I know I have a couple of other WIP's, but this idea kept buzzing around my head like a gnat that wouldn't go away. This story is at least partially inspired by a film I saw recently called Tonight You're Mine (You Instead, for those of you across the pond). Mature language and sexy-times to follow. I own nothing in relation to HG or TYM. I will take the blame for Finnick's accent and any other gaffs of similar nature.


Chapter 1- Me and My Ass Pillow

"No," I said with an admittedly petulant pout, "Absolutely, positively fucking not."

"Come on, you blighting pansy," Finnick, who thought himself god to all women, chastised playfully, "The women are plentiful and the alcohol flows freely. What's not to like?"

"Pfph. More like the women are clingly groupies, and the alcohol is watered down shite, as you would say," I groused, "Try selling it to someone who's buying, mate."

Finnick shifted from foot to foot and looked beseechingly to our fellow band mates clustered around the large conference table of our agent's Los Angeles office and then back to me, Peeta Mellark, lead vocalist and guitarist of the triple platinum, super hot band, Hijack 6.

"Finnick O'Dair, read my lips, I will not do another bloody music festival," I declared with conviction, "And you can't make me."

"What're you like six now, Peet?" Finnick retorted disgustedly.

"Seemed like the age of that girl who tried to sneak into my Safari Tent at Coachella last year. Security is impossible at these things. Tents everywhere and all those people milling around," I grumbled.

"I know for a fact, she was over 21 (he would!), and most men would have been flattered. I didn't realize at the ancient age of 24, you thought of 21-year-old's as children." Finnick argued, "Besides, we need to promote the bleedin' album, ye wanker. Just ask Haymitch. We're weak in the EU, my frickin' homeland, of all places. We need exposure."

"I'll give you exposure..." I stood up and started to unclasp my belt. It was a bluff, sure, but Finn wouldn't let me get any farther than the buckle. Such a sucker. Really. I was so glad that Finn hadn't been raised in the good old USA. Texas hold em was not his game, for sure.

"Whoa," Finn looked positively alarmed for the Scotch-Irish libertine that he was, "Easy there, Peet Man. We're not to that point in our relationship yet. Or ever. How about just one set? One piddling little measly set? Kildare is gorgeous in August. It's so fucking hot in LA then anyway. Come on, man. Be a sport."

Finn looked so pitiful that I almost caved right then and there. If not being able to spot a bluff was Finn's weakness, not being able to say no to a friend was mine. Besides, I'd heard from Finn (and others) that Ireland was positively beautiful. I'd been meaning to check it out when the band was on a break. Seriously. Keep rationalizing there, Mellark.

"Well..." I played it coy, "I suppose if Thresh and Marvel agree..."

I trailed off expectantly looking at my other two band mates for their agreement before continuing, "...And we play the Children's Hospital Charity gig in October, like I asked, you heartless bastard..." This was just too easy. Like stealing candy from... well, children actually. If this could get Finn and the rest of the band members on board with my pet charity, then so be it. Ireland here I come!

"Done." Finnick said with barely a wince, after seeing Thresh shrug and Marvel nod in agreement. Finn really wasn't a heartless bastard, but he, in truth, just couldn't stand seeing sick kids.

So, three months later, all five members of Hijack 6 were sitting in first class on an overnight flight to Dublin, a mere 2 days before our much publicized set at the Oxegen Music Festival in Kildare, Ireland. Finnick had already charmed the flight attendants out of multiple mini bottles of premium whiskey, and we were barely down the runway. The man was a menace, really.

He and, Hijack 6's honorary member slash agent, Haymitch, were currently singing "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For," at the top of their lungs while swilling their purloined whiskey. Haymitch was an excellent manager, tenacious as a vicious attack dog when it came to protecting our interests in Hijack 6, but a great singer he was not. I winced as he brutally mangled the last verse of the chorus. The booze wasn't helping either. This is why we should have chartered a jet, but, no, Finn wanted to arrive in Ireland like "any normal lad." I'd thought, sure, save the added expense of a chartered plane, but now I was seriously reconsidering. I glanced backwards down the aisle of the plane into the economy class section (the band had bought out the first class). I glimpsed several troubling looks on the faces of my fellow passengers, ranging from annoyed to infuriated. Ignoring the lit seat belt sign, I unbuckled and trudged resignedly down the aisle to the back of first class to the two caterwauling vocalists just as they were belting out, "...I have held the hand of the devil... It was warm in the night..."

