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bill-y · 3 years

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𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐑𝐄

Peeta Mellark x male reader

We all know who Katniss Everdeen is, but what if Primrose hadn’t been chosen but another boy from another unfortunate family? YOUR family.

Info: This is basically a reader insert and I’ve changed a few rules, not ground breaking though. The reader is a bit bland for now but I plan for his actions to be different. Because he has different moral grounds from Katniss and such. Would appreciate feedback! FEEL FREE TO POINT OUT TYPOS. GRAMMARLY SOMETIMES DOESN’T DO MY DYSLEXIC ASS JUSTICE

Part two: Click here, bomburino tortilla pony horse.

Part three: You're here, my guy.

Part four: Click here, amigo

Wattpad acc: L0calxDumbass

It didn't take long before I came home, my mother and brother was already dressed, and I was right, Kunal has been crying.

He immediately lightened up when he saw the bread, pushing the sleeves of my first reaping outfit (which was now his) back in order to munch on it.

"Don't worry, you only have your name once in the pile, you're safe," I reassured him, as I've done many times before.

I smiled, patting his head. My mother glanced at me, but I pretended to not notice. It's been long since we've talked, the last time was a disagreement, a petty one at that. About two years or so?

I honestly surpised myself, how can I go without talking to her for so long. . .?

Another trait my father passed on to me was a short temper, though I never lose my head and scream, but something about her words made me yell. Her face was full of shock when I did that, almost as if I've betrayed her.

"Don't be stupid like your father!" She told me.

My father isn't a stupid man, he was smart. Lady luck just wasn't on his side that day.

I took a bath, scrubbing the dirt and soot off myself. When I saw my clothing my heart stopped. It was my Father's.

It was simple, just as he liked. A white button up tunic, the hems made of elegant gold lace. The pants were loose, with garters securing on the hip and the hems, he never liked tight clothing, just like me.

My eyes went towards my mother, who simply nodded, "After you get dressed, sit down, won't you? Let me fix your hair," she said.

My mouth opened to protest, only to shut itself when she whispered a small, "please," My eyes softened, her voice sounded so guilty, she regretted her words, just as I did. She knew I could get chosen.

But I'm a coward, I don't like apologizing, something I inherited from her.

I nodded, and got dressed before I sat down, just as she told me. She began to braid tiny sections of my hair. I've never been good at it, really, It would always look messy when I did it. So I just looked messy everyday.

But her hands can do magic, it was like she was weaving silk, her hands full of grace and utmost care as she intertwined every strand of hair. I could feel her hand shake a little, as if scared with one wrong touch, I'd shatter like glass.

She used to sew clothing, make various artworks with whatever was in the house. Her hand was naturally delicate, soft to anything she makes contact with.

I bit my lip, none of us wanted to say it. We we're both thinking the same thing, though.

I never really liked cutting my hair, always kept it atleast neck length at best. I don't think short hair suits me at all, though it does get in the way while hunting from time to time.

Once she finished, without a word she pressed her chapped lips onto my forehead, she then walked away, leaving me with a pit of guilt in my stomach.

Such simple words, why can't I just say it?

I sighed, fixing my tunic and tucking it in, the garter snapping back, making me wince a little. It was stupid of me to let go.

I took a deep breath in, mustering all the courage I had to walk towards my brother, who has devoured the entire loaf. "Good?" I asked.

He nodded, a smile on his face, the crumbs falling down. I chuckled, wiping his mouth with my hand.

"You're like a bird, aren't you, little mocking jay?" I said, patting his head again.

He hummed, nodding aggressively, his hair bouncing up and down. I snickered, holding his head still with both my hands. I squished his cheeks together, making his lips form into a duck beak-shape. "Hey, Y/n,"

I rose my brows, humming. "I won't get chosen, won't I?" he asked. I sniffed, shaking my head as I linked our foreheads. "No, no you wont, Nal," I said. "If they call you, I won't let you go, alright?"

"You promise?"

"Of course,"

Soon it hit one in the afternoon, it was mandatory to attend this "festival", unless you're at death's door, that is. I found myself beside Gale, who patted my shoulder for reassurance.

Maybe it was obvious I'm stressed, tense. I'm not worried about myself, I'm more worried of them, especially Kunal. He's only twelve, yet he can still get chosen.

Some kind of festival this is.

I clenched my fists tighter, palms started to go white as I also clenched my jaw.

On the temporary stage stationed in front of the justice building was a podium, three chairs and two large bowls. The district is divided into two sections, jumbled across those two glass bowls, waiting to be picked up.

Twenty of them contained 'Y/n Greyback', one of them contained 'Kunal Greyback'.

There were also bright banners hung up, though I'm sure it was just there to taunt us, it sure worked for me. Everytime I look at it I start feel sick, hatred bubbling in my stomach.

The feeling of claustrophobia began to settle in as people piled into the square, the late comers having to just watch from a monitor instead.

