#Wallpaper mag | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tuamor13 · 9 months

Text

THE LUCKY ONE - F.O

Chapter One | A Little Advice

Fandom: The Hunger Games

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Fem!Reader

Chapter Summary: You finally meet your charming, famous mentor. He’s a lot more irritating than you expected.

Chapter warnings: Mentions of death kinda, slight mentions of forced prostitution

THE LUCKY ONE MASTERLIST

Finnick looked at the girl before him. You looked to be about his age, which meant this would’ve been your last year being able to be reaped. You were facing opposite him, but he studied what he could of you.

You seemed a bit frail in a way. Like you wouldn’t last 10 minutes in the games.

You turned to around, first looking at Mags, and then at him. He locked eyes with yours, and he studied your features now that he could see your face better.

You looked almost innocent. And he wondered if you would prove him wrong with what he assumed about you. He realized he was just staring so he gave you a small smile. You looked away quickly after that and his smile faded.

Beau called out the male tributes name, Callum Rivers, and a strong, bulky looking boy walked on stage. Finnick recognized him. He was one of the toughest fighters at the school district 4.

The two of you shook hands, and Finnick saw the big difference in height, weight, and such. You looked like you didn’t stand a chance. The peacekeepers guided you two into the Justice Building, and he locked eyes with you once more. A smirk formed on his face.

Because Finnick knew better than to judge a book by its cover.

***

“Promise me, you’ll make it back.” Your mother begged.

“Mom, you know I can’t-“

“Promise me, Y/N. You’ve trained for this, you can make it. I know you can.” She cupped your face in her hands, her thumb wiping away a single tear that fell down your cheek.

“Okay.” You whispered. The peacekeepers barged through the doors, taking your mother by her arms and out of the room. She called you name, and you called to her before the doors closed shut. When they did, a sob finally escaped your lips. You put a hand to your mouth and calmed yourself.

You were escorted out to the car, and then finally made it to the train. Beau guided you and Callum into one of the carts, and your eyes widen when you see how nice it looks.

The velvety chairs and patterned wallpaper, not to mention the tables full of different types of desserts and treats, weren’t like anything you had seen before.

“Have a seat, I’m sure you’re starving. Your mentor should be here in about-.” Beau was cut off with the train door sliding open, in walking none other than Finnick Odair. For the “capitol darling”, he looked so normal. Especially compared to Beau.

“Well, here he is now. I’ll leave you three to it.” Beau said with that same smile, exiting the train cart.

“Hello. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you two. I’m Finnick Odair, your mentor.” He stretched his hand out, and you just looked at it, not doing anything. After a moment, Callum took his hand and shook it.

“Callum Rivers. Pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Odair.” Callum said with a smile.

“Likewise. And please, call me Finnick.” Finnick returned the smile, before looking over at you.

“Finnick Odair.” He said again. He stretched his hand out to you, and you looked at it again.

“I know who you are.” You said with a small nod. Of course you knew who he was. You still didn’t shake his hand, and after a moment he just put it down, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips.

“Everyone, knows who you are.” Callum added, trying to make it sound nicer. That big smile still on his face. You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“Well, happy to be working with some admirers of mine.” Finnick’s smirk widened as he looked at you. You scoffed lightly at his words. You definitely weren’t his admirer. Especially since the fact that he’s killed people, become the capitol’s little pet, and seems to have taken so much pride in it.

“Oh, I’m not an admirer. Sorry if that’s hard for you to hear. Don’t wanna bruise your ego.” You teased. A small chuckle escaped his lips.

“Honey, your words do nothing to me. There are thousands of other people completely enamored with me.” He stepped closer to you.

“You or your body?” He tilted his head at your brave words, the smirk on his face widening. But, he’d have to admit, he was impressed. Before he could respond, Callum interrupted.

“So, uh, where’s the other lady?” Callum awkwardly asked, referring to Mags. You just now remembered her, barely realizing she wasn’t here.

