#while peeta is still kind of adjusting to the new person he is and coming to terms with what he's done in that process

[sweetheartsofpanem]

What We've Been Becoming - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 4.35k

series masterlist | main masterlist

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

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

You are on the floor.

By choice.

Kind of.

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

You sip your tea and try not to look suspicious.

Peeta is watching you.

He’s been watching you for a while.

You try to look normal.

Which, unfortunately, is exactly what gives you away.

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t do anything.”

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

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

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

You immediately look down, like you forgot.

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

Peeta gasps, scandalized. “And she blushed.”

“I did not—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You choke on your tea.

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

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

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

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

Peeta blinks.

“Wait, what?”

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

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

She shrugs. “Never claimed otherwise.”

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

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

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

“It was one time!”

“You call him sunshine.”

“Because it annoys him!”

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

Katniss snorts so hard she nearly chokes.

You grab the nearest pillow and throw it at Peeta.

“Shut up!”

“You’re emotionally married!”

“You are banned from this house.”

Katniss raises her mug. “Seconded.”

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

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

Peeta hums. “You say that, but—”

“I will bite you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

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

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

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

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

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

Both heads snap toward you.

Peeta’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

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

Katniss blinks. “So… all the feelings.”

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

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

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

“There was also cuddling,” you mumble.

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

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

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

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

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

“I live in a room!”

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

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

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

Peeta opens his mouth.

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

That quiets him.

Katniss tilts her head slightly.

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

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

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

For a second, it’s quiet.

Katniss is the one who breaks it.

“You don’t have to explain it to us.”

You glance up.

She shrugs. “We get it.”

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

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

You smile, small. “Thanks.”

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

Katniss tosses another cookie. “Obviously.”

You dodge it this time.

But you don’t stop smiling.

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

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

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

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

You look up.

And your face lights up.

There’s no stopping it.

Not a polite smile.

Not a casual grin.

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

Peeta makes a sound.

You turn toward him slowly.

He’s just sitting there. Staring.

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

You blink. “Peeta—”

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

Katniss covers her mouth, shaking with silent laughter.

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

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

Your jaw drops. “I am not—”

Haymitch smirks. “Not what?”

You glare at him. “Don’t you start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“She was glowing,” Peeta adds helpfully.

Katniss throws another cookie at you. “Sunbeam.”

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

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

You peek through your fingers.

And, damn it—

You smile again.

Peeta sighs dramatically. “There it is again.”

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

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

“Legs up, sweetheart.”

She doesn’t even blink. “No.”

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

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

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

You don’t look at him.

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

He doesn’t say anything.

Just tugs lightly.

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

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

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

Peeta makes another noise.

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

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

You don’t defend yourself.

You don’t need to.

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

And you’re never living any of this down.

But you’re also not moving.

So.

Fair trade.

Eventually, the teasing dies down.

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

Haymitch doesn’t move his arm.

You pretend not to notice how warm he is.

The room settles into something easy.

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

Katniss says she still ate it.

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

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

“You said it was ‘aggressively sweet.’”

Peeta snorts. “You ate three pieces.”

“It was fine.”

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

Katniss throws a pillow at him.

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

After that, the conversation turns quieter. Gentler.

Someone mentions the garden.

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

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

“I could.”

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

He doesn’t say anything.

Just gives you a look.

One you’re starting to know pretty well.

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

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

Haymitch drinks it in total silence and refuses to comment.

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

You don’t move from the couch.

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

No one says anything about it.

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

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

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

“I’m not.”

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

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

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

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

“Peeta—”

He grins. “Love you!”

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

You don’t move.

Haymitch doesn’t say anything.

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

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

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

“You gonna survive?”

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

You smile. “He is a menace.”

“Should’ve drowned him in that tea.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

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

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

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

A comfortable beat passes.

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

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

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

You glance at him.

He’s not teasing now.

Just looking.

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

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

His lips twitch. “That so?”

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

“Too late.”

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

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

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

He doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

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

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

“Hey,” you murmur.

Haymitch hums. “Hmm?”

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

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

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

Your chest tightens.

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

Finally, he glances down at you.

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

Just Haymitch.

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

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

You don’t answer.

You don’t need to.

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

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

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

Like he was waiting for permission to breathe.

And you close your eyes.

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

You just get to be.

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

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

You think he could fall asleep like this.

You think you could, too.

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

You shift, just enough to look up at him.

“Should we… go upstairs?”

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

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

“Still nice to be asked.”

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

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

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

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

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

A drawer.

Third one down.

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

You feel him pause in the doorway behind you.

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

You nod once, not turning. “Yeah.”

A pause.

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

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

You turn to glance at him over your shoulder.

“I like when you’re here.”

He doesn’t say anything.

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

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

You freeze.

Like completely.

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

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

You absolutely forget what air is.

He glances up.

And oh.

He sees it.

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

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

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

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

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

You refuse to look.

You absolutely look.

He says nothing.

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

And it’s… a lot.

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

You’re not touching.

Not quite.

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

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

You glance at him. “To what?”

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

“Weird bad?”

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

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

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

You hold his gaze.

It’s quiet.

Still.

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

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

You blink. “What?”

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

Your breath hitches.

And suddenly, everything is louder.

The thrum in your chest.

The way your knees brush.

The soft warmth of his skin only inches from yours.

You whisper, “You’re not the only one who’s scared, you know.”

He nods slowly.

“I know,” he says.

A pause.

His thumb brushes your wrist under the blanket. “But I think I’m finally more scared of not having this than I am of screwing it up.”

You don’t say anything.

You just shift—closer now, barely an inch of space left.

Your forehead brushes his.

And he exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.

His forehead stays against yours.

Just lightly.

Barely touching.

Like he’s afraid to press too hard and break the spell of the moment.

You let your eyes fall closed for a second, just breathing.

It’s still so new.

This kind of closeness.

This kind of ease.

“You know,” you murmur, barely louder than the hum of the house, “I used to think I’d never have this.”

His thumb moves again, tracing a soft circle near your wrist.

“This… what?” he asks.

You open your eyes. “Quiet. Safety. A place to land.”

He’s looking at you. Not smiling. Not teasing.

Just looking.

“And now?” he says.

You hesitate. Then whisper, “Now it’s hard to remember what it felt like without it.”

The silence between you stretches again, but not because you’ve run out of things to say.

Just because some things are better left hanging in the space between your bodies. Floating there, weightless and real.

His voice comes softer now. Like the words are more breath than sound.

“You ever think about what it’d be like if the world hadn’t gone to hell?”

You glance up at him. “Like if there hadn’t been Games?”

“Yeah.”

You think about it.

Then shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe we never would’ve ended up in the same room.”

He huffs a breath, almost a laugh. “Tragic.”

You smirk. “You’d have missed out on so much character development.”

He smiles at that.

A real one.

Quiet and a little tired and so full of affection it makes your chest ache.

“I would’ve liked to meet you anyway,” he says.

Something in your throat tightens.

“Even if it wasn’t like this,” he continues. “Even if it was just passing you on the street or buying something from your stand or seeing you in the bookshop you work at.”

You blink. “You think I’d work in a bookshop?”

“You have the bookish rage of someone who’d alphabetize with malice.”

You try not to laugh, but it breaks through anyway—soft and breathy.

He watches you like it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.

Like it matters.

You shake your head gently, still close enough to feel the warmth of his skin. “You’d be that weird guy who comes in once a week to buy books he already owns just to argue about the ending.”

“And you’d let me.”

“Only because I’d want to win.”

Then he meets your gaze again and says, “You probably would.”

You smile—small, quiet, almost sleepy.

And when your hand drifts up without thinking, brushing his bare shoulder, your fingers barely graze a scar just below his collarbone.

You don’t realize you’re doing it.

The silence between you settles again, delicate and warm.

His thumb keeps brushing your wrist.

Your hand rests against his shoulder, fingers curled slightly—not clutching, not pulling. Just there.

You look at him.

Not expecting anything.

Just… looking.

And maybe that’s what does it.

The way your eyes soften when they meet his.

The way your lips part just barely like you’re about to say something but don’t.

The way you don’t flinch when he shifts closer.

His eyes drop—slow and hesitant—to your mouth.

And when they come back up, they don’t ask for permission.

They ask in the way only he can—with a breath, a pause, a look that’s all uncertainty wrapped around want.

Then quietly, just above a whisper, “Come here.”

Your brows pinch, barely.

But you lean, instinctively.

Because of course you do.

Because it’s him.

And he kisses you.

No fanfare.

No speech.

Just mouth to mouth like he’s never tasted softness before and isn’t sure how long he’ll be allowed to keep it.

His hand lifts—cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek.

Yours tightens against his shoulder like it’s the only solid thing in the room.

And it’s slow.

And unsure.

And steady.

Like everything that led up to it.

Like him.

Like you.

When he finally pulls back—just barely—you don’t let go.

Neither of you says anything.

Not yet.

Because there’s nothing left to say.

Just breath and skin and the quiet hum of something that’s finally become real.

Next Part

[fandom-imagines-stories]

The World is Better Now

Peeta Mellark x Reader

Words: 2503

Summary: Nearly a year since the fall of the Capitol, the reader and Peeta have lived happily together in peace. They have helped each other through the darkest nights and the worst nightmares. Now, the reader feels a new kind of fear. 

Notes: I rewatched the Hunger games series and I forgot how adorable Peeta is. So here goes nothing. As always, let me know what you think! (So this is an AU where the reader was in the Quarter Quell, just in case anyone was confused. Katniss is just a friend in this one.)

-

You thought you knew what life was like. You thought that you would die in the Games and be just another fallen Tribute. When you won, you thought you were safe. When President Snow announced that the Quarter Quell would select from a pool of Victors, your hope for a better life was gone. But then he happened. Even after everything he had been through, he still had this light. A light that you thought you had lost forever. Somehow, he brought it back. So yeah, you thought you knew what life was like. But this was so much more than that. 

“Y/N!” Peeta called from your little house on the hill as you seemingly searched the meadow for something. His voice was like a distant murmur. You weren’t sure what you were looking for, but you could feel it. Before you could think too much on it, you felt arms wrap around your middle and a puff of breath against your neck, blowing through the few strands of hair that had fallen from the hairpins you had put in that morning. You couldn’t help but jump, flinching away from the sudden contact. You turned to see your husband, clearly trying to hide the hurt in this eyes. 

“Sorry.” You muttered, feeling the shame turn your face slightly pink. Now he felt bad. You hated it when you made him feel guilty. He deserved the sun, if you only had the power to give it to him. 

“Hey,” He just smiled, quickly putting your mind at ease as he took your face in his hands. “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you. I thought you heard me calling. I’m sorry.” He placed a gentle kiss on your lips, reassuring you that he wasn’t in any way upset before taking your hand. “Come on, dinner’s ready.” 

With the exception of Katniss and Haymitch, the two of you were alone out here. You weren’t part of the new society after the fall of the Capitol. Instead, you sought refuge in the rolling fields outside what was once District 12. Due to your isolation, there was technically no legality to your marriage. In fact, the only ones there to witness your vows were Katniss, Haymitch, and even Effie, who insisted on bringing endless yards of fabric with her to help you make a dress. You exchanged rings and vows, promising to love each other through everything and to never forget what you’d been through together. You didn’t need anything official. You were his and he was yours and that’s all you could have ever hoped for.

He, of course, was far better at cooking than you were so he often made dinner. Tonight, he made fresh bread and some seared fish from the lake nearby. You hardly touched any of it, feeling your stomach twist and turn, suddenly feeling ill. Your face had grown pale and Peeta’s expression morphed with concern. 

“Are you okay?” He stood from his seat across the table to move closer, examining the sweat that now glistened across your forehead. You nodded, but you quickly pushed away from him, burying your head in the sink and losing what little you had eaten. You felt Peeta’s hand on your back, rubbing up and down your skin trying to comfort you. When you slid down against the cabinet, he sat with you, grabbing a towel to wipe your lips. 

“Sorry.” You muttered through heavy breaths. “I-I don’t know where that came from.” You stood on shaky legs, but after a moment, you felt fine again. Strange, but fine. There was nothing in the meal that would have made you sick and you hadn’t been feeling ill at all that day. Deep in your gut, you started to worry. 

-

You spent the morning wandering the woods with Katniss. It was a weekly ritual for the two of you. Some time away from the guys. You liked to think that she opened up a little more when it was just the two of you. As if you had been friends since you were little girls. Growing up in District 5, you had a much cushier life than both her and Peeta, but you’d grown accustomed to the quieter, simpler life outside the New Panem. 

“Peeta said that you were sick last night.” Katniss started, looking up into the trees. You grimaced. Of course he did. There were few secrets between the four of you since you all lived out here by yourselves. 

“Yeah, but I feel fine.” You debated whether or not you should share your fears. That your illness was anything but random. That it meant something far more frightening than an upset stomach. Katniss noticed your uneasy expression and put a hand on your shoulder. 

“What’s wrong?” You took a deep breath. You needed to tell somebody.

“I’m worried that I might be…” You couldn’t even bring yourself to say it, but she understood. Her hand slipped off your shoulder and she crossed her arms, trying to process. 

“Oh.” She just stared at you for a moment, barely even blinking. Katniss was never really one with words. You exhaled deeply and explained to her your suspicions. This wasn’t the first time you had been sick. This wasn’t even the third. On top of that, every time you looked into the meadow, you felt like something was coming. You could search and search, but you never figured out what. When you finished talking, Katniss sighed. “Follow me.” 

She took you back to her house and found a small box she had hidden in the back of her kitchen cabinet. Handing you the box, she gave you a very uncomfortable smile. You dumped a small bottle into the palm of your hand. 

