#Finnick needs a hug | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

humaling · 2 months ago

Text

We Kissed Like Drowning Things.

pairings: finnick odair x reader

summary: they were each other's first love—soft, sacred, sun-warmed. then the capitol took him, and you learned that sometimes, survival means letting go of everything gentle. years later, bruised by the capitol and silence, they're trying again. but the sea doesn't always return what it takes.

warnings: the usual hunger games (death, violence, prostitutions, etc.), annie is traumatized, reader is depressed, finnick is traumatized and depressed, slowburn

word count: 14.5k

author's note: not proofread! i accidentally hit post instead of schedule🥲🥲🥲

When you were six, you met a boy with bronze curls and sea-green eyes. You were crouched by the shore, trying and failing to build a castle out of sand, only to have every small wave undo your work with careless indifference. Frustration simmered in your chest until the boy appeared beside you, his shadow cutting into the sunlight. He asked if he could help, promised that together you could build something bigger, something the tide wouldn’t dare destroy. You said yes. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, your mother’s voice was calling your name, and just before you turned to leave, the boy offered his name—Finnick Odair—and asked if you’d like to be friends. You said yes again. And somehow, that moment, all sun-warmed skin and saltwater air, set you both on a path that carried you fifteen years forward.

At eight, the two of you ran wild through the town square, sticky fingers swiping sweets from distracted vendors, mouths stained with chocolate as laughter rang through cobblestone alleys. You always ended up back at the beach, sand clinging to your skin as you talked about everything and nothing until the sky turned lavender. Sometimes it was your mother who’d call you home, and other times Finnick’s father would arrive, stern and tired from his son’s market ruckus again, dragging his son by the wrist. But he never included you in his scoldings. No—Finnick’s father looked at you like he might’ve looked at a daughter, gentle and kind. Finnick would sulk afterward, grumbling that you were definitely his dad’s favorite. You’d blow raspberries at him in response, which only made him roll his eyes harder.

When you were ten, Finnick showed up on your doorstep with a trembling smile, a box of chocolates in one hand and a single rose in the other. He was flushed and awkward and so very nervous when he stammered out the words—"Will you be my girlfriend?" Your father nearly had a heart attack, clutching his chest while your mother just laughed, amused and endlessly supportive, even though she said, "They’re children. It’ll pass." It took three nights to calm your dad down, reassure him that no, you and Finnick weren’t eloping anytime soon. Annie, your little sister, teased the both of you mercilessly. Whenever Finnick came by, she’d grin and say, “Dad’s gonna kill you if you ever make her cry.” Finnick always rolled his eyes and promised, “I could never.”

But that promise didn’t last long. You were twelve when you came home in tears over a ridiculous argument—something about sea animals and which one was the best. You lost, and your pride was bruised, and your father, loyal to a fault, nearly turned the entire district inside out looking for Finnick, who was hiding behind a fruit stall with his heart in his throat. That night, Finnick snuck through your window with your favorite lilies clutched in one hand and your favorite chocolates in the other. You forgave him before he even spoke. Giving him a kiss on the cheek as you hugged him.

By fourteen, the two of you had settled into something that felt eternal. Your relationship was soft and strong in the way only young love can be—full of promise and warmth and long walks along the beach with no need for words. He’d sleep over some nights, and you’d eat with his family just as often as he’d eat with yours. You had your own lives too, your own interests, your own spaces. You weren’t tied at the hip, but always tied at the heart. Arguments happened, sure. But they never lasted long. A few hours later, you'd be barefoot and breathless, laughing as he chased you across the shore like nothing had gone wrong at all.

But then came the 65th Hunger Games Reaping and it altered everything you once knew.

You heard his name called, and the world tilted. Time stopped. You watched him walk up to that stage, pale and shaking, and you felt your own heart fall from your chest and crack somewhere on the Justice Building’s stone steps. You wished you could scream. You wished you could run to him. You wished you could hide him away from the world. When the Peacekeepers finally let you in, led you through dim corridors to the room where Finnick waited, it felt like a dream unraveling into a nightmare.

