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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thediagnosis

March 25 2012, 21:08:40 UTC 5 years ago Edited:  March 25 2012, 21:09:04 UTC

the careers, you don't talk, you don't say nothing, okay.
She’s thirteen and naked and rough hands are pulling her hair, rough on purpose and over and over until her scalp is numb and tears prick her eyes. Her eyes are closed and raw from the scratchy eye makeup that she’s never worn before, and in the darkness of her head she hears what they said to her ten minutes ago, acidic and angry, “Strip. Now.”

-

This time, they put her in a dress that’s two sizes too small with a fabric that itches and digs in to her sides, and they shove her roughly into heels and every time she stumbles she accumulates another twenty seconds with her back against the wall. Her quads are on fire after a full six minutes in the invisible chair against the bricks. Later, she examines the red, raw blister corseting her stomach.

-

They coo over her this time, tell her she is gorgeous, a treasure, they ask questions but none that they want answers for. She stares at the wall.

-

You don’t dress yourself, and you don’t undress yourself. You let them. You do not ask questions. You do not talk. Even if it seems like they want you to, they don’t. You do not show emotion and you do not interact. You stand there like a corpse and follow direct orders like look up and mouth open and eyes down. You are their living doll.

These are the rules.

-

At the Games, the dress her stylist gives her is silver and shiny and stupid. She hates dresses. She hates this part. She hates their hands on her body and their brushes against her skin.

Dolls don’t speak.

thediagnosis

5 years ago

electrumqueen

5 years ago

downbythebay_4

5 years ago

johanna/finnick, look away as i start to fall, spoilers for mockingjay

When he makes his way to her bunker, she lets him in at the very first knock. He half-expects her to bare it all, what with Katniss roaming around somewhere and Johanna’s fondness for lounging around in the nude, but she’s wearing a tank and shorts instead. (He checks for the fresh marks of morphling, is relieved to find fewer than he had feared.)

She thinks that something about this entire scene is off, that his time would be better spent reciting bad poetry to his radiant wife with eyes like the sea, but humors him anyway. (That isn’t to say she won’t be difficult.) “My, my, Mr. Odair, the son of the sea god gracing District 13’s very own hydrophobic soldier with his presence. And to what do I owe the pleasure? ”

He leans against her door frame, tall and huge and indestructible. “Well, Ms. Mason, as much as I trust you to hold down the fort, I thought I’d kindly warn you that Beetee said he’d let the good doctor know straight away if you even so much as look as though you’re trying to steal more drugs.”

Johanna rolls her eyes, waves him off with a salute that would impress even Boggs . “Aye, aye, captain. I promise I’ll be on my very best behavior. Victor’s honor and all.” And then, after a long slow minute, she takes a sniff of her little bouquet of pine. “Good luck with Annie. With everything. Even your super fancy new clique you're calling a 'squad'. Whatever. I mean it.”

It’s when she turns away from him under the pretense of sweeping up fallen needles that he takes a good look at the familiar band around her wrist. The rope is tied off with a loose knot (not meant to be secure, not meant to be lasting), and so he smiles, the way he always did for the cameras, when he held on to something he had no choice but to hide. "When have I ever needed luck? Besides, it seems like you might need it just a bit more. Apparently the only rations they have left are those beans you’re so very fond of."

She follows with nothing less than a raucous fit of snorts, half from exhaustion and more so from worry. She catches her breath and stands on her tiptoes, kissing him softly on the cheek. It’s less sloppy than she thought she could manage, but it’s just enough.

He understands what her silence is trying to say: "This is it -- I'm letting you go now, so don't you dare mess up."

--

Had he known that she would have been better for it, this is what he would have said: “There aren’t many people left in this world that I care so much about, but you, Johanna, are one of them.”

Had she thought he would have felt stronger for it, this is how she would have replied: “Stop being so sentimental, Finnick. There’s no one else watching and we both know you’ll be coming home soon.”

(They never did say those three words, not to each other at least.)
Cinna + Katniss, i was the spark, you the flame
The first time Cinna saw her, he was sitting with Portia in the quarters reserved for the stylists. They were new, the both of them, and had been assigned 12, the district least likely to win. So there they sat, surrounded by pictures of old district 12 tributes in various designs of coal mining-related garb, patterns and fabrics strewn around them as they discussed potential costume themes for the grand opening, one eye on the big screen as the Reapings from the districts were broadcast.