"You alright?" Gale asked, nudging me. I gulped, sighing, "Course, I just —" I turned back, looking at my brother. "Worry of him,"

He gave me a sympathetic look, "He only has one entry, I'm sure he won't be picked," He said. Something I've been saying for such a long time, it didn't help settle my nerves.

"I know," I answered plainly.

We looked towards Katniss' place, beside her was Mardge, who gave me a curt smile and a wave. Out of politeness, I simply nodded back before turning back to the stage.

My hands grew colder each second, by two, when the mayor finally reached the stage, my hands were as cold as a corpse's.

Beside the mayor was Effie Trinket, District 12’s escort, fresh from the Capitol with her scary white grin, pinkish hair, and spring green suit. It looked quite ghastly.

Everyone murmured in worry, for whom was the empty third seat for?

The mayor stepped in front of the podium, beginning to tell the tale of Panem, how the twelve districts lost in the rebellion and now have to face punishment.

The Hunger games.

It was simple, each district would pick two "tributes" to this little game, and then they either kill like a hungry wolf or die like lost cattle.

I gulped, sweat forming on my forehead as I instinctively reached for the end of Gale's shirt. He held my hand, patting it a few times to let me know it would be alright.

He then began to read the victors in every hunger games. In the past seventy-four years, we have had exactly two.

Only one is still alive. Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy, middle-aged man, who at this moment appears hollering something unintelligible, staggers onto the stage, and falls into the third chair.

To say he's drunk would be an understatement.

The crowd responds with its token applause, but he’s confused and tries to give Effie Trinket a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off.

The mayor looks distressed. Since all of this is being televised, right now District 12 is the laughingstock of Panem, and he knows it. He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing Effie Trinket.

Bright and bubbly as ever, she began to talk. I could feel my blood boiling upon hearing her obnoxious, Capitol accent. I tuned her out, gulping as my hands somehow grew even colder.

Please don't let it be my brother, anyone but him.

"Let's have the first pick, shall we?" She said, her voice at the end of the sentence practically sky rocketing up. She pulled a piece of paper from one of the Glass bowls.

My heart pounded, as if trying to escape my chest. I closed my eyes, taking deep breaths in.

"Kunal Greyback,"

My heart stopped. Why couldn't it have been me? I had twenty, TWENTY entries.

I watched as my brother walked past me, his lip quivering, eyes glossy. Oh sweet, sweet Kunal, as delicate as a Lotus.

Kunal, the boy who gathers flowers every morning just for me.

Kunal, the boy who loves pulling on my braids.

Kunal, my dear innocent brother. Afraid of his own shadow.

I felt my own body move, launching myself forward. Gale called for my name, but I didn't care, no. I needed to get to my brother, I made a promise.

"NAL! NAL! NO!" I yelled, desperation evident in my voice as I pushed through the other people. "Y/n!" He screamed back.

Most of then gave me and my brother looks of sympathy, some gossiped. "Greyback," they'd whisper. "Another one bites the dust," they'd continue.

The peace keepers pushed me back, preventing me from reaching my brother.

No, not like this. He's still so young, he still wants to gather lilys by the front of our house, he still wants to create flower crowns for me to wear.

He still wants to breath, to live.

The mayor looked at me, recignizing me almost immediately. He didn't know me, no. Rather, he knew my father, the man he put under the execution block.

Oh mother, I'm sorry it had to be this way. It seems another one of your family members will die at the hands of the Capitol.

"I volunteer!" I gasped, gulping down nothing. My mouth was dry.

"I volunteer as a tribute!"

Word count: 1.6k

Tags:

@nin3s

#peeta mellark x reader #peeta mellark x male reader #peetamellark #male x male reader #x male reader #male reader #hunger games x reader #hunger games x male reader #hunger games ff #hunger games #katniss everdeen #gale hawthorne #peeta mellark #why are tags so difficult to fucking write #hello person looking at tags you should really get other hobbies #male reader insert #reader insert #long read #male reader series

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unsuccesscr · 5 years

Note

end route + ❌ or 💯 bc Cinder can't decide :///

Our muses are in an rpg and have reached the end of their route; send “end route” + a symbol || accepting

@invisiquirk

I decided to go for both, have a bad end set after your Tooru’s canon ending

warnings for violence, minor character death, torture under the cut. a tiny bit of 2nd person at the beginning

November 16, XX18. 12 months after the death of hero Prism

Your name is Yuki Miyamoto, this is your first year as a detective; this is your first case, and you don’t feel ashamed to admit you’re in a bit over your head.

Izuku Midoriya, 22 years old and former pro hero sits across from you; handcuffed and chained to the metal table of the interrogation room. An unnecessary precaution, seeing as he’d walked in there willingly.

After months of chasing the tiniest wisp of a trail, staring at crime scene photos of brutal executions wiped clean of any evidence or clues, he just turns himself in. It doesn’t make sense, none of this does.

His demeanor isn’t that of a killer, you expected eyes cold and sharp. Smile smug and unrepentant. You’re greeted instead by dull and tired eyes, worn and drawn posture. The guy looks more like he needs a nap than thirsts for blood. Somehow that sets you even more on edge.

