I just got to ramble, because I have this idea for a canon divergent Peeta POV fic, where he is the one who gets rescued from the Rebels and Katniss is taking to the Captiol. I saw some posts about this, and it’s also meantioned in the books, when Haymitch says something like “He wouldn’t treat you like this, if you were the one being hijacked” (I can’t quote the actual line, because I just have a translation of THG at hand, but if anyone can add this part, I would be very grateful).
And this got me thinking about, how the hijacking took the one thing about Peeta, that was very exceptional in this world, which was his kindness. Everybody said, they couldn’t believe, how cruel Peeta was to Katniss. That was very much unlike him, like they just ripped out a huge part of his identity. yes, but also… His benefit to the cause of the rebels. He was pretty much useless in district 13 and he was a risk to be with 451. Truth to be told, he held them back a lot, which was okay, because the squad was willing to do the extra work, but well, it played into the Capitols hand, right? He would get rid of Katniss for them.
Now we turn this though around. How could they hijack Katniss, without killing her, to diminish the Rebel’s cause? They wouldn’t turn her more violent. At least, that’s not what I was thinking. Because they would make her just a more useful weapon for Coin if she was mentally unstable and violent. Also at this point they wanted to discredit the star-crossed lovers, who basically pulled the trigger on the whole rebellion thing. Side thought: Snow saw something in the third quarter quell, that was real and not just for the cameras. He recognized how deeply they loved each other and he wanted to destroy their bond, because any form of alliance is weakening his powers, this bond in particular.
So they want to tear the star-crossed lovers apart, because Victors are important figures in this propaganda war and people look up to them, and also make Katniss useless for the cause. Not only in a way, she couldn’t be used for propos anymore, but actually keep her away from the whole fight.
For that to happen they need to take one thing from her: her fire. Her braveness to help those in need. Her survivial instinct. And Katniss was always willing to fight for something, somebody else. Rarely ever for herself. She was thinking about winning for Prim’s sake not her own, among other stuff. And she was able to keep going, because she always had somebody who would ground her.
Well, I’m trying to say. They would hijack her in a way, she would not be brave and selfless, but terrified and scared without any connection to those around her. They would make her see Peeta as a monster, a mutt, but not something she can destroy and overcome, but something that’s almighty. Like Peeta is not the one person she can trust, but the one person she can never defeat.
Just imagine this from Peeta’s POV. Him seeing her in person after months, and instead of the hug or something he expected, she starts crying and hiding, begging him to spare her. Because in her eyes she is seeing something so cruel and horrifiying, she doesn’t even put up a fight.
And she would be to afraid to pick up any kind of weapon. She would be useless for propos and she coulnd’t heal for a long time, because the only person who could help her with her mental state is the same one who can’t go near her.
It’s so peculiar how the concept of friendship is non-existent in the Seam.
Because people do get married there but friendships are the type of relationships that are skipped?
It’s understandable when the whole neighborhood focuses its energy on survival. Hunger is such a visceral need, it drives people, and it is their priority.
But we’re not presented to any other characters around Katniss’ age or classmates. The kids from her school that have names are Madge and Delly, merchants.
Haymitch didn’t have any friends mentioned in his young years.
Lucy says they don’t have much contact with Seam people, because they still see her and her family as outsiders.
Even after Katniss becomes a closed person, she is still able to view other people as potential friends if they were in different circumstances. So probably Seam kids think like this too, they just happen to live in an environment that turns simple human connections into another form of unreachable luxury.
Oh, I always assumed that it was just Katniss that didn’t have friends.
I agree it might just be that Katniss is busy being a survivor not a social butterfly, but I’m also laughing at how your addition to this post seems like a roast of Katniss @wistfulweaverwoman 😂😂😂 even though know it’s not
“is friendship a luxury in a world where your peers could die at any time?” “that or Katniss is just a loser”
Dear Anon, this sweet post completely inspired me to write this:
If someone had asked me to pinpoint the moment it happened, I couldn’t say.
All I know is that we went into the woods as two survivors who had lost practically everything, except the will to live.
I taught him how to fish, and hunt, and gather plants.
He taught me how to thatch the roof of the bombed out old house by the lake and how to seal the cracks in the windowsills, and how to shape clay and bake it into usable things. Like bowls and cups.