The nuns several seats behind them near the front of the coach section looked at each other disgustedly. Christ. The other passengers were going to revolt and jettison the lot of us off the plane over the Atlantic any moment. The nuns would probably offer prayers for our souls as they chucked Finn and Haymitch, et al out the door. I had to smile at my own gallows humor, as I snagged a few of the tiny alcohol bottles from Thresh on my way back to the two sinners.

That smile quickly faded when I arrived at the seats containing Finn and Haymitch in the back of first class, "Alright, guys, your impromptu homage to U2 is torturing the other passengers. Just have a little more of this, so you go to sleep like good little drunks."

I held the bottles of amber liquid just out of Haymitch and Finn's reach. Haymitch made a swipe for them, and I deftly outmaneuvered him.

"Bah. You really are a buzz kill, boy," the elder Haymitch groused, "They can always join us, if they don't like our singing."

Haymitch staggered to his feet, and turned to face the back of the plane where 150 odd sets of eyes were all trained on him with varying degrees of ill-will, "Am I right?"

Haymitch glanced around as though he expected the nuns and other passengers to jump up and burst into song. What he got was stony silence that made the sound of the plane's engines seem even louder.

"Sirs, you really must sit down. The captain hasn't turned off the fasten seat belt sign," came the crisp voice of a matronly flight attendant over my shoulder.

Just as I was turning to politely explain to the nice lady that I was trying to shut my band mates the hell up for the benefit of everyone, I caught the silvery death stare of a lovely dark-haired woman sitting just in front of the nuns. Funny sensations started pinging around in my body, like huge bats or birds or something were trying to get out from under my skin. I suddenly had goosebumps, so maybe it was rabid geese? Not knowing how long I stood there gaping at the woman, I was suddenly brought back to reality with a hard thud- literally. We hit a sudden turbulent, sending Haymitch careening into me, and in turn sending me unceremoniously to the floor flat on my ass. Ouch! Fuck that hurt!

What hurt far more was my pride, when I saw the malicious half smile that spread across the gray-eyed woman's heart-shaped face. I had once face-planted on stage in front of a crowd of 20 thousand, but this...this was so much more humiliating.

"Sir, are you alright?" the flight attendant, whose badge said her name was Betsy, asked politely, but sternly. It was like she felt validated that I'd fallen while out of my seat when the seat belt sign was still on.

"Eh, boy," Haymitch chortled, still standing, of course, "Either you can't hold your liquor or you haven't gotten yer plane legs yet."

"Well, since I've just had a bottle of water..." I spit out disgustedly, as I scrambled awkwardly to stand up off of the floor of the aisle while everyone in coach watched in fascinated amusement. (Why, oh, why hadn't they drawn the privacy curtains between classes just this once?) "Do you think it could possibly have been the f-ing drunk who staggered into me that knocked me down?"

Haymitch shrugged cavalierly, "Can't help it if you can't stand on your own two feet, Peeta."

I, normally mild-mannered, sweet-as-cream, butter-didn't-melt-in-my-mouth Peeta, growled out, "Damn it, Haymitch! Sit your ass down, and I don't want to hear a peep out of you until we are in the bus on the way to the venue."

There was a scattering of applause from economy class at that. The pretty gray-eyed woman looked smug, and God damn it, I'd cussed in front of nuns. I was going to hell, or I was already there. I wasn't sure which.

Just then Finn made the mistake of chiming like bell, "Tha's tellin' him, Peet! He can't sing for shite!"

