Authors Note:

I watched Catching Fire the other day and this idea came into my head and I needed to put it into words so that I could stop thinking about it. I'm sorry if the characters are a bit OOC but I hope you enjoy it regardless. Also, sorry for any mistakes made, it's unbeta'd.

Disclaimer:

I don't own the Hunger Games or the characters used within this story.

Her dress falls to the floor and you try to look away, you really do but you can't help but think she should have foregone the dress from the beginning, because standing there – in all her glory – you feel a sudden unfamiliar churning in your stomach that is anything but unpleasant and leaves your head buzzing.

She seems to know exactly what you're thinking though because she catches your wandering gaze and gives you a wink that almost makes you follow her mindlessly out of the elevator as she exits on her floor with an extra sway to her hips that makes your breath falter. You manage to not follow her but you do make a note of the floor she exits on and you curse yourself when you begin to chant the number in your head, making sure its burned into your brain like the image of her pale, toned body that leaves you trembling with flashes of it pressed against yours doing things you'd never even dreamt of before.

You can feel Peeta and Haymitch staring at you so intently that your sure you would have felt a burn if it weren't for the heat already coursing through your veins and radiating through your skin. You don't turn because you know their watching you curiously. The curiosity would have stemmed from how you bit down on your bottom lip almost as hard as you gripped the material of your dress, all the while clenching your eyes shut in a way that would either look like you were trying to savor the image or trying to erase it. You don't erase it though. No. You revel in the memory of her perfectly crafted smirk that, for once, you're willing to except because she certainly has something to be smug about.

You breathe a sigh of relief when it stops on your floor and you rush out, almost tripping countless times on your sprint to your room – your safe haven. Only you're not safe because it's your mind. Your mind is what's tormenting you. Your mind is what's filling your head with more prominent images than the carnage of The Hunger Games. Or maybe it's your heart. Or perhaps another body part that you are completely sure you've never though with, until her. Until Johanna Mason. Johanna Mason and her perfectly crafted curves and those legs that make you cautiously wipe your mouth for fear you are actually drooling.

You collapse on your bed and lay there. You know sleep will never come and yet you naively try and capture the fugitive, wishing to sleep just for a moment in order to reset your brain and forget about the beauty of the District 7 diva that has left you reeling. You don't sleep though. No. You toss and turn and teeter on the edge of a carnal abyss that you want to fall into so desperately but stop yourself every time, because soon you'll walk into an arena and have to put an arrow through her, and while it already doesn't seem appealing, you know letting yourself taste the forbidden fruit will only make it harder. Then there is Peeta and not just the boy himself but the image you are supposed to uphold. You're pretty sure getting caught with the axe wielding woman doesn't fit the mold you've all created to appease The Capitol.

You're brought out of your musings by an impatient knock that causes you to jolt into reality and realize the glow of the sunset has been replaced by the subtle tinge of moonlight spilling into the room.

You must have pondered too long because the knock sounds again and you wonder who on Earth it could be. You never would have guessed her though. Definitely not. But their she stood, all be it clothed, in your doorway somehow looking both sultry and vulnerable, in a mix that made your heart thump violently with the realization that you've never seen anything as beautiful as Johanna and nothing would ever be that beautiful again. Not Peeta. Not Gail. Not the lake or the sunset. Nothing.

She pushes into your room with a rushed nervousness that she tries to disguise as impatience but her façade doesn't faze you anymore and you don't know why you're suddenly able to see the girl under the smirk. You're once again glad for her core confidence when she surges forward capturing your lips with her own. Her lips are rough, yet smooth and both heat and freeze you all at once. Your mind buzzes with the contrasting complexities and at first you're too startled to kiss back but then your brain restarts. You move your lips with hers in an elaborate routine that tears your breath from your lungs with ease. You gasp when she nips your bottom lip and you realize that was exactly what she desired when you feel her tongue slide along yours, greeting it like it were an old friend.

You don't notice you're moving until your knees come into contact with the bed and you fall back with her on top of you. You bask in the feel of her slender figure pressed against you instead of a muscular figure that engulfs you as opposed to Johanna's figure slipping into yours like pieces of a puzzle.