We taught each other how to carry on, and it was easier to face the silence, and the emptiness when you knew there was someone else facing it with you.
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Those first few months were grueling. It was a race against time to load up on as much game and edibles as we could.
I had to build additional meat drying racks and Peeta had to build a smoker for all the fish we caught.
There was so much work, so much to do. I was the the more knowledgeable of the two of us. So I thought it was my responsibility to make sure we were prepared, ready for anything. I was gruff with him at first. All business and extremely irritable. He never took it personally. In fact he seemed to take it instride. He was good at turning things around. Seeing opportunities where at frist glance I saw problems.
Over time we started to do better, and we got along. We worked together as a team and found solutions to problems I never could have fixed on my own. It started to get easier, and when that happened, it was easy to forget about everything else.
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Still, touching never came easy to me.
Not after everything I had lost.
So even though I felt like after two months I could name the number of freckles on Peeta’s face because his was the only face I stared at day after day, that didn’t mean I wanted to touch him.
Or him to touch me.
The only exception was when one of us was hurt.
Which happened with unavoidable frequency.
Cuts and scrapes and burns and insect bites had to be cleaned, and closely monitored. Infection was always a danger, even more so in the wild where treatments were few and far between.
I cleaned any wounds he couldn’t reach and he did the same for me.
His hands were so much bigger than mine. Calloused but warm everytime. He always gently bandaged me up and applied salve with a the lightest touch of his fingertip.
So featherlight I almost didn’t feel it.
I asked him once, how he had gotten his light touch and that night he explained about how he used to decorate the cakes at the bakery.
The sad, wistful smile and the suspicious sheen in his eye was enough to have me hurrying to close down the conversation.
Talking about the past never led anywhere good.
So I guess in all honestly there were two things I wasn’t very good at. Touching, and talking.
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That first winter came and went and we scraped by.
It was uncomfortable being cooped up for long stretches of time, but we made do.
When lake thawed, and the snow melted, and all the world came alive again we were a few pounds lighter, and a few shades paler, but not much worse for wear.
Peeta immediately started building back up our woodpile, now that it was possible to spend longer amounts of time outside without freezing the tip of your nose off.
He started making plans to build more shelves inside the house so we could store more dried meat and food.
“Come next winter, we’ll be better prepared.” He said with determination.
I didn’t argue with him. Or tell him how I was used to losing much more weight in the winter time back when I lived in the Seam.
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Spring, real spring made itself known a few weeks later. With soft showers springling over the earth and tender shoots bursting out of the ground, seaking the sun that had come out to play once more.
Giving life and ligh to a world that had had enough darkness for a season.
When the rains let up, I tugged Peeta out of doors with a grass-woven basket in hand and told him to gather up every dandelion and borage and wild bit of lavender he could find. And then I taught him that you could eat them.
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Summer followed spring and brought a heat that was perfect for swimming.
Peeta admitted shyly that he didn’t know how to swim. So I spent the summer teaching him.
Long afternoons floating under the hot sun lead to a deep tan for me and a moderate sunburn for him.
I had to apply salve on the back of his neck, his shoulders, and the tips of his ears.
It wasn’t quite as difficult as I thought it would be.
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In the fall season, at summer’s end, when the cold air blowing down from the mountains hit the still-warm water of the lake, a steamy fog would rise across the surface of the water. Enveloping the ground in a hazy mist.
It was easy to imagine we were the only two people left in the world on days like that. Maybe we were. The only thing we really knew for sure was there was no home to go back to. All we had was what was ahead of us and what we built for ourselves with our own two hands.
Every morning, no matter the weather, Peeta would go outside to check on the supplies, and if the woodpile were low, he’d set to work filling it up again.
I would watch him from the one intact window of the lake house as I sipped mint tea from a rough-hewn mug he had made for me out of clay. I’d watch him from the window, the only one we hadn’t boarded up in preparation for winter, and I’d hum quietly to myself, something with no words and no set melody. Just whatever came to me.
Peeta’s feet would be swallowed up by the mist and sometimes, depending on the thickness of the fog, his upper legs and hips would be too.
But not his torso. Or his arms. Or his face. Those were still visible. And my eyes would trace the way the fabric of his shirt stretched across his broad back. How his arms would smoothly and effortlessly swing the axe down. How sweat would dampen his collar and the ash-blond waves would stick to his forehead.