“What are these?” You shook the bottle gently, hearing pills rattle around inside. 

“Effie made me promise to give them to you when you and Peeta started thinking about... you know.” She rocked back on her heels. “It’s some kind of test from the Capitol.” You gave her a look. 

“Why’d she give them to you?” 

“She didn’t want you guys to think she was pressuring you or something.” She shrugged. “And it’s not like she could give them to Haymitch.” You both chuckled, breaking up some of the awkwardness. 

“Thanks.” You stuffed the bottle into your pocket, the small item somehow making your hand feel heavy. You started to leave, but you paused. “Don’t tell him about this, okay?” Katniss gave you a crooked smile and nodded. And just like that, everything changed. 

-

A day passed and you didn’t tell a soul. The test was positive. You were pregnant. In just a few short months you would be bringing life into a world that had taken so many lives from you. And that never seemed clearer than when you got letters from Annie. Sweet, loving Annie whose son would never meet his father. As Peeta read her encouraging words, all you could hear was Finnick. His laugh, his smug little jokes to cheer you up. Even though you’d only been a Victor for two years longer than Katniss and Peeta, Finnick was the one to help you adjust to the new lifestyle. He was really the closest thing you had to a brother. You winced, his laugh replaced by his dying screams in your head. 

“Love, Annie.” Peeta finished reading with a small smile and tucked the letter into the picnic basket beside him. “I’m glad she’s been able to somewhat adjust.” You nodded in agreement. You had barely said two words to him since you found out. Maybe you were afraid that you’d let it slip. Peeta had noticed your silence, but he chose not to press you. He knew that sometimes you would just let your thoughts wander without saying a word. But there was something different about the way you looked at him. 

“Peeta,” You said his name so quietly he almost didn’t hear it. You took his hand in yours, bringing it slowly up to your lips to place gentle kisses on his fingertips. You didn’t want anything to change. Peeta held your hand in between his own, his eyes shining with both admiration and concern. You had to tell him. 

“Y/N, are you sure that everything is- what, what is it?” He noticed your eyes grow wide, staring at his hand. His gaze followed yours and his breathing quickened with panic. A wasp crawled across the back of his hand, it’s bright yellow exterior providing little comfort. It wasn’t a tracker jacker, but it didn’t matter. 

“Peeta, it’s just a wasp.” You assured him, hoping he would look at you and not the insect. 

“I-I know.” He said, but his voice was shaky and his hands started to tremble slightly as he strained to keep still. You’d never actually had to encounter the mutt insects, but you knew that he had in his games. Tracker jacker venom was also what they used on him to try and distort his memories to turn him against the rebels and even you. His hand jerked away, but he only aggravated it more. He yelped as it stung him, flying away to safety. Though the pain was brief and minimal, it was the memories you feared more. 

Peeta tried to hold it back, but his mind swirled between the present and the past, mixing with all the horrors he had seen. You took his face in your hands, urging those beautiful hazel eyes to focus on you.

“Peeta, it’s okay. Look at me. It’s okay.” You pulled him close to you, his head resting on your chest, hoping that the sound of your heartbeat would calm him. It usually did, despite how rapidly it was beating now. You ran one hand up and down his back while you gently stroked his blonde hair with the other. “It’s okay.” Sitting there, holding him, you knew more than ever that you couldn’t do it. How could you bring a child into a world that had done such cruel things to such a kind person? A world that had broken him in ways you would never understand. It had broken you. 

-

After his episode, Peeta decided to spend the rest of the day relaxing inside. He settled in front of his easel, using a mix of blacks and greys to replicate the storm clouds gathering overhead. In contrast, he painted the yellow flowers beneath them, their brightness only slightly dulled by the gloomy atmosphere. He looked out the window, watching you walk slowly through the patches of primrose. 

“It’s beautiful.” Katniss said from behind him. He turned and gave her a small smile. 

“I want it to remind her that there’s brightness growing out of the dark.” He’d noticed that you had had a hard time adjusting to a life of peace after the horrors that you’d all been through. Sometimes, he was sure you were still trying to escape the games in your mind. 

“She should probably get inside.” Katniss noted, looking out to the flowers, but you weren’t there anymore. “It looks like it’s going to storm.” As if on cue, a bolt of lightning shot across the sky, followed by a loud roll of thunder. There was another sound; a faint cry muffled by the closed window. 

“What was that?” Peeta slid the window up and listened closer. Another boom was followed by another scream. “Y/N.” Your names left his lips in a panic as he ran down the stairs and out into the rain. 

“Y/N!” Katniss shouted, the rain starting to pour down, pounding against the pavement. She might have been more scared than Peeta. She knew the truth. It wasn’t just you in danger anymore. Peeta’s eyes swept the trees while Katniss checked around the houses. After the loudest crash of thunder yet, the screams became words. 

“No! Finnick!” You were running through the trees, looking up at the sky where you saw the faces flash in your head. Each boom of thunder was another canon, another death. Haymitch, Annie, Katniss… Peeta. “Peeta!” You shrieked, falling to your knees in the mud. “Peeta!” 

“Y/N!” He knew those cries. You often screamed like that when you had a nightmare, clawing up at the air as if he was flying away from you. 

You curled up on the forest floor, not caring that mud covered your cheek or that the rain pelted against your back. You wrapped your arms around your stomach, wishing that you could make it go away. You knew that the next canon was for your baby. 

“No!” You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t raise a child in this never ending storm. 

“Y/N! I found her!” Peeta’s voice was barely audible over your own screaming and the rain. You flinched away from his touch as another canon sounded in your head. You felt his strong arms wrap around you and lift you up, holding you close to his chest. 

“Peeta…” You whimpered, weakly tugging at his shirt. “T-the canons.” 

“It’s okay. We’ll be home soon.” Katniss found him and he quickly took you back to the house, rain still pounding against your skin. You looked up at the sky one last time, seeing Finnick’s face once again flashing against the clouds. Peeta put you down on the sofa and wrapped as many blankets as he could around you while Katniss went to grab some dry clothes. 

“I can’t do this.” You cried, trembling violently from the cold. “Everything is so dark and cold and cruel. I can’t curse someone else to live through what we did.” 

“What do you mean?” Peeta pushed your wet hair out of your face. 

“The… baby.” He froze. 

“What?” 

“Peeta, I’m pregnant.” You felt more tears cascading down your cheeks, your hands clutching your stomach. “And I don’t want to bring a child into this place.” Despite your distress, Peeta could barely contain his smile. 

“We’re going to have a baby?” 

“Peeta… what about everything we’ve been through? Can we really condemn another person to that, let alone our child?” He put his hand on top of yours, looking deeply into your eyes. 

“Y/N, the world is better now.” He gave you a comforting smile. “We can raise our children in peace knowing that they will have a better life.” Your smile was still unsure so he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips. “I will never, ever let anything happen to them.” You lifted your hand to rest on his cheek. 

“You’re going to be a great dad.” His face lit up and he scooped you up in his arms, causing both of you to laugh. 

“And you are going to be the best mother.” He pressed his forehead to yours, letting his words sink in. Cradled in his arms you felt like nothing would ever harm you. Maybe it was possible, after all this time and through all of the fears, to be truly happy.

-

General Tag: @rae-gar-targaryen; @takemepedropascal; @childhood-imagination

[girlobsessed21]

My thoughts on The 100 7x05

Hey, guys,

Sorry for not doing any comments on the last two episodes. I’ve been a little busy and I struggled to connect to the show, so it hindered my enjoyment, but it’s all better now. Liked episode 4 and 5 was even better, jampacked with info and it answered a lot of questions.

Welcome to Bardo

Badass Octavia is da bomb (people don’t say that anymore, right?). When she was captured in episode two, I thought she had lost her fighting spirit, but it’s back, bitches. Well, until she runs into an invisible wall trying to escape. She’s captured and transported to M-cap (whatever that means). Then we get a welcome little flashback to Lincoln but it’s obvious that Bellamy would be the hand reaching out. He’s her rock, like she’s expressed many times.

Unlike John Murphy who is not quite a friend, or family and definitely not a lover. Introducing so many new characters in the final season of a show is never a good idea, because this is the time to wrap up all the stories of the existing ones, but come on, who cannot love Levitt. Even when he first meets Octavia, he doesn’t want to hurt her. Jason, you better not harm one hair on this precious little puppy’s head!

As he binges The 100 through Octavia’s eyes, he starts rooting for her, and he actually gives a damn, unlike most people on this show. He understands her strengths and weaknesses and he makes her see it too. “You’re a warrior to be sure, but your heart is pure.” Wow, what an honest and beautiful line. (Scroll down for my shipping comments.)

So is O and Hope’s fleeting little reunion. It’s amazing to experience this deep loving side of Octavia after her darkness. She’s truly one of the most diverse and developed characters on the series. Now Hope and her resilience is quickly making it to the top as well.

While Hope is trying to send her back home, we learn that memory loss is due to the time dilation. One quick note on this, it’s not linear, there’s no easy equation to calculate it unless you’re Stephen Hawking or Einstein. I don’t think it’s constant either. 10 years on Skyring = 11 days on Bardo = a few minutes on Sanctum. In the current time, 5 years on Skyring = 1 day on Sanctum = 7 days on Bardo. So, it’s clear that the planets are moving, and other factors are playing into the phenomenon. It’s more important to understand the time relative to each planet.

Levitt was the one who tattooed Hope’s code onto O’s back, also the one who planted the note into Hope’s arm. Indeed the kind of man you want on the inside, he even accepts a blow to the face as thank you.

Sheep-ish?

Thirty minutes on the clock and the trio gets led to a congregation to praise the shepherd. I never thought it was Anders, I do, however think it might be Cadogan. The Bordoan’s built the underground forest because they destroyed their planet. Ugh, what’s new? The shepherd herded his sheep from earth to Bardo via the stone. Cadogan and his second dawn cult?

Back to Clarke. So, after last episode I thought ‘the key to winning the last war’ line was an artifice for luring Clarke to disciples, but now it’s clearly true. They’ve located the key and they will win the last war. Levitt was interested in Clarke surviving the City of Light with the flame in her head, they probably assume she still has it. Cadogan burned Becca alive. Could it be because of the flame? Is this all because of that damn little chip that can’t seem to die?

Bellamy is not dead, I repeat, Bellamy is not dead! I believe that memory could be staged or implanted for a reason. Also, there’s no body, he jumped through the bridge. In the promo photos, he wears a ring but his actions towards Octavia seem a little cold and generic. On first watch, I thought it was bad acting but if he was programmed to do this, it makes sense.

Note the sequence of events. Octavia returned 7 days ago and was asked to talk her brother down, but we don’t see the actual scene. Instead we’re shown a memory. They could have implanted it to make her vulnerable and perhaps more susceptible to the procedure. I don’t know, but this theory could lead to Robot-sheep!Bellamy on Nakara, where he’ll encounter Clarke and the gang.

I have to be honest, I really don’t like this character arc for Bellamy. It’s unoriginal and a mime of Peeta’s storyline in Mockingjay. Sorry, but so far it feels like the writers were so over the show, they just wanted to get it done. And that attitude really bleeds into one’s creative concepts. I could be completely wrong, in fact, I hope I am.

Echo spins a Finn

My word, I lost the love of my life once, but I sure didn’t kill anyone. When Echo received that vision of Roan, I was hoping for some progression on her individual arc, they’ve made me care about her, and now we get the opposite. Why? One thing I have to admit, a killer performance from Tasya Teles! No pun intended.

Look, this show hasn’t explored Bellamy and Echo’s relationship enough to make her murder believable. It was the exact same thing with Finn. I wasn’t invested in Finn and Clarke’s connection, so his actions of killing a grounder tribe was more repulsive than understandable. Sure, Echo loves Bellamy and her sole purpose is to save him, but I’ve never truly witnessed their love for each other. They had one or two intimate scenes which cannot compel a deed like this. And in the process, she screwed Hope and Diyoza.

Anyway, I don’t think there’s any coming back from it. She murdered an innocent person in cold blood. That’s sure to open a door to the dark side.  Just look at Octavia after killing Pike and her actions were justified by jus drein jus daun.

Say Sanctum three times slowly and it sounds like… Sanctum

Blind faith

Look, I’m just gonna come out and say this song is getting old. Every episode featuring Sanctum is the exact same thing with different lines. Can we please move on from it, already? Yes, we know the COG want Russel dead, and the adjusters will go to extreme lengths to free Russel and the prisoners are background noise.

I did appreciate Nelson stepping in to try and save the girl, though. Still doesn’t save the fact that it’s repetitive. The Sanctum plotline is really struggling to take shape and I hope it happens soon. Dramatic eyeroll.

At least in the drought of a desert, you can always count on Murphy. “…I say we live and let die.” Typical cockroach line, right, but it’s ironic when he’s the one to step up, even if it is for Emori. Under the magnifying glass it’s the exact same plot as episode 1 and 3. He hesitates to take action, and eventually becomes the hero.

I mean, he saved that poor kid from being burned alive. Can you imagine sacrificing your own child in such a horrific away? Cults are beyond whacked, and, unfortunately, it’s reality that cult members are so blinded by their faith that they do not see rhyme or reason.

How did Murphy fail that test? I didn’t. When Trey named the four pillars, I thought, isn’t rejoice one of them? Surely, a cockroach would have smelled that trap a mile away.

Indra the great

Can we just give a massive round of applause to Adina Porter!!! That powerhouse walk vibrates strength and majesty, damn, she should be a false god, I wouldn’t dare threaten her with or without an army.

