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wife-of-all-dilfs · 21 days

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the five stages | f. odair

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summary: a journey back to a golden period of time of polaroid pictures, white knitted sweaters, and lively sea-green eyes. why? because in the present, those same pair of eyes are ruthlessly unrelenting and you have no other chance of their escape.

pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader

warnings: heavy angst, vomiting, implied smut, depression, maggots, hallucinations, relieving fluff, mild horror. I don’t want to spoil the story too much, so I won’t be adding any more warnings, sorry y’all. this could be very triggering so please read at your own discretion. some descriptions are quite graphic!

notes: I’m super proud of this one—it’s sorta based off “little talks” by of monsters and men and “on the nature of daylight” by max richer. this fic probably won’t get many views, so I’ll be incredibly grateful for any—if any at all—type of engagement! <33

word count: 8k

The bedroom was cold; dark; empty. Empty even though I still resided in it.

My alarm had gone off two hours ago, yet I hadn’t moved an inch. When I finally turned my head to the side, I found that the space beside me was vacant. Cold; dark; empty—I reached out my hand anyway.

Thirty minutes passed before I wrestled myself out of bed and started making breakfast downstairs. The otherwise warm and flavourful plate of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast left my mouth feeling dry and my throat lodged.

It used to be one of my favourite meals. At least, when he was around.

Dishes were piled in the sink, dirty and untouched. I sat on the couch, pondering whether today was the day I would finally get to cleaning them. It wasn’t. I couldn’t. We always did that together. I wondered—if I left them in the sink long enough, would he return? Even just for five minutes to help me put them away? One month and seventeen days had passed, and yet I still entertained this thought religiously.

I wasted an hour running circles round the same contemplations before deciding fresh air, as cliché as it was, might do me some good.

Grey clouds concealed the sun’s warm golden light when I stepped outside, but that was fine—I didn’t like anything golden anymore. But he would want me to leave the house at least once a day, so that’s what I would do. I would go down to the beach beside our—my house and feel the sand collect between my toes as I walked to the water’s edge.

But wasn’t that where he was when it happened? Wasn’t he in water? Didn’t those things pile on top of him? Didn’t they sink their fangs into his neck and tear at his flesh until he was blown to…

Bits of egg, yoghurt and stomach bile sat at my feet. My legs buckled, and I collapsed to the ground in a sandy, tear-stricken heap. Since my lower body had refused to cooperate any longer, it took me until midday to crawl back up the dune and to my front doorstep.

Fuck. I needed to rest.

“I need you to rest, sweetheart.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” I whined. “I’m not sick.”

Finnick placed a bucket on the ground beside the bed. The room smelled of lemon disinfectant—a joy I often found in being sick… That is, if I were sick, which I was not. I must have drunk spoiled milk or eaten something bad during breakfast. Nevertheless, Finnick was not having it.

“You’re throwing up everything you manage to get down, and you’re shivering like it’s the middle of winter,” he said adamantly, tucking the comforter up to my chest. “It’s summer, and you’re very much not fine.”

I sat up, ready to heatedly debate the subject, but the room began swirling, and my ears were hissing like a staticky television channel without a signal. A quiet whimper buzzed in my throat as I hunched forward. Damn him, I was sick.

The mattress dipped as Finnick sat beside me. His hand was on my back, rubbing it soothingly as he used his other hand to tuck away the curtain of hair concealing my face. I huffed, half in annoyance, half in an attempt to suppress the nausea rising in my throat, and then sunk back against the pillows.

“Not sick, she says,” he jested, smiling down at me. I rolled my eyes, though unable to hide the weak, betraying smile creeping across my lips. “Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he said, a gentle command. “I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

The wooden flooring welcomed me with hard, cold arms as I hauled my sandy body through the front door. Images of fangs, bloody flesh, and panicked sea-green eyes flooded my mind.

More breakfast, more bile. No lemon disinfectant.

My knees were folded beneath my body; my body was hunched over my knees. I was sobbing now, so hard that I threw up again (was there even anything left in my stomach at this point?), creating a thick puddle of vomit and tears beneath me. Cries and gasps for air bounced around the house. To call me a mess would be an understatement. I was a disaster. A disaster wrapped up in an unmendable tragedy with a ragged, threadbare ribbon barely holding me together.

And in case I wasn’t aware of this fact, the floorboards were so shiny that they mirrored a reflection of myself. My hair was a being of its own, all wild and unkempt, and my face was another story entirely—a red, blotchy thing I wasn’t too interested in delving into.

But the most unsettling aspect had nothing to do with me, it was that there was someone else in the reflection. Two green balls of light were glowing above my head.

Dishevelled golden hair…

Dimpled cheeks…

My forehead was pressed to the floor as I screamed.

“I don’t want to make you sick as well,” I said, contrarily enjoying the feeling of Finnick’s skin warm against mine, hot blood flowing through his veins.

A day had passed since I first became unwell, and the sickness had continued to wreak havoc inside me.

We were both under the thick covers, our limbs tangled together as he held me atop his chest. (my body didn’t register the scorching summer temperatures. I actually felt as though my core temperature was a few degrees below freezing. Meanwhile, Finnick was characteristically toasty warm. It was perfect for me, but not so much for him, evident in the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. Nevertheless, he made no complaints).

My body rose and fell with each breath he took. I was trying to inhale whenever he exhaled in a weak attempt to prevent the festering sickness in my body from entering his, and though it was a futile gesture, I did it anyway.

“In sickness and health, remember?” he said.

I smiled. “We’re not even married.”

“Yet, you mean,” he countered. “I plan on spending the rest of my life with you, sweetheart. You know that.”

My heart fluttered at the thought of spending an entire lifetime with him—waking up in each other’s embrace each morning, the warm sunlight peeking through the blinds of our bedroom; Finnick calling me “Mrs. Odair” or “My wife” at every opportunity because doing so made us both giggle like two moronic, love-struck teenagers; and being unable to prevent the deep smile lines on both our cheeks as we age, a constant display of our perpetual happiness.

“Sixty more years of having and holding you,” he continued with a gentle musing in his tone. “For better or for worse... For richer or for poorer.” He then stroked the side of my face and brushed away the sweaty strands of hair sticking to my forehead. “In sickness and in health…”

“…Until death do us part,” I finished, my voice slow with fatigue.

Two fingers sat beneath my chin and tilted my head upward. My eyes connected with Finnick’s. They were soft. Heartfelt.

“Not even then. I’ll love you beyond the grave,” he murmured. Then his lips were slowly curving into a pensive smile. “When we’re both ghosts and haunting the next owners of this house.”

I was now smiling, too. “I’d hoped you would say something like that.”

How could he lie like that? There was no we. There were no next owners. There was only me, alive and alone in a comatose house. And mind you, I was sane enough to know that it wasn’t actually his ghost haunting me, though I wish I weren’t because having that knowledge was even worse. It meant he was truly erased from existence.

“Go away,” I whispered to the reflection on the floor.

He didn’t. His vacant green eyes kept staring down at my crumpled figure.

I shot off the floor and spun around, hot tears streaming down my face. “Go away!” His face remained expressionless. He looked like himself, only colder. “You said sixty more years! You said we’d be together!” I mindlessly picked up and flung a small picture frame at him, only for it to pass through his body and shatter on the floor behind him. “Why did you lie to me?!” My voice was frayed with fury, though underlined with grief.

He said nothing, did nothing. All he did was watch.

My legs buckled, and I was on the floor again. I was whispering, half-sobbing, the same question over and over until the words slurred together. “Why’d you lie? Why’d y’lie?” The only time I stopped was when my tongue grew too heavy to move anymore.

To my surprise, he eventually came and sat beside me, remaining cold and silent—as I too had become.

Glass fragments from the picture frame were scattered across the floorboards. The photo within had fallen out and, ironically, drifted towards me. I didn’t bother acknowledging him as I moved onto my hands and knees and began crawling forward—my palms slicing open and blood seeping out—until the photo was in my hands. My shins had granules of glass pricking into them, but I couldn’t feel the pain; all I could do was stare at the memory in my hands.

The picture had been taken in District Thirteen, a day before he signed up for… the mission.

I was drifting in and out of sleep when a sudden bright flash lit up my eyelids.

“Oops.”

Heavy eyes fluttering open, I was met with a small camera pointing down at me, which was being held up by a lengthy muscular arm, which was connected to an even more muscular and broad shoulder, which was connected to—okay, sorry, I think you get it.

“Finnick!” I shrieked, pulling the covers over my naked figure.

He laughed, the vibrations rumbling deep within his chest, beneath my ear. A soft whirring sound accompanied the polaroid sliding out of the camera, its black film hiding the doubtless embarrassing picture beneath. He placed the film on the sheets beside him, letting the photo develop in darkness.

“I was supposed to cover the flash,” he said, still chuckling.

I rubbed my eyes, which were twinkling with little sparkles of light. “I think you blinded me.”

“Lucky you,” he jested. “You’re finally free from my repulsive exterior.”

I started to reach for the picture beside him—“You’re an idiot”—but then he was rolling us over until his arms were pillared on either side of my head and he was hovering above me.

His hair was a mess, a testament to the night before (and very early hours of the morning), and he was sporting a beautiful, lazy grin. “Yeah? Well, you’re engaged to an idiot,” he said, tilting his head in an arrogant manner. “So what does that make you?”

The sea-glass ring hugging my finger gleamed in the lamp’s dull light as I reached out to touch his face, my fingertips brushing along the edges of his pronounced jawline. Tangled strands of hair and a beaming smile were reflecting back at me in his eyes. No one had ever loved anyone as much as I loved Finnick—disregarding the one exception that was staring down at me.

“Blinded by love,” I whispered.

Brief yet poignant emotion trickled through his features, his eyes. Then, like a flick of a switch, he covered it up and lowered his face into my neck, groaning the words, “So corny.”

My fingers were tangled in his hair, holding him close to me. “Liar,” I laughed. “You loved it.”

“I love you, which is why I put up with your corniness,” he murmured into my skin.

Even after all this time, my heart still leapt whenever he said those three words, even when he was being a jerk about it. I kissed the top of his head. “I love you, too.”

We laid like this for a short while longer—Finnick keeping his face buried in the warmth of my neck, his arms curled beneath my body; me playing with the golden waves of his hair that were somehow softer than my own. He was so heavy on top of me that it was starting to become difficult to breathe, but in no universe would I ever tell him to get off. It was a blissful sort of suffocation.

A sort anyone would snap a picture of just to keep as a reminder of how beautiful it feels to be smothered with love. With that being said, the picture that lay awaiting beside me was brought back to mind.

“Oh no,” I moaned, picking it up and taking a short glance at the developed photo. I covered my face with my hands, repeating the words, “Oh no.”

The photo was plucked from my fingers, and Finnick began humming contentedly to himself.

In the photo, my face had been nuzzled into his bare, muscular chest, eyes closed in sleep-drunken serenity, hair thrown over my shoulder and spilling across the pillow. My hand rested on his contoured stomach with just enough of my upper arm and low light to conceal my breasts. Finnick had a delicate hand draped over my waist. He was gazing down at me with a smile that was just… full of pure love.

I had to admit—it was a beautiful picture. Despite my initial disapproval.

“Beautiful,” I heard him echo my thoughts, his eyes still scanning the photo. Then his brows furrowed, and his head slightly inched forward as though he had just noticed something peculiar in the picture. “Oh, and you are too, I guess.”

My head tilted back against the pillow with an abrupt laugh. I shook my head, looking back at him. “I hate you.”

“Liar,” he said, leaning in closer.

His lips were on mine for what must have been the millionth time in the past few hours. The bedside clock announced that breakfast was soon approaching, though it was clear neither of us would make an appearance within the next hour (or two).

“You love me,” he whispered as he slid inside me.

And I did.

I really did.

The muscles in my cheeks were straining due to how hard I was smiling.

It wasn’t my idea to keep a picture of us half-naked in the entryway of our home. He always was a bit unusual like that. Completely unashamed of who he was and how he acted. Sometimes a little too boisterously, but that’s what I loved so much about him—how confident he was in his love for me, so much so that nothing else mattered, no one else’s opinion.

God, I love him so much.

Love…?

Wait.

That’s not right.

Shouldn’t it be “loved”?

