but you had a feeling sometimes you could see in his eyes he had already endured a lifetime worth of pain. Turns out, your feeling was right about the amount of pain his heart had to carry.

Two months after you've won the games, when you've returned home, on a late Wednesday afternoon, Finnick rang the bell at your new house in the victor village. As you opened the door, you were unexpectedly greeted with the handsome man that was Finnick Odair. You had had a crush on him for forever, and it had only intensified during the time where he was your mentor.

Your stomach began to turn in nervous circles. Why was he here? Did he come to see you? Spend time with you even? Wait, that was not it. You could see it in his face. You were good at reading him.

His gaze rose from where it had been previously fixed on the ground to meet yours. There it was again, that sadness. ''What happened?'', you asked, scared it had to do with your mother, who was out of the house for the evening. ''Your mother is alright.'', Finnick said calmly, as if having read your mind.

You visibly relaxed and exhaled. Nonetheless, your grip around the edge of the door did not loosen. ''Then what it is?'', you asked anxiously, trying to seem collected, composed. But Finnick knew you almost as well as you did him.

''Can I come inside?'', he asked in turn. You nodded silently, your body began buzzing with anxiety. The pleasant turns your stomach initially performed upon seeing Finnick had now turned into unpleasant ones. Finnick headed for your living room and you followed him blindly. He pulled up an armchair and gestured you to take place on the couch. He placed the armchair so it was right in front of the couch. Both of you sat down, and then he gently took both of your hands into his large, warm ones.

This is how bad it was? Normally, you would jump in the air at the touch of his hands on your skin. Now, you could feel the colour draining from your face and the warmth leaving your hands in dread of what was to come.

''Just tell me'', you demanded. You knew he would search for the best way to tell you, to somehow sugar-coat it. Finnick looked at you, and you knew he could see in your eyes that this was what you needed.

''Snow sells the good-looking winners to the citizens of the capitol. At least their body. And now he wants to sell you.'', he said. For a moment, the information had to sink in. Then, you could feel the remaining control you had had over your facial muscles seep away. All expression fell from your face, your eyes made no effort to conceal the tears that came flooding in, and your hands began shaking in the gentle hold Finnick had on them.

His grip around your hands strenghtened, but stayed gentle. ''No…'', you managed to breath out, shaking your head in disbelief. You could feel all the strength leaving your body. Finnick seemed to notice, or he had anticipated it, because he caught your head as it fell toward him, his hands gently cupping the sides of your face. A thought came to your mind about the person you cared most for in this world. In between ragged breaths, you managed to ask ''Did he do it to you?'' The look in his eyes was all you needed to know it was true.

Loud, ugly sobs escaped your lips and you made no effort to hide them. Finnick made no effort to calm you, he knew there was no point in telling you it was all going to be okay. ''I've got you,'', he whispered into single strands of hair, your head still in his hands.

He rocked your body back and forth in an attempt to tell you he was there, and he wouldn't leave. He had begun to do that on the first night after your name was drawn for the games. You had been in the train on your way to the capitol, as he found you on the floor, weeping. He held you the whole night, until you had finally managed to fall asleep. He had rocked you gently, had promised to get you out of the arena alive.

At this point, you had thought he would tell that to every young girl he would mentor. Now, you came to the tentative conclusion that you meant something to him.

Suddenly, he whispered, ''I have a plan,''. The sentence brought you back to reality. His hands never leaving your face, you managed to lift your head just so much as to be able to look in his eyes. His beautiful face was blurred by the tears still in your eyes, and by your already-swollen eyelids. He looked at you with concern, and care, and suddenly you knew you were anything to him but simply another tribute he had to mentor.

You realised you were more than important to him. His next sentences only proved how much you meant to him. ''I won't let him do that to you,'', he began, wiping away one of your tears with his thumb. You could also see fear in his eyes, but it was fear for your wellbeing, for your life.

''It's risky,'', he continued and breathed in. ''But I would risk it, for you.'', a deeper meaning of his words hung in the air, but it was not important now. ''If we fake to be in a relationship, Snow can't sell you. The capitol citizens would then never want to tear us apart.'', he explained. His word registered in your head, and the word fake sent a painful, but quickly fading, stab into your chest.

''Would they believe it?'', you asked. Finnick allowed himself to smile, and his fingers carressed your cheeks. You thought you could read him well, but you weren't so sure now. His expression screamed 'of course they'll believe us, look at how in love I am with you', but he couldn't really think that. He couldn't. You would know if he had feelings for you, and you were sure he did not.

