#the hunger games fanfic request

[mscresta]

Tribute parade. //

Finnick x tribute reader.

Cw! anxiety, public crowds.

This is part 2! Read part one here: !!!!

It had been a day since you arrived in the Capitol, and they were already trying to show you off. Today was the tribute parade—second only to the Games themselves in terms of spectacle. It was the biggest event of the year, the first chance for sponsors to see the tributes up close and for the entire nation to start forming their favorites.

You sat in the dressing room, nerves twisting your stomach into knots. Finnick was leaning casually against the wall, trying to coach you through a few things, but you could barely focus on his words. All you could think about was your outfit.

“Relax,” Finnick said, giving you an amused glance. “You’ll look fine. Besides, no one’s going to be looking at the clothes. They’re going to be looking at you. That’s the point.”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” you muttered. You’d seen the parade broadcasts in past years—tributes dressed in ridiculous outfits meant to represent their districts, some of them so outlandish they looked more like jokes than competitors. The thought of being humiliated like that made your skin crawl.

Finnick stepped closer, crouching slightly to meet your eye level. “Listen to me,” he said, his tone suddenly serious. “Your stylist isn’t going to make you look stupid. District 4 always delivers. Trust them. And more importantly, trust yourself.”

You hesitated, biting your lip. “What if… what if they don’t like me? What if I mess this up?”

Finnick tilted his head, studying you. “You won’t,” he said simply. “But here’s the thing—this parade isn’t about getting them to like you. It’s about making them remember you. Be bold. Be confident. Even if you have to fake it, act like you’re the best thing to come out of District 4 since fishing nets.”

You snorted despite yourself, and Finnick grinned. “See? There’s the attitude we need.”

Before you could respond, the door opened, and your stylist walked in, a wide smile plastered across her face. She was a Capitol native, her hair dyed a shimmering seafoam green to match District 4’s aquatic theme. “Ready to make waves?” she asked, clapping her hands together.

You swallowed hard and nodded, though you didn’t feel ready at all.

The outfit, to your relief, wasn’t as ridiculous as you feared. Your stylist had gone for elegance, dressing you in a flowing, iridescent fabric that shimmered like the surface of the ocean. It hugged your frame in all the right places, giving you an otherworldly, almost ethereal look. Small details, like coral accents and a delicate netting draped over your shoulders, tied the whole ensemble together.

“You look stunning,” the stylist said, stepping back to admire her work. “Trust me, the Capitol is going to eat this up.”

Finnick whistled low as you turned to face him. “See? Told you. No one’s laughing now.”

You couldn’t help but glance at yourself in the mirror again. For the first time, you felt… powerful. The outfit didn’t make you feel like a spectacle—it made you feel like you belonged here, like you could hold your own against the others.

“Now,” Finnick said, pushing off the wall and straightening his jacket, “it’s showtime. Walk tall, keep your head high, and don’t let them see a single ounce of fear. They love confidence. You give them that, and you’re already winning.”

The sound of cheers echoed through the halls as the tributes before you began their procession. The reality of what you were about to do hit you all over again, and your palms started to sweat.

Finnick leaned in close, his voice steady and reassuring. “You’ve got this. Remember, they don’t own you. Not yet.”

You nodded, gripping the edge of your chariot for support as the doors opened, and the bright Capitol lights flooded in The doors slid open, and the roar of the Capitol crowd hit you like a tidal wave. The sound was deafening, a chaotic mix of cheers, gasps, and applause. The light was blinding, reflecting off the sleek metal of the chariots lined up in front of you. You clenched your hands tighter around the edge of the chariot as it began to roll forward, the movement smooth but somehow unsteady beneath your feet.

Finnick had been right. Your outfit shimmered under the bright lights, catching the eyes of the spectators. Heads turned, and you could hear the excited murmurs ripple through the crowd. You forced yourself to stand tall, lifting your chin as the chariot carried you closer to the heart of the parade route.

Your district partner stood beside you, decked out in an outfit that mirrored yours, though his had a more rugged, commanding look. He nodded at you, a silent gesture of solidarity, but neither of you spoke. Words weren’t necessary—not here, not now. All that mattered was the image you projected.

The Capitol citizens leaned over the railings, waving and throwing flowers as your chariot passed. Their faces were painted with garish colors, their hair styled in ways that seemed impossible. Their expressions were a mix of awe and delight, as though you were some kind of rare, exotic creature. It was unsettling, but Finnick’s advice echoed in your mind: walk tall, keep your head high, and don’t let them see a single ounce of fear.

You glanced up at the massive screens that lined the route, catching sight of yourself for the first time. The cameras zoomed in on your face, capturing every detail—the determined set of your jaw, the glint of your outfit, the way the lights seemed to reflect in your eyes. For a moment, you barely recognized yourself. You didn’t look scared. You looked… strong.

As the chariots approached the grand balcony where the Capitol’s leaders stood, the energy of the crowd seemed to reach its peak. President Snow was there, his cold, calculating smile fixed in place as he watched the tributes with an air of detached authority. His gaze swept over the procession, and for a brief moment, it felt as though his eyes locked onto yours.

A chill ran down your spine, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you raised a hand and waved to the crowd, just as Finnick had instructed. The response was immediate—a surge of cheers and applause so loud it made your chest vibrate. You caught Finnick’s smirk from the sidelines as you passed by, his expression one of approval.

The parade continued for what felt like an eternity, but you held your composure, forcing yourself to stay present. By the time the chariots came to a stop at the Capitol’s central square, your legs felt like jelly, and your hands were trembling from holding on so tightly.

As the anthem of Panem played and the tributes were officially introduced, you let yourself steal one last glance at the crowd. This was the Capitol—the place that would either make or break you. And for the first time, you felt a flicker of something unexpected. It wasn’t quite hope, but it was close. You could do this. You had to.

When it was finally over, Finnick was waiting for you backstage, his arms crossed and a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Not bad,” he said as you stepped off the chariot, your legs still unsteady. “Told you they’d love you.”

You didn’t reply, too drained to form words, but the look you gave him said enough. You hadn’t just survived the parade—you’d owned it. For now, that was enough..

Likes and repost are very appreciated!

Read part 3 here!

[alloftheimagines]

haymitch abernathy | until sunrise

words: 1.7k warnings: MINORS DNI. off-page sexual and physical abuse, blood, suicidal ideation, alcohol, drugs, angst, hurt/comfort description: You’re the Capitol’s plaything. All he can do is clean you up after a particularly terrible night.  I just finished Sunrise on the Reaping and had to get out some Haymitch brainrot.

A knock on his door is never a good sign. When Haymitch is in the Capitol for the Games, he keeps to himself when he can, lost in the fog of drink where he can convince himself that nothing can touch him. 

But there’s one exception. You.

You’re the only reason he opens the door at all. A fresh victor of District 12, it’s been your turn to serve the Capitol over the last couple of years. Last Games, they still had that thing in your ear, keeping you drugged and controlled to establish you as the Capitol’s docile little darling. This year, you’ve spent every party either in a cage or satisfying potential sponsors behind closed doors. It makes him sick, so he drinks more and more and more, but it never makes it easier. 

Now, in the hallway, you’re more gaunt than ever. Barely there at all. There are cuts all over your skin, blood dribbling down your temple, your neck, even your damn legs. 

“I need…” you whisper, and the words are slurred. Unlike him, it isn’t a choice. Your clients like you better when you’re inebriated, not able to fight back. You’re theirs to do with what they want. 

You frown as though you’ve already forgotten what you need, but he knows. 

“Come in, sweetheart.”

When you step forward on buckling legs, he has to catch you, just barely holding you up. His white liquor breath mingles with your sour one as, somehow, this quest for stability becomes something more. He’s holding you tight while your head lolls against his shoulder, because it’s the least he can do and it isn’t nearly enough. He feels responsible. He helped you win those games. After years of following the rules, learning the hard way that rebellion got people killed, he’d seen a spark in you. A spark that could have destroyed the games if he was just smart enough to figure out how. 

Snow had seen the flame. Snuffed it out. It pains Haymitch to think it, but he would have been better off letting you starve without sponsors. Letting you die in the arena. This… This is his fault. He cared for something again, somebody, and now it’s killing you both. 

“What’d they do to you?” he whispers when he’s shut the door behind you. A stupid question, born from horror rather than a genuine need to know. With the bite marks, bruises, and slashes across your skin, he can imagine. The Capitol are almost as genetically mutated as Mutts these days, so many of them resembling animals with sharp-filed teeth among other hideous implants.

“Got one… with fangs n’claws,” you mutter. 

He looses a jagged breath, half-rage, half-despair, and guides you carefully over to his couch. The apartment is still in darkness, lights too bright for his ever-pounding head. Besides, the view of the Capitol illuminated under the stars yawns outside his window, a beast not quite slumbering. Never does. The city never stops; night just casts a blanket over their depravities, but there are holes in the velvet that keep the place lit dim.

Curtains aren’t allowed. He already asked. 

With you slumped on his pillows, he can get a better view of your state. Regrets looking immediately. Glittering dress the colour of grey doves has been torn by greedy hands. Where your skin isn’t bloody, it’s black, blue, green, your very own kaleidoscope of pain. It’ll be worse in the morning, but right now, you at least have the detachment the drugs grant you. Not like him, who feels every fucking mark on you. 

He rubs a hand over his unkempt stubble. Tries to figure out where the fuck he should start. If you were cognisant, he’d have led you straight to the shower, knows how unclean you feel after a night like this. But you’re not, and he’s not going to be another monster who strips you bare without you knowing. 

“Gonna clean you up best I can, okay?” he finally decides. “You rest now.”

Your mumble is unintelligible, but it still pierces another needle through his chest. How can the two of you keep going like this? How can you mentor more tributes, knowing that an arena death would be kinder than this slow torture?

Turns out his liquor comes in handy for more than just getting wasted. He grabs a cloth and his half-drained bottle from the kitchen along with a bowl of warm water, then returns to you, kneeling on the carpet at your feet. 

“I got you now,” he whispers, then starts on your sprawled legs. You whimper when he reaches the first gash, right below your knee. “‘M sorry, sweetheart. Know it stings.”

You bite your lip, fingers curling into the velvet arm of the couch as he keeps going. “Haymitch.” It’s a croaked whisper, barely audible at all, but he hears it like an alarm bell.

“I’m here,” is all he can reply as he wrings the blood from the cloth. Goes again. Where your dress is bunched towards your hips, he sees bite marks on your inner thighs and feels nauseous. He sucks in a sharp breath. Leans back to press his fist into his mouth so that he doesn’t yell, or sob, or do something. He’s had his time, his punishment. It’s your turn now, and all he can do is be there at the end of the night. He takes a swig of the liquor in his hand, but it just makes the burn in his throat worse. So bad he has to step away, just for a minute, to collect himself. 

He doesn’t know your lazy gaze is watching his back, waiting for him to return. The only person who keeps you safe in all this, or at least rides out the devastation with you. Without him, you wouldn’t be here. You don’t know if that makes him a blessing or a curse. 

“Gonna get you some water,” he decides. 

Don’t go, you think, but you don’t dare say it. Even now, you’re afraid the Capitol will see just how much you rely on him and take that from you, too. 

He comes back quickly, helps sit you up with a gentle hand on your shoulder as he tips the cool glass to your cracked lips. “That’s it,” he coaxes. “Thatta girl.”

Your face crumples as though it tastes foul, and he draws it back to dry the excess from your chin. “When’s… it gon’ end?” you ask.

“When we’re dead and buried,” he replies softly. “Till then, you try to stay with me, okay?”

Your hooded eyes glisten as you finally look at him. It isn’t easy, being this vulnerable. You’ve been used and abused all night by evil, depraved men. Men with weapons on their fingers, in their mouths, everywhere, not because they like to fight, but because they like to bleed people like you dry. You shouldn’t want to be anywhere near him now, but where else can you go?

He’s all you’ve got. Some nights, it just isn’t enough. “Don’t w’na do this anymore.”

“I know.”

“Could end it.”

“They wouldn’t let you. You know that.” His voice is gravel; pain. You hate you put it there with your dreams of death, but they feel closer now than ever. What if he didn’t tend to your wounds, didn’t keep your hydrated and fed and awake? What if he let you drift off the way he hadn’t been able to in the arena?

And he’s right. Even if he could let you go, the Capitol would find some way to get you back, whether they’d use your sickly corpse or find somebody to masquerade as you to keep up appearances. You’d just be making it worse, even if not for yourself. 