And why was I smiling? I didn’t have anything to smile about anymore. He was gone. Our wedding never occurred. Our faces never wrinkled with smile lines. Our clasped hands never weathered with age. He was gone.

The polaroid slipped from between my fingers. My hands were covered in glass and blood, blood that had painted a dark red splotch in the middle of the shiny film. Figures.

After a short while of staring blankly at the scattered debris decorating the floor, I finally found it in myself to start climbing back onto my feet. My straightened legs wobbled and ached beneath me with the little energy I had. That’s what happens when you can barely stomach food anymore: no energy, always sleeping, always swamped by nightmares or bittersweet memories—at this point, they were one and the same.

Not a strand of gold or a fleck of green was in sight when I glanced over my shoulder. For now, at least. He liked making an appearance once or twice a day.

Pieces of glass crunched beneath my bare, stinging feet as I made for the stairwell. A mess for another day, I reasoned. Just like the dishes. Sticky red footprints stamped each wooden step I ascended, growing less prominent as I reached the second floor.

After taking a right down a short hallway, the encompassing walls littered with magnificent seashells and dried ocean flora, I turned the knob to the furthest room and entered. The floor was landscaped with mountains of clothes which drenched the room in a familiar, all-consuming smell. The scent kind of reminded me of receiving a warm hug, albeit from someone you know you should let go of in more ways than one.

His hair, golden and tousled, caught my eye as I passed the wall of string-hung polaroids in our… sorry, my bedroom. His smile was all dimpled and brilliant, and he had his tanned arms wrapped around my middle. Just moments after the picture was taken, he had tackled me into the water and rightfully earned a smack on the back of the head. In turn, he did it again.

But before that, we were both looking into the camera with the most joyful expressions—huge grins, bright eyes. Frozen in time.

I never let myself look too long at that picture anymore. And I never, ever looked into his eyes. Green used to be my favourite colour. I didn’t have a favourite colour anymore. It was safe to say I didn’t have a favourite anything anymore; everything favourable was a reminder of him.

I picked up a white knitted sweater off the ground and tugged it over my head, staining it with splotches of dark red. Knowing him, he would wear it regardless—whatever was mine, was also his, and was equally the same in reverse, even things as grotesque as blood.

Well, he would have worn it, I should have said.

The sweater had been specifically tailored for him. I remembered how the soft sleeves hugged his arms so well that every fluid curve of his biceps was visible, similar to a building wave before it crested. On me, the sleeves swallowed my arms whole, which I liked to think in their own unique way had also been unintentionally tailored for me, like someone out there knew one day I would need some way to drown in him when he was gone.

Finnick’s fingers tugged at the silk ribbons, unwrapping the opulent gift box that sat on our dining table. Capitol devotees would send extravagant parcels weekly, turning up in abundance on our doorstep. Sometimes Finnick didn’t even bother opening them; sometimes we opened them together just to get a good laugh out of whatever ridiculous item was inside.

He never, though, opened the perfume-scented letters marked with lipstick stains.

“Oh,” I said in surprise as he lifted the lid. Inside was a folded piece of fabric, knitted and cream-white and intricate, though still simple. It was soft to the touch; thick enough to retain warmth. I held it up with two hands, admiring the hand-sewed threads of cotton. Whoever’s handiwork this was, it was nothing to laugh at.

Holding it up to Finnick’s torso, I smiled and said, “Try it on.”

“What?” He shook his head and smiled quizzically. “No.”

“Yes. I think it will look good on you.” I pressed it further against him with conviction. “Try it on.”

He tilted his head and exhaled deeply through his nose, giving me a begrudging, squinty-eyed look. From that, I already knew I had won him over, and watched as he snatched the sweater from my grasp and tugged his shirt off with one hand. I averted my eyes, feeling the tips of my ears flush with heat—we’d been together for over a year now; you would think I’d have grown accustomed to seeing him shirtless.

His head slipped through the neckline and he pulled the sweater down his body. I was right. It looked really good on him. Perfect, actually. The measurements were so precise that the fabric sloped off his shoulders like a compact mountain of snow. The thick-knitted collar dipped into a deep, uneven neckline that partly revealed his chest and made his neck look like a strong, contoured pillar. He looked at me expectantly, as though to ask, “Well?”

“It makes your neck and shoulders look really nice,” I blurted out, instantly cringing inside.

His expression contorted into something of amusement and surprise as he took a slow step towards me. “My neck and shoulders, huh?” he said, grinning devilishly. Oh, now I’d done it. Leave it to me to rocket Finnick Odair’s already atmospheric ego. “Anything else?”

I began backing away, but his prowling strides were so long that the space between us only shortened. When my backside hit the edge of the dining table, I knew I was done for.

“You know,” I began, avoiding his unrelenting stare. “I think it was just a momentary lapse of judgement.” He was closing in now, placing his hands on either side of my body to trap me in place. “It—It actually looks terrible on you,” I said, feigning sincerity and adding a little nod to help further my case.

His eyelids drooped as he gazed down at me, lips curving into that seductive smirk he had mastered long ago. “No takebacks,” he purred, voice low and gravelly. Dear God, I could only pray I wasn’t going to melt into a puddle on the floor. He always did this—took every opportunity to flirt and render me a stuttering, bashful mess. It was his favourite game to play. “This is now my new favourite shirt. All thanks to you, sweetheart.”

But, given the right timing and ever-wavering amount of confidence, I liked to play too.

I inhaled deeply, hoping my voice wouldn’t betray me. “Maybe you should take it off then,” I said, cocking my head to the side. “So you don’t ruin it.”

His mischievous expression revealed his next words before he even spoke them. “Maybe I will,” he said, and then he was tugging his sweater over his head, and I was tearing off my own. As his hands slipped beneath my thighs and lifted me onto our dining table, I prayed the wooden legs wouldn’t collapse under the weight of our next actions.

My fingertips ran over the soft, rippling patterns on the knitted sleeves, my arms crossed in a self-soothing manner. After that day, the sweater had become a sort of good luck charm—or so we agreed upon as we lay panting on the tabletop. He started wearing it to a multitude of events and parties in the Capitol (basically any place in which he needed a pick-me-up, a reminder of what he had to come home to, who he had to come home to).

He even wore it the day we got engaged.

So many happy memories were associated with this one white sweater. So many times, those cloud-soft sleeves were wrapped around my body, suffocating me in the scent of him—if nothing else, at least that remained.

The last time he had worn it was the day of the Reaping for the Quarter Quell; the last time our lives were ever semi-normal. I had fought tooth and nail to reach him before he was escorted onto the train, despite being ordered, “No goodbyes,” by one of the Peacekeepers. In modest terms, I had significantly decreased his chances of reproduction.

When I reached Finnick, he had brought me into a kiss so harsh and fervent that my lips were bruised the next day. He then yanked off his sweater, leaving his upper body completely exposed to everyone around us in complete disregard for his trauma-induced fear of doing so, and shoved it into my hands.

I had just stood there frozen in bewilderment, watching as he called out, “I love you, sweetheart!” Two Peacekeepers were forcing him onto the train, but he too fought for the last word. “Don’t forget—I’m always with you!”

That statement had never been truer than it was now. For better or for worse.

My vision unblurred as I returned to reality. Dismal, grey light was peeking through the shutters that formed the balcony doors, the daylight hours seeming to tick away at a snail’s pace. I used to wish for the days to be longer, for time to move slower, so I could savour the moments I had of happiness and sunlight which used to be plentiful.

Why do wishes only come true when you grow to desire nothing but the opposite?

Slothfully, I crawled onto the unmade king-size bed, my limbs crumpling and balling to my chest as the side of my head hit the pillow. The imprint on the mattress beneath my body didn’t match my own. It was much larger and broader. How long would it take for the springs to forget his body weight and recoil back into place as though he never existed at all?

I inhaled the sweater’s scent with every breath I took (and I tried not to wonder how long it would take for his scent to disappear as well) and hugged my arms around my waist. No pain was worse than the fleeting moments I forgot the embrace was my own and not his.

Hours passed, and so did the evening. A beautiful orange sunset hadn’t slipped through the shutter’s cracks because the clouds never dissipated. Night-time brought no consolation either. Not even the stars or moon made an appearance. Everything that once gave me a shred of optimism was hidden behind a veil of gloom.

I knew tomorrow wouldn’t be any different—the weather, my mood, his absence. Because the end of autumn was closing in, and the days were becoming bleaker. Trees would start shedding their leaves; the leaves would start to die.

I hoped I would too.

I was still curled up on my side, my body aching with stiffness, when my face began scrunching into this ugly, twisted mess of despair. My tears were slow yet heavy, synonymous with the day I had incurred.

But then something strange happened.

Someone called my name.

No. That couldn’t be right. I was the only one who occupied a house in the Victor’s Village; the others had either relocated after the war or were… dead.

But there it was again—my name, distant and eerie, yet spoken with a tone people often used to beckon over and aid a frightened, injured animal. My vision blurred, both from tears and concentration on the voice.

“Hey.”

I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment my surroundings transformed into a kitchen, just that they had and that I was no longer in my bed but standing upright.

Ahead of me, in the distance, the sun was beating down on the crystalline water, and white frothy waves were cresting on the smooth, golden sand. It was a perfect day; not a cloud was in sight. The only blemish that smeared the blue sky was the reflection staring back at me from the window I gazed out of.

In my hands was a soup bowl and a damp dishrag.

“Sweetheart?” That once distant voice, concerned and beckoning, was standing right beside me.

Blinking, I snapped out of my daze and turned away from the window.

He stood tall beside me, despite being half hunched over the kitchen sink and scrubbing the last of the few dirty dishes stacked neatly on the bench top. His head was turned towards me, his enamoured sea-green eyes peering into my own as though he was searching behind them for what troubled me.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, standing up straight. His touch was warm and gentle as he reached for my hand, leaving soapy bubbles on my palm and fingers. “Where’d you go?”

Three odd things seemed to occur at once: first, I flinched away from his touch, overwhelmed by its paradoxical unfamiliar familiarity; second, I felt an inexpressible relief from seeing him standing before me, seeing his cheeks painted with a soft pink hue as though blood-red roses were hidden just beneath his skin.

The third was an onset of disorientation. I couldn’t tell you why I felt disorientated standing in my own kitchen with the love of my life, just, simply, that I did. There was an answer—it was close by, right under my nose, yet unreachable. We did this every day, didn’t we? We would eat meals together and then wash up together. So, why did I feel so unsettled?

I shook my head, dispelling the confusion that muddled my brain. “Sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t know what happened.” I laughed uneasily, without a hint of mirth.

He laughed too, not to poke fun or because he found my obvious turmoil amusing, but rather to comfort me, so I would feel less alone in my unease. “It’s alright,” he said gently.

Neither of us addressed what had happened; we simply resumed our routine of washing and drying in domestic silence. And as seconds turned to minutes, and as the sky remained sunny, I found myself smiling. All that mattered was that he was standing beside me and that the sun was beaming in the sky. So, I kept smiling.

After I finished drying the last dish, we began placing the plates, bowls, and an abundance of cutlery in their assigned drawers and cupboards, weaving past each other and giggling anytime we got in one another’s path. I was carrying a stack of white plates, eyeing the high cupboard they needed to go in, but before I could even attempt straining onto my toes, the plates were out of my hands and taken into another much larger pair.

The smell of sea salt and expensive cologne wafted from behind me as he towered over my shorter frame and placed the plates in the cupboard.

“I could have done that,” I said, smiling as I turned around to face him.

He had a playful glint in his eye. “Yeah, right. What are you, like, four feet tall?” he joked.

It was an extreme exaggeration since I was no way near that height, but I suppose everyone was miniature in comparison to him, being over six feet tall and all. I feigned open-mouthed offence, to which he gave the side of my head a quick, playful kiss of apology.

He then leaned against the counter with crossed arms. “Plus, when was the last time you actually put these dishes away? I’m surprised you even remember where they go.” He was grinning at me in a teasing manner, but every ounce of humour had drained from my body.

My eyes drifted to the floor.

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it—when was the last time I put the dishes away?

I couldn’t remember. In fact, I couldn’t remember what had happened this morning or the day before. Hell, I couldn’t even remember what we were doing before the dishes.

