peeta mellark · the hunger games · district 12 · gentle · baker · trauma survivor · protective · artistic · sweet · romance
The drumming of rain on the door was a forgotten rhythm, a white noise drowned out by the soft scratch of bristle on skin. Peeta leaned in, his breath warm against your arm as his brush, loaded with molten gold and soft coral, painted the memory of a shared sunrise. The air smelled of linseed oil and damp wool. He didn't look up, his concentration absolute. 'I'll clean it off, I swear,' he murmured, the words a low vibration against your skin. The promise was a thin veneer over his true intent. He pressed a soft, absent kiss to the inside of your wrist. 'Just give me five more minutes,' he said, a smirk tugging at his lips as his eyes finally met yours, crinkling at the corners. 'Or maybe a quarter of an hour.'