And he needs you. He’d never say it, but he does. The only other victor here, all you have is each other. Back in District 12, you sit in your grand house in the Victor Village for hours, listening to him shuffling on the other side of the wall. His presence always a frayed thread to grasp onto with both hands. You clean him up when he’s passed out on his doorstep, or sometimes, you get drunk together on your couch. Only then do your bodies intertwine the way you want, both of you too past consciousness to care whether somebody sees. You don’t know what he’d do without you. Choke on his own vomit, maybe. Drink until he drowned. You rely on each other — and it’s the most dangerous thing in the world. But also the only thing that keeps you going. 

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, and his face is fading in and out of the blackness now as he tends to some of the scratches on your face and neck. 

“Haymitch,” you whisper again, because if anybody can save you, it’s him. 

“Right here, sweetheart. Not going anywhere.” He’s so gentle against your raw skin you barely feel it at all, only moaning when he reaches tender spots. Finally, it stops. 

“Couch or bed?” he asks just as you’re sinking into the dark. 

“Couch.” Beds are where terrible things happen. Beds are where this happened.

“Lie down then, sweet. That’s it.” He guides you down to the cushions of the couch, a hand brushing the matted hair off your cheeks. You can’t tell if it’s comfortable or not. Your body isn’t yours to decide that, these days. He drapes a blanket over you, and it eases your shuddering limbs. Had you been shaking like that the whole time? You barely noticed. 

“You’ll stay?” If you were capable of it, it would have been a plea. 

He gives you the same answer as ever: “Where else am I gonna go?” And then, when you don’t reply, he takes your hand and gets comfortable on the carpet. He’s never, not once, tried to do more than that after nights like this, knowing too much touch will bring it all back. “Gonna be right here till sunrise, okay? Always gonna be another sunrise.”

It should be a comfort, but it feels like a death sentence. Doing this all over again tomorrow… 

But he’s here. He’ll always be here. The only good thing this world has ever given you. 

[ilguna]

☼ six feet below (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; after being swallowed into the ground during the quarter quell, you’ve found yourself claustrophobic ever since. and so when you find out that district thirteen is a bunker, there’s no stopping the panic attack that comes.

warnings; swearing, torture and death mention, illness, claustrophobia, panic attack description.

wc; 3.5k

--

There has never been a more disappointing moment in your life than watching yourself get reaped for the Hunger Games a second time in less than a decade. Only this time, it was for a Quarter Quell. Which was destined to be your own personal hell.

The way your lips pulled up in disgust at the sound of your name, not at all amused by the Capitol’s antics. When you looked off, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of making eye contact with the camera, your face had been reflected back at you, due to a projection on a nearby building.

It was highly gratifying to know the entirety of Panem would see the irritation, and they’d never be able to edit it to make your reaction some other way. Even if they were to try and cut your expression out later on if you were to win, it would never fit. 

You barely got reprimanded for it after. All your escort had to say was that it wasn’t very lady-like. As if there was a more graceful way to take the news you’d be fighting for your life again. You couldn’t help it when you asked her what the appropriate response would’ve been. Should you have thanked her?

She didn’t give you an answer, either because she couldn’t think of one or she knew if she were in your shoes, she would’ve broken into tears the moment her name had been called. Especially since she knows what it entails and just how brutal it can be.

From then on, you did your best to steer a wide path from her for the rest of the Capitol week. The last thing you needed was her correcting manners, when you could be dead within the next two weeks. 

The week was far from what you thought it would be, not that you were expecting it to be easy. You knew there would be a lot of familiar faces, but it took until the Tribute Parade for you to realize what you were dragged into. You had to interact with other victors as a tribute that you’d met as a mentor. Several of your friends found themselves in the same position you were in.

Not to mention, your boyfriend had been reaped, too. 

Finnick couldn’t stop the onslaught of tears that followed. When you saw the way the stylist had dressed him for the Capitol—you were inconsolable. He thought it was because you were scared, causing him to swear up and down he would protect you. When really, you were terrified if you’d make it out alive without him, and you’d be forced to live with his ghost.

The Capitol had you trapped, something they were never able to do before.

When you were announced the winner of the Sixty-seventh Hunger Games, you promised yourself you’d never let the Capitol get the best of you. If you could control it, you’d always stay one step ahead, sometimes two if you could manage it. It’d worked out so far, right up until that point.

You were sixteen when you won, and seventeen when you returned for your first year of mentoring. President Snow tried to negotiate a deal with you, but you’d already heard the rumors of what it meant. All the victors back home in Eleven warned you about what he would want from you, what it would mean going forward.

They weren’t wrong, and while you were ready for everything he had to throw at you, it was hard to keep a grip on your future. He threatened your family, only for you to tell him most of them had died due to the illness that was going around. Anyone still alive wouldn’t be for much longer.

He threatened your friends, all of which you’d lost following your Games. As glorious as the victor life is in the Career districts, it’s less so in District Eleven. And while the whole year of rations should’ve lifted a lot of spirits, it hardly worked in your favor. There weren’t a lot of congratulations to go around.

So, President Snow threatened your life.

You stared him in the eye as you gave him a shrug, telling him he was more than welcome to give it a go. Your quality of life had significantly decreased already, what else could he do? 

Nothing. Nothing was the answer. 

It was probably the first time a tribute has ever pulled one over on the president without having their hand slapped immediately after. Seeder was convinced he’d have something coming for you, but you were left alone. Maybe it was because he knew the Quarter Quell would be coming, and he’d have you then.

Well, he was right. The wishful thinking that you’d be able to escape them forever worked for a handful of years. As time grew on, it became harder to keep it that way, and when the Quell had been announced, you gave it up altogether. President Snow knew it was a matter of time before he’d get you under his thumb. And he had you good. 

The arena has been and always will feel like it’s targeted at you. You’re sure everyone thinks the same when they rise out of the podium, but your misfortune so far has been immeasurable compared to the others.

The jungle was no exception. 

You tried to regain your footing when it came to being a step ahead, by remembering how deceitful the arena had been for Haymitch. You figured it would be the same way, just by looking at how the arena had been sectioned out. 

The concentric circles seemed purposeful, with the way it had been the Cornucopia, the water, the beach and then the jungle. The only part that didn’t make sense were the twelve spokes that shot out from the center, but you shrugged it off, thinking the Gamemakers needed to add ground for the tributes who weren’t strong swimmers. 

The lightning, fog and monkeys should’ve been your clue as to what was happening, except you were too busy fighting for your life to be drawing up theories. So you can imagine your surprise when Katniss announced the arena was working like a clock, and that’s what Wiress had been attempting to communicate the whole time you’d reunited with the second half of the alliance.

It made sense for the next couple hours, the group of you had gone to the center to see it all play out. Then the Gamemakers spun that goddamn Cornucopia, confusing you all again. None of you had any idea on where to go, so you took a gamble on one of the spokes and decided to wait on the beach until one of the hours gave away what time it was.

At some point during this period, you thought you’d check out the jungle while you found a place to relieve yourself. Finnick wanted to go with you, but he got pulled away by Johanna when she began to argue with Katniss again. You promised him you’d be careful, and went off.

You don’t think you made it twenty feet in before you were swallowed by the dirt. It was as if you stepped into quicksand, only it was dry and you sunk much faster. You barely managed a scream before you were breathing in the jungle’s dirt. 

It felt like you were stuck in the ground forever, trying to claw your way out, holding your breath, but it couldn’t have been longer than a minute or two. By the time your hands broke the surface, Finnick and a few of the others were there, searching for you. As soon as you’d been spotted, they tugged you out and several feet away from where you’d been eaten.

You were choking on dirt while gasping for air, feeling the crunch of the soil between your teeth, the way it stuck to the back of your throat. You couldn’t help it when the first sob came from you, tears washing away the filth that was stuck in the creases of your eyes.

Finnick held you, rocking you as you cried into him. You couldn’t stop, you knew if they’d shown up a few minutes later, you’d be dead. Just another victor to be remembered but never forgotten. Anyone would’ve reacted the same way you had, even Johanna.

However, if you knew President Snow would capitalize off this moment, you never would’ve shown how vulnerable it made you. You would’ve just shaken off the experience and pushed through.

Instead, Snow exploited it. 

It was planned that at the end of the third day in the arena, what was left of the rebel alliance should meet at the lightning tree. Whoever was left in the area after the arena exploded would get rescued and brought to a safe place. The main goal was to make sure Katniss was there, since she’s the face of the rebellion. Everyone else was expendable. 

It worked out fine in the beginning, but the plan went to shit when what was left of the Careers tried to attack you, Johanna and Katniss while you were executing Beetee’s instructions. The three of you got split up, and while you were off fighting Enobaria, the arena went black, which meant the hovercraft would be appearing at any moment.

When you did get to the tree, it was far too late. The hovercraft had come and gone, and you were left to fend for yourself. You found you weren’t the only one left behind, because Johanna and Peeta showed up shortly after, accusations flying everywhere. 

It didn’t matter what you had to say to either of them, because you all wound up in Capitol custody. And all the pent up anger Snow had been containing was released on you for the next couple weeks. 

It was a good thing the rebels from District Thirteen rescued you when they did, because you were beginning to crack. Just a few more hours and you’re sure you would’ve started telling the Capitol anything and everything they wanted to hear—even if it would’ve been lies.

You’re just glad the people of Thirteen have been understanding of your situation so far. They’ve been so patient when it comes to interacting with the refugees—a bulk of them coming from Twelve. From what you heard, it’s been flattened by the bombs from the Capitol, following the abrupt ending of the Quarter Quell. 

You’ve slowly started integrating into their lifestyle after being in the hospital. The head doctor has finally allowed you to move into a compartment with Finnick, which means you have free reign of the building. You’re returning to normalcy, even if it’s taking forever.

Your favorite part about your newfound freedom is that you’re able to sit at a table with your friends, again. You never thought you’d be able to enjoy their presence after what happened in the Capitol. But it seems as if the doctors don’t care about the intermingling of the victors.

“How was your time in the Capitol?” Peeta asks you, stone cold serious. “Did you enjoy it?”

Although, maybe they should.

You stare at him for a long moment, not sure how you’d like to respond. You didn’t know Peeta super well prior to the Games, but he was always courteous in passing. If this is how the Capitol has left him, you can’t even begin to think of what they might’ve done. 

You’ve noticed that he’s lost his sugar-coating. Everything he says seems raw and unfiltered, which you can come to appreciate in the future. As of now, he needs to be reminded that sensitivity isn’t a weakness, even if the Capitol has taught him otherwise.

“Did you?” You shoot back at him. “I distinctly remember you crying for your mother, but maybe I’m mistaken.”

Peeta lets out a short laugh, a half-smile on his face. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about the Capitol so soon.” Finnick interjects, reaching over to rub your back. He raises his eyebrows, expression gentle as he watches your face. “It’s not the greatest subject.”

“Why not?” Johanna asks, mouth full of food. “Peeta and I can talk about it, right?” She nudges him with her elbow. Peeta gives a mechanic nod, causing your face to twist. “We’ve come to grow as best friends.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Peeta murmurs, looking away.

“Johanna, don’t tease him.” Finnick tilts his head. He stops rubbing your back, instead moving to hold your hand to squeeze it.

“I’m not.” Johanna says simply. “Would you rather me tease (Y/n)?”

“No.” He tells her, tone hard.

“Yes, absolutely.” You nod. “What do you have for me?”

She eyes Finnick, gauging whether or not it’s worth what Finnick will do to her. She must decide it isn’t, because she crosses her arms and leans forward onto the table, shrugging her shoulders. 

“Oh, come on.” You groan. “No snark? You’re going soft on me.”

“I would, but I’m mildly afraid of triggering Peeta in the process.” She says.

Peeta rolls his eyes, which is so unlike him that you can’t take your eyes off of him. 

“Okay, fine.” Johanna says. “Why do you always have Finnick walk in front of you? You never hold hands and walk side by side anymore.”

You look past her to the concrete ground, and all you picture is the ground opening up, a dark pit waiting for you underneath. It’s pretty self-explanatory on why you act the way you do. You thought she was more observant than this.

“The arena.” You tell her. “The sixth hour.”

“That’s it?” Johanna asks. “You let the jungle get the better of you?”

Finnick clears his throat, shaking his head at her. “Was the blood rain easy for you?”

“It’s not that the jungle got the better of me. Do you know what it’s like to be encased in dirt?”

“I do. We currently are.” Johanna waves her hand in the air.

