#peeta x plus size reader

[sweetheartsofpanem]

Twenty-year-old Y/N returns to the ruins of District 12, seeking something—anything—of the life she lost. Grieving, self-contained, and carrying the weight of a brutal past, she finds herself quietly drawn into the lives of Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch. As unexpected friendships form and long-buried parts of herself begin to resurface, Y/N starts to wonder if it’s still possible for something soft to survive the wreckage.

Pairing(s): Haymitch Abernathy x Female!Reader (romantic), Katniss Everdeen x Female!Reader (platonic), Peeta Mellark x Female!Reader (platonic)

Warnings: themes of grief, past emotional and verbal abuse from a parent, past physical abuse from a parent, past self-harm (cutting), past alcoholism (Y/N) / ongoing alcoholism (Haymitch), references to non-consensual sexual experiences (no explicit scenes), PTSD, mental health struggles, age gap romance between adults (20s and 40s), eventual smut, death, descriptions of death/gore, mentions of bombing, descriptions of district 12 after the bombing, might be slightly divergent from canon, peeta was not hijacked

All heavy topics are treated with care, but reader discretion is advised.

this is basically just a suuuuper long slow burn friends to lovers. Y/N’s backstory is very detailed but i have not and will not describe her appearance. the first 5 or 6 chapters are basically just providing Y/N’s background and building a foundation for the rest of the story.

Shadows of the Past - Six months after the Second Rebellion, you return to the ruins of District 12. Haunted by memories and loss, you wander through the wreckage—until a flicker of light draws you toward something, or someone, unexpected.

Fragments of Home - In the unfamiliar stillness of Victor’s Village, you find yourself cared for by an old friend and a stranger. As wounds are tended to, new connections begin to take root—quiet, cautious, and strange in their kindness.

The Space Between - You move through the stillness of what remains, caught between memory and reality. In the space left by loss, something quieter begins to grow—unspoken understanding, and the first fragile steps toward connection.

The Club - A nightmare drives you outside in the dead of night—and you’re not the only one who couldn’t sleep. An unexpected conversation beneath the stars begins to chip away at the walls you’ve built.

The Quiet Shift - You wake to a new day and begin to settle into your new reality. A simple visit turns into something more, as laughter and conversation spark the beginnings of something long forgotten: friendship.

Porchlight - Three months into your return, you’ve slipped into a quiet routine—baking with Peeta, trading late-night banter with Haymitch. But comfort doesn’t come easy, and even the smallest moments of ease shine like a porchlight in the dark.

The Shape of Warmth - You spend the day with Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch—what begins with a truth leads into something softer, steadier. Something that feels almost like belonging.

Shoulder to Shoulder - The weight of your thoughts pulls you under, but an unexpected knock reminds you that not all doors stay closed. Some nights don’t feel as heavy when you’re not alone.

Dust and Danish - The distance between you and the people around you is starting to shrink. Not all at once—but in the soft space of banter, taste testing, and old memories that still ache. You don’t trust it yet. But you’re trying.

Mint and Memory - You spend the morning in the woods learning the quiet language of herbs, your scars aching in more ways than one. In the comfort of kitchen light and soft laughter, something fragile and steady begins to form. But even in the warmth, some voices still echo.

What’s Waiting Inside - You leave with a smile that doesn’t quite reach, and a voice in your head that cuts too deep. But when you ask not to be alone, you’re met with quiet understanding—and something steady enough to lean on.

Something Real - As summer settles in, so do you. What once felt unfamiliar begins to feel like home. You spend a day with Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch—harvesting herbs, sharing dinner, teasing each other in the living room. And somewhere in the middle of the quiet laughter and small comforts, you realize you’re not surviving anymore. You’re living.

Almost Subtle - A quiet afternoon puzzle turns into something softer—shared teasing, easy silences, and the kind of presence that lingers longer than either of you mean it to. When Katniss and Peeta suggest a trip to the lake, you drag Haymitch along, sun and sarcasm pulling something looser from him. You see him—truly see him—and say something you didn’t mean to. Maybe he doesn’t mind. Maybe neither of you do.

She Fell First - You wake up with one goal: figure out what the hell is wrong with you. Why does your heart do gymnastics every time Haymitch talks? Why do you want to be near him 24/7 like some kind of emotionally confused barnacle? Naturally, you barge into Peeta’s house to demand answers and are promptly diagnosed with a crush. Disgusting. Mortifying.

Totally Chill - You’re totally fine. Completely normal. Not at all losing your mind over accidentally massaging mint balm into Haymitch Abernathy’s scarred, shirtless stomach. Nope. Nothing to see here. Except maybe the part where you sprint to Peeta’s house afterward to dramatically declare your emotional demise. Totally. Chill.

Paper Spine - The sharpness guts you like it always has—like it did before anyone ever said your name gently. You fold, crumple, unravel. And when the panic finally breaks you wide open, all you can do is hold your chest and hope it doesn’t stay like this forever.

Back to Steady - A few days after everything cracked open, you find your way back to normal—soft sarcasm, warm tea, and limbs pressed a little too close on an old couch.

Pinecone Problems - You spend the day with Katniss and Peeta, basking in cinnamon bread, emotional whiplash, and whatever flavor of denial you’re currently fermenting. Feelings are talked about. Trauma is unpacked. And Haymitch—unfortunately—still exists, looking unfairly good doing absolutely nothing. You’re not in love. You’re just dramatically inconvenienced.

Pinecone Emergency - You’re pretty sure spraining your ankle after dramatically chasing Haymitch through the woods wasn’t part of your character arc, and yet—here you are, face down in the grass, in pain, in denial, and in love. Probably. Unfortunately.

He Fell Harder - Haymitch starts the night in a classic spiral—staring at a wall, brooding about feelings he definitely didn’t mean to catch. Then Y/N shows up at his door (again), and things only get worse. Or better. It’s hard to tell when she’s stealing his couch, insulting his snacks, and looking entirely too good while doing it. He’s not in love. Definitely not. He just… likes her a little. A lot. Maybe forever. Who knows.

Storm Spirit and Sunshine - You feel the storm coming in your knees and immediately decide it’s your entire personality. Haymitch thinks you’ve lost it—until the sky starts throwing tantrums and the power goes out. Cue unexpected darkness, shared candlelight, emotional trauma bonding, and accidental (but very intentional) hand-holding. Turns out, thunder’s not so scary when you’ve got a grumpy ex-victor and his veiny arms beside you.

Tension? What Tension? - You go to the lake to cool off, not to feel warm all over. But between the splashing, the teasing, and a few glances that linger a little too long, things start to shift. It’s just a normal day with friends. Nothing’s different. Nothing’s changing. Except maybe it is. Not that you’ll admit it.

Don’t Ask Me How I Slept - Something wakes you in the dark. You follow it upstairs and find more than you expected. A name, a moment, a quiet unraveling. You stay. And when morning comes, everything feels a little different—though no one says it out loud.

Just One Good Day - It starts with laughter and leans too close to something real. For a moment, it almost feels safe—almost. But soft things are fragile, and you learn again how quickly warmth can vanish. When the silence finally breaks, it leaves you reaching for someone who’s still here.

One Good Day, Gone - You try to hold onto something soft. He tries to push it all away. But some silences say more than words, and when the quiet settles, it leaves you both with nothing but the truth—and the space where one good day used to be.

As Long As It Takes - You don’t expect to see him. He doesn’t expect you to stay. But when the night unravels and the ghosts are named, you offer him the one thing he’s never been able to ask for—time. You don’t know what this is. You just know you’ll wait. As long as it takes.

Casual, Right? - You and Haymitch are fine. Totally normal. Just two emotionally stable people moving a table and not at all panicking about how close you’re sitting. But when the teasing turns soft and the space between you disappears, you start to wonder if pretending it’s casual is getting harder to believe. Especially when Peeta and Katniss walk in and feel every inch of tension in the room.

This Year is Different - On the day before his birthday—and what would’ve been another reaping—Haymitch starts to unravel. You stay. Through the silence, the memory, the ache. And by the end of the night, with moonlight on the sheets, something shifts. He lets you in. You let yourself stay.

I Hope It Keeps Becoming - On the morning after everything shifts, you wake to the warmth of something you’re scared to name. There’s laughter. There’s teasing. There’s a quiet moment where something almost happens. And later, after the chaos settles and the kitchen quiets, you let yourself hope this softness might stay.

What We’ve Been Becoming - A quiet day drifts into something warmer, softer—something that feels a little too good to question. You spend it in good company, with laughter and teasing and quiet truths. But when the evening settles and it’s just the two of you again, something finally shifts in the stillness you’ve both learned to trust.

Now, Not Then - You wake up from the past like it never left you. But this time, you’re not alone. And even when the words won’t come, he stays—gentle, steady, and real. This is now. Not then.

Without Needing to Say It - You end the night wrapped in warmth, in quiet, in something that feels a lot like love. You both haven’t said the words. But you don’t need to. Not when it’s already there—in the way you touch, the way you stay, the way you keep choosing each other. Again and again.

Clinginess Is a Symptom - He’s got a minor fever and a major case of “don’t leave my side.” You make the tea, the soup, the rules—and he, apparently, makes whiny affection into an art form.

The First Time It’s Safe - In the quiet before sunrise, wrapped in shared breath and steady hands, you and Haymitch finally speak the truth that’s been living between you for months.

Soft Things Stay - You and Haymitch settle into something slow and safe—until Katniss and Peeta burst in, convinced you’re dead. The rest of the day is filled with teasing, toast, and sunlight, the four of you slipping into a rhythm that feels like home.

Soot Sprite - You return to the ruins of District 12 for the first time since coming home, with Peeta beside you. The walk is harder than you expect—but softer, too. Just as the past begins to settle, a reminder of the settling past latches to your leg.

Did You Just Whimper? - With Soot spending the night at Katniss and Peeta’s, you and Haymitch finally get the alone time you’ve been craving.

We Are Not a Normal Family - Soot causes chaos. Peeta makes up a game with no rules. Haymitch suffers. You laugh until it hurts. And for a moment, under stars and mismatched blankets, you remember what it feels like to belong.

I’ve Been Yours

Epilogue

[pascalpvnk]

december & january fic recs list

hello! welcome to the second installment of my end of the month(ish) fic recs posts :) listed in no particular order, just as each fic was read! [once again, if your fic has found a cozy home on my tbr blog, don't fret! i will work through each one slowly but surely xx (divider by @saradika-graphics)

important post regarding TLOU + Neil Druckmann’s Zionism!!

heed all warnings according to each fic. if there's something on here that isn't your cup of tea and you don't want to read it, then scroll past. thank you!

fic rec masterlist // main masterlist

a * denotes smut (18+ MDNI!!)

drabbles

untitled [joel cares for you when you're ill] - @undercoverpena (soft!joel miller x reader) snooze - @tightjeansjavi (joel miller x f!reader) untitled [first date arm appreciation] - @softlyspector (joel miller x f!reader)

oneshots

Joel Miller

sweet thing* - @honeyedmiller (jackson!joel x sunshine!f!reader) study days with joel* - @bearsbeetsbeskar (joel miller x f!reader) joel nye, the science guy* - @endlessthxxghts (joel miller x afab!reader) love shack - @pascalispretty (joel miller x gn!reader) do you like it here?* - @/endlessthxxghts (joel miller x afab!reader) a burning desire - @/honeyedmiller (firefighter!joel miller x f!reader) hiraeth* - @/honeyedmiller (dbf!joel miller x f!reader) ripe* - @hier--soir (preoutbreak!joel miller x f!reader) teacher's pet* - @javiscigarette (joel miller x virgin!f!reader) the way he was - @cavillscurls (joel miller x reader) a lesson in condom sense* - @joeloverture (dbf!joel miller x f!reader) softness - @joelsgreys (post outbreak!joel miller x f!reader) texas hold 'em* - @sweetercalypso (joel miller x f!reader) yellow bird* [from whiskey sour universe] - @kiwisbell (joel miller x f!reader) sick days with joel miller - @/bearsbeetsbeskar (joel miller x f!reader) caught the bug - @mrsmando (joel miller x f!reader) warm me up* - @/tightjeansjavi (game!joel miller x f!reader) your heart, a sonnet - @kedsandtubesocks (author!joel miller x f!reader) will you show me?* - @eupheme (no-outbreak!joel x f!reader, joel x reader x tess) untitled request [body insecurity comfort] - @forever-rogue (joel miller x f!reader) like nothing matters* - @sp00kymulderr (joel miller x afab!reader) yours and mine, mine and yours - @morallyinept (no-outbreak!joel miller x pregnant!afab!reader) untitled* [body worship] - @/softlyspector (joel miller x afab!reader)

Frankie Morales

sweet treat [part I // part II] - @/mrsmando (sweet!frankie morales x f!plus-size!reader) worship* - @/tightjeansjavi (frankie morales x f!reader) birthday girl* - @ilovepedro (frankie morales x plus-size!latina!f!reader) pickup truck* - @luxurychristmaspudding (frankie morales x f!reader) end up here* - @inthe-dark-tonight (frankie morales x f!reader) hungry* - @/endlessthxxghts (frankie morales x f!reader) stalemate* - @joelscurls (frankie morales x f!reader)

Javier Peña

use me* - @palioom (javier peña x f!reader) knead - @/tightjeansjavi (javier peña x f!reader) nights are so starry, blood moonlit* - @janaispunk (javier peña x f!reader)

Misc.

blue jean baby* - @fettuccin-e (agent whiskey x afab!fem!reader) peeta mellark: your loser boyfriend* - @zombatss (peeta mellark x afab!reader) more than friends* - @gracieheartspedro (best friend!ellie williams x f!reader) let me be needed* - @/luxurychristmaspudding (din djarin x f!sex worker!reader)

series

i know it when i see it* [part six*] - @bageldaddy (pornstar!joel miller x fem!reader) catfish* - @/tightjeansjavi (fisherman!frankie morales x bartender!reader) cherry thrill* [lights*] - @hellishjoel (tattoo artist!daddy dom!joel miller x virgin!sub!f!reader) the checklist* [hot & cold* // take my breath away* // what's in the bag*] - @thetriumphantpanda (joel miller x f!reader) your needs, my needs - @/gracieheartspedro (cowboy!joel miller x f!reader)

so sorry this is late :') i was having so many formatting issues lmao. thank you all for sharing your wonderful fics xx

[3d-wifey]

And They'd Find Us in A Week - Chapter 13

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 9.9k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! Tag list: - @melancholicmelanin, @yvy1s, @glomp-me, @honethatty12, @swftlore, @hashcakes, @antoheartit, @finnickodaddy, @lilifl0wer, @antoheartit, @kermitcrimess, @persophonekarter, @aawdrea, @obaewankenobis, @xyxlyn, @meandurdaughtergotaspecialthing, @innercreationflower, @kisskittenn, @xngelsau, @coriolanussnowswife Chapter Summary: I've moved the arena around a bit, but nothing major; nothing starts until day 2 1: Blood rain 2: Giant poisonous bugs 3: Toxic Fog 4: Monkies 5: Jabberjays 6: Beast 7: Unknown 8: Unknown 9: Fire 10: Flood 11: Unknown 12: Lightening A/N: this bad boy is 10k, one more chapter b4 we go into mockingjay!!!!!!

Present (XII)

THE ARENA; SECTION 5  (12:23 pm-12:59 pm)

The smell of freshly rained earth lingers around them as they traverse the jungle, and Finnick thinks of you.

During the countdown, he saw you. He locked eyes with you, and, stupidly, he thought that would be enough to tide him over. Just one last moment between the two of you before performing for the cameras. But if that were true, he wouldn’t have looked for you as soon as he reached the Cornucopia—before that, even. When he surfaced from the water, over Katniss’s shoulder as he grabbed a weapon, out of the corner of his eye when he was looking for Peeta; desperate for a glimpse of you. 

And when he finally found you—no, when you found him—your voice carried his name to his ears like a gift. He didn’t need to think; his body was automatically attuned to you like a compass. He had his trident poised and ready to defend you from whatever he considered a threat—a knee-jerk reaction. But when he turned, there was only you. 

You looked at him as though there was a taut rubber band between your bodies, and you had to use all of your strength to resist giving in to that pressure. The desire to run to you was instinctive.

What would that have accomplished other than showing Snow their hand early? It’s not like he could have swept you up in his arms like he wanted to. He couldn't hold you close and make you promise that you'd come back to him, whole, healthy, and his. Being that bold this soon in the Games would benefit no one. Not when you still had to be separated. 

He had almost stopped to watch and make sure you made it out with Johanna, but, as you subtly reminded him, he had to stick to the plan. Plus, seeing you drive your sickle through the head of a man at least two times your size definitely reassured him that you could handle your own.

Not that he didn’t know you could bring a man to his knees. He’s had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of your firm hand enough to—he shakes his head, scolding himself like a misbehaving dog.

Not the time, Odair.

Later, he tells himself, there’ll be time for that later.  

Even now, he’s thinking about how it felt to sleep next to you for the first time in years—head against your chest, listening to your steady heartbeat as you hold him in your embrace. If he closes his eyes, he can feel sure fingers carding through his hair and dull nails scratching softly along his scalp. 

But he can’t close his eyes. No, he needs them open to dart between Katniss’s sprinting form and over his shoulder as they run for their lives through this fucking jungle. 

They’ve covered a good chunk of land in a relatively short amount of time. He’d say it’s taken them about ten minutes to cross a mile, maybe more. He’d be more confident in his estimate if they weren’t traveling up such a steep incline.

Around this point, Finnick decides they’ve put enough space between them and the Career pack that it should be okay to take a short break. He can feel Mags’s heart pounding against his back. Not ideal for a woman this close to ninety.

“Okay, hold up. Hold up.” He calls out, and they all come to a stop. He bends at the knee to help Mags down. “Okay. You alright now?”

He lowers himself to the ground, holding her hand as they sit down. “Okay?” He asks, and she nods, frail fingers gripping his tight as her other hand pats his bicep. Adrenaline makes her shake a little, but she waves off his concern. The four of them sit for a second, gathering themselves.

“God, it’s hot.” Peeta pants and Finnick senses that the oppressive heat might be more to blame than the hike. It’s like he’s choking on it; the air is so heavy that his nostrils don’t feel big enough to inhale it. He breathes in through his mouth and it’s only marginally better. He’s soaked. Something stings as it drips into his eyes and he genuinely can’t tell if it’s saltwater or sweat. “We gotta find fresh water.”

Water. Finnick looks around for any indication of nearby drinking water, listening in for a river or stream. He’d even take a pond. Water would be amazing, preferably without a high salt concentration.

Unknown insects chirp around them in unison; it sort of sounds like a snake. It’s so loud that he’s almost able to ignore the weight of Katniss’s stare. It’s not even like she’s glaring. It’s nearly bird-like how she appraises him—waiting for him to act like the predator she thinks he is. 

Three cannons fire in quick succession. The others look to the sky, but he stares at the tree over Katniss’s shoulder. Any one of those cannons could be you. He holds back a flinch at the thought. You’re not dead. No. No, you wouldn’t do that to him. He's only just gotten you back. And even after two years apart, the two of you are so deeply intertwined that Finnick’s sure his own heart would give out when yours stopped.

With a derisive snort and a shake of his head, Finnick says, perhaps a bit manically, “Well, I guess we’re not holding hands anymore.” His chuckle is met with disapproving silence. Too soon?

Katniss regards him with a look of contempt. Definitely too soon then. “You think that’s funny?"

No, not particularly. But what else is there to do but laugh at the absurdity of it all?

“Every time that cannon goes off, it’s music to my ears. I don’t care about any of them.” He lies. Sometimes, it feels like that’s all he’s capable of. Even now, in the midst of this death sentence, he still can’t be honest about you. He can’t afford to be. Not until he knows you’re safe.

“Good to hear.” With a sly grin, Finnick observes Katniss taking a machete out of her quiver, seemingly more as a threat than a precaution. It’s promptly wiped from his face when she says your name. “Does she know that? If that’s the case, you should have killed her back at the Cornucopia. She didn't even have a weapon. It would have been easy for you.”

“She’s our ally, Katniss." Peeta attempts to caution her or maybe admonish her; Finnick doesn’t know. And he doesn’t care, honestly. Not with how focused he and Katniss are on each other. He can’t even acknowledge Peeta defending you, as odd as it is. 

Unbidden and without provocation, the mental picture of him killing you takes shape. If he wasn’t already so lightheaded from the moist air, he’d be nauseous at the idea. Is she trying to get a rise out of him by bringing you up? Is that what this is? Or is she—is she threatening you? Whatever the hell her angle is, whatever tactic she’s trying to maneuver, he won’t let a threat against you stand—empty or not.

“You know...Katniss. You really shouldn’t speak on things you know nothing about.” He shakes his head as he ignores Mags’s warning grunt, mouth curling in that frosty way of his that entices those stupid enough to mistake a predator baring its teeth for a smile. But Katniss isn’t stupid. This is a language she’ll understand—the language of hunting animals. Her back straightens. His remains deceptively lax. “I mean, can't say that’s ever ended well for you, can we?”

“Are you threatening me, Odair?”

“Threat—” He can’t help but laugh because, honestly. 

This is the girl they’re laying down their lives for? The girl you’re laying down your life for? Emphasis on ‘girl’, she’s far too naïve to be an adult. 

People like her—they're too busy fighting shadows to figure out what’s casting them. Too focused on watching their backs that they don't bother wondering why they have to watch it in the first place—and she’s supposed to lead them to salvation?

He wants to laugh. Instead, Finnick bites his cheek. Maybe he’s bitten into another pipe dream.

“No,” he scoffs. “I’m saving you.”

“Saving? Please, you don’t care about anyone but yourself—”

“Let’s keep moving.” Peeta rises to stand in between them, stopping to give Katniss a long look that she doesn't return, before marching forward and taking the machete with him. The two of them size each other up. For someone so emotionally stunted, her thoughts are broadcast clearly on her face. 

He can see her weighing her odds against him in a fight, whether her speed with the bow is any match for him and his trident, and Finnick’s weighing how much longer she can stand being a team player. He’s not cocky enough to not consider her a threat; she’s a fighter—but, then again, so is he. That’s not what’s staying his hand. Her survival is their only way out of here—not to mention how disappointed you’d be in him if you found out. He won’t be the one to snatch this chance away from you. Not unless she throws the first punch.

He subtly shifts his grip on his weapon into something more defensive, and she gives him one last withering look, or her version of it, before following Peeta. 

He wishes you were here with him. For several reasons, but in this particular moment, to show Katniss how wrong she is. Show her how much he does care about you and how much you care about him in turn. Is it childish that he feels the need to prove anything to a teenager? Maybe.

Probably.

Most likely.

He bends down to help Mags onto his back, scowling at Katniss’s retreating back. 

It’s definitely childish, but still. He sighs. You’d understand. All the more reason to wish you were here. He knows things were touch and go—more go than touch, really—between the two of you at the time, but would it have killed Haymitch to pair the two of you together? Johanna and Blight are more than capable of playing escort for those two brains.

To be fair to the other man, Haymitch had no way of knowing if Finnick would succeed in reconnecting with you.

He takes a moment to really think about it. Namely, how much anger you’ve been harboring over the past two years and the way you drove your sickle through that man’s skull. He tilts his head, squinting. What’s that saying about a woman scorned?

Pairing you together may not have killed Haymitch, but it certainly could have killed Finnick.

His train of thought is violently cut off by Peeta crashing head-first into the force field.

SECTION 11 (12:49 pm-1:12 pm)

“We’re almost at the edge of the arena,” Johanna calls down to your group, climbing halfway down the tree before jumping the rest of the way. 

“What does the arena look like?” Beetee asks, pushing his glasses up for what must be the tenth time since you all decided to stop and get your bearings. The sweat on his face provided no traction to hold them in place.

“One big ass circle and we’re almost at the edge. Other than the beach, there’s nothing but jungle.” She sighs, stomping over to where you sit on the ground. Beetee gives a clinical nod.

“How close is ‘almost’?” You ask, handing her axe back. 

“I’d say at most a quarter of a mile. We’re closer to the edge than we are to the Cornucopia.”

“What do’ya suppose’ll happen if we hit the edge?” Says Blight in his heavy district brogue, which is so different from any you’ve heard before. You had asked Johanna about it at some point—the contrasts of their voices. She explained that Blight was born further north than she was, practically on the border of Seven. 

It’s not like everyone in Eleven speaks the same, but at least some level of similarity can be distinctly found in Eleven—in the southernmost districts in general. It shares a likeness with Eight and Ten. You can sometimes hear the same notes in Katniss and Haymitch’s voices, but not in Peeta’s.

“Most likely? I’d imagine some sort of boundary or force field.” Beetee informs you all.

“Regardless. We won’t know until…” Wiress starts, trailing off as something you aren’t privy to catches her attention.

“—Until we’re upon it.” Beetee finishes for her.

You clear your throat. “I’d say it’s best we don’t find out unless we have to.” You drawl, dropping the Capitol accent you’ve been forced to assimilate for what you realize will be the last time. You replace the over-enunciation and grating lilt with slanted vowels and a melodic tempo.

“We can probably head in a little more and then cut to the left or right,” Johanna suggests and you realize she’s talking to you. Not just you in the sense of the whole group, but you specifically. You glance around. They’re all looking at you. It seems you’re the de facto leader.

When the hell was that decided?

“Right. Well,” you clap your hands, picking your sickles up as you rise, “let’s get a move on. We need to go further while there’s still daylight. Then, we'll find a place to set up camp."

Hopefully.

Blight takes the lead, getting a headstart at cutting through the tightly packed vegetation with his machete.

“C’mon.” You smile down at Wiress as you help her up. She returns it gratefully and Beetee offers her his arm before they trail behind Blight. As you and Johanna carry the flank, you eye the long gash along his shoulder blade that’s steadily bleeding. Your main objective is to get these two to the pickup point, but you’d prefer if you got them there in one piece.

Chaff had said he’d be teaming up with Woof and Cecelia. As well as the morphlings, if they can find them. Unlikely, since they’re masters of stealth. You remember how they didn’t stray far from the camouflage section. You had asked Peeta about the swirls of color on his arm while you were training and he told you it was supposed to be a sunrise that the female morphling painted. She’s apparently fond of them. With skills like that, you know they’ll only be found if they want to be. 

The morphlings. That’s like if you only referred to Haymitch as ‘The Alcoholic’. You scold yourself mentally for using such a needlessly cruel nickname for them just because everyone else did. Either one of your parents would’ve pinched the skin off of you if they knew that.

It's probably an odd time to do so, but you decide it’s high time you learned their actual names. Before now, you had very little reason to since you rarely interacted with them. Yet, even if they hadn’t been rebels, they still deserve the basic respect of being acknowledged as people, not just in conjecture with their addictions. You don’t expect to be BFFs after you make it out of the arena, but you’d like to, at least, be someone who knows and uses their real names.

“Thanks. For what you did back there.” Johanna takes you out of your musings, swinging her axe to and fro on her other side. “Taking that guy down for me. You didn’t have to.”

You scowl at the reminder, pretending to be focused on navigating your steps along the tricky jungle floor instead of looking at her. You didn’t want to think about that. How killing him was the first solution that came to mind. It’s not that you’re naive enough to think that talking him down was even an option. He wasn’t on your side. He wasn’t one of you. He had made his own bed of flowers by turning down Haymitch’s offer. But why couldn’t it have been Gloss or Enobaria that killed him? Why did it have to be you?

Why not you?

“I know I didn’t.”

“But you did, and,” she sighs, jutting her jaw to the side as if it’s taking a lot out of her to say this, “and I’d probably be so minced that the hovercraft would have to make multiple trips to get all the pieces if you hadn’t stepped in, so...thank you."

You smile at her awkward discomfort, ignoring the glances she shoots you out of the corner of her eye and acting oblivious to her increasing agitation.

“Are you gonna say ‘you’re welcome’, or what, asshole?” She scoffs.

“You’re welcome, Your Highness.” You knock your shoulder into hers and she knocks yours right back.

“I owe you one.”

You laugh. “God, I hope not.”

SECTION 5 (1 pm-1:34 pm)

The force of the blow is enough to send Peeta flying backward, knocking them all over so fast that Finnick can barely register that he’s not still standing.

“Peeta’s not breathing!” Katniss cries and it’s a blur of motion as Finnick moves into action, his body acting on autopilot. “Peeta’s not breathing!”

Prop Mags up against a tree.

Check for a pulse that isn’t there.

CPR.

Tilt his head at an angle.

Pinch his nose—a stiff hand to Katniss’s sternum—pinch his nose, blow air into his deflated lungs.

Ignore the arrow pointed at his head.

Put his body weight behind each pump.

Push his will into the unresponsive body. From his shoulders, down his biceps, and into the heels of his hands, to where Peeta’s still heart lies.

C’mon, Peeta. C’mon, c’mon.

“C’mon, Peeta!” He can feel the anticipation of the viewers boiling in on them from all angles, his hair standing on end as he tries to pump Peeta’s heart for him. If they lose Peeta, they lose Katniss. If they lose Katniss, they lose the revolution. If they lose the revolution, they’ll lose, they’ll lose, they’ll lose—“Come on! Come on!” 

He’s got no idea why they haven’t called it yet, why they haven’t blown the cannon, despite his heart stopping before he even hit the floor. Maybe they’re hoping, like he’s hoping, that Peeta will come. The fuck. On.

A small gasp, a cough and—

Finnick falls back on his haunches, hands on his hips and panting as the muscles in his arms buzz. He’s lightheaded again from supplying so much of his air to Peeta. And the heat isn’t doing anyone any favors.

“Be careful. There’s a force field up there.” Peeta huffs and Katniss chuckles, half-hysterical, before dipping down to kiss him. Finnick pauses in the middle of a much-needed inhale, watching the two with narrowed eyes.

“Oh, my God. You were dead. You were dead. Your heart stopped.” Katniss sobs as she drapes over Peeta, shrill and so resoundingly real that Finnick blanches for a second. He’s never seen her hands waver when drawing her bow, but they tremble now as they hold Peeta close. 

Huh.

“It’s okay.” He assures her, still smoldering and smoking a little. “It’s working now.” She helps him up, still sobbing. Or maybe choking? Choking on her sobs. Peeta looks upon her with concern. 

“Katniss?” Peeta prompts, starting to look increasingly panicked and Finnick can’t handle them both freaking out. 

“It’s okay. It’s just her hormones.” Finnick is slow to stand, looking them over quizzically. “From the baby.”