Because he was going, and you were staying, and neither of you knew how to live without the other.

Finnick made you promise not to wait for him—his voice thick with tears that tasted like the sea. One of his hands cupped your cheek gently, the other resting on your shoulder like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. You shook your head, burying your face in his chest, your arms wrapped around him like letting go would make everything real.

“Please,” Finnick whispered, his voice barely holding together. “When you leave this building… just forget it. Forget what we were. Everything we said we’d do, everything we thought we’d have—just let it go.”

A single tear slipped down his cheek. He tilted your chin up, gently, like he couldn’t stand not seeing your face one last time, even if it was streaked with tears.

Your breath hitched as you looked up at him, his face already starting to blur through the tears in your eyes. You wanted to tell him no—that you wouldn’t forget, that you couldn’t. But your throat tightened too much to speak, so you just nodded, slowly, even though your heart was breaking with every second.

Finnick leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes closed like he was trying to freeze time. “You’re gonna be okay,” he whispered, more like a hope than a promise. “You always were braver than me.”

You let out a shaky laugh, barely there. “That’s a lie,” you said quietly. “You were never scared of anything.”

“I’m scared now,” he admitted.

He kissed your forehead—soft, lingering, like a secret he didn’t know how to say out loud—and when he pulled back, his hands slid from your cheeks like he didn’t want to leave but knew he had to.

A knock on the door came too soon. A Peacekeeper's voice told you time was up.

You stepped back, arms falling to your sides, feeling colder already. Your fingers itched to grab him again, to hold on just one second longer, but you didn’t move.

“I’ll see you again,” you said, even though you didn’t know if you believed it.

Finnick gave you the smallest smile, eyes shining. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe somewhere without the Games. Just us.”

And then you turned, because if you waited another second, you’d never leave. The door closed behind you with a final, hollow sound. And just like that, the boy who had built sandcastles with you, who brought you chocolate and lilies, was gone.

For the rest of the month, you moved through your house like a ghost, pacing from room to room with nerves crackling just beneath your skin. The television was always on, no matter where you were—living room, kitchen, even the bathroom while you showered. You couldn’t bear to miss a moment. Even when you tried to sleep, the static hum and flicker of the screen followed you, casting shadows on your walls. You watched as the boy you loved, the boy who once helped you build sandcastles and brought you lilies, was slowly carved into something unrecognizable. The Games stripped him bare, piece by piece, and you watched it all happen in real time.

Your father tried to pull the plug—told you that no child should be watching something so violent, so vile. You screamed, and you ran, and you ended up at a friend’s house just to sit in front of their screen instead. Every night, you whispered prayers into your pillow, begged whatever gods might be listening to bring him home. Just bring him home.

And they did.

But God, how you wished they hadn’t.

Because the boy who returned wasn’t your Finnick. He looked the same—same bronze curls, same sea eyes—but his smile was gone, and the warmth in him had been buried somewhere you couldn’t reach. The boy who used to pull you into rib-cracking hugs now stood at a distance, a stranger wrapped in skin that used to feel like home. His eyes didn’t shine anymore. They just stared, empty and far away, like he was still in the arena, still trying to survive.

At first, you tried to understand. Of course he was different. Of course the Games had done something to him. How could they not? You told yourself he just needed time. You tried to talk to him, to remind him who he was, who you were together. You begged him to come outside, to walk with you down to the beach like old times. But all you got in return was silence, or worse—polite indifference, as if you were nothing more than another face in the crowd.

And then, one day, he broke your heart clean in two. No warning. No kindness. Just words as sharp as a blade and twice as cruel. He said it was over. That it had always been over. That you needed to forget.

You didn’t understand. You couldn’t. The Games were over. That nightmare—bloody and cruel and distant—should’ve ended the moment Finnick stepped back onto District 4 soil. So why was he still breaking your heart? Why was he pushing you away like your love had been part of the price he paid to win?

“I don’t understand...” you whispered, your voice trembling as your vision blurred with tears. “You’re alive. You’re here. So why won’t you come back to me?”

