ok hear me out abt haymitch millie. imagine haymitch and a bossy reader. like haymitch reaches for whisky and gets a good yelling at, r gives him PLENTY of tasks to see to, shes tough and will NOT let him rest and i think that would be good for him lol
franci my beloved <3 <3
౨ৎ꣑ৎyou won't let haymitch drink౨ৎ꣑ৎ
fem reader x haymitch abernathy
large text version here!
Sweating, you wiped your hands on your skirt and bounded up the porch steps. The flower beds were completely weed-free now, thanks to almost an hour of work. You left Haymitch to clean up after breakfast earlier, and he promised to fix the cabinet door in the bathroom afterward. Every now and then, you would look up from your weeding and see him in the kitchen window, eyes trained on the sink or putting dishes away.
Not every day was easy, but the hard ones were getting few and far between. You saw the ache in his eyes and tried your hardest to combat it. He didn't tell you how he felt in so many words, but you could feel it in the way he held you at night. When it was dark, he wasn't as brave.
When he first came back, he had his fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle more often than not. It grew worse with each passing year. You tried to be understanding at first, but it wasn't long before he was up all night and passing out before noon. His breath always smelled of white liquor when you kissed him.
The breaking point came when he tripped over the coffee table in your home one day, shattering his bottle and scratching himself in multiple places with the glass when he tried to get up. You found him bleeding on the living room floor and about had a heart attack.
After you cleaned his wounds and made him sober up with a gallon of water, you sternly told him you didn't want him to drink anymore. He folded his lips together during the talk, and you could feel his shame emenating outward. At the end, he agreed to quit.
He had been good about keeping his promise. You kept him busy the best way you knew how, not wanting him to ruminate enough to believe a drink was the only way out. Haymitch accompanied you on long walks, trips to the market for fresh meat and vegetables. There were quiet, blissful nights in the living room cuddled up by the fire. At your urging, he found something of a constructive outlet through carving, the finite details of a chunk of wood seeming to calm his mind.
Now, you didn't think twice about leaving him alone. He was sweet at breakfast, passing you his bacon when you finished yours and sipping dutifully on his glass of water. You loved these kinds of mornings, when you both woke at the same time and got to cuddle a little while before sharing a meal.
Fish met you at the front door, meowing. You reached down to pat his head, black fur soft between your fingers. "Hi, baby." He meowed again and you laughed, stepping around him. "You'll get some fresh chicken soon, I promise."
When you entered the kitchen, you stopped cold. Haymitch was rummaging through the icebox, curls bouncing in his effort. You folded your arms, frowning, and Fish sat beside your feet.
He shut the door, and you saw the bottle in his hand. "Haymitch!"
His shoulders stiffened, and he turned around, blue eyes round. "Uh…"
Marching forward, you yanked the bottle out of his hand. "What are you doing?"
Exhaling through his nose, he rolled his shoulders back. "Baby, I was just-"
"You promised no more drinking." Your brow was furrowed, and he reached out to thumb it smooth.
"I finished everything, it was just a little…" he trailed off, pinching the air between his fingers. "No big deal. Wasn't plannin' on blacking out."
"No!" You hugged the bottle to your chest. "No drinking, period. That was the agreement."
He sighed, tapping his fingers against his thigh. "Yeah. Sure, yeah I know. 'M sorry."
Softening, you put the bottle on the counter, moving forward to take his hand. "Is it bad today?" If he was struggling, he didn't need you making him feel guilty.
He cupped your cheek, leaning forward to press his lips to your forehead. "No. It's been good today. Just wanted to celebrate."
You scoffed, turning away. "There are better ways to celebrate than getting plastered."
"I wasn't gonna get plastered," he emphasized, but his lips twitched up. "I'm okay. I promise I'm okay." Haymitch rubbed your cheek with his thumb. "So, what do you mean better ways to celebrate?" You were still for a minute. Then you turned suddenly and bit his wrist, lightly. He laughed, pulling it back. "Hey!"
"We'll talk about that later." You adopted a sultry look, blinking up at him. "In the meantime, there's a creak in our bedroom door, and we need more firewood, and…" Even though you were the one talking, it was hard to hear yourself when you were looking into his eyes. Time slowed when you were with him, nothing else relevant.
You worked around each other for hours. While he was fiddling with the door, you folded laundry and put it in the right drawers. In the kitchen, you squeezed lemonade into a pitcher, watching him cut firewood through the window. He walked in with a tall stack, sweaty and glowing, your sunshine all over again.
Lingering in the doorway, you held out a glass of lemonade when he turned around, depositing the wood in its spot by the fireplace. Haymitch grinned when he saw you, taking your offering. "Thanks." You watched him drink it, eyes lingering on the roll of his throat, his sweaty arms.
"Good?" You could hardly hear yourself.
"Great." He stepped closer, reaching for you. Haymitch pressed the glass to your side playfully, making you shiver. "This is good."
"Your treat."
He lifted an eyebrow. "Is this us celebrating?"
"No." Lifting your chin as you came closer, you slid your arms around him. "You did such a good job today."
"And I did it on only half a bottle 'f liquor," he said. Your jaw dropped and he chuckled. "Kidding." Haymitch bent to kiss you once. "Did it on love. That's all."
When he lifted you up so you were nose to nose with him, yougave him a teasing kiss on the cheek. "That was mean."
"I'm sorry." Haymitch kissed you again, lips lingering. "You're tough about it. That's what I need."
Leaning your head into his, you softly said, "I can't let you get the way you were again. You were hurting so bad."
"Was." He kissed your temple, setting you back on your feet. "You pulled me out, sunshine. Fixed me."
"Didn't fix anything." Pressing your face into his chest, you nuzzled your nose there. "You did all the work."
"Agree to disagree." He swayed you back and forth. "We done working now?"
"You're off the clock." As soon as you said it, he seized you up into his arms again, lips parting over yours. You giggled into the kiss, and he walked you backwards into the kitchen, setting you on the counter and putting his glass down so he could hold you properly. Legs nudged apart, you shivered when he slid his hand into your hair, holding your head up.
"I like your dress." He tapped his fingers over your side.
"You picked it out."
"Yeah. Knew you'd look pretty in it." Haymitch paused kissing you when he noticed Fish lurking in the doorway. You scratched his curls, and he melted a little bit. "I think he's mad at me."
"He'll be fine once he knows I've forgiven you." You swung your legs back and forth. "I'll give him something to eat in a minute."
"In a minute." He kissed your nose. "We're celebrating."
You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.
Desc. : Panem's most publicized situationship.
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Make them speculate.
Make them wonder.
Distract them.
Entice them.
Convince them.
He tucked your hair behind your ear, kissing your temple as he did so. Your insides turned. "Are we on or off today?"
"He didn't say."