Your face twists, eyes squinting at her. “What do you mean?”

She opens her mouth, raising her eyebrows as if it’s obvious. “Where do you think we are?”

“District Thirteen.” You say, not getting it. “Where else would we be?”

“Are you fucking with me?” Johanna asks. 

You two stare at each other for a minute. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Johanna. What do you mean we’re encased in dirt?”

“District Thirteen is a bunker.” Peeta tells you plainly. “Everyone knows that.”

No—no, not everyone knows that. You didn’t know that. You’ve been underground this whole time? You thought… you thought that Thirteen was just some building hidden in the woods, too far for the Capitol to reach. You never would’ve guessed it’s a bunker.

You can feel your heart begin to beat in your chest, room elongating due to the new information. You grip your silverware tightly in your hand, knuckles turning pale, swallowing hard.

“(Y/n)?” Finnick asks, trying to pull his hand free.

Your hands pop open, fork clattering against the metal table, fingers beginning to shake. You’re going to get trapped down here. The bunker could explode at any moment. It’ll be much harder to escape a cement chamber than it was to crawl out of dirt.

You can feel the air rapidly passing between your lips, a hand placed on your chest, which seems to grow tight with every passing breath. 

“Honey, breathe.” Finnick tells you, combing your hair out of your face. “What’s the matter?”

“I’ll never get out.” You gasp, shoving your food tray away from you.

You suddenly get to your feet, tripping when you try to step over the bench. You find yourself staring down at the floor, the same one that was opening up earlier. The only thing holding you up are your hands and knees, which are shaking so hard you can’t even see straight.

“(Y/n)!” Finnick shouts, sounding drowned and faraway.

Your hand forms a fist, which you slam against the ground, as if it’ll let you out of the nightmare. You’re stuck, though. You’re back in that box, body twisted in awkward angles to let you breathe, staring into the pitch black—into the unknown.

“Let me out!” You scream, bending your arms to push off. Nothing moves. Nothing ever moves. They won’t let you out, not until they’ve decided you suffered enough. You could be here for the next ten hours if they felt like it.

It’s always a box, and it’s never big enough to let you breathe.

“(Y/n), let’s go.” A voice says, grabbing onto your arms, pulling you to your legs.

You stumble, feeling the sweat dribble down your forehead, reaching out to stabilize yourself. Finnick’s face is in yours, too blurry to focus on. He’s saying something, trying to pull you along, but your knees have locked in place.

He just sweeps you up into his arms, hurrying out of the room.

“Please don’t take me back there.” You cry.

“I won’t, (Y/n).” Finnick places a swift kiss to your forehead. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” 

He takes you into the elevator, doesn’t bother shutting the safety door, and presses the button that will bring you straight up without stopping. When you reach what you perceive as the ground floor, you’re met with multiple unwelcoming faces.

“Please, she just needs to be outside.” Finnick begs, pushing through them. “She can’t be in there right now.”

“Let them through!” A voice calls, a man in black armor waves Finnick on.

He wastes no time, running through the space, straight to the nearest door. He backs through it, shielding you from the initial sunlight. As soon as it touches your skin, you break.

Finnick lets you down to your feet, only to watch as you collapse in the grass, crawling a few feet away from the door, sobbing into the Earth. You take handfuls of it in your hands, ripping the roots free from the soil, throwing them away.

Two weeks. 

You’d basically spent two straight weeks in a box. The only time you were let out was to relieve yourself, and then you were locked back in. It didn’t matter how much you screamed, how much you begged, how much you pushed against the walls. You could never leave. 

The spots that had been appearing over your vision are finally disappearing, but the lightheadedness isn’t. You lift your hand in Finnick’s direction, and that’s all he needs before he’s cradling you against his body, trying to console you.

“I’m so sorry.” He tells you, lips pressed to your hair. “I promised to protect you. I told you nothing would happen.”

“You never could’ve known.” You tell him, fingers tight against his jumpsuit. “He’s been trying to get me for years.”

“I know.” Finnick sniffs, holding you tighter. “I tried to stop it. I never wanted him to have you."

You sit in silence for a long time. He rocks you, humming a tune he learned from Katniss, gently massaging your head. You watch as the trees behind him seem to return to normal, no longer so far away. And there's a dull ache in your fingers from how hard you've been squeezing them.

"I need help." You murmur to Finnick.

"With what?" He asks, pulling away to see your face.

"I need to see the head doctor, don't I?" You ask, lips trembling.

Finnick brushes the sensitive skin on your cheeks. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, honey." He tilts his head to look at you better.

"I wanted to be fine." You tell him.

"And it's okay that you're not." He says. "Katniss, Peeta, Johanna, Haymitch and I got help while we’ve been here. And we knew it was only a matter of time before you’d follow in our steps.”

Your face twists. “What do you mean it was a matter of time?”

“You started doing things that weren’t like you.” His eyes fall away. “You won’t go into small rooms. You touch the tips of your feet to the ground to make sure it’s solid. You ask people to walk in front of you. You stop in doorways to look inside rooms before deciding to go in.”

Your lips wobble, hearing your mannerisms repeated back to you… You can feel another round of tears coming, building in your eyes. When Finnick looks up to see your reaction, his face softens. He cups your face in his hands, shaking his head.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“We’ll get you help.” He tells you, wiping away the tears that fall with his thumbs. “Just like we did for Annie. You’ll get better.”

“But I’ll never be the same.”

Finnick presses a warm kiss to your lips. “That will never stop me from loving you.”

[euphemiaamillais]

cry, kill, die - coriolanus snow

peacekeeper!coryo finds out you’re commander hoff’s daughter

based on this ask

cw: 18+//piv sex//fingering//spitting//mentions of guns

‘and what are you doing here?’ a rich voice rings out.

you snap your head around, coming face to face with one of the many peacekeepers who serve under your father. this one is more handsome than the others—icy blue eyes, and platinum blonde cropped hair. a smile quirks upon the corners of your lips.

‘is that any of your business?’ you inquire, knowing that you can test the patience of the peacekeepers, because who would dare to cross the commander’s daughter?

‘what, are you visiting your sweetheart, bunny?’ he teases, though there’s a rather stern look in his eyes.

you laugh in response, and attempt to continue on your way—you’ve got a meeting with your father, after all. however, you are stopped by a hand coming down to circle around your wrist. his grip is tight, and disgruntled, you turn back to face him.

‘come on, you don’t have to be so shy. there’s lots of girls like you here. little bunnies who like to spread their favours far and wide.’ he raises a brow suggestively. you can hardly believe he has the audacity.

you don’t know whether you should tell him who you are, or if you should just leave it. he’s not loosened his grip on you. you’re not sure how to answer it either.

‘are you accusing me of being a whore, private?’ you feign a shocked look. he laughs, running his hand up your arm. his touch is cold, like ice, and you shiver a little.

‘perhaps…’ a smirk plays at the corner of his lips. ‘maybe it’s the fact that you’re looking at me like that, just begging to be fucked.’

‘oh, really?’ you rebut—he’s so forward, like most of them are, but you’d never think they’d dare to actually touch you. not more than a few stray kisses at least.

‘now, are you going to be a good girl, and come back to my bunk?’ he says, a tone of dominance in his voice. his fingers are striking his rifle, which catches your eye.

‘perhaps…’ you purse your lips. you don’t know what would happen if your father found you getting too friendly with one of his men, and you didn’t exactly want to find out. but this one was so handsome… you liked how daring he was.

‘perhaps? come now, bunny. that’s not a very good answer, is it?’ he steps closer to you, his gun pressing against your bare thighs.

you shake your head, glancing up at him with wide eyes. he’s so tall, dwarfing you—it makes him all the more commanding. he moves to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.

‘you’re going to be a good girl for me, aren’t you?’ his breath is hot against your ear, and you feel a flush creeping up your cheeks.

‘well, only if you can please me, private,’ you murmur, causing a flash of anger in his eyes. nobody dared to challenge his abilities in bed.

he would prove that to you, bend you over like the little whore you are, fuck you stupid until you couldn’t even cry out your own name. he did that often enough to the other bunnies that hopped around the barracks, hoping for a good time. he was very well practised now, not like the silly little schoolboy that he was back in the capitol with his golden curls and academy rouge.

‘if?’ he laughs, snaking one hand around to grab your ass. ‘not if, sweetheart. when.’

god, he was so full of himself.

deciding that he didn’t want to waste anymore time fooling around, he pulls you by the arm and began to lead you along the dirt track to the barracks. you glance around, watching as the uniformed peacekeepers march their way to large trucks or to training. it’s an all-too familiar site, ever since your father was stationed to 12. you’d have to be careful with this one, though. he was too handsome to be transferred to another district if you were caught.

the barracks are empty when you enter, and he doesn’t take his time with you, shoving you against the wall. he shoves one leg between your thighs, pinning you so you can’t run free. you feel your heart leap with excitement.

he leans in and presses a kiss to your lips—which you return eagerly. you slip your tongue inside his mouth, and move your hands to wrap around his neck. you’re desperate; you can’t help but ache for him, core wet and slick with want.

he moves his lips from your own, and trails hot kisses down your neck, sucking and nipping the delicate skin as he does so. you gasp out, clutching at the nape of his neck, urging him to bite harder. you’ll have to wear a scarf to hide these from your father.

‘so sweet, bunny,’ he mutters into your collarbones.

your hands roam to his ass, pulling him flush against you. you can feel his hard-on pressing against your thighs. you want him so bad, to take you and fuck you like the whore you are—cock filling out your tight cunt.

‘please,’ you whine, wanton and needy. ‘need you to fill me up.’

so direct, he thinks, a grin playing upon his lips. you look so pretty, pressed between his leg, hands grasping at his ass. what a fucking whore, begging him for it. he’s hardly even touched you and you’re already whining for him.

‘soon, bunny.’ he peppers a few kisses against your jaw, hands gripping at your hips.

you let out a mewl, fed up that he’s teasing you so much—he’s not even had the decency to stick his hand between your thighs. aggrieved, you grind down against his thigh, your soaked panties leaving a mark on his perfectly ironed uniform. that would be cause for some explaining to the laundress.

‘oh no,’ he puckers his lips. ‘don’t think you can get away with that… being so impatient.’

you scowl as he moves his thigh away, letting your legs fall to the ground. you stumble a little, trying to find your balance, but he’s quick to tug you along to one of the empty bunks. you wonder what your father would do, finding you in here with him—the peacekeeper who’s name you don’t even know—the thought of being caught makes it all the more thrilling.

he shoves you against the side of the bed, and rucks up your skirt to reveal your soaking panties. he laughs, looking at your pathetic face, trembling lips and wide, dumbfound eyes.

‘so fucking desperate,’ he remarks, kneeling and placing his hands against your thighs. ‘just another one of the little bunnies who likes to get fucked senseless.’

you shake your head, feeling his cold hands creep up your thighs. they latch around the waistband of your panties and tug them down.

‘god, look how wet you are,’ he scoffs, tossing the panties aside.

he slides one finger inside your cunt, and you let out a groan, hands clenching against the woollen sheets. a little daring, he slips another finger in, arching it as far as it can go. it feels so good, and he thrusts them in and out of your wet hole at a teasingly slow pace. goddamn him.

‘need you,’ you pant. ‘in me. please…’

you pout, hoping he’ll take pity on you. he slides his fingers out, gripping your thighs hard. more bruises. you’ll have a lot of explaining to do to your father.

‘does bunny want me to fill up her tight little cunt?’ he asks, fingers pinching at your skin.

‘yes please,’ you sigh, clutching at his shirt.

you attempt to pull him up, coax him to you. you wonder when he’ll figure it out… that he’s seen you before, standing beside your father in a pale pink dress, watching as the peacekeepers eye you. commander hoff’s daughter is supposed to be off limits. he’d shoot any of them on site if he caught them so much as ogle your pretty form making its way through the barracks.

he hangs over you now, elbows propping himself up as he grinds his crotch into the bed. your hands roam down to his waistband, and you stick your hand inside, palming his hard cock. he lets out a heavy groan, and you feel the precum coating his cock.

‘gonna fuck you so good,’ he grunts, hands going to unbutton his pants.

his cock is throbbing when you take it in your hand, guiding it to your entrance. he’s not the first you’ve been with—not that your father knows that—but he’s certainly the biggest. you sigh pleasantly as he slides himself in, not taking any time to ease into your cunt.

he begins to thrust, feeling your tight walls stretch around him, taking him all in. you reach one hand down to rub at your clit, which is aching with need. he slaps your hand away, seeing you touching yourself—it’s an insult to his abilities—and uses his thumb to rub soft circles on the sensitive nub.

