you beautiful tropical fish (kolms) wrote,
you beautiful tropical fish
kolms

[ ficathon ] the girl on fire

Tags: book: hunger games trilogy, ficathon!
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haymitch/effie, we're too weak, too strong, to cut the cord
finnick/annie, i'll hold this loss in my heart forever
what we lose in the fire (we gain in the flood), finnick/annie, spoilers for mockingjay

Annie closes her eyes and inhales the smell of fresh sawdust mingled with salt. She exhales, and listens to the sound of construction crews hammering close at hand mingled with the the lap of waves against the wharves. She breathes in and out in time with the gentle bob of the floating dock beneath her legs, the slow sleepy heartbeat of her dozing son in her arms. She opens her eyes. His tousled bronze curls fill up most of her field of vision but beyond that the sea stretches out before them, a steady span of green-blue interrupted only here and there by the dark blots of boats at work again, far in the distance. She shifts her son in her lap to free one hand, attempting to untangle the mess of braids he’s made in her hair, but leaves off after a minute or two and just drifts her feet back and forth in the warm water and strokes his back in rhythm with their breath and the sea.

She keeps her eyes on the horizon. She knows there is a world beyond it, though the subject was tacitly never discussed in school, of course; let everyone assume that the rest of the planet drowned and burned during the bad old days, that no nation was ever strong enough to rise from the ashes like their glorious Panem. But District 13, she knows from Finnick’s whispers in the tiny cramped compartment that was the only home they ever knew together (curled up together in their narrow bed, his bright eyes wide and glinting in the dark, thumb tracing the line of her jaw over and over like he cannot believe her face is here before him to touch), had made overtures to other nations at some point after they were cut off from the rest of the state: offers of alliance, requests for aid. She doesn’t know what came of those talks. Nothing, Finnick had guessed, and who could wonder at that, for who would ever want to interfere in the bloody ruined mess that the Capitol had made of their country? Best leave the savages to themselves and let them self-destruct at will; doubtless they had their own struggles to contend with.

They had talked of striking out across the sea, in those last days before--here Annie closes her eyes with a shudder and lets her mind go blank, she will not think of it, she will not. Before, anyway. You and I and a boat, Finnick said against her heart, her throat, his hands knotted in hers. Who would ever stop us?

There had been nothing left for them. Now there is something. The rubble is still being carted away but the streets of District 4--what had been District 4, anyway--are lined with quickly-rising new houses, the markets choked with fresh fish and game. Johanna left a message for her only this morning that she was coming to visit, and though they have never been anything like close Annie is pleased at the prospect of seeing her, for Finnick's sake, at least. Annie has a new boat to her name lying safe in its mooring, the Trident, a trim and lively little cutter that dances over the waves under her hands. She has quarters in a fine new-built house opening onto the town square, paid for with the proceeds of her knotting and weaving. There is nothing to trap her anymore, nothing to worry about but this warm anchor in her arms, and as if sensing the thread of her thoughts their son stirs awake.

She drags her gaze from the sea, smiles down at him. “Hello, sweetheart,” she chirps at him. Her heart is singing. Why does it sing, when she has lost everything? Her son’s eyes are Finnick’s eyes. They rake at her heart every time she sees them. What grace is there in that?

She runs a hand through the baby’s curls and sets him down on the bobbing dock so she can swing herself out of the water, push herself up to stand on the sun-warmed planks. He is only now beginning to walk and she holds his hands to steady him as he determinedly marches down the length of the pier. The balance of a born sailor. As he babbles to her happily she babbles right back, thinking on the day when they will leave this place to strike out across the waves. Maybe it will come. Maybe it won't. But for now there is supper waiting for them on the table and nets to mend before the evening is through.