He made quick work of the wood most days.
He had strength in his hands. The kind that could inflict real damage if he were ever inclined. But I knew his heart was not inclined towards cruelty or shows of strength for showing off’s sake.
As much as he liked to joke, and play, Peeta was an introspective kind of soul. He had unspoken principles that he exuded. Things he never talked about but lived by just the same. He made them known in the way he spoke, in the way he walked, worked, and above all, in the way he cared.
For everything. For the house, and the things we filled it with. For the food and supplies we gathered. For the lake, the plants, and even the animals.
Everything had a place and a purpose and he learned how to live off the land with a quiet kind of enthusiasm and respect that surprised me. I had not expected him to adapt half as well as he did, and certainly not as quickly.
But after a few months, Peeta started to thrive.
He didn’t complain about the hard work, or the inconvenience, or the solitude.
He got up every morning and stepped outside the door and took a few seconds to just breathe.
And in those five seconds, he looked freer than I had ever felt in my entire life. And then he was ready to go. Ready for any task, any trek, any objective.
Except walking quietly. That was the one beginner skill he never seemed to master no matter how much he tried. But it was ok. I’m better at hunting anyway.
It was hard not to resent him just a little bit for enjoying the wilderness maybe even more than I did. Which was ridiculous, but I had a long history with these woods, and by all accounts, Peeta had grown up his whole life in town. It shouldn’t have been so easy for him.
And maybe I felt a little territorial at first. The woods were supposed to be my thing. My place. My sanctuary.
The woods had given me joy and adventure when I was a child. They had given me life when I was a young starving adolescent. And now that I returned to them a grown woman they were no less harsh or dangerous. But they were still stunning. They were still the place where I felt I could best be myself. Where I could drink in the clean air and expel any worry that didn’t have to do with hunting or foraging. Or making sure Peeta didn’t wander too far from camp when he went in search of new colors for his homemade inks.
I learned little by little to share the woods with him, in all their grandeur, in the same way, my father once shared them with me.
And in the quiet hours of the morning, I could get away with just watching him bask in their natural brilliance for a few minutes. Uninterrupted. Without self-consciousness creeping in because he was always too absorbed to notice.
So I was free to notice things about him.
Like how there seemed to be entire worlds hidden away inside of him. His eyes would take on a special look of focus when he examined a plant, or when he looked at a bird, or a rock, that I could spend hours trying to analyze, but never figure out.
Or how sometimes the autumn sunset would hit his hair just right and for a second it would look softly dazzling, with warm colors like a fading fire.
Or how when the weather was clear and the sky was cloudless, the lake would look like a pristine jewel so untouched and startlingly blue that the only thing more beautiful was the way it was almost an exact match for the shade of Peeta’s eyes.
Or how all the world was quiet when I watched his strong gentle hands at work. Chopping wood. Setting a fishing line. Hanging up herbs to dry. Painting spots of color on the back wall.
All the world felt new when I looked into his eyes.
And here, in the fierce wilderness where my father taught me to love the plants and the trees and every growing thing, I started to love the thing growing silently, steadily, between Peeta and me.
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The night was full.
Full of the deep dark quiet that fell over everything that needed to sleep when the sun went down.
Full of the night time symphony of the wide wild woods we called home.
Bull frogs croaked, crickets chirped, owls hooted. And in the distance, wolves or wild dogs howled.
Peeta always made sure we had enough wood to feed the fire the whole night and I always made sure that the lantern was ready.
We kept the door barred, to keep out any unwanted predators.
But the only thing we couldn’t keep out completely was the dreams.
Dreams of a different life, full of the song of different voices, different faces, and life long since past. When I dreamed those kinds of dreams I often couldn’t fall back asleep. I knew Peeta had dreams like that too but after he tried to talk about it once, we got into such a big fight that he never brought it up again.
So, yes, the nights were full. But often they left me feeling empty.
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He stopped pretending to sleep through my nightmares during that second winter. He started waking me before they could go on too long. Often he wouldn’t say anything, as he looked down at me, he’d just heave this big breath, like there was so much he could say, or maybe wanted to, but he wasn’t sure if I wanted to hear him say it. So he just stayed quiet. Propped his back up against the wall next to my sleeping pallet and just stayed. Watching over me.