Three little words was all it took for her to recognize evil. “There’s a spider on your shoulder.” Smooth. Too bad she can’t kill him. Why not, how many of the faithful are left to cause an uproar? Wonkru doesn’t know it’s Sheidheda, they won’t care, the COG will fall in line and the prisoners will be happy as long as they get their compound. Sorry, I don’t get it and I don’t understand why she doesn’t tell anyone.  Someone please explain?

Granted, JR Bourne as Russel is way better, but I still don’t understand his actions. I hope they explore and explain him more, because he still feels flat unless he knows something of this final war. I’m hoping these two storylines align soon since it’s really driving a wedge between me and my love for the show.

Shipwreck

I’ll start with the easy stuff, Murphy, Emori and the perfect dress gets a heart eye emoji from me. They are so damn cute this season, can they please live happily ever after in the palace?

Octabriel vs Levittavia

Now, I enjoy Levitt fangirling over Octavia. I feel like he has a deep sense of her through her memories. If I have to root for an underdeveloped relationship, it will have to be one where the characters share thoughts and experiences even if it is through a sick, sci-fi procedure.

On the other hand, Gabriel and Octavia have immense chemistry, two seconds of them together bends my mouth into an “Aah, cute” pout. This will also add some approval and representation for mixed racial relationships.

I really don’t mind either way as long as they make me care through showing and not telling.

Bellarke

So, if my theory is correct, and Bellamy does end up on Nakara, Bellarke will encounter each other quite soon. Bellamy won’t be himself though, but he might pretend to be Bellamy to win Clarke’s co-operation. Is there hope for Bellarke yet?

Echo is now trotting a dangerous path and Bellamy might be pledged to a cause, so I doubt there will be a happy ending for Becho. Since 7x01 I’ve been thinking that the writers might want to develop something between Clarke and Gaia but if they are separated, is there enough time? Guess we’ll see.

This monster of a review is finally done… If you read through everything, you deserve a gold star! Let me know what you think, till we meet again…

[ellanainthetardis]

Twelve, its landscapes, its graveyards and its victors... Let me know your thoughts!

[ff] or [ao3]

Chapter 51 :  Lifeline

Haymitch wasn’t really aware of shaking off Effie’s arm but he was alone when he advanced in the narrow path between the freshly new dug graves. There were always new graves in the graveyard, that was the thing. Twelve wasn’t a huge District and lifespan wasn’t long. He had often wondered if there would come a point when the balance would tilt and there would be more dead people than newborns, if they would go extinct. Not that the Capitol would let that happen. They would move people from other Districts, the coal mines were too precious to be abandoned.

The graveyard was closer to the woods than to the town, almost overlooking the Seam, and it was more difficult to ignore the memories of the arena there. He licked his lips and buried his trembling hands in the pockets of his brand new coat, trying hard not to think that that coat was probably warmer than any blanket a family in the Seam could afford

Tombs were pretty simple in Twelve. The only fancy ones were the victors graves and he carefully didn’t look in that direction for now. Stone was too expensive, even for people from town, and most of the time, families made do with a simple wooden cross or a huge boulder, coffins were already an extravagance. With snow covering everything it was hard to keep track on what – or who – he was stepping on.

It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for, though.

The grave was unassuming, lost between two others just as insignificant in appearance. There was a wooden cross that was dangerously tilting to the left and that he straightened by the force of habits. It had been a while since he had come there. The carvings on the wood were nearly faded.

He was hyper aware of Effie standing two feet behind him and he felt stupidly self-conscious. He didn’t even know what he was doing there truth be told. He had come a lot at first, in the months following his first victory, then he had stopped coming because there was nothing for him there. The grave was just a grave. They were dead and nothing could change that.

He hadn’t even been there to bury them.

Space was always a problem in the graveyard. There had been talks of starting another one on the other side of the District but they had never gotten the green light from the Capitol or something. It seemed so surreal to have to secure permission from bureaucrats at the other end of the country to bury their dead… If he had died as planned… If Effie had managed to get in touch with Undersee… They would have put him in there with them. They would have dug up the grave and tossed his coffin in there and added his name on the cross and they would finally have been reunited and…

And he had survived them.

Again.

It was jarring to realize he had spent more time alone than with them. It was jarring to realize in a few years he would be older than his mother had been when she had died.

He outstretched his arm behind him, reaching for he didn’t know what.

At least until a hand slipped in his and he felt her come to rest against his side, warm and alive.

“Hello.” she said brightly, because of course she was that sort of people who talked to graves. Of course. It made him smile despite it all. She was just so… Effie. She must have caught his amusement because she frowned. “What is it?”

He shook his head and pressed a kiss against her forehead just because he could. “Never change, sweetheart.”

She seemed a  bit puzzled by that but dismissed it, leaning heavily against his side. “Do you think they would have liked me?”

His instinctive answer was no because he hadn’t even liked her at first and she was an escort. They might have grown to be alright with it but he doubted it would have been a love at first sight kind of thing.

“You’re an acquired taste.” he deadpanned and got his arm whacked for his trouble. She immediately winced in pain and glared at her injured hand as if it had personally insulted her. They needed to take care of it, wrap it before it could swell. He gave a last glance at the grave, not feeling much of anything. He missed them, that was the thing, but it was a pain he carried around everywhere and all the time, not something he felt specifically when he was standing in front of their last resting place. It was hard to say what his family would have thought of his life choices. He hoped they would  have understood. He wasn’t foolish enough to think they would have been proud but he hoped they would have understood. “Let’s go.”

She hesitated. “Do you mind if… I would like to visit the victors patch.”

He shrugged, a bit reluctant but unwilling to refuse her that much. He led the way.

Katniss’ grave would have been hard to miss even without him as a guide.

The victors patch was nothing more than a somehow empty spot at the left end of the graveyard where tombs actually looked like mausoleums. Twelve’s only victor before him hadn’t lasted long, he wasn’t sure what the man had died of but his grave had been there for as long as Haymitch could remember and was starting to crumble because nobody cared enough to take care of it. Katniss’ was brand new and clearly regularly seen to.

The snow had been cleared from the white marble and it was hard to miss her name in golden letters, the dates or the proudly displayed Victor of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games. That was standard, he figured. There were two marble slabs placed on top that had clearly been exported from the city and he wondered how much of that had been Effie’s doing. One of them was engraved with a sober ‘Beloved Daughter, Beloved Sister’, the other had a picture and a single ‘Beloved’. It was so obviously from Peeta that Haymitch’s heart clenched. Someone had also placed a bow and an arrow on top of the grave – that was most likely the Hawthorne boy.

He hung back while Effie approached, not quite sure he had any right to be there at all. The corpse in that tomb was only there because he had fucked up. He should have gotten from under that tree more quickly. He should have protected Katniss better. He should have been the one getting his head split in two. He should have…

“Hello, dear.” Effie whispered, placing her hand at the edge of the grave. Her fingers were quivering and Haymitch averted his eyes, staring at a bird hopping around a few feet away. “I miss you very much.” Effie’s voice cracked and he took a deep breath. “I am so very sorry.”

He knew she was crying and it was too much for him.

He turned on his heels and stalked out of there, only breathing again once he had passed the graveyard gates. He had always found it very ironical that they were so similar to the Village’s. He leaned his back against the stone wall and felt around his pockets by reflex, looking for the packet of cigarettes he always seemed to carry around nowadays because he was apparently unable to live without poisoning himself. They were empty. He kicked the wall with a curse and rubbed his eyes.

Fuck but he missed the girl. He missed her so fucking much.

He had been clinging to his guilt for so long that it was all he had let himself feel. He hadn’t realized how much he missed her. He hadn’t realized how much…

His eyes were red when Effie finally walked out of the graveyard but if she noticed, she didn’t comment. Perhaps because her mascara was a bit smudged.

“We should go to the Village.” she suggested as if nothing at all had happened, sounding cheerful and just as bubbly as that new escort except it sounded extremely fake to his ears. “Or did you want to look around the Seam?”

“The Village’s good.” he muttered.

They walked fast and in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

The Victors’ Village was the same as ever and he felt the same dread walking past the gates as he always had before. It had been a prison for a long time. A self-appointed one, perhaps, but a prison nonetheless.

The fountain was still there, still broken.

The same stray tabby cat disappeared behind the corner of a house at their approach.

The grey sky still looked as if it was about to come down and swallow them whole and he still wasn’t sure it wouldn’t be a good thing.

The streets were deserted and empty and depressing.

“Haymitch!”

The voice was too young and too girly to belong to Peeta. It took him aback and he turned around just in time to see Prim drop her school bag and rush toward him.

He braced himself for the attack, certain little fists would soon barrel into him and harsh words would be shouted – and he wouldn’t deny her, he had no right to deny her.

He braced himself but he was unprepared for the collision and he stumbled back, almost falling down on his ass. He caught her because he didn’t want her to hurt herself even if she was bent on hurting him. He thought that was what she was trying to do at first, strangle him. It took him a couple of minutes to realize she was actually hugging him.

And when he understood that…

He hugged back. Too hard probably but she didn’t protest, she simply buried her face in his neck, he could feel her cold nose against his skin. He thought she might have been crying a little too but he was too stunned to do more than hold her.

He met Effie’s eyes over the girl’s shoulder, adjusting his grip on her so she wouldn’t fall because her feet were dangling a few inches over the ground. His escort didn’t look particularly surprised but she was teary and she hastily looked away.

“Why didn’t you come back?” Prim asked after a moment.

“I…” he hesitated.  “It’s complicated, sweetheart.”

“Peeta says you thought we would hate you.” the girl insisted, letting go of his neck. He made sure her feet were back on the ground before letting go, pulling a little on one of her braids by reflex. She batted his hand away just like old times and it was so… odd.

“Don’t you?” he cringed, confused.

Maysilee’s family, his old friends… Nobody had wanted anything to do with him after his Games.

Prim studied him with eyes that were far too old and wise for her age. She looked sad and tired. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Effie had said it on countless occasions.

Peeta had said it a couple of times.

Alina had tried to make him understand.

But it wasn’t until he heard it from Katniss’ sister’s lips that he thought he might eventually believe it.

And damn it if his eyes weren’t burning again.

“I missed you.” Prim declared, sneaking her arms around his waist and hugging him once more. “Don’t disappear like that again. You’re family. She would never have wanted… You’re family, Haymitch.”

He hugged her tight again, feeling more humbled and grateful than he had ever felt before in his long life. That girl… She was something. He understood only too well why Katniss had been ready to give her life for her.

After a few minutes, Effie discreetly cleared her throat.

Prim startled and moved away from him, wiping her cheeks to greet the Capitol properly. It was a lot more subdued but the girl seemed happy enough to see her – what he got from the conversation was that Effie had been sending a lot of care packages to Twelve in the last few months and that the care packages involved clothes and girly stuff nobody really needed.

But that was Effie’s attempts at comforting a young girl, he supposed.

“Let’s go home.” Prim declared, grabbing his sleeve and not leaving him much of a choice in the matter.

“You still live here?” he frowned. He hadn’t thought they would have been allowed. In fact, he had been fairly sure Thread would have showed up as soon as Katniss died to chase them out of the Village.

“Prim and Mrs Everdeen live with Peeta now.” Effie informed him, sounding a bit put out. “Do you even listen to me when I talk?”

To be honest, he tended not to when she talked about Twelve. She called Peeta regularly, he knew that much, but since it upset him, she tried not to do it when he was around. And when she talked about it… He didn’t always pay attention.

He wasn’t that surprised though. Peeta was a good boy. He wouldn’t have let Katniss’ family starve in the Seam.

“Mom’s sick again.” Prim informed him. “She might act as if you’re not there. Don’t mind her.”

Sick was a nice euphemism for depressed, he was sure. He wasn’t certain he was ready to find himself face to face with Aster Everdeen. He had planned on avoiding it if he could help it.

It might have been the coward’s way out but he stopped dead in the middle of the street. The girl was looking at him expectantly, as if she didn’t really understand why the delay. Haymitch’s grey eyes darted around…

“I… I want to check my house first, yeah?” he said, jumping on the first excuse he could find. “You go ahead, sweetheart. I’ll catch up.” He saw Effie pursing her lips but he wasn’t in the mood for her lectures so he waved her off. “You too. I’m just gonna…”

“I will go with you.” she cut him off. “You said you would tend to my hand anyway.”

“The kid can do that.” he countered, looking at Prim. “She hurt her hand, you can take care of it, yeah?”

“I would rather you do it.” Effie insisted before the girl could agree.

Prim’s gaze traveled from the escort to the victor and then she forced a smile. “I have to go home or Peeta is going to worry. I’ll tell him you’re here. Don’t be too long. We can have tea! I think he baked some lemon cakes this morning.”

“Lemon cakes, how lovely!” the escort exclaimed, gently ushering the girl in the direction of Peeta’s house. “We won’t be a tick.”

They were more than a tick and he was annoyed with her. He glowered all the way to his house and scowled when he realized he didn’t have his keys – not that he should have cared about that because the front door was open, just like he had left it when he had left on the day of the Reaping.

It had been six months. He expected his house to be dusty and smelly.

It had never been as clean or fresh. It felt a little like walking into it for the first time when everything had been so impersonal and cold.

“Peeta pays your housekeeper so she keeps coming. He employs her too now, I believe.” Effie explained without needing his prompting. “I think he was trying to do something nice for Katniss’ friend.”

He couldn’t really protest that, now, could he? Hazelle sure needed the money.

The living-room, the kitchen… Even his bedroom… Every room he walked in felt foreign. The stuff was his but it was too clean, too tidy. He liked his chaos. He liked that he had managed to make Effie’s apartment a little more disorganized.