He was absorbed with a dark velvet fabric when Portia nudged him, and he looked up as the terminally perky Effie Trinket in her fashion-forward suit tottered towards the mic and read off a name from the little slip of paper. "Primrose Everdeen." He watched the camera zoom in on the stunned, terrified face of a 12 year old girl, and for a split second, his heart stopped. Oh god.

Objectively, he could see the luminous beauty of the girl, too young and fragile to survive the arena. He watched as she blindly stumbled forward with coltish grace, and he absently wondered if dressed in pale pink innocence and fairy silver for the inevitable interview with Flickerman, whether he could help her garner more sponsors. And all the while, his heart was breaking in his breast for the girl-child, because he knew in the end, he was merely dressing her up so she could die.

So absorbed in the tragedy on the screen, he almost missed the scuffle that started in the corner of the screen. "I volunteer-- I volunteer as tribute." The girl that came forward was taller, darker, but he could still see the family resemblance. Her walk was lithe, her limbs muscled, defiance and fear written on her face. In that instant, Cinna could see a spark of hope in the tragedy.

He watches as she walks to the stage, watches the silent tribute given her by her district, and suddenly he doesn't need to pore over tired old costumes or cover his face fighting for inspiration. His inspiration stands proudly before him in the burning spirit that is her core. And Cinna thinks to himself, This is a tribute I can design clothes for proudly. This is a tribute who can walk into the arena and change the world. All I have to do is show the world the girl of fire.

red_b_rackham

5 years ago

kolms

5 years ago

Deleted comment

*____*
Katniss/Gale or Peeta/Gale, The Capital makes the final kill and frames the winner, who then has to face District 12's judgement alone.

Deleted comment

peachygoodness

5 years ago

Deleted comment

perfect perfect perfect wow
haymitch/effie i hate to say i'm sorry, so i just go away

Deleted comment

*gasp* I just realized I NEED THIS TO BE WRITTEN.

gigglemonster

5 years ago

haymitch/katniss, to give life you must take life, and as our grief falls flat and hollow
(peeta dies au)


They sit and they are silent. There is nothing to say.

He’s happy – ecstatic – that he has a next door neighbour at last, and she gets to see her sister again and that’s just brilliant. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that this is only the beginning, that starting, oh, right about now, Snow will slowly destroy her, and that when she looks at him she’s really looking at herself.

With nothing to anchor it, time slips away from them. ‘You look like you need a drink, sweetheart.’ He grunts after an hour, maybe two.

She makes a small noise of ascent, the beginning of a laugh, perhaps, and he wonders if perhaps she’s not as like him as he thought, dismisses it. She’ll end up just like him, he can tell you that for free, she’ll end up just like every other soul to walk this Earth, in a wooden box six feet below ground. He’s just delayed the inevitable.

It’s only then he realises how tightly she’s holding his hand.

galfridian

March 25 2012, 21:37:31 UTC 5 years ago Edited:  March 25 2012, 21:37:53 UTC

katniss, she bet her life on beating down the urges to fill up any chapter not titled integrity
haymitch/katniss [post-series], we bury the ashes of our wording and sift the silences
gale + katniss/peeta, i am not the center of this circle

Deleted comment

OH GOD GLORIOUSNESS
gale/johanna, we spoke all night in tongues, in fingertips, in teeth
Gale/Johanna, vague Mockingjay spoilers, R

Gale steps off of the train when it arrives in District 2 feeling strangely exhausted by the journey. All he did was sit in his compartment and watch the country rush by outside the window, but he feels tired, as if he finished the last twenty miles on foot.

Johanna Mason is there on the platform, waiting with her arms crossed over her chest. "I thought you deserved a welcoming committee," she says when he blinks at her. "How's Twelve?"

"Fine."

She smirks, the expression highlighting how hollow her cheeks still are. "Katniss still doesn't love you, does she?"

It's a struggle not to sigh.

This is their friendship though. Somehow, after knowing one another for such a short, turbulent time, they've developed a shorthand of brutal honesty and weighty silence. Despite all of their differences, they see eye to eye.

She comes with him to his apartment without being invited, but he doesn't mind. Truth is, Gale has had enough of being alone this week.

"Are you hungry?" he asks, leading her into the kitchen.

"Always," she answers, boosting herself to sit on the counter when he opens a cabinet. "Never."