And the horizon will wait for her.

tilty

4 years ago

joaniemaloney

4 years ago

Katniss/Peeta Katniss dies in the 1st Games. Peeta gets to go home.
*YES*

24_amends

4 years ago

chimneysmoke

4 years ago

24_amends

4 years ago

chimneysmoke

4 years ago

24_amends

4 years ago

24_amends

4 years ago

red_b_rackham

4 years ago

24_amends

4 years ago

red_b_rackham

4 years ago

geckoholic

4 years ago

24_amends

4 years ago

geckoholic

4 years ago

hyacinthian

4 years ago

hyacinthian

4 years ago

hyacinthian

4 years ago

hyacinthian

4 years ago

bloodofpyke

4 years ago

hyacinthian

4 years ago

arysani

4 years ago

Peeta and Portia, Portia talks to Peeta after the interview in Hunger Games.
omg someone should please fill this because the prompt alone is made of spectacular win.

do_not_confess

4 years ago

peeta and katniss; i'd tell you that I loved you, before I ever knew you, 'cause I love the simple thought of you
Katniss, it could be me // katniss watching the 73rd games
katniss/cinna, They don't love you like I love you.
AU!katniss, she goes mental in the arena and becomes a ruthless killer

glasslights

March 25 2012, 14:11:31 UTC 4 years ago Edited:  March 25 2012, 14:11:59 UTC

katniss/peeta, post-mockingjay; today was one of the easier days
EASING IN by msdisdain - T; K/P; spoilers for Mockingjay. 1/2

There are so many difficult days--days filled with shaking and horror and accusations we don't mean, not really, except maybe deep down a little or a lot or maybe not at all, maybe just for a moment; days filled with hours that pass like minutes or lifetimes and whispers that rip through you like screams.

But today was one of the easier days.

Today when I knocked at the door, the bread in my hand still steaming, she opened it right away. The corners of her mouth quirked up into a small smile when she saw me, and when I leaned in to brush a kiss across her mouth, her hand came up to rest lightly on the back of my neck. She even hummed a little as I touched her tongue with mine. When I pulled away, her eyes were bright.

"Hey," I murmured.

"Good morning," she said, and her voice sounded...happy.

Today Katniss was happy, and the...sun of it nearly blinded me.

She took the bread I handed her, tucked her hand into the crook of my arm, and led me into the house.

Sometimes it seems absurd to keep up these little formalities, like baking bread in my own kitchen and knocking at the door of her house before breakfast when I'd only just left her bed earlier that same morning--but we are still careful with one another, and the Games robbed us of any real courtship we might have had, so I am trying to make up for that in small ways now. I think she likes it--or maybe she just likes that I like it--but regardless, she tolerates it.

Greasy Sae had been and gone while I did the morning baking, and porridge bubbled hot on the stovetop. It's easy to figure out what Katniss has been up to since I kissed her forehead and slipped out of bed--her hair in its familiar braid is still damp; a small bunch of primroses sits in a jar in the center of the table; the last novel she ordered from the Capitol lies propped open against the sugar bowl.

More signs that today will be a good day.

She slices into the bread and smiles at me when she sees the familiar raisins and nuts. I don't often make this heavier bread in the mornings, but sometimes, when the previous night's dreams have been full of past sweetnesses instead of more recent horrors, I like to remind us both of the first time we saved one another.

"You saved me then, Peeta; I didn't do anything for you!" she's said more than once. But didn't she? Wasn't the mere fact of her existing, of being there in that moment to save, of helping me to live rather than just to be--wasn't that how she saved me?

Her existence still saves me every day.

Cont'd

msdisdain

4 years ago

purelush

4 years ago

msdisdain

4 years ago

gale/katniss (mostly one-sided); "i just want to know one thing. do you think we'd have ever worked?"
cato/clove, watch it you're in the danger zone
kill yourself to never ever stop, cato/clove, pg-13, part 1/3



He barely knows her when he walks up to join her on the makeshift stage. She’s that girl with the knives, but she’s not his friend – you don’t befriend other careers, the kids you’re waiting to get the chance to kill.

She is straight-backed and wound-up taut, and when she looks at him she parts her lips, the barest slip, a hint: teeth. They gleam quick and bright like her knives and he imagines them piercing through his skin.

Knives, he thinks, already planning how he will have to be careful with this one, rely on his strength over her agility. He’s evaluating how he will kill her before they’ve even left their district, but she’s got the corner of her lip tucked into her mouth and a single wrinkle marring her forehead and he knows in the instant their eyes meet that she’s thinking the exact same thing.

What a pair they will be.