This house he had never really managed to call home was not even his house anymore.

He would grab his books, he told himself, because they were the only things of value he had left and then he would never put a foot back in there.

The first aid kit was in the bathroom where he had left it the last time. He found a salve of something that should do well enough for her bruised hand and grabbed her wrist without much care. He wasn’t gentle either when he rubbed it in.

She didn’t complain.

It irked him up all the more.

Her behavior had been stupid in the first place and he was still furious about that. She was reckless like she never used to be. It was dangerous. They couldn’t afford reckless moves anymore.

He wrapped her hand in gauze, making sure her thumb was secured, and then he glared at it instead of letting go. He had known coming back to Twelve would be difficult but it was worse than he had thought. He longed for the city and its pretences, the easy distractions and the loathing he could bathe in because those people were ridiculous and it was easier to judge. But was he so different from them when he had left his home behind for…

Effie was suddenly in his space, her mouth brutally crashing on his… It didn’t take much more than that for him to give a shape to his anger. The kisses were violent. He bit down on her bottom lip hard enough that he tasted blood and she reciprocated by digging her teeth in the soft flesh under his jaw. The pain was sharp, almost too thrilling.

He shoved her against the wall.

She grabbed the coat he had never taken off and tugged him closer but he didn’t want to play by her rules. It only took him a second to clasp her wrists high above her head, pinning her in place with his hips while he unbuttoned her coat so he felt less like he was about to fuck a polar bear.

Fucking Capitols.

“I hate you.” he snarled and she drew in a sharp breath. When was the last time he had told her that? Months. A year. More? The words hurt but that was good. She should hurt. He had survived for her. He had branded himself a traitor for her. He had given up on everything he was, everything he stood for. He…

He kissed her hard, tightened his grip on her wrists, slipped a leg between hers… He groaned when she sucked on his tongue, getting lost in the way she was grinding against his thigh, searching for friction, searching for… He brought his leg up, propping his knee against the wall, pressing his thigh against her core to the point it must have been uncomfortable, preventing her from rubbing herself on him, keeping her in place.

He liked that she never simply surrendered. He liked that he had to earn that. He liked that sometimes she just refused to give in until he had thoroughly fucked her and even then she wanted to be in charge because she was just that bossy. There were days when he humored her, let her play with him like she wanted. Today wasn’t one of those days.    

He searched her eyes, looked for any hint that she didn’t want this because he was wary of hurting her, always wary… But she didn’t look afraid or reluctant. She was always game, that was the thing with Effie, she always wanted to please him. Sometimes, he thought she would never protest, not even if he took it too far.

“I want your lipstick on my dick.” he stated.

She shivered, either aroused by his crudeness or by the prospect of him walking around all afternoon with that ugly shade of peach on his privates. He let go of her wrists, stepped back, and watched her sink to her knees without a second of hesitation.

She struggled with his pants and he undid them for her, not gone enough to risk her hurting her hand further. Then her mouth was there, warm and wet, and he closed his eyes, stumbled back until he could lean against the sink, forcing her to crawl forward to follow him.

He had planned on fucking her mouth mercilessly so he surprised himself when he didn’t grab her wig. Clearly, it surprised her too.

“Tell me what you want me to do.” she hummed, giving him a teasing lick from base to head.

He told her. And every time he asked for something, she did it without question.

“Good girl.” he whispered from time to time, because that was what he always said when they were playing it rough and she was that submissive. He was fooling himself into thinking he was in charge at that moment though. She could have easily had him flat on his back and he would have let her ride him. He didn’t know what he wanted anymore. He didn’t know who he was. He didn’t know… “Swallow.” he demanded, knowing she wouldn’t mind, knowing also that if she didn’t want to she would simply move back. She didn’t though. She took him whole in her mouth, almost choking when he finally came.

She coughed when he pulled out, quickly wiping her mouth on the back of her good hand, because there was one thing she hated and it was him seeing her drooling. Not sexy at all, she had claimed once. It was in a way, though. There had been a time when he had loved to make her drool around his dick, to fuck her mouth so hard tears would come to her eyes… It had made him feel powerful to fuck the Capitol. It still did to some extent and… It troubled him how violent and cruel his urges toward her sometimes got.

He pulled her up to her feet and embraced her tight.

Why was he still using her like that?

She meant so much to him. She meant everything. And yet there he was, using her to pass his frustration on… If his mother had still been alive, if she had known how he was treating his wife…

Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? She wasn’t just his escort anymore, hadn’t been for a long time, and he had put a ring on her finger and… You simply didn’t treat your wife like that. Not in Twelve. In the Capitol maybe but he wasn’t Capitol. Unless he was. Unless they had changed him so much that…

“It’s alright, darling.” she hummed, her good hand combing through his hair. “I enjoyed it.”

He didn’t think she was lying but he wondered how she could enjoy it. She deserved better. More.

“Tell me what you want.” he mumbled in her neck.

“Nothing.” She frowned, he heard it in her voice. “We really should…”

“No.” he cut her off. “Tell me what you want. Please.”

He would have dropped to his knees if she had ordered. He would have eaten her out or fingered her or anything she asked for. He didn’t like it when she got him to submit but maybe at that moment he needed it, needed her to take control, needed to make this even because…

He really didn’t want to be the brute who took and never gave.

He was dysfunctional but he didn’t want to be an asshole.

She relaxed in his arms and he tightened his embrace, planting soft kisses along the side of her neck.

“Tell me you love me.” she requested softly.

Here, in that house, those words were more difficult to utter. He hadn’t quite become used to saying them but they came out now and then when they were in her apartment. She said them so liberally, so freely… He had slowly grown comfortable with offering them back. They came out on their own volition sometimes.

They weren’t as frightening as before because they were a pact between them.

He loved her and so he stayed alive.

She loved him and so she stayed alive.

But there, in that house where everything was loneliness, pain and death…

He closed his eyes and breathed her perfume, let her presence soothe the fears he couldn’t quite suppress… He pretended they were elsewhere. At home. And it wasn’t until he had thought the word that he realized that it was what her apartment – their apartment now, he supposed – had become. Home.

“I love you.” he mumbled at long last. “I’m sorry.”

For being a jerk, for being so weak or for taking without giving he wasn’t sure. She could take her pick.

“Do not be.” she chided. “I told you a hundred times already… If I weren’t willing, I would let you know.”

He kissed her hard but not as brutally as before.

“I don’t deserve you.” he muttered awkwardly against her lips, a bit too genuine.

She must have picked up on it but she chose to laugh it off. “And don’t you forget it. Now… Try to make yourself presentable again. We really should go.”

She tried to salvage her smudged make-up while he tucked everything back inside his pants, making sure nobody could tell what they had been up to.

He was a little more relaxed, at least. And yet he remained jumpy even when they left his house to go to Peeta’s. He had prepared himself to see the boy again but the moment the kid opened the door, everything came rushing back.

Promising Peeta he would get Katniss back to him. The axe in Katniss’ head. The blood on his hands.

He hugged the boy back after a second too long, his mind flashing back to the present with a stomach churning speed. Effie was loud and at the top of her flamboyant self, commandeering attention. She was doing it on purpose, he figured, so he could blend a little more in the background, let her handle the situation.

He was grateful for it, even if her high-pitched bubbly act gave him a headache.

Prim appeared around five minutes after Peeta had ushered them to his living-room – so similar to before, it caused Haymitch to lapse again, it made him panic quietly in his corner not to be able to tell when he was, before the Quell, after the Quell… It all blurred together until the teenager put a stop to the ringing in his ears by declaring regretfully that her mother was too tired to come down. Peeta and Prim exchanged a long look but neither of them elaborated on what that meant.

Someone, he suspected the girl, placed a cup of tea in his right hand and a lemon cake in his left. His mind was riveted to the painting that was hanging over the fireplace. It was Katniss in front of a sunset with the woods as a background and Haymitch wondered why Peeta was torturing himself like that, making himself look at her every day, making himself remember when…

His hands were shaking too badly and he spilled some tea on his thigh. It was hot but he didn’t feel the pain, not really.

He did feel it when Effie’s hand casually fell on his leg and rubbed the tension away as if she knew perfectly well what he was thinking. Maybe she did.

He felt remote.

It wasn’t long before the conversation circled back to Katniss.

From small talk to the heavy subjects.

Was six months really enough for the boy and her sister to talk about her so casually? To reminisce about her without feeling that heart crushing pain?

Haymitch couldn’t.

He couldn’t even think about her without wanting to scream.

He woke up at night with her name on his lips, a despair too huge to be borne and a pain in his chest so sharp he often collapsed in Effie’s arms and let her pretend she couldn’t feel his tears burning through her nightgown.

He closed himself off to their voices, refused to listen, refused to laugh with them at how stubborn Katniss had been, refused to share memories, refused to do that thing they called mourning. He didn’t want to mourn her. Once you mourned people, they were in the past. Forgotten. He couldn’t forget her. He couldn’t stop seeing her face. He couldn’t stop…

“And how are you doing, Haymitch?” The question came from Peeta and the boy sounded guarded, almost too formal as if he was talking to a stranger and not to… him. That was his fault, Haymitch supposed, he should make more of an effort. Things between them were… weird.

He realized belatedly that it was the first time he had been addressed directly since he had stepped inside the house. Effie’s hand was still on his thigh and he covered it with his, clinging to her like to a lifeline. That was what she was anyway. His lifeline.

“I’m good.” he forced himself to answer, to lie.

“Are you back on the booze?” the boy asked casually.

“Peeta!” both Effie and Prim snapped at the same time.

“What?” the kid shrugged. “It seems like something I should know. I’m still his mentor, right?”

“That’s enough, I think.” Effie said, a bit cold.

“I ain’t.” he answered, studying the boy, trying to figure out why he was so obviously angry at him. “Took up smoking though.”

“That’s a very Capitol poison to pick up.” Peeta commented, not bothering to hide his resentment anymore. “How are you enjoying living there?”

“It’s not that bad.” he replied defensively. “And it’s far from this shit hole, which is always a plus.” That was harsher than he had intended and he regretted it because Prim looked down, clearly a little hurt by that remark. He squeezed Effie’s hand, grateful when she got the message loud and clear. She got them out of there with a lot of flair and air kisses, making Peeta promise to be ready at seven sharp the next morning for the prep team she would send. Haymitch fumed but kept his peace until they had reached the Village’s gates. “What’s his problem?”

Effie pursed her lips, clearly irritated, but he wasn’t sure it was the boy’s behavior that had annoyed her. “I do not wish to be pulled in the middle. I would rather you work out your problems on your own.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he scoffed and then he shook his head. “It’s all about the girl, anyway. He hates me because…”

“No.” she cut him off firmly. “It has nothing to do with Katniss. Not for him anyway.”

That was all she consented to say on the subject. He was tense and furious once more by the time they reached the train but this time sex didn’t seem like an appealing way of solving the situation. He let her run along to entertain the stylist and the future escort or to make sure everything was ready for dinner because god forbade her schedules went through the window, preferring to retreat to their room – her room, technically.

He needed a shower.

His skin was crawling.

[freedom-shamrock]

An Unexpected Outcome

Also on AO3. This is a direct sequel to Walk the Walk, and it will definitely make more sense if you’ve read that one (and the other two that come before it) first.  It is also the @miraculousfluffmonth  Aug 27 prompt, profound confession.

Adrien was waiting for her when she got to school the next day.  She'd long since learned to keep on top of her schedule, with the added Ladybug duties, which meant she was no longer habitually tardy.

"Hey Mari," he said, waving a little as he came down the steps to meet her.  "Could we do lunch together today?  There's something I need to talk to you about."

"Oh, sure."  She smiled brightly at him.  So this was actually a thing, and it was really happening.  A part of her found the whole thing just surreal.  "Is everything okay?"  He did look nervous, and she knew how that felt, having had to lead this conversation twice, now.

He nodded.  "Yeah.  Everything's… great actually."  He was adorable when he blushed.  It was totally unfair.  "Want to head to class?" he asked.  "Nino and Alya went ahead… though to be fair, I think they're in the janitor's closet."

Marinette let out a laugh.  "First bell hasn't rung yet.  They're totally in the janitor's closet."  Her breath caught a little when he looped his arm through hers, though she couldn't see anything new or different in his grin.  Well other than the fact that it vaguely reminded her of another blond young man's grin.

"Who's up for lunch?" Alya asked, looking at Marinette and Adrien when the breaktime bell rang.

"Uhm, sorry, Alya.  Adrien and I have plans," Marinette said, trying to catch her friend's eye.

"Sure we can't tag along?" Nino asked.  "You guys pick the best restaurants."

Marinette gawked as Adrien shot his best friend the first real glare she'd ever seen on his face.

"We're even fine if it's one of those geeky cat cafes you guys are so weirdly into," Alya offered, stuffing the last of her things away.  While it was nice that she'd stopped constantly trying to throw Marinette and Adrien together, she knew her bestie still carried a torch for the blond model, and it would have been nice for her to get a clue on this.

"Sorry," Adrien said.  "It's a lunch date.  For two," he said, pointedly.  "You guys are just going to have to find your own food."

Nino's face went surprised before he shot Adrien double finger-guns.  "Sure dude.   No problem."  He gestured for them to go ahead without him and Alya.  "You guys enjoy yourselves now.  Don't be in a rush to get back here."

"Text me if you need an excuse," Alya leaned over to whisper, positively radiating glee.

Adrien stood up and held a hand out to Marinette, smiling shyly.  "C'mon Mari.  Our ride's here."