“Mags is resting and, I’ll remind you she isn’t really able to mentor as much. It’ll just be me most of the time.” He explained. You’d almost forgotten Mags was mute. He was right. She probably wouldn’t been of much help, but only because she physically couldn’t even if she wanted to.

“So, let’s eat shall we? We can get started on some things you need to know in the arena.” Finnick gestured to the dinner table behind you two. You nodded, turning and getting the seat right in front of you.

They both sat on either sides of you, and you looked at all the food in front of you. It was the most you’ve seen. You were usually used to just eating fish or just anything you could catch in the ocean. Your eyes widen a bit and you feel your mouth water but you keep your composure and serve yourself as Finnick begins talking.

“Number one thing, get water. You can go without food for a few days but water is a necessity.” He poured himself coffee in his cup before continuing.

“Pretty sure that’s common sense.” You said.

“You’d be surprised.” Finnick responded with a small smile, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Okay, so besides the obvious, what do we do to not die in there?” Callum asked, leaning forward in his chair. Finnick took one more sip of wine before putting it down.

“Sponsors.” He said with a smile. “You get people to like you. That way when your in the arena, sponsors send you things to help you survive.” He explained.

“And how exactly are we supposed to do that?” Callum asked, taking a bite of his food.

“Charm them, give them a good show, and just try to be likable overall.”

“So, just act like you?” You asked Finnick, a small sarcastic smile on your face. He leaned forward in his chair, a smirk on his face.

“Exactly.” He said, sitting back again and taking another sip of coffee. “So, you might wanna lose that attitude, honey. It’s not gonna get you anywhere.” You scoff lightly at his words, rolling your eyes. He was starting to get on your nerves.

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” You say sarcastically. You wipe your mouth with your napkin before throwing it on the table and standing up, beginning to make your way out of the train cart.

“Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, sweetheart. We’re not done here.” Finnick called out to you.

“I am.” You said, before leaving the train cart, the door sliding closed behind you.

Finnick watched as you left the train cart, a small laugh of disbelief and amusement escaping his lips. He was also a bit intrigued at your behavior towards him. And a small smile formed on his lips. He looked back over at Callum, who was still looking at the train cart door, a look of shock on his face.

“Well, I guess she’ll be missing out on all the fun. Let’s continue, shall we?” Finnick took a sip of his coffee. Callum nodded at his words, clearing his throat and sitting up in his chair.

Finnick gave one more look at the train cart door, before looking back over at Callum and continuing.

***

You felt like you had 3 layers less of skin from all the scrubbing and waxing. When it was finally over, you were taken to see your stylist, Elise. She looked like any other capitol stylist, pink hair, big lashes, pale makeup. But, she was nice. That’s all that really mattered to you.

The dress very uncomfortable. It was a sea blue color, the skirt mimicking waves with it’s layers. The corset was tight, making it hard to breath. Not to mention the uncomfortable amount of cleavage it showed and the seashells covering your breast.

Your makeup and hair were covered in sparkles, pearls, and seashells. Callum basically wore the male version of your outfit, but he was shirtless, a fishnet hanging around his neck covering at least a little bit of his chest.

Elise fixes the pearls around your neck and some pieces of hair.

“Smile big, and stand up straight.” She said. You simply nodded, stepping onto the chariot, Callum opposite you. A fanfare began to play and the chariots began making their way down the path. You held on tight to the chariot when it began moving, scared you might fall off.

The crowds cheered loudly, roses being thrown left and right at you. You looked into the crowds, their brightly colored wigs making them hard not to miss. You remembered what Finnick said. And, if getting people to like you was the key to surviving, then so be it.

You put on the best smile you could, looking at the crowds and trying to look as charming as possible. You looked over at Callum who was doing the same thing, but turned your attention away from him back to the crowds until you approached the front.

Your eyes landed on President Snow as he looked down at everyone. He had a smile on his face, and you wondered how such an evil man could even try to look nice.