“No. It’s not—” She cuts herself off with more choke-sobs. There’s something here—something he couldn’t see before. Something he hadn’t considered concerning these two, concerning Katniss. That something is familiar. What does it remind him of? It’s nagging at the back of his skull. That staunch fear, the protectiveness followed by the open gasping relief. He recognizes it. Where, where, where—

“She can't possibly care about him that much."

"Yeah, well, you'd be surprised.”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Of course, he recognizes it—that familiar, desperate love. He’s felt it.

Katniss glares at him, snotty and defensive, and he stares, mystified. He shakes his head, pulling himself from his revelation-induced stupor. The two lovebirds hug each other like they’re the only things holding each other up. And with their current states, they might as well be. To give them some privacy, he walks over to check on Mags and finds her knowing gaze. He can’t have been the last one to know this love story isn’t much of a story at all, right?

SECTION 3 (6:50 pm-10:20 pm) 

Finnick rolls his trident back and forth between his hands as they all wait for Katniss to come back from scouting in the trees. Mags cracks open and eats another one of the nuts Katniss has been using and substantially cooking by bouncing them off of the force field to show the rest of them where it is, considering she can hear it. He has no reason to believe otherwise; there’s no evidence to indicate she’s lying, but Finnick doesn’t buy that she can hear it just because of her hearing aid. If that’s the case, why hasn’t she mentioned it before now? He has no reason to call her out on it, so he won’t. Any advantage they have in the arena, the better. 

He can feel the water evaporating out of his body like a sponge being wrung dry. He feels like a beached whale. They can’t have been in the arena for that long, but the heat—it’s not the kind he’s used to. The sun in Four has nothing on this. He’s never been so thirsty before, not even in his previous Games. They all perk up when she comes back down, hoping beyond hope that she’s seen drinkable water. That hope is crushed when she shakes her head.

“The force field…it’s a dome. We’re at the edge of the arena.” She wipes her sweat-slick hair out of her face. "I couldn't find any signs of fresh water.”

They all sit in dehydrated silence. The human body can only go on for so long with no water. Food, while an amazing plus, won’t be a real problem for weeks. And between the nuts and all the fish they could catch, it’s a problem with a simple solution. Without water, however, they will almost certainly die in five days, with their organs starting to shut down in three. He's seen it back in Four. Dead men brought back from sea shriveled and arid. He always imagined it must be torture to be surrounded by all that water and unable to drink any of it. 

Now, it looks like he might find out.

And with that depressing thought, Finnick moves forward. “It’s getting dark soon. We’ll be safe with our backs protected.” Knowing the consequences of touching the force field, they’ll be able to use the arena itself as a weapon. “We should set up camp. Take turns sleeping. I can take first watch.”

“Not a chance.” Katniss scoffs.

He tilts his head.

He knows the heat is just making everything worse, only fueling his irritability. But he is so over her and this teenage snippiness. Peeta’s so easygoing that he honestly doesn’t mind his company; he can see how the two of you became such quick friends. But Katniss? She is a remarkably hard person to like. 

How much longer will she treat him like a criminal? As far as he’s concerned, the only thing he’s guilty of is giving her the impression that she has any authority over him.

Burying the blunt end of his trident into the ground, he uses it to leverage himself up.

“Honey,” he mocks, his voice long-suffering and chiding, like he’s explaining something that really should be common sense to a child who's a little behind the curve. Which, honestly, doesn't seem too far off. “That thing I did back there for Peeta? That was called ‘saving his life’. If I wanted to kill either of you, I would have done it by now."

He holds her eye before he rips his weapon out of the ground. He’s too tired to have a stupid argument over this, so he nimbly picks his way over to Mags so they can start making camp. 

-

When the Capitol anthem blares throughout the arena and the insignia projects across the sky, Finnick watches with rapt attention. He inhales sharply, watches, and waits.

Portraits of the dead flash beside the full moon. The man from Five that he killed, the man from Six, both from Eight, both from Nine, the woman from Ten and then…it stops. There’s the Capitol seal again and then nothing. No more portraits light up the sky; your portrait doesn’t light up the sky.

You’re still alive.

You’re alive . He knew that. He did. He did . He would have known, he would have felt , otherwise. After all, you had promised him, hadn’t you? In those scant few hours in the early morning before the Games, you both promised to do everything in your power to get back to each other. Promised to see this through, knowing what future waited on the other side—a future together.

He knew you were alive, but the confirmation is—

He lets out the breath he’s been holding, tension easing from his shoulders. 

“Seven,” Katniss says.

“Mhm.” He acknowledges.

Seven victors. His brows furrow. The two from Eight, Woof and Cecelia. The male morphling. All dead.

But he’s still alive. And so are you.

SECTION 1 (12:55 am–3:26 am)

In the white, spectral fog of the jungle, Johanna smacks something big and hairy off the back of her hand. Are the bugs even real?  

She wouldn’t put it past the Capitol to mutate them—control the mutts to crawl all over them and kill them in their sleep. But that’s too boring a death, too kind. Plus, it doesn’t make for good television. And eating bugs would probably make the audience more squeamish than child murder.

Thanks to you, they at least had something to eat. Berries, mushrooms, and, oddly enough, leaves. Not much, but it was something. But there was still the water issue—meaning there was none. They hadn't stumbled upon anything they could drink. No ponds, no rivers. Not even a fucking puddle.

She and you both agreed that there had to be water in the trees; it was too humid for there not to be. But with no way to collect it, they were shit out of luck. Luckily, depending on how long it takes to get here, they’re expecting a rain cloud. It was the only logical assumption after they heard lightning strikes not too far off. Makes sense. Short of a sponsor gift or the magical ability to make salt water drinkable, there’s little for the victors to do in terms of battling dehydration.

If this rain doesn’t pull through, she’ll be tempted to tell you to bite the bullet and request a spile or something. Though she understands why you haven’t done so yet. Just the thought of begging those simpering morons to empty their pockets to help keep her alive makes Johanna shiver and she doesn’t even have the same history with them that you do. Knowing your fans, they’d probably get off on you debasing yourself.

Johanna knocks her head against the tree she's leaning on. She offered to take the first watch because she needed time to think. It was smart of Katniss to want you as an ally. It's easier on Johanna's part too, because at least you can take care of yourself.

And, had the rebellion not been afoot, it would've guaranteed Finnick as an ally too. Maybe Peeta is the one who picked you because Johanna doubts the girl on fire is sharp enough to think that far ahead. Or mature enough to pull her big girl pants on and notice anything around her that didn't actually revolve around her.

Johanna is woman enough to admit that she's jealous. Jealousy is nothing to be ashamed of when it's entirely warranted. Katniss doesn't have to worry about losing her family, not really. Because the Capitol just adores them. Katniss doesn't have to worry about losing her self-autonomy, her dignity, her innocence while in bed with a stranger. Katniss hasn't lived with the grief of what she's experienced long enough for it to turn her bitter.

And yet, here they are, protecting her even if it kills them. No, Johanna reminds herself. They're protecting the rebellion. Katniss just happens to be the face of it.

It’s almost pitch black. Without the sun to shine through the dense tops of the trees, the moon could hardly pull its weight. But it’s been dark for so long that her eyes have adapted a bit. They slept closer to the force field than she would have liked, but she understood your logic. No one can sneak up on them from behind with the force field at their back.

She digs the sharp metal part of her axe into the dense ground, pulling it out, and hacking away again.

She looks over to where the others are sleeping, Nuts and Volts guarded on either side by your and Blight's sleeping bodies. At least they aren't completely useless.

Even if Katniss hadn't wanted them as allies, they would've had to guard them anyway. Haymitch made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that they're the brains of this operation. Or at least Volts is. She zeros in on the spool of wire he clings to in his sleep.

She isn't one hundred percent sure how they plan on busting them out of the arena, but it probably has something to do with that. Or at least, it better. He nearly lost his life trying to get it. And she nearly lost her head trying to get him.

They need to meet up with Finnick, but she has no idea where his group is. It's not like they can just bury their heads in the sand and wait for them to show up. The plan rides on them all being together at the pickup point.

A drop of water wets her scalp and then another. It, like everything else in this place, is uncomfortably warm—bordering on hot. But beggars can’t be choosers. The drops of water feel heavier, but that could just be her imagination.

Rain? Finally.

She’ll wake the others up once her vocal cords stop feeling like she’s starting a fire every time she talks. It slowly but steadily picks up—drops landing on her forehead and dripping down her nape. She tilts her head back and opens her mouth and the dry, cracking chasm that she used to call her throat trembles in anticipation of the oncoming relief. 

When it touches her tongue, she recoils. Thick, bitter, and metallic. It's only then that Johanna realizes the warm liquid isn't water. She holds out her hand to catch a drop and it stains red.

Blood.

And, as if the Gamemakers were waiting for her reaction, the sprinkling of rain turns into a downpour.

“Get up!” She screams, scrambling to her feet. “Get up! Get the fuck up!”

You wake up, alert, with your weapons in hand. Springing to attention like you were never asleep to begin with. When you see no enemy you can fight, your vigilance gives way to confusion. The other three are slower to rise until the blood starts pelting them like coins.

They stumble up, much like she did, but they don’t know. They don’t understand what’s falling from the sky.

“Don’t drink it—!” She tries to warn them and gets a mouthful of tacky, festering blood for her troubles. It’s thick and greasy and viscous and slippery, so the remnants of it stay behind when she tries to spit it out. It coats the back of her throat, creeping its way up her nose and slicking in between her molars. 

“Blood!” The last thing Johanna can see before her vision goes red is your blurry face going from stark relief to abject terror as her words fully sink in. “It’s–it’s blood!”

From then on, there’s no room for coherent thought. Instead, Johanna gets stuck in a cycle of gagging on blood, spitting it out, and heaving in the fucked up, muggy, contaminated air, only to start it all over.

She tries to shield her eyes, but the blood creeps underneath her hands like its goal is to take out as many senses as possible. The sound of it sliding off the top of the canopies and hitting the ground is deafening; it almost drowns out your attempts to call out to Johanna. But calls for each other are only answered with blood.

They all flounder about, tottering around on unsure feet. Johanna wipes her eyes and tries to squint around it. But it’s no use. Even if her eyes weren’t compromised, the blood falls so thickly that it curtains everything around her.

Maybe that’s why she doesn’t realize she’s only seeing three red silhouettes instead of four.

She gives up on her eyes and works to save her lungs instead. She cups her mouth and nose, coughing and hacking so hard that it feels like her chest is on fire. She breathes through her nose and immediately stops when it burns her nostrils. She breathes through her mouth and it’s somehow worse to taste the sickeningly sweet iron-rich mist. She gags and breathes and gags again. 

She still can’t see, but she crouches down low, hands hesitant as she pats the ground. Trembling hands feel around for her axe, but, apparently, everything feels like an axe handle if your eyes are closed. She can’t afford to let another victor catch her in such a vulnerable position. She may be blind, but she refuses to be defenseless.

She doesn’t find it.

They must stay there, stumbling around fully blind and half-mad for hours before a masculine shout accompanies the sound of a heavy body hitting the ground. So loud it overtakes the sound of blood that isn’t hers rushing in her ears, the sound of the rain. They must have flown before they crashed, must have been thrown back to be that loud—the force field.

“Blight!”

A cannon fires. And then. It stops. All of it. The rain, the yelling, the torture. The heat and the smell remain, if not made worse by each other. Johanna can’t figure out which one is making her stomach roll more.

“Everyone—” she gathers the blood in her mouth, along her cheeks and tongue, and spits it on the ground with disdain. She can feel the frothing, light pink saliva, and drool dripping down her chin from doing the same thing three dozen times already. “Everyone alright?”

Surprisingly, the voice that calls back first is Beetee’s. 

“I–I managed to hold on to Wiress. Blight, however…”

She knows not to expect Blight’s voice and that’s a pain too tender to prod at yet. You, however, don’t respond. And, unlike Blight, there’s no reasonable explanation for your sudden silence. She calls your name, but there’s no reply. There is, however, a spark of panic in her chest right next to her heaving lungs. Johanna only heard one cannon.

She doesn’t know if the heat encourages it or keeps it at bay, but, just that fast, the blood is starting to congeal. Johanna pries her eyes open and it’s almost like they’re still closed. Now impossibly darker, the jungle is a nightmare. Made even worse by the fact that you aren’t here. She lurches up to spin in circles, shouting after you as Wiress keeps mumbling something. She staggers around, cutting herself off by coughing up the blood that’s managed to get into her chest. There’s nothing, no sign of you or where you could have gone. You are not here.

It’s like you disappeared.

A spotlight shines down on them—No, on Blight. On his cooling body. The hovercraft claw descends open-mouthed, dipping down to pick him up. Beetee pulls Wiress away before she can wander closer. Johanna watches as they take him away. 

Blight is thirty. Blight is a burly man with a big beard to match. Blight has a wife, a son. Blight’s from Zone Q, the same zone kids used to make fun of for the funny way they talked. Blight had always been kind to her.

Blight now hangs limp, covered in blood. Skin singed and smelling of burnt hair. This is the last thing he will ever be.

He’ll never see the culmination of the rebellion he was willing to give his life for. He wasn’t the sharpest axe in the, well, anywhere. But…it would have been nice to give him the District Seven sendoff he deserved.

She gives herself a shake. They need to find you.

“Come on, get up.” She waves the remaining two up with her axe. “Let’s go."

“Tick, tock.”

“Where?” Beetee attempts to look at her from under his blood-smeared glasses.

“Tick, tock.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but our group has been dramatically cut from five to three—”

“Tick, tock. Tick, tock!”

“—And what the fuck is her problem?!”

“I think she might be in shock.”

“Right. Of course. That’s just fan-fucking-tastic.”

There’s an odd clicking coming from the right and some hindbrain prey instinct warns Johanna away from it. She practically drags her damsels in distress behind her as she scours as much of the jungle as she possibly can in the dark in her search for you. Down to where the sand starts, back to the edge, and then off to the left—away from the clicking. They can’t be as quiet as she would like to be, considering Beetee’s heavy steps and Wiress’s insufferable mumbling. Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, fucking tock.

How the hell did she get stuck with Nuts and Volts, of all people? You and Blight have left her alone and now, Nuts is even nuttier than before, and Volts—

“I can’t—I can’t go on. I must, I need to rest.” Beetee gasps. She glowers over her shoulder at his weak form. He raises a hand before falling on his ass. She groans, stomping back to stand over him. Even in the low lighting, he’s a sorry sight. Alarmingly pale, even for someone from Three, he looks like he might faint at any moment now.

“And what the hell is wrong with you?”

“My wound—I believe I’ve lost a fair bit of blood.” He gestures minutely behind him, and she squints at his back. He grunts as she positions him a bit better in the moonlight and his entire left flank is warm with his blood. The wound hadn’t seemed that serious earlier, long but superficial. What does she do if he’s losing more blood than any of them realize? She isn’t trained in medicine and it’s not like they can just request some kind of aid. If you were here, maybe. They’d have much better luck getting a sponsored gift if you were the one asking for it. 

“Great. That’s just lovely. You know, this is exactly what we need right now.” She paces. Kicks a rock. Hurts her toe. “Fuck. Fuck!” Johanna drives her axe into a nearby tree, yanking it out to only hack at it again. They’ve been searching for you for over an hour and there’s no telling where the hell you’ve wandered off to.

“What do we do now?”

“I don’t know! I don’t—!” She throws her hands up, not even bothering with rebuffing Wiress when she sways into her with her ‘tick, tock’ shit again. She groans, head hanging low. The plan has been monstrously derailed already and it hasn’t even been two full days yet. “I don’t know.”

Hopefully, you’re closer to finding Finnick than they are.

SECTION 2 ( 1:40 am-2:26 am)

You finally come to a stop, feet tripping over gnarled roots and fallen logs. You cough, blowing blood from your nose like snot. You’ve gotten far enough away from the rain that you can almost start breathing normally again. You look around you, turning in rough half-circles as you try to get your bearings. You’re careful to keep in mind the direction you’ve come from because the jungle looks the same as it has for the last mile and a half.

You want to rub at the stitch developing in your side, but you’re too afraid to take your hands off your weapons, even for a second. 

The blood rain was unexpected, cruel. You’d never seen anything like it. The Gamemakers must have gotten a real kick out of that, knowing how readily y’all were waiting for rainwater, knowing how thirsty you were.

The blood doesn’t behave like it should. It’s made your hair dense and heavy, almost oil-slick somehow, despite the frizz from all the humidity. It dries on your skin in thick, itchy patches. Not unlike the aloe vera paste used in Eleven to heal burns and the like.

There’s no telling if the blood shower is heading in your direction or not. Can you handle that again? That suffocating force clawing its way past your esophagus, into your stomach, into your lungs—hot and thick. The taste is still on your tongue and for a moment, you’re in the eye of the storm once more. Fighting to see, to breathe, to live.

You gag and you push it down, but the longer the taste of iron soaks on your tongue, the harder it is to stop it. You gag again, hard enough that your belly cramps up. Eyes watering, you rock forward, nails digging into the wood of the handles as scorching stomach acid claws its way up your throat. You throw up what little you’ve eaten, and you despair, because it may not have been much but it was something.

You stay that way, hunched over, panting open-mouthed as more spit forms rapidly in your mouth just to drip down into the puddle of sick you’ve already left. You’ll be even more dehydrated than before. Your chest burns with acid reflux, your nose runs, and your mouth pools with drool you can’t afford to lose. You want to cry. But you don’t have that luxury. You want someone to rub your back, but you don’t have that either. 

I wish Finnick was here.

You allow yourself that small moment of pity. You pull in a surprisingly cool breath before straightening up. You push your shoulders back, determined to march forward through whatever may be waiting for you because you know that on the other side, Johanna and the others need you. You walk forward, even though the idea of willingly entering that blood-filled hellscape makes your stomach lurch like a threat. 

The blood still proves to be an issue without the Capitol’s input. Some of it drips down your face and neck like sweat, damn near blinding you all over again. You can only wipe it away with the back of your hand so many times. You're still trying to find a way to keep the blood out of your eyes when you hear it.

It's like when a bug flies too close to your ear but louder. Buzzing and clicking that makes the hair on your neck stand, foreboding. 

You’ve never had much of a problem with insects, you weren’t allowed to. You can’t exactly claim ‘fear of bugs’ as a reason for not doing your job, even if you are six years old. After working around tracker jackers to pick various fruits, spiders climbing over you as you wade around the flooded cranberry fields, overzealous slugs as you pull carrots, to name a few, that fear dissipated. That’s not to say you love them, only that you’ve learned to work in proximity to them and ignore them if all else fails. You turn around, spinning in circles as the noise gets louder. You can’t ignore this so easily. You’re six again, trembling in fear as a peacekeeper directs you to a giant tree with an equally giant tracker jacker nest. That old fear makes a reappearance. It takes root, maturing from childish panic to fresh, genuine terror because something is coming toward you. 

You hear flapping, wings. Your vision is still blurred from the blood and you're in a particularly dark part of the forest with barely any moonlight, but you can see it. Some kind of bug hurtling towards you faster than you can run. It’s massive—mutated, most likely—close to the size of a wolf. You duck as it dives at you, bulky mandibles snapping.  

You’d rather fight the wolf.

It flies a few feet away before turning around and you curse the fact that you didn't pick up any long-range weapons. Where the hell is Katniss when you need her? 

You’ve trained for months. Your stamina, your dexterity, your core and upper body strength. But especially your hand-to-hand combat. Woefully, you consider how well that translates into fighting a giant mutt.

For a split second, you get the urge to hide. That animalistic impulse to find a small space to burrow into that the much bigger animal can’t get you and to find it fast. You’ve felt this before in Eleven and in the Capitol. It’s only fitting that you’d feel it here in the arena too.

It hovers in the air for a moment. It's almost as if it’s thinking. As you both regard each other, it begins to feel like it really might be thinking. Just how intelligent is this thing?

It’s a beetle; you can tell that much, which means an exoskeleton. You’ll have to go for the head, the eyes. There’s no indication that it’s about to happen, it just charges you. And you realize far too late that it'll be impossible to get a clear hit at its head. You lunge to the side, but you aren't fast enough. You yell when its pincer strikes you in the side. You pitch over, rolling along the ground. You barely manage the precarious balance of covering your head and keeping your blades away from your body.

It's not done with you. But down here, you have a better chance of avoiding its bite.

The blood makes your grip on the handles slippery. You flip the one in your dominant hand upwards and keep the other one face down as it gets ready to charge you again. You roll under it, slicing upward along its stomach as it flies over you. You're quick to stand up as it wavers in the air, wings stuttering the longer it bleeds.

You’ve both weakened each other, but neither of you is dead yet.

Your mind is quiet. Only one thought echoes in the abyss back to you.

The head. The head. The head. Go for the head. Go for the head. Take the fucking head!

It swoops down at you, wobbling in the air, but still clicking. You kneel down with your sickles turned outward and cross your arms in front of your face. You wait for it to get closer until you can see its head peeking over the gap your weapons leave and straighten your elbows, decapitating it. You close your eyes as black blood rains down on you and its head and body hit the ground with two distinct thumps.

Its body convulses on the ground and its head stays still, but you don't have time to check if it's really dead. Like the man from Nine. More buzzes and clicks come from your right and you're running before you even register that your feet are moving.

You don't look behind you, you don't need to. You can hear them, closing in on you. You just keep sprinting, lungs burning in exhaustion as you push yourself faster. You don't know where you're running to, but you know you have no way of fighting off more than one.

There's a hill a few feet ahead of you, and you prepare yourself to roll down. You throw your weapons to the bottom and cover your head as you tumble down, scraping yourself on stray twigs and rocks.

You scramble to stand up at the bottom of the hill and look up in time to see the bugs hovering at the top. They're stopped by what looks like a force field. But that doesn’t make any sense. You—you just came from there. Suddenly, they lose interest in you like you were never there to begin with and they turn around. They bump into each other as they fly away, probably on their way to swarm someone else.

A piercing scream comes from the direction the mutated insects flew off to. Better you than me, you think and regret it immediately. That could be someone you care about. Chaff, Johanna, Katniss, Peeta.

Finnick, your brain supplies. You shake away the thought. You don't have to worry about that because he promised you.

"He promised me. He promised me." You repeat to yourself in a whisper.

You stumble back into a tree, chest heaving.

Once the adrenaline rush passes, another problem presents itself. The blood on your body has grown cold, so it's surprising to feel a warm rush of liquid on your side. 

You look at where your jumpsuit is torn above your right hip. You stretch the fabric and see two holes about six inches away from each other. Twice the size of a bottle cap, one's a little above your hip bone and the other rests a little before where your back starts, both wider and deeper than you would like—but you don’t see muscle, which counts for something. They're rough, not perfect circles. Skin hangs haphazardly from them both, peeling away at the edges with jagged incisions going towards the middle. As if being punctured like a piece of paper wasn’t enough, they've been torn from the pincers still being buried in you and then violently ripped out after you fell.

Now that you're aware of them, they throb in sharp waves.

"Shit," you curse, breathing around the tears that bubble up from the pain. Your breaths are shuttered, halting. You're bleeding at a pretty steady pace and you won't last long with the wound out in the open. Especially if there's a creature out here that can smell blood. “Shit, shit, shit.” You whimper.

You scream as cramps rocket through your abdomen and the ability to be quiet is beyond your pain-addled mind, you can’t stop it. Luckily, it comes out of your dry throat more of a raspy croak than a real scream. You press a shaking, blood-soaked hand to your mouth anyway. You don’t know what other killer insects may be out here with you and you can’t afford to grab their unwanted attention just because you can’t control yourself.

Your medical knowledge isn’t extensive. Honestly, it’s a little below average for what’s expected in Eleven, but probably far more than what an ordinary citizen in the other districts would know. Not everyone can afford the services of doctors, especially if they live in the Shacks, so you were all taught how to help each other. You don’t know any of the fancy shit they probably teach in the academies, but you were taught how to heal with the land—old methods and practices passed down from before the Dark Days.

Your first thought is to clean it, but with what? You don’t even have clean water to drink. Your second thought is to pack it, if not with cotton then with aloe vera—it’ll ward off infection for a while, right? You have no way of disinfecting it, not by yourself and not with what’s available to you, so stopping the bleeding is the next best thing. 

This may not be your environment, may not be your plants, but you learned a thing or two while training Peeta in the Edible Plant section. This is the perfect environment for natural, as natural as the arena will permit, aloe to grow. But it’s still dark. You can’t go looking for it, not by yourself. And you aren’t desperate enough to start begging your sponsors for help. 

You sigh. You’ll have to settle for the bare minimum. 

You pull both of your sleeves down where they detach at the shoulder and even that little movement makes your stomach cramp again. You flinch as the muscles underneath the wounds spasm, pumping out more blood. 

You tie one end of both sleeves together, working past the hurt, and, God, does it hurt. But the pain is unavoidable. That’s what you tell yourself. That’s what you’ve always told yourself. You let your mind drift, taking you somewhere else.

The pain is unavoidable. The pain is unavoidable. The pain is unavoidable.

Sweat drips down your back, or maybe it’s blood, as you move the makeshift tourniquet around your waist. You lay a flat piece of the fabric on the wound and nearly black out as you tie the two loose ends in the back. You tie it again just for good measure, biting around a scream as you pull it tight enough to staunch the bleeding.

Your vision swims as you gasp in big gulps of air. Your hands shake from the pain and yet another adrenaline drop. Your legs feel weak, barely holding you up as you lean most of your weight against the tree.

You need a game plan.

Another canon fires.

You don’t know how long you sit there, eyes closed, head tilted back, pitying yourself. But by the time you decide to get moving, you notice something. Something’s…wrong. 

Everything sways when you move your head up. You blink nearly twenty times before your eyes can focus again. You feel warm. Not warmth from the humidity. Not warmth from exercise. But warmth from a fever, a sickness. Nausea creeps upon you and, fuck, please, you can’t throw up again—you can’t. An injury this nasty will certainly come with symptoms, but you shouldn't have this kind of reaction. You try to remember what kind of bug it was. You remember it was a beetle, but you rack your brain for what it looked like. Your muscles spasm around your wound, reminding you how open and exposed they are even when covered with fabric.

You’ve got two plugs taken out of your side, you’re covered in blood, both real and synthetic, you’ve been poisoned, and you’re alone.

Alone. There is no sound other than your labored breathing because you’re alone. That’s the worst part somehow. 

You’re slow as you lean down, wincing at the slightest movement, and snatch up your sickles. If just that is enough to sap you of your energy, then—

You can’t stay out here in the open where you’re vulnerable, no one to watch your back, no one to protect you. You’re an easy target, no help to the revolution like this. You take a few quick breaths to psych yourself up. You push off the tree, grunting as the smallest use of your abdomen aggravates the wounds. You hobble along, heading in the opposite direction of where you left Johanna and the others.

Hopefully, Finnick’s group is having better luck. 

SECTION 3 (3:17 am-3:28 am)

Finnick is sure that there are certain moments that he’ll remember for the rest of his life. His reaping, the first person he killed, meeting you. These moments, these entries penned into the book of his life, define him. They’re all weaved into a tapestry, sewn into a quilt that illustrates his past and blankets his future. Who he is today, and who he will be tomorrow, is shaped by these moments. He’ll remain irrevocably changed by these events. 

He’s sure this moment will be one of them.

The fog creeps behind them and he’s suddenly so glad you aren’t a part of their group. A spectral wall of wispy gas that observes their suffering with the same indifference as the Capitol does. Peeta is a solid weight on Finnick’s shoulder and he’s thankful for it. It’s a reminder, the weight of what he’s defending. He clenches his teeth against the fog's stray tendrils and their poisonous grasp, increasing his speed even as pain licks at his heels. 

“Fhinnic’ , Fhinnic’!” He skids to a stop, looking behind him at Peeta’s slurred insistence. He turns in time to see Katniss and Mags crash to the ground. He rushes over to them. Mags sits concerned next to Katniss who’s beginning to blister.

“It’s no use,” Katniss says. He kneels beside them and he can see she’s feeling the effects of the fog. Her left leg is getting stiffer and her face has begun to droop. “Can you take them both? Go on ahead, I’ll catch up.” The confidence in her voice is interrupted by the grimace on her sagging face.

Mags has been touched by the fog less than the rest of them, if at all. Probably for the opposite reason that Finnick seems to have the most damage, she’s small. By this logic, it should be easy for Finnick to carry her along with Peeta. It should be easy.

“My arms aren’t working. My arms, they aren’t—” From his shoulder blades down to his fingertips, the muscles in his arms are ruined. They spasm sporadically, jerking uncontrollably as they hang limp at his sides. He’s even relying on Peeta to hold onto his trident for him. “I’m sorry, Mags. I can’t, I can’t do it. I’m sorry.” He apologies. He keeps apologizing to her and he can’t see why, too focused on the wave of white threatening to seize them. 

It’s all so quick. Mags has realized what Finnick himself is too stubborn to acknowledge. There’s a heaviness in his chest that he tries to swallow around but it only spreads to his throat. His throat gets tight. His senses feel heightened, his heart beating faster, lungs heaving harder, but he’s still trying to find a way out of this. His mind is moving at the speed of light, determined to fix it, determined to row this impossible boat upstream—thinking about everything but the only realistic outcome here.

They never talked about this. Never discussed the possibility. A situation where he would ever have to—it just never, never came to mind. He never thought to imagine it. And yet, she’s taking off the bracelet she’s wearing—his bracelet that she wore as a token for him. The same bracelet he made under her roof, under her knowing gaze. She slides it up his wrist, tightening it before grabbing his face between her weathered hands. She places a gentle peck on his lips and that’s when he realizes she’ll be leaving, whether he’s ready to say goodbye or not.

“Mags? Mags? Mags!” Tears blur his vision as she dodders uphill into the fog. Katniss grabs his wrist, stopping him from going after her. “Mags! Mags!”  

“Finnick!” He can see her silhouette just past the veil of mist, convulsing violently before—a cannon fires. He sits there, desolate. He can’t tell if the numbness spreading through him is organic or from the nerve damage.

“Finnick, we have to go. We have to get outta here.” He’s slow to turn around and look at Katniss. “We have to go.” 

Finnick climbs to his feet, accounting for Peeta’s weight, as Katniss drags herself behind him. He sniffs once, twice, three times. 

Later, he tells himself, there’ll be time for that later.