Something brought him back from his thoughts into the situation. So he said, ''I hope they do. That's why I said it's risky. If they do not believe it, if Snow does not believe it, we would be in a lot of trouble.'' You pressed your lips together, and then nodded. ''Why would you do that for me?'', you asked, and then imeediately wanted to take the question back.

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. ''Because I care about you.'', he whispered, holding your gaze. ''Once we do this,'', he continued. ''there's no going back. It will be us against the world, probably until we die. Do you realize that?'', he asked.

For once, you hoped he could not read your face, or your thoughts for that matter. Did you realize that? Yes. Was it scary? Of course. But was it scary because that meant you had to spend the rest of your life with him? No. That was the only part of this whole thing that sounded like heaven. Instead of telling him any of this, you nodded as an answer.

The next weeks Finnick and you prepared your 'relationship'. You got to know each other better, to make it seem as realistic as possible that you were in love. Many nights were spent like this, quietly, so as even your mother would not know. Many nights ended with your head in his lap, with his fingers running through your hair. Many nights, in which the both of you fell asleep on your couch, or in his bed, all the while holding on to each other.

When your victory tour began, while visiting the districts, you made apparent that you were a couple. Word quickly got out about the new power couple of victors. On the nights on the train, Finnick often lay next to you, to hold you through your cries. It was agonizing to visit the districts of the children who died in the games you were a part of.

Your new relationship was so important to the capitol citizens, that, once in the capitol, both finnick and you were invited to Ceasar Flickerman's show. So you sat there, with Finnick next you, his hand in yours. You had gotten used to the pleasant feeling that was ilicited whenever he touched you. You had gotten used to having him near, so it was not hard to appear happy next to him. It had never been, though.

The people loved you. Everyone adored the two of you together. So much so, that president Snow let go of forcing you into selling your body to the citizens of the capitol. For now.

For now, you were on your way back home from the capitol to district 4. For now, there was the slight hope that things would stay that way, and it was all thanks to Finnick. On this first night on your way back home, you hadn't asked Finnick to come into your room. He had spent the night next to you for the whole of the victory tour, calming you down, holding you when you cried.

But now? You thought Finnick was tired of taking care of you every night. You thought Finnick deserved a night to himself. After all, he wouldn't get many of those anymore that you were in a 'relationship' with him. So you lay there, on your bed, your hands neatly folded on your stomach, your thoughts almost as loud as the train on the tracks. When the doors to your compartment opened, you sat up in your bed, startled and scared. It was only when you saw that it was Finnick who entered, that you relaxed again. Somewhy, you stood up from your bed out of reflex. Finnick looked agitated, and for a moment you feared he brought bad news again. His mouth stood slightly agape, he was breathing heavily, and his eyes frantically scanned your body.

''I don't want to sleep without you,'', he suddenly blurted out. Shock was an understatement. You couldn't help yourself. ''What?'', you brought out as an answer.

The usually calm, confident Finnick he could so easily present himself as for the cameras was nowhere to be seen. He seemed scared, agitated, and lost all at once. ''I-..'', he began tentatively, and took a step toward you.

''I don't want to sleep without you. I don't want to, and I can't, for that matter, when you are not next to me, when I don't know you're safe, when I cannot feel your body next to mine.'' Although he obviusly tried to explain himself, you were no smarter than before.

Finnick could see that you were not sure what he was trying to tell you. He took a few steps until he stood directly in front of you. He took your face into his hands. ''This,'', he continued, gesturing to the two of you. ''It was never fake to me. I never wanted it to be fake. I love you. I have loved you for a long, long time, and I plan on doing it for the rest of my life.'', finally, he seemed to exhale of what seemed to have been a breath he had held for a long time.

Tears began pooling in your eyes. And for the first time in a long time, they were tears of happiness. ''Oh Finnick Odair, are you really so blind as to think I ever wanted it to be fake? I am madly in love with you.'', you finally confessed, and a grin so wide he had never managed to fake for the cameras spread across his lips.

''And now, kiss me, please,'', to any other person, this would have sounded like begging. But it was Finnick, and it was you, and you were both so madly in love nothing else mattered.

So Finnick did what you asked him to do. Slowly, he leaned down, and let his lips brush against yours. After that, it was instant. You both were so hungry for each other, so desperate to finally be able to touch each other in a way you had only dreamed of.