She retracts her lips from yours silently and asks you a question you never expected, only she doesn't form words, she simply gives you a look but you understand. You don't tell her you've never done this before. You don't vocalize the age gap. You don't think of your districts or Peeta or Gail. You certainly don't think of the games. You simply answer by pulling your shirt from your torso in a response you hope tells her that this is what you want regardless of the consequences that may follow in the short time you have. You assume she must have gotten the message because she pulls her top off throwing it to the floor when it joins yours before she leans back down to lightly press her lips to your jaw.

You don't know what to let your mind scream at first. The flutter in your stomach when she peppers kisses along your skin or the heat pooling in your chest as her breasts push salaciously into your own, sending chills down your spine each time her nipple carelessly caresses your body. You decide upon her lips when she put them on your neck instead and bites into you so that you moan in a blend of pleasure and pain. You're sure the situation would have been different had it been Enobaria with her 'teeth' scraping into you dangerously, but you feel oddly safe at Johanna's mercy and you wonder when the last time you were truly at peace was.

You're skin erupts in goose bumps as she shifts her mouth to hover above your breasts, simply letting her breath skirt along your skin before she actually takes your nipple into her mouth, flicking her tongue and sucking so skilfully that you're left as nothing more than a bumbling mess when she eventually shifts her attention to the other one. Your hands automatically rake through her hair when her lips trail south reaching your waist band and pulling your trousers down in order to continue down your thighs. You can barely think when she drags her mouth along your inner thigh, her bottom lip moving slower and leaving a tingling trail on your skin.

You don't expect the burst of pleasure that crashes through your body when she runs her tongue through your folds and clamps her lips around your clit, making your body convulse deliciously, your mind goes back to the last time you convulsed on this bed, only then it was due to nightmares and yet now you're not afraid, you're not at all scared, you're floating and the only thing that's stopping you from leaving the ground is Johanna's vice like grip on your thighs.

You lose your grip on the world when her fingers replace her tongue and you wonder how she ended up with such skilfully strong fingers and you wonder how you ended up being on the receiving end of Johanna Mason's impeccable skills but the little details don't matter too much to you when she curls her fingers just at the right time making your hips buck in time with her hand.

Her lips find yours again and you know she's muffling the groans and whimpers that are ripping out of your lungs but for the first time in your life you don't mind being silenced because you are too delirious from the taste of her on your tongue and the feel of her hand moving effortlessly between your legs. You come apart with a string of profanities that you didn't even know you had in your vocabulary. You feel exhausted until you look into her eyes and see a challenging glint that gives you a rush of adrenaline causing you to flip your bodies over, so that you're straddling the body that was seemingly burned into your retina.

You're thankful for the speed those years of hunting for your food has afforded you when you see the surprised, yet aroused look cloud over her face. Her lips part and the words that fall out spur you on even more.

"Show me your skills Girl on Fire"

You want to tell her that once your done she'll be the girl on fire but even during this whole ordeal you can't find the guts to make the comment so you instead make her swallow any other one liners she has in her head by rolling your hips into hers and making her eyes roll into her head as her back arches off of the bed.

You take her earlobe into your mouth and tug on it roughly making her gasp much like you had earlier, only she says something that makes you think she knows you've never done anything like this before and you feel awkwardly reassured and determined all at once.

"I was told you were pure but it seems in reality you're quite dirty"

You don't let yourself listen to her little remarks here and there you simply rip her pants from her legs and thrust your fingers in effortlessly, silently thanking your bow for strengthening your fingers over the years because she doesn't speak any more. Not because she decided to be silent but simply because she could barely breathe let alone speak around the growing moans that were reverberating in her chest.

As her eyes flutter to a close and she push her hips into your hand at the same pace of your fingers in order to get herself closer to release you take the time you're sure you'll never have again to enjoy her magnificence. You thought she was beautiful before, when the light reflected on her bare breasts but now, with the moonlight bouncing off of the accumulating sweat upon her chest you don't think the word 'beautiful' is quite right anymore. But you don't let your mind bog you down on that for a moment longer, you concentrate in slamming your fingers into her at a pace you didn't know you could set because you want to watch her fall apart beneath you. You want to see someone's eyes roll back into their head due to pleasure rather than death for once. You want to feel her walls tighten around her fingers and you want to feel her shake beneath your body. Your wishes come true when you gently brush your thumb across her clit and she lets out a moan that you're sure would have woken up anyone in the immediate area.