A/N: 1.) Blight's accent is the Canadian accent - specifically Letterman Kenny 2.) reckon the covey (Lucy Gray's group) traveled to the north from 11 to 12 during the 1st rebellion and got trapped in 12 after they lost. the Seam now has a distinct accent that sounds vaguely southern. 3.) i headcanon there's no singular southern accent in 11, using this map:https://fineartamerica.com/featured/vintage-map-of-panem-from-the-hunger-games-design-turnpike.html?product=art-print you can see just how much southern land it covers. So that's a mix of Creole, Irish, Mexican, and deep south roots. I'd imagine the mix of Creole, southern aave, and Spanish makes for a very particular accent. but if I had to pick one, it's closer to the southern drawl than the southern twang. 4.) the capitol accent basically the transatlantic accent 5.) You and Finnick think the same, since it was his idea to sleep next to the forcefield and use it as a weapon. yall literally think the same. also finnick wakes up the same way you do in the book when katniss screams about the fog. 6.) in the book, Lucy Gray is quiet but cunning. She doesn't have the "girl bossified quirky" demeanor she does in the movie and I blame Disney for that. As such, she doesn't have the "loud and proud/nothing affects me/cocky without a cause" attitude in my canon. What attracted Snow to her was that survivor instinct he saw in her that he felt he had. Everything that made Lucy Gray interesting to him can be found in Star (and Peeta.) I think Katniss personality wise is so much like Sejanus's that it pissed him off. close enough to District 12, but not exactly. district eleven has the exact background that Snow wishes he had with 12. He has more control over Eleven, they're easier to control/oppress as opposed to the free-spirited District 12. With Star, he strives to fix what mistakes he made with Lucy Gray. my beta reader said "i agree honestly like i think thats also why people are misreading snow in the movie bc they don't actually understand lucy gray and therefore misunderstand why snow even liked her" 7.) eleven is mainly a black and indigenous North American (Canada, US, and Mexico) population

[plus-size-reader]

Engaged

Not Really Goodbye pt.2

Peeta Mellark x Plus size!reader

Word Count:1692 words

Warnings: none

Summary: Peeta having to explain his engagement to you, the woman he loves

Part 1

——————————————————————————————————

Marrying Katniss hadn’t been Peeta’s idea.

Quite frankly, none of this was his idea to start with; not pretending to be together, lying to everyone he cared about, not getting engaged, not going on the tour. It was all stuff he’d been dragged into without even meaning to.

Unfortunately though, that didn’t make it any easier to explain the whole engagement thing to you.

This whole thing was too complicated to just break down, too dangerous to get out of, and even if he wanted to try, Peeta knew the truth. It was too late to get out now, no matter what he did.

Still, it would break your heart, just as it was currently breaking his.

Ever since the two of you were children, you assumed that you would end up being together. You had been inseparable all your lives, never going too far without the other, and your mother often joked that there were no better friends in the world.

That much had always been true.

It wasn’t until you got a bit older that you started really thinking about the possibility that there may never be no two people better suited for one another than you and Peeta were.

He understood you in a way that no one else ever had and being with him was as easy as breathing. By this time in your lives, you were sure that you would end up married, living on a farm somewhere.

Though, clearly, you’d been a fool to believe that.

News of the engagement reached you and the rest of the districts before Peeta and Katniss could even make it back, which meant that he couldn’t explain. All you could do was listen to the broadcasts and try to put the pieces together yourself.

Naturally, it hurt to imagine that everything you’d come to believe was a lie. However, you weren’t shocked that he would rather marry her.

She was incredible.

In all this time since he’d been whisked away to compete in the games, you could see just how much they had bonded. The games were broadcasted all over Panem and you would have had to have been blind to miss it.

Not only was Katniss a fellow victor, and the only other person who had shared experiences with him, but she was also stunningly beautiful and wonderfully strong.

It was something you could have never hoped to compete with.

You only wished, in your wildest dreams, that you could be like her if not for yourself than for his affections.

You wanted nothing more than for Peeta to look at you in the way that he looked at her, like the world started and ended with her, like every action from her could halt his existence entirely.

She had a power of him that you foolishly thought you had, before he went off to the Capital, but that was never going to happen.

You knew Peeta well enough to know that.

That was exactly why, when he did show up at your door trying to explain, you turned him away. If he loved her, and she made him happy, then you wanted him to be with her.

You didn’t want him to feel the need to apologize, which you assumed he was trying to do when he showed up outside your house.

Knowing Peeta, he just didn’t want to hurt you, didn’t want there to be any hard feelings between the two of you. If that was all he needed, there was no need for you to talk it over, you understood exactly what was happening.

You knew a man in love when you saw one, and you didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

For whatever reason though, Peeta was adamant over what he wanted. He wanted to explain himself, and he needed to talk to you. This was all a huge misunderstanding, and he wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if he didn’t tell you the truth.

...And, at a certain point, you knew that you were going to have to hear him out. At the end of the day, you cared about Peeta and whatever it was that was so important, you knew that it wouldn’t hurt to hear what it was he needed.

“Peeta, I already told you, I get it” you huffed, opening your door to find him standing there again, waiting for the off chance that you would come out.

You had no idea what he was thinking, but there was one thing you knew for sure. He was going to freeze to death if he stood out here any longer.

“No, you really don’t. Please just let me explain” he begged, hoping that for the third time, you would hear him out. He just kept coming here, asking to see you, and each time he was met with the same answer.

Either you weren’t home, or you weren’t going to answer.

“Come in” you sighed finally, opening the door wide enough for him to pass through. It was clear that he wasn’t going to let this go anytime soon.

You were doing your best to just save face, to keep him from seeing how much it had upset you, but you had started to accept it. You were coming to terms with what it would mean, with the fact of the matter, Peeta was going to get married.

Peeta was going to get married, and he wasn’t going to get married to you.

That was just what was happening and there was no use fighting it. If you could understand that, you didn’t get why it was so hard for him.

It seemed simple enough.

“Katniss and I are getting married, but it isn’t because I want to” he grumbled, rubbing his hands together lightly as he started to explain, doing his best to gather his thoughts. It wasn’t until he was in the heat of your home that he realized just how cold it had been, the warm air nipping at his skin.

You nodded, having heard this all before. You felt like you knew, felt like you understood what was going on, but Peeta was far from finished.

This wasn’t about him and Katniss, it wasn’t about a wedding, this was about the two of you and nothing more.

“What are you talking about? Why would you be getting married if you don't want to?” you asked, sitting down beside him on the couch, trying your best to wrap your head around what he was saying.

It didn’t make any sense to you.

For what reason, other than the fact that you loved someone, would you get married? Besides, you saw the way he looked at her while they were in that arena, you knew that he must love her.

That was all you needed to be married.

That was more than most of the people of twelve had and they made it work. Your relationships were formed mostly for survival, and in a desperate attempt to form some kind of life with what you’d been given.

“This is bigger than it seems, but I promise I can explain” he tried, gingerly resting his hand on your knee as he tried to make this work. You weren’t sure that you believed it, but it wouldn’t kill you to give him a chance to make you believe.

So, you settled in for one of the most complicated stories of all your life. Evidently, the events of the games, and what had happened in the capital, was bigger than you could have ever assumed.

It was bigger than both of you.

The more Peeta explained, the more you put together in your head, the more you understood. Of course he had to marry her, if he didn’t, there was no telling what Snow would do.

He had already threatened all of Katniss’ family and you were sure that he’d done the same to Peeta.

There was a chance they would kill you, if this didn’t go the way they wanted, and for Peeta, that was the worst thing that could happen. In all your lives, he’d only ever really had you and if something happened to you, he’d have nothing left.

You were the one. You were the one who came to check on him the night before the reaping, who combed his hair on the day of so he would look nice. You were the only one to come see him before he left for the games.

Every time he needed someone, it was always you there, waiting for him.

If he didn’t have you, Peeta didn’t have anything.

He hated the idea of doing this, of getting married to a woman who wasn’t you, of putting you through this but in the big picture, it was better than losing you. It was better than having to go through life knowing that you died because of a choice he made.

Having to do that would kill him.

It was difficult enough that the two of them had to lie to the world, that he and Katniss didn’t really care for one another in that way. Adding another element, or another person, in your case, would be far too much.

He hated this, but if it was what he had to do to keep you safe, Peeta wasn’t going to apologize for that. You were too important to risk, for any reason.

“I’m so sorry Y/N, I really am. I just don’t have a choice” he huffed, using up all his breath in a hurried attempt to get everything he needed to get out before you started drawing your own conclusions.

...But you didn’t need him to say sorry.

You understood why he was going to do it.

Backing out of the wedding could end all of your lives and as much as you loved him, nothing was worth that. Similarly to Peeta, you figured that a life without him, knowing that he was alive, would be better than one where he died trying to be with you.

It was hardly a fairy tale, but real life rarely was.

[bruisedboys]

౨ৎ REQUEST GUIDELINES

requests are currently CLOSED

BLOG GUIDLELINES (read thoroughly before requesting!)

+ I mostly write fluff and hurt/comfort. this blog is primarily sfw!

+ I do not take smut requests. however I will occasionally write 16+ content, this will be tagged accordingly. please don’t interact with my 16+ posts if you are underage. please don’t send me any smut or nsfw requests / asks

+ I do not write for real people. please don’t send me any requests for actors, celebrities, etc.

+ I won’t write male!reader, pregnant!reader, parent!reader/character and dark themes in general.

apart from the rules listed above, you can send in anything you like! although I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to write everything, I’m still very grateful to receive your requests and I’ll do my best

I try to be as inclusive as possible, but if you want any specifics (e.g plus-sized!reader, shy!reader) don’t be afraid to request x

WHO I WRITE FOR

the hunger games — sejanus plinth, finnick odair, peeta mellark

marvel — tasm!peter parker, bucky barnes, bob reynolds, miguel o’hara, peter quill, joaquin torres, steve rogers, john walker, yelena belova, eddie brock

marauders — james potter, remus lupin, sirius black

stranger things — steve harrington, eddie munson, jonathan byers

misc — tmr!thomas, jacob black, anakin skywalker, art donaldson, bradley bradshaw, mike schmidt, bruce wayne (the batman)

✮

masterlist navigation tag guide

[ilguna]

Whist - Chapter Three

summary: you can’t protect her forever.

Word Count; 6.2k

Warnings; swearing

NOTES: not a finnick odair x reader. it’s a ‘what if’ series

–

“Today is your first day with the other tributes.” you fix Alyssum’s hair, and readjust Rigg’s clothing, “Make an impression.”

“The two of you may show off one important skill each.” Finnick says, “One thing that’ll stand you out to the gamemakers and make the other tributes want to be allies.”

“We’ll talk about how we’ll wow the gamemakers during the private session, later. I promise that if you use your good skill today, it won’t be a loss. The private session is typically for anything you want to keep a surprise from the other tributes.” you back up.

“Try out stations you don’t know anything about. This is your time to learn anything that you don’t have a clue about, or you’re shaky on. It’s a fantastic opportunity.”

The two of them nod, and after a few more pointers that Rigg probably won’t use, he’s the first to leave the apartment. Alyssum is a different story, she waits for you to tell her to go.

“Don’t psych yourself out today, okay? What you did yesterday is exactly what we’re looking for. Confident, smart. If you sound older and show them that you can fight, they’re going to want you.” you cup her face, “But do not stay with them the entire time. Go around and meet the other tributes too. Don’t stick with Rigg, let him do his own thing.”

“Right.” she nods, you let go of her face, standing up again.

“I love you.”

“Love you too, (Y/n).” she smiles, “I can go now?”

“Yeah. Make your skill count.”

“I will.” she goes down the steps, and Elysia trails after her loosely to show her the floor. She’ll only take the elevator down, and then she’ll go see the stylists.

Now it’s just you and Finnick.

“What’re you thinking?” Finnick asks, you look at him.

“I think we need to pay Haymitch a visit.”

The two of you spend the afternoon getting ready to leave. You take a bet that Haymitch is probably somewhere in the betting room, along with the other mentors. But just in case, you’ll take an elevator to the apartment and hope that he’s there first.

When Finnick’s gathered his bearings, both of you get to the apartment. Finnick knocks on the door, and you flip through the notepad, staring at the plans for today.

Talk to Haymitch, go see the betting room, then down to the stylists to help them on a few things. To tweak and make them to the tributes likings. After that, the entire day is up to you and Finnick to figure out a way to get Alyssum and Rigg’s scores to stand out.

“Could teach Alyssum a trick.”

“Alright, then what would we do for Rigg?” you ask, knocking on the door again.

“Have him make a hook or something. He said he was pretty good at that.”

You squint at Finnick, “We want them to stand out.”

“(Y/n), he doesn’t have the same training that Alyssum does. The kid barely knows how to hold a plastic sword correctly. He’s--”

Before Finnick can say the word ‘hopeless’ the door swings open to reveal Haymitch. He’s dressed fairly nice, a little hunched over. When he sees that it’s you two, he straightens up considerably.

“Odairs.”

You roll your eyes, “Abernathy.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks.

You’re a little surprised to see that he doesn’t have his flask in hand. Normally it’s always right there, even the cap is unscrewed. You bet that it’s on the inside of his blazer, always within an arm's reach.

“Just curious about your tributes.” you give him a nice smile, slipping your foot inside of the apartment. Just in case he does try to shut the door, it won’t be that easy, “Quite the show yesterday.”

“The stylists' idea. Wanted something eye-catching, different.” Haymitch notices your foot, and after a long look at it, he looks back at you, “Here to steal my sponsors?”

“No, I’d like to negotiate something, though.” 

Haymitch squints.

Finnick picks it up now, “We’re allowing Alyssum to make allies on her own, but if she does settle on Katniss, are you willing to work with us?”

“Doesn’t look like I have a choice.”

You slide your foot out of the way, crossing your ankles, “Just wanted you to hear our pitch, is all.”

“Katniss is a hard one to work with. Aly would have a better chance if she talked to Peeta.” 

“We’re not after Peeta.” Finnick says, “We want Katniss for a reason.”

“Her sister, right? You think she’ll show the same emotion for your sister?” Haymitch makes a face, “Fine, whatever. I can’t guarantee anything.”

“We just wanted something to fall back on, is all.” you stand up straighter, “See you later, Haymitch.”

You and Finnick go down to the betting area next. It’s a simple task, talking to the sponsors that are loyal every year. And since it’s only a couple of people, the whole task is over before you know it. Then, you’re heading to see the stylists, prep teams and Elysia.

There, you spend the rest of the evening messing with everyone. Laurel has decided that she’s going to play off of the princess idea, and give Alyssum a dress that stands out, very puffy. It might just consume her when she sits down for her interview.

Rigg will be given a simple blue suit that vaguely resembles the one he wore for the tribute parade. There’s not really much that the stylists can do for the male tributes. A suit is expected, and so that’s what’s given. Plus, what else would you give?

Right when you’re done with helping Beth with this crown, you have to go and get the kids. You thank them all for their company, and just like that you’ve left with Finnick. On the way to the room, Finnick holds your hand tightly. 

“While you were in the shower, Reed called.” Finnick says.

You look at him, “Why?”

“Mox can’t bring himself to get out of bed. The peacekeepers have visited the house two times already, wanting him to watch with everyone else. Reed keeps telling them that Mox is sick but neither of them can provide proof.” Finnick shakes his head.

Poor Mox. And Poor Reed, too. Mox wasn’t nearly this hopeless when you left, but then again, you were fifteen. You had eight years rather than just a measly five years beneath your belt. You also didn’t have a couple of mean-looking career tributes to worry about. 

They really don’t make the tributes like they used to. Back when you and Finnick won, they were fairly manipulable. They were easy to shape and form, and they weren’t nearly as solidified as they are now. Hell, Finnick was able to get you in, and then you were able to get Thyme in.

It was definitely more people than they had wanted, and yet they didn’t care at the time. As long as it made themselves look better, stronger, more desirable.

Now, they just want the glory of the win. And to get to that point, they have to be ruthless. They have to show the Capitol citizens a show they’ll never forget.

So, every year it’s just a continuation of it. All of them are trying to beat each other. One up each other, and when they do it, the next round is screwed. 

It makes it hard to mentor.

Anyway, Mox has lost hope. And you feel bad for Reed because he has to put up with it. He has to act strong for Mox, but you know he’s tired of it. Although, you can imagine that the both of them are pretty guilty, especially since you’re the one that’s getting her ready to send her off.

“Better keep that to ourselves.” you give Finnick a smile, “Not tell Alyssum, so we can keep her mind on track.”

He nods, he understands.

You and Finnick make it to the door right on time to see Alyssum skipping out of the training center, a huge smile on her face. Rigg is nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Rigg?”

“Left early, said he didn’t feel good.” she says, tucking some hair behind her ear, “Just me the entire time, wasn’t too bad.”

You hold the elevator for Alyssum, making sure Finnick doesn’t head inside. For a second, Alyssum is confused, until Glimmer and Marvel are sliding past to get inside. You give Alyssum a wink, because this was your plan all along.

Cato and Clove come around too, you give the five of them a smile, “I’ll see you later, Alyssum. I’ve got to talk to your sponsors.”

You let go of the door, watching as the steel doors closed. And as soon as they do, you brush off your hands, turning to look at Finnick. He’s got a grin on his face, shaking his head at you, “Dirty, dirty.”

“Gotta cheat to get ahead. Wanna take the stairs?”

“Do we have much of a choice?” he asks, and the two of you slip into the fire escape staircase.

When you finally do get back to the apartment, Alyssum has a giant smile on her face, “They offered an alliance!” she heads towards you, arms out for a hug. You pick her up, spinning her around, “I told them I’d think about it and tell them in a couple of days!”

You press a kiss to Alyssum’s forehead, squeezing her tighter.

The next two days followed as the first training day did. You got up, gave your tributes a few pointers on how they should do things, and then they were off. You didn’t visit Haymitch again, but instead saw him in the betting area. You broke the news that he wouldn’t have to worry about an alliance, and he didn’t really seem to care.

After the betting area, came the time with the stylists. The dress has really come along, and today will be the finishing touches. Adding the accessories that they think would go with it, tweaking the size and whether or not it’ll fit.

You stopped picking the kids up from the training center after the first day, especially since Alyssum said yes to the alliance. She needs to get to know the careers on her own. But you’ve given her a few pointers on how she might back a cozy place in their mind, so they might even feel bad if they kill her.

She’s getting along well with Glimmer and Marvel so far, and from what you heard yesterday, Clove is beginning to come around faster than Cato is. It’s a little worrying, especially since it seems that history is repeating itself. But Alyssum said what you told yourself when you first saw the District Two tributes; they’re a lot meaner than they’ve been the previous years. 

It’s only natural.

Now, today is the private session. And you just spent the last hour trying to teach Alyssum a trick that would catch the gamemaker’s attention. Unfortunately, she’s still shaky at it, and not entirely sure if she’s going to use it. But Rigg on the other hand--has decided that he’s going to try out something with a sword.

You run your fingers through your hair, motioning to the space in front of you, “Show Finnick.”

Alyssum gives you a reluctant look, “(Y/n)--”

“Come on.” Finnick urges.

Rigg isn’t even here, he hasn’t been spending much time inside of the apartment. It seems like he likes to run off, and you’re hoping that’s going to come in handy inside of the arena. If he’s not going to make allies, he’s going to need to be able to run.

That and he doesn’t seem to trust you and Finnick very much. Finnick’s gotten as close as Rigg will allow, but it’s not that much. He won’t tell you what he thinks about the other tributes, who he wants to make allies with, what his special skill is or what he’s going to do for the private training session. It’s all radio silence on his side of things.

And you understand that he’s afraid that you’ll pass all of that information off to Alyssum or something, but it’s really not like that. All he’s going is putting himself in a position where you see him as unpredictable, and therefore unreliable when it comes to certain things inside of the arena.

If you can’t confirm or deny his plans to sponsors, and you have to admit that you have no clue what his motive is--besides making it out alive--then he’s not worthy of sponsorship. And since he’s literally twelve like Alyssum, it puts him at an even bigger disadvantage.

Alyssum picks up some knives, twirling it between her fingers. She nails this, it doesn’t cut her skin at all. Then, she draws her arm back wickedly, throwing the first knife from her finger. Quickly, she passes off a second to her right hand, to throw again. It takes her only half a second to get a new knife to throw.

By the time that she’s done, there’s three new holes in the wall, and she’s nailed two out of three of the tricks. You go down the two steps, onto her level of the floor, continuing all the way up to where the knives are. You pluck them out, weighing them in your hands.

“Are these too heavy?”

“No, they weigh just fine.” she says, looking at you.

You stare at the human diagram on the wall. It’s the exact shape of Elysia. She wasn’t too thrilled to have her body shape be the example of a target, but it was what you two need.

Stopping right where Alyssum had been throwing, you take your shot at it. The first knife she always throws is for the thighs, left or right, it doesn’t matter. You aim for the right one. The next she throws aims for the heart, and hers all varies around the same area. This would be a good, direct kill. You get that one without a problem.

The one that Alyssum can’t get right is the forehead. You give Alyssum a look, and she shrugs her shoulders. All the holes reside around the head, not even one has come close to hitting the bullseye. You throw the final knife, getting the head without a single problem.

“Take your time inside of the session. I get that we want it to be quick, but it’s okay to be slow.” you fix some of her hair, “Go at your own pace. The gamemakers won’t be bored by the time you go in.”

“Make sure to be confident when you walk in. Wait until they say you can start, and they’ll also dismiss you.”

“Be nice to not get on their bad side, but show a little bit of arrogance.” you say, “And if you’re sure that you can’t get the forehead in there, aim for the throat.”

Finnick nods.

“Alright.” she nods, standing up straighter, “I guess I should go.”

You kiss her forehead, brushing her hair back, “Good luck.”

“Thank you.” she hugs you, and then Finnick on her way out. As soon as the door shuts, you’re leaving the area and heading for the cellphone. 

Finnick cleans up the wall as best as he can. But there’s a ton of holes in the wall, and the berry juice has left a faint stain on the white walls. Either way, Finnick dumps the materials, thanks the avox, and heads to the bathroom to wash his hands.

You tap your feet slightly, leaning your head against the wall. It’s a long moment of ringing before the phone is finally picked up.

“(Y/n)?” a voice asks.

You raise your head, “Yes, who is this?”

“Caspian’s brother--Lucas.”

Lucas. Shaggy blonde hair, blue eyes and tan skin. He mostly roams around his house without a shirt, which always drives his mom nuts, but he never changes. Sweet kid, he’s turning fifteen this fall.

“What happened to Mox?”

“At the hospital, so is Reed, Caspian, my mom and Mags. He’s unwell, and last night he wasn’t too hot. Reed went to see my mom because he didn’t know what to do and didn’t want to worry you or Aly.” Lucas pauses for a moment, “My mom said that they should bring him to the clinic, and that’s what they’ve done. He’s… strapped down. Don’t want him to harm himself or anything.”

You close your eyes, trying to fight back the tears that are gathering. You pull the phone away from your face for a moment as you take a deep breath in, and then you place it right back up against your ear.

“You’re not supposed to be telling me this.” you say.

“Yeah, but Annie said it would be a good idea anyway. Want to talk to her?” 

“Please.” you look at Finnick when he comes out of the hallway.

He has his eyebrows raised, and you’re shaking your head, trying to tell him that it’s not alright back home. In fact, it’s what you feared. It’s in shambles.

“(Y/n), how’s everything in the Capitol?” Annie asks, “Is Alyssum doing okay?”

“Got herself an alliance with the careers, looks promising. If she does well on tonight’s score, then she’s got an official spot.”

“Good.” she says, and then moves on, “Reed doesn’t want to tell you anything, so calling back later won’t do anything. He won’t admit it, even if you tell him everything you know. I’m keeping an eye on the both of them. I didn’t know much about what happened until two days ago.

“Mom’s been keeping me inside a lot, afraid that I’d get everyone around me sick. Only a stomach bug, I’m better now.” she pauses for a long moment, “Sounds like Caspian is back with Mags. I’d give them the phone, but they’ll assume the worst. Instead I’ll just say you called to check up on Mox.”

“Yeah, it’s not the best idea.” you hold your finger up to Finnick, “Which means that you shouldn’t tell them about the career alliance either.”

“I won’t, promise. Call again after the interviews, we’ll all be here. Good luck, (Y/n). Give my best wishes to Alyssum, please.”

“I will,” you say, “Thank you, Annie.”

“No problem.” and then there’s a click.

You place the phone on the hook, taking in a deep breath as you look at Finnick, “Mox is in the clinic because they’re afraid he’s going to hurt himself. Reed and a couple of others are there to visit him.”

“Oh, (Y/n).” Finnick says, face drooping as he reaches out. You let him take you in a hug, squeezing him tightly as you cry into your shoulder.

--

“Sit, please.” Elysia begs, pushing Laurel and the prep team to the big couch that’s entirely dedicated to them. Pleurisy and the others are already sitting on that same couch, ready to go.

You’ve got Finnick to your right, and Alyssum in your arms on the left. Elysia gets her own private arm chair, and so does Rigg, all the way on the right side of the living room. He’s got his legs pulled up to his knees, and he refuses to talk.

“I’m nervous.” Alyssum mutters.

“It’s okay, Aly.” you rub her shoulder, “As long either of you got anything over an eight, we’ll be fine.”

Caesar then shows up on screen, and suddenly everyone is readjusting in their seats to sit up taller, lean forward or get comfortable. You don’t move. Just tighten your arm around Alyssum’s shoulders.

Starting with District One’s Marvel, he kicks it off with a nine. And this is when you know you can relax. If a boy like him is getting something so low, then it’s easy. Alyssum will be just fine. And since Glimmer gets the same score, you can let out a breath of air.

With Clove and Cato, they get ten’s, which was expected. For District Three, get averagely low scores, and for your tributes, you sit up a little more.

“District Four, Rigg Estridge with a score of six.”

You resist the urge to physically wince. Instead, you turn to Rigg with a warm smile, “That’s good, Rigg.”

He gives a timid smile, and your attention is turned right back to Caesar.

He has a smile on his face, looking up to the camera for a moment, “District Four, Alyssum Gallows with a score of--” he pauses on purpose, and the smile only widens, “--eight.”

You shake Alyssum’s shoulder excitedly, patting her upper arm a bit. She looks as happy as you do about all of this. The praise comes from everyone, directed to both Rigg and Alyssum. 

The next few tributes aren’t all that important, they all get around the same score, which only means that they hadn’t done anything outstanding inside of the training center when they had the chances. Not even their private sessions were good, it seems.

Then, it hits Haymitch’s tributes. First is Peeta, who gets an eight. It’s not that bad, it’s actually pretty good. Considering that the careers are always the ones to have a score between eight and ten, he basically qualifies. As for Katniss--she gets an eleven.

You hum, eyes a little wide. You can’t remember the last time Haymitch has got a pair of good tributes. You can only imagine that if his tributes win, it’s going to dig him out of his twenty-four year long streak of only losers.

“Regretting anything yet?” Finnick whispers, you turn to look at him.

“She’s only one person--two if Peeta sticks with her. Alyssum will be surrounded by four people, and she fits right in. I’m not worried about Katniss.”

You look back at the screen, only to see that Caesar is analyzing the scores briefly, until he hits Alyssum again. Then, he picks apart everything that he thinks might have happened, “Do any of you folks remember what had happened during the Gallows’ family interview?”

He then pulls up a clip from the interview. Alyssum was only three then, so little. But that’s not his focus. No, he plays a particular clip where they’re discussing your score;

“That’s a reasonable thought,” Caesar says, a few people in the audience agree, but it’s basically none, “What about her training score? A ten is a very big score, especially for someone who’s fifteen! I would never have guessed it.”

“Me neither.” Reed admits, “I thought she’d get something a little lower, but she always has a trick up her sleeve. She likely thought up some trick last minute that she knew would blow the gamemaker’s minds. And it worked just like she had hoped.”

“I bet she did that trick with the two knives.” Mox says, “Do you remember her doing that?”

Reed shakes his head, “Not really.”

“It’s a difficult trick to pull off, it takes a lot of practice. But if she did the one I’m thinking about, it’s likely the reason why she got one so high. It would be impressive to see her kill two tributes at once.”

After the clip, Caesar’s back, “It makes me wonder if Alyssum had pulled off that same trick that we were never able to see--or something similar! I hope we get to see it inside of the arena.” he winks.

It moves on after that, and Elysia shuts the tv off, turning to all of you, “How do you feel about a celebratory dessert?”

--

This week has been one huge blur. You still can’t believe that the interviews are tonight, and your sister goes into the arena tomorrow. The fact that she’s a tribute in the hunger games doesn’t seem real to you at all.

This has to be one big nightmare that you can’t escape. Your little sister, Alyssum Gallows, who is twelve years old and has only five years of experience and her name was only in the freaking glass bowl once is going inside of the arena. Nine years ago she was three, and you were in the arena, yourself.

It seems like there’s some unfortunate pattern when it comes to the women in the Gallow’s family. First it was your great-grandmother, caught and killed for her participation in the rebellion. Then it was your grandmother for not obeying the laws and standing up for herself when a peacekeeper was out of line.

Then it was your mother, not surviving childbirth. You came close to death a number of times, thanks to the arena. And right when you had thought your family has gotten off lucky--that you had finally managed to break the streak--it falls onto Alyssum. If the universe couldn’t have you, then it would definitely have her.

You know that after this, when you get home, you’re going to see the remnants of Reed and Mox. Mox will probably have to be medicated for the rest of his life, like Annie. Only time will make the wounds better, but they will never fully heal. Alyssum is the final product of your mother, and sometimes, is her.

Reed will throw himself into work. Maybe something dangerous, something that will get him away from you all for a good amount of time. Take week-long fishing trips, and only come home for a day, before leaving again. You can’t imagine he’ll be able to take the pity that everyone will be giving you, well.

And you can assume that the nightmares will resume. They haven’t just yet, but they will when you get back home. You’ll have to avoid the television for months in order not to see the recaps. As for the victory tour--you don’t think you’ll be able to hand it. To have to stand on a platform with your two brothers, barely sane and being held together with tape and glue.

Finnick will finally be able to see what it’s like to be a part of the family. Misfortune follows you all like the grim reaper. It was only a matter of time before the next big thing would happen. 

“Please get that look off your face.” Finnick’s voice is gentle, he reaches up to bring your chin a little higher, wanting you to look at him, “You’ve done a very good job this week. She’s got sponsors, she’s got an alliance, and a high score. You and your brothers prepared her well, just like you said you would.”

“I don’t want her to go inside.” you tell him, throat feeling thick. You look back to the door where she’s supposed to come out in a few moments, “I want her to stay.”

“I know.” Finnick says, pulling you into him. He wraps his arms around you, and you lean your head against his chest, reaching up to grab one of his arms.

You two of you stand like this, staring at the door. The second she comes out, you’re going to have to force a smile and give her more pointers about what she should do on the stage. For now, you get a long moment with your thoughts.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to go home.” the words leave your mouth without a second thought to them, “Not because I can’t face my brothers, but I don’t think I want to see what they’ll become.”