Hands were tangled in hair, and roamed the body of the other. Your lips and teeth clashed against one another, but the kissing erupted feelings in your stomach, and heart, and the whole body, really, that you had never thought could exist. When you broke apart, the both of you giggled, caressed each other's skin, and placed delicate kisses here and there.

That night, you fell asleep in each other's arms again, kissing, holding each other. For the first time in a long time, you weren't scared of the future, because you knew either way, you would spend it with Finnick.

#thg #finnick odair #finnick odair thg #finnick odair fluff #finnick odair angst #finnick odair smut #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair x you #sam claflin #sam claflin imagine #peeta mellark x reader #peeta mellark fluff #peeta mellark #peeta mellark imagine #finnick odair fanfiction

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moonxnite · 1 year ago

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y’all ever fantasize about a fictional character a little too hard to the point you’re convinced you should be admitted to a mental hospital?

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lovesicklovermia · 9 months ago

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normalise making a list of character x readers u like to read so you can spin a wheel every night before bed to decide ur bedtime story xx

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bruisedboys · 3 days ago

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HI MAL <3 congrats on 6k

could i please request a gingerbread house with peeta and the prompt “ you feel like home to me” from the first list i believe? tysm congrats again and happy holidays!!!!!!

I feel the need to explain myself .. this request and blurb are from a year and a half ago oops. so sorry lovely requester, ily and enjoy this 15 month old blurb x

peeta mellark x fem!reader

Peeta bakes you something new every week. An old scone recipe from a family cookbook, a half remembered cherry pie from when he was a kid, cheese buns that he used to make batches and batches of to make a living when he was younger. You love everything he makes. You love tasting those little bits of his younger years, getting to know his parents through their recipes and the things they used to make. You know he doesn’t want to talk about them much, but you think it’s his way of remembering. And you’re so, so happy he wants to share that with you.

Today he’s made a sourdough loaf as big as your head. It’s really, really good. You sit on the porch with him and slather soft butter over huge slices of it. You make tea and he brings his sketchbook and you sit in your lovely, small, peaceful corner of the world, limbs heavy with the warmth of the day.

You don’t know what brings your question on. You suppose it makes you sad that Peeta doesn’t talk much about how he used to live. You don’t want to press. You just want to know, so you can know and love him anyway.

“Do you ever think about home?” You ask him, over the old, worn novel you’re reading. You’re borrowing it from Annie, who’s had it since she was a little girl. It’s wonderful.

Peeta looks up at you from his sketchbook. You wonder what he’s drawing. Most likely a portrait of you. Most of his books are full of them — you laughing in the kitchen, your hands holding a bunch of your favourite flowers, your smile, the freckles scattered on your back, your eyes and how they look in the sun.

“What do you mean?” He asks you.

“I mean, home. Like, District Twelve,” you explain. “How we used to live?”

Peeta gets a thoughtful look on his face. He turns back to his book and sketches for a few more moments before shrugging. “I don’t know. Sometimes, I guess.”

“When you make your mother’s recipes?”

“Yeah. And when I feed the pigs the way my father taught me. When I see the weeds in garden that used to grow on our farm.”

You hum. You’d guessed enough. Still, “Do you ever miss it?”

Peeta puts his pencil down and looks at you. He’s really quite handsome. You feel stunned by it suddenly, and not for the first time. Sandy golden hair, pretty eyes, broad shoulders. You feel like you were made to love him.

“No, not really,” he tells you. “I miss my family, but never really my home.” He reaches out across your shared table, picks up your hand in one of his. His fingers have been calloused by time and roughened by pain. Still, he’s never anything but achingly gentle with you. He pressed his thumb to your wrist and looks at you with those lovely, kind eyes. “You feel like home to me.”

What a striking thing to say. You sit and look at your joined hands, wondering if you might cry. You could. You feel so in love with him it makes your chest ache.

“Really?” You ask softly.

Peeta smiles at you, all things soft. It never fails to surprise you how someone so kind could emerge, scathed but kind all the same, from such a cruel place.

“Of course. Wherever you are is home, you know?”

You do know. You feel the same for him, though you could never put it so sweetly. You’re not good with words, you never have been. You don’t have to be either, not when you’ve got Peeta.

You nod. “Yeah. I know.”

