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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Finnick/Annie - And love is not a victory march, It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Do want but :'(
cato/clove, this is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time.
these fight club prompts are ruining my life
peeta/katniss/gale, tomorrow will be kinder, i swear
(I have no idea what kind of reality is going on that I set up Katniss, Peeta, Gale, and other in a dormitory-like setting, but that's what came to my brain when I read the prompt. Hope you like it!

Peeta/Katniss/Gale - Nightmares Until The Morning Light - PG13 - Spoilers for the entire trilogy

Nightmares were the one souvenir from their ordeals that the three would have gladly left behind them.

Katniss was haunted by Prim and Rue. She watched them die right in front of her eyes, just beyond her fingers, impossible to save. Rue drowned in a sea of blood, spear still stuck within her body, and Prim was swallowed up by flames while Katniss screamed so loud that her voice broke through her dreams and into reality.

Peeta fought against lingering tracker jacker venom dreams. Though he now knew what was real and not real, his friends and family still transformed into unrecognizable monsters. He tried to escape them, out run them, but their claws reached out and caught him, tearing into his skin so deep that he searched for wounds when he finally woke in a cold sweat.

Gale was caught up in memories of the District 12 bombings. Cries for help echoing in his ears, smoke and debris filling the air until he was blind, his skin burning from the uncontrollable fires. He fought his way through the loss of his senses, reaching for his mother, his siblings, Prim and her mother, Madge and his friends. They screamed for him, begging for help, but disappeared into the terrifying silence that followed the Capitol's attack.

Alone, the three could not keep their nightmares away. But then they realized they didn't have to face them alone.

They couldn’t remember the night it started; just that one was screaming in their sleep and the others ran in without hesitation. But afterwards, after the most peaceful dream-less sleep they’d had since a small slip of paper at the 74th District 12 Reaping had changed all their lives, they couldn’t stop.

First it was hesitant and quiet footsteps down the hall after everyone else was in bed, afraid that waking anyone would require an awkward explanation none of them were ready to speak out-loud. Then, after realizing their housemates didn’t care about their sleeping arraignments, the three shared a bed without a care of outside opinion.

Because the three were stronger together than apart. They curled around each other, arms and legs entangled, each touching the other two, no one on the outside or neglected. And when the nightmares came to one, the others were there to help ease it from memory.

Fingertips brushing across skin pulled Katniss away from the deaths she couldn’t prevent. Gentle kisses against his cheek rescued Peeta from the monsters he couldn’t fight. Soothing words whispered in Gale’s ear released him from the friends and family he couldn’t save.

By day, the nightmares were a memory. Not a distant one but one they could push aside in order to live their lives. It was at night they returned. Not every night; some nights passed with one waking the other two. But those were rare. Instead Katniss, Peeta, and Gale retired to their bed each night, prepared to wake if they were needed.

And as two held one, Katniss caught up in the strong arms of her boys, or Peeta clinging to the reality of his hunters, or Gale begging to hear the voices of his victors, they promised each other that the night would soon pass and that tomorrow would be a better day.


5 years ago


5 years ago

Katniss/Gale || how did we get here? I used to know you so well
75th Hunger Games AU || there is no alliance and one victor wins.
seneca crane/johanna mason
and bleed, red as blood-
red as when
she's my babylon.
At the end of the day, you're another day older
And that's all you can say for the life of the poor
It's a struggle, it's a war
And there's nothing that anyone's giving
One more day standing about, what is it for?
One day less to be living

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President Snow, puns can be serious in politics
Thresh, love has no middle term; either it destroys, or it saves
Neither Save Nor Destroy - Tresh, Rue, all ages

The female tribute is selected first, and there’s a collective sigh when the man from the Capitol reads Rue’s name and she stumbles forward. She’s so young and so pretty. Nobody volunteers to take her place, of course. That would be stupid, tantamount to suicide. But they all watch, silent and trembling, as she mounts the stairs and takes the stage, turning slowly to face her audience.

Somewhere off to Thresh’s right, a man lets out a choked sob, and there’s the shuffle of feet as people move forward to comfort him. Thresh assumes it’s the girl’s father. He doesn’t look. His eyes are on Rue, on her beautiful, upturned little face, and he thinks with a sour snort, She won’t last a day.

It’s not that he doesn’t care, or that he has any desire to see this girl die. But Thresh is a realist. He’s eighteen years old, and in all his life there’s never been a victor from District Eleven. The last victor was Chaff, and that was more than twenty years ago. Tributes from District Eleven usually die in the initial bloodbath. Sending this girl into the arena is … laughable in the sickest and most twisted way.

He hopes that whoever kills her makes it quick.

Then Thresh hears his own name and it’s like being kicked in the spine.