“I’m here with you.” Finnick says, “You don’t have to go through it alone.”

“I know, I get that. But I can’t see them so broken and torn apart. Mox hadn’t even been like this for mom or dad. And Reed literally raised Alyssum and I…” you trail off, eyebrows drawing in, “I can face all the looks from everyone, and the funeral, and the apologies. But my brothers are a whole new thing.”

Finnick doesn’t say anything, but his arms do tighten around you a little at the thought of all that. He probably forgot entirely about the funeral. But it’s really not only that. As soon as they retrieve her body, they’re going to do their best to restore what she looked like before she died, and you and Finnick are going to have to approve it.

Then you get to travel back home with her in a casket that the Capitol provides. Since she was a tribute, and she ‘served’ them, she’ll be in a white one, with a Capitol seal as well as a district one.

You frown now, “No, I don’t think I’ll go home.”

Finnick opens his mouth, but the door opens, and it reveals Alyssum in the biggest blue dress you’ve ever seen her in. She gives a bright smile, and you give one back. She twirls a little for you, holding onto her necklace to keep it in its perfect place. Then, she does a curtsy.

“I love it!” she laughs, coming out of the doorway to allow Elysia and Laurel to slip out of the room, “I’m like royalty.”

“Because you are.” you want to give her a hug, but it’ll have to wait until after the interview.

She looks like she did when she was a child. Playing pretend with the fairy wands and the pretend paper and plastic crowns. You never understood her obsession, but now seeing it in front of you, it’s because she was able to have a childhood. Thanks to you winning the hunger games, you brought your family out of poverty, and it was right in time for Alyssum to start playing with toys.

You almost feel guilty for taking it away from her so soon. She really only got four years before you all were on her back simultaneously. Then again, your early training is what’s going to save her. Even if it’s just for a little while.

“Alright, make sure that one of the first things out of your mouth is a compliment to the Ca[pitol. Like their people, outfits, the apartments that they provide, whatever.” you tell her, “I want you to act like yourself today, okay? Make them melt.”

“Right.” she smiles, “I guess I don’t have to lay it on too thick, then. Especially with this dress.”

You laugh, “You’re already halfway there.”

“Answer the questions honestly, but if you think that it’ll get you in trouble, don’t. It’s okay to lie, they’re not going to know the difference. Not if we’re all going to lie with you.” Finnick says, “If you don’t like a question, answer shortly, and then move on before he can ask you a second question about it. He won’t go back.”

“Three minutes on stage.” you hold up your fingers, “He’ll likely split it into three things. Family, the Capitol, and then either a message you can say, or something about yourself. If you ever get nervous, we’re in the crowd. Find us if you need someone to look at for comfort. But I’d really like it if you looked around the room.”

“I can do this.” she says, “I think I’m ready.”

“Follow Caesar’s lead, he’s going to make you comfortable.” Finnick says lastly, “He’s got you.”

You all go to the line in the hallway to see the other tributes. You wish Alyssum good luck, before heading off towards to retrieve Rigg next. He’s not excited, more nervous and scared. You tell him that he’ll do just fine, and drop him off next to Alyssum.

You and Finnick find your places in the crowd, taking a very special spot next to Haymitch. He doesn’t care that you’ve sat next to him, and he even offers his flask without a word. 

You take it from him, take a nice gulp, and then pass it off to Finnick while your throat burns. This has to be the Capitol stuff, the districts don’t even nearly have something this strong. Finnick sputters out a cough, and the three of you share a laugh because of it.

“Thanks.” you say.

“You probably need it more than me.”

Caesar introduces the show like he always does, for the audience back home. He starts off with Glimmer, who comes on stage in a short pink dress, her blonde hair curled and a wide smile on her face, waving to the audience. Next is Marvel, who easily tours over Caesar because of his height. 

Clove comes in with a red dress, looking mean and smart. She spends her time being sarcastic, but clearly winning the hearts of the people around you. In this time, Haymitch passes the flask over for another drink, and you take it without complaint. You’d rather be drunk than sober when Rigg finally rolls around.

Cato is dressed in a blue suit, and talks about himself the entire time. When the interview is finally over, you’re all relieved and happy to be watching someone who isn’t as full of themselves. Before you know it, the District Four tributes are up.

Alyssum comes up the stage, holding the bottom of her dress just barely up enough so that she doesn’t trip on it. She stops next to Caesar, and the crowd is absolutely in love. You can hear a few people behind you muttering about the dress, and then the crown.

“Wow!” Caesar gasps, “That is--” he backs up, trying to get a whole view of it. Alyssum poses for him, and even turns side to side to allow him to see all of it, “Amazing! Let me guess, you’re supposed to be a princess?”

“Yes!” Alyssum gives a big smile to the crowd, catching you and Finnick instantly. And just as you instructed, she looks out to other people, “Being here in the Capitol makes me feel so…” she stops for a moment, thinking of the word.

“Famous?” Caesar encourages.

“Famous! That’s the word.” she laughs--or more, giggles--at herself, “It makes me feel like I have some fans.”

Caesar gasps, “How could we not? I know I have been a big fan, ever since I saw you for the first time! And you were just a little toddler.”

Behind her, a screen changes to her on Reed’s lap during the family interview.

Alyssum covers her mouth with one hand, “Oh, that’s embarrassing.”

The crowd loves this, and soon, Caesar is encouraging her to sit down too. Following in the footsteps of the six people before her. When she sits, the dress almost consumes her entirely, but she’s able to readjust enough so that it’s fixed.

“Now tell me, Alyssum, what was going through your mind at the reaping?”

Alyssum presses her lips together, a clear sign that she doesn’t like the question. She fakes thinking for a moment, and then gives a shy smile, “I was upset that it was my first year of the reaping and I’d have to go inside of the arena. I thought I’d have a few more years until I would have to start to worry. But, it’s not like that anymore.”

Caesar raises his eyebrows, “Why’s that?”

“I have my older sister here with me.” she places her laced fingers on one of her knees, “Even if this is my last few days, I get to spend it with the person I look up to the most. Or, should I say people. Finnick is pretty cool too.”

She looks right at you and Finnick, giving a cheeky smile.

“Speaking of which, what is it like being in the shadow of her? Being constantly compared to her?” Caesar asks, this question is especially ironic because he’s the one doing it.

“Hard, knowing that I won’t ever compare. But kinda fun too, knowing that people were already familiar with me.” She says, “It’s like going somewhere, thinking it’ll be full of strangers, but instead it’s just family friends.”

“What a thoughtful way to put it.” Caesar says, and then smiles, looking out to the crowd, “what do you think folks? Are you a family friend?”

You wince at how loud the auditorium gets, but give Alyssum a reassuring smile. This is a good sign, a whole audience full of ‘family friends’. This seems to boost Aly’s confidence a little too, and she sits a little taller in her chair.

“You scored very high on your training.” Caesar says, and Alyssum nods.

“I did.”

He smiles at this, “Is there any hidden skills we should know of?”

Alyssum laughs, “If I told you--it wouldn’t be hidden!”

“Fine, do you think you’ll surprise us inside of the arena?”

Alyssum tilts her head with a sweet smile, “I think I might, but you’ll just have to wait and see for yourself.”

The crowd is cheering now, and the buzzer is going off. It’s perfect timing, in your mind. Caesar and Alyssum stand together, he takes her hand in his, and encourages her to step forward. She gives a curtsy, one that’s much more graceful than the one she gave you and Finnick in the hallway.

The crowd is standing now, clapping louder. She gives one final wave, thanking them for their time, and then she’s leaving to go back to the hallway.

As everyone takes their seats again, you and Finnick are slipping out of the crowd, not too focused on Rigg. He’s made his intentions clear, you won’t bother trying to salvage something that doesn’t want to be salvaged.

In the back, Alyssum is twirling around in her dress, and the second her eyes land on you, she’s running over. You hug her tightly, with only praise rolling off Finnick’s tongue.

Now you only have to worry about tomorrow.

[pinkykitten]

Everything, Beautiful

The Hunger Games

Cato x plus size! female reader

Warning: bullying, curse words

Specifics: plus size reader, fluff, romance, angst, comedy, self conscious reader, race neutral reader, one-shot, pics

People: cato, katniss, peeta, your mother and father, bullies 

Words: 1,820

Requested: By @fyeahtaylorp (wont let me tag) Hi I love your writing I was wondering if I could have a plus size reader and Cato imagine? Maybe where he wins with Katniss and peeta and they meet on the victory tour in districts 12 or something like that?

Authors Note: this is my first time writing for hg and of course for this character. im a fan of alaexander ludwig especially in vikings cuz u know he daddy he a bear and he thicc. so this is when he a fetus so i hope u all enjoy and dont worry my darlings im trying to go as fast as i can with ur requests 💖💖💖

(not my gif! do not own!)

This was the day that the victors of the 74th hunger games were visiting your district. You have heard throughout town that the victory tour has gotten some people in trouble, hurt, or worse killed. You were not as excited as everyone else was, or how everyone else seemed. You hated the Capitol and everything they did to these poor kids. 

As you walked home from being at The Hob you stumbled across a group of kids, your age, that stared at you strangely. You noticed they started to cover their mouths to try to stifle their giggles, but you heard them. You knew why they were laughing. Unfortunately, you came out not being the skinniest of the family. You had curves and a little weight on you. Some things budged out or jiggled and that was not known in a place where everyone starved. You were also starving but your body was just made this way. People would always make fun of you, suggesting that you ate all District 12 foods, or maybe that you ate the Capitol as well. It always made you feel self conscious. 

You tried to walk past the group of bullies, holding onto your items, you clutched them to your chest, trying to not take notice of their laughter at you. 

“Its okay y/n. Lets just go home.” You comforted yourself as you finally passed them. Your shoulders relaxed as you felt the uneasiness wash away. 

Finally, you arrived at your house. Feeling exhausted from that long journey, you plump down on the sofa. Your father was there, reading. As you were about to take a look at the material he was reading your mother yelled for you. 

“Y/N!”

“Coming!” As you walk in the room your mother places a light blue dress on your bed. 

“Mom what are you doing?” Her face lights up seeing you. She places her hands on your cheeks. “Sweetheart, remember today is when the victors come to our District?”

You roll your eyes and fall on your bed, “mom seriously! This is not even the reaping, why do I have to wear this dress?”

Your mom gasps and hits your leg lightly, “young lady you will not think over my judgment. I want you looking nice today, show the Capitol that we too can have nice things.”

“Oh brother,” you groan, placing your pillow on your face. 

Your mother sits beside you and gently lifts the pillow, “Love, just please this one time, wear this dress for me.”

You thought about it for a moment, “fine!”

Your mother stood up excitedly and put the dress in your hands. “I can’t wait to see what it looks like on you!”

“Mom, okay I got this,” you gave your mother an annoyed look as she pushed you to walk faster to the gathering. You felt so...ugly. You didn’t want to make your mother feel bad by telling her you disliked the dress. For once all that you wanted to wear was like Katniss’s. She had the perfect body and the perfect face for all those expensive dresses. 

As you walked by the town people would get a look at you and laugh. They’d chuckle under their breath. You look down to the dirt, not wanting to look into their eyes. Every one was so critical. 

You all arrived and of course, your mother being your mother wanted to stand in the front. “Mom please can we not!”

She grabbed your arm sternly, “missy you should be happy that we get to sit so close. These are our victors. Show some respect.”

You rolled your eyes, “mom, you and I both know all you just want to do is be on camera.” Your mother did not answer and stood there waiting for it to start. 

The victors came out and gave their speech that was so unbelievable. 

“I know what you really think,” you muttered to yourself. Your father shushing you with a light jab to your side. 

One was named Peeta the other well she was famous, she was the girl on fire. She was Katniss. You used to know Katniss, not very well but be acquainted. As much as that boy was sweet to her he was no Gale, she was in love with him. Then you notice the other blonde. He looks, well he looks pissed. He is really tall and very muscular. He looks as if he can break bark in half. He then catches you staring and winks at you. You shake your head and start to actually pay attention. You were just imagining things. He didn’t really wink at you...did he?

Their little speeches ended and you got up with a satisfied grin, “finally, I can go home and take this table cloth off and read my book.” 

“It is no table cloth y/n, it is one of the new dresses at the market. I frankly like it on you,” your mother shook her hips sassily as she walked. You wish you were as confident as your mother. She was so beautiful and your dad was so handsome, sometimes you felt you were so hideous that maybe you were adopted. 

As you were walking away to your house the blonde tall victor kept staring at you. With a shrug you waved back and proceeded walking. “He’s probably looking at me wondering how did she get so fat? Or wow she looks as big as the Capitol!” Thinking to yourself as you feel more gloomy and sad. You change your clothes and do end up reading your favorite book. Well, it has to be your favorite book because your family cannot afford another. You’ve read it so many times already that you’ve memorized some of the words. 

Sitting on your bed, the quilt full of cushion, you felt at peace being in your home with no judgmental looks. You sat there for hours reading and reading until you heard your father’s call. 

“Yes dad?”

“Your mother needs bread and milk can you run to the market real quick to get it for us?”

You groaned and whined, trudging to your father. Your father copied your actions making you laugh. 

“Get out of here,” your father smiled as he shooed you away. 

As you were heading to the market you saw those same kids you saw earlier. They glared at you and laughed. You hugged yourself and proceeded to move forward. “Its okay y/n, you’re okay.”

You picked up the freshly baked bread and the cold milk and set off to home. The bread smelled so heavenly. It was so buttery and warm with a little crunch to it. 

“Hey girl,” one of the boys asked from the group. You tried to ignore them but they all circled you. 

“Guys I have to go to my house, dinner is almost ready.”

One of the girls cackled evilly, “you don’t need to go to dinner! You already look like you ate all of it!”

You could feel tears starting to sting your eyes. “Please guys. What do you want?”

“What do we want? I want you to know that you are nothing in this world. You are so fat and ugly that me telling you this makes me feel ten times better. Knowing that I don’t look as hideous and ginormous as you makes me so thankful.”

They all started to yell insults at you. “You don’t need this fatty.” They push the milk and bread on the floor. The bread getting all dirty and the milk crashing on the floor the glass breaking and cutting your legs. “No, stop that was for my family. I don’t have any more money left!” You tried to stop them. They laughed and pushed you on the floor as well. “Too bad then, huh? No you’ll probably lose the weight.”

“Why don’t you all just shut the hel* up?” A unfamiliar voice called out. They all looked up to see, “you’re one of the victors!” The blonde man grabbed some of them and threw them to the floor away from you. “If I ever see you mess with her again I will kill you! Trust me I’ve done that plenty of times!”

You felt embarrassed and just wanted to go home. You tried to clean the bread but it fell in mud. The milk was shattered. The glass in your skin. “Ouch,” you try to stand but wince to yourself. The man bends down and sees your injuries. “C’mon we need to go take those out.”

You felt shy and tried to look away, “its okay, I got this.” You try to stand up but you slip and he catches you. “I’ll take a look at them.” He carries you to a ledge of concrete nearby. “Hold on sir, I might be too heavy,” you tried to wiggle out of his grasp not wanting him to suffer carrying your weight. The man chuckled, “you? You’re light weight to me.”  You almost laughed as he carried you, you thought you were too heavy. 

As he placed you on the edge he took a look at your legs. Only a few small shards of glass were stuck on your leg. “Here we go,” he says as he sounds like he’s concentrating. You felt so bashful. A boy, a cute one at that, was looking at your thick legs! He tended to your wounds and teasing you kissed your injury. “You feel better?” He asks as he helps you stand up. You nod and with a small voice say, “thank you.”

“The names Cato.” He sticks his hand out and you shake it lightly. He has so many callouses and he has veins popping from working out so much. You gulp, “I’m y/n. Its nice to meet you, again thank you. You didn’t really have to do any of that.”

Cato shook his head, “they were hurting a beautiful woman, I couldn’t let them get away with that.” He sees that your items are broken and walks to the market. “Here let my buy those for you.”

You persisted in stopping him but he put his hand up and shook his head, “Its okay I really want to. Here.” He hands you the milk and bread and also something extra. 

“What is this?” You cheerfully ask, now feeling more and more comfortable with him. “Its a muffin,” he held one for himself and gave one to you. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you so much for this Cato. It means a lot to me. Not many people really like me or can’t stand to be next to me so just thank you.”

“No problem, and those people are missing out. But I was actually wondering if maybe you’d like to walk with me?”

You chuckled and held onto his arm, “sure. What do you want to know about me?”

Cato gave you a boyish smile, “everything, beautiful.”

Tag list: @harrington-lover, @angelgl16, @perfectlybeautifulsuit, @hyehoney, @wtfisalltherandoms, @haven-prelude (wont let me tag), @leasly, @totally-alexa21, @creamy-pasta-boi, @multireese, @fanfictionrecommendations-com, @prentisskelley, @malereaderforkpop (wont let me tag), @guardian-of-cookies, @justafangirl-97, @teenageshitposts (wont let me tag), @andreaoreas, @dippergravity (wont let me tag), @some-booty, @fromfoolishpeopletodeadpeople, @collectiveyou, @marwantr

wanna be tagged in my crap? comment!

[sweetheartsofpanem]

Drunk Magic and Other Domestic Miracles

masterlist

i think haymitch would be suuuuuper sweet while he’s shit face drunk (he’s sweet in his own ways all the time, but he’s overtly sweet when wasted) and only when he’s that drunk so i based this off that lil headcanon i have of him and this request. i hope you guys like this:)

pairing(s): Haymitch Abernathy x Female!Reader

warnings: haymitch being drunk, haymitch makes a comment about strangulation but it’s nothing bad, this is kind of just cute intimacy lol

word count: 1.74k

He’s a mess when he’s sober, all sharp edges and muttered curses. But when the whiskey kicks in, he starts doing the impossible—braiding your hair, baking you pies, knitting sweaters with crooked little hearts. He says it doesn’t mean anything. You’re starting to realize it means everything.

You don’t even remember what you were talking about when it happened—something about booze, probably, or the vaguely alarming contents of his pantry. One second Haymitch was slouched sideways on your couch with a bottle hanging from two fingers, muttering half-formed insults about your concerns with his pantry, and the next he was suddenly behind you, all grumbly focus and clumsy determination.

“Hold still,” he slurred, already combing his fingers through your hair with shocking gentleness. “You’re all knots and chaos. Can’t concentrate with it lookin’ like a damn rat’s nest.”

You blinked. “What are you—?”

“Shh,” he whispered, like he was performing surgery. “Makin’ you presentable.”

And then he braided your hair.

Not just some pathetic attempt, either. A real braid. Tight and clean and even, tugged with practiced pressure and tied off with a hair tie—a hair tie, which you’re certain you didn’t give him and have absolutely no explanation for. Where did he get it? Why does he have it? The questions multiply, unanswered.

“There,” he said proudly, swaying just slightly as he surveyed his masterpiece. “Now you look like a girl who hasn’t been raised by wolves.”

You stared at him. “How the hell did you learn to do that?”

He shrugged, acting like he hadn’t just done something so out of the norm as he flopped back down onto the couch. “’S just rope made of hair. Braids are braids.”

You sat there, stunned, touching the braid like it might vanish if you weren’t careful. It was beautiful. Which was somehow the most confusing part.

“Haymitch?”

“Mm?”

“I’m terrified to say this, but… that was weirdly impressive.”

He smirked without opening his eyes. “I’m full of secrets, sugar.”

You blinked at the nickname. It’s not biting or sarcastic—it doesn’t carry the usual edge. Just something warm and unexpected in the drunken haze. You let it pass, unsure what to make of it, but somehow it stays with you longer than it should.

The braid’s perfect. He’s drunk. The world is upside down anyway.

A week later, you find yourself sitting at his kitchen table with damp hair and hopeful eyes, a comb in your hand.

“Can you do it again?” you ask, offering the comb like a peace treaty.

He squints at you like you’ve just asked him to solve a riddle using only mushrooms and spite. “Do what again?”

“The braid. From the other night.”

“What braid?”

“Haymitch,” you say slowly, “you braided my hair.”

He looks mildly offended. “No I didn’t.”

“You did. With a mystery hair tie that may or may not have come from another dimension.”

“That doesn’t sound like me.”

“It was you!”

After a long pause, he snatches the comb from your hand with exaggerated flair. “Fine. Move.”

You turn around, triumphant. That is, until two minutes later, when he growls in frustration.

“Why the hell is your hair so slippery? Is this sabotage?”

“It’s wet!”

“Feels like trick wire!”

He ends up tying your hair into what you can only describe as a deranged tumbleweed secured with a kitchen twist-tie. You stare at your reflection in the window and blink slowly.

“Beautiful,” you deadpan. “Like a noble shrub.”

He squints at it. “Looks fine.”

“You were surgical when you were drunk. Are you telling me liquor gives you hair-braiding superpowers?”

“Apparently.” He sounds offended by the fact. “Don’t ask me to explain it.”

“You’re like a fairy godmother who needs to be drunk to do magic.”

He grins at that, leaning back in his chair with smug satisfaction. “That’s right. You want a decent braid, you bring whiskey.”

A few hours later, he’s drunk again.

You find him in his living room, sprawled on the floor with his back against the couch like gravity gave up halfway through. The bottle is nearly empty. You weren’t even planning on going back over, but your hair’s still a little damp, and curiosity—or maybe something else—dragged you across the lawn.

He squints up at you like you might be a hallucination. “You came back,” he slurs.

“I live next door.”

“You came back,” he insists, like it’s a romantic gesture instead of you standing in your socks with a blanket over your shoulders.

Then he pats the floor between his spread legs with the kind of solemnity reserved for important ceremonies. “C’mere, sugar. Let me fix it. M’gonna make it right.”

“Fix what?” you ask, but you already know.

“The rat’s nest,” he mumbles. “Tried earlier. Failed. I failed you.” He looks devastated. “Twist-tie was not the answer.”

You almost choke trying not to laugh. “No, it really wasn’t.”

He holds his hand out for the comb you didn’t even realize you brought again. “Gimme another shot. I got the magic back.”

You hesitate only for a second before settling down on the floor between his legs, your legs stretched out in front of you, one arm resting casually on his knee. The contact is small, steadying—quietly intimate in a way neither of you acknowledge.

His fingers are clumsy at first, warm and wandering, but then something shifts. The same rhythm from before returns—steady, practiced. He hums to himself, off-key and tuneless, as he works. It shouldn’t feel comforting. But it absolutely does.

“Sorry ‘bout earlier,” he mumbles near your ear. “Didn’t mean to make you look like an angry bush.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“’Cause you’re sweet,” he mutters, tugging the braid just tight enough to ground you. “Sweet, sugar. Let me do right by your hair. Deserves better than me sober.”

You smile without meaning to, the corner of your mouth tugging up as his breath warms your neck.

When he ties off the braid—with the mystery hair tie again, of course—he leans his forehead against the back of your head for a second like he’s hit the emotional wall of drunken sincerity.

“There,” he murmurs, pleased. “Now you’re shiny again.”

You don’t know what that means. You don’t ask.

It’s a few weeks later when you learn he has another absurd drunk talent.

You weren’t expecting to see him that night—you were just coming by to return a book he lent to Katniss, because apparently even she has limits on how long she can tolerate his handwritten notes in the margins (“this guy’s an idiot,” “wow, murder again?”). You don’t knock. You never do anymore.

But you freeze halfway through the doorway.

Because Haymitch Abernathy—victor, drunk, emotionally stunted disaster of a man—is sitting on his couch with a half-empty bottle at his feet and a pair of knitting needles in his hands.

Knitting.

Knitting a sweater.

It’s light blue. There’s a tiny uneven heart on the sleeve. You know it’s a heart because you can see the failed first attempts in a little pile beside him, a lumpy collection of false starts that clearly pissed him off.

And he’s muttering to it like it’s got opinions.

“Been workin’ on it whenever I drink,” he slurs proudly, barely glancing up as you stare at him like your brain has short-circuited. “Was gonna be a scarf. But you’re cold all the time, so it… evolved.”

“You knit.”

“I drunk-knit,” he corrects, stabbing the needle through a loop like it insulted him. “Tried it sober once. Ended up stranglin’ myself with the yarn.”

You walk in slowly, in complete disbelief. “You’re making me a sweater.”

“Not just you. Made Peeta socks.” He scowls. “He doesn’t know. Gonna sneak ‘em into his drawer. Real covert-like.”

You honestly don’t know what’s more ridiculous: the fact that he’s doing it, or the fact that he’s actually good at it. The stitches are neat. Focused. Full of care he’d never admit to while sober. The little heart on the sleeve is uneven, but it means something. It feels like being seen through a haze of whiskey and grumbling affection.

“You’re a menace,” you say, sitting beside him, careful not to touch the project. “A drunk, secret-knitting menace.”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Better than fightin’. Or drinkin’ and fightin’. Or fightin’ the sweater.”

That one’s muttered under his breath. You don’t ask for details.

It spirals from there.

A few days later, you catch him in the kitchen making a pie from scratch at two in the morning, completely plastered and dusted in flour like he lost a fight with a snowstorm.

He turns slowly when he hears you in the doorway, one eye barely open. “S’for you,” he slurs. “Wanted you to have somethin’ warm in the morning. Don’t eat enough.”

“You’re making me a pie?”

He nods solemnly, like this is a sacred task. “Been practicin’ my crust technique. Had to drink three glasses just to get it right.”

He burns himself pulling it out of the oven, curses loudly, and then proudly presents you with a lopsided apple pie that somehow smells like it came from a professional bakery.

You can’t even mock him. You just eat it, silently stunned, while he watches with the wary expression of a man who put too much heart into something and doesn’t know how to ask if you liked it.

There’s no pattern to it.

Sometimes it’s a perfectly carved wooden bird on your porch step.

Sometimes it’s him fixing a squeaky cabinet hinge like it’s a goddamn life mission.

One morning you wake up to find your leaky roof patched with tar and spare sheet metal, and when you confront him, he just mumbles, “Was worried mold would start growing. Thought I’d… do somethin’ about it. Had to drink half a bottle first. For focus.”

You’ve never seen someone so functionally incompetent while sober and yet domestically gifted when plastered. It makes no sense. It breaks physics. You don’t understand it, and honestly, you’ve given up trying.

But one night, when he’s working on your sweater again, arms moving clumsily but steadily, he murmurs, “You always looked like you needed someone to take care of you a little.”

Then, after a pause, without looking at you: “Think I like tryin’. When I can.”

You don’t say anything. Just rest your head on his shoulder, watching the needles move, the yarn tug, the world settle into something oddly steady for once.

Haymitch Abernathy is a drunk, foul-mouthed, emotionally constipated man with hair-braiding hands, secret pie recipes, and a sweater in progress just for you.

And somehow, despite everything…

It feels right for him to be so soft.

[sweetheartsofpanem]

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.

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

[sweetheartsofpanem]

What We've Been Becoming - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 4.35k

series masterlist | main masterlist

Your living room looks like a small, polite explosion went off.

Throw pillows are scattered across the floor. There’s a blanket halfway across the coffee table for reasons no one has explained. Katniss is sprawled across the couch like she’s claimed it in a quiet act of revolution, and Peeta is in your armchair completely upside down.

You are on the floor.

By choice.

Kind of.

Mostly because Katniss shoved you off the couch when you tried to adjust the blanket and called it “natural consequences.”

You sip your tea and try not to look suspicious.

Peeta is watching you.

He’s been watching you for a while.

You try to look normal.

Which, unfortunately, is exactly what gives you away.

He shifts so he’s sitting like a normal person, smile growing way too slowly. “So.”

You squint at him over your mug. “Don’t.”

Katniss raises an eyebrow from the couch, voice dry. “She knows it’s coming.”

Peeta grins. “She should. We’ve given her at least three minutes of peace.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh, we know,” Peeta says, in a tone that absolutely implies you did everything.

You lower your mug with a sigh. “Whatever you’re about to say, I object.”

Katniss shifts, resting her head on the arm of the couch. “You’re wearing his shirt again.”

You immediately look down, like you forgot.

Then curse yourself for looking down, because now they know they’re right.

Peeta gasps, scandalized. “And she blushed.”

“I did not—”

Katniss reaches down with her foot and nudges your shoulder. “You totally did.”

“Okay, new rule,” you mutter. “No bullying the emotionally vulnerable girl in her own home.”

“You love it,” Peeta says, kicking his legs over the arm of the chair like he owns the place.

You glare at both of them. “I want a refund on this friendship.”

Katniss smirks. “Too late. You’re stuck with us.”

Peeta watches you for a second longer, that little knowing smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth.

Then, far too casually, he says, “So are you guys, like… together?”

You choke on your tea.

Katniss doesn’t even flinch. She just reaches for one of your cookies like this is the conversation she’s been waiting to overhear.

You stare at Peeta, wide-eyed. “What?”

“You and Haymitch,” he says, gesturing vaguely like it’s obvious. “Are you… a thing now?”

“I—no? I don’t know?” You fumble the words like they betrayed you. “We haven’t even kissed.”

Peeta blinks.

“Wait, what?”

Katniss casually takes a bite of her cookie and murmurs, “That’s pathetic.”

You spin around on the floor to glare at her. “You’re pathetic.”

She shrugs. “Never claimed otherwise.”

Peeta holds up a hand. “Back up. You’re telling me you guys have slept in the same bed, had entire conversations with your foreheads touching, wear each other’s clothes, hold hands like it’s a religion, and haven’t kissed?”

You press your palms to your face. “Why are you like this.”

Peeta leans forward. “You cuddle. You spoon. You made him birthday pancakes.”

“It was one time!”

“You call him sunshine.”

“Because it annoys him!”

“You kissed his scar with your eyes, Y/N.”

Katniss snorts so hard she nearly chokes.

You grab the nearest pillow and throw it at Peeta.

“Shut up!”

“You’re emotionally married!”

“You are banned from this house.”

Katniss raises her mug. “Seconded.”

Peeta’s grinning so wide it’s a miracle his face hasn’t cracked. “I’m just saying—if I were cuddling someone that often, we’d have made out weeks ago.”

You flop back against the floor with a dramatic groan. “We are not talking about this anymore.”

Peeta hums. “You say that, but—”

“I will bite you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Katniss leans down and places a cookie on your lap like an offering. “Here. You’ll need your strength.”

You lay back, eyes on the ceiling, wishing it would open up and swallow you whole.

Peeta’s still watching you like he’s waiting for an answer you’re never going to give him.

Katniss is eating her cookie with the kind of serene detachment only someone who thrives on emotional dysfunction can manage.

And then, because apparently you hate yourself, you say, “…We kind of insinuated we love each other.”