To be standing in a room, in a place you call home, and have a sense that nothing is in its right place, even though that is where everything has always been, is a disconcerting feeling beyond belief. To be perplexed by your own state of being—your existence—is even worse. I could almost describe it as a nauseating bout of vertigo.

My hands found the counter’s edge behind me, and I exhaled a shaky breath.

He stepped in front of me, one large and gentle hand reaching up to cup my jaw. “Are you okay?” he asked, his forehead wrinkling with shallow worry lines as he inspected my face. I hated that. I hated that I worried him so much. Sure, partners were supposed to lean on each other for support in a relationship (as he too did with me when needed), but I always felt so guilty doing so. Hadn’t he already suffered enough… pain in his lifetime? Who was I to cause him any more?

A sunbeam suffused the room, oozing across his face. The illumination lightened his eyes into a refreshing mint green, though, in contradiction, unearthed a pain that had been previously been concealed. Pain from what, I wasn’t sure. From concern regarding my unusual behaviour? Maybe a thought that was troubling him? Or perhaps he too was enduring a spell of confusion and had an inexplicable feeling that he was out of place.

Whatever his pain regarded, seeing it had rattled the deepest structures in which held my mind together.

It was then that I suddenly realised I hadn’t answered his question, so I gave him a wan “I’m-not-too-sure-myself” smile and then began slinking back to the sink window.

He followed behind me. I could feel him staring into the back of my head, could feel his brows draw together and his lips pull into a tight line, patiently waiting for a further explanation, though I wasn’t sure I could offer him one.

I hadn’t noticed before, but on the windowsill was a small picture frame containing a polaroid picture of us in bed—I was lying on his chest, half-naked and asleep, and he was looking down at me, smiling fondly yet with a sort of mischievous knowability. Running down the middle of the protective glass was a small, jagged crack.

I plucked the frame from the windowsill, inspecting the picture in my two hands. It seemed to uncover a place in my mind—once clouded by disorientation—I’d forgotten. Whether this place was real or imaginary was beyond me, but the fear I felt upon its recollection was incandescently genuine.

“Do you think,” I spoke tentatively, “people can have nightmares while they’re wide awake?” My thumb ran over the crack.

I might have heard him inhale a quiet, sharp breath, but it also could have just been the waves breaking on the distant shore. “Like a flashback?” he asked, an unidentifiable unease in his tone.

“No, not exactly.” I searched my brain for the right words, the right way to tell him how I was feeling, but it was difficult when I could only conjure vague fragments. And it was all I could do to tell it to him elliptically, as I knew saying the words in any other manner would shatter my heart.

“I had this vision,” I began, my words apprehensively staccato, “where I was somewhere else.” My eyes flickered over the picture. “Somewhere… bad. Everything was grey and heavy, and I was alone. Sometimes you were there, but you—you weren’t really you anymore.” I paused and looked up to find him staring at me in the reflection of the window. He looked pained; it was then suddenly hard to recollect a time when he didn’t. My throat started to constrict. “You were gone and…” my voice quietened to a broken wisp of wind, “you were haunting me.”

The room was silent.

He said nothing in response

The transparency of his reflection in the glass was so familiar—so haunting—and it was like another forgotten matter had been dredged from the depths of my mind. Stinging tears brimmed my waterline, and, due to my inability to bear the sight of his translucent appearance, I forced myself to turn around.

I glanced up at him, smiling weakly as I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head as if my need to apologise was nonsensical (even I was unsure of what I was apologising for), and he then pulled me into a tight embrace. His chin rested atop my head; my face was buried in his chest, and his arms held me like I was some dilapidated structure that relied on his support to remain upright. Part of me knew this sentiment was correct.

I expected his next words to be ones of consolation or reassurance, maybe an “I’m right here, sweetheart” or an “I’ll never leave you”. Instead, I felt his head turn and heard him say, “Think it’s going to storm?”

With a sniffle, I turned my head towards the window. The arms wrapped around my body tightened as if he somehow knew I would need the extra support. Because when I saw the wall of dark, opaque clouds rolling through the sky towards us, an unshakeable dread zapped through my heart.

My hands clung to the fabric of his cream-white sweater, which then brought to my attention that an inexplicable tingling sensation was spreading down the fingers of my right hand, numbing them.

Lightning flashed on the horizon, and the once serene waves began cresting violently on the shoreline. The dread grew.

Before my attention could drift too far, my name was called again.

I looked up to find those green eyes gazing down at me, swelling with tears. He was crying. Why was he crying? And why was his hair wet? His usually golden strands had darkened to a deep brown and were drenched with cold water that dripped onto my cheeks, and his hair was swept haphazardly across his forehead, a reflection of someone who had just endured an intense storm or had just been fighting for his life against a swarm of—of—

No.

My own eyes began to burn.

“It’s killing me to see you this way,” he spoke, every second word breaking and wavering in volume.

The world seemed to tilt on an axis. Return did the disorientation, ravaging my mind more violently now. “What do you”—My chest was rising and falling with heavy breaths—“What? What do you mean?” My lower lip was quivering, and my eyebrows were scrunched together in confusion. His words replayed in my head: It’s killing me to see you this way.

It’s killing me.

His hair was dripping—no longer with water, but with a thick, red substance that both dripped down and clotted on his skin. He didn’t look pained anymore; he looked like he was in pain.

It’s killing me.

But that can’t be right, can it?

It’s killing me.

Why?

It’s killing me.

Becausemy Finnickwas already dead.

I staggered backwards and out of his, no, this imposter’s arms. He stared at me as blood streamed down his forehead, pouring over his eyelashes and down his cheeks. I was going to be sick. This had to be some sort of cruel joke, a newly invented punishment from Snow. But that wasn’t right either: Snow was dead too.

“F…Fi…” I tried saying his name, my top teeth prodding the inside of my bottom lip, but I couldn’t make a sound.

He took a step towards me, and I almost stumbled onto the floor. “Remember what I told you?” he asked, though it sounded more like an urge.

I frantically shook my head. No, I didn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember anything.

Something dark and mountainous appeared in my peripheral vision, and an odious smell singed my nostrils. My head snapped to the left. Stacks upon stacks of plates and bowls mounded the kitchen sink, each crawling with maggots that were falling to the floor in white, wriggling heaps.

Nausea boiled in my stomach; horror brimmed my eyes.

I quickly turned away, my eyes meeting green again. His face was no longer stained with blood, and his hair was dry, shiny, and golden with life. I was as speechless as my face was drained of blood.

He took one more step toward me, but this time I didn’t back away, either frozen with fear or desperation for one last experience of closeness with him. My heart thrummed as he reached out to cup my face. It isn’t him, it isn’t him, it isn’t him, I repeated madly in my head. Oh, but it felt so much like him when his warm hand met my skin.

“I told you I’m always with you, sweetheart,” he murmured. And I knew engaging with him, in whatever form he took, affirmed my mental unwellness, but I couldn’t stop from leaning into his touch anyway. “Remember that.”

My cheeks were wet with tears. “I love—”

A bolt of lightning flashed, and thunder boomed throughout the house.

I was back in my bed.

My eyelids were heavy with sleep as they fluttered open. I felt detached, destabilised, and unsure of my existence in the world for I wasn’t sure which of the twoI was currently in. Real or fake?

A few minutes went by before I managed to get a grip on reality, which, in fact, was the real one. The Somewhere Bad. I pinched the corners of my eyes, not only finding them damp with fresh tears but also realising that my right hand—previously tucked beneath my head—was numb.

None of it had been real…

The entire time, my body was trying to alert me, to save me from the inescapable heartache I would feel upon waking. He hadn’t held me in his arms. He hadn’t cupped my cheek nor helped me wash the dishes. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t anywhere (not even in his own marked grave because there was nothing left of him to be buried).

Even despite seeing the familiar tall outline standing in the doorway, his features illuminated with each flash of lightning, I knew it wasn’t really him.

Rain was pummelling the roof, almost loud enough to subdue the perpetual rumbling of thunder (apart from the one sky-splitting thunderclap that had woken me). In another time, I would’ve been scared—of the raging storm, of my phantom lover who was watching from the shadows of our bedroom. But not now.

In recent months, I had found that no emotion, not even fear, surpassed the soul-crushing realisation that you have irretrievably lost the one thing you lived for.

On a defeated whim, and for the first time since his death, I let the singular, weighted word breeze past my lips.

“Finnick.”

It was a trembling plea, a desperate beckon.

And he indulged.

His footsteps were silent as he walked towards the bed. I couldn’t see his legs from my position, prompting me to wonder if he even had legs at all. Or did he only have legs when I could see them? That would then insinuate that if I couldn’t see him at all, he didn’t exist.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? In my case, the answer was simple: no, it didn’t.

It wasn’t really Finnick. It wasn’t even his ghost. It was my mind.

He reached the bed’s edge, and I scooted over to my side of the mattress, allowing him enough space to lie down on his. His weight neither dipped nor shook the bed as he laid down and turned on his side to face me. His eyes were sad, and I’m sure mine were too. We stared at each other for a long, long time, long enough for my fatigued body to start playing tricks on me.

If I focused hard enough, I thought I could hear the sound of his breathing (the wind was picking up outside), feel the warmth of his skin spreading onto the sheets (the remnants of my own body heat were left behind each time I moved), and smell the musky scent of cologne and sea-salted hair (the sleeves of his sweater were tucked beneath my nose).

Maybe for a moment—just one sickly, self-indulgent moment—I could pretend it was really him.

I inhaled deeply through my nose. “You really weren’t kidding when you said you would haunt the next owner of this house,” I whispered as light-heartedly as I could, my voice obscured by the heavy rain pouring onto the roof.

He smiled, and it was one of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful things I had ever seen. I think I might have given him one in return, though I couldn’t be too sure because the concept of smiling had become so foreign. The last time I was truly happy was… the last night we spent together. In each other’s arms, safe and warm and together.

And then he was gone. Just like that.

Cressida, whom I had only spoken to once in Thirteen when the war ended, was the one to tell me how it happened. Katniss was too personal, too close to him; Peeta’s instability rendered conversation futile. So, I had asked Cressida to tell me every detail—every expression on his face, every word he screamed. I don’t know why. Maybe it was so I could cling onto those last few minutes where he was still alive and breathing, despite dying and bleeding; or so I could replay the moment over and over in my head, as if somehow, someway, I could change his fate.

“He talked about you all the time,” she had told me. “Actually, I don’t think he ever spoke of anything but you. No one minded, though. While we were out there, no one ever really smiled, but every time your name was mentioned, Finnick would get this great big grin on his face, and it was impossible not to look at him and start smiling as well.

So, we all started asking questions about you: ‘What colour is her hair? Her eyes? Where did you meet? What are her hobbies?’—just to see him smile… A week passed, and it was like we all knew you inside out. It was all we could do to hang on to some shred of happiness, even if it meant talking about a girl who, to all of us, was a stranger.”

I was inconsolable after that.

She kept talking, but my sobs had drowned out most of her words, so much that I had asked her to retell me everything later in the day, despite inducing the same outcome. So, she told it to me again, just as she did the day after that and the day after that and so on until I returned home to District Four.

“He also spoke about how you never felt comfortable living in the Victors Village. He had this idea that the two of you would move somewhere far away, outside the borders of District Four, though he emphasised remaining by the sea was very important—something about how you looked while swimming during sunset and the water was all sparkly around you.”

At this point, she had been holding my hand, knowing full well how debilitating it was for me to hear. Then she had spoken with a quiet incredulity and a facial expression to match, as though she’d never encountered a love like ours before. “He wanted to build a house for you…”

He wanted to build a house for you.

And now he never would. Our love was too ephemeral for that to happen; destined to remain history; to be a memory.

Finnick's eyes stared into mine, the green hue now a dark grey from the overshadowing dimness of the room.

“I would’ve gone anywhere with you,” I whispered to him, placing my hand on the sheets between us. “I would’ve travelled thousands of miles away from this place. Would’ve lived in solitary, just the two of us, for the rest of our lives.” A warm tear tickled the bridge of my nose. His eyebrows scrunched together in shared anguish. “God, Finn, I miss you,” my voice broke. “I miss you so much.”