"Hm.", he murmured against your forehead. "It's up to us, then."
You took a sip of your champagne.
Listen, Finnick Odair was a fucking menace.
Seven years. Seven years of this shit.
"Do you never wonder what it'd be like if we actually did end up marrying each other?"
"The entire Capitol would burn down.", you scoffed softly, eyes running around the room.
"Snow would be pissed, for one. It's a will-they/won't-they until we do."
"Which we won't."
He pouted, shaking his head as he brought your hand to his chest. "You wound me."
Your whirlwind romance had swept Panem off its feet. According to their knowledge, you'd first met at a Post-Games party, after your first time as a mentor, and you couldn't keep your eyes off each other. Cue the mess.
On and off. Sometimes, never, and always. That was you and Finnick, in the eyes of Panem.
It wasn't exactly all false. In the beginning it really had just been you, Finnick, and a couple of nights that neither of you wished to label. But there was no sex, that was what was morbidly hilarious here. Just deep, drunken conversations.
In Panem, the most intimate thing you could do with someone was not sex, no, it was developing a true connection, and that's what had happened all those nights — what had scared you both.
So sue you if you didn't want to label that shit. It'd only end badly for the both of you.
Sure, Finnick might have thought he might, possibly, maybe want more. But that was only on late nights when he was watching the moon or nostalgic footage of District Four on the TV, but at the end of the day, both of you knew this decision was the best.
Toxic, definitely, but at the end of the day, although his long string of dalliances followed his reputation everywhere he went, he always came back to you.
Panem thought it was because no matter how twisted, he always loved you.
Snow thought Panem would like that.
You preferred that than actually discussing with him why he always came back.
"Off.", you replied.
"We've been 'off' too many times this year. Snow's going to freak."
He was right. "Fine. Is Caesar here?"
His eyes flicked around the room, scoping it out. "Yes."
You groaned. "He's going to lip read, then."
Caesar Flickerman was a dynamic host as well as an expert lip-reader. You'd only found that out on your second year of this charade, when Finnick had been talking to you about missing home - taboo topic around the Capitol - and Caesar had caught it.
All over the news the next day. He'd had to cover it up and say he meant you were his home. The Capitol went positively feral.
"Look at you, all sexy.", Finnick whispered, with his maddening smirk. "For me?"
"For me." He rolled his eyes. Wrong answer, his glare told you.
"Tell me, gorgeous.", he breathed, hands placed tantalizingly and strategically on your shoulders. "Do the cameras love you as much as I do?"
His iconic line. He'd come up with it three years ago, and it was a cop-out for when he was too tired to come up with any other segue, and besides, the Capitol loved it. It was basically code for you to chill out on the responses, because he was way too exhausted that day.
"Do the cameras love you as much as your family does? Or do you just live here, now? In the Capitol? In the limelight?"
Wait, what?
"I live in my district. Most of the year." The hell was he doing?
"Do you now, beautiful? And why is it you're always here?"
"Why are you always here?"
"Photo ops, of course. Snow needs his best out here all the time to make the Capitol as spectacular-looking as he needs.", he replied, eyes glistening.
"I'm here for the same reason."
"Yes, but you act like you don't give a shit where you are. Like you winning the Games was nothing. Like you being bestowed with riches - more than most, actually, because of the hot little outfits that you model- is nothing. Impassive, deadpan, nonchalant, innocent but too-cool-for-school Y/N.", he mocked.
No way was he actually letting anyone lip read this.
"Caesar's not here, is he?"
He chuckled, nodding. "You're right. I just needed an excuse for you to listen."
"I will not have you judge me."
"Let me kiss you, Y/N."
"What?"
"Please."
"I am not going to let you kiss me. We've got... we can't act as if we've had this conversation in private. It has to progress slowly. Every single moment of ours must be 'accidentally' captured, and jus—"
"Same page?"
He always asked you that before he did something he thought would get the cameras off your back for a couple weeks.
"No! No, no, not this time, what?", you hissed through gritted teeth, doing your damndest to work on your ventriloquism skills.
He rolled his eyes, his lips moving to your cheek. "Let. Me. Kiss. You. I swear, you'll understand."
Finnick's knuckles on your jaw, he tilted his head, as if to say 'come on, I'm already this close'.
You acquiesced.
He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, before murmuring against them. "Kill Snow with me."
You didn't pull away, you didn't push him away, you didn't frown, you didn't scream. You just froze.
"Johanna— everyone, basically, is on board.", he said, in between kisses to your unresponsive lips. "And the Mockingjay. She... god, Y/N, please, I can tell you're two seconds away from killing me, but please—."
His kisses kept growing more feverish by the second, his hands cupping your face and using it to pull you closer. It was getting increasingly hard to ascertain whether he was addicted to your lips or the words he was corrupting them with.
"Finnick, Finnick, wait—"
"Please, please, Y/N." He was begging. He was pleading. "Just... shh."
"I'm not — stop.", you hissed, and he begrudgingly pulled away, though his lips lingered on your neck. "I'm not going to kill anyone. Not Snow, not you— though I should probably kill you for this. What if you're mic'd? Snow's done that befor—"
"You wouldn't be doing any of the killing, my love.", he smiled against your neck, his hands pulling you flush against his body, and something told you it wasn't even because this whole conversation was supposed to be a secret anymore.
He was drunk. You'd only seen Finnick drunk a couple times - the nights that had led you two to being friends (?) and being spotted talking (obviously fucking, according to the Capitol) - but it had never been this bad. He'd always had some form of control over his faculties.
"Finnick, there's cameras right now, we can't—"
"I'm in love with you, Y/N, more than the cameras."
One good thing about Finnick was that his words never slurred when he was psychotically, unforgivably inebriated. They simply hastened.
"Okay, Finnick, I'll get you back to your—"
"Like so much, and I—"
Before he could say something that could be picked up by the cameras around you and analysed by Caesar, you shook your head, covering his mouth with your palm.
He frowned, making unintelligible noises against your hand.
You rested your forehead against his as you whispered. "We'll talk about this later. Get some rest."
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Hours later, you knocked lightly on the door to his room before walking in gingerly.
He lay down, looking up at the ceiling as though it had every answer he could possibly need.
"Finnick?"
"I'm... a failure."
Shit. "Now, Finnick, remember what you have to do when you think like this? Think of your family. Who you're protecting."
"Oh, my god, princess, it's not himself he's disappointed at."
Johanna motherfucking Mason.
"Johanna?"
"In the flesh. But I won't be for long if you don't listen.", she reminded, elbow on her knee.
You closed the door behind you, locking it as you turned on the light. "You're in on this? It's crazy talk!"
"It's a rebellion. It supposed to sound out-there until you actually do it.", she snorted, hopping off the bay window and stretching.
"It's that District 12 Victor, isn't it? Everdeen-something? She's got you guys all riled up."