Both heads snap toward you.

Peeta’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

You wave a hand vaguely, still staring at the ceiling like if you don’t make eye contact, the embarrassment might stay contained. “I mean, we didn’t say it. But it was like—implied. Subtextually. A lot of… ‘it’s love’ and ‘you make the days feel different’ and ‘you’re already halfway in love with me’ kind of stuff.”

Katniss blinks. “So… all the feelings.”

Peeta makes a noise like his brain just short-circuited. “On his birthday?!”

You groan. “I didn’t mean to! It just happened! The vibes were intense!”

“The vibes?” Peeta repeats, somewhere between laughing and panicking. “You accidentally confessed your love over pancakes and vibes?”

“There was also cuddling,” you mumble.

Katniss tosses another cookie at your stomach. “You’re hopeless.”

You slap your hand over your face. “I know.”

Peeta leans back in the chair like he’s re-evaluating the entire timeline of your friendship. “So just to recap—he held you all night, you made him breakfast, you both basically said ‘I love you’ in different fonts… and you still haven’t kissed.”

You groan again, louder. “I hate it here.”

Katniss hums. “We could lock you in a room.”

“I live in a room!”

“Good,” she says, serene. “Then you’re already trapped.”

You push yourself upright, arms draped over your knees, and finally look at them both.

“I know it sounds ridiculous,” you mutter. “But we’re just… taking it slow.”

Peeta opens his mouth.

You cut him off. “Actually slow. Like… healing-in-progress, maybe-someday slow.”

That quiets him.

Katniss tilts her head slightly.

You shrug, a little helpless. “He’s been single for twenty-five years. I’ve been single for eight. We’ve both got a lot of…” You gesture vaguely. “Stuff. That we never really unpacked.”

Peeta leans forward again, gentler this time. “That makes sense.”

You look down at your hands. “I don’t want to screw it up by rushing into something we’re both still figuring out how to want. I mean, I do want it. I think he does too. But we’re still learning how to trust that it’s real. That it’s allowed.”

For a second, it’s quiet.

Katniss is the one who breaks it.

“You don’t have to explain it to us.”

You glance up.

She shrugs. “We get it.”

Peeta nods. “Honestly? Makes me feel better knowing you’re going slow. Means you’re not just diving in and hoping he won’t disappear.”

Your chest aches a little—but in the way that says maybe you’re finally safe enough to feel it.

You smile, small. “Thanks.”

Peeta grins. “Still gonna bully you a little, though.”

Katniss tosses another cookie. “Obviously.”

You dodge it this time.

But you don’t stop smiling.

You’re still curled up on the floor between your best friends, warm from laughter and the last threads of honesty, when the door creaks open behind you.

You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

You feel it in your chest before you hear the footsteps.

“Hope I’m not interrupting whatever deeply profound nonsense you three are up to,” Haymitch mutters as he steps inside, still rumpled from sleep, hair a mess, shirt only halfway buttoned like he gave up halfway through.

You look up.

And your face lights up.

There’s no stopping it.

Not a polite smile.

Not a casual grin.

A full-body, helpless, face-softening, heart-stupid smile.

Peeta makes a sound.

You turn toward him slowly.

He’s just sitting there. Staring.

And then—brightly, like he’s never once feared death—he says, “Look at that smile. That’s the kind of smile people write love songs about.”

You blink. “Peeta—”

“No, no, don’t hide it now,” he says, delighted. “That was a worshipful smile. That was a ‘you walked into the room and the sun came out’ smile.”

Katniss covers her mouth, shaking with silent laughter.

Haymitch pauses mid-step. “Should I come back later or…?”

“No,” Peeta says. “Please. Stay. We were just admiring how stupidly in love your girlfriend is.”

Your jaw drops. “I am not—”

Haymitch smirks. “Not what?”

You glare at him. “Don’t you start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“She was glowing,” Peeta adds helpfully.

Katniss throws another cookie at you. “Sunbeam.”

You bury your face in your hands again. “Why do I talk to any of you.”

Haymitch sits on the arm of the couch near you, far too smug, and sips whatever’s in the mug he brought with him.

You peek through your fingers.

And, damn it—

You smile again.

Peeta sighs dramatically. “There it is again.”

Haymitch sits there a moment longer, surveying the couch like it’s the next strategic move in a long, complicated game.

Then he looks down at Katniss, legs still draped across the cushions with all the grace of a sleeping mountain lion.

“Legs up, sweetheart.”

She doesn’t even blink. “No.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I will sit on them.”

She sighs, dramatic, but pulls her legs up anyway, curling into the opposite arm of the couch with a cookie still in hand like she’s royalty who’s just been mildly inconvenienced.

Haymitch sits with a grunt, stretching one arm along the back of the couch, mug in the other hand.

You don’t look at him.

Which is probably why you jump a little when his fingers brush your arm.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just tugs lightly.

And you—helpless, hopeless you—let him pull you off the floor like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Like it’s not setting off every alarm in your body and also somehow turning them all into lullabies.

You end up tucked beside him, legs curled under you, shoulder just under his arm.

His hand settles warm at your upper arm like it belongs there.

Peeta makes another noise.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “She’s being scooped like a kitten.”

Katniss, deadpan, “She didn’t even hesitate.”

You don’t defend yourself.

You don’t need to.

Because Haymitch, voice low and smug and just loud enough to carry, says, “Didn’t hear her complain.”

And you’re never living any of this down.

But you’re also not moving.

So.

Fair trade.

Eventually, the teasing dies down.

Peeta stops his commentary long enough to munch on one of the cookies Katniss didn’t hoard. She’s curled back into the couch corner, eyes half-lidded, content in that specific way only she can be—like she’d bolt at the first sign of sentiment but for now, this is fine.

Haymitch doesn’t move his arm.

You pretend not to notice how warm he is.

The room settles into something easy.

Someone says something dumb about Peeta’s “cinnamon bread sculpture” from last week that ended up looking like a deflated swan.

Katniss says she still ate it.

You tease her for pretending she doesn’t like cinnamon.

She glares at you. “I never said I didn’t like it.”

“You said it was ‘aggressively sweet.’”

Peeta snorts. “You ate three pieces.”

“It was fine.”

Haymitch mutters, “Swear you could set her on fire and she’d just say it was slightly warm.”

Katniss throws a pillow at him.

He bats it away without flinching, and you all fall into laughter again, the kind that comes from deep in your chest, soft and full and unexpected.

After that, the conversation turns quieter. Gentler.

Someone mentions the garden.

Peeta wants to try growing carrots next. Katniss says it’s a waste of space. You argue that carrots are important for the soul. Haymitch says something about the last time he tried to grow anything and ended up accidentally cultivating a mushroom colony.

“You should try flowers,” you tell him. “You can’t mess those up.”

“I could.”

“You could,” you agree. “But you’d try. And that counts.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Just gives you a look.

One you’re starting to know pretty well.

The hours drift by in that slow, honey-thick way that usually only happens when you forget you’re supposed to be doing something else.

Peeta ends up in your kitchen experimenting with what he swears is a brilliant cinnamon-cocoa-tea hybrid. Katniss tells him it tastes like bark. You say it tastes like safety.

Haymitch drinks it in total silence and refuses to comment.

Eventually, Katniss migrates to the floor with a pillow under her back and starts braiding a tassel off your throw blanket. Peeta tries to teach her a complicated pattern, which ends in both of them muttering insults under their breath while Haymitch judges them from across the room.

You don’t move from the couch.

You’re still pressed beside him, your legs tucked under you, his arm draped behind you like it settled there and forgot to leave. He hasn’t moved it. You haven’t shifted away.

No one says anything about it.

Not even when Peeta keeps glancing over like he’s physically restraining himself from making a comment.

Eventually, Katniss stretches—limbs long and lazy like a satisfied cat—and says, “We should go.”

Peeta groans. “Nooo, I like it here. It’s warm. There’s cocoa and tea. Y/N’s blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Katniss and Peeta say at the same time.

You glare at both of them from your safe little corner of the couch. “You two are the worst.”

Katniss shrugs as she gets to her feet. “We get results.”

Peeta grabs his coat and points a finger at you on his way to the door. “We’ll talk more about the not kissing thing next time.”

“Peeta—”

He grins. “Love you!”

Then he swings the door open like he owns the place and slams it behind them, leaving the room in sudden, blessed silence.

You don’t move.

Haymitch doesn’t say anything.

But when you glance up at him, he’s already looking at you.

And there’s something about the way the light hits his face—soft and gold and quiet—that makes you feel like you’re still glowing from the inside out.

Haymitch lets out a long, tired sigh like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

“You gonna survive?”

“Not sure. Peeta might’ve done permanent damage.”

You smile. “He is a menace.”

“Should’ve drowned him in that tea.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

He gives you a look. “It tasted like cinnamon tried to fight a tree and lost.”

You huff out a laugh, head tipping against the cushion. “You didn’t even complain.”

“Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.”

A comfortable beat passes.

Then, casually, he says, “You were smiling pretty damn hard when I walked in.”

Your cheeks heat instantly. “You don’t have to bring it up.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

You glance at him.

He’s not teasing now.

Just looking.

Warm. Amused. A little smug, but softer than you expect.

You shrug, trying to play it off. “You’re just… a good face to see.”

His lips twitch. “That so?”

You elbow him lightly. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

You roll your eyes but a smile tugs at your lips, the room still glowing from earlier laughter, from sun filtering in lazy stripes across the walls.

His thumb brushes lightly along the top of your arm, just above your shoulder. Not deliberate. Not really. Just… resting there. Just staying.

You glance down at where his hand sits, draped loosely around you, and then up at him.

He doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

The air between you feels softer now. Like it’s folded in on itself. Like maybe it understands that this—whatever this is—is still new. Still fragile. But real.

You shift slightly, nestling a little closer into his side until your cheek rests against his chest.

“Hey,” you murmur.

Haymitch hums. “Hmm?”

You tilt your head to look at him, voice low. “You doing okay?”

He’s quiet for a second, his chest rising slowly against your cheek.

Then—without looking down—he says, “Better than I usually am.”

Your chest tightens.

“Is that because of me?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

Finally, he glances down at you.

There’s no sarcasm in his face. No smirk.

Just Haymitch.

Soft around the eyes. Worn around the edges. Tired in the way people get when they’ve carried everything alone for too long.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

You don’t answer.

You don’t need to.

You just press your face a little closer to his chest and let your arm slip gently around his middle.

His hand shifts again—settling more fully over your shoulder, thumb brushing along the edge of your collarbone now in slow, steady strokes.

And when he leans his head down just enough that his cheek rests lightly against the top of your head, he exhales.

Like he was waiting for permission to breathe.

And you close your eyes.

Because here, like this, wrapped in the warmth of his body and the quiet hush of the moment, you don’t have to be brave. Or funny. Or sure.

You just get to be.

You don’t know how long you stay like that.

Minutes pass, slow and steady, marked only by the movement of his thumb against your shoulder and the quiet rhythm of his breathing.

You think he could fall asleep like this.

You think you could, too.

But eventually, the light fades enough that the edges of the room blur, and your neck starts to ache from where you’ve been resting against his chest.

You shift, just enough to look up at him.

“Should we… go upstairs?”

His brows lift slightly. “You inviting me to bed, honey?”

You roll your eyes. “You’ve already been in it. Multiple times.”

“Still nice to be asked.”

You nudge his side. “Consider this your formal invitation.”

He smirks, but it’s soft around the edges. “In that case…”

You both stand slowly—your legs slightly numb from being curled under you too long, his knees cracking like it’s a full-body protest. He winces. You snort.

You lead the way to your room, still barefoot, the soft creak of the stairs the only sound between you.

And when you push the door open, the room is the same as always—quiet, warm, lived-in—but now it holds something else too.

A drawer.

Third one down.

You don’t say anything as you walk to it and pull it open, revealing a small but very real collection of his things—folded shirts, a pair of sweatpants, a clean undershirt. His.

You feel him pause in the doorway behind you.

Then, after a moment, his voice—low, a little rough. “That mine?”

You nod once, not turning. “Yeah.”

A pause.

Then, gentler than you expect, “How long’s that been there?”

You shrug. “Couple weeks. I didn’t really plan it. Just figured… if you were staying over more, it made sense.”

You turn to glance at him over your shoulder.

“I like when you’re here.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Just walks over to the drawer and reaches in, grabbing the sweatpants.

Then—without hesitation—he peels off his shirt right there.

You freeze.

Like completely.

Because, okay. You were prepared for him to come back in a t-shirt and maybe mentally swoon a little.

You were not prepared for bare skin, the dip of his collarbones, the scar across his stomach catching the low light.

You absolutely forget what air is.

He glances up.

And oh.

He sees it.

That smirk crawls right back onto his face, subtle but infuriating. “Something wrong, honey?”

You manage a noise that’s meant to be a scoff and comes out dangerously close to a squeak.

He’s still smirking when he heads into the bathroom to change.

You rip your gaze away like it physically hurts and scramble into your softest sleep shirt, tugging it over your head and launching yourself under the covers before your brain can spiral into places it has no business going.

When he comes back, he’s in the sweatpants—but still shirtless—and you swear the air drops ten degrees and spikes ten more all at once.

You refuse to look.

You absolutely look.

He says nothing.

The bed shifts slightly beneath his weight as he settles in beside you, the room dim and quiet, the ceiling painted in soft moonlight. You’re both under the blanket now, barely an inch apart, facing each other.

And it’s… a lot.

He’s warm. Bare-chested. Eyes half-lidded with sleep but still focused, still sharp.

You’re not touching.

Not quite.

But you’re so close your knees bump beneath the blanket and your foreheads could meet with the smallest tilt.

Haymitch lets out a quiet breath. “Didn’t think I’d ever get used to this.”

You glance at him. “To what?”

“This,” he murmurs, eyes on yours. “Ending the day next to someone. It’s… weird.”

“Weird bad?”

He shrugs one shoulder, the motion slow and a little too aware. “Weird good. Good weird.”

You smile, barely. “Yeah. I get that.”

His hand shifts between you, fingers brushing your blanket-covered arm before stilling again. Not pulling you closer. Just letting the touch land.

You hold his gaze.

It’s quiet.

Still.

Heavy in that way that feels like standing on the edge of something.

“You make it easier,” he says, voice low. “All of it.”

You blink. “What?”

“Just… being here. Letting someone close. Letting myself want that.” His voice softens. “You make it easier.”

Your breath hitches.

And suddenly, everything is louder.

The thrum in your chest.

The way your knees brush.

The soft warmth of his skin only inches from yours.

You whisper, “You’re not the only one who’s scared, you know.”

He nods slowly.

“I know,” he says.

A pause.

His thumb brushes your wrist under the blanket. “But I think I’m finally more scared of not having this than I am of screwing it up.”

You don’t say anything.

You just shift—closer now, barely an inch of space left.

Your forehead brushes his.

And he exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.

His forehead stays against yours.

Just lightly.

Barely touching.

Like he’s afraid to press too hard and break the spell of the moment.

You let your eyes fall closed for a second, just breathing.

It’s still so new.

This kind of closeness.

This kind of ease.

“You know,” you murmur, barely louder than the hum of the house, “I used to think I’d never have this.”

His thumb moves again, tracing a soft circle near your wrist.

“This… what?” he asks.

You open your eyes. “Quiet. Safety. A place to land.”

He’s looking at you. Not smiling. Not teasing.

Just looking.

“And now?” he says.

You hesitate. Then whisper, “Now it’s hard to remember what it felt like without it.”

The silence between you stretches again, but not because you’ve run out of things to say.

Just because some things are better left hanging in the space between your bodies. Floating there, weightless and real.

His voice comes softer now. Like the words are more breath than sound.

“You ever think about what it’d be like if the world hadn’t gone to hell?”

You glance up at him. “Like if there hadn’t been Games?”

“Yeah.”

You think about it.

Then shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe we never would’ve ended up in the same room.”

He huffs a breath, almost a laugh. “Tragic.”

You smirk. “You’d have missed out on so much character development.”

He smiles at that.

A real one.

Quiet and a little tired and so full of affection it makes your chest ache.

“I would’ve liked to meet you anyway,” he says.

Something in your throat tightens.

“Even if it wasn’t like this,” he continues. “Even if it was just passing you on the street or buying something from your stand or seeing you in the bookshop you work at.”

You blink. “You think I’d work in a bookshop?”

“You have the bookish rage of someone who’d alphabetize with malice.”

You try not to laugh, but it breaks through anyway—soft and breathy.

He watches you like it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.

Like it matters.

You shake your head gently, still close enough to feel the warmth of his skin. “You’d be that weird guy who comes in once a week to buy books he already owns just to argue about the ending.”

“And you’d let me.”

“Only because I’d want to win.”

Then he meets your gaze again and says, “You probably would.”

You smile—small, quiet, almost sleepy.

And when your hand drifts up without thinking, brushing his bare shoulder, your fingers barely graze a scar just below his collarbone.

You don’t realize you’re doing it.

The silence between you settles again, delicate and warm.

His thumb keeps brushing your wrist.

Your hand rests against his shoulder, fingers curled slightly—not clutching, not pulling. Just there.

You look at him.

Not expecting anything.

Just… looking.

And maybe that’s what does it.

The way your eyes soften when they meet his.

The way your lips part just barely like you’re about to say something but don’t.

The way you don’t flinch when he shifts closer.

His eyes drop—slow and hesitant—to your mouth.

And when they come back up, they don’t ask for permission.

They ask in the way only he can—with a breath, a pause, a look that’s all uncertainty wrapped around want.

Then quietly, just above a whisper, “Come here.”

Your brows pinch, barely.

But you lean, instinctively.

Because of course you do.

Because it’s him.

And he kisses you.

No fanfare.

No speech.

Just mouth to mouth like he’s never tasted softness before and isn’t sure how long he’ll be allowed to keep it.

His hand lifts—cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek.

Yours tightens against his shoulder like it’s the only solid thing in the room.

And it’s slow.

And unsure.

And steady.

Like everything that led up to it.

Like him.

Like you.

When he finally pulls back—just barely—you don’t let go.

Neither of you says anything.

Not yet.

Because there’s nothing left to say.

Just breath and skin and the quiet hum of something that’s finally become real.

Next Part

[sweetheartsofpanem]

Epilogue - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

ik this is like an abrupt ending but i feel like 40 chapters is a good ending point😭 also i hope y’all catch on to who the name honors :)

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 1.40k

series masterlist | main masterlist

The house is different now.

Not louder. Just… softer.

There’s a quiet hum to everything—like the whole place has shifted its breath to match hers. You move slower. Speak lower. Listen harder. Every corner of your life has been bent gently around the rhythm of someone new.

Louiza is two months old today.

You woke up to her tiny fists stretching above her head, her face all scrunched and warm from sleep, making that little huffing sound she does when she wants to be picked up but refuses to cry for it. You swear she’s already got her father’s temperament—stubborn, proud, easily offended by silence.

Haymitch calls it “having standards.”

You call it perfect.

Right now, she’s curled on your chest, her whole body no heavier than a sack of flour, one chubby hand fisted in the fabric of your shirt. Her hair’s a perfect mix between yours and Haymitch’s, soft as breath, and her lashes are longer than anything that small has a right to be.

You rock back gently in the old chair by the window. The same chair Haymitch used to collapse into after long days in the garden. The same chair Soot used to claim as her throne. Now it belongs to her.

To Lou.

And you would give her the whole world if she asked.

Outside, the village is green and alive—gardens blooming, clotheslines dancing in the breeze. You can hear the faint sound of Peeta’s voice from across the way, probably scolding Katniss for carrying something heavier than she promised she would.

The kitchen smells like Haymitch’s coffee.

You don’t know where he is right now, but you know he’ll be back any second. He always comes back.

Especially now.

The door creaks open just a little, soft on its hinges. You don’t look up.

You don’t need to.

You hear the familiar shuffle of his boots, the quiet scrape of the floorboards as he steps into the room. He always walks slower now—like he’s afraid the sound of his feet might wake her.

He crosses to you without a word.

Leans over the back of the chair.

And with all the tenderness in the world tucked behind a grumble, presses a kiss to your temple.

Then another to the crown of Louiza’s head.

“She breathing okay?” he murmurs, low like it’s a secret.

“She’s perfect,” you whisper back.

He nods, like he agrees but still needs proof. His hand ghosts over her back, checks the warmth of her skin through her little sleeper. He presses two fingers gently under her chin—just enough to feel her breath puff against them.

You watch the way his shoulders ease.

“You do know she’s not made of glass,” you say softly.

“She’s got your cheeks,” he mutters, still watching her. “That’s reason enough to be cautious.”

You snort quietly. “You cried over her sock this morning.”

“I did not.”

“You said—‘look how damn small it is, it’s disrespectful.’”

He straightens slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Still think that’s true.”

You smile, tilting your head to look up at him.

His hair’s a little longer now. His face still carries the lines it always has, but there’s something different behind them now—something rested. Softer.

He leans down again and presses another kiss to your forehead. “Want me to take her?”

“She just fell asleep.”

“Even better,” he whispers, already reaching.

You carefully shift Louiza into his arms, her cheek smushed softly against his shoulder the moment she settles. His hand spans the entire length of her back. He sways a little without thinking. Just rocks her. Instinctive.

“Hey,” you say, still watching him.

He looks up.

You smile. “You’re good at this.”

He rolls his eyes, but his voice is quieter when he says, “She makes it easy.”

And for a moment, you just watch him stand there in the golden light, your daughter curled safe in his arms, everything quiet except for the wind outside and the steady beat of a heart that finally has something to protect.

Louiza only lasts another ten minutes in Haymitch’s arms before she starts to squirm—nose scrunched, tiny fists flailing like she’s had enough of peaceful dreams and would like to be included in the activities now.

You look up from where you’ve settled on the edge of the couch and smile. “Someone’s ready.”

Haymitch shifts her carefully, one hand cradling her head. “Think she’s up for some fresh air?”

You grin. “Only if you carry her.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He lets you dress her in one of the little cotton rompers Katniss stitched by hand—soft blue, with tiny white stitches along the collar and cuffs. It’s simple and sturdy and slightly uneven at the seams, and you think it might be your favorite thing she owns.

Haymitch watches you fasten the buttons and murmurs, “You look proud of yourself.”

“She didn’t even cry,” you whisper back.

“Neither did you, for once.”

You swat him gently. “Careful, old man.”

He smirks. “Easy, honey.”

By the time the three of you step out onto the porch, the sun’s mellowed into something warm and golden. There’s a breeze moving through the trees, gentle and steady, rustling the leaves like a lullaby. Haymitch has Louiza tucked against his chest, one big hand splayed protectively across her back.

She babbles once, soft and sleepy, and he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

The village hums around you—quiet and familiar. Someone’s hanging laundry three doors down. You catch the smell of something baking. Kids are laughing in the distance, a little flock of them running down the road with hand-made flags tied to sticks.

You walk slow.

Wave at the woman two houses over who always gives you clippings from her garden. She waves back and coos at the baby.

Peeta’s voice calls from his porch. “If she says her first word before Katniss and I have one, I’m going to scream.”

“She already did,” Haymitch calls back.

Peeta gasps like it’s a personal betrayal.

“She said ‘glrrbh,’” you add.

“Genius,” Haymitch says, nodding solemnly.

Katniss appears in the doorway and just mutters, “You’re both idiots.”

You grin as Louiza squeals, flailing her hands toward the sound of familiar voices.

Haymitch shifts her again—gentle, steady, close like he can’t help it—and hands her to you.

“Think we’re doing alright?” he asks quietly.

You glance at the porch steps, the homes, the people waving. The warmth in your chest. The ring on your finger. The baby in your arms.

You nod.

“We’re doing perfect.”

Peeta’s already holding the door open by the time you reach their porch.

“Come in,” he says, like it wasn’t already obvious, like you don’t do this at least three times a week. “We’ve got bread. And leftover soup. And, for some reason, cake?”

“Celebrating?” Haymitch asks as he steps inside behind you.

“Katniss didn’t murder a man at the market today,” Peeta replies. “I think that deserves something.”

Katniss, already walking toward the kitchen, mutters, “He said my herbs were overpriced.”

“You nearly threw a bundle of thyme at his head.”

“He deserved it.”

You laugh, adjusting Louiza against your chest. Her hand’s fisted in your shirt again, her eyes wide now and curious, tracking the movement around her.

You settle into the corner of their worn old couch, sinking into the cushions like you’ve done a hundred times. Haymitch sits beside you and stretches his arm along the back, fingers brushing lazily against your shoulder.

Katniss and Peeta move around the kitchen like muscle memory—bread warming in the oven, bowls placed on the table, quiet teasing passed back and forth like a second language.

Lou lets out a soft sigh and nestles in tighter.

And for a moment, you don’t speak.

You just listen.

To the people you love more than anything. The life you didn’t think you’d get. The man beside you who chose you over and over again, even when it scared him. The baby in your arms who sleeps like she knows she’s safe.

There’s no noise in your head.

No ache in your chest.

No fear that this is temporary.

There’s only this warmth. Laughter. The clatter of dishes. The curl of Haymitch’s fingers at your shoulder. The quiet rise and fall of Lou’s breath.

This is what you survived for.

And you realize, as your heart swells with it, soft things do survive.

[sweetheartsofpanem]

She Fell First - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

we get to see more of Y/N’s real personality here:’) i think i may love peeta and Y/N’s dynamic better than haymitch and Y/N’s lmao also i literally did a whole mapping of like how old her parents would’ve been during haymitch’s games and how old they were when she was born for it to like make sense that she’s 20 years younger😭 there might be mistakes in here but idk i’ve literally only gotten 3 hours of sleep these last few days, i’ll check for mistakes when i wake up later

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 3.17k

series masterlist | main masterlist

It starts with the ceiling.

Not in any grand, earth-shattering way. Just the way the light hits it in the early hours—soft and golden, stretching across the plaster in gentle streaks. You’ve been lying there for what feels like hours, blanket bunched at your waist, one arm flung over your eyes. Your thoughts are loud. Too loud.

You move your arm. Stare at the ceiling again.

Okay. So. Something’s wrong with you.

Or not wrong, exactly. Just—something. Something you can’t name, and that fact alone is infuriating.

You haven’t slept much since the lake.

Every time you close your eyes, you’re back there again: sunlight skimming the water, Katniss and Peeta laughing somewhere behind you, the cold lake biting at your skin. And him.

Haymitch.

In the water. With his arms crossed and his usual scowl, scar catching the light in a way that made your breath catch.

Not because it was a scar. Because it was his.

You groan and fling your other arm over your face.

Why does he make you feel like this?

It’s not normal. It can’t be normal. Your heart does this thing now—stops, then stutters, then tries to catch up all at once when he looks at you. It’s inconvenient. It’s confusing. You want to be near him constantly. You want to hear his voice, even if it’s grumbling. Especially when it’s grumbling. You want to know what it would feel like if he touched your hand and didn’t pull away.

You stare at the ceiling like it has answers.

It doesn’t.

You sit up slowly, dragging your hands over your face. Your hair is a mess, your heart won’t stop thudding, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to die unless you figure out what this is.

You need Peeta.

He’ll know what to do.

You’re not even fully sure if you brushed your hair. You just pull on a hoodie and stomp across the Victor’s Village lawn barefoot like the ground offended you. The sun’s barely up—early enough that the dew still clings to the grass, that the air smells like wet stone and lavender from Katniss’ herb garden.

You don’t care. You’re on a mission.

Their front door isn’t locked. It never is. You throw it open and march inside.

“Peeta Mellark,” you call, already halfway through the living room. “I need your brain.”

There’s a startled crash from the kitchen, followed by a muffled, “Jesus—Y/N?”

You appear in the doorway to find him in pajama pants, holding a wooden spoon like it might save his life. There’s something bubbling on the stove behind him, and flour dusts his chest like he lost a fight with a baking tin.

He blinks at you. “Do you… want toast?”

“I want clarity,” you announce, dramatically collapsing onto one of the chairs at the table. “I think I’m dying.”

Peeta lowers the spoon very slowly. “From what?”

“I don’t know.” You wave a hand. “Something horrifying. It’s making my heart do this stupid fluttery thing and my stomach’s being a weirdo and my brain keeps playing flashbacks like it’s a Capitol propaganda reel.”

He turns off the burner with a sigh and grabs two mugs from the cabinet. “How long has this been going on?”

You drop your forehead to the table. “Since the lake.”

Peeta pauses mid-pour. “Oh.”

You lift your head slowly. Narrow your eyes. “Why’d you say it like that?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said ‘oh.’ That’s definitely something.”

He sets a mug in front of you. “And who, exactly, is starring in these little mental flashbacks of yours?”

You take the mug and squint at the steam. “No one.”

He waits.

You groan and let your head thunk back down. “Haymitch.”

Peeta doesn’t laugh. He just sips his drink calmly, like he’s been expecting this since the dawn of time.

You lift your head again. “Peeta.”

He hums. “Mm-hmm?”

“What the hell is this?”

“It’s called a crush.”

You stare at him. “No it’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“No. It’s—he makes me want to be near him all the time and also run away screaming.”

“Crush.”

“And sometimes when he says things, I forget what words are.”

“Classic.”

“I think about him more than is legally allowed.”

Peeta sips again. “That’s the one.”

You stare down at your mug, horrified. “This can’t be happening.”

He reaches over and pats your hand sympathetically. “Welcome to the club.”

You sit in stunned silence for a long moment.

Then: “Ew.”

Peeta finally laughs.

You take a long, scalding sip of tea like it’ll burn the feeling out of you. “Okay, but maybe it’s not a crush.”

Peeta leans on the back of a chair, looking entirely too smug. “Go on.”

You gesture vaguely with your mug. “Like—he’s my friend. Right? He’s Haymitch. I trust him. That’s huge for me. It’s probably just a trust thing. Maybe I feel weird around him because of, you know… trauma or something.”

Peeta tilts his head, all faux sympathy. “Because nothing says unresolved trauma like wanting to sit closer to someone every time they breathe.”

You glare. “I do not—”

“You do. You orbit him like a plant that needs sunlight.”

You clutch your mug tighter. “Okay, but maybe I just—like him. As a person.”

“I would hope so. You called him your emotional support grump last week.”

You look away. “That was a joke.”

“Was it?”

You scowl into your tea. “Look, I think it’s just because he gets me. And it’s rare. And it’s confusing, sure, but not romantic. I mean, my heart doing the whole skip-a-beat thing could just be—panic.”

Peeta stares at you.

You nod to yourself. “Definitely panic.”

“Y/N.”

“What?”

