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

[ ficathon ] the girl on fire

Tags: book: hunger games trilogy, ficathon!
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victors, what do you know about hell, hmm?
Eulogy for a Ghost// pg-13(?) // OC // probably not what you wanted at all

When he is seven he watches as his older sister is beaten to death by Peacekeepers in the middle of the town square. He is sent to live in the group home. He learns how to dismember a steer. When he is sixteen his name is drawn from the glass bowl and he is dropped into a swampy hell, chest deep muck and towering cypress, alligator-like muttations that are just as quick and deadly in the trees as they are in the water.

The Gamemakers don’t give them shoes.

A week in he drowns a Career in the fetid water, holding her face down with his foot on her neck, but not before she slices his shoulder. The wound is shallow, ineffective, but the infection is immediate. He can feel things burrowing into his soft meat before the fever haze overtakes him, turning the rest of the games into a throbbing hallucination of red water and black blood.

He tears lizards apart with his hands and eats them raw. He hacks out the jugular of the tiny, emaciated boy from District 12 and slices the Achilles tendon of 4’s remaining tribute. Blood and pus burst from the festering wound and drip down his back. The alligator mutts surround him and the boy from 6, and he stands staring blankly while the other boy is torn apart in front of him. He is left untouched. The animals can smell his bad blood, the things rotting inside of him. By that time he is becoming a crowd favorite, but he is so far gone in the sickness that the silver pot of medicine the sponsors send him is carried for days, unopened, before he uses it to break the nose of another tribute before bludgeoning her to death.

The crowd goes wild when Caesar replays the footage, but he barely remembers any of it. That’s okay. . His shoulder is metal where the infection ate the bone, and all his scars are gone. He never has to slaughter a cow again, to trudge across the killing floor, ankle deep in blood.

He has plenty of time to review the recordings, again and again, in high definition.


4 years ago

cato/clove, she's a much better liar than you are
give me a second, i (i need to get my story straight), cato/clove, pg-13, 1/3

She is an exemplary Victor.

She lets the Capitol paint her face, sparkles glittering around the rims of her eyes. She keeps her hair long, wears it down around her shoulders so that it flies about when she spins. She learns to walk in spindly heels and to hold her liquor well.

She doesn’t bother with trivial things like regrets.


Cato finds it hard to leave the Arena behind. For weeks, he reacts every time someone walks to close to him. He accidentally hacks off his stylist’s smallest finger.

He always thought about winning. He forgot to think about what comes after.


She still carries her knives. Strapped to her thighs beneath her Capitol dresses with their semi-sheer material and their flirty hems. Tucked beneath the pillow of the bed she sleeps on. Hidden in sheaths, small ones concealed in her cleavage.

The key, for her, is to play life like it is one endless game.


They fuck hard and fast in stolen moments.

Her hands are small and calloused and perfect, wrapped around him. She breathes with her lips close to his; it isn’t quite kissing.

Cato groans her name; it tears out of somewhere deep within him, out of the pit of his stomach, the depths of his chest, the core of his being. His hips jerk and he groans, deeply.

It’s a demand when he says, I need you.

She laughs, almost too quiet to hear. Release always feels anticlimactic.

He wishes she’d stay, curled up against his side, her muscled calf hooked around his leg. He asks her, once, forces his eyelids open halfway and mumbles, “Stay…”

But she’s already gone.


The Capitol sells him like a commodity. It is women at first, and then some men too. They are always wealthy and they always want to flirt with death. They want his hand around their throats as they come or straps biting into their skin, some mix of pleasure and pain.

Finnick laughs when they run into each other in the morning, still dressed in last night’s clothes. He laughs but it’s a strange, hollow sound, no mirth to be found within it.

“You trying to replace me?” Finnick asks in a too-bright voice. “I was the favourite before you came along.”

Cato blinks at him, not quite understanding, not quite willing to hear the anger beneath the cheery voice. “Yeah,” he mumbles, just a word to say in order to leave, brushing by Finnick impatiently.

He just wants to get back to his own bed. Back to Clove.


Finnick is a favourite of hers, and it makes his skin crawl sometimes, remembering those false-happy words, I was the favourite before you came along.