Peeta’s smile grows. His takes your hand and presses it to his smile. Heat prickles along your skin like burning stars, his kiss like a flame. “I’m glad, sweetheart. Do you like the bread? We should take some to Katniss, don’t you think?”

And there he goes again, with his heart of gold. You don’t think you could possibly love him more.

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sweetheartsofpanem · 1 day ago

Text

We Are Not a Normal Family - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

sorry if this chapter sucks y’all i’m running out of ideas😭 so feel free to send me any ideas for chapters y’all would like to see

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 2.95k

series masterlist | main masterlist

You’re not even sure what sparked the argument.

One minute, Katniss was claiming she could absolutely survive in the woods with nothing but a pocketknife and “a good stick,” and the next, Peeta was accusing her of cheating during a very unofficial game of “Who Would Die First in the Wild.”

Haymitch is sitting in his armchair, not even pretending to moderate. He’s got a glass in one hand, a smirk on his face, and his bare feet propped up on the coffee table you just wiped down earlier. You’re curled up on the couch with your legs tucked under you, one hand absently scratching Soot’s head while the other shields her tiny, chaotic body from the chaos she keeps trying to leap into.

“She didn’t even pick a terrain,” Peeta is saying now, voice too loud and too dramatic to be taken seriously. “You can’t just say ‘the woods.’ What woods? Temperate? Tropical? Boreal? That matters!”

Katniss stares at him flatly. “They’re trees, Mellark.”

“Deadly trees!”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.

Soot—sweet, precious Soot, your little soot sprite of darkness—launches from your lap with absolutely no warning and dive-bombs Katniss’ boot, claws extended like a feral little missile.

Katniss doesn’t even flinch.

“Is this your kid,” she says, deadpan, “or a demon sent to punish me for doubting pine trees?”

“She’s sensitive,” you reply, dragging your hand down your face. “She doesn’t like tree slander.”

“She doesn’t like anything,” Haymitch mutters into his glass.

“She likes me,” you say, lifting your chin.

Haymitch lifts a brow. “You sure?”

“She purrs when I kiss her head!”

“She bites your hair.”

“That’s affection.”

“She threw up on your pillow last night.”

“She was nervous!”

He looks at you like he’s planning your funeral.

Katniss is now gently trying to unhook Soot from her laces while Peeta leans over her shoulder, entirely unhelpful.

Soot finally releases Katniss’ boot, only to go skittering full-speed across the room with her back arched and her tail puffed like she’s just seen god and hated him.

You track her with your eyes.

She leaps onto the back of the couch.

Stares down at Peeta like she’s preparing to launch.

“Oh no,” you say, too late.

She launches.

Peeta shrieks—full-throated, hands flailing—as Soot lands directly on his shoulder, skids down the front of his shirt, and disappears under the coffee table like a streak of living shadow.

“I am bleeding,” Peeta announces, checking his shirt for claw marks. “That cat hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” you say, standing up immediately. “She just has a very intense way of loving.”

“She bit my soul!”

You ignore him and step toward the table.

“Soot?” you call softly, crouching. “Baby, it’s okay. You scared Peeta, but that’s not hard to do—he once screamed when a pinecone hit him, remember?”

Haymitch sighs from the armchair.

“Sit down,” he says.

You ignore him, too.

“Soot, sweetheart, come out, please—”

“Y/N,” Haymitch says again, more pointed this time. “She’s fine. You’re the only one panicking.”

“I’m not panicking,” you say as you lower yourself to your knees. “I just don’t want her to eat something weird and die.”

“She’s a cat,” Haymitch says. “Not a Victorian child.”

“She’s small and easily influenced!”

Haymitch groans and sets his glass down. And before you can fully process it, he’s leaning forward, grabbing your wrist, and tugging you up off the floor with zero ceremony.

“Hey—!”

And then you’re in his lap.

Just—in his lap.

Like it’s nothing.

Like it’s the most obvious place for you to be.

He rests one hand on your waist, the other still holding your wrist like he’s anchoring you there.

“Stop acting like an overprotective mother,” he mutters into your ear. “You’re embarrassing her.”

You blink.

Face on fire.

Peeta, who’s still nursing his war wound, says nothing but absolutely clocks the situation.

Katniss raises a single eyebrow, then returns her attention to whatever Soot’s doing under the table, because of course she does.

You clear your throat. “I—I wasn’t embarrassing her.”

“You were crawling on the floor whispering baby talk.”