You cried. You begged. And if it would’ve changed anything, you would’ve dropped to your knees right then and there. But before you could, Finnick’s father gently pulled you back, his arms steady and warm in a way that almost made you crumble all over again. He told you Finnick just needed time. That trauma like his doesn’t fade, not quickly. Not easily.

You nodded, brushing the tears from your cheeks, trying to convince yourself it made sense. But when you turned back toward Finnick, he didn’t move. He stood completely still, his face a blank page. Nothing there. No flicker of the boy you loved.

But you caught it.

The twitch of his fingers, like he was holding himself back from reaching for you. The storm caught behind his eyes, screaming silently. The slight, almost invisible twitch at the corner of his mouth, like some part of him was dying to speak.

And so you waited. Days, then weeks. Months. Two years. You were patient. Gentle. You told yourself this was what love meant—loving someone through the dark, even if they couldn’t meet you halfway. You were there when he needed help after the fire that stole his parents, when the only thing left was a hollowed house and smoke. You stayed by his side as he moved into the empty victor’s mansion, a “gift” from President Snow that felt more like a cage than a home.

Sometimes, you’d find a window left open or a door that hadn’t been locked all the way, and you’d slip inside quietly, just to leave behind a flower, or a plate of food, or a note you didn’t sign. Sometimes, you just stood outside, staring at the doorknob, wondering if today would be the day he opened it for you.

Sometimes, Mags would catch you waiting. She never raised her voice. She just looked at you with soft, tired eyes and said, “Don’t come back.”

But she always let you in anyway.

You kept coming, and she kept letting you.

Until your sixteenth birthday.

Your house was full of people, of laughter and light and plates scraped clean—but none of it felt like yours. Your smile sat too neatly on your face. The laughter felt too hollow in your chest. Your father noticed. He watched you all evening like you were glass, just waiting for the moment you’d slip out the door.

And you did—right under his nose, with Annie’s help, while the dishes clattered and your friends cleaned up. You stepped out into the night barefoot, the hem of your dress brushing your calves, your heart pounding loud enough to drown out the world. There was only one place you wanted to be.

And maybe—just maybe—you hoped tonight would be different.

The walk to his house felt endless. The streets of District 4 were quiet, hushed under the weight of nightfall, the only sound the soft thud of your footsteps and the ocean sighing somewhere in the distance. When you reached his door, you didn’t hesitate. You didn’t even knock. The back window was cracked open like always, and your fingers pushed it up with ease, slipping through like you’d done so many times before.

But this time, Finnick was waiting for you.

He stood in the middle of the dimly lit living room, arms crossed, as if he’d heard your steps coming from a mile away. His face was unreadable, his eyes shadowed by something heavy and cold.

You froze from your spot. You weren’t expecting him to be there at all. “I-I just wanted to see you. It’s my birthday.”

“I know,” he said flatly.

Something in his voice made your stomach turn. Still, you stepped closer, like you had a hundred times before. “I thought maybe tonight we could just talk. Or sit. Like we used to—”

“We’re not anything anymore.”

The words landed sharp, like ice water poured over your chest. “Finnick, don’t—”

“I’m tired,” he said, voice sharp now, clipped and distant. “Tired of you sneaking in. Tired of you acting like this is still something it’s not. You need to stop.”

You stood still, your fingers curling into your palms. “I’ve been there for you—after everything. I never stopped caring. You can’t just throw that away.”

His laugh was hollow. “You think this is some story where love fixes everything? That you showing up like a stray dog will make me come running back? Grow up.”

You blinked at him, stunned. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“I don’t want you here,” he said, voice like stone. “I don’t want you waiting for me. I don’t want you loving me.”

You stared at him, at this cold-eyed stranger wearing your first love’s face. The silence between you stretched taut and unbearable.

Then you nodded. Just once. It felt like your chest cracked in half.

“Fine,” you whispered, barely able to speak. “You win.”

And with that, you turned. You didn’t look back. You didn’t cry, not until you were past the gates of Victor’s Village and halfway down the empty road.

You dropped to your knees, the cold mud soaking through your dress, clinging to your skin like grief itself. Your father found you there, his arms lifting you gently as if you might shatter. He carried you home without a word. You wailed into your mother’s chest, her hands cradling your head while your sister sat on the staircase above, silent, listening.