I contemplated crying, sobbing, screaming, or begging for him to come back, but I was just too tired. All my energy had been spent on grievance throughout the following day, and my eyes were growing heavier by the second as my body was sinking further into a state of relaxation.

Between slow blinks, I watched Finnick’s large hand move to rest atop my own, and at that point, I knew sleep would soon catch me because I swear I could feel his warm touch.

Images flashed through my mind—incomprehensible and melting together, yet somehow still graspable.

Sky blue water rippling with calm waves, the surface glittering in the setting sun. A white stonewall cottage fronted by soft, white sand and tall palm trees. Two plates of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast. Three pairs of footprints in the sand, one larger, one smaller, and another between them so delicately tiny I could fit them into the palm of my hand.

Sea-green eyes above me. Golden hair tangled between my fingers. Finnick standing in the wooden doorway of our white stonewall cottage wearing a cream-white sweater and rolled-up slacks. Finnick grinning deeply and then throwing his head back with laughter. Finnick standing in front of our bed, taking my hand in his and guiding me towards him. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick.

Finnick holding our child.

I was between worlds now, both indistinguishable from the other. My eyelids were drooping, and I was quickly growing insensate. Just before my eyes closed completely, I saw Finnick’s—he who wasn’t really my Finnick—lips move. It wasn’t in my bleak reality in which I heard him speak, but rather in my mind, and God, did his words offer the sweetest relief.

“I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

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thedelicatearcher · 15 days

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i love when on catching fire after katniss' leg injury, she spends days with peeta working on the herbal book. and now i can't stop thinking about an alternate universe where katniss is a writer and peeta is her illustrator

#literally can't stop thinking about them #maybe i should write a little drabble about it #everlark #thg #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark

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ratzquantum · 5 months

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𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒

— a teeny tiny bit angsty but big fluffy peeta mellark x reader blurb

mornings waking up next to peeta still feel a little uneasy after the rebellion. fortunately, you know just how to fix that.

the mornings were always difficult, especially when every morning was a different surprise. sometimes it felt like finally reaching the top of a tall mountain, then other times you felt like the mountain. he treated you like some barrier, a big obstacle. it was not a practice either of you had wanted to fall into—though you were also aware it could not have been avoided.

the fried egg you had been tampering with sizzled between two crusted bread buns. butter oozed off of the sides, dripping into a puddle of gooey, leftover residue. the egg's edges had been trimmed (burned) to a crisp, toasty brown. it definitely smelled good, even if the image itself looked shriveled and overcooked. peeta would enjoy the thought you put into the food, that enough was guaranteed. but everything about that idea in itself bothered you.

ever since peeta was rescued; ever since peeta was abysmally brought back to his conscience, food had lost its taste and peeta had lost his touch. peeta had lost much that he could not recover, but specifically his baker's touch. it was as if the capitol had drained him of his joys—his skills and prides—just because they wanted to. you despised it. baking was one of the easiest crafts, and they took that from him because it entertained them.

you baked bread for peeta because he could no longer bake on his own. you baked breakfast and dessert for peeta to recoup old emotions he hesitated to feel. even so, it bothered you that your baking was never good enough to bring back peeta's bubbly laugh; the crinkles in his eyes when he smiled deep enough. never good enough to rid peeta of that long, distant stare; the ache in his muscles; the gentle shake in his fingers when they engulfed your own.

you plated the fried egg sandwich atop the cool white kitchen countertop and reached up to release the window shades in front of you. rays of sunlight dripped into the room, glimmering off of the eggy-residue. if he did not enjoy the food today, especially after you managed to not burn the whole egg to a crisp, you might as well faint there and then.

the sun gave way to speckles of dust in the air, peppering the house with that unusual feeling of 'comfort'. you were never too sure of what the meaning of home was, but sometimes you could believe you were living in it now.

you ambled your way past the sun, past the dust, and through a small hallway into the bedroom you shared with peeta. the door was partially opened from your escape earlier, revealing the crumpled bedsheets on your side of the bed. you nudged the door open further with your foot. blonde tuffs shed themselves from behind heavy sheets. a smile seeped into the cracks of your lips. his nightmares were subsiding.

the fried egg sandwich was abandoned on a nearby dresser. you were clambering into bed beside peeta without any hesitation, leaving the lights dim and the sheets scattered. his warmth had found yours and engulfed you whole.

your arms stretched out to meet peeta's waist, fingers digging gently into his loose shirt to draw him back to you. he let out a soft groan, eyebrows deepening at the sudden movement. cloth tangled between your fingers as you lifted his shirt just enough to press two fingers against the low end of his back. peeta shifted against your chest, murmuring a ghostly whisper.

"y/n?" his lashes fluttered open as your fingers tenderly kneaded his back, massaging circles into his skin. his lips parted to sigh deeply in response to your touch. your fingers traced along his spine, soothing his woes. peeta's head fell back and bumped into your forehead, earning him a soft giggle.

"breakfast is ready," you cooed, planting a kiss on the back of his head.

peeta hummed dejectedly, turning over his shoulder to face you. "told you not to make me breakfast anymore," he huffed. his face painted his voice, squinted eyes and crinkled brows gazing at yours.

it did not take more than a minute for you to change his mind. his eyes found your unchanging smile, and those sullen wrinkles softened up.

"but you won't stop, real or not real?" he whispered, a brief chuckle paired with the usually solemn question. your eyes glimmered against his stare as he drowsily smiled at you.

"real."

you reached the top of a particularly lucky mountain this morning.

#peeta mellark x reader #the hunger games #reader #drabble #reader insert #peeta mellark #peeta x reader #fluff #angst #fanfiction #the hunger games imagine #imagine #blurb #thg

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janitorhutcherson · 3 months

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if you need creamer for your coffee feel free to get it from my pants

#josh hutcherson x reader #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt fluff #mike schmidt imagine #mike schmidt #josh hutcherson fluff #josh hutcherson imagine #josh hutcherson #josh hutcherson fanfic #mike schmidt smut #peeta mellark fluff #peeta mellark smut #peeta x reader #peeta mellark imagine #peeta mellark drabble #peeta mellark headcanon #peeta mellark edit #peeta mellark fanfic #peeta mellark x reader

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nightlocked-in · 8 days

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peeta tells katniss she snores

(scene from a modern au wip)

EDIT: you can find the completed fic here

***

“Why don’t you sleep with white noise anymore?”

“What?” he asks groggily. He’s half asleep.

“Your white noise sound thingies. You haven’t put them on since, like, the first night I stayed over. I’m starting to think you’re a liar.”

We’re cuddling in my favorite position, facing each other where I’m able to hold his head against my chest and his arms are wrapped around my waist. We’re completely clothed. Well, I’m in a tank top and underwear, and he’s in boxers. We didn’t have sex tonight. Sometimes we don’t have time for anything other than studying and sleep. I don’t know when it became okay to have sleepovers with no sex, but now I can’t usually sleep without his arms around me. Even if I had to fuck him every night just to sleep next to him, I’d take it in stride and count my blessings. But he doesn’t seem to mind this way, either.

He chuckles, and the sound tickles the skin on my shoulder. I instinctively tug on his hair some, and I know it makes him wake up more because I hear his breath pick up speed a little. “I haven’t had to play them. When you stay over.”

I pause my scratches on his scalp. “What do you mean?”

His hands tighten around me and he seems to hesitate. “It’s um, easier… to sleep when you’re here, sleeping with me.”

My brows furrow at his nervousness, making me sense he’s hiding something. “What are you saying?”

He sighs. “Katniss… there’s no easy way to say this.”

“Spit it out, Peeta.”

He rubs circles on my back in a comforting manner. “You snore.”

I fake-slap him on the back of his head, sitting up. “I do not!”

He holds up a hand in a surrendering gesture, smiling. “You do, unfortunately. Well, not unfortunate for me. The sound helps me sleep.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re lying. I’ve never snored a day in my life.”

“A night in your life.” I roll my eyes. “And you do.”

“My sister and I have had sleepovers my entire life! She’s never once mentioned something like that!”

“Baby,” he reaches out to rub my thigh, and I’m used to the feel of his body on mine, but the new term of endearment makes my eyes widen and my face heat. “I’m sorry she never told you.” He smiles. “But I’m not lying.”

I look at him for a moment too long, then scoff. “Whatever.”

I pretend to be making my way off of the bed, but he wraps his arms around me, “Uh-uh, not so fast, Everdeen.” I giggle while he pulls me to lay flush against his chest, so we’re face to face. His eyes are slightly crossed from looking at me so closely. His eyelashes are so long. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

He sighs in what seems to be contentment. “I really like being around you.”

My heart skips a beat. “I like being around you, too.”

“And I like it when you stay over. It means that my white noise won’t be top five on my Spotify Wrapped for this year.”

I scrunch up my nose. “I don’t know about that one, Mellark. It’s already November.”

He rolls his eyes, “Fine. Then I like it when you stay over because…” he trails off to gesture between the two of us.

And I thought he was so good at words. “Because the sex is great?”

His brows furrow, and his grip on me tightens. “No.” He observes me a second longer before continuing. “I just like who I am when I’m around you. Don’t you feel like that with some people?”

I search his eyes. I feel like that with Annie. “Yes.” With you.

He gives me a soft smile that I match, and then we both lean in for a kiss, slowly. Just when our lips touch, I pull back a centimeter, taunting him. “Peeta?”

“Yeah?” His lips move against mine.

“I don’t snore.” I try to keep a straight face.

He chuckles against me, grabbing the back of my neck to bring me closer. “Whatever you say, baby.”

#katniss everdeen #the hunger games #thg #nightlocked-in #everlark #peeta mellark #thg blurb #thg one shot #thg drabble #thg fanfic #fanfic #umbrella boy

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katnissmellarkkk · 9 months

Note

tis I with a prompt: I request the first time post war Katniss lets Peeta into her bed again 🥺

AN : wrote this the night you sent the prompt but I absolutely hated it until now. I finally got around to cleaning this up a bit and now I think it’s cute? Lemme know, all of y’all, if you like it! And my writing muscles are rusty so send me a prompt if you like, to try and work me out please! Can’t make any promises about what’ll trigger my brain but I can sure try! Anywaysss hope y’all enjoy this lil post-mockingjay-pre-epilogue drabble here!

I watch with dread as Peeta scrubs away the last bit of sauce still dried to his plate.

“You really don’t have to do that,” I murmur halfheartedly from where I lean against the counter, watching him.

“It’s rude to not wash your own plate after dinner,” he says, his tone somewhat coy. He’s teasing me, I realize. He’s maybe even flirting with me but I can’t be sure and even if I could, I wouldn’t know what to make of it.

“I never wash mine after eating at your house,” I mumble, mostly to myself. I know he doesn’t care about cleaning off my plate for me. I know that he knows that I don’t mind washing his plate either.

But I don’t push the point and neither does he. Because we’re both stalling the inevitable.

It’s past ten at night and it’s time for Peeta to go home now. This time comes every day and we should be more prepared for it by this point, but every single night when the sun has long since left the sky and you can barely make out five feet in front of you without a flashlight, Peeta walks out the front door and my chest aches, as he disappears out into the night.

Ask him to stay, a tiny voice that sounds weirdly like both Haymitch and my mother — at the same exact time — pressures me.

But my tongue won’t cooperate and I can’t make the words form on my lips and I feel my stomach flip as I stutter out an awkward goodbye instead.

“Goodnight, Katniss,” Peeta says evenly, his face smooth and peaceful and totally level as he reaches out and squeezes my hand before moving to grab his coat.

He’s walking towards the door and I feel the familiar dread — the dread that’s been my constant companion for longer than I care to remember — rise up in my stomach and for a split second I want to reach out and grasp his elbow. For a split second I want to grab onto him and stop him from leaving.

And for a moment I plan to ask him to stay, to come upstairs with me, to get into his pajamas and brush his teeth by my side at the sink, to crawl beneath the sheets and hold me until we hear birds begin to chirp with the morning light. In that moment I plan to ask him to do exactly what we used to do on the train, exactly what we used to do every single night, back before everything between us completely shattered beyond recognition.

My hand drops midair before I can make the contact with his arm but it catches his attention just the same.

“What’s wrong?” He inquires, his face becoming concerned.

“Nothing,” I brush off tightly. Instead of saying what I’m thinking, instead of saying what I want, I just force a smile and lightly graze his hand. “Get home safe.”