‘harder,’ you plead, grabbing his ass and pushing him in; feeling the tip of his cock poking against your cervix.

‘what a dirty fuckin’ slut, huh?’ he coos, upping his pace. ‘begging me to fuck you like a little whore.’

you let out a groan as you feel him begin to pound you, each thrust increasing the pace. his fingers still rub deftly at your clit, which throbs with pleasure. you do have to admit; he is so good.

‘mhm…’ you sigh, head lolling back as he fucks you. ‘my father will kill you if he finds out.’

you decide to tell him—it’s too late for him to back out now, what, buried deep inside your cunt. he’s too struck by pleasure to think straight, at first, and so his answer is to merely laugh.

‘yeah? who’s he? don’t think he can tell a peacekeeper what to do,’ he grunts, cock pulsing with pleasure. god, you feel so good.

‘oh…’ a slight giggle escapes your lips, and you run your hand over his lower back. ‘you don’t know?’

he rears his head up, perplexed, brows furrowed. he’s still rutting into you, and you can see the shiny sweat beading on his forehead, his blue eyes glistening with confusion.

‘hm, bunny?’ he inquires.

‘well…’ an impish grin scampers across your lips. you trace circles in his skin. ‘you were wondering why i was here…’

he comes to a halt, causing you to frown. the expression on his face is one of pained loss of pleasure—having to cease his thrusts to clear his mind—and also slight fear, not that he’d never admit it. no, you couldn’t be. but he can see it, the eyes, the curve of your nose. you’re hoff’s daughter. of course. the one with the overly-friendly smile, who liked to wear her skirts too short as she waltzed past the peacekeepers.

‘oh bunny,’ he clucks his tongue in a scolding manner. ‘what would your father do if he knew you were begging for my cock like a little whore?’

your cheeks burn red, and he begins to thrust again. somehow, this has made him want you all the more. to have him see you being ruined by one of his own men—that would remind him that private snow was capitol. not just some pathetic district runt like the rest of the peacekeepers.

he pulls your legs up around his shoulders, adjusting the angle of his cock, and fucks into you like a common whore. you gasp at the feeling of his cock hitting the right spot—and you feel waves of pleasure coursing through your body, cunt throbbing and clenching around his big cock.

‘such a fucking slut, huh?’ he groans, feeling himself close to his peak. ‘taking peacekeeper cock while your daddy sits in his office just out there.’

you let out a moan, clutching at his shoulders while he pounds you. you look like a such a whore, tits bouncing, cunt so fucking wet for him. how fucking pathetic. who would’ve thought commander hoff’s daughter took cock so well?

‘mhm!’ you gasp, slickness gushing from your cunt. nobody’s ever made you finish just by using their cock.

‘so good,’ he grunts, thrusts growing haggard as he nears his end.

your body is humming with adrenaline, the waves of your orgasm still coursing through your veins. he moves one hand up to your cheek, coaxing your mouth open. you oblige, and as he gives a fucked-out thrust into your cunt, spits into you mouth.

‘swallow,’ he manages to murmur out as he spills into you.

your cunt is filled with hot, sticky spurts of cum as he finishes, and you obediently swallow his spit. it makes your cunt throb with excess desire, and you have to bite your lip to stop another moan from spilling out.

‘fuck… so good,’ he groans as he slips out of you, his hot load dripping down your thighs.

he tucks himself back into his trousers, and goes to sit down beside you. you’re splayed out, cunt exposed and dripping from his load. you look so pretty, completely fucked dumb, eyes wide with the excess of your want.

‘what’s your father going to say about this?’ he laughs, rubbing his hand against your aching cunt. your body tenses up from the overstimulation.

‘he’d probably have you shot,’ you muster out, propping yourself up on your elbows.

he laughs, a rich sound escaping his mouth. you reach to grab your panties, which are bundled up on the sheets, still wet. he reaches out and stops your hand with his own, taking the panties from you. you pout, and try to reach for them back.

‘oh, i don’t think so,’ he remarks cruelly, tucking them in his back pocket. ‘something to remember you by.’

he presses a kiss against your cheek—you can’t help but blush even though your heart pounds at the thought of having to walk back to your house with no underwear.

‘please…’ you plead, bottom lip trembling. ‘i can’t walk home like this… my skirt…’

he shakes his head and chuckles, looking at you like you’re his. you shove your skirt down, ashamed to be laying like this.

‘i don’t think whores get much of a say in things,’ he cajoles, eyes glistening a little manically.

he delights in the thought of you being humiliated, having to pretend like you didn’t just get your brains fucked out by a peacekeeper. he wonders what would happen if the wind decided to blow the wrong way…

‘i’ll tell my father about this!’ you threaten, but he only laughs again and throws his hands up in defence.

‘and let him know that you were so desperate that you let a peacekeeper fuck you?’ he scoffs. ‘i don’t think so, bunny.’

you feel your heart splintering a little—but two could play at that game, you supposed. you weren’t going to let him snap you up in his net.

‘you can come get them back next time,’ he grins.

your brows quirk up. you hadn’t intended on this happening again… but he was so handsome. and his cock was… well, huge. you did have to admit he was good. very good.

‘next time?’ your mouth rounds into a look of surprise.

‘oh yes, next time.’

[onlybeeewrites]

A Soothing Touch

Request: If youre taking requests can you write something where the reader is having very bad period cramps all day especially when the reader and Finnick are trying to sleep at night so Finnick rubs her stomach and it feels really good and helps until she falls asleep

Pairing: Finnick Oskar x Fem!reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: period cramps! That’s it, soft!Finnick <3

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You woke before the first call bell.

It was the familiar pain that greeted you—dull, insistent, and already pulsing through your lower abdomen like a warning siren. You lay still, hoping the cramps might pass if you didn’t move, but they only seemed to grow stronger the longer you waited.

With a soft groan, you pushed yourself upright. Every movement felt like dragging your body through quicksand. Your limbs were heavy, sore, and your stomach… gods, your stomach felt like it was being wrung out by invisible fists.

You winced as you bent over to pull on your grey jumpsuit, the fabric stiff and unkind against your already sensitive skin. Even the smallest things—like tugging the zipper up—made you want to cry out. But you didn’t. You never did.

The scent of the kitchens already lingered in the hallway as you stepped outside your compartment—boiled starch, onions, and vaguely metallic meat rations.

It wasn’t exactly comforting, but it was familiar. You pressed a hand to your abdomen, steadying yourself. There was no stopping now. Not in District 13. Not with your shift starting soon.

And besides… they were just cramps. You could push through them. You always had.

    · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The kitchen was already alive when you arrived. The clatter of knives, the hiss of steam, orders being tossed across the room like hot potatoes. It was intense, claustrophobic even, but it was yours. A place where you could keep your hands moving and your mind quiet.

You’d always found some small comfort in kitchens—even back in District 4, when your hands were smaller and your burdens different. 

Cooking, baking, prepping meals for your family or neighbors had always been your way of giving love when you had nothing else. Something about feeding people made the world feel a little softer, a little safer.

But today? Today your body was screaming.

You were assigned to prep for the evening meal: root vegetables, stews thickened with lentils, and trays of hard, rationed bread. 

You peeled potatoes until your fingers felt raw. Chopped carrots until your vision blurred. Stirred massive vats of soup as steam coated your face.

Every few minutes, the pain in your stomach would seize you again—sharp and relentless. You’d pause, pressing a palm to your belly, trying to breathe through it.

“You alright?” Tessa, a tall, sharp-eyed girl from District 10, glanced over from the other end of the table.

“Fine,” you managed, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Just a bad day. I’ll live.”

She eyed you for a moment, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t push. Just nodded once and returned to slicing onions.

You soldiered on. You always did.

By the time your shift ended, you were practically dragging your feet through the hallway. Every step sent a pulse of pain through your abdomen.

Your back ached from lifting trays and stirring pots, your legs wobbled beneath you, and your stomach was still twisting in knots.

Your hands trembled as you pressed the door panel to your quarters. The metal hissed open, and you stumbled inside.

Finnick was already there, lounging on the bed with his back against the wall, shirt discarded and pants hanging low on his hips. His sea-green eyes immediately lifted to you, softening as they landed on your face.

“You’re late,” he said gently, sitting up straighter. “Everything okay?”

“Long shift,” you replied, barely able to stand. “Just… feeling awful today.”

He was on his feet in seconds, meeting you halfway. “What kind of awful?” he asked, his tone dipping into that soft, protective place he only used with you.

You shook your head, wincing as another cramp rolled through you. “Period. Bad one. Started this morning and just kept getting worse.”

“Sweetheart…” His voice was nothing but tenderness now. He reached for your arm, guiding you toward the bed. “You should’ve come back earlier.”

“I couldn’t,” you murmured. “They needed help. Besides, they’re just cramps. I can handle it.”

Finnick frowned as you slowly changed into your loose cotton pajamas, trying to hide the way you had to bite your lip to stay quiet when you bent over.

“You don’t have to handle everything alone, you know,” he said gently, sitting on the edge of the bed beside you. “If you weren’t feeling well, you could’ve left. They would have understand.”

“I’m not trying to be a hero,” you whispered. “It’s just… that’s how life works here. You push through.” You insist.

He took your hands, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “That might be how they do it. But when you come home to me, I’m not letting you push through alone.”

You finally met his gaze, your throat tightening with the weight of the day. The pain. The pressure. The exhaustion. “It’s just… really bad,” you whispered, curling your knees to your chest.

Finnick gently moved closer. “Can I touch you?” he asked, his hand hovering near your waist. “Might help. I’ll be gentle, promise.”

You nodded wordlessly.

He slid his hand across your stomach, fingers warm and patient, rubbing slow circles through the fabric. You let out a soft breath, your body slowly starting to unclench under his touch.

“Better?” he asked after a moment.

“A little,” you whispered. “You’re warm. That helps.”

“You should’ve stayed in bed this morning,” he murmured. “I would’ve brought you breakfast. Stolen something sweet from the ration cart. Whatever you needed.”

You laughed quietly, but it ended in a wince. “I didn’t think they’d get this bad. Usually I can handle them. Today was… different.”

Finnick scooted behind you, guiding you to lie down with him, his chest pressed against your back, his arm wrapped around your middle. His hand continued its gentle motion, never stopping.

“You’re not caving for being in pain,” he whispered against your shoulder, “besides it’s not your fault. I know they can get bad..”

You turned your head slightly. “I feel pathetic,”

“You’re anything but,” he said firmly, but amusement lacing his tone. “You’re on your period, my love. You worked all day while your body was waging war on you. That’s not pathetic. Give yourself some credit,”

You were silent for a beat, letting those words settle in your chest. His touch, his warmth, his voice—it all worked together like some kind of magic.

“You always know how to make me feel better,” you said softly.

“I’m glad,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “That’s kind of my job, isn’t it?”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Your job?”

“Mmm. Official Finnick Odair role: Protector of You. Keeper of Comfy Pajamas. Slayer of Cramps.”

“Slayer of cramps, huh?” you echoed, smiling into the pillow.

“Well,” he teased, nuzzling the back of your neck, “I like to think I’m pretty heroic.”

“You kind of are,” you admitted sleepily. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

His fingers slowed, his touch becoming softer, almost like a lullaby. Your body, still sore and aching, finally began to let go of the tension it had clung to all day. His presence wrapped around you like a blanket, and for the first time in hours, you could breathe.

Finnick’s voice was the last thing you heard before sleep crept in.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. Sleep. I’m right here.”

And you did. Wrapped in warmth and saltwater softness, the pain faded into the background. Not gone, but not winning either.

Because with him, everything was better.

Finnick was gentle and steady and completely yours.

[inky-writing]

INKY MASTERLIST

Hello Inkers! Welcome to my page!

Here some "rules" and things to know:

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Schedule

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Tuesday to Thursday & Weekend: requests and one-shots (might change if I start a new serie)

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ACOTAR

Fourth Wing

Twilight

Hunger Games

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Top Gun

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Vampire Diaries

Original Stories

[honeysmoonn]

finnick odair who brings you back seashells and pearls after a day at the beach. and finnick odair who eventually steals the trinkets out of your room and weaves them into a delicate necklace for you to wear. and finnick odair who’s heart beats a little faster every time your collarbones are exposed, showing of his gift to you. finnick odair who smiles when he sees your friends asking where your necklace is from, only to see your point his direction with a smile<3

[flowers-shouldnt-die]

Can’t believe I’m making a Hayffie post. Is this 2015? Anyway I have a fic idea and i need someone to write it

(Warning: baby fics are my weakness)

So a few years before 74th Effie gets pregnant unexpectedly and for some reason she decides to keep the baby but hides it all the way. She has a little baby girl, Cassiopea or Sweet Pea as she likes to call her. One of her trusted friend adopts the baby but she’s always there. The adoptive mother is more of an aunt.