(That’s a lie. There are no pairs in the Games. There is one victor; there is him and there is no place for her.

Maybe he’ll let her die last.)





Time hangs still when the counter runs out and then they are racing across the grass towards the Cornucopia, towards weapons that glitter in the sunlight.

She gets her hands on her precious knives, and he’s not surprised. There is something beautiful about the way she kills, silver flash of light in her hand, perfectly weighted precision and her lips pulled back at the corner like a snarl, or maybe even a grin. He shivers and does not know why.

When she grins at him, later under the trees where they’ve banded up with the other careers, he wonders if that grin means you’re next.

He flexes his hands, tightens his throat and thinks no, that’d be you, sweetheart.

He’s going to kill this one himself, he’ll make sure of it.





He does want to. Kill her.

Cato watches her take down tributes with the misfortune to cross their paths, watches the snap of her wrist as she throws her knives and the grin when they hit their target (they always do).

He watches her and he wants to be the one to kill her, when the day comes. Not yet. Wait a little longer. He likes watching her kill. When he kills her, it will be glorious. He will stain the arena with her blood and he will burn her death into himself, into the minds of everyone watching.

He grips his own blade tight, watches her skipping ahead, teeth flashing, and he resolves to keep her alive as long as he can, so that he gets to be the one to do it in the end. He feels possessive over her death, this girl who delivers it to so many others on the tip of silver-bright knives.

Your knives won’t do the job on me, he thinks.

He is more than flesh, more than everyone else in this goddamn place.





In his dreams, Clove wears a golden circlet on her head as crowds cheer. She is pronounced Victor and she smiles at him with teeth teeth teeth and he is falling and her crown glows so bright he is engulfed by light, gold and silver and he is drowning in it, and—he lets go.

He wakes shaking and clammy and stares at her, sleeping a few feet away, curled in on herself like a spring, hand on her knife. He could kill her anyway. He could do it quickly enough. Hands around her throat and snap before she could ever sink her daggers or her teeth into him. He stares at her for hours as the sky slowly lightens and imagines all the ways he could kill her and he does not move an inch.

“It’s nice of you, saving yourself for me,” she taunts later that day, smiling sweet and metallic and dangerous.

“I’m saving you till the very end,” he counters, but his voice rasps over the words and all he hears is I’m saving you and all he wants to know is why? He fumbles for reasons that get trapped behind flashes of wrists snap knife silver teeth.

cassiehayes

4 years ago

cassiehayes

4 years ago

jada_jasmine

4 years ago

cassiehayes

4 years ago

beethemonster

4 years ago

cassiehayes

4 years ago

gale/madge, joining the world of missing persons
cato/clove, teenage dreams in a teenage circus
Johanna/Finnick, afterwards, the universe will explode for your pleasure
katniss, peeta, haymitch - catching fire AU, haymitch goes to the games with katniss instead of peeta.
omg ;asldkhgk WANT

goth_sweeting

4 years ago

cato/clove, and our bruises are coming but we will never fold and i was your silver lining

sing_song_sung

March 26 2012, 20:00:55 UTC 4 years ago Edited:  March 26 2012, 20:01:15 UTC

your hands can heal, your hands can bruise, cato/clove, pg-13, 1/2

She’s never been one for attachment.

Her relationship with her mother can be described as shaky, at best; her mother is dark-haired and dark-eyed and fair-skinned, and there’s an unspoken expectation that Clove will turn out the same way.

She doesn’t. Her hair is dark but never properly brushed, her skin is pale but littered with the freckles that haven’t occurred in her family for two generations, and she shares none of her mother’s sweet disposition.

Clove takes after her father instead, drawn to the shivery feeling she gets to the sight of her blood when she falls and scrapes her knee. Her father was a Victor, her mother was his prize, and she emerges as a messy mix of them both, with the same stiff-set jaw as her father and a touch of uncontained, impulsive brutality that most people attribute to her gender.

-

She doesn’t get along with the girls at school.

She spends her days staring out the windows, daydreaming, squashing insects between her palms and then pulling them apart, studying the remnants of a terminated life.

-

She doesn’t get along with anyone, really.

Not until Cato.