"And that goes for you, too, O'Dair," I bellowed, before turning on my heel and limping back to my seat with as much dignity as I could muster to a chorus of "Oooo's" coming from coach. I must have pulled something when I fell because my ass and groin really hurt like a big damn dog, dammit. What the hell? Usually, it was Haymitch that did the yelling and the falling, for that matter, certainly not me.

About half an hour later, notably after the seat belt sign had just pinged off, and I sat there glaring up at the damn thing, Betsy came to stop next to my seat. I looked up at her morosely.

"Sir, compliments of the lady in 26E in economy," Betsy said tartly, while holding out a small, clear plastic bag full of ice, and two travel bottles of Jameson whiskey.

I spun in my seat so fast that my ass twinged, causing me to groan audibly. Gray Eyes was well... eyeing me from 26E in coach with a wicked grin on her face, while she cocked a sable brow at me. I threw her a mock salute and turned back around to slump in my seat with a crimson blush staining my cheeks.

"Please thank the kind lady of 26E for her concern for my backside, and ..." I paused for a moment, as something came to mind, "What's our dinner tonight in first class, Betsy?"

"Uh, a choice between sun-dried tomato and mascarpone ravioli tossed in a pomodori sauce or grilled filet of beef with a port wine reduction," Betsy rattled off.

"Please, send the kind lady in 26E the filet during the dinner service with my sincerest compliments. If you don't have an extra on hand, just give her Haymitch's portion. And for dessert, uh?" I looked at her questioningly.

"Banana torte with caramel sauce," Betsy supplied.

"And banana torte with caramel sauce for dessert for the lady, also, if you please, Betsy," I asked politely, "Suppose that explains the banana peels that must have found their way under my feet in the aisle earlier, eh, Betsy?"

She smiled down at me in a motherly way before asking, "And how is your...um.. injury?"

"Hurts like hell, Betsy, but I think I'll live, if the embarrassment doesn't kill me straight out."

After asking if I required anything else, Betsy took her leave to the front galley of the plane, presumably to begin dinner service preparations. Though the ice pack Gray Eyes had sent helped a little, I squirmed in my seat for a good 40 minutes trying to find a way to sit that wasn't just agonizing. I finally gave up and slammed back both of the tiny bottles of whiskey Gray Eyes of 26E had sent. Maybe the alcohol would dull the pain until we landed in Dublin, and I could get to a pharmacy to get proper drugs.

Uh.. alcohol not such a good idea. Kinda made the whole injured area pound in time with my heartbeat. I finally just shut my eyes and prayed for sleep or death, whichever was quicker. I waved Betsy away when she came with my dinner. I wasn't hungry in the least.

Sometime later, I must have dozed because I was suddenly aware of someone standing over me. Without even opening my eyes, I knew for certain it wasn't Betsy, because whoever it was didn't smell like Chanel No 5, but some deliciously earthy combination of mint and lavender with a dash of some spice I couldn't place. I cautiously cracked an eye, knowing full well who was standing at my seat. Nice skin, clear gray eyes, full lips in a heart-shaped face framed on one side by a curiously old-fashioned looking dark braid shot through with deep green highlights. The green highlights were a surprise.

Her voice was a lot huskier than I'd expected when she spoke tersely, "Thanks for dinner, and I thought you could use this. I borrowed it from the nun behind me."

She held out one of those circular neck cushions travelers often carry to help keep their heads from lolling as they nap on the plane.

"Oh. Err.. thanks, but I didn't hurt my neck," I turned my head from side to side to demonstrate and smiled winningly up at her.

"No, it's for your … um ...ass," she replied, "You know, like the cushions they give old men in the hospital after they have prostate surgery or something. Same idea, though."

Yeah, this trip just keeps getting better and better. Now she's giving me an old man ass pillow. Always nice to make a good first impression on a woman you consider to be one of the hottest females you've ever run across, and you've seen quite a few, so that's really saying something.

"Well, thanks for the compliment, I-I guess," she muttered awkwardly while blushing prettily.

Crap! Had I just said that out loud for her to hear? Damn liquor she'd sent me.