He puts his cup down, comes to sit beside you at the table, and props his chin on his hand. “Yesterday you literally said, and I quote, ‘he makes my brain go fuzzy and my limbs feel like pudding.’”

You groan. “I was joking!”

“You were not. You were staring into space like you were watching a slow-motion Capitol soap opera.”

You narrow your eyes. “I think you’re making this worse.”

He smiles. “I think you’re in denial.”

“I think you’re enjoying this.”

“Deeply.”

You slap his arm lightly. “I hate you.”

“I know.”

You sigh, dragging your fingers down your face. “What do I even do with this?”

Peeta shrugs. “Nothing. Just… let it be what it is. Crushes aren’t terminal.”

You mutter, “Feels like it.”

He nudges your foot under the table. “You’ll survive. He’s not exactly going anywhere.”

You lift your gaze to meet his, finally quiet. “You really think that’s what this is?”

Peeta nods. “Yeah. I really do.”

You stare at your tea again, watching the steam curl up from the rim.

“Oh no,” you whisper.

Peeta pats your hand. “There it is.”

You drop your head to the table with a thud. “How am I supposed to see him after discovering this horrifying fact?”

Peeta leans over, peering at you. “Like you always do. With your whole face and everything.”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. “This isn’t funny.”

He smiles. “It’s a little funny.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “I have a crush on Haymitch Abernathy. Haymitch. Haymitch.”

“Trust me, you’ve said it enough times to make it real.”

“I feel like my entire brain just committed treason.”

Peeta rests his chin in his hand again. “You’ve been making heart eyes at him for weeks. I was starting to think you knew.”

“I thought I was just… emotionally unwell.”

“Well, yes, but also—” He dodges the piece of bread you throw at his face. “—and you have a crush.”

You groan again, flopping back dramatically in the chair. “I can’t just casually hang out with him now. He’ll know.”

“He won’t.”

“He will.”

Peeta raises an eyebrow. “Y/N, the man once tried to climb onto your roof to fix a shingle and fell asleep halfway up the ladder. He’s not exactly tuned into nuance.”

You throw an arm over your face. “What if I blush?”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“You definitely will.”

“Peeta!”

He grins. “You’ll be fine.”

You peek at him from under your arm. “You swear?”

“On my bread flour.”

You snort. “That’s sacred.”

“Exactly.”

You sit up slowly, clutching your tea like it might ground you. “Okay. Okay. So I have a crush. I just… won’t do anything about it. Easy. Simple. Fine.”

“Famous last words.”

You shoot him a look. “I’m going to deny this until I die.”

Peeta grins. “I’ll carve it into your gravestone.”

You sigh, leaning back against the chair again. “This is a nightmare.”

He nudges your foot. “It’s kind of sweet.”

You glance at him, eyes narrowed. “Don’t say that.”

“I won’t. I’ll just be here, silently judging.”

You groan again, dragging a hand through your hair. “I hate feelings.”

Peeta lifts his cup. “To feelings.”

You clink your mug against his. “May they die in a fire.”

You sit in silence for all of three seconds before your face twists again.

“Oh my God. He’s literally only four years younger than my parents. This is so gross.”

Peeta chokes on his tea. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

You clutch your forehead like the weight of your revelation might actually crush your skull. “What is wrong with me? There are young people out there. People who don’t make dramatic noises when they sit down or threaten puzzles.”

“He’s Haymitch. That’s what’s wrong with you.”

“I need a lobotomy.”

Peeta raises his eyebrows. “And here I thought you needed therapy.”

“Both. I need both.”

He sips his tea, far too calm for your spiraling. “Hey, for what it’s worth… you seem happier lately. Calmer.”

You squint at him like he just suggested something offensive. “So you’re saying the problem is that he makes me feel good?”

“I’m saying the bar is on the floor and Haymitch tripped over it into your heart.”

You drag a hand down your face. “I’m gonna be sick.”

“You want toast for the road?”

“I want to go back in time and not feel like this.”

“You could just avoid him forever,” he offers, ever so helpful.

You blink. “You’re right. I’ll fake my own death. I’ll move into the woods. Change my name to Pinecone.”

“Pinecone?”

“It’s a strong name.”

“You’ll last three hours.”

You sigh and lean forward again, resting your arms on the table. “What if it doesn’t go away?”

Peeta just smiles at you—soft, kind. “Then it’s not just a crush.”

You groan for the sixth time in ten minutes. “I hate you.”

He grins. “You love me.”

You shove his shoulder. He shoves back, gentle.

And then he says, “Hey.”

You look up.

“It’s not a bad thing. Feeling stuff. Wanting something good. It just means you’re still here.”

You nod, slower this time. “Still here.”

A pause.

Then—

“Still grossed out by the age thing, though.”

Peeta nearly spits out his tea. “Pinecone, please.”

The floor creaks behind you and you both glance up just in time to see Katniss shuffle into the kitchen, hair a mess, eyes squinting against the morning light like it’s personally offended her.

“Why are you guys being so loud,” she mutters, voice gravelly with sleep.

Peeta doesn’t even blink. “Y/N’s in love with Haymitch.”

You make a noise so high-pitched it might only be audible to birds. “Peeta!”

Katniss stops mid-step, blinks once, then zeroes in on you. You attempt to melt into the table.

She frowns. “You’re being weird.”

“I am not being weird,” you lie, instantly and with conviction.

“She’s being very weird,” Peeta confirms helpfully, grinning behind his mug.

Katniss just stares at you, arms crossed. “Your face is doing a thing. The thing where you’re lying.”

You throw your hands up. “I am not in love with Haymitch!”

Katniss raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t say you were.”

You freeze.

Peeta sips his tea. “Oh no.”

Katniss narrows her eyes at you like she’s trying to solve a particularly annoying puzzle. “Wait. Are you?”

“No!”

She tilts her head.

You crack. “Maybe! I don’t know! I came here for answers and instead I’ve been bullied for thirty minutes!”

Katniss stares for another long second, then walks to the counter, grabs a cup, and pours herself some tea like this is the most boring thing she’s heard all week.

You watch her, waiting for her to make fun of you or say something awful. Instead, she just shrugs.

“Could be worse,” she says.

You blink. “…What?”

She glances over her shoulder. “He likes you.”

Your throat makes an uncomfortable, traitorous little noise.

Peeta goes, “Wait, what?” at the exact same time you say, “What?!”

Katniss just sips her tea. “Don’t ask me for details, he hasn’t said anything. You two just flirt like idiots. It’s not that hard to see.”

You cover your face with both hands.

Peeta looks far too pleased. “This is the best morning of my life.”

Katniss yawns and leans against the counter. “I need toast.”

You peek through your fingers. “Can we pretend this conversation never happened?”

Katniss shrugs again. “Sure. But he’s probably thinking about you right now. With your dumb face and your lake hair.”

You groan into the table.

Peeta pats your back. “You did this to yourself.”

You stand abruptly, nearly knocking over your chair in the process. “I have to go. I need to be alone. To process.”

Peeta blinks. “You’re being dramatic again.”

“I’m being normal about a catastrophic revelation.” You clutch your hands to your chest like you’re starring in a tragic Capitol opera. “I’m going to bury myself under a blanket and think about my life choices.”

Katniss, already halfway through a piece of toast, says, “Tell Haymitch hi.”

You point a finger at her, eyes wide. “No.”

She shrugs. “He’s probably outside.”

Peeta stifles a laugh behind his mug. “Good luck with your… emotions.”

You spin on your heel, ignoring the snort Katniss doesn’t even try to hide, and storm dramatically toward the door—because if there’s one thing you’re allowed today, it’s a dramatic exit.

You're halfway to your house when you finally look up from scowling at the ground.

And immediately freeze.

Because of course he’s there.

Haymitch is sitting on your porch, legs stretched out, flask in hand. The chair creaks slightly as he tips his head back against the siding. He doesn’t notice you at first—his eyes are closed, face tilted toward the sun like he’s soaking it in.

You hesitate, already halfway turned back toward Katniss and Peeta’s. Go back inside. Flee. Pretend you forgot something.

Then he cracks one eye open and looks right at you.

“Morning,” he says, voice low and scratchy from disuse. “You look like someone just told you your house burned down.”

You blink. “Uh. Hi.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Something wrong with your legs or are you planning to stand there and stare all day?”

You scowl, forcing your feet to move. “I’m walking. Look at me go.”

“Impressive,” he mutters. “Really showin’ off that coordination.”

You step onto your porch, trying not to look like a person freshly struck by the realization that she might be in love with the grumpy man currently roasting her in flannel pajama pants.

He watches you settle into your porch swing like it’s a normal day. Like you’re not falling apart inside. Like your heart isn’t beating in your throat for reasons you don’t want to examine too closely.

You stare straight ahead, voice carefully even. “I came home to be alone.”

He takes a lazy sip from his flask. “And yet, here I am.”

You glance sideways at him. “You’re always here.”

Haymitch meets your eyes, something unreadable flickering across his face. “So are you.”

Your stomach does something annoying.

You look away first.

You want to go inside. You should go inside. There’s tea to be made, and laundry you could pretend to fold, and an entire house you could pace just to burn off the nervous energy clawing at your ribs. Sitting here on the porch isn’t helping—especially not with him three feet away, looking entirely too comfortable in the morning light.

And yet. You sit.

“You look like you’re contemplating something real stupid,” he says, not even looking up from the flask he’s fiddling with.

You blink, drag your gaze away from his profile, and try to assemble your thoughts into something that doesn’t sound like I think I like you and it’s ruining my life.

“Just thinking,” you say.

“Dangerous habit.”

You hum, forcing a casual tone. “Was debating going inside.”

“You should,” he says. “You look twitchy.”

“I am not twitchy.”

“You’re twitchy,” he insists, nodding sagely.

You narrow your eyes. “Maybe I was gonna go inside. And now I’m staying just to spite you.”

He smirks. “Knew the stubborn streak’d kick in eventually.”

You lean back against the porch railing, folding your arms. “You always this annoying or is it a skill you’ve been perfecting?”

“Oh, honey,” he says, flashing you a grin. “This is me being charming.”

You bark a laugh—short, sharp, unexpected. “Terrifying.”

“Works on some people.”

You do not let your face react to that. You do not let your brain react to that. You simply look out at the road and pretend your skin doesn’t feel too warm, like every word he says soaks a little deeper than it should.

Silence stretches. Easy. Familiar. Murderous to your current mental state.

Eventually, he shifts, glancing over at you again. “You’re not gonna start doing something weird, are you?”

You blink. “Define weird.”

“I don’t know. Like, start crying or confessing your undying love or something. You’ve got that look.”

You choke. “What look?”

He waves a hand. “The talking-about-feelings look.”

“I do not have that look.”

“You do.”

“Take it back.”

“Nope.”

You glare at him. He looks far too pleased with himself.

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter.

“Aw. I missed you too.”

You roll your eyes and tip your head back against the swing. The sky above is clear, soft blue fading into late afternoon gold.

Haymitch settles deeper into his chair, opening his flask and taking a slow sip.

You glance at him, trying to sound snarky. “Why are you even on my porch?”

“This chair is more comfortable than the one on my porch. Plus you usually aren’t awake this early so I don’t have to deal with you being a brat.”

“So I’m ruining it?”

He tilts his head. “Enhancing it. Just barely.”

You exhale, pretending that doesn’t feel like a compliment. “You’re in a good mood today.”

“You’re easy to bother. That helps.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. And when the silence falls again, you let it. Even though your pulse is loud in your ears. Even though your hands fidget in your lap. Even though you could absolutely get up and go inside right now.

You don’t.

You stay.

Next Part

[sweetheartsofpanem]

Soot Sprite - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 3.87k

series masterlist | main masterlist

“You didn’t tell me this was a walk-walk.”

Peeta’s voice is light, teasing, but he’s already trailing half a step behind you on the cracked road leading out of the Victor’s Village, long legs catching up as you dodge a patch of grass curling up through the pavement.

You glance back at him. “What did you think it was gonna be? A tour bus?”

“I was picturing a nice sit in the sunshine. Maybe some strawberries. Not emotional excavation.”

You roll your eyes, but you smile too. “You’re the one who said, and I quote, ‘of course I’ll come, just tell me when.’”

He groans dramatically. “Past Peeta is a menace.”

“Past Peeta is the reason you’re wearing those shoes,” you say, nodding toward the very white, very not built-for-dusty-ruins sneakers on his feet.

“They’re comfortable!” he protests. “Besides, I’m here for moral support, not practical.”

You snort but don’t answer. The road ahead curves gently toward the remains of the town. The trees thin. The sky widens. Your chest tightens, but your feet don’t stop.

Peeta must notice the shift in your silence, because he quiets too.

You take a breath.

In.

Out.

The rhythm helps. Just like it always has.

You hadn’t meant to come back here. Not really. Not yet. But something had changed in you after that morning with Haymitch—after the toast and the teasing and the stillness that felt like a promise. The ache in your chest hadn’t disappeared, but it had moved. And now… now it felt like maybe you could carry it with you instead of being crushed under it.

You glance over at Peeta, who’s walking beside you now with a gentler expression.

“Thanks for coming,” you say quietly.

He bumps your arm with his. “Always.”

After walking a little while in silence, you cross into the town square.

Everything is exactly the same.

Not the way it used to be—just the way it was when you came back the first time. Months ago. Burned out. Empty. Stuck.

You stop walking.

Peeta slows beside you, his arm brushing yours.

Nothing moves. The air feels heavier here, still thick with memory. You don’t need to look around. You already know what’s there, what isn’t. It’s all carved into your brain like a map that won’t fade.

Your throat tightens.

Peeta doesn’t say anything. He just waits.

You take a slow breath, feeling it settle into your ribs.

In.

Out.

“I thought it would be harder,” you murmur, voice barely above the breeze.

He turns toward you slightly. “Is it?”

You nod. “But not in the way I thought.”

He’s quiet again. Just present.

You shift your weight, hands at your sides, eyes still fixed somewhere you’re not ready to name.

“It used to feel like this weight,” you say. “Every second. I thought coming back here would break me open.”

“And now?”

You let your gaze drift over the stillness.

���It still hurts,” you admit. “But it doesn’t feel like it owns me anymore.”

There’s a pause, then Peeta says softly, “I’m proud of you.”

Your breath stutters, half a laugh, half a warning. “Don’t say that. I’ll cry.”

“I’m still proud of you,” he says. “Even if you cry.”

You swallow, blinking fast. Your fingers twitch at your side, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you reach for his hand.

He takes it without hesitation.

You squeeze once. He squeezes back.

And you just stand there together in the center of what hasn’t changed, knowing you have.

The quiet lingers for a while.

Long enough for your pulse to slow. Long enough for the weight in your chest to feel less like a burden and more like proof—you survived this place. You’re still here.

You’re mid-exhale when Peeta suddenly tugs your hand and yanks you a step to the left.

“Wait.”

You blink. “What?”

“Look,” he says, crouching so fast he almost eats it. “Look, look, look.”

You follow his gaze down and—

“Oh my god.”

He’s holding up a half-melted ceramic mug with the words #1 Mayor barely legible on the side.

“No,” you say.

“Yes,” he whispers, reverent. “The ghost of Mayor Undersee demands justice.”

You laugh—actually laugh—and cover your mouth. “That is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Right?” he says, grinning. “I’m keeping it.”

“You’re not keeping it.”

“I’m emotionally attached now,” he says, already cradling it like a rescued bird. “You can’t separate us.”

“You found it in the dirt.”

“It found me,” he corrects. “Don’t be jealous.”

You wipe a tear from your eye, still laughing. “We’re literally standing in the ruins of our dead town.”

“And I’m choosing to heal,” he says, dead serious. “Through sarcasm. And souvenir theft.”

You shake your head, heart still pounding from the mix of grief and joy and Peeta being Peeta.

“I hate you,” you say, still laughing.

“No, you don’t.”

You glance at him—smeared with dust, cradling a hideous mug, cheeks flushed from laughing too hard.

You sigh. “Unfortunately, no.”

He grins and tucks the mug into his satchel like it’s priceless.

And just like that, the air shifts again. Not heavy. Not gone. Just lighter.

Like maybe grief doesn’t have to be quiet all the time.

You keep walking.

The path toward the Seam is cracked and faded, but it’s still there—like it refused to disappear even when everything else burned. Weeds push through in places, sprouting from ash and gravel. The sun is higher now, heat settling into your skin, and Peeta’s back to rambling about how he’s going to clean the mayor mug and repurpose it as a sugar bowl.

You’re smiling, shoulders loose again, when you glance to the side and realize he’s gone quiet.

Your steps slow.

He’s a few feet behind you now, completely still.

Looking at what used to be the bakery.

What’s left of it, anyway. Which is… nothing. Same as it was months ago. But you watch the way his shoulders tense—how his jaw locks the way it always does when he’s holding something in too tightly.

You don’t say his name. Just take a slow step back toward him.

His eyes are fixed on the space where the door used to be. The stone frame is still scorched, half-swallowed by vines. There’s nothing left to see, but you know he does. Every shelf. Every counter. The warmth of the ovens.

He exhales through his nose, quiet but sharp, like he’s trying to breathe it all out.

You speak gently. “You okay?”

He nods once, too fast. “Yeah.”

You don’t believe him.

Still, you don’t press.

Instead, you reach out and brush your fingers against his.

He doesn’t look at you, but his pinky hooks around yours.

“I used to wake up every morning before dawn,” he says, voice soft, distant. “Knew the smell by heart. The heat. It’s like… part of me still thinks it’s there.”

You nod, throat tight. “I know what you mean.”

He squeezes your hand, still not looking at you. “It doesn’t own me either. Not anymore.”

You stay beside him a moment longer. Not moving. Not fixing it. Just being.

And when he finally takes a step forward, you follow.

Toward the Seam. Toward the memory of something harder. Toward whatever’s next.

You’re only a few steps from the edge of what used to be Fiza’s house when it happens.

Something explodes out of the brush with a sharp rustle and barrels toward your foot.

You shout—actually shout—and leap back, nearly knocking into Peeta.

“What the hell—”

It’s a kitten.

Tiny. All wiry legs and frantic meowing, its fur black as soot and sticking up in strange angles like it just lost a fight with the wind. It stumbles as it runs, catches itself, and then practically launches into your ankle like you were the destination all along.

Peeta freezes. “Is that thing feral?”

The kitten meows again, louder this time, and starts climbing up your leg.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, bending down fast to scoop it up. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

It keeps purring. Or vibrating. Or both.

You stare at it.

It’s skin and bones. A little too small, even for a kitten. Runt-sized. Its ears are too big for its head, and its tail flicks like it has opinions already. But its eyes—

You go still.

Gray.

Soft, cloudy-gray eyes in a too-skinny face.

Your breath catches.

Peeta tilts his head. “Hey. What’s—”

“She looks like Fiza,” you say, quiet.

He falls silent.

You look down at the kitten curled into your chest now, still purring like it’s got something to prove. The black fur, the wide gray eyes, the way her ribs shift under your palm when she breathes.

“She was tiny,” you murmur. “Shorter than me, even. Always got teased for it. Wore boots two sizes too big and told everyone it was ‘so she could outrun the Capitol faster.’”

Peeta smiles softly but doesn’t speak.

The kitten kneads her paws into your shirt, one claw catching slightly on the fabric.

You exhale shakily, a laugh breaking through the weight in your chest. “She would’ve named this one something awful. Like Coal Dust or War Cry.”

“I vote you honor her legacy,” Peeta says. “Go with something unhinged.”

You blink back heat from your eyes, pressing your nose against the kitten’s fur.

“She found me,” you whisper.

“Looks like she’s keeping you.”

The kitten refuses to be put down for more than five seconds at a time.

You try once, gently, just to adjust your shirt—and she screeches and immediately attempts to scale your body again like a jagged, purring spider. Peeta’s already made three jokes about how you’ve been chosen.

You’re not even mad about it.

You shift her into the crook of one arm as you and Peeta head back toward the Victor’s Village, the ruins of the Seam behind you now, a scratchy warmth in your chest replacing the ache.

“I’m naming her Soot Sprite,” you say, like it’s already been decided.

Peeta blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“Soot Sprite,” you repeat. “In honor of Fiza. Because she would’ve picked something horrible and cursed, and I can’t disappoint her in the afterlife.”

Peeta processes that. Nods solemnly. “So what I’m hearing is, you’re raising a goblin.”

“She’s perfect.”

“She’s covered in dirt and definitely has worms.”

You ignore him. “We’ll have to call someone—get dewormer with the next supply drop. Maybe flea treatment too, just in case.”

Peeta stops walking. “You already have a to-do list?”

“She’s mine, Peeta.”

The kitten lets out a dramatic squeak like she’s backing you up.

He stares at you, then at the kitten, then back at you. “Haymitch is going to hate this.”

You keep walking. “Haymitch will get over it.”

“You’re gonna bring that little gremlin into his house.”

“She’s part of the family.”

Peeta makes a strangled sound behind you. “You’re both gonna die.”

You don’t respond—mostly because the kitten starts trying to climb your shoulder again, claws poking through your shirt, and you’re too busy keeping her from launching herself into the fabric.

Peeta groans as he jogs to catch up. “I’m not helping when he yells. Just so we’re clear.”

“He won’t yell.”

“He’s absolutely going to yell.”

You look at the kitten.

She yawns with her whole body, then bites your sleeve.

You grin.

“He’ll love her,” you lie.

You just walk into Haymitch’s house like you’re not smuggling a chaotic soot-colored creature into his life forever.

Peeta’s right behind you, his face already cracking, trying so hard not to laugh that he looks like he might explode. The kitten—Soot Sprite—is squirming behind your back, tucked in your arms and not at all thrilled about being contained.

“Just… be cool,” you hiss under your breath.

Peeta snorts. “I’m so excited.”

Haymitch is on the couch when you enter. Legs stretched out, one arm slung along the backrest, a book open in his lap and a half-finished drink on the table beside him.

He doesn’t look up yet. “You’re late.”

“We weren’t supposed to be here at a specific time.”

“Exactly,” he mutters. “And you still managed to be late.”

You take a slow step forward, keeping the kitten mostly still behind your back.

“Okay,” you start, voice bright and innocent in the way that definitely means something’s wrong. “Promise you won’t be mad?”

Haymitch finally looks up.

His eyes narrow.

Peeta immediately chokes on his own breath and turns away like he’s inspecting the wall.

“Why,” Haymitch says slowly, “do I feel like that sentence is about to ruin my entire day?”

You smile too wide. “It’s not a bad surprise.”

He sets the book down carefully. “I swear to god, if you—”

You pull the kitten from behind your back and hold her up like you’re presenting royalty.

Haymitch blinks.

The kitten meows.

Audibly.

Once.

Then again, louder.

Peeta wheezes behind you.

There’s a silence so sharp you swear you can hear the creak of the wood floor.

You clear your throat. “Her name is Soot Sprite.”

The kitten starts purring like a chainsaw.

Haymitch doesn’t move.

You shift your weight. “She found me. She imprinted. Like a duckling.”

Peeta makes a strangled snort and bolts into the kitchen, cackling.

Haymitch stares at the tiny thing now climbing up your sleeve with murder in her heart.

Finally, he says, “Why is it making that sound.”

“She’s happy,” you say, beaming.

“She sounds like a dying engine.”

“She’s sensitive.”

He stares at the kitten. Then at you. Then leans back into the couch like he’s accepted his fate. “This is revenge for every time I’ve fallen asleep on your porch, isn’t it?”

You sit beside him with Soot Sprite still vibrating in your arms.

“She’s just staying for a while.”

“She’s not leaving,” he says flatly.

You grin. “No. She’s not.”

Soot Sprite sneezes once and then promptly falls asleep curled up in the crook of your elbow.

Haymitch watches this happen, defeated.

Peeta pops his head back in from the kitchen. “So when’s the wedding? Do I call her my sister now?”

Haymitch throws a pillow directly at his face.

Peeta insists on helping when you get up to give Soot Sprite a bath.

“Because I’m great with animals,” he says, already rolling up his sleeves with the reckless confidence of someone who has clearly never bathed a cat.

You’re standing in Haymitch’s kitchen, sleeves pushed up, the kitten perched like a gargoyle on the edge of the sink. She’s crusted with dirt and… something. You don’t ask questions. You just know she’s about to become so clean and so pissed about it.

Haymitch doesn’t even come in the room.

You think he might’ve fled on instinct.

“All right, Soot Sprite,” Peeta says, eyeing her like a soldier before battle. “This can go one of two ways.”

She growls.

“You’re gonna make this so dramatic,” you sigh.

You test the water—lukewarm, gentle—and pick up the dish soap, because it’s the only thing on hand and at this point, she’s probably more soot than fur.

Peeta starts humming a funeral march.

You shoot him a look. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m absolutely helping. I’m contributing morale.”

You scoop a little water into your hands, testing it against her fur.

And then it happens.

She locks eyes with you like you’ve betrayed her soul—and lets out a screech so ungodly you actually flinch.

“Oh my god,” Peeta gasps, backing up. “Did she summon something?”

“She’s fine,” you mutter, gently pressing her into the basin with both hands as she flails like a possessed raccoon.

Water splashes everywhere. You’re soaked. Peeta’s got suds on his cheek. The floor is a crime scene.

“This is what I get for trying to help something small,” you groan. “This is cosmic punishment.”

Peeta’s dying in the corner. “Do you want me to—”

“No. Your morale is enough.”

Eventually, after much screeching, flopping, and one near-death leap, Soot Sprite goes still. Just… still. Her head slumps forward, her tiny body dripping with suds, tail twitching once in utter betrayal.

“Oh no,” Peeta whispers. “She’s accepted death.”

You rinse her as gently as possible, biting back laughter.

“Maybe she’s just accepted me,” you say, and she opens one gray eye like she heard you.

You wrap her in a dish towel like a burrito, and she lets out a pitiful mewl, then flops completely against your chest.

“You did great,” Peeta says, wiping his face with the sleeve he rolled up forty minutes ago. “I’ll light a candle for her at dawn.”

“You’re never allowed to help again.”

“I was invaluable.”

You glance toward the living room. “Think Haymitch is still alive?”

“I think he’s pretending he died so he doesn’t have to deal with us.”

You gently rock the kitten in your arms. She’s still glaring. Still soaked. But purring again.

You whisper, “She’s never going to forgive me.”

Peeta grins. “You’re her mom now. She already did.”

Soot Sprite, now mostly dry and still swaddled in the dish towel, stares back from the middle of the counter. She looks smug. Sinister, even. Like she knows you’re arguing about her.

Peeta groans. “This is how horror movies start.”

“She’s cute,” you remind him.

“She’s glaring at me.”

“She’s hungry.”

“She can’t eat that.”

Peeta says it while already backing away from the cutting board like it’s possessed.

“She has to eat something,” you argue, holding up the suspiciously grayish slab of raw chicken you found in Haymitch’s icebox. “And unless you want to go knock on his nonexistent neighbor’s door for cat food that also doesn’t exist, this is what we’ve got.”

“She’s like… six ounces.”

“She’s an apex predator.”

You drop the chicken into a shallow dish and set it on the counter in front of her.

She doesn’t hesitate.

Not even for a second.

She lunges forward like she’s been starved for years, teeth flashing, paws gripping the edge of the bowl with wild intensity. You actually flinch at the snarling sound she makes.

“Oh my god,” Peeta breathes. “She’s possessed.”

“She’s enthusiastic.”

“She’s eating like she’s on a timer.”

You lean over slightly to watch. “I didn’t even cut it up…”

“She doesn’t need it cut up,” Peeta hisses. “She’s turning it into pulp.”

You both go quiet.

The only sound in the room is the kitten making unholy noises as she annihilates raw chicken like it owes her money.

“She’s gonna throw up,” you whisper.

“She’s gonna kill us in our sleep,” Peeta says.

Soot Sprite growls low in her throat, not even looking up.

You both take an automatic step back.

“She’s definitely Fiza reincarnated,” you murmur.

Peeta nods. “I believe it.”

You cross your arms and watch in weird, horrified awe.

“…Should we get her more?” you ask.

Peeta looks offended. “I’m not losing fingers so she can have seconds.”

It’s quiet now.

Suspiciously quiet.

Soot Sprite is passed out on the kitchen table like a tiny, bloated gremlin. Belly round, paws twitching in her sleep, a smear of something unidentifiable on her chin. Her tail flicks once like she’s dreaming about murder.

You and Peeta are sitting at the table, trying to look casual. Innocent. Normal.

You are none of those things.

The dish that once held raw chicken is now empty. The cutting board has been wiped but not well. The counter smells vaguely like regret and a very specific brand of chaos.

“I feel like we witnessed a crime,” you whisper.

“I feel like we committed one,” Peeta replies.

You’re about to argue when the floorboards creak.

You both freeze.

Haymitch walks in.

He’s wearing the expression of a man who expected disaster and is still somehow disappointed to find it.

He takes one look at the counter.

Stops.

Looks at you.

Then Peeta.

Then at Soot Sprite, belly-up, absolutely unrepentant.

“…What,” he says slowly, “happened in here?”

“She ate,” you say too quickly.

Peeta adds, “Vigorously.”

Haymitch blinks. “Why is there a scratch on the cutting board?”

“She’s passionate,” you say.

“She’s feral,” Haymitch mutters.

He walks over to the kitten, who doesn’t even stir. He nudges her gently with one finger. She makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a snore.

“She gonna die?”

“She’s just full,” you say brightly.

Peeta grins. “We fed her raw chicken.”

Haymitch turns toward him so slowly it might be a threat.

You both smile like that’ll help.

He stares. Then closes his eyes. “This is why I drink.”

You shrug. “She’s happy.”

He looks down at the tiny monster curled up on his kitchen table, then back at you.

“She better love me,” he mutters.

“She will,” you say, scooping her back into your arms. “She’s family now.”

Haymitch sighs. Deep. Resigned.

Then—quietly—he reaches out and scratches the kitten behind one ear.

She purrs in her sleep.

He mutters, “Great. You brought home a demon.”

You smile into her fur.

“She’s ours.”

The house is finally quiet again.

Peeta left half an hour ago, still cackling to himself as he walked out the door. “Tell Soot Sprite I love her,” he’d called, and Haymitch had replied with, “I’m not saying anything nice to a gremlin that bites my fingers.”

Now it’s just the two of you—and the kitten.

Soot Sprite is curled into a tight little loaf right in Haymitch’s lap, her tiny face tucked against his thigh. She’s purring. Loudly. Steadily. Like she’s doing it just to spite him.

Haymitch looks miserable.

“She’s drooling,” he mutters, staring down at her like she’s personally offended him.

“She’s happy,” you say, curled into his side, legs tucked beneath you and head on his shoulder.

