a/n: I've never written for THG before, so I'm kind of excited to finally introduce myself to the archive. So-um-enjoy this weird, mushy-esque drabble.(;
Pairing: -gasps- it's a Gale/Katniss. XD
...
She's just a girl to some; pretty enough with her ebony hair that turns into tumbling waves during particular harsh rainfalls, a slim figure with only the slightest of curves, but appealing enough to have eyes on places that shouldn't be permitted, but it's her eyes-the color of a cloudy sky that brings no rain: maybe they're considered as plain, but it's always obvious that they're roiling and just itching to let loose.
It was always those gray, winter gray, eyes that attracted suitors-the ones she never saw, as she was too off-putting to really approach-but they were always full of something, mostly unidentifiable-yes-there was always something raging inside. Maybe it was a days' happenings, joy over a special sale made, or maybe it was being with a boy that all had talked about at one time in their listless lives.
Gale.
...
To him, she was never just a girl with attractive looks. No. she was the girl with the tightly woven braid, the one with the harsh, stabbing eyes, the one with the thin figure, the one that had captured his heart, but not with her beauty. He hadn't really seen that-her looks-at first; he had seen the spark in her heart, the one that pulled him to her, the one that called for his arms. He had ignored it for a while.
She had simply been his hunting partner and an important confidant.
It was by a little, whispering stream that he came to the realization that she was actually quite attractive: she had snared her first very successfully, with his help, of course. It was a beaver; he remembered how dark its beady eyes had stared when they centered on his own, how it's wet, floppy tail had swooshed through the air uselessly, and how it's tiny, bladed feet had clawed at the net. But most of all he recalled her elated look, and how her pink lips pursed crookedly together, but not quite enough, as she let out a giddy laugh, one he had never heard before; it was his carnal impulse to jump into the whistling stream and rejoice with her, but maybe-he had thought-I'll get another chance.
...
Happiness evaded him during the Games; he was sure she would fall to them, not out of inability, but the soft pit that he knew laid deep in her heart. But she hadn't. She had help from the clever, manipulative baker boy Mellark- it was hard to sink into the soiled images that invaded his mind daily. Mellark's filthy lips touching hers, her smiling against him, their glorious victory over the Capitol-all broadcasted for him and all to see. Her looks to Peeta-they were real. Or they had seemed it.
Gale Hawthorne wasn't sure where his allegiances laid.
...
She had come home to them; despite his fury and utter cowardice of not being able to face her-that-that-his ..Catnip. He attended the welcoming ceremony, but stayed to the back, his arms obstinately crossed, a clear message for everyone to stay away from him.
She had looked beautiful, but unnaturally so, not the girl that had grasped him unintentionally; her hair was glossy, her eyes lined with dark kohl, her lips a ruby red- but then he saw it. The glint in her eyes, the hard stomp of her feet, the crease in her smile, and he knew that she was still there.
She hadn't been lost in the Games like he had thought.
...
They met. It wasn't a joyful one, or maybe it was. He had pretended that everything was normal, that he didn't care how much she loved Peeta, that he would ignore how often he had observed her messily arched brows and gleaming teeth with a smile that never could run straight, or the way her hands always flew to her back when she was frightened, bow there or not, or how she always laughed in an almost giddy tone after she shot down one of the treasured black rabbits- he made himself oblivious.
...
They were splayed on their hill, hands entwined, almost like old times; her hair wafted off a foreign shampoo that he couldn't place, and her hands were soft, not as callused before, but she was there, just an inch from his arms.
It wouldn't take much to just roll her into his restless limbs.
...
He couldn't help but wonder when he converted into such a romantic; really, he actually kind of liked the title. It was the only happy pronouncement in the District.
...
Her hair gleamed, a neon contrast against the hill, and before he could resist and slap himself mentally, his hands were twirling ebony locks of silk around his fingers. He noticed her tiny intake of breath, the clenching of her superficially soft hands, the flash of her stormy eyes as they roiled in the familiar unbridled emotion that could never be identified.
Their eyes delved deep into each other, carving their way through the pits of their hearts; he would take his chance now, before he lost this connection.
His hands sped from her hair to her shoulder, and he tugged spontaneously, roughly; their eyes broke, and she yelped, tumbling clumsily into his arms. He cuddled her close, breathing in her natural scent of apples and storms and dew and wood; she gasped as his fingers traced her face, outlining every contour and flaw within his reach.
Her face was turned over, her eyes as wide as the doe she had killed earlier, her lips in a perfect "O"; all he could see was her mouth.
She mumbled his name, maybe irritated, maybe with resignation, maybe (he hoped.) with desire; he ignored her.
He placed his lips on her prominent jaw, breathing in moistly soft skin; butterfly kisses were placed across her face, on the sensitive spots on her neck, on her earlobe. Her breath became ragged, struggling to retain physical urges; he hadn't even kissed her yet.
His tongue flicked across her nose; he chuckled as she trembled, and her hands enclosed his shoulders tightly.
She muttered a few profanities. He decided to stifle them.
His lips were on hers, in hardly a second, pushing and aching and nipping; she was gasping against him, her hands protesting against his shoulders, but he only brought her closer, his body melding and shoving against hers; his kiss turned hungry on both sides. Their tongues plunged deep, their hands pushing and pulling and searching, their breath uncontrolled and desperate.
It hurt, rather than bring him satisfaction. He exhaled his desires and yearning and pushed her, quite gently, away.
She yelled his name.
He walked away.
...
She followed him to his cabin, eyes catching his in regular intervals; he commanded for her to leave him.
...
It rained. And she shouted and whooped and hollered until he thought he would die from it.
He loped outside, considering slapping her, but all he could see was her drenched clothes and hair and pitiful stance.
He cursed at her, until she moved into his arms.
...
All that existed in the world was her. No Peeta, no Games, no.. anything. Just two victims of the harsh world infatuated with other, glued together with rain streaming their hair into rivulets. Their eyes locked.
His lips pressed reassuringly against hers, and all was right.
...
a/n: Oh, my. That was extremely fluffy, I'm aware. And I know this pairing is kind of iffy for some; personally, I like Peeta/Katniss and Finnick/Katniss also, but this one showed more inspiration. Reviews would be fantastic.(:
-Livvy