"Katniss Everdeen, yes. The Mockingjay."
"Jesus, you guys are all fuckwits."
"C'mon, baby, that's no way to be. I thought you were the polite, innocently sexy one? The one who could never even call someone stupid, let alone a fuckwit.", she pouted.
"Snow will kill everyone you've ever loved."
"He already is. Except it's slower, torturous. This way, we're nipping it at the bud so our kids don't have to go through this bullshit again. What about, uh, you two?", she teased, raising a brow as she gestured between you and a plastered Finnick groaning the headache away. "Your cute little Capitol-bred lovechild will still be made to go through the Games. You don't want that, huh?"
You groaned, yanking open the bedside drawer supply of water bottles, passing it over to him. "Jo."
She raised a brow, sitting next to you. "Y/N."
"You can't kill Snow."
"Watch me, sweetheart."
"Jo, this isn't even funny. She lucked out, alright? Katniss, you said her name was? She lucked out big time. Snow's seething. He's seething, and—"
"We know."
"Lie back down, Finnick, you're drunk."
"I'm hungover. This was a big deal for me, okay? I was nervous you'd react just like this and jeopardize it all, okay? Needed liquid courage. Cut me some slack."
"I'm leaving. I'm not going to fucking sit here and listen to you talk about a rebellion when the Capitol's at their strongest and Snow's at his angriest, it's your funer—"
"You're going back into the Arena!"
You paused at the doorway, your fingers on the frame like it was your only tether to reality. "What?"
"Heavensbee. He told us that the Quarter Quell will reap previous Victors."
"What?"
"Snow wants - needs - Katniss dead."
Your attempts to force breath to stay in your lungs proved futile when you realized exactly what that meant. "You guys are going to try protecting her?"
"We have to."
"No, actually, you don't. Finnick, please don't tell me you're going to volunteer if you aren't reaped."
He groaned, rubbing his face over his hands as he sat up. "There's one chance, and this is it. She is it."
Good lord, you were fucking surrounded by idiots.
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The moon was the only beauty you'd found in the Capitol.
Finnick had taught you to look at it. Especially when you were scared. Worried. Or feeling nothing. Or feeling everything. Or feeling too many things.
It worked, actually, but this time, you looked at the moon, and all you could remember was when eighteen-year-old Finnick pointed the moon out to newly-sixteen-year-old you.
"Beautiful, right?"
"Yes."
"Do you know it controls the tides?"
"What?"
"Yeah. That was my reaction when I first heard it, too!", he'd whispered. "It's your sweet sixteen, right? So just go ahead and pray that the tides change. Wish on the moon."
"Tides change?"
"You know, that this whole 'we're-in-love-spiel' can stop."
This had been the first ever year of this goldmine of a plotline for Capitol TV.
"I want to go home."
You'd said that some three times the past couple hours, but you knew Snow wouldn't let you do so.
"I know. Wish on the moon that you can do that, too. Wish on the moon you can spend all of your birthdays with the people you love. Well, besides me, of course.", he'd grinned, nudging your shoulder to make you laugh. "Just wish on the moon."
You'd closed your eyes to do just that.
"It'll take care of the rest.", he'd whispered.
Sweetest boy on Earth, he was back then.
Right now? Ugh. You wished on the moon that he'd get a brain.
A knock.
"What?!" Fine, snapping may not have been the best thing for you to be doing, as your blood pressure was already terrifyingly high.
"Can I come in?"
"Yeah, Finnick. Sure. Come in.", you mumbled, rubbing at your forehead.
"I... I can't even begin to apologise. Um... that was—"
"No, it's fine, you're good, it's wh—"
"No, that was... there is no excuse for that. Springing all that on you, and giving you all but five seconds to... I— I don't even know what I was thinking."
"Johanna got in your head, it happens.", you shrugged, watching as he frowned, sitting down opposite you on your bed, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together. Huh. Your tone was understanding, but your words gave him pause.
"Same page?"
"I'd say we are."
"I don't know.", he muttered, picking at his knuckles for a second before turning to you. "Are you with us?"
"Okay, we're not on the same page."
"I thought not."
"Finnick, this is madness. Snow is at his angriest because he got his ass handed to him by two kids from District Twelve. Twelve. Like...", you scoff-laughed, gesturing wildly to illustrate the sheer bizarrity of the situation. "That shit doesn't happen every day. He's got us both going on more calls because the Patrons need to be pacified. Hell, he's now planning to send us all back into the Arena?!"
"Exactly! Don't you think it's enough?"
"What? Finnick—"
"Enough bloodshed, Y/N, please! Yeah, we're Careers, but when has that ever meant we were safe from the bullshit of the Capitol? Hm?"
"This isn't about us being Careers. It's about the fact that you could die!"
"We're going to anyway! It's like Johanna said! He's killing us slowly! We won't be able to live with ourselves once we're old and not wanted anymore!"
"FINNICK!"
"What?!"
"The first rebellion caused the Hunger Games. What the fuck do you think a second rebellion is going to bring? Hm? Mass genocide of the Districts? An arena with even younger kids? Every rebel and their families becoming Avoxes?! Are you fucking insane?!"
He paused at that. Silence. Good. At least he wasn't deluded enough not to consider the probability of failure.
You stared at him for a little while, before sighing. He wasn't weak, far from it, but you had just violently burst his bubble, the only thing he probably had going for him. And it must have been huge -and have been on his mind for a long time, a perfectly formulated plan that he was very excited about - seeing as he hadn't said anything to you.
He had a habit of doing that.
He never wanted to give you anything that wasn't just perfect.
He'd brought you back this seashell one time. From District Four. It had taken about five months for him to find the perfect one, with the best weight, the best colour, shape, texture, girth, whole shebang.
He stored your return-gift of a trident - you were masonry and weaponry district, after all - in a literal vault in District 4, until you gave him a tiny charm-version. He wore that around his neck.
Another time, he'd decided he'd write you his impression of your district from his Victory Tour. But that day, he'd been incredibly nervous, so he didn't look anywhere but his feet, and oh, how they longed to be home! In the sand, with waves kissing at his heels.
He figured he'd pretend he'd seen you in the crowd, all those years ago. In reality, you'd have only been about twelve, though you were raised above your parent's heads, so it was possible he could have seen you.
He hadn't, though.
For the case of this very humble birthday present, however, he pretended like he did. He took the wildest guess he could, that your hair was not tied up that day, and began to talk of your home.
How lovely everything had seemed.
How excited you looked.
You loved it. You really had. And he loved that you loved it.
And this whole rebellion thing was no different. He knew you'd be reluctant, but he also knew you'd secretly pray on the success of it, and he'd meticulously spent ages going through everything, every single thing, to make sure it was absolutely perfect for you, to make sure you could never call it anything but the best gift you'd ever gotten.
