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theheartboyshome · 1 year

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Hunger Games characters reacting to you seeing their imperfections

Gale. Finnick. Peeta. TW: Unedited; mentions of abuse; mentions of bl**d; mentions of violence; implied s*x; mentions of harm

Gale.

Not one. Many. Many scars littering his back, across every hemisphere of his tense muscles and tender bruises. Strokes engraved into his skin, scattered across every slope of his back. Ugly. He hates looking at them. They’re everywhere, it seems. Not faint lines, either. That’s what Gale hates the most. His pain, the reminders of it, are never going away. They’re deep lashes embedded into his body, shiny pink trails that remind him of home. Of how terrible 12 really was. How unfair everything was. He doesn’t want to remember home like that. Not like the painful scars that seem to mark every inch of his back. District 12 was…

He doesn’t want to think about Peacekeepers, especially now that he’s the equivalent of one himself. He doesn’t want to think of all the pent up hurt he had left behind in 12 for him to pick up. Part of him wanted to feel the pain again, if only it would patch the holes he feels inside himself. Like he needs something. And these scars… the pain… is all he needs to obtain whatever it could be.

Gale is standing in front of the mirror stapled into the wall of his room. Not so much preening as he is… examining. He turns his back to the mirror more, straining to see the scars that riddle the plains of his back. He runs his finger along one of them, feeling the shiny repairs contrast with the unmarked skin. His fingers press more firmly into one of the deepest gashes. It doesn’t hurt anymore… which he’s grateful for. He only wishes they’d go away- the scars. He really hates them. The creaking door grates his eardrums, and he turns sharply towards the doorway. He looks around for his shirt, albeit a little frantic.

“Can I come in?” The door isn’t completely open, which was very polite.

Gale pauses, pushing his arms into his shirt sleeves as he glances headlong towards the door. “Yeah, in a sec,” he continues dressing, ignoring the heat that’s rising to his face.

“Gale?”

His shirt isn’t even over his head, leaving his back completely exposed to the doorway. He pauses, turning away from where you stand.

“Yeah?” He calls back in the most nonchalant voice he can muster. He didn’t really intend for anyone to interrupt him, especially not you. “Sorry I-” you look down at your hand sheepishly. “I thought you were just procrastinating.” Gale scoffs; his calm and collected act is completely contradicting his wild heart rate. “Procrastinating? What, from seeing you?”

It’s the Gale you like. Not serious Gale. Not captain Gale. You like youthful, District 12 Gale. You nod, still a little sheepish. “Well, I’m not,” he pulls the shirt over his head, “I was just-” “-changing?”

You interrupt with a knowing smile, although Gale would argue that it’s a smirk. “Yeah I noticed.” He looks down at his hands that are now tucked into his pockets. The scars, fragments of pain left behind from twelve, running the length of his back, deep gashes that would never go away; you had seen them. Gale figured as much. He just really hoped you’d never have to see them again. But of course…

“Gale,” you breath against the crook of his neck. You’re both sitting on his bed, but you were clever enough to let time pass before pressing. It was a week later. “Let me see.” As you chide him, gently- mind, your fingers slip underneath his shirt. Gale sighs heavily. “I don’t know…” he murmurs into your hair. “It’s just… they’re really- uhm…”

You listen patiently, hands stationary at the hem of his shirt. “I don’t… let a lot of people see them.” You chuckle, “I hope not.” And on a more serious note, “I promise to be gentle. You know me.” He does know you, how tender you can be. Reluctantly, he complies. Your hands ride the shirt up his back and over his head. Elegant, gentle fingers run along his spine, so soft that Gale hardly suppresses a shiver. You apologize quietly. He hears you murmuring idle comments- something about cruelty and mistreatment. He already knows all that. The way you describe the scars is different than the means in which he got them. Your fingers trace a particularly long stoke that winds from the top of his shoulder blade down to the middle of his back. The soft flesh of your index finger sends goosebumps in the wake of its touch against the shiny scar.

“They’re beautiful.”

Gale almost chokes on air, his jaw tightening.

Heavy silence follows as he tries to comprehend what you said. His scars are ugly. They always would be. “What did you say?” You look up from your trance, seeming a little dazed, “Hmm? Oh!”

You look at his back again, avoiding eye contact. He turns towards you, observing you intently. Your gaze is still downwards, and more color is flaring in your cheeks. “I said: they’re beautiful, because… I- er -I think they are.” Gale’s eyes soften and his face relaxes. He leans forward, capturing your lips in his. You might not know it, but you made him genuinely happy. Maybe the pain and hurt from the scars could be healed.