Marinette took his hand, a little surprised that she was still breathing.  Holding hands was not something she and Adrien did.  Yes they hugged, sometimes wrestled, and even had tickle fights (he was impressively ticklish), but they didn't hold hands.  Though it was something she and Chat Noir had recently started doing, and it left her just as giddy, because she was still trying to believe that he'd agreed to this.  That he liked both sides of her, and now Adrien did, too.

"Sorry," he said quietly as he led her out of the building.  "I hope it's okay that I called this a date.  I didn't really tell you in advance that I was thinking in those terms."

She squeezed his hand.  "It's okay.  I still would've said yes."

"Really?"  His pretty green eyes went wide and his smile somehow got brighter.  "Okay.  Um.  I was really hoping you might feel that way, I kind of thought you might, but I wasn't sure."  He rambled when he was nervous.  She could relate.  "Because I definitely like you Mari, way more than as a friend.  But…"  He faltered.

"There's a complication," she said knowingly.

He nodded.  "Let's wait 'til we get to the cafe, okay?  I don't want anyone to overhear this.  It could… reflect wrong on either of us."

"Yeah."

The ride to the cafe was silent.  Marinette wasn't certain what to talk about in front of Adrien's driver and bodyguard, and Adrien himself was silent.  He continued to hold her hand, but he bounced his knee nervously.

"Hey Adrien," she said quietly.  "I think I already know what this is about, so… you can relax, yeah?"

He let out a long slow sigh.  "Yeah.  Okay."

She spent the rest of the silent ride pushing away the worry that she was ultimately going to be an enormous disappointment to both Adrien and Chat.  She liked herself just fine, but she was definitely not as shiny and cool as Ladybug when she wasn't magically enhanced.  She should probably have a talk with Chat to remind him that she was a clumsy mess out of the suit.  She doubted she was refined enough for Adrien's father's social circle, but they could cross that bridge, or avoid it, when they came to it, right?

At the cafe, they ordered their lunch and found a small corner table to talk at.   "All right, what did you want to talk about?"

"Oh man, this is harder than I thought it would be."  He looked down at their joined hands in the middle of the little round table.  "So I've been hanging out with Ladybug for months, and I'm sure you can understand why I haven't told anyone about this."

She nodded.  "I've been doing the same.  With Chat Noir."

"Yeah, so I've heard.  Anyway, a couple nights ago, Ladybug told me that she's dating Chat and she also wants to date me… does this sound familiar?"

Marinette giggled.  "Yeah."  She was sure she was blushing now.  "I'm dating Chat, too."  She shook her free hand in the air.  "And it's not some sleazy thing.  It's…"

"You guys are poly," he interjected.

She nodded.  "Yeah.  I mean, I'm currently dating only Chat because the other guy I want to date… uh, I haven't asked yet.  But, it's just going to be the two.  It's not like a open relationship where we're all just dating a bunch of people with no commitments."  She shut her mouth, realizing she was babbling.

He chuckled.  "I know.  And I get it."  He brought her hand up to his lips.  "Because as much as I love Ladybug, I also want to be with you.  And it's just the two of you for me."  He shrugged.  "So I was wondering…"

"Yes," Marinette blurted, wanting to make it easier for him.  She giggled when he stared at her in surprise.  "I mean, I want to date you, too.  You and Chat.  Though probably not at the same time, at least not right away.  So… uh, if that's what you wanted to ask, my answer's yes."

She saw the tension melt out of his shoulders.  "So… you want to be my girlfriend in addition to being Chat's?" he confirmed.

"Yeah."  She stared at him a moment.  "I mean, as long as you want to be my boyfriend in addition to being Ladybug's."

"Can I kiss you?" he asked.

Marinette nodded.  For all that she now had all this dating going on now, she'd only gotten a proper kiss from Chat, and that was last night when she was Ladybug.  She'd kissed both boys on the face as Marinette or Ladybug, but she was ready for some real kisses.  "That would be nice."  She stood partway and nudged her chair to the right, closer to him.

Smiling, he cupped her chin and bent to kiss her.

His lips were warm, soft, and impossibly familiar.  She reached up and caught the collar of his shirt, where she half-expected a bell to be, pulling him closer.  His resultant gasp was also very familiar.  She leaned back just enough to break the kiss.  "Chaton?" she whispered.

"My Lady?"  He straightened up to look at her better.  "Oh.  It is you."  His fingers slid up to caress her cheek.  He wasn't smiling, yet he somehow looked incredibly happy all the same.

She stared at him, a bit stunned.  She'd agonized over both sides of him.  She'd researched and redefined herself because of it.  Only to find out he was both of the guys she loved.  "How did I not see it?"

"No wonder I can't beat Ladybug at video games."  He shook his head chuckling.

"You're ticklish in all the same places."

"Yeah."

"I guess this explains why I had the same twitterpated feeling when I was with either of you.  What with you being the same person and all."  She looked down at their hands, still joined on the table.  "So… uhm, I'm feeling a little overwhelmed at the moment, but you should know that I'm happy about this.  I mean, it's going to require a minor adjustment of mindset and expectations, but this is a good thing."  She giggled.  She was definitely going to have to shelve some of the more steamy fantasies she'd been entertaining.

Adrien snorted.  "I guess this makes our day-to-day relationship management a bit more straight-forward.  And I can just call you to go out with either of you."  He shook his head.  "This is not how I imagined this conversation going… or ending."

"We're okay, though, right?" she asked, her grip on his hand tightening with nervousness.

"Yeah.  More than okay, I think."  He drew her hand closer, then pressed it flat to his chest.  "Honestly, all the poly stuff I've been reading about communication, it still applies.  We know, now, that we can talk to each other about how we're feeling and other complicated things."

It was a really good point.  

"So I guess our poly circle, square, whatever has collapsed, and we're starting with a clean slate, just the two of us," he said, his hand gently rubbing hers.  "Would you be interested in dating me, Marinette?  I'm totally smitten by you."

She laughed.  "Yes, Adrien.  I would love to date you.  Apparently all versions of you."

This is final story in the OT3 OT4 OT Oops series.

While this ended up not being a poly relationship after all, I think it was important to have the characters approach it this way, because at the outset, from all appearances it was a relationship involving multiple people.  Too often fanfiction (and mainstream media) creates an either/or love triangle, and it's essential to note that this binary focus on relationships is not the only option.  Katniss could have been with both Peeta and Gale.  Alanna could have been with both George and Jonathan.  I know too many people who spent too much of their lives unhappy because they didn't know that the mainstream/normative option wasn't the only one.  There are also a lot of harmful misconceptions about these relationships that I would like to see dismantled.

[everlarkbirthdaygifts]

Happy Birthday animekpopxx!

Happy Birthday @animekpopxx! We hope you enjoy this special Everlark story written just for you by @booksrockmyface! 

Title: Fake Happy

Rated: E

Author’s note: Happiest of days!! Prepare yourself for some of the best smut I can provide!! Title is the same as a Paramore song that I love a lot right now.

Katniss promised Peeta that she would be fine moving with him wherever he was stationed after his basic training was done. She promised, but she didn’t feel it. She had her own dreams and she was worried she’d have to give them up.

But as soon as she was able to move with him, she withdrew from her last year of college. She’d find a way to get her final credits somewhere else. Peeta needed her support as he adjusted to his new life.

And she really did her best to adjust to the life of an army wife. She signed up for all the organizations she could and met all the other spouses. They were all so kind to her, but she could see the cracks they had that matched her own.

It had been almost constant fighting behind closed doors since they moved in. Katniss wasn’t adjusting well to life on an army base. And she quickly discovered that the closest college didn’t offer the courses she needed. The online schools didn’t have the complete catalogue either. The only one that she could finish out her degree in was on the other side of the state.

“Then move back home.” Peeta grumbled when she brought it up. “We did long distance before.”

“You were distracted with basic training.” She dropped the dirty dinner plates in the sink. “And I was trying to pass my biology class.”

“Well, I don’t know what you want me to do, Katniss. I said you didn’t have to come until you were done with college.” He plopped down on the couch and picked up the remote.

“Like you even really made it a choice.” She mumbled as she went to washing the dishes.

They both fumed about it for a while. Katniss used the anger to fuel the scrubbing of the skillet. She was still getting used to the electric burners after a lifetime of gas stoves. The smell of burnt chicken still hung in the air.

She heard Peeta turn off the TV. Then he stepped up behind her. Placing his hands gently on her shoulders, he said, “I’m sorry, Katniss.”

She relaxed a little. “No, I am.” She leaned back against his chest. “I’m just a little crazy these days. I…” She turned in his arms and spread her hands out on his chest. “I took a pregnancy test today and it was positive.”

His grip tightened on her shoulders and she could see the color drain from his face. “What? You’re pregnant?”

She nodded, feeling the stinging in her eyes that signaled the tears she’d been holding back all day.

He pulled her close and kissed her hard. Tears were streaming down his face when he pulled back. “Are you sure?”

“I mean, it all matches up. My period is late and I’m moody and I’ve had all these weird food cravings. It’s unlikely it was a false positive.” She reached up and swiped at his tears. “I’m sorry I’ve been picking at you.”

Peeta shook his head. He dropped his arms behind Katniss’s knees and swept her up. “Let’s celebrate this, Mrs. Mellark.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “We’re going to be spread pretty thin.”

He kissed her and then turned to carry her into the bedroom. “We’ll discuss all that later. For now, I’m just so happy that we’re going to be parents.” He sat her down on her feet and took his shirt off. “I want to worship every inch of you.”

She laughed and pulled her shirt over her head. “I guess I’ll allow it.”

He pulled her close, their mouths crashing together. His hands made a hot trail from her hips up her back to the clasp of her bra. When he pulled it off, he dropped to his knees and pressed a kiss to her stomach.

Katniss combed her fingers through Peeta’s hair. “I’m so scared.” She whispered.

He looked up, his eyes glistening with more tears. “I am too.” He stood, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her again. “But we’ll figure it all out.”

She nodded and hooked her hands into the waistband of his sweat pants. “I love you, Peeta.”

“I love you, Katniss.” He reached behind her and pulled down the comforter as she pushed his pants off his hips. “Hey, slow down there, girl on fire.” He grinned. “I’m off tomorrow. We can take all night.”

“We can.” She dropped her pants to the floor and crawled across the bed. She sat down on her heels and glanced over her shoulder. With a wink, she said, “But I don’t wanna.”

Peeta growled and stepped out of his pants before crawling in behind Katniss. He grabbed her hips and kissed her shoulder. “You’re so hot.”

She reached up and tangled her fingers in his hair. “Well, thank you.”

He laughed in her ear and pressed a series of kisses down her neck. “God, it’s going to be like looking into the sun now.” His hands roamed over her body slowly, concentrating on her stomach.

She groaned and pressed her hips back to grind against his erection. “You don’t need to flatter me anymore, Peeta. I married you already.” She reached down and squeezed his thigh. “And I’m having your baby.”

Peeta let out a giggle. “A baby.”

Katniss felt a relieved smile spread across her lips. “I’m so happy that you’re okay with this.”

“I’ve always seen myself as a father.” He cupped her breasts, twirling her erect nipples between his thumb and forefinger. “And even though this is the last thing I ever expected now, it’s going to be a great blessing.”

She dug her fingers into his skin. “You’re making it really difficult not to throw you down on this bed and ride you so hard you come in less than five minutes.”

“Is that a challenge?” He nipped at her shoulder.

She gave a throaty laugh and let go of him. Leaning forward, she pressed herself against his hard length. “Take me.”

Needing no more prompting than that, Peeta slid inside her. He gripped Katniss’s hips and set up a quick, hard pace. He grunted like an animal with each stroke.

Katniss gripped the bed sheets and let her head fall down. “You’re so good.” She moaned.

“Yeah?” He panted.

“Oh, yeah.” She lifted her head and looked over her shoulder. “Not even breaking a sweat.”

He gave a strangled laugh. “You said five minutes. I don’t have time for sweat.”

She laughed and let her head drop again. She could feel the pressure building within her that signaled a climax was on its way. She reached to start rubbing at her clit when he gave one hard thrust and let out a string of unintelligible curses as he came.

Katniss dropped her hand back onto the mattress and let out a sigh.

“Well, I guess you deserve something for all that time on your knees.” Peeta panted as he removed himself.

“I can tell you what I want.” She stretched out on her back and spread her legs wide. “Or you can just do what you should know I want.”

His eyes roamed over her body and came to rest between her thighs. He licked his lips hungrily. “Oh, I know.” He knelt between her legs and rubbed slow circles over her clit. “This should get the taste of burnt chicken out of my mouth.”

She laughed. “I’m sorry about the chicken.” Her eyes slowly closed as he changed direction with his fingers. “I’ll do better.”

“You never had to eat cold MREs in the dark. It was perfect.” Peeta leaned down and pressed a kiss to her stomach. He whispered, “Sorry, Baby.”

Katniss combed her fingers through his hair. “Baby will get used to being shaken around in there, I’m sure.”

He chuckled, sending a shockwave through her body. He flattened his tongue and lapped slowly at her clit.

She continued to comb her fingers through his hair as his mouth worked lazily over her. It was how she liked it best. She could be a bit of a hard person, but the best way to get to her was by being soft like with a skittish animal.

Katniss gripped Peeta’s hair and let out a low moan. And then a gasp. Then she cried out as she met her orgasm, rocking against his mouth.

He kissed his way back up her glistening body and pressed his eyes into her neck. He spread his hand out on her stomach. “We can figure out your college courses, Katniss. You deserve to finish out your dream.”

She trailed her fingers down his arm. “Thank you, Peeta.” She swallowed. “Maybe I can live part-time at the college across the state. Surely I can get some sort of financial aid for housing and tuition.”