“Tributes, we welcome you. We salute your courage and your sacrifice. And we wish you, a happy Hunger Games.”

His gaze went to you for the slightest moment.

“And may the odds be ever in your favor.”

………………………………………………………………………….

A/N: I’m so proud of myself for getting this out on time everyone give me a round of applause for that please. Like, this has never happened before. Anyways, first chapter out WOO HOO this is kind of a slow burn but there will be some tension I PROMISE. Thank you SO MUCH for reading and I’ll hopefully see you for the next chapter I love you.

- Cami🤍

#the hunger games #finnick odair #finnick x reader #hunger games finnick #hunger games

68 notes · View notes

jessaerys · 7 months

Text

(kind of a long-ish excerpt -- i've been twisting myself into pretzels about posting fic for the first time in years and driving myself crazy about it, so i figured it'd do me good to do a teeny tiny soft launch to demystify the whole thing. as a treat thoughts appreciated :') title may change, we'll see.) texas sharpshooter fallacy flirt mello/near | T (excerpt) | 700ish words | canon compliant.

near knocks.

his idea of inconspicuous is a sharp black coat and matching slacks and aviators now high up and glossy on his head. he knocks, and stands there in the fluorescent headache hallway where he can hear mello’s neighbors two doors over fucking to industrial EDM, their bed and their heads shrieking. as if the shock of white hair and vermeer eyes and his pretty babydoll mouth wouldn’t turn heads from harlem to chinatown. he has to laugh.

the 6th floor hallway is carpeted in cigarette butts and shards of glass and piss and misery, rock-bottom regret, apathy of the take-a-walk-out-of-the-roof variety. the wallpaper is an eyesore from the 70s and the ceilings are crazy cracked. taking the lift is a game of russian roulette. more than one person has died in this floor alone. he knows because it was his finger on the trigger, and fuck, he hasn't bothered to scrub out the stains. the grifters, the killers, the whores: everyone here —everyone— has been forsaken by god.

and near is alone.

for a brief, ridiculous moment mello is fourteen again, filled with a gleeful kind of malice, hoping the crackheads across the hall walk out and see near in all of his freakish man-in-black, little gray alien glory. catnip for psychosis, and right on the money to boot. if mello squints just so, it looks as if near is trapped inside the fishbowl marble universe of his peephole.

“in military strategy,” near says, his voice a tuning silver fork that makes the hair on the back of mello’s head stand on end. it is deeper. more elegant. mello had noticed, earlier, when they’d been strangers in the same room with nothing in common but the race for kira’s head and five years worth of resentment. “to refuse diplomatic entrance to one’s territory would be considered a declaration of war.”

“we already accepted jesus into our hearts.”

inside his grimy spaceship, the corner of near’s mouth quirks for a flash of a kodak moment and then it is gone. glitch in the matrix. mello’s wolfteeth grin knocks painfully into the aluminum.

“and didn’t the lord say offer hospitality to one another without grumbling?”

1 peter 4:9. the verse just before reads: above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.

"nothing a couple dozen hail marys won't fix."

above them something shatters against the floor. a woman screams. a weight falls heavy on the floor and then there is silence. the ceiling snows dirty dust all over near’s shoulders like so much winter wonderland. the lights flicker and flicker.

neither of them say anything. mello watches. he can’t see you, he tells himself, feeling like the world's best and brightest buffoon. he's not fucking godtouched.

but near raises a hand to his rosy cherubim face, makes a circle with his thumb and index finger to squint through with one big ophanim eye.

watches the watcher.

“i will wait for sixty seconds.”

mello finds his gun. sticks it in the back of his pants. runs his hands through his hair. pulls his gun out, checks the mag. pops it in place. hesitates. checks it again. he was right the first time. it is empty. thirty eight, thirty seven.