Finnick

The footprints of lips were all over him; more hickeys spanning across his skin than he could count. Tender brown splotches with defined Cupid’s bows that nestled in the crook of his neck and across his chest and shoulders. Finnick slowly drew his finger across the curves and dips in his skin, letting his thumb rest on a particularly sore spot, rubbing against the print of a fleshy bottom lip. He felt a smile creeping onto the corners of his mouth as a scoff built up in his chest. The smile wasn’t genuine, and the scoff was partially out of disbelief. His latest visitors really left their mark, and he hadn’t been eighteen for more than a month. He averted his gaze to the floor, staring at his bare feet instead of the open scratches and dark hickies that ran across every plain of his upper body. His fingers still rubbed subconsciously on the sorest splotches. The blood dripping down his thigh was probably from a newly created scar. Finnick’s eyes darkened with distaste. There was something about this job that made him feel hollow. The throbbing in his crotch and aching in his muscles were the highlights of his evening. Not that anyone cared- but he really hated the whole thing.

Damp fingers turned on the faucet as he finally mustered the courage to back away from the mirror. The room was chilly, and his legs and body shook as he leaned against the bathroom counter, rubbing his hands until they pruned in the sink. Finnick was aware he was good looking- he had always known that. However, as he stared at his reflection, he was beginning to get the impression that beauty was cruel. There was a soft rapping on the door. Abruptly, he was snapped out of his trance. The knock on the door startled him, and he turned off the water hurriedly, shaking his hands dry as best he could. “Ye-ah?” His voice cracked, eyes swarming with alarm as he looked around for his clothes. Of course...seeing as they were in the other room where he left them, they were completely useless to him. “Finnick? It’s me.”

He recognized the friendly voice, but didn’t intend to let you see him like this. If he was too young, then you certainly were. The bathrobe would do, and as he fastened it, he let you inside. Of course, he couldn’t cover up everything. The dark lip stains that riddled his neck were still displayed to you. He felt an increasing amount of self consciousness, something he doesn’t feel often, as you stared at him with lips pursed and eyes sickeningly blank. “Bad time?” You asked, averting your eyes to the floor. Finnick tried smiling, but once again it felt as plastic as the capital, “Course not. Come in.” He had hardly clicked the door in place and you were already grabbing the hem of the robe. Finnick shuttered the moment your fingers grazed his skin, flinching away from you. “It’s fine...” he breaths, “It’s nothing.”

You nod, looking a bit sheepish.

“Sorry,” you mutter, letting your hands fall limply to your sides. “You’re-just bleeding.” “Am I?” He chuckles, staring at you with an empty gaze and a tiny smile, “Would you look at that.” His head tilts as he examined the rusty, slightly transparent, liquid that sits on his fingertips.

You eye him wordlessly, your brows drawn together in concern. Finnick doesn’t enjoy the attention at this particular moment. “You need something?” Of course it’s a lame attempt at changing the sore subject, he knows that. He also knows that you’ll be gentle with him. However, the last thing he wants is for you to see him. Not just the hickies and temporary scratch marks. Lines of crescent moon scars where sharp nails drew so much blood he got dizzy mid-session. Rope burns on his wrist and less-than pleasant marks scattered across his body. No, his first “lover” wasn’t pleasant, and his second was hardly better. He didn’t need you to see. To know. “What did they do to you?”

You stand across from him, and despite your lack of contact Finnick’s body still vibrates and tingles. He waves it off, “Nothing really- worth sharing- if you know what I mean...” his gaze falls onto the ground before rebounding onto you. “So- what did you-“

“Finnick,” you cut him off sharply. He blinks, in a daze. “Yes?” You creep closer to him, cold fingers dragging against his skin and underneath the robe. He knows how gentle you’ll be, and he does trust you. But why would he let anyone see something that’s so horrible? Suddenly, the curiosity vanishes on your face. Finnick gets the feeling that now you understand. Your hands are just short of completely undressing him, your face so close to his that he can feel your warm breath. “I’ll take care of it,” you promise quietly, “And you don’t have to answer any questions if you don’t want to.”

Finnick holds his breath, staring at you with sober dark eyes. His lips form the tiniest of smirks, his brows drawing together partway as he lets his head sag. It’s subtle confirmation, and he bids you to begin. Cool fingertips begin peeling away at his clothes, and warm palms begin caressing his most tender muscles. “Just be gentle, kay?” His trembling voice cracks slightly.

You nod, “I will be.”