That night, something in you snapped clean.

No more waiting. No more hoping.

He killed it with his own hands.

And what took its place was colder. Not the kind of anger that burns fast and wild—but the kind that settles deep, simmering low and steady. The kind that lets you walk away without looking back, even when your heart is still bleeding.

The final year of eligibility came and went with a tension that clung to your lungs like smoke. Each reaping before had felt like a tightrope walk—every breath held, every step tentative. But this year, something shifted. Maybe it was acceptance. Maybe it was the exhaustion of bracing for something that never came. Either way, when they called two names that weren’t yours, the air returned to your lungs like a flood.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t cheer. You just stood there, heart pounding in your ears, staring at the stage until your friends tugged you back to reality. The weight you’d been carrying for years finally loosened, if only slightly.

Later that evening, you all gathered in the clearing just outside town—a quiet spot near the cliffs where the ocean breeze carried away the noise. There was music from a nearby radio, low and grainy, and someone had brought pastries from the market to celebrate. You laughed. You danced barefoot in the grass. You tilted your head back and screamed into the open sky just to hear yourself alive.

It felt like the first time in a long while that you were breathing without flinching.

But as the sun dipped lower, turning the ocean orange, something tugged at you. A ripple across your skin. A sixth sense you never could shake.

You turned toward the path that led back to town—and there he was.

Finnick stood at a distance, half-shadowed beneath the trees. His posture still, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He didn’t move. Just watched. The fading sunlight carved a line across his face, and for a moment, everything around you fell away—the music, the chatter, even the wind.

It was just him and you.

You couldn’t read his expression. Maybe he didn’t expect to be seen. Maybe he hoped you would. But your eyes met, and the moment hung heavy between you, suspended in that slow-burn ache you thought you'd long buried.

You blinked, and the world resumed its spin.

“I’ll be right back,” you told your friends, forcing a smile that didn’t quite fit. They nodded, distracted, too wrapped up in the freedom of not being chosen.

You slipped away from the crowd and into the cover of trees, your heart unsettled, like a drumbeat without rhythm. The ocean roared somewhere behind you, wild and alive, and you let the wind press against your skin, let it remind you that you were still here. Still untouched. Still standing yet still not free.

You leaned your weight against the trunk of the mango tree, pressing your temple to the rough bark. The rustling of leaves overhead mingled with the distant laughter of your friends, soft and far away, like a memory you were already starting to lose. A quiet ache bloomed in your chest, and before you could stop yourself, your mind wandered to Finnick—because that could’ve been him. That should’ve been him, standing beside you, laughing with the rest of them. But pride had built walls between you both—his heavy with guilt, yours laced with bitterness. And neither of you had the nerve to climb over.

Even after everything he’d done. Even after he broke your heart. You still yearned for him.

The crunch of boots on grass cut through the stillness, pulling you from your thoughts. You didn’t move at first—just let your eyes flutter open, fingers curling into the fabric of your skirt as your heart kicked up its pace. The footsteps were slow, hesitant. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could recognize him by his scent alone. More than that, you could feel him—like a change in the air, the way memory sometimes brushes too close to your skin.

Finnick stood a few feet behind you, and the silence between you thickened into something almost physical. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved.

You kept your eyes on the horizon, pretending you hadn’t noticed. But your body betrayed you. Your skin flushed with heat, your breath caught short, your jaw locked tight. Every part of you was aware of him—his presence like gravity, impossible to ignore.

Eventually, you couldn’t help it. You turned.

It had been years since you’d looked at him—really looked—and time had etched itself into his features. He wasn’t the boy who used to press wildflowers into your hands or kiss your forehead when no one was looking. His face was sharper now, his jaw more defined, his shoulders broader. He carried himself differently, like someone who had survived things he couldn’t speak of.

But it was his eyes that hit you hardest—those sea-green eyes, dulled now, as if salt and sorrow had washed the shine from them. You didn’t know what haunted him, but you knew something did. Maybe it was the Capitol. Maybe it was the cost of survival. Or maybe it was everything he never let himself say.