This, though? This argument had thrown him for a loop. You had a point. One he hadn't thought of.
"I'm—", you sighed once more, shaking your head. "Hey, I'm sorry, I... that was harsh."
He bit the inside of his bottom lip. "Mm."
"Finnick, I really am."
"Yeah, I know. I just... what if we don't fail, though?"
Wish(on the moon)ful thinking.
"Then great. But is that a chance you really want to take?"
"What if it is?" It's quiet in your room, and his response is almost engulfed in the silence, but you manage to catch it.
"Don't you think that's what the First Rebels thought?"
You were just dynamite today, weren't you? Finnick loved it when you were like this, but a tiny bit less when it was directed against him.
At least he knew he was an inch closer to receiving your amazing hugs.
"Yeah. Yeah, no, for sure."
You nodded softly, and then he kissed you.
And once more, corruption blossomed on your lips. "But you're deluded if you think when we're in that arena, I'm letting you kill Katniss."
"I won't have to if my theory is right."
"What theory?", he scoffed against your lips, pulling you closer as his hands crept up into your hair.
"That Snow will do things specifically to kill Katniss, and the only way anything will ever work is if you, I dunno, find a way to save Katniss and yourself and Peeta and Joha—"
"We're hacking into the arena."
He really hated kissing you when you didn't reciprocate, but he had to for the next few seconds when you froze, before pulling you away. "What?"
"We're... I can't tell you, but we've got District 3 in on it, they're going to get a wire and basically, like—"
"What, blow up the arena? Are you sure you're feeling okay? Are you still hungover?", you asked, placing your palm on his forehead.
He rolled his eyes, taking it in his and kissing it once. "I promise, I am perfectly fine. And yes, we have a solid plan—"
"Holy shit, this is what you meant by 'the Capitol Patrons give me information' ? I figured it was about the next Games, so you could help your tributes win, not... fuck, Finnick! This is treason!"
"I DON'T GIVE A SHIT!"
You glared at him as he stood in sheer fury. "I'm sorry for yelling."
Wow. Sweetest boy on earth and you'd made him miserable. How do you do it?
"It's alright."
"I don't care that it's treason, alright? But we need to end this bullshit. Okay? So I will ask you for the last ever time, Y/N, because you know that whatever you say next will affect whether we see each other again. Are you with us?"
You licked your lips, picking at the duvet. "Can I have some time?"
"Reaping Day."
"Reaping Day?"
"Reaping Day. I'm not even kidding."
Yeah, he almost never was.
Fuck.
"I'll tell you by Reaping Day."
"Okay."
He didn't leave. It was a long moment of either meeting or vehemently avoiding each others eyes.
"I'm sorry about the yelling.", he repeated.
"You're not volunteering."
"What?" He was halfway out the door when you said it, and he was this close to slamming it.
"If you're not reaped, you take it as the odds being in your favor and shut up. Alright?"
He turned to you, slamming the door and leaning on it with crossed arms. Incredulity painted his face. "Are you kidding me?"
"No."
"Who are you to order me around? Fucking Snow?"
"I'm—"
"Who?! My on-screen-propaganda-lover?!"
That stung more than you'd expected it to.
"Fine. Fuck you! Go ahead and volunteer. Like a fucking dumbass. Go get yourself killed because you can't handle the truth! This is how it is and how it'll always be!"
"It doesn't have to!"
"Yeah, tell that to District 13!"
"Oh, if only you fucking knew!"
"Knew what?! That your half-baked 'plan' is bound to fail?!"
"If you're such a fucking loyalist, go tell Snow the big 'half-baked' plan!"
"Maybe I will!"
"Yeah, go! Go right now, scurry off, become the fearless Savior of Panem, the title of the Most Loyal goes to you!"
You stood, attempting to shoulder past him, but honestly, you should've known better. He grabbed your arm. "If you're going, stay on your knees in front of him so we can shoot you in the back of your head when we storm the Capitol." Pretty picture he could paint, you'd give him that. He could paint a dazzling romance and a grisly murder all just with words.
"That's if you do it. You won't."
"Yeah? Watch us."
You mirrored his clenched jaw. "Let. Go."
"You don't like me holding you?", he asked, tilting his head in mock curiosity.
"No."
"In the Snow regime, in the Capitol, sweetheart, that word has no meaning.", he spat.
"Does treason? Does murder? Does anarchy?"
"Snow gave you a comprehensive list of his favourite vocabulary, how cute."
"Oh, fuck off, Finnick, alright? Let go."
"Are you with us?" He shook your arm.
"No!"
"Are you with us?" More desperation this time. But he knew you, and his eyes held a calm that suggested he knew exactly where your heart lay. With him. With the idea of a free Panem.
"I'm not!"
"ARE YOU WITH US?!", he snapped, finally yelling once more.
"YES!"
The silence had snuck back in unnannounced.
"This is why I love you. You're a fucking trip."
Great. You were not only having to play an innocent, his lover and now a rebel, but you were also, evidently, to play jester for him, since he thought you were so fucking amusing.
"Do the cameras love you as much as I do?"
Oh, my god, he was being funny now, was he?
"Don't die.", you scoffed.
"Not if you won't. Same page?"
You scrambled to come up with a plan. Rig District 4's reaping? Fucking how? Beg Heavensbee for a glimpse into the arena? You barely knew if he was actually on your side, no matter how much Finnick seemed to trust him. Tell Snow and not include Finnick or Johanna or Katniss or — okay, too many variables. Oh! Wait! When he was busy protecting Katniss in the arena, you'd be busy protecting him. Okay. Could work. Right, okay.
He kissed your temple, looking down at you expectantly. He had no idea what he'd do if you hated his gift. "Right.", he muttered, after a little while of watching you play with the hem of his shirt. "I gave you till Reaping Day."
You nodded, and he whistled lowly, looking out at the window, his eyes brightening. "But... you know it's Full Moon Day today.", he grinned.
So you two sat there watching the moon for... quite a while, actually.
Wishing that the other would just fucking listen for once.
Finnick Odair was a fucking menace.
But he was also the sweetest boy you knew.
So, if you had to be on the same page, you would be.
"Same page.", you affirmed, finally, when it got too late and his hands went slack around your shoulder, and your eyes started getting heavy. You were truly, in entire honesty, unable to fathom a future where the rebellion worked and Panem was free.
But your plan was at least still intact. No matter how this clearly poorly thought out rebellion went.
At least, with your plan, he'd be alright, either way.
You and Finnick wake up to take care of your daughter when she cries in the middle of the night.
Short post mockingjay fluff!!
When your daughter cries, Finnick presses a kiss between the plates of your back and shuffles out of bed.
Life in District 4 was a similar relief as cool water on sunburnt skin. Slow, but not dragging. Relaxed but never boring. Quiet, but comfortably so.