“Maybe you can.” Peeta propped his head on his hand. “See if maybe there are online courses and you can stay here most of the time.”

“I’ll call Monday.” Katniss said around a yawn. “I sure married an understanding guy.”

“And I sure married a smart woman.” He rested his head on the pillow close to hers. “Goodnight.”

“Mmm.” Was all she was able to manage before sleep overtook he

[readbookywooks]

24 A chill runs through me. Am I really that cold and calculating? Gale didn't say, "Katniss will pick whoever it will break her heart to give up," or even "whoever she can't live without." Those would have implied I was motivated by a kind of passion. But my best friend predicts I will choose the person who I think I "can't survive without." There's not the least indication that love, or desire, or even compatibility will sway me. I'll just conduct an unfeeling assessment of what my potential mates can offer me. As if in the end, it will be the question of whether a baker or a hunter will extend my longevity the most. It's a horrible thing for Gale to say, for Peeta not to refute. Especially when every emotion I have has been taken and exploited by the Capitol or the rebels. At the moment, the choice would be simple. I can survive just fine without either of them. In the morning, I have no time or energy to nurse wounded feelings. During a predawn breakfast of liver pate and fig cookies, we gather around Tigris's television for one of Beetee's break-ins. There's been a new development in the war. Apparently inspired by the black wave, some enterprising rebel commander came up with the idea of confiscating people's abandoned automobiles and sending them unmanned down the streets. The cars don't trigger every pod, but they certainly get the majority. At around four in the morning, the rebels began carving three separate paths - simply referred to as the A, B, and C lines - to the Capitol's heart. As a result, they've secured block after block with very few casualties. "This can't last," says Gale. "In fact I'm surprised they've kept it going so long. The Capitol will adjust by deactivating specific pods and then manually triggering them when their targets come in range." Almost within minutes of his prediction, we see this very thing happen on-screen. A squad sends a car down a block, setting off four pods. All seems well. Three scouts follow and make it safely to the end of the street. But when a group of twenty rebel soldiers follow them, they're blown to bits by a row of potted rosebushes in front of a flower shop. "I bet it's killing Plutarch not to be in the control room on this one," says Peeta. Beetee gives the broadcast back to the Capitol, where a grim-faced reporter announces the blocks that civilians are to evacuate. Between her update and the previous story, I am able to mark my paper map to show the relative positions of the opposing armies. I hear scuffling out on the street, move to the windows, and peek out a crack in the shutters. In the early morning light, I see a bizarre spectacle. Refugees from the now occupied blocks are streaming toward the Capitol's center. The most panicked are wearing nothing but nightgowns and slippers, while the more prepared are heavily bundled in layers of clothes. They carry everything from lapdogs to jewelry boxes to potted plants. One man in a fluffy robe holds only an overripe banana. Confused, sleepy children stumble along after their parents, most either too stunned or too baffled to cry. Bits of them flash by my line of vision. A pair of wide brown eyes. An arm clutching a favorite doll. A pair of bare feet, bluish in the cold, catching on the uneven paving stones of the alley. Seeing them reminds me of the children of 12 who died fleeing the firebombs. I leave the window. Tigris offers to be our spy for the day since she's the only one of us without a bounty on her head. After securing us downstairs, she goes out into the Capitol to pick up any helpful information. Down in the cellar I pace back and forth, driving the others crazy. Something tells me that not taking advantage of the flood of refugees is a mistake. What better cover could we have? On the other hand, every displaced person milling about on the streets means another pair of eyes looking for the five rebels on the loose. Then again, what do we gain by staying here? All we're really doing is depleting our small cache of food and waiting for...what? The rebels to take the Capitol? It could be weeks before that happens, and I'm not so sure what I'd do if they did. Not run out and greet them. Coin would have me whisked back to 13 before I could say "nightlock, nightlock, nightlock." I did not come all this way, and lose all those people, to turn myself over to that woman.I kill Snow. Besides, there would be an awful lot of things I couldn't easily explain about the last few days. Several of which, if they came to light, would probably blow my deal for the victors' immunity right out of the water. And forget about me, I've got a feeling some of the others are going to need it. Like Peeta. Who, no matter how you spin it, can be seen on tape tossing Mitchell into that net pod. I can imagine what Coin's war tribunal will do with that. By late afternoon, we're beginning to get uneasy about Tigris's long absence. Talk turns to the possibilities that she has been apprehended and arrested, turned us in voluntarily, or simply been injured in the wave of refugees. But around six o'clock we hear her return. There's some shuffling around upstairs, then she opens the panel. The wonderful smell of frying meat fills the air. Tigris has prepared us a hash of chopped ham and potatoes. It's the first hot food we've had in days, and as I wait for her to fill my plate, I'm in danger of actually drooling. As I chew, I try to pay attention to Tigris telling us how she acquired it, but the main thing I absorb is that fur underwear is a valuable trading item at the moment. Especially for people who left their homes underdressed. Many are still out on the street, trying to find shelter for the night. Those who live in the choice apartments of the inner city have not flung open their doors to house the displaced. On the contrary, most of them bolted their locks, drew their shutters, and pretended to be out. Now the City Circle's packed with refugees, and the Peacekeepers are going door to door, breaking into places if they have to, to assign houseguests. On the television, we watch a terse Head Peacekeeper lay out specific rules regarding how many people per square foot each resident will be expected to take in. He reminds the citizens of the Capitol that temperatures will drop well below freezing tonight and warns them that their president expects them to be not only willing but enthusiastic hosts in this time of crisis. Then they show some very staged-looking shots of concerned citizens welcoming grateful refugees into their homes. The Head Peacekeeper says the president himself has ordered part of his mansion readied to receive citizens tomorrow. He adds that shopkeepers should also be prepared to lend their floor space if requested. "Tigris, that could be you," says Peeta. I realize he's right. That even this narrow hallway of a shop could be appropriated as the numbers swell. Then we'll be truly trapped in the cellar, in constant danger of discovery. How many days do we have? One? Maybe two? The Head Peacekeeper comes back with more instructions for the population. It seems that this evening there was an unfortunate incident where a crowd beat to death a young man who resembled Peeta. Henceforth, all rebel sightings are to be reported immediately to authorities, who will deal with the identification and arrest of the suspect. They show a photo of the victim. Apart from some obviously bleached curls, he looks about as much like Peeta as I do. "People have gone wild," Cressida murmurs. We watch a brief rebel update in which we learn that several more blocks have been taken today. I make note of the intersections on my map and study it. "Line C is only four blocks from here," I announce. Somehow that fills me with more anxiety than the idea of Peacekeepers looking for housing. I become very helpful. "Let me wash the dishes." "I'll give you a hand." Gale collects the plates. I feel Peeta's eyes follow us out of the room. In the cramped kitchen at the back of Tigris's shop, I fill the sink with hot water and suds. "Do you think it's true?" I ask. "That Snow will let refugees into the mansion?" "I think he has to now, at least for the cameras," says Gale. "I'm leaving in the morning," I say. "I'm going with you," Gale says. "What should we do with the others?" "Pollux and Cressida could be useful. They're good guides," I say. Pollux and Cressida aren't actually the problem. "But Peeta's too..." "Unpredictable," finishes Gale. "Do you think he'd still let us leave him behind?" "We can make the argument that he'll endanger us," I say. "He might stay here, if we're convincing." Peeta's fairly rational about our suggestion. He readily agrees that his company could put the other four of us at risk. I'm thinking this may all work out, that he can just sit out the war in Tigris's cellar, when he announces he's going out on his own. "To do what?" asks Cressida. "I'm not sure exactly. The one thing that I might still be useful at is causing a diversion. You saw what happened to that man who looked like me," he says. "What if you...lose control?" I say. "You mean...go mutt? Well, if I feel that coming on, I'll try to get back here," he assures me. "And if Snow gets you again?" asks Gale. "You don't even have a gun." "I'll just have to take my chances," says Peeta. "Like the rest of you." The two exchange a long look, and then Gale reaches into his breast pocket. He places his nightlock tablet in Peeta's hand. Peeta lets it lie on his open palm, neither rejecting nor accepting it. "What about you?" "Don't worry. Beetee showed me how to detonate my explosive arrows by hand. If that fails, I've got my knife. And I'll have Katniss," says Gale with a smile. "She won't give them the satisfaction of taking me alive." The thought of Peacekeepers dragging Gale away starts the tune playing in my head again.... Are you, are you Coming to the tree "Take it, Peeta," I say in a strained voice. I reach out and close his fingers over the pill. "No one will be there to help you." We spend a fitful night, woken by one another's nightmares, minds buzzing with the next day's plans. I'm relieved when five o'clock rolls around and we can begin whatever this day holds for us. We eat a mishmash of our remaining food - canned peaches, crackers, and snails - leaving one can of salmon for Tigris as meager thanks for all she's done. The gesture seems to touch her in some way. Her face contorts in an odd expression and she flies into action. She spends the next hour remaking the five of us. She redresses us so regular clothes hide our uniforms before we even don our coats and cloaks. Covers our military boots with some sort of furry slippers. Secures our wigs with pins. Cleans off the garish remains of the paint we so hastily applied to our faces and makes us up again. Drapes our outerwear to conceal our weapons. Then gives us handbags and bundles of knickknacks to carry. In the end, we look exactly like the refugees fleeing the rebels. "Never underestimate the power of a brilliant stylist," says Peeta. It's hard to tell, but I think Tigris might actually blush under her stripes. There are no helpful updates on the television, but the alley seems as thick with refugees as the previous morning. Our plan is to slip into the crowd in three groups. First Cressida and Pollux, who will act as guides while keeping a safe lead on us. Then Gale and myself, who intend to position ourselves among the refugees assigned to the mansion today. Then Peeta, who will trail behind us, ready to create a disturbance as needed. Tigris watches through the shutters for the right moment, unbolts the door, and nods to Cressida and Pollux. "Take care," Cressida says, and they are gone. We'll be following in a minute. I get out the key, unlock Peeta's cuffs, and stuff them in my pocket. He rubs his wrists. Flexes them. I feel a kind of desperation rising up in me. It's like I'm back in the Quarter Quell, with Beetee giving Johanna and me that coil of wire. "Listen," I say. "Don't do anything foolish." "No. It's last-resort stuff. Completely," he says. I wrap my arms around his neck, feel his arms hesitate before they embrace me. Not as steady as they once were, but still warm and strong. A thousand moments surge through me. All the times these arms were my only refuge from the world. Perhaps not fully appreciated then, but so sweet in my memory, and now gone forever. "All right, then." I release him. "It's time," says Tigris. I kiss her cheek, fasten my red hooded cloak, pull my scarf up over my nose, and follow Gale out into the frigid air. Sharp, icy snowflakes bite my exposed skin. The rising sun's trying to break through the gloom without much success. There's enough light to see the bundled forms closest to you and little more. Perfect conditions, really, except that I can't locate Cressida and Pollux. Gale and I drop our heads and shuffle along with the refugees. I can hear what I missed peeking through the shutters yesterday. Crying, moaning, labored breathing. And, not too far away, gunfire. "Where are we going, Uncle?" a shivering little boy asks a man weighed down with a small safe. "To the president's mansion. They'll assign us a new place to live," puffs the man. We turn off the alley and spill out onto one of the