He looked older. Tired. Worn thin by something invisible but heavy.

You knew, deep down, that the version of him the Capitol adored—the flirt, the heartthrob, the enigma—wasn’t real. It was armor. A mask. Finnick had always been good at making people see what he wanted them to see. But underneath all of it, he was still just a boy trying to survive a world that never played fair.

And part of you—despite the ache, despite the bitterness—still believed that when he let you go all those years ago, it wasn’t out of cruelty. It was to protect you.

From what, you weren’t sure. But you had your suspicions. And that involved the Capitol.

Even now, with dark circles under his eyes, the slight sag at the corner of his mouth, the lines forming between his brows—he was still devastatingly, achingly beautiful. And that, too, made you angry.

The silence stretched, suspended by rustling leaves and the steady roar of waves in the distance. Finnick squinted at you, like he wasn’t quite sure where he was or why he’d come. There was something in his eyes when he looked at you—a flicker of recognition, but deeper than that. Not joy. Not even regret. It was as if his body remembered you before his mind did.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he might reach for you—or like he was stopping himself.

And you stood there, arms crossed over your chest, heart thudding against your ribs. Not angry. Not forgiving. Just exposed.

You didn’t know what to say. And he didn’t either.

So you both stood there in the shadow of what used to be, staring across a distance that time, pain, and silence had carved too wide to cross. Not now. Maybe not ever.

The wind picked up again, carrying the sharp scent of salt and something older—something lost. Memories. Promises. The ghosts of what could’ve been.

“It’s just us,” you said, the words scraping from your throat like they'd been dragged through sand. “You don’t need to look like you’re about to throw yourself in front of me to kill somebody.”

It wasn’t a great joke—barely a joke at all—but something in it eased the tension in his face. Finnick let out a breath he’d clearly been holding, like he wasn’t sure he’d be allowed to exhale in your presence.

Then, slowly, he tucked his hands into the pockets of his shorts. You noticed the hesitation, the way his fingers twitched before they disappeared.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he said, barely louder than the wind.

The words hung in the space between you, light and fragile. If you hadn’t been watching his face so closely—if you hadn’t been trying to memorize every line of him like this was the last time—you might’ve missed them entirely.

You blinked. Brows furrowing. Your shoulders drew inward before you could stop them, like your body was trying to shield something. That wasn’t what you expected. You thought he’d come armed with that Capitol grin, or that same cold indifference he wore the last time you spoke. Not this. Not the look in his eyes now—like he was unraveling in front of you, thread by thread, and didn’t care who saw.

He looked like he’d carved his heart out and held it in his hands, raw and bleeding, asking you to take it again. Asking you to break it all over if you needed to.

You took a small step back, instinctively. Your eyes narrowed, scanning his face as if you could spot a lie hiding behind the softness. And he saw it—that flicker of suspicion, of hurt, still sharp-edged and buried deep.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t defend himself. Just stood there, letting the silence wrap around both of you again.

You shook your head slightly, glancing away, grounding yourself in the crashing waves and the tree bark under your fingers.

“Why now?” you asked quietly. “After all this time?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you the way someone looks at something they lost and never expected to find again. And then, voice low and unsteady, he said, “Because it’s the first time I’ve seen you at peace in years.”

That silenced whatever you were going to say next. Your breath caught in your throat, a familiar burn rising behind your eyes—but you blinked it back.

You looked at him and for a moment, the years between you flickered. The memories. The pain. The boy who loved you. The boy who left. The man standing here now, trying too late to be brave.

You didn’t forgive him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But in that moment, you saw the wound behind the armor, and it mirrored your own.

So you nodded once. Quiet. Detached. And said, “I need to get back.”

You turned before he could reply, walking back toward the sound of laughter and life, where your friends waited and your future hadn’t yet been tangled up in his shadow again.

The 70th Hunger Games reaping arrived like a thundercloud—heavy, ominous, and buzzing with unspoken dread.