At that, he shoots me a bemused look. “I live three houses from you. Somehow I think I’ll be fine.”

I nod and chuckle as he leaves, as he disappears into the night, making the shortest of journeys home, unwittingly leaving me to dwell in regret for all the things I wish I’d just come out and said.

As soon as the door shuts between us regret the size of an elephant lands on my chest.

And I know, without a doubt, this is going to be one bad night for me.

The funny thing about my nightmares is they never lose their edge. Not with time, not with practice, not with comparison. I’ve seen Cato get eaten by the mutts hundreds of times. I’ve watched Clove stab me with her knives and Brutus chase me through the jungle and Enobaria break my neck with one hand, more than I could possibly count.

I’ve witnessed my sister detonate, as if I’m still standing right there, in the city circle of the Capitol. I’ve witnessed it thousands of times since that day. I’ve witnessed it more often than I’ve managed to actually sleep since that day.

And it never gets easier. It never becomes routine. I’m never ever prepared for it.

Instead I’m left paralyzed as the same dreams plague me over and over and over again.

Other things do change though. I used to thrash around, kicking and screaming as the dreams tortured me for minutes on end. I used to wake up, sweat covered and coiled up in my bedding, trapped in a physical sense that only manages to make my dreams even more intense somehow.

But over time something shifted and somehow, between the bomb that killed my sister and taking down Coin and the trial I scarcely remember, the thrashing stopped and the walking began.

For months now, I’ve woken to find myself in strange rooms, in small crawl spaces I didn’t know existed, inside cupboards and beneath beds no one’s ever used in guest rooms I barely recognize.

But I’ve never found myself outside before. Never, in all the time I’ve dealt with these dreams, have I ever once ended up in my front lawn.

Never, in my wildest imagination, did I picture myself waking from my nightmare, facedown in some dirt, ripping grass from the ground as I let out a rabid scream.

“Katniss,” I hear a voice softly murmur, like speaking to an injured fawn, terrified of scaring them away. “Katniss, it’s okay.”

And my lips cry for the voice before my brain fully recognizes it. “Peeta?”

“It’s just me,” he says, and I feel his hands grasp the tops of my arms, gently pulling me upright. “It’s only me.”

I pry my swollen eyes open and take in Peeta’s kind, worried face, mere inches away from mine.

“You’re here?” I croak, still groggy and confused. “What’s going on?”

“You were having a nightmare,” he explains, thumbing away my tears as more come pouring out. “But it’s over now. It was just a dream. You’re okay.” His hand cups my cheek softly, holding the weight of my head.

I nod plaintively, my body still completely exhausted despite the fact I was just asleep. “I’m okay,” I try to say but all that comes out is a guttural raspy sound and I watch as his face softens even more.

“Come on. Let’s get you inside,” he whispers, offering me his hand.

I take it without question, but find that I’m not upright for long. The moment I’m standing, my bare feet touching the dewy grass, Peeta bends down and scoops me up in his arms.

I don’t question it though. Maybe secretly I wanted him to do that. I definitely didn’t want to wait around to see if Haymitch came outside, asking why I was screaming at this hour of the day.

Peeta carries me into the house as if I weigh as much as Buttercup, kicking the door shut behind him and walking over to the couch. He sits down with me on his lap and drops his arms, as if to let me decide the next move. I could either crawl away from him, put some distance between us, or I could remain where I am.

To me, the choice barely takes any consideration.

I curl up closer to him, the images from the dream still too fresh to handle alone. I press my face into his neck and fold myself into him and hope he reciprocates in kind.

It doesn’t take more than a second for him to respond. As soon as I initiate it, he’s there, pulling me tighter, cradling me against him, rocking me back and forth like I’m something precious to behold.

“It’s okay,” he repeats again and again and again, as if we entered a time warp and we’re back on the train, back in the Capitol in our little apartment, sharing a bed, guarding against nightmares we stupidly thought would be the height of our troubles. “I have you, Katniss. I won’t let anything hurt you now.”

I cry into the collar of his shirt, drained and shaking and still half-crazed, feeling slightly better only when his fingers begins to smooth my hair away from my face.

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” Peeta whispers gently, his hand moving from my hair to my lower back, rubbing soft, soothing circles there to alleviate my trembling.

Time begins to pass. My tears dwindle to nothing. I feel the shaking come to an end. Every last ounce of energy I have left seeps from my body. My eyes grow heavy.

And pretty soon, I feel myself lifted once again, into strong, protective arms, cradling me like a baby as they carry me up the stairs and down to the end of the hall.

I’m tucked into bed gently, with the utmost care. The covers are brought up to my chin, my hair is brushed off my forehead and his fingers lightly dance upon my cheek. But it’s not enough. I still crave more.

“Don’t leave me,” I whisper, and my voice still isn’t mine, it’s someone else, someone who isn’t afraid to ask for what she wants. For who she wants to lay beside her in the darkness.

“Okay,” he murmurs and it sounds like a promise but as he sits down on the side of my bed and takes my hand in his, planting a soft kiss upon the back of it, I know he doesn’t understand what I’m truly asking.

“No, Peeta, that’s not what I meant,” I say, shaking my head, before pushing the covers back. “Can you get in? Can you stay with me?”

I don’t really grasp my word choice and all the underlying meanings until it’s already slipped out and too late to take back again.

But I only have a moment to be filled with regret. Because that’s how long it takes Peeta to slide in beside me.

And as I curl into him, wrapping my leg around his waist, burrowing my face in the curve of his neck, basking in the feeling of utter safety and happiness that I have never, ever found in another pair of arms, he whispers the only thing that could erase my chagrin.

“Always.”

#everlark #thg #hunger games #thw #Katniss everdeen #Peeta mellark #300 #my drabbles #my writing #drabble #everlark drabble #thg fanfic #everlark fanfiction

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gtgbabie0 · 4 months

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-Peeta Mellark x reader

{You and Peeta bake… more or less}

It’s short and sweet, Enjoy my lovelies! 💕

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

The sun was beginning to set, its warm orangey light stretches over the horizon and filters through the kitchen window, peaking through the curtains as Peeta works the dough under his palms. You were meant to be helping, but instead, you stood admiring him as he works under the warm evening sun, the light dusting against his skin.

Peeta can feel your eyes on him, and he smiles to himself turning to you. “Are you gonna help me, or just keep ogling at me?” He chuckles as he continues to knead the dough under his palms.

You scoff shaking your head as you snap out of your trance. “I was not ogling… I was admiring there’s a huge difference” you tell him, flicking some of the flour up at him as he tries to dodge it. You reach over to pick up another pinch of flour but his hip nudges against yours, pushing you away gently as you giggle.

“Hey… there are rules to the kitchen you know?” He says, looking over at you as his blond hair falls just above his eye, you reach over to push his soft locks away and he gives you an appreciative smile.

You frown softly, deciding to humour him. “Oh yeah, and what are the rules?” You ask, watching him as he washes his hand before turning back to you.

“Well for one… no ogling at the baker and secondly no throwing ingredients” he smirks as you roll your eyes shaking your head softly, he picks the dough up carefully placing it in the bread pan.

There’s a comforting atmosphere that blankets over the pair of you, it’s in the smell of the freshly baked bread and the way Peeta looks at you. It’s everywhere hidden within the walls of the house and stored in the pictures that are displayed.

You stand beside Peeta as he washes up the dishes while you dry them. “Could you get that baby?” He asks softly, his hands still scrubbing the bowls as he nods down to his sleeve that has fallen down to his forearm, you reach over to pull it back up to his elbow and he whispers a small ‘thank you’

The pair of you finish up with the dishes, waiting for the bread to finish cooking. The pair of you sit on the sofa. Your head rests against his shoulder as you lean into his warm touch. His hand slips into yours, and his thumb caresses your palm gently. It’s hard to fight the sleep that creeps upon you, especially since he’s warm and gentle, everything about him soothes you.

“Don’t fall asleep angel” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he feels your body lean further into him. His hand soothes against your arm, trying to keep you awake, but it has the complete opposite effect.

“M’not… I’m wide awake” you mumble, sleep lacing through your tone and Peeta can’t help but chuckle. Before he can respond the timer is ringing from the kitchen, and the smell of bread travels through the house.

Peeta stands up, stretching slightly before looking back at you. “Stay awake for me baby” he says as you sit up giving him an unconvincing nod before he disappears into the kitchen.

It doesn’t take long for him to come back with a plate of warm golden bread. He places it on the coffee table, breaking a piece off before handing it to you, with a hopeful look that flashes through his eyes as he watches you take a bite.

“It’s perfect… as always” you smile, reaching over to take another piece of the sweet-tasting bread.

“You know there’s another rule to the kitchen,” Peeta says, sitting down next to you on the sofa with a knowing look.

There’s a soft smirk that adorns your lips as you turn to him, raising your eyebrows slightly. “Mhm… and what’s that?” you ask.

“You gotta pay the baker” he smiles and you roll your eyes, shaking your head softly as you whisper. “Right of course how could I forget” leaning to press a gentle kiss to his lips, his hand resting against your cheek as his fingertips graze along your jaw.

You can’t help but smile against his lips, breaking the kiss as he pulls away with a soft look in his eyes… as if you were everything he ever needed and truth be told you were.

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bruisedboys · 5 months

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peeta mellark !!!! who loves all your insecurities likes it’s breathing <3 and who worships the ground you walk on because you’re his sun!!

peeta who loves your stretch marks even if you don’t. he’ll run his hands over the soft ridges, up and down, over and over. he’ll kiss the ones on your hips when he’s feeling lovesick (which is always) and he likes how you shudder under his mouth, say his name all breathless while you bury your hands in his hair.

peeta who doesn’t care if you don’t shave, it couldn’t bother him less. and if you do want smooth skin, he’ll offer to do it for you, claiming, “I’m an expert, sweetheart. c’mon, can I please?” you never say no, you can’t. he’s unbelievably careful and kisses your knees when he’s done.

peeta who loves your tummy and your thighs!! he’s always got a big warm hand on your thigh, or one under your shirt, kneading your stomach. they’re kind of his favourite parts of you. the parts he can squeeze all his love into. his favourite thing ever is when you wear a big t-shirt to bed so he has easy access to your thighs and tummy <3 better if it’s his t-shirt, of course.

peeta who braids your hair back for you before you sleep, no matter how tired he is. you sit on a cushion on the floor while he sits on the bed, fingers gentle as they card through your hair. sometimes you’ll fall asleep against his knee. he never has the heart to wake you up, so he lifts you into bed himself. you wake for a handful of seconds, enough to murmur a sweet, “thank you, pete.” he kisses your forehead, his way of saying you’re welcome.

peeta who takes your face in his hands when you cry, endlessly gentle. he swipes at your hot tears with his thumbs and curls his fingers behind your ears. “did you know you’re pretty even when you cry?” he’ll say. “how do you do that, hm?”

peeta whose love is hot like stars and infinite. he’ll go to the moon and back for you and he’s not afraid to let you know that <333

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anatay004 · 3 months

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ꜰɪɴɴɪᴄᴋ ᴏᴅᴀɪʀ | ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀᴍɪɴᴅ (part five)

ꜰɪᴠᴇ ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴡɪɴɴɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ 70ᴛʜ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ ɢᴀᴍᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴇɴᴛᴏʀ, ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴇᴛ ᴅʀᴀɢɢᴇᴅ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀᴇɴᴀ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴛɪᴍᴇ — ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴘʟᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘɪᴄᴛᴜʀᴇ-ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ ᴄᴏᴜᴘʟᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ʙʏ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ɴᴏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴘʀᴇꜱɪᴅᴇɴᴛ ꜱɴᴏᴡ.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ : ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴀɴɪᴛʏ

"MORE THAN HALF THE TRIBUTES WANT YOU AS THEIR ALLIES."

Mags announced a few days later when you and Finnick were sitting across from her in the living room. The tension in the atmosphere was suffocating, tethered to the interaction you'd had with Peeta in the training center a few days ago. You'd never seen Finnick so annoyed about something before, the brief interaction had been nothing but innocent — yet, it had Finnick grappling for something to say, spitting over remarks, and dismissing your presence in blatant resentment for the last few days.