While luckily the girl looks just like Effie, she and her friend girlbossed too close to the sun for too long and after the 74th games, Snow is obviously pissed so he sends the kid (idk under 10 but over 5) to 12 so she would be reaped after the Quell as a special fuck you to Effie and Haymitch (obviously that doesn’t happen but no one knows that at this point).

Cassi arrives in 12 some time before the Victory Tour, low key traumatised by her kidnapping and what the peacekeepers did to Effie and her adoptive mom. Haymitch is losing his shit, he didn’t even know Effie had a kid, let alone his kid, and as much as he wants to keep a distance from Cassi, to protect his heart from shattering again, she’s so much like Effie, it kills him. Not only how she looks: soft, blonde curls with pink highlights and the brightest blue eyes, she’s just as kind and bubbly and has a truly gentle heart.

Effie sees her again when she’s in 12 for the Victory Tour and yeah, she’s already been through some special treatment from the capitol. And of course she has to have a conversation with Haymitch too.

This is all i’ve got and i hope someone can and will write this but if not I was happy to just scream into the void💖💖

[joshfutturman]

"always"

oneshot (request) - peeta looking after you on a bad mental health day (2.4k words) pairing - peeta mellark (the hunger games) + reader (gender neutral) tags: kissing, fluff, bathing, nudity, depression mention, established relationship, pet names

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

some days you awoke to that swirling darkness rising in your chest, clouding every thought and feeling like an unbearable weight. eyes adjusting to the bedroom, you could already feel it. despite the warmth and safeness of your surroundings - the weight felt heavy nevertheless. tears welled in your eyes, it was going to be one of those days. your fingers gripped at the sheets, pulling them closer to your face in an attempt to hide. a whimper escaped you as well as a small sniffle.

peeta shuffles, hearing that familiar sound. he blinks and lets out a soft, sleepy mumble before turning in the bed to find you curled up, shaking. his shoulders fall and he frowns before inching closer. peeta snuggles in behind you, wrapping his arms around your frame and nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck. “one of those mornings, baby?” he whispers, and you barely nod in response.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

notes: this was so sweet to write, thanks anon for the submission - sorry it took a while, still getting on my feet with writing on here! i hope this is okay for you! ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡)

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

some days you awoke to that swirling darkness rising in your chest, clouding every thought and feeling like an unbearable weight. eyes adjusting to the bedroom, you could already feel it. despite the warmth and safeness of your surroundings - the weight felt heavy nevertheless. tears welled in your eyes, it was going to be one of those days. your fingers gripped at the sheets, pulling them closer to your face in an attempt to hide. a whimper escaped you as well as a small sniffle.

peeta shuffles, hearing that familiar sound. he blinks and lets out a soft, sleepy mumble before turning in the bed to find you curled up, shaking. his shoulders fall and he frowns before inching closer. peeta snuggles in behind you, wrapping his arms around your frame and nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck. “one of those mornings, baby?” he whispers, and you barely nod in response.

pressing a reassuring kiss to your skin, the blonde holds you a little tighter. he knew what it felt like, to feel that indescribable sadness. there were some mornings when you had been the same support for him, cradling him from behind as his shoulders shuddered.

“let’s get you in a nice, hot bath.” his voice was gentle and you tried to focus on it over the rising, overlapping and confusing thoughts fighting for dominance inside your head. peeta knew exactly how to tend to you during times like these, it helped you feel like maybe things would be alright, that maybe the world wasn’t so scary or too much. it’s like he always knew what to say and how to say it - you loved that about him.

he sat up, leaning on his elbow to reach over and wipe your tears before he left a kiss on your cheek. lingering there for a few moments, he offered you a smile before exiting the bed. you already missed his warmth.

making his way to the bathroom, the old floorboards creaked underneath him. entering, he stepped towards the bath and leaned over, turning the faucets on. peeta waited as the bath began to fill, checking the water with care for the perfect temperature. he knew just how you liked it, hot enough to give you that sensation of safety but with a cool touch. one last time, he checked the temperature before turning off the faucets.

upon leaving the bathroom, he wipes his tired eyes and stops in front of you, sitting on the edge of the bed. his hand finds your shoulder over the sheets and gives it a gentle rub. your eyes find him and his smile fills you with love.

“you ready to get up?” he asks, voice quiet. he knew to take it at your pace, willing to wait as long as you needed. “this’ll help, i promise.” and you nod, believing him.

with his help, you stand, shoulders shuddering as you let out a long sigh. his hand finds yours and he squeezes it as he leads you towards the bathroom. you follow, keeping close to his side as you hold onto both his hand and his arm. with your cheek against his skin, you close your eyes and focus on the rhythm of walking.

entering the bathroom, he tilts your chin upwards and gives your nose a chaste kiss. you smile sweetly and weakly back at him. standing together for a few moments, you raise your arms to help him remove your shirt and pulls it over your head slowly and carefully. folding it, he sets it aside and helps you out of the rest of your clothes. in the process, he removes his too - both of your clothes are neatly folded, he liked to be organised like that, it was cute.

peeta gets in first, dipping a foot in before sliding in all the way. he lets out a sigh of relief as he extends a hand to you to help you in. it felt so good to be vulnerable like this with him, he was the only person you felt like you could let your mask slip in front of. your hand takes his and you step in, being careful not to slip. you fit perfectly in front of him, your bodies merging like a puzzle piece. his arms wrap around you loosely and your back rests against his chest, neck leaning back on his shoulder.

the water soothes you, hot and refreshing against your cold skin alongside peeta’s warm presence. he holds you fondly, enjoying the comforting embrace in silence. his cheek rests against your head watching as the water ripples slightly with each rise and fall of your chest. your breathing was in sync, peeta made sure to take deep, sure breaths for you to follow. in, and out.

your eyes close and the two of you sit in peaceful silence. your mind focuses on the sound of peeta's breathing accompanied by the cool sounds of the water mingling between your bodies. with each breath, your body grows closer to his until it's flush against him. his fingers trace along your arm in a delicate pattern, eyelids growing heavy.

calm, peaceful, with no room for disruptive or negative thoughts, only the quiet breathing of your lover in your ear and the way he tenderly touched you.

his eyes rest on you from behind and he can't help but beam. the way your muscles began to relax against him told him you felt safe.

this beautiful moment lasted a while longer before peeta whispered in your ear, "baby, can i wash your hair?" in a sleepy daze, you let out a long contented hum of approval.

carefully, the blonde reached for the shampoo, letting some of the liquid fall into his palm. as he sat up slightly, he ran his hands over your hair, ensuring the shampoo coated your hair before he began to spread his fingers, massaging it in.

tingles ran across your scalp as his fingers danced across your skin, weaving between your hair. it was tender and you couldn't help but feel emotions bubbling inside you. "thank you, peeta." you mutter, opening your eyes for a moment.

 "you're welcome, my love." he says and though you can't see him, you can tell he's smiling.

his fingers continue down to the base of your scalp, rubbing slow circles before trailing the shampoo down to your ends. admiring his work, he lets out a soft chuckle before cupping some water, beginning to wash away the suds.

with each wave of water, you felt the stress wash from you. though your heart still felt heavy, there was hope and you could feel that small spark of joy - joy that you'd wake another day with him by your side. to have someone who cared for you in this way was in itself, live-saving, to say the least.

"i love you." you say, lip quivering, unsure just how you could ever express your thanks after all he has done for you over the years.

"i know," peeta replies, leaning over to look you in the eye with that radiant smile of his, "i love you too."

with a kiss on the cheek and one last wave of water, the shampoo had been rinsed. "now i can do the rest, that alright?" he checked in, ensuring he had your full consent. peeta often did this, checking in occasionally - you never felt trapped or pressured, in fact you always felt the opposite. secure and free, with him, always.

confirming with another nod, peeta takes some soap and begins running it over your shoulders. in a combined fashion he begins to massage your tight muscles, which had loosened slightly in the warm water. the suds wash over you as he works his hands, not too rough; but with just enough pressure to feel the effects. a sigh escapes your lips. this was in stark contrast to how restricted and snared you'd felt that morning in depression's gloomy clutches.

each silky swipe with soap was met with a rinse of warm water, moving to the front of your body. his hands are gentle with you and you look up at him under his chin to smile. slowly, you felt like you were regaining small bits of your murky vision back. the clouds were beginning to clear, if only a little.

the soap dances across your arms and peeta guides the water to ease the bubbling suds away. he holds up your arm slightly, leaning down to pepper kisses along your skin, following the patterns of your freckles like a treasure map. each kiss was slow, deliberate and loving. your heart swells with tenderness and you nuzzle into his touch, curling up a little to lay in his lap on your side, head resting at the crook of his neck.

enveloping you once more into his embrace, you both share the moment in silence. the outside world could wait for a day, this moment was created only for the two of you.

you both continued to enjoy the soothing bath water as he held you until it grew colder. "don't want you to catch a cold, better get some clothes on you." he petted your back in signal, having just traced small unintelligible patterns across your skin.

he helps you stand, holding your hand all the while as the two of you take careful steps out of the bath and onto the cosy fabric mat below your feet. the air nipped at your wet skin and you caught him attempting to hide a shiver. this caused you to giggle and he chuckles too.

his hands find the large towel beside him and he wraps you in it, rubbing your shoulders and down your arms to dry some of the excess water dripping onto the tiled floor. a smirk tugs on his lips as he pulls the towel up, wrapping you both inside it like a cacoon. you shuffle closer and wrap your arms around him, placing your cheek against his chest.

thump-thump, the soft rhythm of his heartbeat plays like a familiar song, like a soothing lullaby. And it reminds you that you're alive. the moment may be hard, but it won't last forever - peeta is living proof of that. despite everything you both went through, you're so very alive.

ruffling your hair with the towel, he dries it to the best of his ability and in a playful manner, roughly dries the rest of your back. a laugh escapes you that wobbles with each shake, shoving him away gently.

the blonde kneels down to take your leg in his hands, drying along it with a commendable closeness. your eyes focus on him, full of adoration. with the next leg, he looks up at you as he dries it delicately. offering you a kind smile, peeta stays there for a few more seconds simply admiring his view. you were so beautiful. he'd tell you that until his dying breath.

"what?" you ask in a quiet voice, still regaining some of your strength.

peeta stands and cups your cheeks in his hands, "i just think you're the most beautiful person i've ever seen in my life." he admits with a nervous swallow.

it was funny, how peeta could compose himself in front of thousands but you saw the real him, the soft, kindhearted boy with so much love in his heart. the one who'd tuck you into bed after a long day, the one who'd wipe your tears when the world became too much to bear and the one who'd lead you out of bed when you felt like you were drowning.

his words spark a smile on your lips and your cheeks flush under his touch, "i think you're pretty beautiful too, mellark." you whisper through the butterflies in your stomach.

peeta's smile brightens and he lets out a small laugh, almost a giddy giggle. staring at you for just a few seconds longer, he tears himself away from your doting gaze to guide you into the bedroom towards the wardrobe. you sit on the bed behind him, wrapped in the towel still as you let out a long exhale in an attempt to further regulate your breathing. you fell into a steady rhythm of slow breaths to help keep this calm energy that peeta had helped you create within yourself.

humming and hawing, the other looks through your clothes, searching for the perfect outfit for that day. something comfortable, he thought. turning when he found the selection he wanted, he held it up for you to view. you give a happy nod with a smile and watch as that endearing look unfolds on his face, like a proud puppy.

helping you into your new clothes for the day, he also got dressed and you both stood in front of the mirror. he pats down your shoulders before wrapping his arms around you from behind. chin resting on your shoulder, your hands find his arms and rest upon them.

he litters kisses on your cheek, over and over with exaggerated 'mwah' noises. you giggle and push his face away gently, but secretly you love it.

accepting his defeat, his chin lands on your shoulder again, content with the glowing smile on your face. "now, let's get you breakfast, hm?"

"i'd like that." you reply, turning your head to kiss him with all the love you can muster. your sunshine on a cloudy day, a hand in the darkness to guide you - peeta mellark. your eyes open to find his looking back at you, staring longingly at one another. you press your forehead to his.