You smack his chest half-heartedly and mumble, “You’re literally the reason she’s dramatic.”

“And you’re the reason she thinks she can get away with it.”

“She’s cute.”

“She’s a menace.”

You huff.

He smirks.

Soot makes a noise.

A tiny, trilling sound that absolutely means trouble.

You spot her a second too late—perched on the windowsill, pupils blown wide, body tensed like a spring.

“Oh no—”

She jumps.

Not at anyone this time. Just out of the room.

A blur of black fur and gremlin energy as she tears down the hallway like a little demon with a death wish.

You shoot up from Haymitch’s lap immediately. “Soot!”

But you don’t make it more than a step before a hand catches your wrist and pulls you right back down.

You land squarely in Haymitch’s lap again, heart thudding, and he gives you a look like really? when you turn your head.

“She’s fine,” he says. “Let her terrorize someone else for once.”

“She’s gonna break something.”

“She already has.”

“She’s tiny!”

“She’s the devil.”

You huff and cross your arms, settling—begrudgingly—into the curve of his chest.

That’s when Peeta, bless his soul, leans dramatically into the silence.

“Mom and dad are fighting again,” he sighs. “It’s always the children who suffer.”

You stare at him. “Peeta—”

“What?” He raises his hands in surrender. “I’m just calling it like I see it.”

“You’re delusional.”

“I’m traumatized.”

Katniss, deadpan as ever, mutters, “We all are.”

Haymitch snorts behind you, arms tightening slightly around your waist. You try to ignore the way your face burns and focus very hard on pretending you’re not completely flustered.

Peeta just shrugs and leans back like he didn’t just drop a bomb in the middle of the room.

“I’m just saying,” he says. “I’d make a great flower girl.”

“Flower girl?” you echo.

“You guys are already co-parenting,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. “Marriage is, like, two jokes away.”

Katniss throws a pillow at him.

You pretend to be outraged, but you don’t get up.

And Haymitch doesn’t let you.

You don’t even notice how the mood shifts—how the sharpness of all the teasing just melts into something warm and ridiculous.

Peeta stretches out on the floor like he owns it, flings an arm toward the coffee table, and says, “Alright. New game.”

Katniss lifts an eyebrow from where she’s curled into the corner of the couch. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard the rules.”

“Because there aren’t any.”

“That’s part of the charm.”

You glance at Haymitch, who’s already groaning like this is the worst thing he’s ever witnessed. You’re still very much planted in his lap, and he’s still got one arm loosely around your waist like it’s just… a fact now. A thing you both silently agreed on and never bothered to question.

Peeta sits up like a man on a mission. “The game is called Three-Legged Word Vomit.”

You stare at him. “That’s not a game.”

“It is now.”

“Those are just three words you stitched together like a monster,” Haymitch mutters.

Peeta ignores him completely and points at you. “You start.”

“What?”

“You say a word. Any word.”

“…Okay?”

“Then Katniss says a word that’s not related to your word.”

Katniss scoffs. “This is a terrible game.”

“It’s performance art,” Peeta says proudly.

You blink. “Then what?”

“Then Haymitch says a third word, also unrelated.”

“And then?”

Peeta grins. “Then we judge each other.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“…That’s it?” you ask.

“That’s it.”

“Peeta,” Haymitch says slowly, “you’re so lucky you’re pretty.”

“Thank you,” Peeta says without missing a beat. “Katniss, you’re next.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I will throw something.”

“I like it when you threaten me.”

You’re laughing so hard now you have to lean forward, pressing a hand over your mouth while Haymitch groans behind you and wraps his other arm around your waist like he’s just resigned to being your seat for the rest of his life.

“I’m gonna win,” you say, still breathless.

“You can’t win,” Katniss mutters.

“I’m still gonna.”

Peeta points dramatically at all three of you. “You’re welcome for the gift of culture.”

“Okay,” Peeta says, scooting dramatically to the center of the floor like this is a sacred ritual. “First round. Y/N, you actually start this time.”

You pause like it’s life or death, squinting at the ceiling.

Then say, with complete sincerity, “Spaghetti.”

Haymitch grunts. “Knew food would come up.”

Katniss leans back against the arm of the couch. “Toilet.”

You blink. “Katniss—”

“Peeta said unrelated.”

Peeta claps. “Correct. Haymitch, go.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Nipple.”

You physically choke on your own laughter and slap his chest. “Haymitch.”

He shrugs. “What? You said spaghetti.”