“What are we doing here? I already told you people I did it. No interrogation necessary,” Midoriya, formerly known as Deku, speaks first. Voice as exhausted as his eyes.

You tap your pen on the forms in front of yourself, nervously, before clearing your throat. “We just need to establish a timeline, why don’t you tell me what happened?”

“Do you want the short version or the long version?”

“We need the whole story, whichever version that is.” You answer, feeling like you’re walking into some sort of trap.

“Alright,” He leans forward, smile gracing his lips for the first time since this interview started. Looking the part of a cat who’s caught a mouse. “The long version it is”

November 16, XX17 00:32 minutes after the death of hero Prism

Deku isn’t the first on the scene. No, the first is Prism’s boss, the hero in charge of her agency. The one who was supposed to protect her.

Next is the EMTs, who declare her dead on the scene. Then, finally, it’s him–her emergency contact.

She’s covered with a white sheet by the time he arrives, out of breath from how fast he ran. As if if he hurried he would get there before it was too late–even though she was already gone by the time he even knew.

The sight makes him want to scream, and so he does; loud and unrestrained in a way he hadn’t since they were just freshmen learning to reign in their emotions. There’s no reigning in this grief though, he doesn’t try.

He kneels beside her and holds her cold hand and screams until his voice abandons him. That was the beginning, the seed planted.

February 23, XX18 4 months, 7 days after the death of hero Prism

Izuku Midoriya hosts a gathering, just family and friends. One part house warming (he had to move, couldn’t live in that apartment anymore. The one that they had shared) one part retirement party.

After being a hero for just 3 years, not long enough to even move on from being a side kick, hero Deku is no more. The reason he tells his friends, the official party line (pun not intended) is that he’s tired, everything reminds him of Tooru and it aches. He’ll find something else to do.

The truth? He’s angry. More angry than he’s ever been. It was just a stage of the grieving process, he’d been told, and he’d waited for it to go away. He had waited for 3 months and 28 days until valentines day came and went and he realized that the one thing he wanted more than to hold her again was to stop the hearts of the men who had stopped hers.

What he had plans, were not the actions of a hero.

“Midoriya,” Shoto Todoroki, well versed in the look of a person boiling over with resentment and rage, was skeptical. “Whatever you’re planning….there’s a better way.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Izuku rolls his shoulders back with a laugh. “the only thing i’m planning is taking a much needed vacation.”

“….if you ever need to talk–”

“I know.”

April 9, XX18 5 months 29 days after the death of hero Prism

It’s almost insulting how easy it is, that first–and the ones to follow–how dare these villains, pathetic as they were, snuff out a hero so great? Izuku supposes it was mostly due to their numbers.

If enough flies swarm they can take down even a tiger.

But they have no chance to swarm. He’s very careful, picking them off and squishing them like the insects they were, like they deserved, one by one. Using each opportunity to draw more names from their lips.

And an apology. Each one. Cuts or burns or suffocation until they crumble and apologize for what they did. It does little to sate his anger, especially since he’s sure they don’t mean it.

But he hopes she’s watching, somehow, that she hears how much they regret what they did. How much Izuku’s making them regret it. Right before cuts their heads off and leaves them for the police to find.

August 16, XX18 9 months after the death of hero Prism

Every single villain who had a hand in Tooru’s death is dead. And knowing that does bring some sort of solace, but it’s not enough. He’s still angry.

It takes him another two months to figure out why.

She may not have done it directly, may not have been the one who drew Tooru’s last breath. But she was just as much to blame, Yue Hagakure. Wretched woman.

All of Prism’s scars, physical and emotional were her fault. If it weren’t for that, if it weren’t for her, Tooru would still be alive. He was sure of it. And so Izuku set out to hunt her down.

November 15, XX18 11 months and 30 days after the death of hero Prism

She wasn’t as easy as the small time villains that he’d ended so far. But he has the element of surprise, and he’s thought this through.

He sets a trap, bright lights to erase any shadows she would have any hopes of using for her quirk; forcing her to fight him head on. Quirkless vs quirkless.

But when it comes to fighting without a quirk, Izuku has always had the edge. She lasts longer than most would, but Hagakure falls. Bruised and broken and bloody. Still alive, though, because there’s still something he needs to hear.

Yue Hagakure doesn’t say she’s sorry. Not when he crushes the back of her head the way she had done to her daughter. Not when he carefully cuts off her fingers (carefully because he doesn’t want her to bleed out before she admits what she’s done)

This woman has no regret, though, she laughs and mocks him and spews vitriolic, disgusting insults about her deceased kin. When Izuku finally finishes her off it’s to shut her up.

With her death his anger is gone. For the first time in nearly a year he feels as if he can truly breath. It’s over. Only one thing left to do.

November 16, XX18 12 after the death of hero Prism

Izuku Midoriya, formerly known as Deku, walks in willingly and unarmed to the nearest police station and confesses everything with a smile.

BAD END

#invisiquirk #;;out of character #tw;;violence #tw;;death #tw;;torture #tw;;abuse mention #is yue dying really a bad end tho

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