"i'll be here for you every day, bad or good." peeta promised.

and you believed him, because he had already proven it to you. he fought the swirling darkness in your chest alongside you, keeping it at bay. and you would do the same for him in a heartbeat. your eyes close once more, enjoying the closeness with your love - alive, breathing, fighting, living with him by your side.

always.

[bruisedboys]

HI MAL <3 congrats on 6k

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

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

peeta mellark x fem!reader

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?” He asks you.

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

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

“When you make your mother’s recipes?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?” You ask softly.

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

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

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

You nod. “Yeah. I know.”

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

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

[mscresta]

One hell of an interview. //

Finnick x tribute reader.

Cw: anxiety, comments about beauty and youth, mention of death and fighting.

———

Read part one and 2 here:

one’ and two’

The Capitol dressing room was alive with activity—stylists flitting around with last-minute touches, assistants holding mirrors, and the faint hum of voices echoing through the halls. You sat in front of the vanity, your reflection staring back at you, looking far more composed than you felt. The shimmering outfit you wore was tailored perfectly, another creation from your stylist that echoed the ocean theme of the parade.

But as you ran your fingers over the fabric, you felt that familiar weight in your chest, the same pressure you’d felt on the train and in the chariot. The Capitol might adore you right now, but you couldn’t shake the knowledge of what came next.

“You’re quiet,” Finnick’s voice broke through your thoughts, and you glanced at him through the mirror. He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed and an amused smirk on his face. “I’m not used to seeing you this serious. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “Just… trying to figure out how to survive another Capitol spectacle.”

Finnick chuckled, pushing off the doorframe and stepping closer. “It’s just an interview,” he said lightly. “If you survived the parade without tripping, you’ll survive this.”

You gave him a look. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”

He crouched down beside you, so you were at eye level. “You did more than survive the parade. The Capitol loves you. They’ll eat up whatever you give them tonight. All you have to do is flash that smile and pretend you’re not terrified.”

“I wasn’t smiling last night,” you muttered, your fingers tightening on the edge of the vanity. “I was just trying to breathe.”

“And they loved it,” he said, his tone softer now. “Trust me, you’re doing better than you think. Besides, you’ve got me in your corner. That has to count for something.”

It was hard to argue with the confidence in his voice. You glanced down at your lap, where your fingers brushed against the little carved fish he’d given you. It was smooth now from how often you’d held it, a small comfort against the chaos of the Capitol.

Before you could respond, your stylist appeared, fussing over your hair and making sure everything was perfect. Finnick stepped back, giving you space but keeping his sharp eyes on you. As the stylist finished, she placed her hands on your shoulders and smiled at you in the mirror. “You’re ready,” she said, though the words felt more like a command than reassurance.

When they called your name to go onstage, you froze for a moment, the noise from the crowd hitting you like a wall. Finnick must have noticed the hesitation because he stepped close enough to whisper, “Remember what I said—confidence. Even if you have to fake it.”

You nodded, standing up and forcing your legs to move. As you walked toward the stage, Finnick’s voice followed, low and teasing. “Don’t be too dazzling up there. I’d hate to lose the spotlight.”

You rolled your eyes, but his words pulled a reluctant smile from you. Maybe, just maybe, you could do this.

When the bright lights of the stage hit you, the roar of the crowd almost swallowed you whole. Caesar Flickerman’s beaming face greeted you, and you felt your heart pound just as it had in the parade. But you straightened your shoulders, forcing the fear down, and stepped into the spotlight.

The Capitol might have owned the arena, but here—on this stage—you could own them. At least for a little while.

Caesar welcomed you with his usual flair, extending his arms as the crowd roared. “Ladies and gentlemen, from District 4, the tribute who’s been making waves—let’s give them another Capitol welcome!”

The applause was deafening, and you forced a smile as you made your way to the seat beside him. Caesar was a master at his job, his charm and energy a lifeline for anyone who stepped into the spotlight. Still, your heart raced as you sat down, the bright lights making it hard to see past the first row of Capitol citizens.

“So,” Caesar began, leaning forward with a gleam in his eye, “you’ve already captured the Capitol’s attention. The parade last night was one for the books—how did it feel to have all eyes on you?”

You hesitated, gripping the armrest for a moment before answering. “It was… surreal,” you said honestly. “I didn’t expect that kind of reaction. It’s overwhelming, but I’m trying to take it one step at a time.”

Caesar nodded as if he completely understood. “Overwhelming, but you handled it with such grace. And let’s not forget that stunning outfit—you practically stole the show! Tell me, does confidence come naturally to you, or is it something you’ve had to work on?”

A flicker of uncertainty passed through you, but you quickly remembered Finnick’s advice. Be bold. “I think confidence is like swimming,” you said, your tone steady. “Sometimes you dive in headfirst, and sometimes you’re just trying not to drown. Either way, you keep moving.”

The crowd laughed and cheered, clearly entertained, and Caesar’s grin widened. “Well said! You’re already a natural at this. Now, tell me—what’s the secret to standing out in a sea of tributes? How do you make sure you’re remembered?”

You hesitated for just a beat, your eyes scanning the crowd before landing on Finnick, who stood near the edge of the stage, watching. His posture was casual, but there was something in his expression—a hint of pride, maybe—that gave you the courage to push forward. “I think the key is to just… be yourself. People can see through an act, but if you’re genuine, they’ll remember you for that.”

Caesar clapped his hands together, delighted. “Ah, authenticity! A rare quality in the Capitol, wouldn’t you agree?” He gestured to the audience, earning more laughter and applause. “But speaking of authenticity, I’ve heard you’ve got a pretty interesting mentor. What’s it like working with the famous Finnick Odair?”

The crowd erupted in excited murmurs, clearly eager for gossip, and you felt your face heat up. Finnick raised an eyebrow at you from the sidelines, a smirk playing at his lips. You cleared your throat, trying to sound casual. “He’s… helpful,” you said, choosing your words carefully. “He’s given me a lot of advice, and, well, he’s definitely good at keeping things interesting.”

Caesar leaned in, clearly loving the tension. “Interesting, you say? Care to elaborate?”

You shook your head, trying not to laugh. “Let’s just say he’s got a way with words.”

The crowd roared with laughter, and Caesar nodded knowingly. “Oh, we all know that! Finnick’s charm is legendary, after all. But don’t let him hog all the attention—you’re holding your own just fine.”

The rest of the interview went by in a blur of laughter and applause. By the time it was over, you felt a strange mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. As you stepped off the stage, Finnick was waiting for you, arms crossed and that ever-present smirk on his face.

“‘A way with words,’ huh?” he teased, falling into step beside you.

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. “Don’t get used to the compliments.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said smoothly, leaning in just enough that his voice was a low murmur meant only for you. “I’ve already gotten used to you.”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you refused to let him see the effect his words had on you. Instead, you quickened your pace, pretending not to notice the satisfied look on his face. The Capitol had their show, but it seemed Finnick had his own game—and whether you liked it or not, you were part of it now.

Repost and likes are very appreciated! Keep in mind that I read All comments and request on my page, so if anyone has ideas or requests for this series let me know.

I will say this series is planned too have at least 10 parts? I want it too end with the reader and finnick in district 13. 

[alloftheimagines]

haymitch abernathy | no peace

words: 1.7k warnings: 18+, hurt/comfort, public punishment (inspired by gale's whipping in catching fire), mentions of alcohol and drugs, pain, pain, pain, blood, injury, just a lot of whump description: Disobeying the Peacekeepers comes with punishment. Haymitch is the one to protect you, sitting at your bedside and helping you through the agony.

You kneel because it’s all you can do, just as all the residents of the Seam can do is watch it happen. Beside you, the little girl who you’d leapt in front of just a moment ago sniffles and cries for her mother. You think you know her as the daughter of one of the coal miners, but you don’t see either of her parents anywhere now. Likely, they’re at home, waiting for her to bring that stolen wedge of cheese before they starve. Now, it lies on the floor at the Peacekeeper’s feet, dirtied by the sooty ground and laid to waste. 

“She’s just a girl,” you say again — plead. You’re met with a blow across your face, one that knocks you to the ground. Though it steals your breath, you only grunt, determined not to show weakness. It’s what they thrive on, but you are not weak. Not for this. 

The crowd gasps in shock, but nobody steps in. Nobody can, not without twice as terrible a punishment. 

When you rise onto your elbows, the Peacekeeper grabs your chin, teeth bared. “Well, I sure hope she was worth the twelve lashes you’re about to get. Let’s see how heroic you feel with your back in tatters, shall we?” 

He drags you over to the whipping post, your knees scraping against the cobbles, heart pounding in your ears. The girl is crying, but you glimpse a neighbour pulling her away. Good. His focus is on you, and that means she’ll get to go home today — without food, but safe. Perhaps one of the onlookers will take pity, find something to fill her belly. God knows she looks like she needs it, joints jutting out of grimy, freckled skin. You know that hunger; the type that aches in every bone, burns right through your insides. Her tiny frame wouldn’t survive the lashes, but you will, so you let the Peacekeeper rip off your shirt and bare your back to him when he asks, another of them approaching to tie you up with rope that immediately chafes your wrists. 

“Please,” the little girl is shouting, but she’s far away. 

You grit your teeth when you hear the whip crack against the floor. Focus on the rows of feet surrounding you, as though counting the holes in the miners’ boots might be enough of a distraction and you won't feel it. 

Except it isn't and you do. The whip tears over your spine and you can’t keep from letting out a scream this time, entire body shuddering as though it can’t quite settle into this new pain. The Peacekeeper counts with every lash: one, two, three. By the fifth, you can’t hold yourself up, slumped against the pole as hot blood trickles down your skin and gathers at the waistband of your trousers. The shoes blur and tilt with the rest of the world, and you wonder how you’ll work tomorrow, or the next day, or the next day. You hope the girl isn’t looking. You wish nobody was looking. 

Before the seventh, a new voice chimes in, footsteps scuffing against the stone behind you. You don’t need to see him: his voice is enough for you to recognise who is trying to rescue you. 

Haymitch. 

“All right, all right, don’t you think you’ve proved your point?” he’s saying with that usual hint of a slur, because you can’t remember the last time he wasn’t drunk. It’s the only reason you’re friends. He buys your liquor, enough that you started watering it down a while back both because you don’t want to enable his addiction and because it gives him reason to come back more often, even if it’s to yell at you about the quality of your booze. 

“The sentence for attacking a Peacekeeper is twelve lashes. Step aside, or join her,” the Peacekeeper warns. 

Attacking a Peacekeeper. You barely touched him, only pushing him back before he could hit the girl. 

“Leave it, Haymitch,” you manage to force out. You taste blood and realise you’ve bitten through your tongue, but it’s impossible to feel it with your back on fire. “Let the man finish. No Peacekeepers, no peace, right?”

Your sarcasm is rewarded with another whip, right across both shoulder blades. 

Seven.

“Stop it!” Haymitch orders. There’s something rich and husky in his voice. Desperation. There you were thinking he didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything. You'd be surprise if you could muster the energy. “You wanna punish someone, punish me. How about we see what happens when one of the Hunger Games victors gets all bloodied up in the street, huh?”

Silence. Likely, the Peacekeeper realising who he is. District 12's only victor. You squeeze your eyes closed, dreading that Haymitch might actually take the lashings for you. The only thing you could bear less than this.

“Victors aren’t exempt from the rules,” the Peacekeeper decides, but his voice is no longer as stiff and certain as before. “And Seam scum like her certainly aren’t.”

“Maybe not, but what would everyone think, seeing Panem’s hero at the hands of a Peacekeeper? You sure that’s an image Snow would want associated with his precious Games?”

A scoff. “I don’t care about Panem’s heroes. You have nothing to do with this, so step aside.”

“She’s my wife!” Haymitch claims, causing another wave of shock to rattle through the crowd. And through you, because like hell you are. But he’s lying to save you, and you don’t know why. “I won’t let you do this to her. So whip me, or let us both go. What’ll it be?”

The moments that follow are excruciating, and you can do nothing but pant as the cool air hits your ruined skin. Finally, a Peacekeeper comes before you to cut through your bindings. You’re about to fall back onto the stone when two arms wrap around you, your soft whimpers landing in their chest. 

“All right, sweetheart. I gotcha now.” He picks you up, then whispers an outpouring of sorries when his arms scrape against your wounds, drawing another agonised keen from you. The sky is cloudy and grey above you, and it’s all you can do to stare at the clouds as he walks with you, each step jolting another rush of pain through your body. 