L used to say, it’s a boundary, mello. explicit verbal communication of where the limits are. respecting it preserves the peace. you can choose to ignore it, but you should first know why. and you should be ready for the inevitable outcome.

but what this really is is this: near coming to him alone under cover of night, so naïve he might as well be wearing a neon sign that says mug me or kidnap me or worse! i'm a stupid little boy!; as far he can be from the safety of his prince’s tower all to give little old mello the pleasure a fucking ultimatum.

his blood simmers. his ears ring. his sympathetic nervous system betrays him only ever around near, and near's little sycophant butlers could be just out of sight. he could be here with a swat team and a warrant for his arrest. he could be here to let mello know he has once again taken from him the only thing that's ever made any damn sense in his life.

he tries to breathe through it. tries to weight his options. he tries to be more like L.

he fails.

four, three, two—

near turns to leave.

mello opens the door.

#death note #meronia #mihael keehl #nate river #allegedly writing

47 notes · View notes

whillywisp · 10 months

Text

These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends—

Summary: Dreams never held any meaning for you. Not really. Even the nightmares of the arena never held any weight in your mind except being a production of extreme PTSD. Until now.

Or alternatively,

Reader pretty much predicts Finnick's death in all it's painful, gruesome glory over the course of a couple of months through nightmares. And almost loses their sanity in the process. Almost.

Warnings: gore, nightmares, ptsd, self destructive tendencies, near death experiences, non explicit talks of prostitution and domestic violence, non explicit smut, unreliable narrator, psychological horror.

Pairings: Finnick Odair x Reader.

'These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which as they kiss, consume.'

— Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene VI.

────────────

Chapter One: Warning Signs. Butterflies.

Word count: 3.1K

Warning: slightly graphic gore, death, panic attacks.

'It's funny. How warning signs can feel like they're butterflies.' —Graveyard, Halsey.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

It started slowly.

You never gave much thought to dreams or nightmares or premonitions or any of those things. God was a concept long forgotten in Panem, religion an anomaly, and if this country feared the supernatural, something as vile as the Games wouldn't exist to begin with.

But it started slowly. And it did the night you were barely holding yourself together as it is. At first, you tried to chalk it up to the announcement of the Third Quarter Quell, Snow's words still echoing through your mind. Your neck was soaked with Finnick's tears, who had spent the better part of the last hour begging you to not volunteer if you weren't chosen and you refusing to make impossible promises, knowing you'd jump in to sacrifice yourself if Mags or Annie's name was drawn.

If it were possible, you'd jump in to take his place before the escort, Faire, had even finished announcing his name out loud. But it wasn't. So the second best scenario you could think of was going into the Arena with him. At least that way you could protect him.

It wasn't his fault really, you'd have done the same, begged and grovelled in front of him to stay with you here, in the safety of your home, if there were any other male victors in District 4 who could take Finnick's place too. But there weren't. He had been sentenced to death the second this new, sickening twist for this year's Quarter Quell had been signed and approved and there was absolutely nothing you could do.

So you lay in the quiet of Finnick's bedroom, his silk pillowcase soaked from your tears and Finnick's wet hair from when you had gently coaxed him into the shower and washed his hair while he blankly stared at the wall, his eyes red and his knees drawn to his chest, looking smaller than his existence could ever be. Sleep escaped your clutches even as you desperately chased it, and the only thing echoing in the room was Finnick's rhythmic and even breathing against your chest, the waves from the beach behind the Victor's Village and the swirling of the ceiling fan overhead.

You don't remember dozing off at first, or the way your fingers stilled against the top of his shoulder from where they drew delicate, invisible patterns into his skin. But you do at some point, because suddenly you're in a place even darker than Finnick's bedroom or the reality of your current situation.

You're standing in the middle of a long hallway, like the ones in a mansion owned by someone who had only seen wealth all their life, the walls old and the moss growing taking over most of the old faded wallpaper, signs of grandeur clear in the way the golden details in the ceilings still glitter in some places. Recognition is a slow poison that seeps through your consciousness as you realise where you are. Because you know this hallway, you know this mansion. Because you had spent the better part of a month here once, when you had been reaped for the Hunger Games for the first time three years ago.