main avenues. "Stay to the right!" a voice orders, and I see the Peacekeepers interspersed throughout the crowd, directing the flow of human traffic. Scared faces peer out of the plate-glass windows of the shops, which are already becoming overrun with refugees. At this rate, Tigris may have new houseguests by lunch. It was good for everybody that we got out when we did. It's brighter now, even with the snow picking up. I catch sight of Cressida and Pollux about thirty yards ahead of us, plodding along with the crowd. I crane my head around to see if I can locate Peeta. I can't, but I've caught the eye of an inquisitive-looking little girl in a lemon yellow coat. I nudge Gale and slow my pace ever so slightly, to allow a wall of people to form between us. "We might need to split up," I say under my breath. "There's a girl - " Gunfire rips through the crowd, and several people near me slump to the ground. Screams pierce the air as a second round mows down another group behind us. Gale and I drop to the street, scuttle the ten yards to the shops, and take cover behind a display of spike-heeled boots outside a shoe seller's. A row of feathery footwear blocks Gale's view. "Who is it? Can you see?" he asks me. What I can see, between alternating pairs of lavender and mint green leather boots, is a street full of bodies. The little girl who was watching me kneels beside a motionless woman, screeching and trying to rouse her. Another wave of bullets slices across the chest of her yellow coat, staining it with red, knocking the girl onto her back. For a moment, looking at her tiny crumpled form, I lose my ability to form words. Gale prods me with his elbow. "Katniss?" "They're shooting from the roof above us," I tell Gale. I watch a few more rounds, see the white uniforms dropping into the snowy streets. "Trying to take out the Peacekeepers, but they're not exactly crack shots. It must be the rebels." I don't feel a rush of joy, although theoretically my allies have broken through. I am transfixed by that lemon yellow coat. "If we start shooting, that's it," Gale says. "The whole world will know it's us." It's true. We're armed only with our fabulous bows. To release an arrow would be like announcing to both sides that we're here. "No," I say forcefully. "We've got to get to Snow." "Then we better start moving before the whole block goes up," says Gale. Hugging the wall, we continue along the street. Only the wall is mostly shopwindows. A pattern of sweaty palms and gaping faces presses against the glass. I yank my scarf up higher over my cheekbones as we dart between outdoor displays. Behind a rack of framed photos of Snow, we encounter a wounded Peacekeeper propped against a strip of brick wall. He asks us for help. Gale knees him in the side of the head and takes his gun. At the intersection, he shoots a second Peacekeeper and we both have firearms. "So who are we supposed to be now?" I ask. "Desperate citizens of the Capitol," says Gale. "The Peacekeepers will think we're on their side, and hopefully the rebels have more interesting targets." I'm mulling over the wisdom of this latest role as we sprint across the intersection, but by the time we reach the next block, it no longer matters who we are. Who anyone is. Because no one is looking at faces. The rebels are here, all right. Pouring onto the avenue, taking cover in doorways, behind vehicles, guns blazing, hoarse voices shouting commands as they prepare to meet an army of Peacekeepers marching toward us. Caught in the cross fire are the refugees, unarmed, disoriented, many wounded. A pod's activated ahead of us, releasing a gush of steam that parboils everyone in its path, leaving the victims intestine-pink and very dead. After that, what little sense of order there was unravels. As the remaining curlicues of steam intertwine with the snow, visibility extends just to the end of my barrel. Peacekeeper, rebel, citizen, who knows? Everything that moves is a target. People shoot reflexively, and I'm no exception. Heart pounding, adrenaline burning through me, everyone is my enemy. Except Gale. My hunting partner, the one person who has my back. There's nothing to do but move forward, killing whoever comes into our path. Screaming people, bleeding people, dead people everywhere. As we reach the next corner, the entire block ahead of us lights up with a rich purple glow. We backpedal, hunker down in a stairwell, and squint into the light. Something's happening to those illuminated by it.They're assaulted by...what? A sound? A wave? A laser? Weapons fall from their hands, fingers clutch their faces, as blood sprays from all visible orifices - eyes, noses, mouths, ears. In less than a minute, everyone's dead and the glow vanishes. I grit my teeth and run, leaping over the bodies, feet slipping in the gore. The wind whips the snow into blinding swirls but doesn't block out the sound of another wave of boots headed our way. "Get down!" I hiss at Gale. We drop where we are. My face lands in a still-warm pool of someone's blood, but I play dead, remain motionless as the boots march over us. Some avoid the bodies. Others grind into my hand, my back, kick my head in passing. As the boots recede, I open my eyes and nod to Gale. On the next block, we encounter more terrified refugees, but few soldiers. Just when it seems we might have caught a break, there's a cracking sound, like an egg hitting the side of a bowl but magnified a thousand times. We stop, look around for the pod. There's nothing. Then I feel the tips of my boots beginning to tilt ever so slightly. "Run!" I cry to Gale. There's no time to explain, but in a few seconds the nature of the pod becomes clear to everyone. A seam has opened up down the center of the block. The two sides of the tiled street are folding down like flaps, slowly emptying the people into whatever lies beneath. I'm torn between making a beeline for the next intersection and trying to get to the doors that line the street and break my way into a building. As a result, I end up moving at a slight diagonal. As the flap continues to drop, I find my feet scrambling, harder and harder, to find purchase on the slippery tiles. It's like running along the side of an icy hill that gets steeper at every step. Both of my destinations - the intersection and the buildings - are a few feet away when I feel the flap going. There's nothing to do but use my last seconds of connection to the tiles to push off for the intersection. As my hands latch on to the side, I realize the flaps have swung straight down. My feet dangle in the air, no foothold anywhere. From fifty feet below, a vile stench hits my nose, like rotted corpses in the summer heat. Black forms crawl around in the shadows, silencing whoever survives the fall. A strangled cry comes from my throat. No one is coming to help me. I'm losing my grip on the icy ledge, when I see I'm only about six feet from the corner of the pod. I inch my hands along the ledge, trying to block out the terrifying sounds from below. When my hands straddle the corner, I swing my right boot up over the side. It catches on something and I painstakingly drag myself up to street level. Panting, trembling, I crawl out and wrap my arm around a lamppost for an anchor, although the ground's perfectly flat. "Gale?" I call into the abyss, heedless of being recognized. "Gale?" "Over here!" I look in bewilderment to my left. The flap held up everything to the very base of the buildings. A dozen or so people made it that far and now hang from whatever provides a handhold. Doorknobs, knockers, mail slots. Three doors down from me, Gale clings to the decorative iron grating around an apartment door. He could easily get inside if it was open. But despite repeated kicks to the door, no one comes to his aid. "Cover yourself!" I lift my gun. He turns away and I drill the lock until the door flies inward. Gale swings into the doorway, landing in a heap on the floor. For a moment, I experience the elation of his rescue. Then the white-gloved hands clamp down on him. Gale meets my eyes, mouths something at me I can't make out. I don't know what to do. I can't leave him, but I can't reach him either. His lips move again. I shake my head to indicate my confusion. At any minute, they'll realize who they've captured. The Peacekeepers are hauling him inside now. "Go!" I hear him yell. I turn and run away from the pod. All alone now. Gale a prisoner. Cressida and Pollux could be dead ten times over. And Peeta? I haven't laid eyes on him since we left Tigris's. I hold on to the idea that he may have gone back. Felt an attack coming and retreated to the cellar while he still had control. Realized there was no need for a diversion when the Capitol has provided so many. No need to be bait and have to take the nightlock - the nightlock! Gale doesn't have any. And as for all that talk of detonating his arrows by hand, he'll never get the chance. The first thing the Peacekeepers will do is to strip him of his weapons. I fall into a doorway, tears stinging my eyes.Shoot me. That's what he was mouthing. I was supposed to shoot him! That was my job. That was our unspoken promise, all of us, to one another. And I didn't do it and now the Capitol will kill him or torture him or hijack him or - the cracks begin opening inside me, threatening to break me into pieces. I have only one hope. That the Capitol falls, lays down its arms, and gives up its prisoners before they hurt Gale. But I can't see that happening while Snow's alive. A pair of Peacekeepers runs by, barely glancing at the whimpering Capitol girl huddled in a doorway. I choke down my tears, wipe the existing ones off my face before they can freeze, and pull myself back together. Okay, I'm still an anonymous refugee. Or did the Peacekeepers who caught Gale get a glimpse of me as I fled? I remove my cloak and turn it inside out, letting the black lining show instead of the red exterior. Arrange the hood so it conceals my face. Grasping my gun close to my chest, I survey the block. There's only a handful of dazed-looking stragglers. I trail close behind a pair of old men who take no notice of me. No one will expect me to be with old men. When we reach the end of the next intersection, they stop and I almost bump into them. It's the City Circle. Across the wide expanse ringed by grand buildings sits the president's mansion. The Circle's full of people milling around, wailing, or just sitting and letting the snow pile up around them. I fit right in. I begin to weave my way across to the mansion, tripping over abandoned treasures and snow-frosted limbs. About halfway there, I become aware of the concrete barricade. It's about four feet high and extends in a large rectangle in front of the mansion. You would think it would be empty, but it's packed with refugees. Maybe this is the group that's been chosen to be sheltered at the mansion? But as I draw closer, I notice something else. Everyone inside the barricade is a child. Toddlers to teenagers. Scared and frostbitten. Huddled in groups or rocking numbly on the ground. They aren't being led into the mansion. They're penned in, guarded on all sides by Peacekeepers. I know immediately it's not for their protection. If the Capitol wanted to safeguard them, they'd be down in a bunker somewhere. This is for Snow's protection. The children form his human shield. There's a commotion and the crowd surges to the left. I'm caught up by larger bodies, borne sideways, carried off course. I hear shouts of "The rebels! The rebels!" and know they must've broken through. The momentum slams me into a flagpole and I cling to it. Using the rope that hangs from the top, I pull myself up out of the crush of bodies. Yes, I can see the rebel army pouring into the Circle, driving the refugees back onto the avenues. I scan the area for the pods that will surely be detonating. But that doesn't happen. This is what happens: A hovercraft marked with the Capitol's seal materializes directly over the barricaded children. Scores of silver parachutes rain down on them. Even in this chaos, the children know what silver parachutes contain. Food. Medicine. Gifts. They eagerly scoop them up, frozen fingers struggling with the strings. The hovercraft vanishes, five seconds pass, and then about twenty parachutes simultaneously explode. A wail rises from the crowd. The snow's red and littered with undersized body parts. Many of the children die immediately, but others lie in agony on the ground. Some stagger around mutely, staring at the remaining silver parachutes in their hands, as if they still might have something precious inside. I can tell the Peacekeepers didn't know this was coming by the way they are yanking away the barricades, making a path to the children. Another flock of white uniforms sweeps into the opening. But these aren't Peacekeepers. They're medics. Rebel medics. I'd know the uniforms anywhere. They swarm in among the children, wielding medical kits. First I get a glimpse of the blond braid down her back. Then, as she yanks off her coat to cover a wailing child, I notice the duck tail formed by her untucked shirt. I have the same reaction I did the day Effie Trinket called her name at the reaping. At least, I must go limp, because I find myself at the base of the flagpole, unable to account for the last few seconds. Then I am pushing through the crowd, just as I did before. Trying to shout her name above the roar. I'm almost there, almost to the barricade, when I think she hears me. Because for just a moment, she catches sight of me, her lips form my name. And that's when the rest of the parachutes go off.