I allowed myself to be sleepy, to let the exhaustion take over when he was near. I rested my head on his shoulder. Folded the old threadbare blanket I had salvaged from my old home over our legs, and closed my eyes.
The dark didn’t seem so dark and the nightmares didn’t feel so inescapable when he stayed with me.
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We traded stories of our childhoods, never naming names but we both knew who they were about.
His favorite was the one I told him about two sisters who loved each other beyond measure and how they found ways to make each other smile no matter how poor they grew. He said he admired how tirelessly the older sister worked to provide for the younger, even going so far as to use her money from the first buck she ever shot, to buy her younger sister a goat for her birthday.
“Was the goat still wearing the pink ribbon?” He asked when I told him about how the younger sister used her healing knowledge and her goodness to bring the goat back from the brink of death.
“I think so.” I answer. “Why?” I ask, curious.
“Just trying to get an accurate picture.” He says.
He tells me stories about a little boy who grew up with two older brothers, who were always pulling pranks and getting into scrapes. He talks about how the little boy loved painting and art but hardly found the time or the materials to practice except on special occasions when someone would order a fancy cake from the family’s bakery.
Then the world would come alive for the little boy, who reshaped it into something beautiful with tiny images created out of sugar and fondant and food coloring.
But he had to be very careful not to waste ingredients or the fire-breathing she-dragon who ruled the kitchen would punish him for being wasteful. Often giving him only the stalest bread, the kind that was practically moldy, to eat.
“I always wondered if you ate cake and cookies everyday.” I admitted quietly, after his story was done.
“Oh, no.” He says, stifling a yawn. It’s late, and we’ve stayed up longer than usual, just talking. “Hardly ever, unless we got invited to the same celebration where the cake was being served. Practically everything we ate was stale. That’s why my father was so keen on buying your squirrels and berries. Sometimes that was the only fresh food we saw all week.”
He snuggles down closer, burying the side of his face against the side of my head. In my hair. I fall asleep dreaming about what it must have been like to have enough food but only be able to eat other people’s leftovers.
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One night he tells me the story about a little boy who fell in love with a girl who had a voice like a sunrise. He tells me about her mother and father who had a love so true that it crossed boundaries, divides, and prejudices just to exist. He paints the boy’s father as a footnote of unrequited love. And the girl as this beautiful free spirit who never looked at the little boy twice, at least not until they were the only two people left in the entire world—
“That’s not true.” I interrupt, voice thick and choking with emotion.
“Are you crying? Katniss, please don’t cry.” He pleads. “I’m sorry. I never should have brought it up. I know you don’t like talking about the past, and these kinds of things and —”
“But I did.” I protest. “I did see you, that day with the bread, and every day after that.” I tell him, tears streaming down my face.
“Did you?” he breathes, voice softer than a whisper. As fragile as the moonbeams floating through the open window. Then, in a stronger voice, “You don’t have to say that, to try and make me feel better. You don’t have to spare my feelings.”
“I knew you were strong. You could throw a hundred-pound sack of flour over your head like it was nothing. Ever since 8th grade. You came in second in the wrestling tournament. And I knew you were smart and good with people. You always knew what to say in class and you had so many friends at school. I saw you, Peeta. I always meant to say thank you for the bread but—”
I’m cut off by him leaning in and resting his forehead against mine. I watch him take in a breath and heave it out. A light shudder passes through him.
“I never needed a thank you, for the bread. I never needed anything at all. I just hoped that it helped you in some way. And if it did, that was enough for me. Katniss I never could have dreamed that you’d notice all those things about me.”
He looks at me he’s just discovered something wonderful and completely surprising. He smiles that smile of his. The one that’s so genuinely sweet with just the perfect hint of shyness. That smile does things to me. It makes more words tumble out.
“I know a lot more now. You’re a painter. And a baker, even if the only bread you can make now is acorn flatbread. You never use berries to sweeten your tea, even when they’re in season. You always double-knot your shoelaces. You always sleep with the window open-”
His hands cup my face, his warm breath ghosts over my lips. He looks into my eyes for permission, but all I can think before I touch my lips to his, is that this would have happened anyway.
This is always where we were heading, Peeta and I.
Even if we hadn’t been the only ones left, we would have gravitated to each other.