“Well, well,” she likes to say. “Well, well, if it isn’t Finnick Odair, the second youngest Victor of the Hunger Games.”

The remarks are biting, asking greedily for a response, but Finnick never gives one.

Cato reasons that he finds Clove annoying, which is understandable enough. He’s been putting up with her for years; he knows how it goes.


She is always in his bed, even on the nights when he leaves it empty.

It takes him a while to ask her if she has her own clientele of sorts, if she is sent to people against her will, if there are men and women who like knives drawing blood from their skin while they are fucked. The thought alone makes him muscles tremble.

She laughs, her hair spread out over his white sheets, a dark halo.

“Nobody would touch me,” she whispers to him, her eyes shining. “They know that you’d kill them for it.”

His hands curl tightly around the bunched-up sheets and he says, I need you.


She tells him the story of how she killed the girl on fire.

It is like a lullaby, though it is morning, the sun leaking in through the curtains. He is hungover and naked. He cannot remember the night before.

I cut off her lips, Clove whispers. So that she couldn’t scream.

The thought of screaming makes him wince. Or maybe it’s just the glare of the sun.


I cut off her lips, she murmurs, soft and soothing, on all of the mornings when getting out of bed starts to feel impossible.

She doesn’t touch him, but she’s there, and it’s enough.



5 years ago


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Firefly cross. Mal & co find earth-that-was and discover it not quite so abandoned add they had believed.

I don't even know what I want from this, it just struck my imagination and intrigued me.
WANT. Crossing my fingers that someone fills this!


5 years ago

Um...I thought I hated this idea.

Now I'd like 12 chapters, please.


April 1 2012, 02:03:10 UTC 5 years ago Edited:  April 1 2012, 02:04:21 UTC

peeta/katniss if it don't end in bloodshed, dear, it's probably not love
Katniss/Peeta - the scenes we didn't see at the end of Mockingjay, you and me of the 10,000 wars
katniss/peeta, still here, pg, spoilers through mockingjay

[A/N: It's been about a year since I read the book, but I suddenly had a lot of feelings and had to write this, so I hope I remember it.]

She spends the first days in bed, waking up shaking in the mornings and the evenings and the midnights. She's catatonic and restless in turns, and Peeta wants--tries--to brush the hair and tears out of her eyes with paint-stained fingers, but his place is next door and far away. She doesn't want to be repaid for what she's done for him.

For the first time in her life, Katniss is not hungry. He watches her try to reclaim the days when she starved until the smell of baking bread starts to wake her instead of her own voice. She tastes the bread like she can't remember it, and her face finds its place on his chest. She still doesn't cry, but she breathes.


Nothing is easier said than done anymore, because they still don't know how to speak, but she watches him gain confidence in reality, harsh as it is, and he watches her learn, again, how to let someone hold her. It's slow, finding themselves and each other again, but it happens.


She kisses him the same day he first sees her cry, when she's staring at the television without watching it, glaring at it without turning it on. He raps his knuckles on the doorway, his look sarcastic. Boundaries shouldn't exist anymore, even if there are still ones they can't cross.

Looking up at him with his forced half-smile, she breaks, and he strokes the hair that's fallen under her braid and lets her cry into her own hands. It feels surreal, everything that's happened, everything that's happening, and it hurts. But Peeta's voice is soft and his hand is gentle, and she turns around to kiss him because Katniss has found beauty in darkness before. She can do it again.


They cling to each other after that. She watches him bake; he watches her watch him. Katniss pulls him into her room at night. Sometimes, it feels a little like living in a cave a lifetime ago, alone and holding each other, but Katniss learns that she wouldn't trade. She wouldn't go back to that, to Peeta fading and child killers, painful as it is to remember that Prim was safe then. The possibilities of this new world are too many, her need for Peeta too great. She wouldn't trade.

That's when she says goodbye and starts treating the world like somewhere to live.


5 years ago


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Katniss/Gale/Peeta - i'm all wrapped up in you, i'm all wrapped up in him too

I filled this on my journal, here.

I hope it at least touches on what you were going for.