[readbookywooks]

23 Who the woman was calling to remains a mystery, because after searching the apartment, we find she was alone. Perhaps her cry was meant for a nearby neighbor, or was simply an expression of fear. At any rate, there's no one else to hear her. This apartment would be a classy place to hole up in for a while, but that's a luxury we can't afford. "How long do you think we have before they figure out some of us could've survived?" I ask. "I think they could be here anytime," Gale answers. "They knew we were heading for the streets. Probably the explosion will throw them for a few minutes, then they'll start looking for our exit point." I go to a window that overlooks the street, and when I peek through the blinds, I'm not faced with Peacekeepers but with a bundled crowd of people going about their business. During our underground journey, we have left the evacuated zones far behind and surfaced in a busy section of the Capitol. This crowd offers our only chance of escape. I don't have a Holo, but I have Cressida. She joins me at the window, confirms she knows our location, and gives me the good news that we aren't many blocks from the president's mansion. One glance at my companions tells me this is no time for a stealth attack on Snow. Gale's still losing blood from the neck wound, which we haven't even cleaned. Peeta's sitting on a velvet sofa with his teeth clamped down on a pillow, either fighting off madness or containing a scream. Pollux weeps against the mantel of an ornate fireplace. Cressida stands determinedly at my side, but she's so pale her lips are bloodless. I'm running on hate. When the energy for that ebbs, I'll be worthless. "Let's check her closets," I say. In one bedroom we find hundreds of the woman's outfits, coats, pairs of shoes, a rainbow of wigs, enough makeup to paint a house. In a bedroom across the hall, there's a similar selection for men. Perhaps they belong to her husband. Perhaps to a lover who had the good luck to be out this morning. I call the others to dress. At the sight of Peeta's bloody wrists, I dig in my pocket for the handcuff key, but he jerks away from me. "No," he says. "Don't. They help hold me together." "You might need your hands," says Gale. "When I feel myself slipping, I dig my wrists into them, and the pain helps me focus," says Peeta. I let them be. Fortunately, it's cold out, so we can conceal most of our uniforms and weapons under flowing coats and cloaks. We hang our boots around our necks by their laces and hide them, pull on silly shoes to replace them. The real challenge, of course, is our faces. Cressida and Pollux run the risk of being recognized by acquaintances, Gale could be familiar from the propos and news, and Peeta and I are known by every citizen of Panem. We hastily help one another apply thick layers of makeup, pull on wigs and sunglasses. Cressida wraps scarves over Peeta's and my mouths and noses. I can feel the clock ticking away, but stop for just a few moments to stuff pockets with food and first-aid supplies. "Stay together," I say at the front door. Then we march right into the street. Snow flurries have begun to fall. Agitated people swirl around us, speaking of rebels and hunger and me in their affected Capitol accents. We cross the street, pass a few more apartments. Just as we turn the corner, three dozen Peacekeepers sweep past us. We hop out of their way, as the real citizens do, wait until the crowd returns to its normal flow, and keep moving. "Cressida," I whisper. "Can you think of anywhere?" "I'm trying," she says. We cover another block, and the sirens begin. Through an apartment window, I see an emergency report and pictures of our faces flashing. They haven't identified who in our party died yet, because I see Castor and Finnick among the photos. Soon every passerby will be as dangerous as a Peacekeeper. "Cressida?" "There's one place. It's not ideal. But we can try it," she says. We follow her a few more blocks and turn through a gate into what looks like a private residence. It's some kind of shortcut, though, because after walking through a manicured garden, we come out of another gate onto a small back street that connects two main avenues. There are a few poky stores - one that buys used goods, another that sells fake jewelry. Only a couple of people are around, and they pay no attention to us. Cressida begins to babble in a high-pitched voice about fur undergarments, how essential they are during the cold months. "Wait until you see the prices! Believe me, it's half what you pay on the avenues!" We stop before a grimy storefront filled with mannequins in furry underwear. The place doesn't even look open, but Cressida pushes through the front door, setting off a dissonant chiming. Inside the dim, narrow shop lined with racks of merchandise, the smell of pelts fills my nose. Business must be slow, since we're the only customers. Cressida heads straight for a hunched figure sitting in the back. I follow, trailing my fingers through the soft garments as we go. Behind a counter sits the strangest person I've ever seen. She's an extreme example of surgical enhancement gone wrong, for surely not even in the Capitol could they find this face attractive. The skin has been pulled back tightly and tattooed with black and gold stripes. The nose has been flattened until it barely exists. I've seen cat whiskers on people in the Capitol before, but none so long. The result is a grotesque, semi-feline mask, which now squints at us distrustfully. Cressida takes off her wig, revealing her vines. "Tigris," she says. "We need help." Tigris. Deep in my brain, the name rings a bell. She was a fixture - a younger, less disturbing version of herself - in the earliest Hunger Games I can remember. A stylist, I think. I don't remember for which district. Not 12. Then she must have had one operation too many and crossed the line into repellence. So this is where stylists go when they've outlived their use. To sad theme underwear shops where they wait for death. Out of the public eye. I stare at her face, wondering if her parents actually named her Tigris, inspiring her mutilation, or if she chose the style and changed her name to match her stripes. "Plutarch said you could be trusted," adds Cressida. Great, she's one of Plutarch's people. So if her first move isn't to turn us in to the Capitol, it will be to notify Plutarch, and by extension Coin, of our whereabouts. No, Tigris's shop is not ideal, but it's all we have at the moment. If she'll even help us. She's peering between an old television on her counter and us, as if trying to place us. To help her, I pull down my scarf, remove my wig, and step closer so that the light of the screen falls on my face. Tigris gives a low growl, not unlike one Buttercup might greet me with. She slinks down off her stool and disappears behind a rack of fur-lined leggings. There's a sound of sliding, and then her hand emerges and waves us forward. Cressida looks at me, as if to askAre you sure? But what choice do we have? Returning to the streets under these conditions guarantees our capture or death. I push around the furs and find Tigris has slid back a panel at the base of the wall. Behind it seems to be the top of a steep stone stairway. She gestures for me to enter. Everything about the situation screamstrap . I have a moment of panic and find myself turning to Tigris, searching those tawny eyes. Why is she doing this? She's no Cinna, someone willing to sacrifice herself for others. This woman was the embodiment of Capitol shallowness. She was one of the stars of the Hunger Games until...until she wasn't. So is that it, then? Bitterness? Hatred? Revenge? Actually, I'm comforted by the idea. A need for revenge can burn long and hot. Especially if every glance in a mirror reinforces it. "Did Snow ban you from the Games?" I ask. She just stares back at me. Somewhere her tiger tail flicks with displeasure. "Because I'm going to kill him, you know." Her mouth spreads into what I take for a smile. Reassured that this isn't complete madness, I crawl through the space. About halfway down the steps, my face runs into a hanging chain and I pull it, illuminating the hideout with a flickering fluorescent bulb. It's a small cellar with no doors or windows. Shallow and wide. Probably just a strip between two real basements. A place whose existence could go unnoticed unless you had a very keen eye for dimensions. It's cold and dank, with piles of pelts that I'm guessing haven't seen the light of day in years. Unless Tigris gives us up, I don't believe anyone will find us here. By the time I reach the concrete floor, my companions are on the steps. The panel slides back in place. I hear the underwear rack being adjusted on squeaky wheels. Tigris padding back to her stool. We have been swallowed up by her store. Just in time, too, because Gale looks on the verge of collapse. We make a bed of pelts, strip off his layers of weapons, and help him onto his back. At the end of the cellar, there's a faucet about a foot from the floor with a drain under it. I turn the tap and, after much sputtering and a lot of rust, clear water begins to flow. We clean Gale's neck wound and I realize bandages won't be enough. He's going to need a few stitches. There's a needle and sterile thread in the first-aid supplies, but what we lack is a healer. It crosses my mind to enlist Tigris. As a stylist, she must know how to work a needle. But that would leave no one manning the shop, and she's doing enough already. I accept that I'm probably the most qualified for the job, grit my teeth, and put in a row of jagged sutures. It's not pretty but it's functional. I smear it with medicine and wrap it up. Give him some painkillers. "You can rest now. It's safe here," I tell him. He goes out like a light. While Cressida and Pollux make fur nests for each of us, I attend to Peeta's wrists. Gently rinsing away the blood, putting on an antiseptic, and bandaging them beneath the cuffs. "You've got to keep them clean, otherwise the infection could spread and - " "I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss," says Peeta. "Even if my mother isn't a healer." I'm jolted back in time, to another wound, another set of bandages. "You said that same thing to me in the first Hunger Games. Real or not real?" "Real," he says. "And you risked your life getting the medicine that saved me?" "Real." I shrug. "You were the reason I was alive to do it." "Was I?" The comment throws him into confusion. Some shiny memory must be fighting for his attention, because his body tenses and his newly bandaged wrists strain against the metal cuffs. Then all the energy saps from his body. "I'm so tired, Katniss." "Go to sleep," I say. He won't until I've rearranged his handcuffs and shackled him to one of the stair supports. It can't be comfortable, lying there with his arms above his head. But in a few minutes, he drifts off, too. Cressida and Pollux have made beds for us, arranged our food and medical supplies, and now ask what I want to do about setting up a guard. I look at Gale's pallor, Peeta's restraints. Pollux hasn't slept for days, and Cressida and I only napped for a few hours. If a troop of Peacekeepers were to come through that door, we'd be trapped like rats. We are completely at the mercy of a decrepit tiger-woman with what I can only hope is an all-consuming passion for Snow's death. "I don't honestly think there's any point in setting up a guard. Let's just try to get some sleep," I say. They nod numbly, and we all burrow into our pelts. The fire inside me has flickered out, and with it my strength. I surrender to the soft, musty fur and oblivion. I have only one dream I remember. A long and wearying thing in which I'm trying to get to District 12. The home I'm seeking is intact, the people alive. Effie Trinket, conspicuous in a bright pink wig and tailored outfit, travels with me. I keep trying to ditch her in places, but she inexplicably reappears at my side, insisting that as my escort she's responsible for my staying on schedule. Only the schedule is constantly shifting, derailed by our lack of a stamp from an official or delayed when Effie breaks one of her high heels. We camp for days on a bench in a gray station in District 7, awaiting a train that never comes. When I wake, somehow I feel even more drained by this than my usual nighttime forays into blood and terror. Cressida, the only person awake, tells me it's late afternoon. I eat a can of beef stew and wash it down with a lot of water. Then I lean against the cellar wall, retracing the events of the last day. Moving death by death. Counting them up on my fingers. One, two - Mitchell and Boggs lost on the block. Three - Messalla melted by the pod. Four, five - Leeg 1 and Jackson sacrificing themselves at the Meat Grinder. Six, seven, eight - Castor, Homes, and Finnick being decapitated by the rose-scented lizard mutts. Eight dead in twenty-four hours. I know it happened, and yet it doesn't seem real. Surely, Castor is asleep under that pile of furs, Finnick will come bounding down the steps in a minute, Boggs will tell me his plan for our escape. To believe them dead is to accept I killed them. Okay, maybe not Mitchell and Boggs - they died on an actual assignment. But the others lost their lives defending me on a mission I fabricated. My plot to assassinate Snow seems so stupid now. So stupid as I sit shivering here in this cellar, tallying up our losses, fingering the tassels on the silver knee-high boots I stole from the woman's home. Oh, yeah - I forgot about that. I killed her, too. I'm taking out unarmed citizens now. I think it's time I give myself up. When everyone finally awakens, I confess. How I lied about the mission, how I jeopardized everyone in pursuit of revenge. There's a long silence after I finish. Then Gale says, "Katniss, we all knew you were lying about Coin sending you to assassinate Snow." "You knew, maybe. The soldiers from Thirteen didn't," I reply. "Do you really think Jackson believed you had orders from Coin?" Cressida asks. "Of course she didn't. But she trusted Boggs, and he'd clearly wanted you to go on." "I never even told Boggs what I planned to do," I say. "You told everyone in Command!" Gale says. "It was one of your conditions for being the Mockingjay. 'I kill Snow.'" Those seem like two disconnected things. Negotiating with Coin for the privilege of executing Snow after the war and this unauthorized flight through the Capitol. "But not like this," I say. "It's been a complete disaster." "I think it would be considered a highly successful mission," says Gale. "We've infiltrated the enemy camp, showing that the Capitol's defenses can be breached. We've managed to get footage of ourselves all over the Capitol's news. We've thrown the whole city into chaos trying to find us." "Trust me, Plutarch's thrilled," Cressida adds. "That's because Plutarch doesn't care who dies," I say. "Not as long as his Games are a success." Cressida and Gale go round and round trying to convince me. Pollux nods at their words to back them up. Only Peeta doesn't offer an opinion. "What do you think, Peeta?" I finally ask him. "I think...you still have no idea. The effect you can have." He slides his cuffs up the support and pushes himself to a sitting position. "None of the people we lost were idiots. They knew what they were doing. They followed you because they believed you really could kill Snow." I don't know why his voice reaches me when no one else's can. But if he's right, and I think he is, I owe the others a debt that can only be repaid in one way. I pull my paper map from a pocket in my uniform and spread it out on the floor with new resolve. "Where are we, Cressida?" Tigris's shop sits about five blocks from the City Circle and Snow's mansion. We're in easy walking distance through a zone in which the pods are deactivated for the residents' safety. We have disguises that, perhaps with some embellishments from Tigris's furry stock, could get us safely there. But then what? The mansion's sure to be heavily guarded, under round-the-clock camera surveillance, and laced with pods that could become live at the flick of a switch. "What we need is to get him out in the open," Gale says to me. "Then one of us could pick him off." "Does he ever appear in public anymore?" asks Peeta. "I don't think so," says Cressida. "At least in all the recent speeches I've seen, he's been in the mansion. Even before the rebels got here. I imagine he became more vigilant after Finnick aired his crimes." That's right. It's not just the Tigrises of the Capitol who hate Snow now, but a web of people who know what he did to their friends and families. It would have to be something bordering on miraculous to lure him out. Something like... "I bet he'd come out for me," I say. "If I were captured. He'd want that as public as possible. He'd want my execution on his front steps." I let this sink in. "Then Gale could shoot him from the audience." "No." Peeta shakes his head. "There are too many alternative endings to that plan. Snow might decide to keep you and torture information out of you. Or have you executed publicly without being present. Or kill you inside the mansion and display your body out front." "Gale?" I say. "It seems like an extreme solution to jump to immediately," he says. "Maybe if all else fails. Let's keep thinking." In the quiet that follows, we hear Tigris's soft footfall overhead. It must be closing time. She's locking up, fastening the shutters maybe. A few minutes later, the panel at the top of the stairs slides open. "Come up," says a gravelly voice. "I have some food for you." It's the first time she's talked since we arrived. Whether it's natural or from years of practice, I don't know, but there's something in her manner of speaking that suggests a cat's purr. As we climb the stairs, Cressida asks, "Did you contact Plutarch, Tigris?" "No way to." Tigris shrugs. "He'll figure out you're in a safe house. Don't worry." Worry? I feel immensely relieved by the news that I won't be given - and have to ignore - direct orders from 13. Or make up some viable defense for the decisions I've made over the last couple of days. In the shop, the counter holds some stale hunks of bread, a wedge of moldy cheese, and half a bottle of mustard. It reminds me that not everyone in the Capitol has full stomachs these days. I feel obliged to tell Tigris about our remaining food supplies, but she waves my objections away. "I eat next to nothing," she says. "And then, only raw meat." This seems a little too in character, but I don't question it. I just scrape the mold off the cheese and divide up the food among the rest of us. While we eat, we watch the latest Capitol news coverage. The government has the rebel survivors narrowed down to the five of us. Huge bounties are offered for information leading to our capture. They emphasize how dangerous we are. Show us exchanging gunfire with the Peacekeepers, although not the mutts ripping off their heads. Do a tragic tribute to the woman lying where we left her, with my arrow still in her heart. Someone has redone her makeup for the cameras. The rebels let the Capitol broadcast run on uninterrupted. "Have the rebels made a statement today?" I ask Tigris. She shakes her head. "I doubt Coin knows what to do with me now that I'm still alive." Tigris gives a throaty cackle. "No one knows what to do with you, girlie." Then she makes me take a pair of the fur leggings even though I can't pay her for them. It's the kind of gift you have to accept. And anyway, it's cold in that cellar. Downstairs after supper, we continue to rack our brains for a plan. Nothing good comes up, but we do agree that we can no longer go out as a group of five and that we should try to infiltrate the president's mansion before I turn myself into bait. I consent to that second point to avoid further argument. If I do decide to give myself up, it won't require anyone else's permission or participation. We change bandages, handcuff Peeta back to his support, and settle down to sleep. A few hours later, I slip back into consciousness and become aware of a quiet conversation. Peeta and Gale. I can't stop myself from eavesdropping. "Thanks for the water," Peeta says. "No problem," Gale replies. "I wake up ten times a night anyway." "To make sure Katniss is still here?" asks Peeta. "Something like that," Gale admits. There's a long pause before Peeta speaks again. "That was funny, what Tigris said. About no one knowing what to do with her." "Well,we never have," Gale says. They both laugh. It's so strange to hear them talking like this. Almost like friends. Which they're not. Never have been. Although they're not exactly enemies. "She loves you, you know," says Peeta. "She as good as told me after they whipped you." "Don't believe it," Gale answers. "The way she kissed you in the Quarter Quell...well, she never kissed me like that." "It was just part of the show," Peeta tells him, although there's an edge of doubt in his voice. "No, you won her over. Gave up everything for her. Maybe that's the only way to convince her you love her." There's a long pause. "I should have volunteered to take your place in the first Games. Protected her then." "You couldn't," says Peeta. "She'd never have forgiven you. You had to take care of her family. They matter more to her than her life." "Well, it won't be an issue much longer. I think it's unlikely all three of us will be alive at the end of the war. And if we are, I guess it's Katniss's problem. Who to choose." Gale yawns. "We should get some sleep." "Yeah." I hear Peeta's handcuffs slide down the support as he settles in. "I wonder how she'll make up her mind." "Oh, that I do know." I can just catch Gale's last words through the layer of fur. "Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can't survive without."