He looks at her carefully. "You're too thin," he murmurs. He's spent his whole life seeing people who didn't have enough to eat. Johanna is skinny for other reasons. He understands, but it doesn't stop him from wanting to feed her every time he notices the sharp lines of her collarbones, the protruding knob of her wrist.

"You're deflecting," she shoots back.

Gale doesn't think about kissing her before he does it, grasping her face with both hands and pressing his lips to hers harshly. Johanna is right there with him, parting her knees and digging her fingertips into his shoulders to pull him closer, so that their hips are flush together when she presses her tongue into his mouth, curling it hotly against his.

Everything about her is sharp. The sound of her breath when it catches in her throat, her fingernails when they slip beneath the collar of his shirt, her teeth when she bites at his lower lip. The taste of her mouth.

She flattens her hands against the skin of his abdomen. He hadn't even realized that she'd gotten his shirt unbuttoned.

"Wait," he manages, arching away from her. Her eyes are dark when she looks up at him. "Johanna--"

"Shut up," she snaps, burying her hands in his hair and dragging him into another kiss. "I want this," she whispers against his ear. Her teeth scrape at the hinge of his jaw. "You."

Gale stops trying to talk.

Johanna does all the talking from then on. She tells him to take her to bed - and she is light, too light, when he carries her, her legs locked around his waist and fingernails digging into his scalp - and then drags him down with her, divesting them of their clothes faster than he'd realized was possible.

He watches her face when he presses his hand between her thighs, catches the way her eyelashes flutter when he slides his fingertips over her, hot and so wet. She whimpers, the quietest sound he's ever heard her make, and the desire to watch her come undone, to make her fall apart, hits him, full force and demanding.

He makes her come twice, first on his fingers, a curse on her lips and and her hips canting upward, and then on his cock, the rhythm she's been swiveling her hips in faltering. He thrusts up into her, his fingers digging into her hips as her back arches and her mouth falls open in what he imagines (for his ego) is a silent scream.

"You deserve better."

She says it into the silent darkness of the room, her voice muffled just a tiny bit by the pillow under her cheek.

Gale's fingertips falter in their path down her spine, just for a fraction of a second, before they resume. He wonders who she's talking about, herself or Katniss, or maybe just the whole situation, this world that they live in now.

He doesn't say anything but pushes his hand into the back of her too-short hair, tugging until she arranges her body over his again and leans down to kiss him.

poppypickle

5 years ago

nicalyse

5 years ago

msdisdain

5 years ago

nicalyse

5 years ago

rosegilmore

5 years ago

cinna/katniss, her heart was exceptionally loud—not with love, but with knowing
annie, slow and steady wins the race
thresh & rue, after the reaping
I did this in #5 here if you're interested! :)

glasslights

5 years ago

spurlunk

5 years ago

honorh

5 years ago

marvel/glimmer - you are a cinema, I could watch you forever
working on this. (:

squee92ness

5 years ago

squee92ness

5 years ago

mouse_ear

5 years ago

squee92ness

5 years ago

cato/clove I've got your heart in a headlock.
i've got your heart in a headlock. cato/clove. pg13.


“So,” Clove says, her fingers sharp as they raze over his spine, nails catching on patches of clean, unmarred skin, “ready to die?”

Cato’s mouth smears into a smile and he laughs, one thumb pressed against her windpipe and his other in between her legs. She shivers into his skin and he twists his fingers to the left, quickly. He swallows her gasp with his own mouth, presses his tongue to the roof of her mouth and swallows her breath whole.

“Are you?”





Clove’s hair falls down her back in dark waves that match the black of his sheets. She looks like she belongs there, with her dark eyes and dark hair and dark heart. Her mouth drags across his chest slowly, with purpose, and the space between them is hot.

Her mouth hovers over his heart, teeth sharp against him, and he can hear the traitorous organ beating too loud, straining against his ribcage.

Cato flips them over and Clove laughs, something childlike, something pretty, and it’s only when she’s trapped underneath him, both wrists trapped in his left hand above her head, that she says, “This is going to be fun.”







Cato comes from a line of Victors. His father was a Victor at seventeen, his father’s uncle was crowned at eighteen, and his great-grandfather won at seventeen also.

“You’ll bring honor to your District,” his father said on the first day of Academy.

“You’ll bring honor to our family,” his father said before he left.