Not to say that having a baby was a rock in your still puddle. Anemone wasn’t anything like that. But she certainly added a little bit of spice to your day to day.
And your nights, naturally.
You groan, his shifting disturbing the perfect dip in the mattress he left. Rolling over just a bit you reach out blindly for your husband, your hand finding a healed scar on his forearm. He couldn’t see the pink as it marred his tan skin, not in the dark, but it was like he knew it was there anyway.
Finnick leans over you and presses a tender kiss to your brow. “I’ve got it, honey. Go back asleep.”
You try to, really. But something in you just won’t drift back off. It’s like the sea, lulling and toiling, crashing up against the walls of your soul, incomprehensibly strong. Something about being a mom, you guess. Even after Anemone stops crying, you feel it swirling in your chest. It pushes you up onto your arms, then off the bed.
You pad barefoot on the wooden floor, watching your step in the darkness so that you don’t trip on Finnicks messily discarded clothes or step right on a stranded pebble. Sand is and maybe forever will be swept through the fine grain of the wood, the smell of linen and sea salt clinging to the curtains and bed sheets.
You’d found a home, here. A place to not particularly forget the war, but find peace with it, you suppose. Find a kind of peace with Finnick.
The wedding was small. Closest friends only— Johanna, Katniss and Peeta, Haymitch.. It only seemed right that the people who fought alongside you to survive got to see you reap the rewards after all the strife. You’d sealed your life with Finnick under a woven and beaded canopy, the taste of saltwater on each others lips and sand caught in the train of your dress.
It was a miracle Anemone didn’t come sooner. You learned you were pregnant the winter after your wedding band found a home on your ring finger. Now that she was rounding on three months old, you certainly had your hands full. Finnick insists he wouldn’t have it any other way, and you can’t help but agree, even as you drag your weary feet down the hall.
When you peer into the nursery, flicking on the hallway light and leaning against the doorway, you see Finnick with your girl in his arms. His fingers graze gently against her round cheeks, then his pointer traces the slope of her nose. He looks up and meets your eye with the most intensely tender look you’ve seen in your life, eyes melting like ice cream on the hot boardwalk.
Finnick shakes his head, and you wonder with a smile if he’s actually choked up. “She’s so.. perfect.” He whispers, voice softer than the cotton Anemone is swaddled in.
Your feet thump quietly on the hardwood while you cross the room and lean on the armrest, Finnick shifts to wrap his free arm around your waist. His fingers find their way under the hem of your sleep tank, brushing gently over your ribs.
“She looks like you,” you murmur, admiring your baby’s long lashes brushing against her rosy cheeks. You wind your arm over your husbands shoulders. The light from the hall filters into the room, casting warm light over Finnick’s features and the side of Anemone’s nose. A soft chuckle parts his lips. “I see it.”
“Can you believe she wasn’t here a few months ago?” Finnick’s brows furrow down at the infant in the crook of his arm, taking in your words. You continue, reaching out to lay a hand over the small expanse of her forehead. “She missed everything, huh?”
Finnick snorts, laughter shining through his voice, “that’s a way to think about it.” His pointer finger runs along Anemone’s nose again, he mumbles under his breath and yet there’s an intense weight behind the soft tone. “She’ll never have her name in that bowl.”
You share a look. A huff leaves your nose.
“Why don’t we bring her to our bed,” you offer after the long stretch of silence. Finnick nods, turns his cheek to drop a kiss to your arm laying over his shoulder before standing. The movement rouses Anemone just a bit, but you’re relieved she doesn’t start crying again.
Finnick glances over his shoulder at you as he lays your daughter down, her little head just below and between your pillows. You get back under the covers but only to the waist, your nose inches away from the baby’s cheek. The mattress dips under Finnicks weight.
“I just keep wondering what she’ll be like,” you admit softly, a smile playing at your lips not exactly against your will, just without your knowledge. Finnick hums in agreement.
“If she’s as hardheaded as her mom, sweetheart, we’re in big trouble.” Finnick whispers, you try and stifle a laugh while you swat at him over Anemone. Keeping your voices down, holding back laughter like this— you feel a bit like a teenager again. Making up for lost time, you think.
“If she’s as annoying as her dad, we’re in bigger trouble!” You retort, lifting your brows as Finnick scoffs. His hand has found its way onto the slope of your hips, rising under the comforter as you lay on your side. “Rude.”
“You were first,” you remind him. He turns his lips down, lifting his brows as if to say, got me there.
Your attention shifts to Anemone as a quiet sound leaves her open mouth, her eyes wide open again. Finnick sighs, but you just hum, watching him offer his fishhook-bitten finger to clasp on to. She babbles and a heart of steel couldn’t resist the smile tugging at your lips. “Mona, Mona, Mona. What’ll we do with you?”
You can’t help but laugh at the corniness of Finnick’s musing. He already had the dad humor down, you had told him once. He had just shot you that golden smile and lifted his eyebrows like he knew it was a tease but he’d take it like a compliment.
With a soft sigh you let your eyes flutter shut again— it couldn’t be any earlier than one in the morning. The weight of Finnick’s hand on your hip is a comfort, you can hear Anemone’s soft breathing just inches away. Outside your window, the tide rolls against the sand and the moon lays on the height of its crest, its light filtering through the curtains and into the room. You wonder, faintly in the back of your mind, if you’ve ever felt this calm.
okay wow i made myself cry while writing this, i need someone to take care of me like this on my bad days:( i did some research on fibromyalgia and tried to make it as accurate as i could based off of what i learned, i apologize if it’s not.
pairing(s): Finnick Odair x Chronically ill!Reader - request was from someone with fibromyalgia and i based it off that but i think it can be read by anyone with chronic pain
warnings: Y/N experiencing intense pain, finnick and Y/N take a bath together, slight angst, tooth rotting fluff
word count: 1.37k
When the world narrows to pain, he becomes the place where it softens—where love steadies, and warmth waits between each crashing wave.
The pain doesn’t start sharp. Not at first.
It begins as a dull throb in your knees, the kind you can ignore if you just breathe through it. Then it spreads—slow and insistent like ink in water—seeping into your shoulders, your spine, your hands. The weight of your body becomes too much. Your skin starts to burn where your shirt touches it. Even your eyelashes feel heavy.
You curl onto your side, limbs trembling, every movement sending bolts of fire through muscles that feel like they’ve been crushed under invisible stones. You’ve had flare-ups before. Hundreds. But somehow it still surprises you how completely it can consume you.
How helpless it can make you feel.
You bite your lip hard to keep from crying out. The ceiling above you blurs as your eyes sting, but you don’t make a sound. You’ve learned how to be quiet. How to endure. How to exist inside the pain without letting it spill over.
