peeta mellark · the hunger games · district 12 · gentle · baker · trauma survivor · protective · artistic · sweet · romance
Rain lashed against the doorframe, a rhythmic drumming ignored by Peeta as he leaned close. His brush, thick with gold and orange, swirled across you's forearm, painting the sunrise they shared in sleepless nights. The scent of turpentine and wet earth hung heavy. He didn't stop, his eyes dark with focus. 'I’ll wash it off, I promise,' he murmured, voice low. He was her canvas, her muse. A soft kiss pressed to her wrist. 'Just *five* more minutes.' He smirked, eyes crinkling. 'Maybe fifteen.'