You pull your hand away when she finally finishes riding out her high but you don't move far, you fall next to her panting body, the only part of you still in contact with her is the skin on the side of your pinky that every once in awhile grazes the skin of her hand. You jolt in surprise when she reaches over and places her hand on yours. You turn your head to catch her eye and once again catch the undeniable vulnerability lying in her depths. You don't say anything though. No. You don't speak; you just flip your hand over and intertwine your fingers before reaching for the sheet and pulling it on both of you. Neither of you move then. You don't shift closer. You don't hold one another. You simply lay, content in the contact between your hands, knowing you both are feeling the exact same thing. You don't take your hand away and eventually you drift into sleep.

You wake up and find yourself alone in your bed. You can't explain the undeniable anger that surges through you at that moment but you are suddenly glad that training is today because you have the incessant urge to put an arrow through something… or someone.

You must look angry when you walk in because Peeta watches you cautiously out of the corner of his eye and when Johanna's carefree eyes meet yours they suddenly look panicked. Good, you think, let her be afraid.

You aimlessly walk around like Haymitch asked, trying to find allies but the only people you really want on your team are those you know he will never accept. You eventually find your way to the bows like you originally intended after you see Johanna naked and oiling her skin with something that reminds you of how she looked in the moonlight, coated in sweat. You pick up the bow, if only to have something to concentrate on other than the flashes of her hoarse voice calling your name in your head, only the voice becomes more prominent and with your eyes closed you're not quite sure if it's in your head anymore.

"Katniss!"

You grab an arrow subconsciously and turn with your bow poised to shoot, you seriously consider going through with the action when you see Johanna Mason, still naked and oiled for wrestling, standing in front of you. You don't shoot though, you simply spit out, 'leave', through clenched teeth.

"Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning"

You don't know what compels you to warrant her snark with a reply but you rush out a whispered comment making sure the rest of the tributes don't hear.

"There wouldn't have been an option of sides if you hadn't of left me alone in the bed."

The corners of her mouth turn up slightly before she breaks out into her usual smug grin, all the while leaning against the bow stand, causing her abdominal muscles to ripple and your stomach to burn with heat at the sight.

"Ah, so that's what this is about? Would you have preferred getting caught by your little bread boy with me in your bed?"

She spits out the words that are in correlation to Peeta and you almost copy her grin when it occurs to you that she is jealous of the baker from District 12. You don't smirk though. You sigh deeply before replying.

"No, of course I didn't want to be caught"

"Exactly. Now show me how to shoot Girl on Fire"

The name makes you shiver as you recall the sound of her voice as she spoke it last time. She winks at you for the second time in your life before extracting the bow from your hands and stepping to a target. She lifts the bow and places an arrow to the string before letting it fly, but it misses the target completely and you decided to help her instead of watching her fail miserably. You're not sure why you thought it would be a good idea to step up behind her and press your body into her very naked one, wrapping your hands around hers in order to move them into the correct position. You do know what causes you to smile though and it's the way she trembles slightly as your breath dances down her neck and along the expanse of your chest. Once you think you've successfully put her into position you move your hands from hers and instead grip her hips tightly. You turn your face so that your lips gently graze her ear as you whisper,

"Shoot"

The arrow whizzes through the air and sinks into the middle of the target, only you don't pay much attention to your success in teaching because you're too enraptured by the way she turns her head to you, realizing to late that you are so close that moving her head makes her lips glide along yours. A distant cough is what pulls you away from almost kissing and you both jump as far as you possibly can away from each other before looking up and realizing you've drawn in quite a crowd. All of the tributes really. You don't look back at her as you walk away and from then on you do your best to steer clear of the girl from District 7 who is far more of a star crossed lover than Peeta would ever be. But she keeps popping up regardless. You see her in your dreams. You see flashes of her in the arena. You hear her screams in the jabberjays calls. You fear for her life when you hear she's in The Capitol, because you finally realize why the choice between Peeta and Gail was never really made, it was because the true choice was between who you are and who you were supposed to be and the only real answer was Johanna Mason. Johanna Mason and her inexplicable distaste for simply wearing clothes.