“Gonna getcha all cleaned up,” Haymitch soothes. And then he’s shouting for someone, for Asterid, and the sky is replaced by the wooden beams of an old house. 

Immediately, orders are shouted: clear the table, get the morphling, lots of gauze. You’re set down on something hard and clutch at Haymitch’s shirt desperately. His face swims over you, blue eyes glassy yet alert. More alert than they’ve ever been before. 

“Can you roll off your back for me, sweetheart? That’s it.” His hands are at your sides, anchoring you as you try to take the weight off your injuries. Everything is slippery with your blood and you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t anything, because it hurts. You must say as much, because his hand smoothes over your hair. “I know. I know. Gonna get you something for it, okay?”

“It’s going to be worse, just for a moment. We need to clean your wounds,” a kind voice, Asterid, warns, and then it is. You imagine fire all around you, and somewhere distant, hear your own screams. Haymitch’s hand stays in yours as he holds your convulsing body down.

“Can’t you get the damn morphling first?” Annoyance bubbles in Haymitch’s tone. 

“I can’t find it!” a younger, more flustered voice says, the sounds of riffling breaking through the cotton wool in your ears. Must be Asterid's daughter, Prim. She's barely younger than the girl outside; she shouldn't have to see the mess the whip has made.

And then you must pass out, because suddenly, you’re rising from fog, body heavy and pain dulled, and Haymitch is in a chair by your side. Your blood is on his shirt, you notice, and his hand is still holding yours on the table, thumb smoothing over your knuckles in a way that is both gentle and rough. 

“Hey. There y’are. Welcome back.” 

Moving makes you hurt again, and he shushes you when you cry out. “Stay put for now, okay? Wounds are still open.”

“Where are we?” Your voice is almost as hoarse and slurred as his. 

“Asterid’s house. She’s getting you all cleaned up.” 

“Did… did they stop? Did the girl get away?” 

He brushes the hair off your forehead. “She did. Made sure she got some food in her belly, too. Jesus, what were you thinking, getting in between a fight with a Peacekeeper like that?”

“Wasn’t a fair fight.” 

“Never damn well is.” 

“She was just a girl, Haymitch.” Anger rises to the surface, breaking through layers and layers of pain and sedation. 

Haymitch sighs. Leans his elbows on the table so his face is inches from yours. You wonder why it brings you comfort to smell his alcohol-laced breath, to feel it across your skin, to have his crooked nose graze yours. So gentle compared to the whip and yet it still leaves you shuddering. 

And yet his words are serrated as ever. “I know. But if you could find some sense of self-preservation, that’d be great.”

You shake your head, lids growing heavy again. You’re still conscious enough to point out, “You didn’t seem to have much of any, either, jumping in front of me like that. Calling me your wife. How long ‘fore they realise that’s a lie?”

His brows knit together, fingers drawing absent circles into your arms. “Shut up and get some sleep.”

Somehow, you find it in you to smirk. “‘Cos I’m right?”

“‘Cos the morphling’ll wear off soon, and it’s gonna hurt like hell.” Then, he softens. "And because you're a little right."

And you dread it, that first part. You can already feel the flames charring the edges of your consciousness, trying to take over again. Chin dipping back onto the table, you squeeze Haymitch’s hand tighter. He’s all you have here. No family to come sit with you, no friends who’ll take care of you the way he has. He's stupid for it, for putting himself in the crossfire, but it means something. Right now, you don’t know what, but you’ll figure it out. Maybe. If he’ll let you. 

“You gonna leave?” You sound so small, and it leaves you regretting asking at all. This isn't you. You get by on banter and jabs, not... this. Not vulnerability. The scars might heal, but you won't be able to take back the things you've given to him today. Shreds of yourself you didn't know existed.

He shakes his hand; strokes your hair again. “Gonna be right here when you wake up, sweetheart. Not going anywhere.” 

With the morphling humming through your veins and his gentle, soothing touch taking your mind away from the pain, you drift back into a restless, uncomfortable in-between. 

One where he is here, and for that alone, the agony is almost worth it.

[ilguna]

☼ wildflowers (Haymitch Abernathy) ☼

summary; haymitch never was the same after the tragedies that followed his games. and even with his best attempts to push you away, you never budged. so he allows you to take him to the meadow sometimes to make up for it.

warnings; swearing, lots of drinking, talks of killing/murder but nothing actually happens.

wc; 2.3k

notes; mid-twenties haymitch. no outright spoilers for sotr but if you think hard enough, you could make connections yourself lol.

--

“This is my favorite time of year, Haymitch.” You say, bouncing down the grassy hill, keeping a tight hold of your bag. “You wanna know why?”

When he doesn’t respond right away, you look over your shoulder long enough to see the tail end of him taking a swig of the bottle of liquor he insisted on bringing with him. You give him a playful eye roll, shaking your head with disapproval.

You couldn’t object, as much as you wanted to. You knew it meant risking the day you’d planned with him, and you’ve been looking forward to coming out to the meadow ever since the weather got warmer.

No liquor, no Haymitch.

“Why?” He asks, appearing beside you. 

He’s got this dumb smile on his face, holding out the bottle for you to take a drink, a habit he formed after you agreed once a couple months ago. He always wants you to drink with him, claiming it’s more fun if two of you are drunk than one. That way, you’re less likely to complain about the stuff he does.

You wave the offer away, attention focused on the beauty that’s hidden beyond the fences of District Twelve. If the Peacekeeper’s knew you were out here, they’d likely string you up and whip you for it. Or worse, kill you. They’ve been cracking down on the rules again, you’re not entirely sure what triggered it, but they’re taking nothing lightly.

“The springtime feels like a fresh start.” You tell him, closing your eyes when you feel a breeze come through. “New beginnings.”

“Isn’t that what New Year is for?” He asks.

You scowl for a moment at his attitude, and then let out a laugh. “Sure, Haymitch. But it’s also a time for hope and growth.”

“I’ve experienced plenty of springs and nothing has changed.”

“Except your attitude.” You remind him, because his personality before the Games didn’t resemble a wet rag. “Which is far from your fault.”

He grunts.

This really isn’t anything new when it comes to Haymitch. You’re lucky you were able to get him out of that house at all. The place reeks of vomit and liquor, so he’s begun to take to the bench outside. You’re sure the smell isn’t doing any good for his sense of smell.

So, while you pull him out of the house for some overdue fresh air, you begged your father this morning to do you a favor and clean Haymitch’s house. It wasn’t easy by any means to convince him, but you managed to do it after a few pleas and a promise to mend a couple pairs of his old pants and shirts to make them look brand new. He wasn’t thrilled when you gave him a warning about the smell, but he sighed and said he’d open every window and the front door to let the spring air come in while he cleaned.

He truly is the best father you could ask for, and the most qualified person for this job—considering his background with some of the wealthier families in Twelve. He started cleaning as a side gig in high school to get himself and your grandparents through without having to get tessera. 

It turned into a more serious job when people discovered they do mind having a layer of coal dust on their belongings. From there, he cleaned the Mayor’s mansion, the Justice Building, the Peacekeeper base—whatever, whenever. As you’ve grown up, you’ve joined him a few times to see the process, but you’ve never been inspired to make it a permanent career.

Anyway, it’s a win-lose situation. In this case, you’re the winner, because you’re not trapped inside of Haymich’s house for an extended period of time. And you get to spend the afternoon with your best friend by the lake. Which, by the way, if your father knew you were out here, he likely would’ve murdered you twice. Once for making him clean Haymitch’s house, and twice for breaking the law.

“Just over here, Haymitch.” You tell him, waving him on. “I think the lake is in this direction.”

“It is.” He murmurs behind you.

He should know, he’s the one that showed you it in the first place, some years ago. 

It was right after a huge blowout fight you had with him. He was at the lowest point you’ve ever seen him, and you were trying to continue to give him the benefit of the doubt. He hadn’t always been like this, his entire life changed in less than a month after he won his Games.

He needed a friend, and you wanted to continue to be that friend. He’d already pushed away the rest of the group, one way or another. You were the last one hanging on because being friends with a group of boys gave you thick skin. If he wanted you to leave, he needed to say or do something that would change your mind about him. 

And he did. He chose to insult you until you were in tears. You remember the way he had been sitting on his couch, completely casual, as if what he was doing was easy. Like he didn’t care that you’d been friends for nearly two decades and you’ve been his shoulder to cry on since the beginning.

You were fuming, hands balled into fists. He had his back turned to you, eyes locked on the television the Capitol had given him, watching the news like he always did. You kept thinking to yourself how easy it would be to punch the lights out of him. Maybe a hard reset was what he needed to be normal again or at least polite. You’d just bought him a basketful of white liquor because he’d been too embarrassed to do it himself.

“What are you still standing there for?” He asked, his face twisted in disgust. “Give me the basket, and go.”

You’d never been the one to turn to violence before that moment, but his tone had made something snap inside of you. “You want the fucking liquor, Haymitch?” 

Your hands were shaking with rage when you slammed the entire basket to the floor, causing him to jump at the sudden noise. Liquor and shards of glass went flying everywhere, and little did you know, you’d still be finding it years later. As Haymitch got to his feet, eyes wide, you stomped on every bottle, making sure they were shattered, and there’d be nothing he could salvage from the mess.

“Then get down on your hands and knees and drink up.” You told him, eyes boring into his, daring him to challenge you.

“Get out of my house.”

“With pleasure.” You smiled at him, body full of nothing but hatred for him. “No wonder you’re alone.”

“Go fuck yourself, (Y/n).” He finally said to you. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know more than you ever could’ve possibly imagined, Haymitch.” You stood in his doorway. “And I’m sick of dealing with your shit. Goodbye.”

You swung his door shut with a slam, pissed off he treated you that way and you let it happen for so long. The anger would wear off by the time you got home, where you went and cried in your father’s arms about the situation. Haymitch was your best friend, you didn’t want to watch him succumb into the darkness you’d been trying so hard to save him from. 

Your father made you take a hot bath, and even though you were too old for it, he tucked you in. Before he went to bed for the night, he told you that if Haymitch truly cherished the friendship you had, he’d see what he’d done and apologize. If not, then you need to move on to better things.

Haymitch didn’t come back for a while. You resisted every urge in your body to go and check in on him, because he stopped being seen in District Twelve. You were almost convinced he’d died, but he’d showed up on your doorstep a month later. He had a box of your favorite treats in his hand and apologized.

He told you if you forgave him, then you should meet him at his house later that afternoon. He handed you the box and left. You forgave him, of course, and listened to his request. When you saw him, he had a wrinkly shirt and a pair of shorts on, and a sunhat.

“I have something to show you.” He told you. “I haven’t been there in a while, but I’m sure you’ll like it as much as she did.”

You knew who he was referring to as soon as he said it, so you didn’t pry. Haymitch brought you to the lake, which you’d heard so much about. While the others had come out here from time to time, you never wanted to break the law, fearing for what your father would say about it. 

“A lake.” You were surprised. “This is what you’d been talking about?”

“Yeah, I should’ve told you to bring a change of clothes but I didn’t want to spoil it.”

“Who cares?” You asked with a laugh, taking Haymitch into a hug. “Apology accepted.”

He gave you a squeeze. “Thank you.”

The meadow peeks out from between the trees, letting you know you’ve made it. You stop in to take in the sight of the wildflowers, spread throughout the field. You don’t mind taking a dip in the lake every now and then, but your favorite part is seeing what grows around it. This is what you came here to see.

Haymitch goes to lift the bottle to his lips, but you direct his hand back down. “Take it easy on the liquor, will you? It’s too early for you to be drunk already.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Haymitch.” You tilt your head at him. “Please.”

He stares at you for a moment, before nodding his head gently, capping the bottle and tucking it back into his pocket. You give him a smile, before leading him down to your favorite spot beneath a large tree.

You sit with your legs crossed, bag sitting next to you. Haymitch leans against the base of the tree, staring off. You timed this trip perfectly, the flowers have bloomed all sorts of different colors: reds, yellows, blues, oranges, pinks, purples and all the hues in-between.

The wind blows hard out here, since there’s nothing to obstruct its path. The flowers dance, flowing in different directions, sometimes being pushed so far you’re sure that the petals are on the verge of flying off, before they pop right back into their upright position.

The spring’s sun beams create this dreamy look in the bright, healthy grass. The scene looks vaguely familiar, a sense of deja vu coming over you, but you can’t quite put your finger on the reason why. 