But it’s not just you anymore.
The door creaks open, and soft footsteps cross the floor. You know the sound of his gait by heart—familiar, confident, always sure in its purpose. You don’t even have to look.
Finnick.
He kneels by the bed without saying anything. You feel the mattress dip slightly as he places one hand on the blanket near your waist—not touching you yet, just a silent offering.
“Talk to me, love,” he says gently. “How bad is it?”
You don’t want to answer. You hate this part. You hate the sound of your own voice when you’re like this—small, hoarse, not yours. But you know you don’t have to be strong with him.
You never do.
“Everything hurts,” you whisper. “It started in my knees this morning… now it’s everywhere.”
Finnick’s face softens, even though you can’t quite meet his eyes. His fingers move slowly, carefully, drawing a slow line along the edge of the blanket. “Bad flare, then.”
You nod, blinking back another wave of tears. You hate crying in front of him, not because you think he minds, but because you don’t want your body’s betrayal to become his weight too.
But he’s already moving.
“I’m gonna help you get in the bath, okay?” he says softly. “I’ve already drawn it. Lavender oil. Just like you like.”
You let out a small, broken sound. “You always know.”
He smiles, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Of course I do. I watch you. I love you.”
He says it so easily, like it’s not something you ever doubted, even when your body makes you feel unworthy of that kind of love. Like your pain doesn’t scare him.
Finnick shifts the blanket back and moves with a slow, practiced grace. He doesn’t rush you. He never does. He just helps—first with sitting up, one arm around your back and one under your knees. Then with the slow walk to the bathroom, his body curved protectively around yours.
You lean heavily on him, each step agonizing, but he steadies you like he’s done it a hundred times. Because he has.
And he’ll do it a hundred more.
The steam from the bath curls into the air like ghostly fingers. The scent of lavender hits you first—soft, soothing, familiar. He’s placed a small candle on the sink, and the flame flickers low, casting golden light across the tiles.
Finnick helps you sit on the edge of the tub and slowly begins to undress you, his fingers careful, never pulling or tugging. He treats your body like something sacred, even when it feels like it’s failing you.
When he slides your shirt off, you gasp—more from the pain than the chill. His eyes flicker to your face immediately.
“Too fast?” he asks.
You shake your head. “Just sore. Like I got dragged through coral.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
You scoff lightly, but the warmth in your chest flares stronger than the ache in your back. “You’re biased.”
“Completely,” he grins. “Hop in with me?”
You nod. “Please.”
He helps you into the bath first, lowering you in inch by inch. The warmth of the water soaks through your bones, easing the worst of the stiffness. You exhale shakily, and your head tips back against the edge of the tub.
When he slides in behind you, the bath ripples. His arms wrap around your middle, pulling you gently against his chest. You melt into him—into the warmth, into his steady breath, into the kind of quiet that isn’t lonely.
His chin rests atop your head.
You sit like that for what feels like forever. The water hums around you. His fingers trace slow, absent-minded circles on your stomach, sometimes drawing shapes, sometimes just resting flat against you.
“I hate when it gets this bad,” you murmur.
“I know,” he says.
“I feel like a burden.”
He leans down, kissing the shell of your ear. “You’re not.”
“I know you say that, but—”
“No,” he cuts in softly, not unkind. “You are not a burden. You are the love of my life. You are soft and brave and stronger than anyone I know. Your pain doesn’t make you less lovable. It makes me want to hold you closer.”
Your breath catches.
He doesn’t fill the silence with more words. He lets the truth of what he said settle around you like a second skin.
After the bath, he lifts you from the tub and wraps you in the softest towel he could find—one he bought from a traveling merchant after months of searching for something gentle enough for your flare days. You’d made fun of him at the time, called it ridiculous. But now, with the terry cloth cocooned around you, you feel your throat tighten with quiet gratitude.
He dries you slowly, carefully, then helps you into a loose nightshirt and carries you back to bed. He tucks a warm heat pack beneath your lower back, adjusts the pillows behind you, and presses a glass of water to your lips.
“Drink a little,” he says. “You always forget when it hurts.”
You sip, wincing, then settle back.
Finnick sits beside you on the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. “Massage?”
You nod once. “Please.”
He warms oil between his palms before sliding his hands under your shirt, palms gliding gently over your lower back. His thumbs move in slow, rhythmic circles, never applying too much pressure, just enough to coax the tension from your muscles.
You close your eyes and let yourself fall into it—the scent of lavender and the sound of his breath and the feel of his hands grounding you.
“You’re so good to me,” you whisper.
He kisses the corner of your mouth. “You deserve good.”
You laugh, a fragile sound. “I don’t always believe that.”
“Then I’ll keep telling you until you do.”
His hands move up your spine, slow and steady. You feel each breath of his against your back, every soft exhale a promise.
Eventually, the worst of the pain recedes into a quiet throb. Still there, still humming beneath your skin, but not screaming anymore. You sink into the mattress, boneless and heavy, the warmth of his body a balm.
He lies down beside you and pulls the blankets over both of you. You curl into him, your face pressed against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
He brushes his fingers through your hair. “Sleep, love.”
“I’m afraid it’ll hurt worse when I wake up.”
“Then I’ll be here when you do,” he says simply. “And we’ll fight it together.”
You let out a slow breath and nod, your hand finding his beneath the covers. He squeezes gently.
As your eyes drift closed, you think—not for the first time—how lucky you are to have found someone who doesn’t flinch from your pain. Who doesn’t run. Who doesn’t try to fix you, but instead chooses to stay.
Finnick kisses your forehead one last time. “I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you, too,” you murmur back, the words curling into the space between you like another blanket.
Hi!! How are you? I saw you were taking requests and I was wondering if you could write something about Peeta or Finnick :D
I'd like something with a lot of angst, something like Peeta comforting y/n during a panic attack or a bad memory from the games? Thank you in advance 🥹🫂
ɴɪɢʜᴛᴍᴀʀᴇꜱ ᴀᴛ ᴍɪᴅɴɪɢʜᴛ | ᴘ. ᴍᴇʟʟᴀʀᴋ
word count: 2.4k
warnings: trauma from the games, night terrors, Peeta being described as dead, memories, Peeta being the sweetest and most caring person, angst, fluffy ending
author’s note: Thank you so much for the request! It really was a blast to write this. Sorry it took a few days, but a cold got me (again). I hope everyone is enjoying this :3 Dividers are made by @chrisssiren
Sweat dripped down her entire body; it rolled down her spine and ran into her eyes, making them sting and blink rapidly, while her hand constantly moved to wipe the perspiration away, as the sun burned down on them in the thick jungle, with blistering heat and rising humidity.
Whatever the Gamemakers did, it was not to make them feel more comfortable or at ease when they finally decided to rest. Instead, everything seemed to get progressively worse—the humidity, the heat, the scarcity of fresh water, the fear of the other tributes, and the arena itself. Nothing made sense.