“That’s not—!”

“I’m judging,” Peeta announces. “And I feel deeply disturbed.”

Katniss is unfazed. “Toilet wins.”

“I’m voting nipple,” you cough, still wheezing.

“I abstain,” Haymitch mutters.

“Fine,” Peeta says. “Round two. I start. Word is… moisture.”

You groan.

“Why,” Katniss practically whines.

“Because it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Congratulations,” Haymitch mutters. “You found a word with texture.”

“Y/N, go,” Peeta commands, waving dramatically.

You narrow your eyes and say, “Banjo.”

Peeta nods solemnly. “Powerful.”

Katniss, without even blinking, says, “Gravy.”

Haymitch sets down his glass. “Alright. Peeta loses.”

“Hey!”

“Gravy takes it,” you say, pointing at Katniss. “That was incredible.”

Katniss smirks. “I play to win.”

“You pretended to hate this game,” Peeta mutters.

“And now I’m better than you at it.”

“You’re tearing this family apart,” Peeta says, flopping onto his back like he’s been mortally wounded. “Mom and dad are supposed to set a better example but instead they just argue in front of us and encourage conflict.”

“Stop saying that,” you groan, sinking further into Haymitch’s lap.

Haymitch doesn’t even flinch. “Do I look like a dad to you?”

“Yes,” Peeta says immediately.

You bury your face in your hands.

Katniss just picks up a throw pillow and lobs it at Peeta’s face.

He catches it with a dramatic gasp, clutches it to his chest, and whispers, “She’s gone feral.”

“I will bite you,” Katniss replies.

You’re crying. Actually crying from laughter.

Haymitch’s arms wrap a little tighter around your waist, grounding you.

The game dies a natural death after round four, when Katniss says “fungus” and Peeta responds with “creamed corn,” and Haymitch, without looking up, says “divorce.”

You’re still wiping tears from your face when the silence finally settles, warm and buzzing in the aftermath of chaos. You’re half-sitting, half-melted against Haymitch’s chest, the whole room soft with leftover laughter and the flicker of lamplight.

And then, because you can’t help yourself, you turn to Peeta and say, “Hey. You do realize that if you keep calling Haymitch and me your guys’ mom and dad…”

He squints up at you from the floor, suspicious. “Yeah?”

“…then technically, that makes Katniss your sister.”

Peeta freezes.

Katniss slowly turns her head to look at you like how dare you.

“And I’m pretty sure that would make dating her illegal in, like…” you pause, pretending to think, “everywhere.”

Peeta stares at you.

Then at Katniss.

Then back at you.

“…Okay,” he says, very seriously. “So then you guys are just my mom and dad.”

You blink. “What?”

“And Katniss is your daughter-in-law.”

Haymitch lets out the deepest sigh you’ve ever heard.

Katniss just closes her eyes like she’s manifesting his disappearance.

“No,” you say. “Absolutely not.”

“It works!” Peeta insists. “You two are together. I love her. I win.”

“You’re banned from talking,” Katniss mutters.

“I just want everyone to be happy—”

Haymitch leans his head back against the chair and mutters, “If I die tonight, let it be known it was from sheer stupidity.”

You pat his chest. “I’ll tell your story.”

“You better lie.”

Soot finally reappears in the hallway just to meow once and then sprint directly into the kitchen.

Because of course she does.

And somehow, it all feels exactly right.

“Wait,” Peeta says. “Can we have a sleepover?”

Katniss blinks. “We’re already here.”

“No, I mean—like a real one,” he says, eyes wide. “In the backyard. Under the stars. With a tent and snacks and—”

“Yes,” you say immediately, straightening in Haymitch’s lap. “Yes. That sounds so fun.”

Haymitch groans. “Oh no.”

You ignore him completely. “We could build a whole makeshift tent with blankets and sticks and look at the stars—oh my god, we could tell stories and everything.”

Katniss squints at you. “You want to sleep outside. Voluntarily.”

“Yes,” you say again, too excited. “Summer’s almost over. We need to do at least one stupid fun thing before it gets cold again.”

Peeta nods rapidly. “Thank you! Finally, someone with a heart.”

Haymitch exhales through his nose like this is actually physically painful. “Absolutely not.”

You twist around in his lap to face him fully, hands clasped in dramatic pleading. “Please. It’ll be fun. We’ll be right in the backyard. It’s not like we’re trying to hike into the woods and commune with bears.”