For a few seconds, he doesn’t move. He can’t. He doesn’t know why this should come as a shock; this was always a possibility – a probability, given how many times his name was entered. Unlike the so-called Career Tributes, he’s had no formal training, but he’s spent years making his body strong just in case.

He shouldn’t feel this way, like all the air’s been sucked out of the world.

As he starts forward mechanically, he can feel the eyes of the little girl. He doesn’t look at her as he mounts the stage, and when he’s told to take her hand and shake it, he barely brushes her small fingers with his large, blunted ones.

They stand there together, facing their district, her head barely as high as his elbow. He thinks, There’s no way she can win, not a chance. He knows this. He also knows that his own chances are pretty slim, no matter how strong he is, or how skilled he is with certain bladed weapons.

He can’t protect her, not when he’ll be fighting for his life in the arena.

He can’t kill her either. Not this girl. If she were a little older, a little meaner-looking, if he hadn’t heard her father’s sob…

But she reminds him of a butterfly, and he knows he could never hurt her.

Only tear to pieces anyone who lays a hand on her in the arena.

These Games will cost him his life, not his soul.


5 years ago


5 years ago


5 years ago


5 years ago

so come on love, draw your swords
shoot me to the ground
you are mine, i am yours
let's not fuck around

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louder than sirens, louder than bells, au, victor!prim/gale, pg (1/2)

She turns his hands over and over again in her own, feeling the callouses along the joints from years of hunting, the skin supple near the wrist. She has always loved this - studying the body - and his is no different; she finds herself surprised to find freckles in places she doesn't expect, or softness where there ought to be knots of hard muscle. She imagines her touch to be light and delicate as it once was. In her dreams, when she's finished examining his hands, it's only then she notices how deeply she's dug her fingernails into his skin, how grotesque his hands look speckled with blood.

Like the bright trout he brought back for her once - a sickly color, speckled with pink and red on its scales.

"What do you expect to see?" he says, and it's then she realizes how quiet she's been.

She looks at the lines of his palm, crisscrossing, branching out, cut short, frayed like the ends of the rope she used to strangle the tribute from Three. She wonders if he judges her.

"I don't know," she says. If she looks at them long enough, they begin to look like the dried riverbeds of the Arena in its last days. When the Capitol pushed her towards the Cornucopia to deal with the careers. Prim remembers old stories of the world before it became theirs: people who stared long enough into hands and palms to try to learn something about themselves or about the future.

Prim wonders if any of them ever glimpsed the way her fingers tightened around the handle of a knife, if they could ever sense the blood in the water.


Gale takes her to the old places they'd liked to visit, and she finds herself surrounded again by tall grasses, wildflowers, and the faint scent of lavender on the air. She can't bring herself to tell him that she doesn't feel home in these places anymore: she isn't the delicate anymore, and the thin petals of flowers only remind her of how fragile everything is, how easily skin can be ripped asunder, how little pressure it takes to draw blood.

She supposes he's always known - he is a hunter.

And there'd perhaps been something childish in all of it, hadn't there? Her stupid wishes in the rooms of the training center, hoping that she could leave this the same person she entered. Hoping she could leave at all. Prim crushes a dandelion between her hands until she feels the milk in the stem wet and sticky against her fingers.

She licks a drop off her knuckle and cannot remember the last time she tasted something so sweet.


She hears primroses are a funeral flower in District 6. The thought of it makes her laugh until her stomach turns, until she's on the floor on her hands and knees, heaving.

She hasn't eaten enough to throw anything up, but it leaves her cold and shivering regardless. Her hands shake, and she finds herself wandering to his house before she can think about what she's doing.

He doesn't say anything. Simply lets her sit on his porch, offers her a mug of warm tea.

"I used to heal people," she says, with a soft laugh. "And now, all I can think about - "

He shakes his head. "You're still you, Prim."

The mug is warm between her hands and she presses it against her cheek. She's forgotten how cold it can get at night, even during the milder seasons. She wants to know how he can say that with such certainty, how he can look at her and think she's the same tremulous, small girl that left District 12 so long ago. When she sets her jaw, she can taste blood in the back of her throat, can feel the adrenaline thread through her until her entire body feels alight.

"And what's that?"

He clears his throat. "You fix people."


5 years ago


5 years ago


5 years ago

Cato/Clove. We are terrible for each other, and, yes, we are a disaster. But tell me your heart doesn’t race for a hurricane or a burning building. I’d rather die terrified then live forever.

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5 years ago


5 years ago


5 years ago

Johanna/anyone, you're in ruins
cato/clove, the bones are shifting in my skin and you my love are gone.
stopppp with these perfect prompts.
finnick odair - i led the revolution in my bedroom and i set all the zippers free
is this revenge for all of the au's i've been prompting?


5 years ago


5 years ago