But you know this is not a regular nightmare about the Games, not something triggered from the announcement of the Quell.

The air is as suffocating as you remember, the smell of dust and blood and waterlogged walls making your heart thud painfully in your chest, like a warning sign and your grip tightens around the coiled metal whip in your hand. But something's wrong. This is not a regular nightmare about the Games.

No. This is something worse.

And you can tell, by the way Finnick's standing in front of you, his own eyes wide as he takes in the darkness that stretches as the hallway fades away in front of you both, blanketed by the fog, his knuckles white around the trident in his hand.

Because he's not supposed to be here.

Finnick mentored you during your Games, he never stepped foot into the same Arena as you. Not in the real world and not even in any your dreams.

So why was he here?

Before you could ask him this question, a sound that still turns your blood to ice in your veins reaches you both. You turn to him in panic and open your mouth to tell him to run, to hide, to do something but he's already rushing towards you, grabbing your hand and pulling you with him down the winding hallways of the crumbling mansion.

Something is wrong.

Because this wasn't how it had happened. There had been no one trying to protect you in the end of the seventieth Hunger Games, but rather you were trying to run away from your district partner, Markus, who had been chasing you with a bloody axe at this point. You had been running from him, the blood from your head wound where he had bludgeoned you seeping into your hair and your vision blurring with every step you took. Mutts hadn't been chasing you, you had thrown a knife down the hallway you knew they were in to get their attention, to get them to kill Markus. Because you both had been the last ones standing and Markus was hunting you.

But that's not what's happening right now.

Even in your dream, Finnick's hand feels the same as it always does: callused from all those years of fishing and training, his skin warm and his hand making your whole fist disappear in it's hold. But right now it's clammy with sweat. Or is it blood? You can't tell. Not with the way your lungs are burning from the exertion, not with the way your eyes keep losing their focus on his golden strands, not with the way his grip on your hands keep slipping and sliding from whatever makes it hard to hold.

Something is wrong.

As you near the familiar door with the old brass door knob, that had saved your life in the Games, the one you had sat behind and listened to Markus' screams over Caesar Flickerman's voice crowning you victor, you trip and land face first on the the dirty marble floor of the hallway. Finnick yelps as you almost take him down with you but his grip around your hand never falters. His green eyes are desperate as looks down at you, his hands at your waist, urging you to get up.

"Please! Please get up! They are coming please!" His voice is frantic, and you want to reassure him, find a way to get him to the door, the door that'll save you both. But your vision blurs again and the wave of dizziness that washes over you makes you whimper.

At the sound of your whimper, you feel Finnick's arms wrap tightly around you as he hoists you into his arms, holding you against his chest and bolts towards the door again, his trident abandoned where you tripped and bile rises in your throat as you watch the mutts step over it as they run towards you both, growling and snarling at the smell of fresh human blood. They are faceless and slimy, grey decomposed skin hanging off their bony limbs and the sight of them makes every cell in your body vibrate in fear. Even Finnick's arms wrapped tightly around you couldn't shake off the terror these mutts induce in you.

You know you're both nearing the door, getting closer to your one chance at survival and you let some relief seep into your heart as turn to watch him unwrap an arm from around you and twist the brass doorknob, yanking the old wooden door open hard enough that it forgets to screech and pushes you into the dust storage room. You rise on your knees, ready to pull him into your arms when he would join you on the floor, closing the mutts out behind him when he's suddenly gone from your sight, snatched away.

Something is wrong.

Your chest heaves as a guttural scream echoes from the darkness of the hallway and you whimper as you crawl as fast as you could out of the door, towards the mutts, crowded around something. No. Someone.

Finnick.