It annoyed you, but you should've seen it coming, you supposed. Just when you'd thought that things had finally elucidated between the two of you — just when you'd thought things were starting to heal again, he'd taken three steps back. Just like he'd done the first time he'd broken things off with you back at home.

"They saw her in the simulator room." Finnick's voice broke into your reverie, but you didn't bother to look at him. You knew what he was referring to; you'd overshadowed Katniss again, but this time you'd done it in the training center.

When she'd stepped inside one of the simulator rooms to practice her archery and had formed a crowd outside her windows. You'd felt slightly threatened then if you were being honest, but Johanna had been quick to advise you. "Opaque her little show" she'd whispered into your ear and, despite you knowing better, you fell into her instigation and walked over to the rack where the tridents hung. You'd never been a fan of violence, but you were good with weapons. Your ability to swing the trident and aim for the heart had been acquired through fishing and watching Finnick practice for many hours back at home.

So, it was no surprise when you stepped inside the simulator room and astutely swung at the targets without missing a single one.

"Well, whatever the case was, you both are doing better than anyone else," Your stylist, Dean, congratulated from across the room. "So, now, you have your pick of the letter."

"We'll have Johanna." Finnick declared, and you nodded in silent agreement.

"Anyone else?" Mags signaled with her hands.

You chewed on the inside of your cheeks pensively. You tried hard to ignore the alliance that Peeta had established with you a few days ago. He'd labeled you as his friend and, you supposed, he wasn't so far off considering the past interactions you'd both shared. But you didn't dare to blurt that out into the open air, afraid that you might just ignite a fight or two with Finnick Odair.

So, instead, you decided to ask. "What about Beeta and Wires?"

Finnick pinched the bridge of his nose, in evident disapproval, but you ignored his gesture and crossed your arms over your chest.

"Anyone else?" Dean repeated, after taking note of your preferences.

"Katniss," Finnick added nonchalantly, and you couldn't help, but turn to glare at him. He pretended not to notice, but the faint grin that tugged at his lips stated otherwise.

"You have to be kidding me," You spat through your teeth, and Finnick feigned an innocent look on his face when he turned to you. "You do realize we were dragged into this mess to compete against them — not with them."

"Oh, yeah?" He quipped, narrowing his eyes at you. "Because it doesn't seem that way when you're drooling over Peeta, honey."

"I do not." You argued, growing frustrated.

"Then why are you always looking at him?"

You didn't reply for a moment. Finnick was right — these past few days, you'd found yourself looking at Peeta a lot more, but it wasn't in the way Finnick thought it was. You wanted to decipher Peeta Mellark, his gentleness and his persistence to approach you were conflicting to you. You weren't used to receiving such kindness, especially from other Victors, hence the reason you often found yourself looking at him. You wanted to break down him into pieces; just to make sense of him.

"He's kind to me," You eventually replied, to which Finnick only rolled his eyes. "You could learn something from him."

With a visible tick in his jaw, Finnick turned to face you again and you knew you'd hit a nail when his eyes darkened. "Oh?"

You pretended not to hear him.

"Okay, this — " Dean suddenly interjected, signaling you and Finnick back and forth with his finger. " — needs to stop before tonight's interview. I cannot have you both acting this way."

There was a moment of silence.

Dean signed audibly before offering you both a faint smile. "Besides, it is your wedding day."

Your muscles immediately froze at his words. And, for a moment, you could've sworn you heard the loud thumping of your heart against your chest. "What?" You managed to blurt out.

"Your wedding day," Dean repeated as though as if it were the most obvious thing before his face dropped when he saw the startled expression on both of your faces."Oh, you didn't know?"

Instinctively, you turned to face Finnick, but his expression reflected the same as yours — shocked. His eyebrows were pulled together, his gaze hard and calculating; as if he was almost trying to make sense of what Dean was saying.

"What are you talking about?" Finnick eventually questioned, and you almost winced at the hoarse sound of his voice.

"Snow will have someone come up to marry you in a few hours. He said you both had agreed to it." Dean explained, with an almost apologetic smile on his face. Instinctively, you turned to look at Mags for a little consolation, but she only dropped her gaze.

This was not part of the deal.

Snow'd never mentioned this in the agreement, but then again, you weren't surprised — he was President Snow, after all. And it made sense, you supposed, you were trying to one-up the lovers from District Twelve, and, since their wedding had to be canceled; it made sense for Snow to want you both to steal that advantage from them. Besides, you'd always assumed you would marry Finnick at some point in your life.

You just kind of wished it would've happened under other circumstances.

"You have to be fucking kidding me," Finnick cursed under his breath, raking a hand through his hair. "Do we even have a say in this?"

"I'm afraid not." Dean shook his head.

"Shit." Finnick hissed, pushing himself off the couch. You watched as he paced back and forth around the room for a while, and you couldn't help, but feel slightly conflicted with his reaction. It forced a feeling of uneasiness to retaliate in the pit of your stomach. You knew Finnick's love for you was complicated and sometimes even fleeting, but this reaction had your head spinning — perhaps, you'd read something wrong.

"Is it so bad?" The words slipped out your mouth mindlessly, and the room grew immediately quiet at the mere sound of your voice. It was low yet vehement, it underlined the thinly veiled pain that settled over your features.

Is it so bad to marry me?

Stupidly, you were hoping for his assurance. For a word that could have quenched down the feeling of rejection that burrowed beneath your chest. But, instead, Finnick's silence answered you — it was deafening, and it forced a lump to form in your throat. He doesn't want to marry me, you thought to yourself. And the thought alone was enough to force you off the couch and back into your room.

"(Y/N), honey, don't — " Dean started, but his words froze on the tip of his tongue when you shut the door behind you with a loud thud.

"I look like a slut." You complained when you stepped out of the fitting room later that day and looked at your reflection in the mirror. You were wearing a mesmerizing dress — there was no doubt about that, but the liquid organza fabric that draped over your skin was barely visible (except for your undergarments) which left more than enough room for the imagination.

"Honey, that's the point," Dean replied, brushing a few strands of straight hair away from your face."Besides, you look stunning. The most beautiful bride I've ever seen before."

Subconsciously, your gaze dropped to stare at your left hand, where a beautiful ring rested over one of your fingers. You swallowed hard at the reminder that you were now married. Even if it'd taken everything in Finnick to sign the damn paper, even if he'd hesitated in slipping the ring on your finger — even if it wasn't real.

"I know this isn't the best timing," Dean suddenly reminded you, placing his hands over your shoulders in silent comfort. "But I want you to forget about everything tonight, okay? You need to forget about everything, darling. Remember why we're here for..."

You took a deep breath.

Remember why we're here for.

"You will talk about your wedding," Dean instructed you, dropping his voice down to a whisper. "You will talk about how deeply in love you're with Finnick Odair. You will talk about your ring and your future with him."

Your head was spinning again.

"Okay." You nodded before you were swiftly beckoned backstage. The room was dark and filled with most of the tributes, they were all lined up and waiting for Caesar Flickerman to interview them — and the mere sight of them made you sick to the stomach.

You'd been here before; in a different time and with different people, but the sight pained you all the same. It brought back memories that you'd hoped to diminish, to incarcerate in the back of your head and never set free. As much as you pretended to be okay with everything going around you, you knew that, deep down inside your chest, you were far from being fine.

And, somehow, Finnick did too.

"You okay?" Finnick whispered behind you, and your muscles tensed when his warm breath pressed against the skin of your neck.

"I'm fine," You limited yourself to answer.

But he wasn't convinced.

And, without a warning, he slid a comforting arm around your waist and traced arbitrarily patterns over the fabric of your dress with his thumb. You should've pushed him away, retaliated, and escaped his cursing touch, but you didn't. Instead, you subconsciously leaned against him — because it was the only way your heart wasn't hammering against your chest.

"Finnick Odair"

"Stay calm," Finnick encouraged, before pressing a fleeting kiss to the side of your head when he was instructed to stand by. "I'll be back soon."

You exhaled shakily, hating the way his lips pressed against your skin so nonchalantly. As if he hadn't just made it clear he didn't want you.

Remember why we're here for.

With a feigned smile on your face, you straightened your frame and nauseously waited for the curtains to part open.

Remember why we're here for.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please give a round of applause for Finnick Odair."

You watched as Finnick stepped on stage.

It never failed to amaze you how well Finnick masked his emotions under the limelight, and how fast he was able to shift from his normal demeanor to a hypnotizing one. He was unrecognizable, flashing his perfect teeth to the crowd and sweet-talking his way into their attention — as if he was happy to be there. You envied how good he could fake it.

"So, Finnick..." Caesar started, once the audience had settled down. "You are a married man now if I'm not mistaken. You're married to our beautiful — our darling, (Y/N) (Y/L/N)!"

"(Y/N) Odair," Finnick corrected, and Caesar let out an amusing laugh.

"I love it!" Caesar cheered and turned to face the crowd across from him. "Don't you love it?"

The crowd cheered. "Okay, now, Finnick, tell us, do you have any more plans that we might like to be aware of? So, we are not taken aback like we were with your wedding."

"Well — " Finnick's voice suddenly dropped, and the crowd went silent. Subconsciously, you held back your breath as you waited for his answer, confused. "We were trying for a baby."

You blinked.

Once. Twice. Three times.

"Oh, my god!" Caesar gasped, and the audience quickly copied his reaction. "This is exciting news, everybody! Finnick Odair and (Y/N) Odair — I love that she changed her name, by the way — are trying for a baby. How wonderful!"

The crowd cheered.

"If we win the games," Finnick clarified, a smile stretched across his face. It almost scared you, how convincing he could look. How easily you could've fallen for his lies if you didn't know any better. "We'll have a baby on our way."

Your mouth fell agape.

For a moment, you couldn't believe what you were hearing. Finnick was promising a baby — a fucking baby, to the people of Panem. Your head reeled with the sudden possibility of that happening. If you were to win the games, what would you even do? Would you continue with this farce of a marriage? Go home and carry his child? And endure his resentment?

Was he even okay with that?

What the hell was he thinking?

"By the look on your face, you don't seem too content with this news spreading around," Peeta suddenly whispered, and you instinctively flinched at the unexpected sound of his voice.

"Are you really trying to have a baby?"

"I — " You started, but the faint smirk that itched his lips made you pause. He was teasing you, you realized, but, at the moment, it seemed as if everyone in the room was suddenly looking at you. So, you decided to continue with the lie. " — We are. In fact, I could be pregnant."

Peeta raised an eyebrow. "Really?

Your shoulders tensed. "Ern — yeah."

"You don't say."

You chewed on the inside of your cheeks. "Yeah."

"Well, why aren't you?" Peeta questioned, and you nibbled your bottom lip as you tried to come up with something to say. But Peeta was making it hard for you to concentrate, especially when he was looking at you as if he'd finally decipher you.

As if he'd suddenly understood something.

"That's none of your business." You argued, trying to hide the hesitation in your words.

"Maybe," Peeta continued, but there was a subtle change in his tone when he spoke again. "But...if you plan to win the games through a pregnancy and your husband can't seem to get the job done — " He paused, dropping his gaze down to look at the ring on your finger. "— well, I guess, you know where to find me."

To say you were shocked was an understatement. You were stunned, frozen in place when his words registered inside your brain. For a moment, you simply stared at him with wide eyes and a dumbfounded look on your face.

"Cause' we're friends, right?" Peeta quipped, and your cheeks ridiculously burned.

"Give it up for Finnick Odair, everyone!"

You opened your mouth to say something — anything, but the words quickly died inside your mouth. For the first time in a while, you were lost for words. And, soon after, your name was being called and you were instructed to stand by.

All while Peeta grinned at you.

"You should've told me about the baby."

Was the first thing that came out of your mouth when the elevator's doors shut closed. To your surprise, there was no one else inside, but Finnick and you. He was irked, it was more than evident, that his plan to up-one the lovers from District Twelve had gone awry after Peeta had decided to blurt out that Katniss was supposedly pregnant in front of the entire audience during his interview.

Which, you found quite hypocritical, due to reasons you could not tell Finnick about.

Finnick audibly sighed. "I know."