Peeta

It reminds him of a paint spill or something of the like. Dark purple, underlying tones of red; colors that are normally beautiful to him suddenly aren’t. The grooves and dips in his hands are stained purple-black, from his fingertips to his knuckles, some even extending to his wrist. Peeta scolds himself. He doesn’t even think to apply any sort of medicine to his hands, or cool them off in water. His able fingers are rendered sore- useless. He knows the burns will leave a mark, they’re sure to. It’ll just be another imperfection, he reasons. Another freckle, another scar, there’s no difference. That’s what he keeps telling himself anyway. Peeta is sitting at his kitchen table, rubbing the outline of one of his burns with a gentle thumb. His gaze is vacant and hollow, lips slightly parted, like he’s concentrating. Which, he is; he’s concentrating on the contrast between the plump flesh of his finger pad and the coarse burn that covers his knuckles and fingertips. He only got these burns recently, and wasn’t intent on letting anyone know. He had quite a few old burns on his hands and wrists- they had turned into pink scars that reminded him of sunbursts. Peeta never would be vain. Another imperfection, that’s all scars were to him. But for now, the dark burn only reminded him of his stupidity, and caused him discomfort throughout the day. He turned his head to the front of the house, hearing the screech of the screen door and quickly averting his gaze. He had taken to drawing imaginary shapes on the table, and began doing it then. It was an excellent distraction. His eyes didn’t waver from their target; his gaze was solely fixated on his cramped fingers working their magic. He didn’t look up to the doorway when you appeared, and despite knowing who it was, nothing could deter his intent stare for the moment. Dark eyes that followed the stroke of his hand against the dark oak tabletop. It wasn’t until your voice coaxed him out of his own inner musings that he focused on anything other than his imaginary house. You had a very— hooking voice. Had you said nothing, Peeta might not have given you a second glance. “Peeta?” You call distantly. Your voice sounds thick at the moment. Distant... but packed with emotions so raw that Peeta is forced to look your way. “Huh? Uh- hi! He smiles. There’s nothing fake about the smile; nothing fake about the cheeriness in his voice. Yet somehow... he gets the impression....

“Something wrong?” He asks. His brows draw together. He’s always been expressive— gently animated, that is. You nod, leaning casually on the doorframe, a small pail of soapy water weighing down your shoulders. “Yeah, actually,” you begin with an easygoing- open tone. “I was wanting some help with washing the bathroom-”

“Oh... yeah! Totally,” He replies, sliding out of his chair. He extends his hand out to take the bucket; offering help that you can’t refuse. “Thanks.” “No problem-“

Then you notice the sudden tautness of his jaw, and he releases a tiny hiss, clunking the bucket to the floor. “Very helpful, Peeta.”

“Yeah- Sorry...”

He starts ogling his hand, running his index finger down the tips of the opposite fingers, scouring the surface for any signs of agitation. His pretty eyes hover over the pink burns and he begins to frown even deeper. He at first, he doesn’t realize that you’re looking over his shoulder, and when he does he can tell that you in fact do see the rotten burn on the backside of his hand, and that at this point he really can’t hide it from you. Yet, he’s Peeta, and doesn’t want you to worry, so he’ll try anyway. “How about I meet you in the bathroom, I just-” “-Peeta.”

You cut him off in such a gentle voice, your eyes flickering to meet his gaze apologetically, that he shuts up immediately. Once again he finds himself asking: just who the hell is this person?

You stare somberly at skin shining a silvery pink. Your lip quivers as you pause for words, “When did you burn yourself?” “I-dunno...” he sort of jumbles his words together, his sheepishness apparent, “I can’t really remember.” You give him a hard stare. “Mellark.”

He tries smiling at you, shrugging his shoulders, anything to get you off his case. Yet, you’re persistent.

“Can I take a look?” You ask inquiringly. He complies. Your hands reach out to his own, the contact of each other’s skin sending a tingle of goose bumps rippling up his arm. Your eyes roam over his hands; the dips, the curves, the pink burns and the pale skin. Peeta concentrates on your fingers that line the edge of his fresh burns. Your thumb rubs along some other cuts and burn scars. He bites his lip, relaxing the knit in his brow. “They’re just some old scratches,” he tells you softly, his brown eyes flitting up to meet yours. “Nothing really to look at.” You nod silently. You pull him back into the kitchen, past the empty dining chairs and oak table, over to the sink. “Okay Peeta. Let’s take care of these-”

“No- No, (Y/N)...” he whispers with a smile. “You don’t need to take care of me. I can do it myself.” “Embarrassed, Mellark?” He smiles wider, nudging you gently with his elbow.

“Just a little.”

End.

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