“She’s a hazard.”

“She likes you.”

“She’s using me for body heat.”

You lift your head just enough to raise an eyebrow. “You could move her.”

He looks down.

She purrs louder.

“…I could,” he says, clearly lying.

You hide your smile and settle in closer, letting your cheek rest against his chest.

Outside, the wind has gone soft. The air hums with the low, summer quiet that only happens at the very end of the day. Inside, it’s warm and dim, and every sound feels like it belongs.

“I think she’s claiming you as her father,” you say quietly.

“Nope.”

“Too late.”

He shifts slightly to look down at you, one hand resting on your knee, his thumb drawing slow, absent shapes against your skin. “You bring home a goblin and now she’s our daughter?”

“Yep.”

He snorts. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You grin. “You love me.”

He doesn’t argue.

Soot Sprite sighs and stretches one tiny paw across his stomach, fully claiming him.

You laugh, soft and sleepy.

He leans his head back against the couch with a sigh. “This is my life now, huh?”

You look at him. At the man who used to think he didn’t deserve a future. Who’s now got a kitten in his lap and you curled into his side and a heartbeat that doesn’t panic every time someone stays.

You nod. “Yeah. It is.”

He doesn’t say anything back. But after a moment, his arm slides around your shoulders, pulling you even closer.

The kitten purrs.

And Haymitch doesn’t move her.

Next Part

[sweetheartsofpanem]

Paper Spine - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

i am a thief of joy😔 must keep the story on brand with Y/N being traumatized. i sleep now, post another part tomorrow😗

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 2.65k

series masterlist | main masterlist

The day starts out quiet.

You wake with the soft gray light of morning slipping through your curtains and the scent of damp earth from the night’s rain still clinging to the windows. You get dressed slowly. Eat half a piece of toast you don’t remember making. It’s one of those days where your head feels a little too loud and a little too empty all at once, but you tell yourself it’ll pass. You’ve had worse.

By late afternoon, you’re sitting on Haymitch’s couch.

It’s nothing new. You’ve been here a thousand times by now. Sometimes you read while he mutters over his latest attempt at cleaning up the place. Sometimes you both sit in silence. Sometimes he starts a conversation and you fall into your usual rhythm—sharp words, softer looks, elbows nudged and insults traded like currency. It’s familiar. Safe, in its own strange way.

But today is different.

Today, something’s off.

You notice it the second he walks into the room—his shoulders tight, jaw set, eyes just a little too dark. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just grabs a stack of books from the floor and sets them down harder than necessary on the table beside you.

You glance up from the page you’ve been pretending to read. “Everything okay?”

He doesn’t look at you. “Fine.”

That’s the first warning.

You try again. “You want help with anything?”

“I said I’m fine.”

His tone is clipped. Sharper than it needs to be. You blink, lips parting, confused. You weren’t even pushing. You were just—asking. You watch him move across the room, setting down another stack like it’s full of glass, but his hands are anything but gentle.

He doesn’t look at you once.

You press your lips together, trying to ignore the cold creeping down your spine. You don’t want to push. Maybe he’s just tired. Maybe it’s just one of his bad days.

You set the book down and reach for the empty cup beside you. “I can take this to the sink for you—”

“I said I don’t need anything, alright?”

His voice is piercing, bitter. It lands like a slap.

Your hand freezes mid-reach. Your breath stutters.

And all you can say—so quiet it barely exists—is, “Oh.”

The sound of it turns something in the air. Haymitch looks up then, but it’s too late.

Your shoulders curl inward like a reflex. You stare at the cup. At your hands. At the floor. Anywhere but at him.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, already standing, already moving toward the door before he can speak again. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Wait—”

But you’re already halfway down the porch steps, not looking back.

Your house is too quiet.

You lie in bed, fully dressed, arms folded tight against your stomach like that might hold everything in. Your eyes don’t sting, but your throat does. You don’t cry. You don’t even blink hard enough to try.

All you can hear is your mother’s voice.

Always too much. Always in the way. Always trying too hard.

The words crawl in like smoke, thick and choking, coiling through the cracks in your ribs until you feel them settle in the hollow spaces you thought had started to close.

You don’t move. You just stare at the ceiling, motionless.

It wasn’t a big thing. It wasn’t screaming. It wasn’t cruel. It was just—too sharp. Too close to home. Too familiar. And it was from him.

And somehow that hurts the most.

You stay like that for a long time. Hours, maybe. Time folds in on itself.

Every little sound in the house feels too loud. Every silence feels worse.

He’s going to leave.

You know it with a sick kind of certainty, the way you know the sun’s going to rise or your heart’s going to beat or that when people get tired of you, they always, always go.

You were too much. You knew it. You were getting too close, too comfortable, too obvious.

You pushed too hard. He didn’t want your help. He didn’t even want you there.

He sounded like her.

And you—you just stood there like a kid again, hoping that maybe this time would be different, like an idiot. Like you didn’t already know how this always ends.

“I’m so stupid,” you whisper into the dark. “Why did I ever think it’d be different?”

Your hand curls into the edge of your blanket. Your chest feels too tight. Your skin feels wrong. Your thoughts keep spiraling like water down a drain.

“Why do I even have this stupid crush?” you mutter, voice breaking on the word. “He’s never going to love me.”

You swallow hard, but it doesn’t go down.

And then her voice comes again, soft and poisonous and etched so deep into your bones you can’t separate it from your own anymore.

The only people stupid enough to love you are dead.

You shut your eyes. Shake your head. Try to stop hearing it, but it echoes anyway, bouncing around the hollow parts of your skull until it makes your stomach twist.

Your heart stutters, flips. And then your brain does what it always does—it goes further.

Katniss and Peeta.

You think of them. Of Peeta’s steady kindness, the way he always knows how to pull you out of your spirals. Of Katniss’s quiet comfort, the way she just exists beside you without asking for anything.

They’ve known him longer. Trusted him longer.

If he goes, they’ll go too.

Why would they stay, if he’s done with you?

You were doing so well. You were getting better. You were okay.

But if Haymitch is tired of you—if he sees you like she did—then it was never real. None of it. Not the puzzle pieces, not the porch swing, not the lake, not the way his voice went soft just for you.

It was nothing.

You curl tighter around yourself, barely breathing now.

And the voice—hers, yours, both—doesn’t stop.

You’re too much.

You’re nothing.

They’re going to leave.

And for the first time in weeks, you believe it.

You turn your face into the pillow, like maybe the quiet will swallow you whole if you press hard enough.

It doesn’t.

The silence just stretches.

You were so stupid. You let yourself believe in this. In him. In them. In this stupid, fragile little version of a life you thought maybe—maybe—you could have.

You press your palms to your eyes. Try to stop the burning. But it’s too late.

The tears come anyway.

And the worst part is that it’s been so long since you cried like this. So long since you let yourself fall apart. Not since Peeta, someone you’d started to see as a best friend. Not since he found you and pulled you up out of the dark with soft words and lemon cake and the kind of safety you didn’t know how to ask for.

But he’s not here.

No one is.

And maybe that’s for the best. You’ll have to get used to this again. Might as well start now.

You press a hand to your mouth to muffle the sound as a sob slips out anyway, sharp and sudden and humiliating.

It doesn’t stop there.

You curl in tighter, as small as you can make yourself, shaking with it now—whole body trembling like it’s trying to collapse in on itself, trying to disappear. The ache in your chest is unbearable, like something’s caving in from the inside.

Your breath stutters. Catches.

“I’m fine,” you whisper, choking on it. “I’m fine. I’m—fine.”

You’re not.

They’re all going to leave.

It gets louder every time you think it. Louder and truer.

You shouldn’t have let yourself get used to being held up by other people. You shouldn’t have believed you could trust someone and not end up here.

You can almost hear your mother laughing.

Look at you now. Just like always. Falling apart. Alone.

You let out a strangled sound—half sob, half scream muffled into your pillow—and it still doesn’t make anything stop.

You curl in tighter.

The room is dark now. You didn’t notice when the sun went down.

And the worst part is… you don’t want anyone to come fix it.

Because you’re sure—so sure—that no one will.

You don’t know how long you stay there, curled up and sobbing into your pillow. At some point, the tears slow—not because it hurts any less, but because your body is too tired to keep up.

But your mind doesn’t stop.

It only gets worse.

You sit up with a gasp, hands shaking, chest tight like something’s pressing down on it from all sides. You try to suck in a breath and it feels like your lungs won’t stretch far enough.

Your feet hit the floor without thinking. You start pacing. One side of the room to the other. Again. Again.

You press your hands into your chest like maybe that’ll help, maybe it’ll hold everything in place.

It doesn’t.

Your breathing’s too fast now. Shallow. Your fingers tremble where they curl into the hem of your shirt.

You want to scream.

You want to disappear.

You want to go across the way and bang on the door until Peeta opens it and pulls you into a hug and tells you it’s going to be okay even if it isn’t.

But you can’t.

You’re right back where you started. Barely able to breathe. Terrified of being too much. Too needy. Too loud.

You promised yourself you’d never put that on them again. That you’d be better.

But you’re not better.

You’re a mess. Just like always.

You sink down to the floor beside your bed, knees drawn to your chest, rocking slightly without realizing you’re doing it.

And all you can think, over and over, is:

I ruined everything.

I ruined it and now he’s going to leave and they’ll leave too.

And I’ll be alone again. And it’ll be my fault.

You’re still on the floor, trembling, arms tight around your knees, your chest caving inward with every broken breath that won’t quite make it all the way in. You’re gasping, but the air feels too thin. The walls feel too close. The silence feels like it’s screaming.

And then—

“Honey?”

It’s barely a whisper. Soft. Rough around the edges, like it hurts him to say it. Like maybe it’s not the first time he’s tried to call your name and failed.

Your head jerks up.

You hadn’t heard the door. Hadn’t heard the stairs. Hadn’t heard anything over the sound of your own spiraling.

But he’s there.

He’s in the doorway to your bedroom, standing still—shoulders tense, brow furrowed, eyes wide in that way you rarely see.

Not angry.

Not annoyed.

Worried.

Sad.

Your breath catches again, but for a different reason this time. Something sharper. Something that feels almost like shame.

You wipe at your face quickly, though it doesn’t do much. Your hands are shaking too hard.

You can’t get a single word out. Just stare at him, chest still heaving, tears still slipping silently down your cheeks.

He takes a slow step forward, voice even softer now.

“Can I come in?”

He sees the nod—small, shaky—and that’s all he needs.

He moves carefully. No sudden steps. No sharp sounds. Just crosses the room like he’s afraid you might break if he gets too close too fast.

When he reaches you, he crouches down without a word, his knees creaking with the movement. His eyes flick to your hands, still fisted tight in the fabric over your chest, like you’re trying to hold yourself together by sheer force.

Your breath is coming in shallow gasps. Too fast. Too thin. You can’t stop.

Haymitch doesn’t touch you.

He just sits there, eye-level, and says, quiet as anything, “Alright. In and out. With me now. Just like before.”

Then he inhales—slow, deliberate.

“In.”

You try. Your lungs stutter, catch on the inhale.

He nods, patient. “That’s it. Doesn’t have to be perfect, honey. Just try again.”

He breathes out through his nose.

“Out.”

You copy him, or at least try to. It comes out more like a gasp, but it’s something.

His voice stays steady. “Good. Again.”

And again.

And again.

He never rushes you. Never tells you to calm down. Just sits there, breathing with you like it’s the only thing that matters.

Like you’re not broken. Like this is okay. Like you’re okay—even if you don’t feel it.

Even if you’re not sure you ever will.

Your breathing slows—gradually, painfully. The gasps become uneven shudders, and the shudders finally give way to silence. Not peace, but quiet. The kind that feels raw, like it’s all that’s left after something breaks.

You don’t say anything. Just hide your face in your knees, hands still gripping your shirt.

You feel the heat of him still sitting there, close enough to touch, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

You can’t look at him.

Shame settles heavy in your throat. Your fingers dig into your sleeves.

You swallow hard, trying to force the tears back down. They burn anyway.

You stay curled in on yourself, still too afraid to meet his eyes.

Still waiting for the moment he leaves.

You flinch when the floor creaks beside you, but he doesn’t say anything. Just shifts closer—slow, deliberate—and then you feel it.

His hands, steady. One at your back, the other at your knees.

He gathers you gently into his arms, pulling you into his lap like it’s nothing. Like it’s easy. Like he’s done it a thousand times before. Your side rests against his chest, your legs curled beside him. You melt into him, almost instinctively, placing your head on his shoulder.

He holds you so tightly you can barely breathe—but not in the way that hurts. It’s the kind of tight that says I’ve got you. The kind that doesn’t let go.

His chin rests lightly on the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low and rough. “Honey, I’m so damn sorry.”

Your hands are still clutching your shirt, but you don’t pull away. You can’t. You wouldn’t even know how.

“I shouldn’t’ve snapped,” he murmurs. “Wasn’t about you. None of it was about you.”

You nod once, barely.

He presses his palm between your shoulder blades, grounding. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

A beat. Then another.

“And I’m not going anywhere.”

You press your face into his shoulder, a quiet, shaking breath escaping.

“You hear me?” he says, firmer now. “You don’t get rid of me that easy. I’m too damn stubborn for that.”

His grip tightens, like he means to anchor you.

“You’re stuck with me, honey.”

“I’m sorry,” your voice comes out soft, broken. 

His breath catches like he hadn’t expected you to speak at all.

You feel it in his chest, the way it stills beneath your cheek. Then—

“No,” he says, gently but without room for argument. “You don’t apologize for this.”

You don’t move. Don’t lift your head. The quiet sits between you like something fragile.

“I messed up,” he adds, voice lower now. “You were trying to help. I—” He exhales through his nose, like the words are hard to get out. “That wasn’t about you, and I still made it your problem.”

You shake your head, but you still can’t look at him.

“It’s not your fault I’m broken,” you whisper.

Haymitch huffs softly, something between a laugh and a breath. “Then we make a fine pair.”

His hand rubs slow circles against your back. You stay curled into him, small and silent, until your fingers unclench slightly at the fabric of your shirt.

He doesn’t let go. Doesn’t even ease his grip. Just keeps holding you like you’re something worth holding on to.

Next Part

[sweetheartsofpanem]

I Hope It Keeps Becoming - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

kept gasping and giggling at certain moments like i wasn’t the one writing it and planning it

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 3.84k

series masterlist | main masterlist

You wake up warm.

The room is still, wrapped in early morning light and the kind of hush that only exists in the in-between—before the day fully begins, before the weight of it settles into your shoulders.

And he’s still there.

Behind you.

Still close.

Still breathing steady against the back of your neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

His arm hasn’t moved.

It’s still draped over your waist, hand curled loosely where it landed last night. You can feel the heat of him through his shirt—his shirt, the one you’re still wearing—and the way your back fits into the curve of his chest like it was always supposed to.

You don’t move.

Not right away.

You just lie there, heart quiet, and listen.

And then, barely above a whisper, “Morning.”

His voice is rough with sleep, but there’s a softness in it you don’t miss.

You smile into the pillow. “Hey, birthday boy.”

You feel him go still for half a second.

Then a quiet groan. “God, don’t say it like that.”

You turn your head slightly, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. “What, you don’t want to be reminded that you’re an ancient relic?”

He narrows his eyes at you, but it doesn’t have any bite. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to push you off the bed.”

“I’d just crawl back in.”

He huffs.

But he doesn’t let go.

You don’t say anything for a while.

You just… stay there. Letting the quiet hold both of you.

His breathing is slow. Measured. Like he’s still trying to believe you’re really here.

Eventually, he shifts—carefully, like he’s trying not to move you too much—rolling onto his back.

The arm around you slips away, but he stays close. And when you turn too—slow, instinctive—his hand finds your waist again and pulls you close without thinking.

Your head lands on his chest.

His heart stutters beneath your cheek.

Neither of you says anything about it.

You let your fingers trail lightly over the hem of the sheet. He lets his thumb brush against your hip, soft and thoughtless.

You stay like that for a long time.

Long enough that it stops feeling like a new thing and starts to feel like something steady.

Eventually, you mumble into his chest, “So. You get one birthday request. What do you want for breakfast?”

“Peace and quiet.”

You snort. “Try again.”

He hums, chest vibrating under your cheek. “Whiskey omelet?”

You smack his side.

He grins.

“Alright, fine,” he says. “Surprise me.”

You lift your head just enough to squint at him. “What if I surprise you with blackened toast and a single pickle?”

“Then I’m revoking the guest bed privileges.”

“Joke’s on you. I never made it to the guest bed.”

He just looks at you.

And—god—he’s smiling.

Soft.

Real.

Like the kind of smile you don’t realize you’re missing until it’s right there in front of you.

You blink. Then clear your throat. “I’m gonna make you something good. Stay here.”

He starts to sit up. “I can help—”

You immediately shove his shoulder. “Absolutely not.”

He gives you a look. “You said it was my birthday.”

“Exactly. Which means you get to do nothing. That’s the deal.”

He sighs dramatically. “Torture.”

“Love,” you correct, and freeze.

The word hangs in the air for just a second too long.

But he doesn’t react.

Just settles back into the pillows, hand sliding behind his head.

“Guess I’ll suffer through it.”

You smirk, climbing out of bed and stealing one of his blankets to wrap around your shoulders like a cape.

And as you walk toward the door, you feel it—that same look from the night before, the one he thinks you don’t notice.

The one that says maybe this year really is different.

The blanket draped around your shoulders trails behind you like a cape as you pad into the kitchen, feet bare against the cool floor. The house is quiet, filled only with soft morning light and the lingering scent of last night’s pasta.

You pull open a cabinet. Then a drawer. Then another cabinet.

You’re not not snooping.

But it’s for a good cause.

You find the basics easily enough—flour, sugar, baking powder, salt. Eggs in the fridge. Milk that’s probably still good.

You stir it all together, humming under your breath, already planning your secret weapon.

Lemon zest.

Crispy edges.

Warm blueberries folded in at the last second.

Birthday pancakes. Special birthday pancakes.

You pour the first round onto the pan, watching the edges bubble.

You feel it.

The shift in the air.

You glance up.

And there he is.

Standing in the kitchen doorway like he knows he’s doing permanent damage to your nervous system.

Hair messy.

Shirtless.

Scar cutting across his stomach like something out of a story you’re not allowed to touch.

And he’s just… watching you.

Like you’re the strangest, sweetest thing that’s ever stood in his kitchen.

You blink. Hard.

“You’re supposed to be lying down.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t want to miss my chance to witness a culinary miracle.”

You turn back to the pan before your face betrays you. “Flatter me like that again and I’m putting spinach in yours.”

“Still sounds better than anything I’ve made myself in over twenty years.”

You flip a pancake.

He still doesn’t move.

Still standing there, quiet, like the whole damn world might come apart if he blinks.

And the worst part?

You feel it too.

Not in the big, dramatic way. Not like fireworks or floods.

Just this—his scar, his gaze, the smell of lemon and sugar rising warm in the air, and the quiet, unspoken thought between you:

I could get used to this.

You stack the pancakes high, golden and crisp-edged, warm berries bleeding through the batter. A little extra sugar on top. Just because.

You slide the plate in front of him with a flourish.

“Behold,” you say. “Birthday pancakes.”

He eyes the plate like it might explode. “There are… layers.”

“There’s lemon zest. And love. And probably a little vengeance.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You vengefully cooked me gourmet pancakes?”

“I’m complicated.”

He snorts and picks up a fork. Takes a bite.

And freezes.

You lean your chin on your hand, smug. “Well?”

He chews slowly. Thoughtfully. Like he’s making a political statement.

“You’re never leaving.”

You beam. “Not planning to.”

He shakes his head, still chewing, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

You sip water from a chipped mug, watching him. Watching the way his shoulders stay loose, his forehead unlined, the scar on his stomach catching the morning light every time he shifts.

He catches you staring.

You don’t look away.

“What,” you say, “you want me to apologize for admiring the view?”

He grins—actually grins—and leans back in his chair. “You always this forward with the elderly?”

You squint. “Say elderly again and I’m making you eat kale for dessert.”

“Abuse,” he mutters. “On my birthday.”

“Welcome to love,” you shoot back.

He finishes the last bite of his pancakes, sets his fork down, and looks at you for a long moment.

Then he stands.

You think he’s going to take his plate to the sink.

You’re wrong.

He steps behind your chair, sets both hands on your shoulders, and then—with zero warning—says, “Come on.”

Before you can respond, he’s tugging gently at your arm.

You blink. “Haymitch—”

“Bed,” he says simply. “Not done with you yet.”

You open your mouth.

Close it again.

And let him pull you.

Because he’s already walking, dragging you along like this is the most natural thing in the world.

And honestly?

Maybe it is.

He doesn’t let go of your hand.

Not even once.

Just tugs you gently up the stairs, both of you barefoot, the blanket you never fully unwrapped from still hanging loose over your shoulders.

When you reach the bedroom, he drops your hand only long enough to pull back the covers.

Then he climbs in, flops onto his back like he’s done this for decades instead of barely slept here with someone else.

And he looks at you—one arm thrown behind his head, the other already reaching for you, lazy and wordless.

You roll your eyes.

But your heart’s doing something stupid in your chest anyway.

So you climb in beside him.

Settle into the sheets and let yourself get pulled back into the space you left just an hour ago.

This time, your head rests on his chest like it belongs there.

This time, you don’t hesitate to let your arm settle over his stomach, fingers curling slightly near the edge of the scar.

You feel him breathe in.

Deep.

Steady.

His hand comes to rest between your shoulder blades, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns through the fabric of his shirt you’re still wearing.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

Then, finally, “This is the best birthday I’ve had in… ever.”

You press your face lightly into his chest. “I’m glad.”

Another quiet beat passes.

Then you feel his voice, more than hear it.

“You being here—it’s…”

He trails off.

You don’t push.

You just lay there with him, fingers lightly drumming against his ribs.

Eventually, he finishes.

“It’s nice.”

You smile into his chest. “It is.”

And it really is.

Because nothing hurts here.

Not in this moment.

Not in this bed.

Not with your hand curled against his side and his thumb moving slow and quiet against your back like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your presence.

You don’t say anything else.

Neither does he.

You just stay like that—wrapped in warmth, in quiet, in each other.

And it’s enough.

You don’t know how long you stay like that—just breathing, listening, feeling him steady beneath you like something permanent.

Eventually, your fingers drift again. Just lightly.

They trace along the hem of his sweatpants, then up. To the scar.

You’ve been trying not to look at it too much.

Trying not to think about it too much.

But now that you’re here—pressed against him, warm and safe and full of stupid thoughts—you give in.

Your fingertips brush gently over the edge of the long, rough line that cuts across his stomach. You feel the skin jump beneath your touch.

He doesn’t say anything.

So of course you do.

“…It’s hot.”

His breath catches.

You feel it.

And then, in the flattest tone imaginable, “Yeah. Nothing gets people going like long-term trauma and scar tissue.”

You laugh into his chest, muffled and ridiculous.

“I’m serious,” you say, dragging your hand away before you do something even worse. “It’s just—rugged. Mysterious. Like you wrestled a bear and refused to talk about it.”

He groans.

“You’re unbearable,” he mutters.

“I’m complimenting you.”

“On the part of me that was literally almost my demise.”

You grin against his chest. “I like the rest of you too. Unfortunately.”

He’s quiet for a beat.

And then, “Your smile.”

You pause.

Lift your head slightly.

“…What?”

He’s not looking at you. Of course he’s not. He’s staring somewhere over your shoulder like the ceiling suddenly became the most emotionally stable place in the room.

“Your smile,” he says again, quieter. “It’s good.”

You blink.

Your heart stutters.

“You’re terrible at this,” you whisper.

“Yep.”

“But thank you.”

He finally looks down at you. Shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I’d list more things but you might die from ego inflation.”

You hum. “I’m willing to risk it.”

And the way he looks at you now—still flustered, still too proud to admit it—makes your whole chest ache in the best possible way.

You don’t say anything else.

You just lay your head back down and let him hold you.

Because this?

This is better than safe.

This is real.

It stays quiet for a while after that.

Not heavy.

Just still.

Like the morning decided it’s not in any rush either.

You trace light shapes against his chest, your fingers barely brushing his skin. Lazy, aimless.

And then you mumble, “Okay. Important question.”

He hums. “This better not be about spinach again.”

“No. Serious business. What’s the most ridiculous lie you’ve ever told to get out of something?”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “Told a Peacekeeper I had a parasite once so I wouldn’t have to go to a banquet.”

You snort. “You what?”

“Very convincing performance,” he says, completely deadpan. “Threw myself into a snowbank. Said I was leaking from every orifice.”

“Oh my god.”

“Didn’t have to wear a suit that night, so really, who’s the loser?”

You laugh into his chest, helpless. “That is the most unhinged thing I’ve ever heard.”

He shrugs, smug. “Desperate times.”

You shake your head, still grinning. “Okay. My turn.”

He tilts his head slightly, chin resting on top of yours. “Do your worst.”

“When I was like eight, I told a girl at school I was allergic to pickles because I didn’t want her to share her snack with me.”

He snorts. “That’s a crime, not a lie.”

“She brought me a different snack the next day because she felt bad. I’ve never recovered from the guilt.”

He presses a hand over his heart. “You monster.”

“Shut up. You faked a medical crisis.”

“Mine was political.”

“Mine was survival.”

You both start laughing again, quiet and tangled up in each other, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Your laughter fades eventually, slow and breathless.

His chest rises under your cheek, steady and warm.

And then, quieter now, you say, “I used to wish I had a treehouse.”

He hums, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You let your fingers trace another shape along his chest. “Not even to play in. Just to sit. Somewhere quiet and up high, where no one could find me.”

He’s quiet for a second.

Then, “Sounds nice.”

You nod against him. “I’d imagine the stars looked better from up there.”

His hand shifts on your back. Not far—just a slow, grounding circle between your shoulder blades.

“I used to hide behind this old barn,” you say, voice low. “Before it collapsed. Big pile of broken crates back there. Used to think if I stayed quiet enough, I’d disappear.”

You turn your head a little, cheek pressed more fully to his chest.

“I think I just wanted someone to find me,” you say.

He doesn’t answer.

Not right away.

But the hand on your back stills—then slides up to rest just between your shoulder and neck. Heavy. Warm.

Like he hears you.

Like he gets it.

You let your eyes fall shut for a second, breathing him in. The faint smell of summer air and old soap clinging to his skin. The sound of his heart beating under your ear.

And then, just to cut the tension before it swells too big to carry, “I still want a treehouse, honestly.”

He exhales a half-laugh. “What would you do with a treehouse now?”

“Fill it with books and snacks and never come down.”

He grunts. “You’d fall out day one.”

“I’d install railings.”

“You’d fall over the railings.”

You smile. “You’re supposed to support my dreams, not predict my tragic fall.”

“I’m being realistic. It’s called love.”

You glance up at him, mock offended. “I can’t believe you’d speak to your future treehouse roommate this way.”

He smirks. “You’re assuming I’d climb a tree for you.”

“You’re already halfway in love with me,” you say sweetly. “You’d build me a ladder.”

And the second it leaves your mouth, your heart skips.

Because it was a joke.

But it was also… a little too real.

You don’t look at him.

You just stare at a freckle on his chest and hope the earth swallows you before he can say anything.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Doesn’t flinch.

Just lets out a low breath and murmurs, “Maybe I would.”

And then you really can’t look at him.

Because if you do, you might never be able to stop.

You don’t say anything after that.

Neither does he.

But something’s shifted again—soft, sure, and completely unspoken.

You stay curled against him, letting the quiet stretch as far as it wants.

The air is warm but not heavy. There’s a breeze through the cracked window, faint and sweet, and for once it doesn’t carry the weight of everything that came before.

His thumb brushes slowly over your shoulder again.

Not teasing.

Not distracted.

Just… there.

And after a long minute he says, voice quiet like he’s afraid to break whatever this is, “You make it feel different.”

You lift your head slightly. “What?”

“This house,” he says. “The mornings. All of it.”

Your chest aches.

But not in the way it used to.

You don’t push for more. You just look at him—his face still soft with sleep, his eyes open and clear and fixed on you like you’re the only thing he’s letting himself look at today.

“You do too,” you whisper.

His brow furrows slightly, like he doesn’t believe it—but doesn’t want to argue, either.

So instead, he says, “Don’t tell Katniss.”

You smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“She’ll mock me forever.”

“Oh, she will.”

He exhales through his nose, but there’s a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth now. The kind that only shows up when he doesn’t know you’re looking.

You rest your cheek back on his chest.

And it’s quiet again.

But not empty.

It’s full of things neither of you is ready to say—but maybe you’re getting closer.

Because he hasn’t let go.

And neither have you.

You don’t know who moves first.

Maybe it’s him.

Maybe it’s you.

All you know is that somewhere between the silence and the steady weight of his arm around you, you shift—just a little. Just enough.

Your head tilts. His gaze drops.

The space between your faces narrows, slow and inevitable, like gravity’s made a decision and your bodies forgot how to argue.

He looks at your mouth.

You feel it like a pulse.

Your breath catches—so soft, so close, you swear you could taste the air between you if you tried.

And then—

BANG.

The bedroom door flies open.

You both jolt upright like someone lit the bed on fire.

“Y/N?” Peeta’s voice, loud and cheerful and so oblivious it hurts. “Oh—”

He freezes.

Katniss is right behind him, arms crossed, brow furrowed. “We knocked. Like, a lot.”

You and Haymitch stare at them.

They stare back.

No one speaks.

Then Haymitch—stone-faced, voice completely flat—mutters, “You ever heard of privacy?”

Katniss blinks. “We thought she was dead.”

“Glad to disappoint,” you say, trying to casually untangle yourself from Haymitch and failing miserably.

Peeta glances between you both. At the bed. At the very cozy arrangement. “Sooo… breakfast?”

“We already had breakfast,” you mutter.

You and Haymitch both swing your legs over the side of the bed.

You grab the blanket on your way up and wrap it tightly around yourself like shame armor.

Haymitch mutters something unintelligible and runs a hand down his face.

Katniss looks completely unbothered.

Peeta is clearly trying so hard not to grin.

You sigh, deeply. “Okay. Let’s just—go downstairs. Like this didn’t happen.”

Haymitch gestures broadly toward the chaos. “This? Didn’t happen?”

“Exactly,” you say, already halfway to the door. “We imagined it. Collective fever dream.”

Peeta coughs. “So whose shirt are you wearing?”

You shove past him. “I hate everyone.”

And from behind you, Haymitch’s low voice—dry, amused, and way too fond, “No, you don’t.”

You make it down the stairs with your dignity mostly intact.