Cato was twelve and his mother hugged him tightly. His sisters were six and eight and they pressed sloppy kisses to his cheeks, to his nose, to his mouth until he lifted them off him and roughed their hair good-naturedly.

“Bye Cato!” They yelled as they stumbled off after their parents, yellow hair shining in the sun, little feet tripping over themselves.

He hopes they weren’t watching when he failed. He knows they were.








He met Clove when she was twelve, when she was the smallest girl at school and developed a reputation for carefully carving C’s into the palms of girls who bullied her.

The hallway was long and empty. Classes were out for the day and it was quiet in the gym except for the soft thups of her daggers and his sword into the waiting rubber dummies, x's marking the spot.

“So you’re Clove, huh,” he said, sixteen and stunning.

She looked back at him through long dark lashes and the shadows spilled across her pale skin, her face pointed and fragile.

“And you are?” she asked, her lips tripping up into a smirk.

“Don’t lie,” he said, smile dropping into a straight line, “It’s not cute.”

Clove spun around him lightly on her toes, her fingers trailing along the flexed line of his back.

She said, “We’ll see about that, Cato.”

mouse_ear

5 years ago

seneca crane, oh, what can you do with a sentimental heart?
What they don’t know is that he loves them.

Every year they come in their white trains with their little faces pressed up against the windows, with the awed faces staring into splendor they could have never dreamed of, with their little fingers twitching over the place where windowpane meets steel. And he knows what the Districts think, oh yes, the little lambs brought to him for slaughter, but that’s not it, not at all. This is his tenth year with the Games. He started small, just a lowly thing in the Control Room with a headset, following orders and bringing coffee, and look what he’s built for himself, just look. This thing has molded his life and so have they, the little blessings delivered to them – this year, to him and only him because at last he will do things exactly as he wants, exactly as they should be done, and if they only knew what he’s done for them. He will make it perfect for them. Beautiful.

And his heart swells with warmth when he watches them rise from their platforms in the first opening notes of his beautiful symphony, his beautiful Game. And oh how he’s brought them together. How lovely they are, clean and free and pure with the wind in the girls’ elegant braids and the innocent shuffle of feet and the glints in brown, blue, green eyes all waiting for him. How he’ll go down in the history books as the author of the most epic pageant in Games history.

The clock reaches zero, and it’s so lovely, their blood, the people they become with spears in their throats and knives in their backs. What they do with themselves when they have nothing left. This is how they become something bigger than themselves; this is the great gift he brings to them. He watches, rapt and awed, at this marvel he’s created.

His voice breaks through the symphony of screams and he asks for the first status reports.

yueni

5 years ago

casterlys

5 years ago

gale/katniss and now all your love is wasted, and who the hell was i?
oh man. awesome prompt.

rumpledlinen

5 years ago

thediagnosis

5 years ago

rumpledlinen

5 years ago

morbidmuse

5 years ago

red_b_rackham

5 years ago

red_b_rackham

5 years ago

katniss, i just wanna set you on fire/so i won't have to burn alone

sceptick

March 26 2012, 00:42:09 UTC 5 years ago Edited:  March 26 2012, 00:42:25 UTC

Katniss, gen with a hint of (one-sided?) Katniss/Peeta, all in the name, spoilers for The Hunger Games and maybe a bit of Catching Fire.


Katniss is not her mother.

She has always known this. From the very start, the differences have been obvious to her. Not always the same differences, perhaps; when she was younger, before her father died, what she noticed was how beautiful her mother was, blonde and pale like little Prim. They were two of a kind, and that kind was otherworldly -- different from Katniss, different from everything else in District Twelve. Katniss envied them, at that point. She wasn’t yet old enough to understand what words like ‘oppression’ and ‘starvation’ and ‘unfair’ meant. All she knew was that her mother was beautiful, and District Twelve was... not.

Then her father passed – that was what her mother called it, when she first told them. “Your father has passed,” she whispered, then she went into her room and didn’t come out. That was the one and only time she so much as mentioned him for a very, very long time after.

The greater difference between Katniss and her mother became apparent then, and for the first time Katniss found herself the better off. Where her mother was ice, frozen and distant and melting away into nothing in her grief, Katniss was fire. Katniss found a spark of hatred in herself for the world she lived in that had subjected her to such pain, and she fanned the flames of that spark to keep herself warm even as she starved to death. The fire slowed the course of her defeat, kept her fighting. Every extra second that fire bought her was a gift, another chance to try and snap her mother out of the spell she’d fallen under. Better to be fire than ice, Katniss realized.