And now, she also knew what it felt like to lose Peeta.
For sparing her from this feeling for the rest of her life inside the arena, she would be forever in Finnick’s debt. And she was not shy of thanking him for it every chance she got.
Even now, while they rested, her eyes settled on the blond and Finnick watching their surroundings, she couldn’t hold back. “You didn’t have to do it,” she whispered into the sounds of the jungle. “And still, you saved him anyway.” Ripping her gaze from the young man leaning against a trunk with his eyes tiredly closed, YN looked at the young man from District four and knew they would have probably been somewhat of friends if they had lived in the same district. He himself now looked toward her, softly shrugging his shoulders. “I know what it feels like to constantly fear losing the one you love the most.”
Finnick then watched Peeta with slightly furrowed brows. “You know, I never bought your little romance. Star-crossed lovers. It sounded like a joke. Something someone made up to get some sponsors for poor, little District twelve. Would’ve been a brilliant idea from Haymitch, I’m not going to lie.” He stopped, and she felt her heart lodge in her throat, making it hard to swallow—because that was the problem of it all along, wasn’t it? No one bought their story except for the people in the Capitol. “But…,” Finnick continued softly but with urgency and stared straight at her. “But then I saw it. The way you looked at him when you thought the cameras didn’t watch your way. You’re not good at changing who you are, not a great actress, and that’s okay. But it also showed me that you really love this boy, girl on fire. You would die for him. And that, I can respect.”
Afterward, YN walked to Peeta and softly woke him, kneeling beside him on the jungle floor, fingers pushing a blond, sticky strand behind his ear, smiling when he woke and immediately spotted her. The smile he returned let her heart stop before it beat faster than before. “Hey,” he mumbled, exhaustion still clinging to his words. “Hey,” YN answered just as softly, and when the urge hit her, she scooted closer and hid her face in the warm crook of his neck where it had always fitted perfectly. “Whoa. Everything alright?” One of his hands gently rubbed over her sweat-drenched back, pulling her closer into his side, his cheek leaning against the crown of her head. YN nodded and pressed a whisper of a kiss to his skin before pulling away. “I’m just glad you’re not dead, Peeta.” It was barely a whisper and filled with real emotions—drenched in despair and fear and unshed tears. And at that, Peeta smiled again, worry vanishing from his face, and his hand naturally cupped her cheek, making YN lean into the touch without having to think it through beforehand. “You’re stuck with me, YNN. Always.”
She knew it wouldn’t be this way—always—because neither the Gamemakers nor the president would make the same mistake and let them both live. Perhaps they wanted them both dead by now, not just her, even though the latter would be the most dramatic story ever told in the Hunger Games. YN wasn’t sure if the president would let such an opportunity slip through his fingers while she looked up through the high-towering, unknown trees.
Perhaps she could get Peeta as far as possible before she would die. And then, he could win on his own and live a very long life with some nice merchant’s girl back home.
The thought alone made her sick and jealous of the unknown, faceless young woman he would one day ask to marry.
“… will go with Joanna.”
Blinking, YN ripped her gaze away from the saturated green canopy above, fingers tightening around her bow. “What?” She wasn’t sure if she had heard right, and Peeta planned to go with the other victor after running into a forcefield and being dead for a few seconds. The exhaustion on his face was still visible and not just to her, right? They must know he wasn’t fit for anything strenuous. But now his hands settled on her shoulders and squeezed them ever so softly. “I will go with Joanna. She knows a spot not far from here to collect coconuts. And before you say anything, I’m okay. It will be okay. We won’t be long, I promise.”
And what could she do but nod because she knew how much Peeta wanted to be useful and how much he loathed not being able to do anything at all. She couldn’t tag along because Beetee and Wiress needed someone to look out for them, and Finnick needed someone to attack incoming threats from a distance.
“Okay,” was all YN could say and watched his retreating back with hawk-like stares until the greenery swallowed him and Joanna.
Something unsettling sat stubbornly between her shoulder blades, making the young woman even more restless than before, forcing her to track one path over and over again, eyes watching their surroundings carefully. The arena didn’t make any sense to her yet, with the different attacks they had faced until now. She only knew that one attack was confined to one area, but she couldn’t make out the pattern in which they occurred. So, the next one could easily happen any minute or in a handful of hours. The uncertainty definitely didn’t help to slow her heartbeat—it still galloped inside her ribcage, ready to jump out of it at a moment’s notice.
Suddenly, a shout echoed through the jungle.
Then a blood-curdling scream.
And then… her name. In full terror. By a voice so achingly familiar by now, she could pinpoint it even in her sleep.
“Peeta.”
First, it was a breathless whisper, then a panicked shout: “PEETA!”
YN didn’t think. Pure instinct took over and drove her into a run through the tangling vines and large leaves. Any opposing tribute would have had an easy time with her, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was getting to Peeta.
The screams and shouts grew more and more frantic, more tortured, more agonized. They ripped her heart out, made tears run down her cheeks, and made her believe the worst of it all.
They had Peeta. The Gamemakers intervened and sent real humans into the arena. To torture him. To make him suffer. To kill him.
Because of her.
A sob escaped her, but she wouldn’t stop to catch her breath. No, she had to push through, had to find him, had to protect him—had to kill everyone laying a hand on him. No one would make him suffer, not as long as she was still alive. But hope slowly faded within her as the screams ended without warning, and she broke through a wall of leaves, entering a clearing, and stopped dead in her tracks.
“No.”
It was just an exhale of breath the second her eyes fell on the still body lying on the grassy ground.
Blond hair. Pale skin. Sky-blue eyes, staring unseeingly ahead. Blood covering his body. Lips pale as death.
“NO!”
YN fell to her knees beside him, bow long forgotten, shaking hands grabbing his broad shoulders, shaking them. Softly at first, then with growing urgency.
“Peeta,” she pleaded with him under each violent sob, wrecking her body and tears dripping onto his unmoving features. “Peeta, wake up.”
But he didn’t.
“Peeta, please. Please, don’t leave me. Wake up. Wake up!”
“…up.”
“YN… wake…”
“Wake up, YNN!”
With a heavy gasp for air, she sat up, tangled in something, unseeing in the darkness.
This was it. This was her worst nightmare. First, they had killed Peeta and made her find him; now, they had her trapped deep under the earth because they knew how anxious and panicked she got ever since that one school trip where she had gotten lost in the mines, right after her father had been blown to pieces.
Struggling and fighting against the pair of strong hands holding her upper arms, YN tried to get free. “No! Don’t touch me! Get off of me! Murderer! I will kill you all!”