Mostly.

Peeta trails behind you with a suspicious amount of bounce in his step, and Katniss just follows in silence, scanning the kitchen like it might contain answers to questions she hasn’t decided whether she cares to ask.

You head straight for the stove to look busy, even though you just cooked a full breakfast not an hour ago.

Haymitch leans against the counter beside you.

You don’t mean to stand so close.

But you do.

Like your shoulder’s magnetized to his.

Peeta plops into a chair at the table, watching you with all the subtlety of a brick to the face.

“So,” he says, grinning. “Sleep well?”

You freeze with your hand halfway to the kettle.

Haymitch doesn’t even blink. “Did until someone kicked the door in.”

Peeta looks at you again—pointedly. “Just checking. Because Y/N looks very rested.”

You turn to face him, expression blank. “Peeta.”

“Hm?”

“I will throw this kettle at you.”

Haymitch reaches across you for a mug, brushing your hip on the way.

You definitely do not flinch. You are very chill and very normal about it.

Peeta raises both eyebrows. “Wow. Okay. I see what’s happening here.”

Katniss, finally breaking her silence, says, “Please don’t.”

“See?” You point at her with the kettle. “One sane person.”

Haymitch sips his coffee like he’s not part of the problem. “She’s just mad she got caught.”

“I’m not mad,” you say.

“You’re hiding behind me.”

“I’m standing next to you.”

“You’re under my arm like I’m an umbrella.”

You glance down and realize—yep. You’re practically plastered to his side.

Peeta coughs into his hand. “It’s okay, you two. We’re happy for you. You can hold hands or braid each other’s hair or whatever you were doing before we walked in.”

You stare at him.

Then at Katniss.

Who just shrugs.

Haymitch smirks. “You want me to braid your hair, honey?”

You snatch the mug out of his hand and walk off with it.

He follows.

Peeta laughs so hard he nearly chokes on air.

Eventually, the teasing settles.

Peeta gets distracted by the butter being too cold to spread.

Katniss raids the cabinets for tea.

Haymitch reclaims his mug like it was a personal mission, then sinks into his usual chair at the table—legs stretched out, one arm thrown across the back like he’s holding court.

You end up beside him.

Again.

And this time you don’t move away.

No one says anything about it.

The kitchen hums with low conversation and soft laughter and the occasional clink of dishes. The sun climbs higher through the windows. Outside, the cicadas start up again, low and steady like a second kind of heartbeat.

You wrap your hands around a fresh mug and let the warmth sink into your fingers.

Let yourself look around.

At Katniss, grumbling under her breath about some herb she can’t find.

At Peeta, humming as he butters toast with the edge of a spoon because he can’t find the knife.

At Haymitch, sipping his coffee like the world hasn’t changed but not quite hiding the peace in his eyes.

You sit there in the middle of it, the morning sun slipping across the floor and the weight of everything soft and safe and real around you, and you think, I don’t know what this is becoming.

But then you glance at him again—at Haymitch, warm and solid and beside you, still—and think, I hope it keeps becoming.

Next Part

[sweetheartsofpanem]

The First Time It's Safe - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

umm mdni please

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 5.89k

series masterlist | main masterlist

It’s early.

The kind of early where the whole world feels like it’s holding its breath—no light through the window yet, no birdsong, just that quiet, weightless stillness that only exists in the hours before morning fully arrives.

You’re curled against Haymitch, tucked beneath the blankets, the warmth between you slow and steady. One of his arms is draped around your waist, heavy in a way that feels grounding. Protective. His chest rises and falls behind you, breaths deep and even, but not quite asleep.

You’re not sure who moved first, but at some point in the night, you ended up like this. Close. Comfortable. Familiar in a way that scares you if you think too hard about it.

His voice breaks the silence, low and rough with sleep. “You ever think about it?”

You blink slowly, not turning. “Think about what?”

A pause. Then, “What it looks like. After all this.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “Sometimes.”

He shifts behind you, nose brushing the back of your neck like he might be trying to hide in the space between your skin and your spine.

“What do you see?” he asks, quieter this time.

You exhale, not quite sure how to answer. “Not much. Nothing solid. I think it’s more about how it feels than what it is.”

He hums like he understands.

“I think about waking up slow. The kind of slow that doesn’t come with guilt. A place where the air doesn’t taste like ash. Just… peace. A little bit of green outside the window. A kitchen that smells like home cooked meals. Maybe someone humming off key.”

You feel him smile into your shoulder.

“I could live with that,” he says.

You nod, just once. “I don’t need anything big. I just want something that doesn’t hurt.”

His fingers twitch against your stomach. “You deserve that.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not without saying more than you’re ready to.

So instead, you settle deeper into the warmth between you. Let his arm tighten around your waist. Let the silence stretch.

Eventually, he murmurs, “If we had all that… what would you grow?”

You smile into the pillow.

“Mint. Maybe violets. Something soft.”

He breathes out a quiet laugh, something that settles in your bones like safety.

The quiet settles again, but it isn’t heavy. Just soft. Breathing. Like the world is still deciding what it wants to be this morning.

Your fingers trace slow lines along the arm he’s wrapped around your middle. It feels safe. And that—that—is the strangest part. Safety’s always been something you survived around, not something you sank into.

And yet—here you are. Pressed to Haymitch Abernathy like he won’t let the sun touch you wrong.

You shift just enough to glance at him over your shoulder.

“What about you?”

His brows twitch like you’ve tugged him out of a thought.

“What do you see?” you ask. “In the future. Not in general. Just… for us.”

He stares at you for a moment. Not startled, not annoyed—just watching. Measuring the weight of the question, maybe. Or wondering how honest he’s allowed to be.

“For us?” he repeats.

You nod.

He looks up at the ceiling, his breath pulling in deep. You can feel the slow exhale against your back.

“I see mornings,” he says eventually. “Ones that don’t feel like punishment.”

Your throat tightens.

“I see you. Sitting on my porch. Complainin’ about the neighbors. Even if there aren’t any.”

You laugh once—small and a little shaky.

“I see you in the kitchen,” he adds, voice a little quieter. “Not cooking. Just there. Always there.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says the next part.

“And I see myself… still waking up scared. But less often.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Not when your heart is beating so loud in your chest it feels like it might give you away.

Haymitch shifts then, just slightly, his thumb brushing along your hipbone under the blanket. “That too much?” he asks, like he’s already bracing for the answer.

You turn toward him, slow and careful, so you’re facing each other. You tuck your hand between your chest and his and whisper, “No.”

He looks at you then.

And for the first time, he doesn’t look away.

You don’t look away either.

Not when he holds your gaze. Not when you see all the fear he tries to tuck beneath his mouth, his silence, his sarcasm. You just… stay there. Letting the moment stretch between you. Letting it be real.

Your fingers shift over his chest—gentle, aimless. He doesn’t flinch.

And then, almost without thinking, almost like it slips out of the place you’ve been holding it too long, you whisper, “I love you.”

His breath stutters.

You keep your eyes on his.

“You know that, right?”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. But he’s listening.

You press your hand flat against his chest, right over the place where you can feel the heartbeat you’re pretty sure you’d die to protect.

“I love all of it,” you say, voice trembling now, but sure. “Even the parts you think are too much. The mess. The quiet. The sharp edges and the soft ones. I want all of it. I want you.”

Haymitch swallows, his jaw tight.

“I don’t care if it’s messy or loud or complicated. I don’t care if you have bad days or if your past still fucks with your head or if you wake up needing silence more than my voice. I just—” You inhale sharply. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide any of it from me.”

His hand comes up to your cheek—slow, shaking, unsure.

You lean into it.

“I don’t need you to say it back,” you say softly. “Not if you’re not ready. That’s not what this is. I just…” Your voice drops. “I want you to know. That you’re loved. That you don’t have to earn it. You already have it.”

And then you stop talking, because your throat’s too tight and your chest aches and you’ve said all the words that matter.

Haymitch is still watching you.

Still silent.

Still holding your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

He doesn’t speak right away.

Just keeps looking at you like he’s seeing something he never thought he was allowed to touch.

His thumb strokes along your cheekbone once, and you swear you feel the tremble in it. His breath is shallow, and his eyes are too bright, like he’s fighting something—maybe himself, maybe the version of him that’s always whispered it was safer not to feel anything at all.

“I don’t…” he starts, then swallows hard. “I’m not good at this.”

You don’t move. Don’t speak. Just press your hand over the one on your cheek and wait. No pressure. No fear. Just there.

“I’ve only ever said it to one person,” he says, voice low and raw. “And I watched her die.”

You nod slowly, eyes stinging. “I know.”

“And for a long time, I thought… if I said it again, it’d mean I let go of her. That I—” His voice cracks. “That I didn’t mean it the first time.”

He’s silent for a long moment, his fingers slipping from your cheek to your jaw, to your throat, to your collarbone—like he’s grounding himself in the feeling of you being here.

“But I didn’t let go of her,” he says finally. “And you didn’t make me.”

You breathe out, slow. Careful.

His voice is barely audible now. “You just… gave me something I didn’t think I could have again.”

You whisper, “Haymitch—”

He leans forward before you can finish, presses his forehead to yours, and exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

“I love you,” he says, voice quiet and fierce. “I love you like all-fire.”

You inhale sharply—because you know what that means. You know what those words cost him. What they carry.

Your fingers curl into the back of his neck, and he keeps going, his voice a little steadier now, “I love you when I’m sober. I love you when I’m not. I love you when you talk too much and when you won’t talk at all. I love you when I don’t know how to say it. I love you when I do.”

Your chest shudders, tears sliding down your cheeks as you whisper, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoes, arms wrapping around you as he pulls you close, burying his face in your neck.

And for the first time, you both believe it.

You don’t say anything when he pulls away from your neck to look at you.

You just look at him. Let the quiet hold between you, let his words settle somewhere under your ribs, where they feel too big to hold and too precious to drop.

Haymitch’s gaze flicks down to your mouth. Then back up.

He shifts forward like he’s not entirely sure if he’s allowed—like if he moves too fast, you might vanish. But you don’t.

You stay.

And then you lean in first.

The kiss is slow.

No pull. No push. Just lips brushing. His nose nudging yours. Your hand sliding up to his jaw, thumb resting near the corner of his mouth.

His hand finds your waist, fingers curling there like he’s not just holding you—he’s bracing himself.

You kiss again, and this time he lingers.

His mouth parts slightly against yours, breath warm and unsteady. Not from want—at least not only from want—but from how much this is. How much it means.

You shift closer without thinking, until your chest brushes his, until there’s no space between your knees and his thigh. His arm wraps a little tighter around your back.

And still, the kiss stays sweet.

Like the first inhale after holding your breath too long. Like morning light through a half-open window. Like home.

When you pull back just far enough to look at him, his eyes are heavy-lidded and soft in a way you’ve never seen before.

You don’t say anything.

You just touch his face—thumb across his cheekbone, palm over his jaw—and let yourself look at him. Really look.

He leans into your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

And then he kisses you again.

Slower. Deeper. No pressure behind it, just more of him.

You press your forehead to his when it ends, both of you breathing a little harder now, hearts thudding quietly between your ribs.

No urgency.

Just this.

You lose count of the kisses.

They blur together—slow, open-mouthed, quiet. Not desperate. Not performative. Just his breath and yours, lips brushing in steady rhythm like the world outside the bed has stopped spinning.

Haymitch shifts slightly, and the mattress creaks beneath you as his weight starts to come forward. He kisses you again—deeper this time, one hand sliding from your waist to your back, guiding you gently down until your spine sinks into the mattress.

His body follows. Careful. Slow. He braces himself with one arm beside your head, the other still wrapped around your side. He’s not heavy, not pressing down—but he’s there, and he’s close, and your body freezes.

Just for a second.

He feels it.

His lips still, just a breath away from yours, and he pulls back just enough to see your face.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and steady, nothing but warmth in it. No shame. No accusation. Just a gentle check-in.

You nod quickly. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

But he stays still. Watching you.

You take a slow breath. “I’m okay,” you repeat, softer. “Just—just not used to the softness.”

His brows twitch. “Too much?”

“No,” you say instantly, hand reaching for him, fingertips curling against his ribs like you’re afraid he’ll pull away. “It’s not too much. That’s what I mean. I’m just not used to it not being too much.”

His gaze softens.

You swallow. “It’s never felt… like this.”

Haymitch shifts his weight just enough to free the hand between you and cradles the side of your face with it, thumb brushing along your jaw.

“Then we do this slow,” he says. “And we stop whenever you need. And you don’t have to be anything you’re not.”

You nod. Your throat is tight.

He kisses you again. Slower this time. Even more careful. Not because he doubts you—but because he wants you to feel safe.

And somehow, that undoing is the most overwhelming thing of all.

You whisper against his mouth, “Thank you.”

He kisses the corner of your lips.

“For what?”

You smile—small, wobbly. “Not rushing.”

His lips twitch like he wants to smile too, but all he does is kiss you again. And again. Until you melt back into the mattress, your legs parting to cradle him without even thinking.

His hand stays on your cheek the whole time.

Like an anchor. Like a promise.

His mouth never strays far from yours.

Even when the kisses shift—deeper now, slower still—he keeps coming back. Brushing your lips like they’re something sacred. Like he’s checking in every time.

Your fingers slide along his ribs, up the curve of his back, fingertips catching on the faint ridges of old scars. He shudders under your touch, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.

“Still okay?” he murmurs against your mouth, his hand cupping your jaw.

You nod, breath warm against his lips. “Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Just makin’ sure.”

His hand dips down then—just to the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t push. Just rests there, palm flat, waiting.

“Can I…?”

You nod again. But he doesn’t move.

He waits until you say it.

“Yes,” you whisper. “You can.”

He lifts it slowly, careful not to rush, watching your face the entire time. And when he pulls it over your head and tosses it gently aside, he doesn’t look right away—not at your body. His eyes stay on yours, like he’s making sure you’re still here. Still with him.

You lie back against the pillow, half-naked now, chest rising and falling a little faster.

He swallows.

“Still good?”

You nod, eyes shining. “Yeah. Just…”

“I know,” he says. “We go slow.”

His hand slides along your side, warm and wide, not squeezing—just holding. You arch slightly into his touch, and he kisses the hollow beneath your jaw. Then your collarbone. Then just above your heart.

He lingers there.

You whisper, “You can touch me.”

His breath stutters.

He shifts above you, brushing your hair back with both hands like he wants to see everything—but only if you let him. His palms settle just beneath your shoulder blades as he leans down and kisses you again—mouth soft and open, a little messier now, like the carefulness is starting to melt into comfort.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, fingers slipping through his hair, and he groans quietly into your mouth like the weight of your touch undoes something deep in him.

You part your legs a little more—not rushed, not inviting more than you’re ready for. Just letting him in. Letting him settle.

And he does. Laying over you like you’re something he’s allowed to rest on.

He kisses you again.

“Still good?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Are you?”

“I’ve never been this good,” he says.

Your shirt is gone, but the rest of you is still clothed—your soft sleep shorts clinging to your hips, warm and slightly rumpled. Haymitch is still in his sweats, the fabric dragging low on his hips, bare chest pressed to yours like something holy.

He’s kissing you again—slow and deep, but not greedy. Just full. Full of everything he hasn’t said in words. Full of the way his body trembles a little when your hands roam down his back, fingertips slipping beneath the waistband of those old, worn sweats.

His hips shift gently between your legs, the cotton of your shorts and his waistband the only thing keeping him from pressing fully against you. It makes you gasp—that closeness, even through clothes, even with space left to cross.

He pulls back immediately.

“You okay?” he asks, already still, his voice low and careful. “Too much?”

You shake your head, breath catching. “No. I just… it feels real.”

He nods slowly, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

“Can I take these off?” he asks, fingers gently toying with the hem of your shorts.

You nod again—but then stop yourself. “Yes. Please.”

He leans in and kisses you once more, then shifts down slowly, sliding the fabric down over your hips, his hands steady and unhurried. He kisses your thigh when he gets them past your knees, then again when he pulls them free completely and drops them off the side of the bed.

You’re left in nothing but your underwear, the air cool against your skin but your body warm—flushed from the closeness, the way he looks at you.

Haymitch pauses, still kneeling between your legs.

“You still with me?”

You nod, eyes glassy.

He presses a kiss just above your knee. “Tell me if that changes.”

Then he leans back just enough to shove his sweats down—slow, one hand on your leg to steady himself. He drops them off the bed, not making a show of it, just removing distance.

Now it’s just you and him. Skin and breath and cotton between your thighs.

He comes back over you, settling carefully between your legs again, the press of his boxers against your underwear making both of you gasp.

You arch into him, instinctive, chasing the pressure. He groans softly against your neck, his hips stuttering just a little.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel… you feel like everything.”

You press your cheek to his, fingers sliding into his hair.

His arms wrap around you fully, pressing you chest-to-chest, his hips moving again—slow, tender, grinding gently against the throb between your legs. The fabric catches just right, just enough, and your mouth parts in a breathless moan.

“Still okay?” he whispers.

You nod, voice gone soft. “Still okay.”

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your mouth again—longer this time.

And the way he moves against you—not fast, not hard, just present—makes your whole body hum.

The friction is steady now.

Haymitch’s hips roll against yours—slow, deep enough to make your breath catch, but still clothed, still soft. The heat between you simmers just under the surface. It isn’t frantic. It isn’t even needy. It’s devotional.

You moan quietly when he presses down just right, your underwear damp and clinging now, the front of his boxers warm and soaked with it.

He kisses you again—this time slower, deeper. He kisses you like he means it. Like he’s trying to learn what your mouth is like when you sigh, when you whisper his name, when you forget to be afraid.

His hands are moving now—down your sides, across your waist, up your ribs. Exploring. Not groping. Just touching.

His palms splay over your stomach, your sternum, the soft swell of your breasts. Careful and curious, like he’s never been allowed to touch anything this soft.

“Still good?” he murmurs, mouth brushing the edge of your jaw.

“Yeah,” you whisper, voice breathless. “It’s good. You’re good.”

You run your fingers along his back, over the strong curve of his shoulder blades, down to the dip of his spine. He shudders when your nails graze gently over his skin.

You whisper, “Can I touch you more?”

He nods against your skin. “Please.”

You roll your hips slowly, letting him feel the way you pulse under him, and his body jerks—just slightly, just enough to let you know he feels it all.

His hand comes to rest between your breasts, not pressing, just lying there—warm and steady.

“Never thought I’d get this,” he says quietly.

You lean up and kiss his throat.

“You have it.”

He cups one of your breasts fully then—warm palm against bare skin, his thumb brushing slow over your nipple. You gasp, arching into the touch, and he pulls back just enough to watch your face.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, lips parted. “That feels… really nice.”

His mouth quirks. “Nice?”

You huff a laugh, cheeks hot. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You kiss him again, smiling against his mouth as his hand keeps moving—down your side, over your hip, sliding between your thighs where your underwear is damp and soaked through.

His fingers brush over you there—gentle, not pressing, just feeling how wet you are for him.

“Jesus,” he breathes.

You gasp again as his finger grazes your clit through the thin fabric, hips jerking.

“Still good?” he asks, still checking, still watching.

“Yes,” you moan.

His forehead rests against yours as he keeps touching you, slowly, like he’s learning how to love you. Not just where—but how.

And it’s not until your legs fall wider around his hips that he whispers, “Can I take these off?”

Your breath is already shaky when you nod.

Haymitch kisses you once more, deep and slow, then starts to slide down your body—pressing kisses to your chest, your ribs, your stomach. You go still beneath him, not tense, but not loose either.

Your thighs twitch as he settles between them, his hands resting gently at your hips.

He doesn’t rush.

Doesn’t touch you yet.

Just waits.

You try to speak, but your voice comes out thin. “You don’t have to…”

He looks up at you immediately, his hands still steady on your hips. “Don’t want to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You bite your lip, heat rushing up your throat. “It’s not that. I just…” Your eyes flick away. “I’ve never had anyone do that without it being—”

You stop.

But he already knows.

His thumb strokes over your hipbone, warm and patient. “Without it being about them?”

You nod, barely.

His eyes soften. “This isn’t about me, honey.”

Your throat tightens.

“It’s about you.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off gently—his voice warm and sure as his hands start sliding your underwear down.

“Let me take care of you.”

He kisses the inside of your thigh as he says it, like a vow.

“Okay?” he asks, waiting with your underwear halfway down your legs, not moving until you nod.

You do.

“Okay.”

He finishes pulling them off, slow and reverent, and then he’s back between your thighs—settled and steady, his hands running soothing strokes along the backs of your legs as you tremble just slightly beneath him.

You cover your face with one hand, overwhelmed.

He presses a kiss to the top of your knee. “Hey.”

You peek down at him, heart thudding.

His voice is soft. “I want you to feel good. That’s it.”

You nod again.

He kisses your inner thigh—once. Then again. And then his tongue finally drags over you, slow and warm, and your whole body shudders.

You cry out softly, your hand flying from your face to grip the sheets instead.

Haymitch groans into you, low and wrecked, his hands holding your hips steady as he licks again—deep, slow, deliberate—like he’s savoring every inch of you.

He murmurs something against you that you can’t make out, but you feel it in your bones. In the way your legs fall wider. In the way your breath catches every time his tongue flattens just right.

You sob his name once, and he answers by sucking gently at your clit, just once, just enough to make you whine and arch off the bed.

“Still okay?” he whispers, voice rough, lips brushing your skin.

“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t.

He keeps licking like he’s been waiting a lifetime to show you what it’s supposed to feel like.

And for the first time, you believe it’s okay to fall apart.

He keeps his mouth on you like it’s the only place he’s ever belonged.

No rush. No show. Just slow, reverent worship—his tongue dragging steady over you, his hands strong and gentle as they hold you open like you’re something sacred.

You can’t breathe right.

Not because it’s overwhelming, though it is—but because he’s the one doing it. Haymitch. The man who doesn’t let anyone close. The man who looks at you like softness is allowed to survive in his arms.

You sob his name again, hips lifting into his mouth, thighs trembling as he flattens his tongue and presses, circling exactly where you need him, slow and devastating.

He groans into you when you grind against his mouth, like your pleasure alone is enough to wreck him.

“H-Haymitch—” you gasp, voice breaking. “I think—I think I’m gonna—”

He pulls you closer.

“Let go, honey.”

And you do.

It hits all at once—sharp and hot and so full, your body locking up with a cry that punches out of your lungs. You writhe under his hands, thighs clenching around his shoulders, hips jerking as your orgasm takes you.

He doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking through it, swallowing every sound, every twitch, every sobbed-out breath until you’re squirming from the overstimulation and trying to push him away, your fingers weak where they find his hair.

Only then does he pull back.

He kisses your inner thigh once, then once more, and rests his cheek against it like he’s not quite ready to let go.

You’re still shaking, your chest rising and falling fast, your whole body wrecked in the best way.

He kisses your leg again, murmurs, “Still good?”

You nod, breathless. “Better than.”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes, the look on his face somewhere between awe and ache.

And then he says, “You want more?”

Not greedy. Not expecting. Just offering.

You reach for him, still dazed, voice barely steady.

“I want you.”

You say it with your fingers curled around the back of his neck, your thighs still trembling, your chest flushed and bare. And Haymitch doesn’t move right away—doesn’t pounce, doesn’t rush.

He just stares at you like the whole world has narrowed to this bed, this breath, this choice.

Then he leans up, slow and quiet, and kisses you like he’s telling you thank you without words.

You pull him into you. Chest to chest, skin to skin, slick heat where your body’s still pulsing, still open from his mouth. He settles gently between your legs again, resting some of his weight on his elbows so you can feel him everywhere—his breath, his heartbeat, the shaky tension in his muscles from holding back.

His cock is thick against your thigh, still trapped in his boxers, and when you roll your hips just a little, he groans into your mouth.

But he still doesn’t move.

Not until he whispers, “Last one. You sure?”

You nod. “I’m sure.”

He brushes his nose against yours. “Say it, honey.”

Your voice is soft, steady. “I want you to make love to me.”

He exhales shakily then presses one more kiss to your lips before shifting back to slide his boxers off.

You follow, eyes wide, breath catching as he settles over you again—bare now, and so beautiful in the early morning light you almost forget to be afraid.

His hand finds yours between your bodies, fingers tangling like he needs the anchor.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You nod. “More than.”

He reaches down, slow and careful, guiding himself to you. The head of his cock nudges against your entrance—hot, heavy, slick with your arousal—and you gasp as he starts to press in.

It’s a stretch. Not painful. Just real.

You suck in a breath, thighs tensing.

He freezes. “Too much?”

You shake your head, clutching his hand tighter. “No. Just… I’ve never done this and felt safe before.”

His whole body softens above you.

“Then we do it right,” he murmurs. “Slow. Steady. You tell me the second you need anything.”

You nod, eyes locked on his.

And then he pushes forward—inch by inch, giving you time to feel every part of it, every place where your body opens for him. You gasp once, then moan, then arch into him as he finally bottoms out, chest pressing to yours, both of you shaking.

He holds still, forehead against yours, your breath mingling.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You feel like home.”

And for the first time in your life, it does.

The first movement is slow.

Just his hips rocking gently, barely pulling back before easing forward again. It’s not deep yet—not really—but it’s enough to make you breathe harder, to make you clutch his back and gasp into his shoulder like it’s the only way to stay grounded.

Haymitch groans softly, like even that much undoes him.

“Still okay?” he whispers against your cheek, voice frayed at the edges.

You nod, whispering back, “Yeah. It’s so good.”

So good doesn’t even cover it. Because it isn’t just about how he feels inside you—though he fills you perfectly, thick and slow and warm—it’s the way he moves.

Like he has nothing to prove.

Like there’s no rush, no point in fucking you fast when he can stay here, when he can press his chest to yours and feel your heart race with every gentle thrust.

“Let me know if anything changes,” he murmurs. “You just say the word and I stop.”

You shake your head, holding him tighter. “Don’t stop. Just… keep doing it like this.”

He kisses you. Tender. Messy. His hips begin to move more fully now, the strokes deeper, still unhurried—but enough to make your body melt under him, your thighs falling further open, your breath turning into quiet whimpers with each press of his cock.

“You’re so soft,” he says against your mouth, like he can’t believe it. “So fuckin’ warm.”

You moan, breathless. “You feel so good inside me.”

His rhythm falters, just for a second. Then he picks it back up—still that steady, loving pace, but now with a little more weight behind it. Like every slow thrust is driving the truth in deeper.

You reach up and cradle his face, pulling his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” you whisper again. Not because you expect it back. Just because it’s real. Because it lives in your bones now.

He thrusts deeper, his breath catching.

“Love you too, honey.”

He presses in again, and you sob out a moan as his hips grind perfectly at the end.

“Oh, god—” you gasp.

“That feel good?” he asks, voice rough, low, tender.

You nod, body arching, and he does it again. Slow, deep, circling his hips just right.

Your legs tighten around him as your body starts to tremble.

“You’re close,” he murmurs, “aren’t you?”

“Yes—please—Haymitch—”

He kisses you again, one hand sliding between your bodies to gently rub your clit as he keeps thrusting, slow and perfect.

“Come for me, honey. Right here. Let me feel it.”

Your whole body pulls tight.

His thumb circles your clit with gentle pressure, just enough, just right, and his cock keeps moving slow and deep inside you, hitting that place that makes your breath stutter and your fingers claw gently down his back.

You whisper his name like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only thing keeping you here.

And then—you break.

Your body arches, thighs trembling, mouth falling open as the orgasm hits you—hot and slow and endless. You feel yourself pulse around him, your body clenching so tightly around his cock that he gasps, the sound punched right out of his chest.

“Fuck, honey,” he groans, voice ragged, lips dragging over your cheek. “That’s it. God, that’s it. Just like that—just like that.”

He doesn’t pull out.

He stays deep. Still moving, still holding you, his thrusts rougher now—still slow, but not calm anymore. Not careful. Like your body unraveling around him has undone whatever control he had left.

You’re still shaking, your body wet and sensitive, but you keep whispering, “Yes—please, Haymitch—”

He lets out a sound you’ve never heard from him before—half-strangled, half-helpless—and slams into you once, twice, then stays there, buried as deep as he can go.

And he comes.

Hard.

His body seizes over yours, one hand gripping the pillow near your head, the other cradling your thigh as he shudders through it—long and slow. You feel him twitch inside you, feel the heat of him spilling deep, and your body clenches again like it wants to keep every bit of him.

He collapses into you—not heavy, just close, forehead against your neck, breath shaking.

You wrap your arms around him and hold him there.

Neither of you speaks.

Not yet.

There’s only the sound of your breaths tangled together, your hearts still racing, your bodies still joined.

After a minute, he shifts slightly—just enough to lift his head and look at you.

“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse, almost reverent.

You nod, smiling, your eyes glassy. “More than okay.”

He doesn’t move to pull out. Doesn’t even ask.

He just presses his lips to your cheek and whispers, “Stay with me.”

You curl your fingers into his hair and whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Haymitch’s body is warm and heavy over yours, his breath brushing your collarbone, your fingers tangled in his hair. Neither of you moves—not because you can’t, but because there’s nowhere else to be.

The sky outside has started to shift, that pre-dawn blue softening toward something gentler. A little gold peeks through the window, painting your skin in morning.

He’s the first to speak after a while, his voice low, rough from sleep and sex and something softer.

“You sure you’re okay?”

You nod slowly, nose brushing his temple. “I’ve never felt safer.”

His body eases even further into yours, like he didn’t know how much tension he was holding until you said it out loud.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, kissing the curve of your neck. “You don’t have to be anything but yourself.”

“I meant it too,” you whisper. “I want all of you. Even the hard parts. Especially the hard parts.”

You feel him smile against your skin—crooked and quiet and real.

Eventually, he does shift, just enough to slip out of you. You wince at the emptiness, at the sudden cool air between your legs, but then he’s right back, curling around you, pulling the blanket up over both of you like he needs you covered, held, his.

He kisses your shoulder. Then the crook of your neck. Then the spot behind your ear that makes you hum.

You murmur, “I think I’m in love with you.”

He grumbles against your skin, “I already told you I love you. Stop trying to win.”

You laugh, turning in his arms to face him. “I just like saying it.”

He runs a hand over your hair, down your spine. “Then say it again in a few hours. After we’ve slept for a decade.”

You rest your forehead against his, letting your nose brush his, letting your whole body sink into his warmth.

“Okay.”

He kisses you one more time, slow and sleep-soft, and then you both let yourselves drift.

Wrapped up in the sheets. Wrapped up in each other.

By the time the sun crests over the hills, you’re already dreaming.

And for the first time in a long time, it’s good.

Next Part