"I would've come up with a much better story," You continued, leaning against the glass tiredly. It was unfair, you thought to yourself, the whole situation in which the two of you were tethered to. One wrong move and Snow's promise to keep you both alive could shatter within seconds. "We should've said I was already pregnant." You mumbled, mostly to yourself, but Finnick's head turned towards your direction at that.

"Would you have gotten pregnant?" Finnick questioned, with a general air of curiosity in his voice and you froze. "If Snow had wanted us to?"

You didn't say anything for a few seconds.

Instead, you thought about that alternative; you thought about how miserable Finnick's life would've turned out if having a baby was the necessary case. You thought about what he'd first said when he'd broke things off with you a few months ago. You thought about how hard it was for him to sign the marriage papers. You thought about how much he didn't want to be with you.

"No." You eventually answered, and you could've sworn you saw him wince at the even sound of your voice. "I wouldn't have allowed that to haunt you. A marriage was more than enough."

And then the doors parted and you stepped out of the elevator without another word. But, before you could even reach your room and lock yourself away, his hand latched onto your wrist and you were pulled back without a warning.

"What do you mean by that?" Finnick narrowed his eyes when you turned back to face him.

You withdrew your wrist from his touch. "You know exactly what I mean, Finnick."

"What?" Finnick's eyes darkened as he slowly processed your words. The intensity in his gaze made you swallow hard, but you refused to look away from him — you didn't want to, somehow, you thought it would make you smaller. "You think a child with you would haunt me? You think marrying you torments me?"

Your lips can't help but twitch in slight amusement. "We both know it does."

Finnick looked taken aback and, for a few seconds, you both stared at each other in silence.

"I don't blame you," You eventually continued, trying to quench down the tension in the room. "I know it's complicated for you to have to act like you still love me. And...I know you didn't want to marry me, I suppose you're in the right. And — God, I know you wouldn't want to have a baby with me, but — "

"— what the hell are you talking about?" Finnick interjected as his voice raised a few decibels. "(Y/N), what the actual fuck are you talking about?"

You knew his oblivion shouldn't have riled you up. You knew his cluelessness shouldn't have made your blood boil. But, you couldn't help it because he had to be playing dumb, right? How else could you have possibly interpreted his actions?

"Stop acting like I'm crazy, Finnick!" You spat through your teeth, feeling your face heat up.

"You're not, baby!" Finnick argued, trying to stifle the humorless smile on his face from stretching. "But you're not making any sense."

"I'm not making sense?" You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. "You're the one who's driving me crazy, Finnick. And I'm so fucking tired of trying to decipher you."

He blinked, trying to grasp your words. But the mere expression of confusion on his face stated that he was, in fact, oblivious.

"One day you're making love to me and the next you're pretending nothing ever happened," You explained, exhaling shakily. "One day you're saying that you love me and the next you're acting like marrying me is the worse fucking thing in the world. But two hours later, you're telling Panem that you can't wait to have a child with me. That if we win the games, we'll have children of our own."

Your words stung and forced your eyes to gloss with unshed tears, but you refused to let them spill. You didn't want to cry in front of him. "And I'm exhausted," You added in a whisper. "I don't know what to think anymore. Because what happens if, by some miracle, we do win the games, Finnick? What happens then?"

Your question made him swallow.

"What happens if we do come back and Snow wants us to have a child?" You challenged, taking a deliberate step towards him. "Would you think of our family as something silly? Would the thought alone make you want to let me go again?" His eyes narrowed as he remembered what he'd said to you in an argument a few days ago. "Or would you refuse to have a kid at the very last minute? Pretend like it's the worst fucking thing in the world too?"

Finnick opened his mouth to reply, but then something slipped out your mouth subconsciously and the whole room grew dangerously quiet. "Or would I have to seek someone else to do me the favor? Just so Snow could spare our fucking lives while you try to figure out if you want me or not in your life."

You knew you'd hit a nail before the last words even escaped your mouth. Finnick stared at you — hard as if he was almost trying to figure out whether you'd been serious or not. But when you didn't open your mouth to elaborate any further, his shoulders slumped in disbelief.

"You wouldn't." He paused, dragging a lengthy sigh out as he examined you carefully.

"It would surprise you," You breathed out, trying to keep yourself from falling apart. "the things I'll do to keep you alive."

Finnick didn't know about Peeta or his suggestion to you. He didn't know that you'd considered — for a split second, to take his offer. Although Peeta was teasing, you knew that the thinly veiled insinuation was there. And, if you were to walk into his room, he would've opened the door and let you in without a doubt.

And, for some reason, you didn't hate the idea as much as you should've had.

And Finnick didn't know any of that. But, under his gaze and the burning hue in his green irises — it almost seemed as if he did. And, subconsciously, you embraced yourself for the worst: for an argument, an accusation — anything that could've broken your heart.

But, instead, Finnick whispered. "Please don't."

And your stomach dropped at the teary sound of his voice...because you weren't expecting it. "I don't think I would be able to survive that."

Your mouth went dry. "What — "

"— No, (Y/N), you don't understand," He interrupted, sliding a hand behind your neck to gently stop you. "I can survive Snow, I can survive the games — God, I can survive being sold off to the whole Capitol. But, please, don't ask me to watch you have somebody else's baby — our baby, please don't believe that for a second that I could ever be at peace with that."

"Then be with me." You exhaled, but it almost sounded like a pled as you rested your forehead against his and he shut his eyes tightly. As if he was almost debating over the matter in his own head. "Please, baby."

Your heart sank when he shook his head.

"I can't do that to you, (Y/N)," Finnick whispered, and for a moment, you weren't sure as to what he was referring to this time. Was it the marriage? The children? The punishment Snow had haunted him with? Or was it the games? You weren’t quite sure.

"We could win the games."

"No, baby," Finnick kissed your forehead and you exhaled audibly. "There are no winners."

He was right.

And, although you should've been mad at him — the anger quickly diminished when he wrapped his arms around you. You knew you should’ve pushed him away and turn the other way, but you didn’t. Because, despite everything, you still loved him and that night would be the last before the games — before the massacre.

And you didn't want to lose him just yet.

"Could you sleep with me tonight?" You whispered against his neck and his arms tightened a little more around your body.

"Always."

It was somewhere in the middle of the night when you woke up to the sound of muffled voices outside your bedroom. You opened your eyes to find the door slightly parted and the light from the hallway streaming in through the gap. Instinctively, you pushed onto your elbows and turned to the other side of the bed, but you were more than surprised to find the space empty.

Finnick was gone.

Confused, you made to toss the blankets aside and climb out of bed to look for him, but your muscles momentarily froze when you registered a familiar voice outside your door.

“You can’t speak of this, Finnick,” Haymich whispered, and the urgent sound of his voice forced a shiver to run down your spine. “It’s too dangerous, especially with Snow watching her.”

“I need to tell her, Haymich.” You heard Finnick reply, but his voice was quiet, barely audible.

“It’s for the best. If you want to protect her.”

Then silence ensued for a few minutes and the lights eventually shut off. Immediately, you laid back on your pillows and tossed to the other side of the bed to pretend you were sleeping. Until the other side of the bed deepened with the weight of Finnick and an arm wrapped around your waist.

For a few minutes, you lay there quietly as Finnick fell asleep; wondering what the hell Haymich and Finnick were talking about.

Soooooo, this chapter was longeeeer, but I do apologize for the wait, I’ve been busy with schoooool😫 Anywho, I’m wondering what team are you guys on?

Team Peeta or Team Finnick?

Please let me know you thoughts

@serrendiipty @avoxrising @queerqueenlynn @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @stayc-a-I-m @chaoticcoffeequeen @wonderland2425 @leilani788 @nexxus13 @whatsupb18 @maxinehufflepuffprincess @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @iwantmyredvelvetcupcake @syd649 @flavorofsalt @wisewidowweasley-blog @meikoo @mozz-are-lla @nomorespahgetti @aestheticOcherryblossom

#finnick x reader x peeta #finnick x y/n #finnick x you #finnick odair drabble #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair imagine #hunger games finnick #finnick fanfic #finnick odair #peeta mellark x reader #peeta mellark

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serenefreakgeekao3 · 1 year

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Hey. Again. So I am in love with peeta mellark and would love if you could write about him having a partner at home in d12 and when him and katniss have to do the whole lovers act in the arena they get super jealous (pretend him and katniss never fell in love really) and when he comes home they're avoiding him and he confronts them about what's wrong. It end with them cuddling and talking about the games

Summary: “PEETA MELLARK!” Effie Trinket had read his name from the slip of paper in her hands, and you felt your knees give out. Katniss Everdeen had just made a spectacle of herself as the first volunteer of District 12. So where did that leave the love of your life? Apparently, inside an arena where he appears to fall in love with his district partner. Can things ever be the same when they both managed to make it back home as the ‘Star Crossed Lovers’? (No use of Y/N!)

Warnings: mentions of bad family behaviour, mentions of disassociation but not named as such, (almost) suicidal thoughts mentioned very briefly, jealousy from reader,

A/N: So this turned less from a jealous reader and more into a hurt/comfort scenario. I apologize if this isn’t exactly what you requested, I don’t normally write jealousy cause I don’t like how toxic it can turn sometimes. I tried my best! Hope you like it!

You were living through your worst nightmare. You would’ve amended that, at one point in your life, saying that perhaps living through the Hunger Games would be your worst nightmare, but you couldn’t imagine that even replacing yourself with Peeta and knowing you would die would be any worse than this. If this had been a week earlier, you would’ve said hearing Peeta’s name be called from Effie Trinket’s mouth was your worst nightmare. But surely, nothing could be worse than this.

Hearing Peeta’s name during the reaping had drained all life from you. However, seeing him before he left- for the very last time everyone kept telling you, but you managed to keep hope- had wrung an entire lifetime through you and faded away once more. You felt exhausted as you watched the train pull out of District 12. You refused to give up hope and told him so during your final goodbyes.

“Don’t you dare try to act like this is already over. Work with Katniss, I heard she’s good with a bow. Do whatever you need to, but don’t give up. Don’t ever give up because I am here and I’m waiting for you to come home-”

“Hey,” Peeta interrupted gently, taking your hands and pulling you into his arms, “My love for you is like the sun. Always shining, and always there.” He kissed the top of your head, mumbling against your hair, “I’m not giving up. I would never do that to you.”

Watching them dress him up had a morbid twist to it, knowing they were just trying to make him pretty enough to die. Nothing they do would be good enough, he was always the most handsome when smiling genuinely- and there was no way that anyone in the Capitol would be able to force him to smile genuinely. Even during his interview, when he joked around with Caesar and they leaned over to smell each other, a sadness pulsed through your heart at the fake, plastered smile he had. Even when asked about a ‘sweetheart back home,’ and Peeta had replied that he loved someone but refused to name them, he still hadn’t really smiled once. But you knew, once he looked into that camera he was looking directly at you. And that you were both mourning every second that you couldn’t spend together.

Once the countdown began, you watched Peeta’s harried face. How he had searched for Katniss, but she had run off without him. You were beside yourself when he was eventually left alone with the Careers- then felt blessed by any gods still living when they took him on as a temporary ally to find Katniss. You knew he was only doing so to save his own hide, and you couldn’t thank him enough for it. Of course, he wouldn’t actually hurt Katniss. But perhaps that could’ve also been a plus to this arrangement- he wouldn’t have to.

Every second that they showed on screen, your eyes were glued to it. Being gathered in the square to watch the beginnings of the Hunger Games, the countdown and the bloodbath. You were watching from home- one of the rare times they actually supplied electricity to everyone’s homes- way into the night, until he had fallen asleep on the television. Even then you were scared to close your own eyes, afraid of something happening to him during the night. But then the Capitol shut off the show and bid their own city citizens a good night. Only when there was nothing left to watch from the broadcast did you finally fall over on your couch and let your eyes fall closed.

You awoke to a sound blaring from the television, the jingle of Caesar’s show just before he went live. He began a recap of what had happened the night before, with colourful commentary of course. You kept an eye on the screen but didn’t see anything that should give you pause. You watched the death countdown at the end and finally breathed a sigh of relief.

So this was how your days went. You still needed to eat though, and drink and sleep. You worked your paltry job, and always stopped by the Mellarks on the way home. They knew you well, of course. This was hitting them hard, but they still had two other sons. The Mellark father always looked at you with pity though, as if you had no one else left. He wasn’t too far off. He gave you an entire loaf of bread every day that you had stopped by, and one time you finally heard the matriarch in the back of the shop.