5 years ago

AU: Rue vanished after the supply bombing and Katniss couldn't find her. All she knows is Rue is still alive.
At the time the rule change is announced in the 74th Hunger Games that District Parthers can win together, three District teams remain in tact:

District 2: Cato and clove

District 11: Rue and Thresh

District 12: Catniss and Peeta

Careers aren't the only ones who can form alliances!
Katniss/Peeta, Each night I lie and dream about the one—who kissed me and awakened my desire—I spent a single hour with him alone—and since that hour, my days are laced with fire.
Not a perfect fit for the prompt, but this came from it:

the scars that led me to you

Katniss is awake, still, curling around Peeta's bare back. The early dawn light that spills in through their open window allows her to see the faint cracks in his skin; the scars that match her own. She traces the uneven lines on his back, curious.

Can she find which scar was the first that led Peeta to her?

Is it this patch of uneven skin, a round mark on his shoulder? It reminds her of the Reaping Bowl. That moment when Effie called Peeta's name as she stood, silent and stunned, on the stage watching Gale hold Prim. Was that the moment their lives became intertwined?

Was it during the Games? Her stomach contracts and cramps involuntarily at the remembrances. Rue. Peeta dying in her arms, feverish and bleeding. Katniss feels the fear clutch her heart again at the thought of losing him, even then.

And the kiss, for the cameras so Katniss could get a parachute from above to help Peeta. Then, the kiss that made her want more, for the kisses to be for her and him. No one else. Were those kisses the beginning?

Katniss's fingers continue their path down his back. Or was it the boy who saved hers, Prim's and her mother's life that day, by giving her the burned bread? It was enough to give Katniss some strength back to hunt again and find the dandelions. She gently lays a finger on his jaw and she can almost see the mark his mother gave him when he burnt the bread. Was that the moment that led them here, this morning after their joining?

The curtains on the open window billow from the early morning breeze, and Katniss catches the scent of the primroses on the air. Her eyes sting for a moment and she presses her nose closer to her new husband’s skin. Earlier the previous evening, they had made their vows beside the garden and it was right to do so; Prim had been there along with Katniss’s mother and Haymitch, sober until their wedding dinner.

Peeta stirs and Katniss can feel his body stiffen, his shoulders tremble. She slips her arms around his waist and holds him tight against the scars he has, that she does, that no one can see. Only they can understand. The boy and girl on fire. How prophetic Cinna was. They had both been burned to their skin and their very souls. Cinna. The thought of him has Katniss hold Peeta tighter. His shoulders have finally stopped shaking.

They have both needed each other to tame the nightmares. During the Victory tour, she needed him more. Now, although Peeta’s episodes are fewer and farther apart, his scarred mind when he tries to rest gives him the kind of night terrors that only Katniss can calm.

Like he does for her, when her dreams turn bad as she relives the Games or the war. Those were the vows they made beside the garden, to always be there for one another, without question or judgement.

Katniss knows, while she traces the lines on his back again, that the scars that led him to her cannot be seen, but felt. By them both. She finally closes her eyes, her cheek resting on her husband’s back and the scent of primroses still in the air.

president coin, president snow, what do you do in your spare time, juggle babies over a fire pit?
katniss/haymitch, my shoes are too tight and i've forgotten how to dance
Katniss/Haymitch, Coming Home, PG

She won’t get up. Not for the doctors, not for her mother, not for me.

Ever since her return from the Capitol’s holding cell she’s locked herself away in her room, determined to die alone and in the comfort of her own bed. I know because I laid her there when we returned and that’s what she said.

“I’m going to die here, right in this spot.”

I’d withdrawn from her that day. Returned to my house to drown the past few months from my memories. I’d hired Sae to keep an eye on her, keep her fed, until I could get my own wits about me.

They didn’t come back until I found Peeta standing in the yard. He was planting the primrose bushes at the side of her house and I couldn’t look him in the eye. He’d taken the time to get better, entrusted me to make her better for him. He’d asked me to bring her home safe. Before the Quell, at the assassination, in his screams in my dreams. He’d said:

“If I come home, make sure she does too.”

She’d come back, sure, but she wasn’t Katniss. She wasn’t the girl he expected.