The cry that escapes you is as animalistic as the growls of the mutts and you don't hesitate to grab at them, to try and pull them away from him with your bare hands but they don't seem interested in you, too engaged in devouring him. His screams feel like acid on your ears, burning everything that makes you. Even through the chaos of blood and flesh that seeps into your jumpsuit, your eyes meet his, his green eyes wide with terror.

And then they are gone.

"NO! NO! NO! PLEASE STOP PLEASE!"

It's your screams that wake you up. Your screams and warm arms tightening around you.

"It's okay! You're okay, darling! Please!" His voice is just a touch below shouting as he tries to be heard over your frantic screaming. This wasn't the first time you had woken him up, crying from a nightmare stemming from the Games. He knew, in these instances, he needed to hold your limbs down because of your tendency to hurt yourself in your haze of fear and panic.

But he had never seen you like this, screaming yourself hoarse in terror.

Your eyes snap open and the screaming stops, replaced by ragged breathing and uncontrolled sobs that sound like growls, the growls of those mutts, which make you just sob harder. You slump against his chest and you cry like your heart will break, his arms tighten around you, clutching you against him and rocking you gently, as if to mimic the tides of the ocean and the rocking of his fishing boat on the days you joined him.

It takes a while for you to calm down, your eyes frantic as they take in your surroundings. His bedroom is now bathed in the golden warmth from the lamp on the nightstand, the fan still swirls above you both, circulating cool air. And your heart still thumps in your chest as you try to will away the final images of the dream. But you can't. They still linger behind your eyelids, just like his screams still echo inside your head.

You straighten up suddenly, putting a pause to his gentle mumbles of sweet nothings and let your hands flutter on his skin like butterflies, as if afraid of hurting him. Tracing his face, touching his neck, checking for scratches, blood, the image in your mind so gruesome and cruel that you can't help the sobs that still fall from your lips as he gently cradles your face, halting your frantic movements. His green eyes shine with concern as they peer at your own, taking in your frantic state.

"Hey, hey. It's okay. I'm right here. I'm okay. It's okay." His voice is low, as if he's speaking to a frightened animal and you can't help but feel like one, your sobs turning into slow hiccups as all the fear and fight bleeds out of you. He gently tugs you into his arms again as you take in ragged breaths, willing yourself to calm down.

"What's wrong?" His voice is a breathless whisper, as if he's afraid of your answer. You still against him, and your body sags, trembling in it's desparate attempt to calm down.

"I-I had a dream." The words feel like ash in your mouth. Your entire body aches from the lingering adrenaline and panic of the nightmare, as if you're still stuck there, in the winding hallways of the mansion that was the Arena, watching Finnick get ripped to shreds.

His eyes, still red rimmed from all the tears that had lulled him to sleep earlier, are concerned as he looks down at you, gently pushing back the stray strand of hair that was curling near your cheek.

"It didn't look like a normal dream. You were screaming. You never scream when you have nightmares." He speaks softly, still rocking you gently. You close your eyes, feeling the weight of the images in your head against your shoulders again like a separate entity, haunting you.

"It wasn't. You—" The words get stuck in your throat, as if burning the delicate tissues there on their way out. As if afraid of making it worse for him than it already is. He peers at you, curiosity and concern making his green eyes seem wider.

You take a deep breath, and blink as you take in your surroundings again, unable to meet his gentle gaze. When you finally speak, your voice is barely a whisper, as if afraid of what kind of damage they'd do.

"I saw you die. And it was...it was bad."

His eyes immediately soften as you turn away from him, a broken sob escaping your lips as he sighs, pressing a gentle kiss into the back of your neck. You're grateful when he makes no indication of asking what the dream was actually about as his hand travels underneath your sleep shirt, his shirt, to caress the delicate, scarred skin of your abdomen, as if to comfort you when all you feel is wrong, wrong, wrong. For dreaming something as vile as what you did and your chest aches at the gentleness his heart is still capable of after everything the world put it through.