“District twelve might finally have a winner.”

With the pitiful look Peeta’s father shot you, and the sour look of one of his brothers as he stormed out, this seemed to be a reoccurrence. And it seemed she wasn’t speaking of her own son.

You were especially fragile that day anyway, as that was the day that Peeta had been injured and camouflaged himself into the riverbed. He wasn’t dead, though. He wasn’t dead. You kept repeating that to yourself as you walked home, pinching small bites off of the whole loaf and force-feeding yourself. It still tasted like ash in your mouth.

And while all of that may have been a bad dream, this was the waking nightmare.

They had announced that two winners may be crowned so long as they were from the same district. You both loved and hated that announcement, really curious whether they would hold up their end of the bargain. Finally, someone to save Peeta! Katniss had immediately called out his name and started running, and you felt your own pulse spike as hers surely was.

Everything else had happened so quickly you couldn’t spare a thought for it. Until now. As Katniss straightened up from over Peeta, you bit your lip hard. No, there was no way that this was happening. There was no way that Peeta was looking up at the woman he’d never known his whole life as if she was his world. There was no way-

“Katniss, I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything now, Peeta. I know you probably don’t return my feelings-”

“I do,” He interrupted quickly, and you bit your lip harder, tears coming to your eyes from more than just physical pain. “My love for you is like the sun.”

You had turned the tv off then. Its silence had been so staggering, so different from the way you had been living with constant noise assaulting your senses. You didn’t know how long you sat there before eventually letting yourself fall onto your side, closing your eyes and letting the day pass you by.

You continued your usual routine the next day, with an added look from Peeta’s father. It was like he was confused about something- probably why you bothered to keep on trying. Peeta had been rather convincing, after all. Even you believed it. He wouldn’t have said those words if he hadn’t actually meant them. Mr Mellark still gave you a loaf of bread, and the warmth from the food finally sunk into your hands. That’s when she walked out.

“Why are you still giving away precious food to this ingrate?” She had slapped the loaf from your hands, and the cold that seeped back into you felt familiar. “Obviously if she manages to save our son, he won’t be wasting time on this one anymore. Neither should we.”

You left without any fuss and finally turned the tv back on once you arrived home. It took a few hours to finally get a recap of what you had missed during your tantrum, but only a few minutes to realize, thankfully, that Peeta was still alive. No matter how shattered your heart was, he still needed to live. Because if he could live, and live happily with her, then that would be enough.

The games must’ve been going on too long, as the Capitol suddenly sped things up. The final showdown was beginning, and Peeta and Katniss were still both very much alive. You watched in a detached sort of happiness as your district finally won the Hunger Games. Then the announcement happened. Only one victor left standing.

“Kill her, Peeta.”

You would’ve been surprised at the words coming out of your mouth from any other instance. However, this was the Hunger Games. This was Peeta, and this was the woman he had said those words to. You kept mumbling to yourself, begging him to do something as he turned fearful eyes onto her. You knew that if it was yourself inside that arena, he would’ve already been doing whatever he could to make sure you survived. This means that he was likely thinking the same thing now, too. He was trying to find some way to kill himself so Katniss wouldn’t have to.

“Just trust me. If they won’t allow two victors, we won’t give them one.” Katniss had poured those damned berries into his hands, then locked eyes with him and began a countdown. You felt your heart sink with every number she spoke, finally letting your eyes fall closed. You didn’t want to watch his destruction at the hands of the one he loved. You couldn’t bear the thought.

“STOP! Stop!” You opened your eyes, watching both Peeta and Katniss raise their eyes to the sky. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present your victors of the 74th Hunger Games!”

While you knew this meant nothing for your own future, you had cried. You couldn’t find it in yourself to figure out whether the tears were of happiness for Peeta’s survival, or mourning a life that once was. You had finally cried, and let yourself feel all of those burdening emotions, too many of them to handle.

You continued on with your life from there. You worked your useless job, you stopped visiting Peeta’s family, and you came home just to eat bland foods and sleep. You weren’t sure what kind of life this was, whether existing just for the sake of it was worth all the trouble, but you knew that nothing could really get worse, so that meant it could only get better, right?

You hadn’t paid any attention to the days after he survived. You didn’t try to make it to the train station to meet him, you didn’t bother stopping by his old home to see if he visited his family, and you didn’t try to fight your way into Victor’s Square to see him finally. You didn’t even really know when he arrived back in twelve, just that he had at some point. You had even seen Katniss eventually, moving with determination through the district toward her family home. You had averted your gaze immediately, not ready to deal with that trauma.

It was a few days later, late in the evening after work, when you finally heard a knock on your door. It wasn’t common to get visitors, and any that were common didn’t tend to knock. You had frozen at your kitchen sink, in the process of drying your hands after washing what few meagre dishes you owned. Slowly, mechanically, you finished drying off your hands and tried to smooth the wrinkles out of your generic outfit. You took your time walking over to your door, then took a deep breath before opening it.

There he stood, Peeta Mellark. Winner of the 74th Hunger Games, and one-half of the Star-Crossed Lovers. No matter how often you tried to prepare yourself for this moment, nothing helped. Because he was there, in person, so close that you could reach out and touch him. Nothing could prepare you for seeing Peeta and not letting yourself bask in his warmth.

The smile that crossed his face, however, took your breath away. It may have also been the cause of the few tears that escaped your eyes, falling slowly down your cheek. He had been in the middle of saying your name when he noticed them, his smile slowly falling away to an expression of confusion.

“Why haven’t I seen you since I got back?” He asked this as if it was obvious, as if you should’ve been waiting for him. “My father says you stopped coming by sometime toward the end of the games? I was worried something had happened to you.” He says this as if he should care and it burns your chest hotter than any feeling of depression had up to this point.

“Why should I bother?” You had never heard your voice like this, so void of emotion. Peeta hadn’t either, clearly, for the gobsmacked look on his face. “I figured you’d be plenty happy with your new lover.”

“Lover?” His voice was incredulous, and he immediately shook his head before quickly looking over his shoulder. “Can we take this inside?”

“Do you really think that’s a good idea? Don’t you think they might see?” ‘Don’t you think she might see?’

“That’s why we should just-” He huffed, gently placing a hand on your hip and pushing you inside. His touch sent enough of a shock to your system that you obliged, pulling back before taking another few steps backwards. Breathing room, that’s what you needed. You watched him close the door behind him, lock it with your flimsy excuse of a lock, and pull the curtains closed on the front-facing window. “They can’t see the truth.”

“The truth?” You mumbled, crossing your arms and holding them against your chest. Everything felt off-kilter, being in the same room as Peeta and running from his touch. None of this felt right. “I saw the truth clear enough.”

“What are you even talking about?” Peeta took a step toward you finally, and you matched his step backwards. He looked more worried than you had ever seen him, even inside the arena when he should’ve been worrying about his own safety. “Please, just talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.”

“Why bother fixing things with me?” You couldn’t meet his eyes any longer, not without wanting to throw yourself at the man. But he’s in love with someone else, you had to keep reminding yourself that. “She’s right there now, she lives right across from you. If you didn’t already move into the same house.” The thought, while not entering your head before now, suddenly lived in your brain. That’s all you could see in your mind’s eye, Peeta and Katniss being homely together. You felt physically ill, rubbing your face with your hands as if trying to brush the thought away.

“What?”

“Katniss!” You had finally raised your voice, finally included any sort of emotion in it. It really looks like you weren’t leaving this unscathed. “Go find your new lover, stop wasting your time on me!”

“No,” His voice was quiet, his head shaking ever so slightly back and forth. “I thought if anyone could see through it all, it would’ve been you.”

“See through it?”

“Yeah, see through the ruse.”

“I thought I could too!” You yelled, holding yourself back from a growl. Your arms were thrown on either side of you and you watched Peeta’s hands curl up into a ball. “I thought everything was a ruse- how long, Peeta? How long until it went from something you were acting at to something you were really feeling?”

“Never!”

“Don’t lie to me Peeta!” You choked back a sob, raising a hand to your mouth quickly. Peeta’s expression turned from one of confusion and anger to one of desperation at the sound, taking another step forward. You took another step back. “I heard what you said.”

“What?”

“I heard what you said!” You obligingly repeated what you had originally mumbled, though you didn’t believe for a second that he hadn’t heard you. “What you said to her.”

“Wait-”

“I heard it Peeta, don’t try to deny it.”

“I didn’t-”

“Stop trying to fight this! I heard what you said, I know you love her!”

“I was saying it to you!”

You had never heard Peeta raise his voice so loud. You felt frozen in your spot, breath coming in pants and yet the silence that followed could’ve put a funeral to shame. You watched the shame flow through Peeta, he had never wanted to raise his voice after his past with his family. But he quickly shook off the shock, taking a step forward towards you, and another when you finally didn’t back away. He repeated himself softer, “I was saying it to you.”

“No, you were looking at her.”

“I was looking through her.” Peeta shook his head, looking down. “I would’ve never said it if I knew it caused you such pain.”

“What are you talking about, Peeta?”

“I had to say it.” He took another step closer, shortening the distance between you in the small house surrounding you both. “Don’t you see? I had to say something, I had to play along with the ruse.”

“I can’t handle this,” You mumble, mostly to yourself. This was getting dangerously close to territory that you feared you’d never be able to step into again. If you were forced to leave him again after this small chance of having him back, it would ruin you.

“Please, please,” Peeta took another step closer and finally reached over to take your hand. You numbly let him. “I didn’t want to. They started it in the train on the way to the Capitol, so damned early. Haymitch said if we played the role of lovers we’d get more sponsors. I refused, Katniss refused. That had seemed like the end of it.”

“The role of…?”

“Then they brought it back up during the last interview before the games. Told me to spring it on the audience, and they asked Caesar to ask if I had anyone back home. Told me to say that I didn’t, that the one I loved followed me to the Capitol. I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t lie like that. I wouldn’t have been believable.” He reached forward to take your other hand, and you finally realized you were staring into his bright blue eyes.

“When they made the announcement, Katniss came to find me. I was in bad shape, but I was surviving. I was surviving for you because you told me not to give up. Because I couldn’t just leave you behind with nothing, with no one else.

“She took me to that cave, and when she leaned over to kiss my cheek she whispered to me. She said ‘This is your only chance,’ as if I didn’t have any choice. And honestly- she was right.”

You thought back to how the wound had looked, how it pulsed blood and how you felt like your own heart was pulsing out along with it. You didn’t remember anything after that until you had eventually turned the tv back on. Peeta had recovered, somehow.

“We played the lovers act to get sponsors. We played the lovers act to win. Please, you have to know,” Peeta took another step closer to you, bringing you two chest to chest. “I wasn’t going to eat the berries. I was scared when they announced there would be only one winner because I would have to fight her, and she was strong. She had already proven it. But when she concocted that stupid plan, I wasn’t going to do it. I wasn’t willing to die for whatever stupid point she wanted to prove to the Capitol. I was going to watch her swallow those berries, and then spit mine out. I was going to win, for you.”

“Peeta,” Your voice was breathless, but he had finally fallen quiet. He looked so pained, and you took your hand from one of his to raise it to his cheek, letting your thumb drag across his cheekbone. “Is this real? I can’t-” You choke back a sob, feeling the tears roll down your cheeks. “I can’t lose you again.”

“I said those words for you,” Peeta repeated softly, letting his head fall forward to rest against your forehead. “It was a message. I was trying to tell you I still loved you.”

“I heard it wrong,” You mumbled incredulously, huffing out a laugh, “This whole time, I heard it wrong.”

“My love for you is like the sun,” He repeats, closing his eyes, “Always shining, and always there.”

You tipped forward quickly and slotted your mouth with his, and he finally released your hand to place on your hips, pulling you flush against him. You were so scared to never get this again, and yet it felt so familiar to you regardless. Peeta moaned low in his throat, attempting to pull you closer, and you finally wrapped your arms around him. It was at this moment you knew, Peeta was finally home.

#peeta mellark #peeta mellark x reader #gender neutral reader #oneshot #drabble #fanfiction #requested #serenewrites #the hunger games #hurt/comfort #jealousy

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