On the day that I first return to the side of her bed I’m startled by the pallor and tightness of her skin. She’s turning into a skeleton before us, rotting away here in the darkness. I try to pull her up, panic lacing me because of her vacant eyes. She doesn’t fight, her body limp against mine.

I can hear the shovel cutting into the ground outside her window. Surely she can hear it too. It’s like her grave being dug. I stumble us over to the bay window and place her on the bench. She doesn’t blink as the light casts down on her and the sounds of outside grow closer; she’s an empty body. My blood is cold as I stand over her, watching out the window as Peeta plants another bush.

My trips become daily after that. I sit for hours by her bed watching the air fill and empty from her chest. I’m watching her die, I’m sure of it.

It’s morning when the warm scent of fresh bread drifts up to us from below. It’s unexpected, but hard to miss. This is the first day she starts to come back.

“Tell him to go away. Tell him I’m gone.”

I hear it crackle out from her neglected throat. It’s raspy and dry, but it’s still alive.

“Tell him yourself, sweetheart.”

I spend the afternoon drinking after that. Try to hide in a bottle the fact that she’s fighting so hard to disappear before us when we’ve fought so hard the last few years to stay alive. It’s like a slap in the face, to bring home someone unwilling to keep living.

Weeks pass at a similar pace. I place her by the window, I take her downstairs to the kitchen, I sit her on the porch. It’s outside in the fresh air that we see Peeta for the first time. Her head in my lap shows tension like the rest of her frame as he watches us from the yard. When he steps closer, she sits up.

She hasn’t done this before. I try not to let hope get inside.

They watch each other through the rails of the porch like caged animals. I stay seated, unsure of the exchange. There’s a thrumming energy rolling off her now – like she wants to get up and run to him. I place my hand on her shoulder, pushing her gently forward, urging her to do something.

She tries to stand. She falls.

Months of laying catatonic in her bed have caught up to her. She’s gone again, her eyes dull, as Peeta kneels at her side with his voice full of panicked mumbles. When he lifts up and returns her to her bed, I follow like an old watchdog.

There’s crashing in Peeta’s house that night. Screams of rage and anger spilling from the kitchen.

I don’t go to him. He’s been alright so far.

The smell of fresh bread returns to us a week later. She’s only a quiet whisper.

“I don’t know how to do this. Why can’t you both just let me go?”

I fight the urge to leave and drown myself in liquor. Instead I move to sit by her side on the bed, my legs stretched out and my back against the headboard. She doesn’t turn over. And so we sit.


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Peeta and Katniss- "Love Song to a Stranger"

"Don't tell me of love everlasting and other sad dreams/I don't want to hear./Just tell me of passionate strangers who rescue each other/From a lifetime of cares."
Clove/Cato: I would have carried your heart, but it's covered in holes
peeta (/katniss) - au where katniss sacrificed herself so peeta could win

I take one one one cause you left me and
Two two two for my family and
3 3 3 for my heartache and
4 4 4 for my headaches and
5 5 5 for my lonely and
6 6 6 for my sorrow and
7 7 for no tomorrow and
8 8 I forget what 8 was for and
9 9 9 for a lost god and
10 10 10 10 for everything everything everything everything
haymitch/maysilee in the arena - your lips come as some surprise, that they would want to come and meet mine
Katniss/Gale - we won't say our goodbyes, you know it's better that way
Peeta/Katniss, drunken confessions
katniss/cinna, had a dream, you and me and the war of the end times
haymitch abernathy - you don't understand him, and he don't die young; he'll probably just ride away
victor!Clove, post-hunger games (run in with johanna mason included)
I wrote a victor!Clove one (but no Johanna Mason)

Right here


April 1 2012, 06:34:50 UTC 5 years ago Edited:  April 1 2012, 06:35:20 UTC

Finnick/Johanna, it never was the time for us; it never was the time to let me in
peeta/katniss let's just get naked
peeta/gale She was like the water that freezes inside a rock and breaks it apart. It was no more her fault than it is the fault of the water when the rock shatters.
Peeta AU: Katniss dies during Mockingjay. He can't figure out if he killed her or not.
this prompt, omg. want.


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gale/johanna, let me give your heart a break, there's only so much you can take