"I know the...announcement of the Quell..." you both wince at the word, as if there's a curse on the word itself and in a way, there really is. "...has been hard to take in but I promise you, I will do everything in my power to come back to you. You just need you to trust me."

You exhale slowly, playing with his fingers as you continue to avoid his gaze. You could feel his heart beat in tandem with yours, so different from the frantic rhythm it had when you had gently tucked him into your neck earlier that night, to pull him away from the clutches of the panic attack bruising his lungs and mind in an attempt to break out of him, drown him. You shift and turn around to face him again, gently running a hand through his hair.

"You won't need any elaborate plans if I'm in the Arena with you. We can...we can figure it out. We won't need to be so-so scared and worried-"

He breathes in sharply, his eyes hardening a little and you feel your heart clench in your chest, knowing exactly what's to follow. "Can you please, for the sake of everything I love and care for, not talk about being in the same Arena as me? Please, I'd appreciate it a lot."

You sigh, pushing your face into his neck, his own sigh of disappointment at himself for losing his temper ruffling your hair like a warm breeze. He always had to remind himself how fragile you are, to not lose himself in the moment like he did with the strangers who traced the same paths on his skin that you did. You were different. You didn't deserve the rage he had saved only for those who had hurt him or you. He pressed a kiss to your forehead and shook his head, feeling the telltale sting of tears in his throat intensify.

"Please, you can't-you can't be in there with me. Please-"

Your voice is frantic as you whisper, "You know I can't just sit here and let you go in there on your own. I can't. I-I will die of anxiety if not anything-"

"But you're not doing nothing by staying here. You're giving me every single reason to return home to you. Why don't you understand that?" His frustration fades, making way for desparation as he sighs again, leaning his forehead against yours. "I refuse to go into that Arena all over again just to die. I promise you, your nightmare is just that, a nightmare. And I need you to trust me on this, I will never leave you."

He ends his speech by tugging your face out from it's hiding spot in his neck and pressing his lips to yours, gently tracing your jaw with his thumb as his green eyes search yours in hopes of finding the trust he always does. "I love you. So much. So just trust me please."

Your lips purse at his words, your heart finally slowing as the reassurances of his words finally settle into your body like a blanket. He'd never broken any he's made promises to you, not really, but you also know that this is not a promise he's capable of controlling. You sigh, and nod.

"I love you more and I do trust you. I trust you with everything that makes me. But you have to understand I can't help the panic or fear I feel."

He nods, his nose brushing yours. "I know and i don't blame you for it. I feel the same. But just trust me. And stay here, if you don't get reaped. I am begging you. Please."

You don't reply to his pleas, choosing meld your body back into his as you hide your face into his neck again and his answering sigh of exhaustion a clear sign that he's tired of this argument. Not even one day into this new reality where you are both more than likely to die in a few months and it's already creating a wedge between you both. And you hate it. But you know you can't make promises like that, not when you know you'll break them. And you know he can't either, not when he'd jump in front of you and take a dagger to the heart without any hesitation.

That's the curse of devotion, after all. Death by another and death for your lover, it becomes hard to distinguish between the two.

You push those thoughts away, disturbed by their mere existence and cursing your brain for tormenting you as you kiss the skin of his neck, your voice a mere whisper in the quiet of the bedroom, the only other sound being the waves in the distance, echoing as they crash into the shore.

"We still have months to think about these things. To plan a strategy for either scenarios. So let's just sleep for now. Please?" You feel him nod against your head and tighten his arms around you.

You can't sleep again, not that night, your mind a whirlwind of the images from your nightmare and no amount of safety his arms provide seemed to protect you from your own grief.

In a way, you're glad they don't. You'd need more than just a safety net, after all, for what is to come.

────────────

A/N: ngl, this took a chunk out of my soul to write. Tell me what you think? All my love, Moon.

Masterlist

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair #the hunger games #fanfiction #thg #writing #hunger games #finnick imagine #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen #mags thg #finnick x you #finnick x reader #moonfm #catching fire

59 notes · View notes