The first time Cinna showed her his flames, it was like something slotted into place. She stared into the mirror at herself and thought, Yes. Until that moment all she had had was empty promises made to her crying sister to keep her strong throughout the Games. She was afraid, of course she was, of the Games and of the crowds and even of the flames with which Cinna would adorn her. But the fire reminded her: she was stronger than her fear. She burned that fear out of her heart like it was nothing.

In Gale, she has always had a kindred spirit. There was anger in his eyes and an ugly red flush in his cheeks the first time they met, and they fought, rolling and biting and kicking in the mud on the forest floor. He pinned her to the ground, but her arrow was at his throat and he laughed, a wild, free thing. He said, “I hope we don’t ever get Reaped together, little girl.” Katniss was twelve, and it was her first year as a potential Tribute. This was not a thing mentioned in her home, ever. It was freeing to hear him say it, somehow, to hear him turn the Games into a thing to be mocked. She laughed, quietly and hoarsely, and accepted his hand when he helped her up. His palm pressed hot into hers, fire meeting fire. They never fought again.

The only one who has ever been able to tame Katniss is Prim. Prim, the healer. Prim, her little duck. Prim soothes her rage and calms her anger – not intentionally, perhaps, but there’s always a voice at the back of Katniss’ mind telling her, not in front of Prim. Beautiful Prim in her nice blue dress that moves like waves when she skips; she brings the fire in Katniss down to a hearth, warm instead of deadly. She draws out everything in Katniss that can nurture, while the rest stays hidden.

Once, on some Capitol talkshow during their victory tour, Peeta tells her that he wishes he could have given her fresh, untarnished bread, that day long ago. He means it to be romantic, and whether it’s real or simply to sate the Capitol, there’s no knowing. That’s ridiculous on multiple levels, Katniss thinks but doesn’t say, starting with the fact that he finds bread romantic and ending with the idea that that would have improved anything. There’s nothing wrong with a little burn, not in her eyes. She smiles and says nothing as the host coos.


continued below

sceptick

5 years ago

freckles929

5 years ago

century_fox

5 years ago

cato/glimmer, or cato/clove
"Romance is dead," she said."Let's fuck"

Deleted comment

mouse_ear

5 years ago

century_fox

5 years ago

gale/katniss; we are leaving somethings unsaid / breathing deeper instead
katniss; this house no longer feels like home
do i really live here?; katniss; pg-13

District Twelve doesn't feel the same, anymore.

She moves into the Victor's Village, thankfully, because being back in her old house is - strange, is damp and dark and not altogether right.

It's not the same. Now, she can sleep in a bed instead of on a tree; she doesn't need to worry about surviving, about doing anything but living.

She talks to Peeta, in the times that it's bad, and she holds his hand to remind herself of what she did, that it was real, that they took part in happened.

Peeta kisses the top of her head and she sinks into him.

She doesn't cry in front of him; she saves that for later, for when she's alone in the bed that's too big, much too big for her alone. She cries, then, and the bed feels bigger, somehow, but less overwhelming.

It's different, being "home". She hadn't really thought she'd make it out alive; because once Peeta said those things, once she'd heard what he had done for her, she'd planned for him to be the one.

But she's lived; she's back, and now she doesn't have to hunt, doesn't have to do anything but sit and remember.

She understands why Haymitch drinks.

*

She sits in her room, alone, sometimes, looking out the window, not thinking about anything - very careful to keep her mind blank.

Her family lives with her but Peeta is nearly alone in his house, and her heart breaks for him but she can't talk to him, now.

She doesn't know what's real and what isn't; she lived so long in the Games (two weeks, she reminds herself, two weeks but it felt like much longer) that being outside is different, is terrifying.

She doesn't have to work to live, anymore, doesn't have to be afraid - but her body doesn't know that, is still scared. She still jumps at the lightest noise and she still can't sleep.

She's alive but she's barely living.

*

She screams in her sleep.

She screams and thrashes and reaches out for something that isn't there; and she mentions it to Peeta, one day, offhand, after it doesn't hurt to talk to him.

And they sleep in the same bed, once, and then twice, and then every night, nearly. She sleeps better when she's with him, when she can wake up and know that he's there.

He's always there.

red_b_rackham

5 years ago