I was sitting there staring up at her with my mouth hanging open as the blush from earlier returned with a vengeance. My ass was even blushing. Could this get any worse?

Never, ever ask that question. Not even in your own head, because it almost always can and will, if you ask that jinx of a question. Finnick, the philandering man-whore, strolled up and laid an arm around Gray Eyes' shoulders while his other hand was busy suggestively moving a Blow Pop in and out of his mouth.

"Peety, who's your little friend?"

Having trouble forming sentences almost never happened to me, but I couldn't even stammer out a "I have no idea," while Gray Eyes pointedly shrugged off Finn's embrace and stared at him as if he were something that crawled out from under the tatty seat cushions in coach.

Finnick, undeterred, removed the sucker from his mouth with a loud pop and held it out to her, "Care for a lick. Find it helps me cravings fer a feg on these long flights. Other cravings, too." He actually waggled his fucking eyebrows up and down as he said the last. Ugh.

"Nice pillow, by the way," Finn grinned down at her, "Can I get one, too?"

Gray Eyes shrugged and handed the pillow to me, while looking down her nose at Finn, "It's for your boyfriend's ass, so I guess I'll let him decide which ass gets it."

A laugh spluttered from me. Finn definitely was being an ass. All that, and she was clever, too.

Wait! The hottest, maybe smartest female I'd ever run across was stalking back to coach and away from me in disgust after calling me Finn's boyfriend. Have mercy for the injured! Somebody stop that woman and at least get her name.

"Fuck you, Finn," I glared up at my soon to be former band mate.

"What'd I do?" the thick bastard asked, cluelessly pouring salt on the wound.

Groaning, I rubbed my fingers over my forehead, which was now pounding in time with my ass. Yipee. Only four more hours of this delightful flight to go.

My throbbing ass and I were in such a hurry to get off the damn plane by the time it arrived in Dublin at the crack of freaking dawn, that I missed the chance to find out the gray eyed stranger's name. Luck was with me in baggage claim, however. Generally, we didn't wait for our bags, but Customs had other ideas. I was just about to ask a very hungover Haymitch to grab my gear whilst I ran screaming for drugs to the nearest pharmacy, when Gray Eyes walked up to the baggage carousel assigned to our flight, now accompanied by two other women.

"No, Jo, I didn't even ask for his fucking autograph, let alone offer him a blowjob," Gray Eyes was speaking grumpily to the smaller of her companions, who sported short, spiky hair and a skirt so tiny that I would've been able to see clear up to her ovaries if she bent over.

"It was wicked cool they were on the flight with us, though," the other taller, more ethereal girl mused in a lilting accent reminiscent of Finnick's, "Although, I always thought they had better vocals than that. Must auto-tune."

"It did sound like two cats fucking up there, but they were also drunk as shit," the one called Jo cut in.

"Peeta, the one who fell on his ass, is their lead vocalist, remember, Annie?" Gray Eyes asked in more patient tones, ignoring Jo's comment, "And he didn't sing on the plane, but you're probably right about the auto-tuning."

As the three women began walking to the far side of the carousel, I barely made out what Gray Eyes said next, "I wonder if the guitars will be in the over-sized baggage section. They better be here. We have a sound check at Oxegen tonight at 6."

As I watched Gray Eyes and her friends waiting next to the nuns for their baggage, I realized several things: 1) She clearly didn't see me lurking behind a column, trying to hide from any paparazzi and spy on her simultaneously. 2) She thought my vocals were auto-tuned? Just...no. Well, not much anyway. 3) She knew my name! It was a start, anyway. 4) Most Importantly: She was most likely a musician performing at the Oxegen Music Festival as well! How fucking awesome was that?

Oh, and I had an ass pillow to return. I straightened from my slouch against the column I'd been skulking behind. Time to turn on the Mellark charm...


Thanks for reading! Who might the gray-eyed stranger be? Bet you know. Shall I continue? Review. Review. Review. Review... Is there an echo in here?

Also, taking an informal poll: American spelling of gray or English spelling of grey? Let me know, will you, please.