“So what’re we doing out here, anyway?” Haymitch asks, breaking the soft silence.

“Do you have a favorite flower?” You ask back, looking at him. “I don’t. I could never pick between them all.”

“I haven’t given it much thought.” He admits.

“Well, you have plenty of time to think now.”

You reach into your bag, pulling out the snacks, but really you watch the sketchbook. When you flip it open, Haymitch leans over, head tilted to get a better look at the drawings inside. It’s just full of flowers, some you’ve observed in person, but most you get through books and pictures. Beside the art is information: the bees they attract, the trees they cling to, the many shades of colors they can be found in. 

“I didn’t know you liked art.” He murmurs, reaching for the book. “Can I?”

“Yes, please.” You tell him, handing it over. 

He’s very gentle when he flips through the pages, taking time to actually drink in the art before him. After a while, he stops, about three quarters of the way through, and places his finger down on the page. 

“This one.”

You lean over, invading his space as you look over his arm to see what he’s picked. 

A sunflower.

“Sunflower, huh?” You ask, looking down at what you’d drawn. “It’s a summer flower. If we plant it soon, we might see it bloom by the time your birthday comes.” 

Haymitch looks up, a smile hinting at his lips. “Really?”

“Yeah! I know a thing or two about flowers.” You laugh. “Actually, if I were to choose what to do with the rest of my life, I’d probably own a greenhouse with every flower under the sun.”

He thinks about this for a moment, looking off to the meadow. “I can help you.”

“What?” You ask, face twisting. “No.”

“Why not? You don’t want to clean houses, do you?” He asks.

“Well, no, but that’s your money.” You shake your head.

He picks up his bottle of liquor. “It’s all going to waste, anyway.”

You take your sketchbook back from Haymitch, closing the book and setting it in the grass, trying to end the conversation. “That’s nice of you to offer, but I can’t accept.”

“You could if it were a gift.” He says, looking away from you. “I could pick a nice spot next to the market near Victor’s Village. You’d get a lot of traction there.”

“Haymitch, no.”

“You wouldn’t accept it?” There’s a smirk on his face. “You’d let it go to waste?”

You press your lips together. “If you built it for me, I wouldn’t let it go to waste, but—.”

“Then it seems like it won’t be long before you’re selling flowers.” He tells you. “And I expect those sunflowers to be a bestseller.”

You can feel the tears gathering in your eyes, lips pulling downward. 

“Don’t cry.” Haymitch tells you, pushing your head away. “I don’t want to cry with you.”

“Do you know what sunflowers resemble, Haymitch?” You ask, wiping away the tears that escape. “It resembles growth and resilience.”

Haymitch lets out a laugh, rolling his eyes as he lifts his bottle to his lips. “Of course.”

[euphemiaamillais]

omg!! i love the idea of sej and coryo being your roommates ✊🏼could you write the reader sending them spicy pics or vids to them while they’re in class?? whatever comes next is up to you <33

mdni | sej and coryo as your roommates (with benefits)

cw: 18+//suggestive videos&photos//fingering//mentions of sex

since you’d dumped your boyfriend and threesomes became a regular occurrence for you all, you found yourself growing increasingly needy throughout the day. while you were on leave from uni, the boys were still attending almost daily, much to your annoyance.

but you found your way of teasing them; and you found when they came home they didn’t even bother putting their things down before one of them was burying their cock inside of you, or kissing their way up your thigh to eat you out.

10:42 am

you: can’t stop thinking about last night :(

sej: yeah?

you: i’m so wet at the thought of you taking me like that again sej

you smirked as you pressed send on a photo of your fingers delving into your pussy, and waited for sejanus to reply. while you were waiting, you began typing a message to coryo. he was harder to get to, often not responding to your texts (but god forbid if he did text you that you took more than 5 seconds to respond).

you: i bet you’re hard right now thinking about how well i took your cock last night

no response, but you were surprised that sejanus had sent you a video, and when you opened the message, he’d left a small caption.

sej: couldn’t help myself

the video made your core burn. sejanus was locked in a bathroom stall, hand gripping his thick cock as he rubbed his length up and down. he was groaning with no shame, and you could see his face contorting with pleasure. he was muttering something about wanting to make you choke on his cock when he got home.

you couldn’t help but bring your fingers to your bare cunt, and you began to rub softly at your achy clit. deciding that you wanted to be courteous and send a video back, you began to film yourself, the sounds of your whimpers echoing against the walls of your room.

you pressed send, but saw that you’d accidentally added coryo to the conversation. he still hadn’t responded to your original text, but there was a time stamp that read ‘seen 10:53’ which made your lips curl up into a frown.

you: need you to fill me up later

coryo: such a fucking slut sending that to me in class. you’re so desperate, aren’t you?

your heart flutters as you see his response, and watch as two typing bubbles pop up on the screen, both boys clearly now vying for which one gets your attention. you can’t believe your eyes when you receive a photo of coryo playing with his cock, hand gripping the base, his long length dripping a little with precum.

sej: you gonna be good for us when we get home?

you: maybe.

you go back to rubbing at your clit, fingers delving in and out of your slickness at the same time as you bring yourself to your conclusion. you need them so bad, and you’re frustrated that they’re not here to help you right now.

coryo: bet you’re fucking yourself right now, aren’t you?

when you don’t respond, too distracted by the image of coryo’s hard cock in his hand, and the video of sej jerking himself off playing in the back of your mind, coryo continues to send taunting texts.

coryo: you know your fingers can’t make you cum as good as we can, princess

sej: gonna fuck you so good when i get home

coryo: oh, i don’t think she deserves it if she’s going to tease us so much.

you feel yourself gush around your fingers, body brimming with desire. warmth pools between your thighs, but you’re left feeling a little empty, wishing one of your boys—or both of them—could’ve helped you out.

when you glance down at the texts, you frown, irked by coryo’s cruelty. he liked to think he could make you cum the hardest out of him, sej, and your own fingers, and when he found you not using his cock or tongue to get off, he always sought to punish you for it.

you: please :(

coryo: oh look, she’s finally replying. too busy wishing it was my cock inside of you?

sej: don’t be so cruel coryo, you know she can’t help that we’re not home

coryo: and yet she can’t be a good girl and wait until we come home to fuck her

coryo: too obsessed with our cocks, huh?

you: please come home soon. need you guys to fill me up

sej: gonna put my cock in your pretty little mouth when i get there ;)

coryo: at least let me bend her over and teach her a lesson, sej. sluts don’t get to cum until i’m satisfied that they’ve learned not to touch themselves without us there

you sigh at coryo’s domineering nature; but your thighs tingle at the thought of him shoving your face into the mattress as he pounds into you.

you: i can’t wait much longer :(

sej: hold on baby, i’ll be home soon

coryo: remember sej, she doesn’t get to cum until i say so

you: you guys are soooo mean ;(

you put your phone down and let out a heavy sigh. the boys loved to tease you, it bordered on cruelty at times, but you still took their cocks willingly each time, and always came back begging for more. who knew that having two hot roommates would come with so many benefits.

that afternoon, they made true on their promises and fucked your cunt full of their cum until you were practically begging to get off yourself. finally, after what seemed like hours of torture, coryo made you cum with his tongue, giving you sloppy head when he was satisfied that you’d learned your lesson.

[thedelicatearcher]

thedelicatearcher's masterlist

my requests are always open!! if you have any thg character request (blurb, headcanons, one shot, etc), thought or just want to talk about them, my asks are open!!

i looove talking about anything, so pleease don't be afraid to interact with me, i would love to be mutuals :)

rules for my requests!!

the hunger games

𓇼everlark masterlist

𓇼finnick odair masterlist

𓇼katniss everdeen masterlist

𓇼peeta mellark masterlist

𓇼johanna mason masterlist

𓇼haymitch abernathy masterlist

𓇼lucy gray masterlist

𓇼general headcanons and blurbs masterlist

more to come!

[inky-writing]

Chapter 1: From Afar

Cato Hadley x reader

Warnings: fighting, blood, weapons, dictatorship...

Word count: 966

Masterlist

The sun hung low in the sky over District 2, casting a golden glow over the large training arena where the finest young people sharpened their skills. The smell of sweat and steel filled the air, an almost intoxicating reminder of the district’s pride in its warriors.

Cato Hadley stood near the edge of the arena, his arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched the trainees spar in pairs. His sharp blue eyes scanned the scene, but they always seemed to find their way back to one person: Y/N.

She was a force to be reckoned with, her sword flashing like lightning as she danced around her opponent. The other girl, a strong and beefy fighter in her own right, barely had time to raise her weapon before Y/N disarmed her with a well-timed feint and a brutal strike to her wrist. The clatter of the sword hitting the floor echoed through the arena, followed by the sound of the girl’s knees hitting the mat. Y/N didn’t stop there. With a fluid motion, she pointed the tip of her blade at her opponent’s throat, her stance poised and lethal.

"Enough!" barked their instructor, his voice carrying across the room.

Y/N stepped back, lowering her sword, though the intensity in her eyes didn’t waver. Her opponent groaned, clutching her wrist as two medics hurried over to escort her to the infirmary. Y/N’s face softened slightly as she watched the girl leave, but she didn’t apologize. That wasn’t the way of District 2.

Cato’s jaw tightened as he watched her. She was… incredible. He had always known Y/N was special, from the moment they had met as kids. She had outmatched every opponent she faced, and over the years, she had only grown stronger, sharper, deadlier. Even now, at sixteen, she was better with a sword than he was, though he would never admit it out loud. It wasn’t just her skill that drew him to her, though. It was the fire in her, the determination in every move she made, the way she carried herself as though nothing in the world could break her.

But she was more than just a fighter to him. She was Y/N. His Y/N, though he’d never dared to say the words out loud.

Clove’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. "You’re staring again," she teased, nudging him with her elbow.

Cato scowled, his cheeks flushing slightly. "I’m not staring."

"Oh, please," Clove said, rolling her eyes. "You’ve been watching her like a hawk all day. It’s a wonder how she doesn’t notice."

"She’s my…" Cato hesitated, searching for the right word. "She’s my friend. I’m just… making sure she’s focused."

Clove raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Cato ignored her, turning his attention back to the arena just in time to see Y/N sparring with a new opponent. This time, it was a boy their age, one of the strongest trainees. He rushed at her with a roar, swinging his blade in a wide arc. Y/N sidestepped effortlessly, her movements precise and calculated. Within seconds, she had disarmed him, sending his sword flying across the room. She followed up with a swift kick to his chest, knocking him flat on his back. The match was over before it had even begun.

The other trainees erupted into cheers and applause, though there was an undercurrent of unease in the room. No one wanted to face Y/N in the arena, not even the boys. She was simply too good.

Y/N turned, her eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on Cato. For a brief moment, their gazes locked, and something unspoken passed between them. Her lips twitched into a small, almost shy smile before she turned away, wiping the sweat from her brow.

Cato felt his heart skip a beat. Damn it.

"You should just tell her," Clove said, crossing her arms as she leaned against the wall next to him.

"Tell her what?" Cato asked, though he already knew what she meant.

"That you’re in love with her, smarty pants," Clove said, smirking. "It’s not like it’s a secret."

Cato shook his head, his expression hardening. "It doesn’t matter. She… she deserves better."

Clove’s smirk faded, replaced by a rare look of seriousness. "You’re an idiot, you know that? She’s crazy about you. Everyone can see it. Well, everyone except you, apparently."

Before Cato could respond, Y/N approached them, her sword resting against her shoulder. "What are you two whispering about?"

"Nothing," Cato said quickly, his voice a little too sharp.

Clove snorted. "We were just talking about how you’re going to end up in the infirmary one day if you keep sparring like that. You’re going to run out of opponents at this rate."

Y/N laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "Maybe I’ll start sparring with you instead."

Clove raised her hands in mock surrender. "I’ll pass, thanks. I like my limbs intact."

Y/N turned her attention to Cato, her smile softening. "What about you? Care for a match?"

Cato hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. "Maybe later."

Y/N’s eyes lingered on him for a moment, as though she could see right through him, before she nodded. "Suit yourself."

As she walked away, Cato felt a pang of regret. He wanted to tell her, to say all the things he had been holding back for years. But he couldn’t. Not yet. The Reaping was only a week away, and if either of them was chosen…

He clenched his fists, pushing the thought away. For now, he would watch her from the sidelines, silently rooting for her, silently loving her. It was all he could do.

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