Because I need him. I need him like air. Like water. And yet it’s more than survival. It’s more than just the way my body yearns, and hunger ignites in my veins in an entirely new way.
It’s the warmth and heat of being touched by someone that knows me, perhaps better than I know myself. He has memorized every facial expression and every errant sound from the grumbling of my stomach to the way I cry out for him in the dark.
But the sounds I make when he puts his hands on me, are not cries of fear. Distress, maybe, but only because I never, ever want him to stop touching me—ever.
And I don’t want his mouth to stop kissing me, except after he makes me fall apart with his tongue and then everything is just a bit too sensitive for a little while.
But that’s ok because then it’s his turn and oh, there’s nothing more beautiful than seeing the person who means the world to you come completely unglued at your touch.
Peeta’s never been as exquisite as he is when he’s completely bare and open to me, yearning, straining, for his peak. And even though it’s clear that neither of us has very much experience with these kinds of things, what we do know is each other. Every breathy moan and deep sigh is a map to guide us to each other’s pleasure.
It may be new, and it may be scary at first, but it’s us, and that makes it okay. To get lost in the sensation. To lose ourselves in each other, chasing the stars that burst beneath our very skin.
For all the thrumming pulse of passion that drives us, when it happens it’s still sweet, and slow. Like the bud turning towards the sun. The ice thawing from the tree branches. The animals coming out of their burrows and nests and waking up to a world of sunlight and possibility. It’s the thing that exists inside all creatures after they’ve braved the darkest of winters and come out the other side.
The feeling of death giving way to life. The past to the future. Fear letting go, and being replaced with something else.
The hope that life can be good again, despite our losses. That we can go on.
I know now that what I need is not the detachment of life without touch, severed forever from my past and divorced from the idea of family. I need the dandelion in the spring, the vibrant, enduring promise that dawn will come and make the world new, and us along with it.
What I need is him.
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So when Peeta asks me in the morning if I love him, I say I do.
“Oh, Loid,” she says with a smile. All she ever needed was right in front of her. An imperfect, chaotic, loving family. “I don’t want the moon. I just want you.”
Loid leans forward across the bed, letting his forehead brush against hers. “Then take it, my darling. All that I am; past, present and future—I am yours.”
i have this disease called i will open your message and get distracted and forget to reply and then the notification will be gone so i will not have replied for ages and you will think i am ignoring you but. i am not. it’s incurable
Hi! I had somewhat of an art block for a couple of days but I’m back now! And my arms are not empty hehe 😉 , hope this cozy illustration will warm your Monday ❤️
Oh I have so much questions to answer! Let’s gooooo
twiddles my thumbs SO UH this is a snippet of a rather ambitious (and self-indulgent) idea i haven’t stopped thinking about for weeks. Catching Fire AU where katniss actually, ya know, talks about her feelings. maybe i’ll do something with this, maybe i wont. WHO KNOWS. it’ll be a surprise to both you AND me
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“Wait-!”
Her arm darts out and she’s just as startled as he is when her fingers grab the fabric at the elbow of his shirt. Her grip is gentle, yielding. He could easily pull away and board the train again, leaving her to forever wonder what could have been.
He doesn’t.
But neither of them move. He doesn’t turn around and she doesn’t dare let out a breath, out of fear she will break whatever is tethering them together and he’ll decide to walk away.
That she’ll lose the boy with the bread forever.
The silence following the sound of her voice rings in her ears for what feels like hours as her thoughts race through her head faster than she can latch on to a single one. The blow of the train horn, indicating it’s upcoming departure, jerks her out of her own head.
“I do. Want to talk, that is.” The words tumble from her lips. “Just not…not….” Not with the Capitol breathing down our necks. Not with Snow probably listening to our every word. Not until we’re actually alone.
Her words linger in the space between them. Her fingers curl tighter into the fabric of his shirt, eyes squeezing shut as she wills him to understand what she can’t speak out loud. Her other trembling hand clutches the ‘flowers’ he had handed moments before her like they were her last life line.
Finally - finally, he lets out a breath and his shoulders slump forward.
His response is spoken to the empty air in front of him.
“Okay.”
This time, she lets him slip from her grasp when he heads back towards the train; without a single glance at her.
He asked her to help him with his hair, and Peeta couldn’t help but be reminded of the days spent in the cave in their first Games, when she also took care of him then.