-

Her mother used to try to entice her with ideas of love.

She would talk about her courtship with Clove’s father, her eyes bright, her voice upbeat. She would sew dresses. She would smear sticky goo over Clove’s lips to make them noticeable, and Clove hated it, it was the colour of blood with the taste of something poisonous.

Her mother liked to talk about ideals. She liked to use phrases like kindred spirits.

Cato isn’t what her mother meant, but he is what Clove finds.

-

She becomes aware of her own heart.

The way it races when she runs. The way it pounds when she ducks easily away from a well-thrown spear. The way it jumps, startling her, when Cato hoots and laughs over his success. The way her pulse exists beneath her skin when she is cut with the dull weapons they use at the Academy. The way it propels her hands.

Her heart teaches her about longing.

-

She counts the scars she doles out.

“Twelve!” she shrieks when that’s her age, fleeing from Cato and his bleeding wrist as he comes after her, seeking vengeance.

It’s nineteen! when she’s thirteen, breathless and standing above him, proud of having caught him by surprise.

And, “Twenty-seven!” when she’s fourteen, cartwheeling triumphantly over one of the thin mats that line the floor, her hair flying out of its loose braid.

-

(My turn, he says, the night before their Reaping. It is dark and they are alone and she can’t quite measure her fear.

The buttons on her dress come undone first, his fingertips brushing over the lines of her collarbone, through the valley of her budding breasts, down her torso toward her navel. He pushes the sleeves off of her shoulders next; the dress pools at her waist and after that it’s a simple push of it over her barely-there hips, and it slides to the floor, leaving her bare.

She is still as he counts the scars he’s given her, first with his fingers and then with his mouth. She sees herself, naked, in his eyes.

“Twenty-six,” he says at last, his voice low enough to make her shiver. “Guess I owe you one.”

Clove trembles, but she is unafraid, even when his large hand curls around her throat right before he kisses her.)

-

It’s his favourite part of her body, the column of her neck and the dip between her bones at the base of her throat. He touches her there sometimes, absently, and her stomach twists, deep and low.

She’s glad that her stylists in the Capitol put her in clothes that leave that part of her skin bared.

[con't]

sing_song_sung

4 years ago

jada_jasmine

4 years ago

gale/katniss, i never felt so wicked as when i willed our love to die
gale/katniss, i never felt so wicked as when i willed our love to die

He didn’t tell her. He didn’t want to wreck what they had. Didn’t want to change their dynamic, to take that smile (her real one, the one for him, for the woods) from her face (because he knew her stance on love and family and children and he used to agree until the one he was loving was her), to change a single thing.

When she screamed for Prim and volunteered in her place, he knew he should’ve told her.

~

He wants her to come back, of course he does. He feels like there’s something huge missing when she’s not there, something is wrong and nothing he does can tear him away from the fact that he fell in love with his best friend and she’s going to die.

He believes in her, believes she can survive – she’s amazing and skilled and smart. But this is the Games and he’s seen them for 18 years and he knows the odds are in no one’s favor.

Somehow he thinks it’s less painful to just think of her as gone already.

~

Late at night when he’s wide awake, inevitably unable to think of anything but her fighting and hiding and dying, he wonders if it makes him a horrible person to wish he’d never loved her at all. Surely it wouldn’t hurt this bad if he’d never cared.

~

It might’ve been easier without the looks he gets from people, from friends, from family. The ones who are used to seeing Gale and Katniss, Katniss and Gale, and now there’s only Gale. And Katniss is kissing Mellark and everyone just assumes – has assumed for years – that Gale and Katniss were together, and in love with each other, and he just can’t bring himself to say, No, just me.

He rushes to the forest, to their spot and there’s too much emotion, overwhelming and crushing and suffocating and he’s never wished harder for everything to just be different. He’s punching a tree so hard his knuckles bruise and bleed and scream and it’s a different kind of pain that can take him away from thoughts of her.

And here he thinks that maybe it’s a good thing she’s never coming back. He doesn’t know how to deal with them – Gale and Katniss, Katniss and Gale – if she does.

~

When it’s over, when they’ve won, when they’ve bent the rules and impossibly triumphed, and she’s standing on the train platform holding Mellark’s hand and smiling.