Reality wasn’t a concept for her any longer, not until the hands vanished and a lamp lit up the dark room in a soft light. She had fallen down onto the floor in the meantime, struggling to get the thing off of her feet, whatever tangled them together, trying to escape this torture chamber. But the light made her pause, and for the first time, her body started to feel and realize one thing at a time.
The soft fabric of a t-shirt and leggings hugging her skin from shoulders to ankles.
The thing that trapped her feet? It was the soft velvety bedding Effie had sent them for the latest holiday, celebrated for the first time since the fighting had ended.
The former dark room under tons of rock and earth turned out to be their shared bedroom in their shared house in the former Victor’s Village.
And the man kneeling on the bed and looking down at her with furrowed brows was… “Peeta.”
He wasn’t dead. He didn’t die. He was alive. He was with her. She didn’t lose him.
YN didn’t dare to move and instead started to sob again, cheeks growing even wetter than before, her hands and body shaking. And then, he was right there. Right in front of her, his warm hands gathering her shaking ones in a reassuring and strong hold, slowly and carefully pulling her toward him. “It’s alright, YNN,” he whispered into the dim room as if she were a frightened animal, cornered, without an exit in sight. And perhaps she was exactly that.
“I’m here,” he continued to reassure her when he leaned against their bed with his back, pulling her in between his legs and against his chest, letting YN curl into it, his arms wrapped tightly around her. “It’s okay, love. I’m here. We are home, in District Twelve. The Games are over, gone, we have found peace, the horrors all in the past, my love. You are safe, I am safe. No one is coming for us anymore.”
His soothing, quiet, and determined voice made her nod along with his words, nightmare and memories still clinging to her, not letting go of her quite yet.
She remembered that day in the arena again—remembered that it happened just as she had dreamed, only that Peeta’s lifeless body had been a mere projection tailored to her innermost fear. Just another sector of terror. Another hour on the clock. He had found her back then, crying, sobbing, being inconsolable. It had taken a while to get her mind back into reality with Peeta leading her from the others away, settling down at the beach, the warm waves softly lapping against their feet, while he had tucked her into his side, not letting go of her.
And now, he did exactly the same—being her steadfast rock in the terrors of night, not letting her leave his arms even though she wouldn’t dream of trying it. YN had always struggled to rely on another person because she had learned early on what it meant to rely on people: they could vanish and leave one behind in a matter of seconds, forcing one to fight for oneself. But with Peeta, after everything they went through? She wasn’t scared anymore of needing him because by now, she finally understood that the boy with the bread would never abandon her willingly. He had proved that to her countless times by now.
“I’m sorry,” she finally whispered, tears still streaming down her face, but the sobs had quietened down, and a hiccup now shook her body from time to time. With a sigh, Peeta pressed a long, lingering kiss to her still sweat-drenched forehead, a hand pushing back her hair. “And I will tell you that you don’t have to apologize. I’ll do it until you can’t stand to hear it anymore, but I mean it.” The blond made her look at him after coaxing her face out of the crook of his neck. “Don’t apologize for nightmares or panic attacks, love. You don’t want to hear it from me either when it happens.”
He had her there because she hated hearing Peeta apologize for things he couldn’t control. How many times had they had the same conversation because neither of them could shake the urge to apologize for things others did to them, and those things still clung to them, affecting them from time to time. At least she knew that they had gotten better over time since she had stood in the Capitol, an arrow flying toward Coin, killing her. It would take even longer until they both would feel the grasp of the horrors lessening, but they were on a good path.
Progress wasn’t linear, her mother had told her as much.
Taking a deep breath, YN allowed Peeta to wipe her tears with the sleeve of his pajama, calming her further. “Do you want to go for a morning walk?” He just knew what she needed after a particularly rough night, and going back to bed to catch some more sleep wasn’t the way to get her rapid heartbeat down. But getting out of the dimly lit bedroom and out, watching the sun rise? It always worked like a charm.
YN didn’t need to answer, and all Peeta did was to push himself up at the edge of the bed and pull her onto her feet right after he stood, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “Alright, love. I will set up the water and boil us some tea, yes? If something’s wrong, just call, okay?”
How did I turn to deserve this man, was all she could think while watching him leave with that slight limp he would never lose and tussled blond hair sticking up in every possible direction. Despite the horrors of their past, she was a lucky woman when it came to the boy with the bread who had saved her life countless times and in countless ways she would never be able to put into words.
A/N: Thank you for reading and sparing some of your time for my silly little writings. I'm always open for requests or ideas, and give my best to fulfil them as soon as it's possible for me to :3
warnings: this takes place after the poison fog, r is badly injured and finnick takes care of her
hunger games masterlist
You twitch against Finnick’s chest in the tall grass, rough like sandpaper against your wounded face. You’re covered head to toe in blisters from the fog, eyes half lidded as you begin to lose consciousness from the pain.
Katniss’ strangled wail is muffled and far away in your ears and you barely register the words.
“The water! The water helps.”
You drag yourself from where you’ve collapsed on top of your fiancé; crawling along on your elbows, you make it a couple of feet at most before you’re exhausted; your entire body is burning, skin raw, every little touch flaring up every nerve ending inside of you.
There’s a rustling next to you as Finnick is lifted and dragged to the shallow pool of water a few feet away; there’s a splash and a gurgled scream as Katniss and Peeta start to clean his blistered skin.
“Finnick,” you gasp, your concern for him overriding the searing pain for a split second. “Finn,” you croak again, eyes heavy.
It’s quiet for a minute, the only sound the whispering of leaves brushing against each other. All the while you lay face down, trying to peel your eyes open where they feel like they’ve been superglued shut.
Thick fingers pull at your jaw and your head turns; your neck is stiff and the touch feels like the lick of a flame against your bulging wounds.
“C’mon,” It’s Peeta. “Gotta get you to the water.”
“It’s okay, I’ve got her,” comes Finnick’s voice and his hands pull you up by the armpits. You hiss and squirm away from his hold, the skin on skin contact causing too much pain.
“I know, honey, I’m sorry.” He speaks in that soft voice you love, the one reserved just for you. “It’ll feel better soon.”
He lowers you into the water and you scream. It’s a pain unlike any you’ve ever felt before, white-hot and scalding. It’s like you’re bleeding from every pore.
“Shhh, shhh… I know, I know.” He winces as the blisters start to lodge free from your skin and you relax, sagging in his arms.
“‘S better,” you slur. Your eyes snap open as you grapple for purchase against Finnick’s neck; your thumb rubs circles into his cheek. “You’re okay? You’re sure you’re okay?”
He laughs, incredulous that even at a time like this, he’s where your worries lie. Pointed teeth glare back at you as you thumb at his bottom lip and smile.
“I’m fine. Just worried about you.”
“I feel better. I’m okay now.”
His muscular arms engulf you, wrapping around your waist now it’s finally safe to touch you again.