“I am not sleeping on the ground,” he says flatly.

“You don’t have to,” Peeta says. “You can stay inside and be grumpy. Just let us have joy.”

Haymitch looks at you.

You pull out the big guns—wide eyes, gentle pout, softly whispered, “Please, sunshine. Just one night?”

He visibly struggles.

Like actually hesitates.

Katniss watches him with thinly veiled amusement.

“…Fine,” he mutters finally. “But if I find a spider in my shoe tomorrow, I’m blaming all of you.”

Peeta throws his hands in the air like he’s won a revolution.

You beam and press a kiss to Haymitch’s cheek before bouncing off his lap to start planning, already listing out what kind of blankets and snacks you’ll need.

He watches you go.

And mutters, “God help me.”

“No one will,” Katniss mutters.

It starts with a pile of blankets and an unreasonable amount of ambition.

Katniss drags out a stack of firewood from the side of the house while Peeta comes barreling back from his own house with a flashlight, two pillows, and what looks like half a bag of marshmallows stuffed into his hoodie pocket.

You bring out three mismatched sheets, a roll of twine you found under Haymitch’s junk drawer, and Soot—who follows you out like she owns the yard and immediately begins stalking a moth with all the focus of a jungle predator.

Haymitch stays on the porch.

Watching.

Judging.

Drinking.

“You sure you guys know what you’re doing?” he calls out.

“Absolutely not,” Peeta says proudly, throwing a blanket over a broomstick he found in the shed.

You’re giggling already, trying to help Katniss tie the corners of a sheet between two tree branches. The knots are so bad.

Haymitch mutters something under his breath.

“What was that?” you call.

“Nothing,” he lies, and takes another sip.

Fifteen minutes in, the “tent” looks like a haunted puppet show.

Katniss is gathering rocks to weigh down the corners. You’re chasing Soot, who keeps launching herself at the sides like she’s trying to collapse it on purpose.

“I think it’s beautiful,” you say breathlessly, hair a mess, cheeks flushed from laughing.

Haymitch snorts. “You would.”

You grin at him across the yard. “You love it.”

“I love my porch.”

“You love me, and I love it.”

That shuts him up for a second.

Then he groans, gets up, and mutters, “Where’s your damn marshmallows.”

Peeta fist-pumps in victory.

You all gasp in horror when Soot succeeds in collapsing the whole tent.

It takes twenty more minutes, three flashlight swaps, and one more Soot-related collapse, but eventually… the fort holds.

Barely.

But it’s standing.

Kind of.

You and Katniss line the inside with every blanket you could find—some thin and threadbare, others soft and pilled with age. Pillows are stacked haphazardly along the edges. Peeta sets the flashlight in the middle, pointed up at the stretched sheet above you so it glows like a little lantern.

Soot finally decides she approves and curls into a loaf by your feet, tail flicking contentedly.

You’re wedged between Haymitch and Katniss, your head on a folded-up hoodie, the night warm and close around you. You can smell summer in the air—grass, smoke, the faint leftover scent of wood from the pile you used to weigh down the corners.

Peeta shoves a marshmallow in his mouth and mumbles, “Best night ever.”

“Say that again without sounding like a twelve-year-old,” Katniss mutters, but she’s got the smallest hint of a smile on her face.

“I won’t,” Peeta says, proudly chewing.

Haymitch shifts beside you, stretching his arm behind your shoulders like it’s casual, like you weren’t already leaning into him. His fingers graze the top of your arm, and it makes your skin hum in the best way.

“Y’know,” you whisper, eyes fixed on the glow of the sheet above you, “I always wanted to do this as a kid.”

“What?” Haymitch asks softly.

“Sleep outside,” you say. “Under the stars. With people I liked.”

There’s a quiet beat.

“We’re people you like?”

You smile. “Unfortunately.”

“Rude,” Katniss mutters.

“True,” Peeta says.

Haymitch leans down to murmur, low and quiet in your ear, “Didn’t take you for the sentimental type, honey.”

You shrug, pretending to be unaffected. “Didn’t take you for the kind of man who’d end up in a blanket fort.”

“Didn’t have a choice. You kissed me in front of witnesses.”

You snort, hiding your face in his shoulder.

The quiet wraps around all of you like another blanket. Stars peek through the spaces between sheets. Soot snores like a tiny chainsaw.

And for once, everything feels exactly as it should.

Next Part

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