He wishes he could still tell if it was her real smile or not.

jada_jasmine

4 years ago

red_b_rackham

4 years ago

aina_hhrdanem

4 years ago

red_b_rackham

4 years ago

katniss/peeta, breathe out so i can breathe you in
gale/madge, tell me lies and i'll justify them
WANT.
enobaria or johanna, no guts no glory
johanna, skin of the night


Johanna Mason parted the thick branches she was perched precariously behind. The moonlight illuminated the ground below her - by she guessed was about 10 feet – while the creatures of the night provided the soundtrack. Her arm ebbed with a slight pain. Probably from the knife that the boy from 10 launched into her with his dying breath. It didn’t save him though and he died just as quickly as the rest.

She could hear them now; they were coming closer, walking through a clearing lined with forest green. It was the boy from 2 and the girl from 9 if she was remembering correctly. Yes, she was sure of it. There were only six of them left (counting herself) and these two were the last standing alliance in the bunch. They had formed it on the first day of training. Well, it was less of an alliance and more so he had promised not to kill her himself if she let him fuck her. From the way he was quickly ripping the flimsy cloth off of her body and dragging her to the ground, it looked like it was time to collect.

Johanna rolled her eyes at the twosome as the guttural sounds became louder underneath her. It wouldn’t be too long now. Men never lasted too long. She used to hear her parents make such noises all the time, unbeknownst to them. She was always a very inquisitive child. She wasn’t bothered by the same things other people were, even going as far to be intrigued by them. Once, when she was back home, she timed her father. Measuring the loud grunts and the deep breaths he took before she no longer hear them. He never lasted more than three minutes.

She knew they couldn’t see her, even if they weren’t preoccupied. She had become one with the trees, just like when she was home at 7. The climb taught her to use her speed. The axe that brought them down gave her strength. And the fall taught her to use her judgment.

The sound of the girl’s scream and the cannon blast that followed quickly jolted her from her homesick thoughts. The boy stood over her smirking, so obviously proud of his kill. There was a high from killing. Most people shied away from it. But most people also wouldn’t laugh manically after snapping someone’s neck.

He didn’t see her when she placed her footballs softly on the grassy terrain below her, the leaves mollifying her steps. Nor did he hear her as she steadily snuck up behind him.

Johanna hit him with the blunt end of her axe. He fell onto his knees quickly, turning around and backing up to get away from her. He searched for a weapon on his person, cursing when he realized that they were in the pants he had causally thrown aside. She sneered watching his eyes open in surprise. Surprise that his end was going to come from the small wide-eyed girl from 7 he tried to fuck up a wall before the training coordinator caught him.

She brought her axe down on him, before he had a chance to open his mouth and pathetically plead for his life, the weight pulling her body down with it. She laughed as blood splattered onto her face, laughed to keep from crying. Most people undoubtedly thought she was losing her sanity throughout all of this. When in actuality she was fighting to keep it. Johanna knew he was dead from the first strike. But she couldn’t stop; she was way too far-gone. She had to think of home. She had to do this. She had to kill all of them, until she was sure they wouldn’t come back and kill her.

Her mother always told her the same thing every year they watched the Games together on their small television, which was well beyond its years, at home in 7. Where the comforting smell of pine and tree bark assaulted her senses.

“No one ever wins these things by playing nice, Jojo. No guts, no glory.”


sweetbitter

4 years ago

jada_jasmine

March 25 2012, 16:12:38 UTC 4 years ago Edited:  March 25 2012, 16:13:13 UTC

johanna/gale, but my heartache's in me till this day
glimmer/any, drive me crazy au.
PLUS ONE MILLION POINTS

chimneysmoke

4 years ago

katniss/gale, like a ghost the one i love most disappears when i get near
this is coming soon! and about 80 of your other unfilled gale/katniss prompts, if i can get myself together
Pairing: Katniss/Peeta
Prompt: Shared kisses in the nights leading up to the Quarter Quell. These aren't for the show...
Pairing: Peeta, Peeta/Katniss
Prompt: Peeta's thoughts when he gave Katniss the burnt bread