You stood at the edge of the square with your parents, your hands clasped tightly in front of you as you scanned the crowd. Your eyes searched the eighteen-year-old girls’ section until they landed on a familiar head of auburn hair. Annie. It was her last year of eligibility, and your stomach hadn’t stopped twisting since you woke up.

You’d noticed the pattern over the years—how the girl tributes were often eighteen, how the Capitol liked the illusion of a coming-of-age tragedy. Annie had barely lived her life. The thought made your heart lurch. She caught your gaze from across the square and gave you a small, nervous smile—brave in the way only Annie could manage.

From the corner of your eye, you caught a flicker of movement. Tousled blond hair. A strong jawline. Finnick. He stood on the stage near the other victors, his eyes trained on the crowd. You could feel his gaze grazing your skin, but you refused to meet it. Last year had already broken through walls you’d spent years building. You weren’t about to let him ruin your footing again—not now.

The escort began her rehearsed speech, cheerful and detached. Her voice blurred around the edges as your heartbeat thundered in your ears. You were nineteen. Safe. Annie wasn’t. This was her final year. One last time to tempt the odds.

And this year, the odds are not in your favor.

“Annie Cresta.”

The name cracked across the square like a whip.

The air stilled. Conversations stopped mid-word. Heads turned. Your breath caught, and the world seemed to tilt beneath you. All eyes were on you—because they remembered. They remembered the last time someone you loved was taken.

And just like that, you were fourteen again. Watching the boy you once dreamed of forever with get ripped from your life. Only now, it wasn’t love on the line. It was blood.

At first, you didn’t understand. Your brain scrambled, lips parting, but no sound came out. You felt the air leave your lungs and your knees nearly buckled. You turned to Annie, whose face had gone pale, eyes wide, mouth trembling.

The silence stretched unbearably long before a Peacekeeper gave a subtle nudge. That broke her paralysis. Annie stepped forward slowly, her legs wooden, like every step was a decision she didn’t want to make.

“No,” you whispered, a soundless protest as your heart slammed against your ribs. “No!” You cried out as you reached for her, but someone was already holding you back.

Your father wrapped his arms around your waist and shoulder. Your mother cupping your face and pressing you into her shoulder. You kicked, thrashed, sobbed against their hold as the reality of your situation dawned on you fully.

Annie was probably crying too now, trying not to fall apart in front of the whole district.

You didn’t have to look to know Finnick was watching.

But eventually, you twisted enough to catch a glimpse of her. Annie stood on the stage like a leaf in the wind. Her sea-green dress clung to her in the summer heat, hair stuck to her temples with sweat. She looked impossibly young. Fragile in a way that made your chest hurt.

You barely remember who the male tribute was. He didn’t matter.

Everything in your world zeroed in on the girl standing alone on the stage, blinking fast as she tried not to cry.

Then your gaze flickered to Finnick. He was standing by the Victor’s section, hands clenched into fists, jaw so tight you swore it might shatter. His eyes didn’t leave Annie. Not once. Not even when she was escorted away toward the Justice Building.

The crowd began to dissolve, families murmuring soft prayers and farewells, but you stood frozen. Your hands still trembled at your sides, and your sister’s name kept echoing in your mind like a wound that wouldn’t close.

That was the moment the Games became real in a new way. Not as a far-off threat. Not as something that might happen.

But as something that had taken someone you loved.

Your father said something about being allowed to visit her before she left. A short goodbye. A few minutes. But your legs moved before your mind could catch up, pulling yourself free from their weakened grip.

Because you weren’t heading for the Justice Building.

You were heading for Finnick.

You ran to the docks. You didn’t have to think. Your feet just knew. That’s where he always went after a reaping—where the sea could swallow the things he couldn’t say. You’d found him there before, year after year, always standing just past the last post, where the saltwater licked the edge of the wood and the wind carried the cries of gulls overhead.

Finnick stood with his back to you, shoulders drawn tight, head bowed slightly. The sea mist caught in his hair, and for a second, he didn’t look like the boy you once loved. He looked like a myth. A shipwreck still standing.

You slowed, breath catching as your gaze traced the outline of him. He was broader now, stronger, wearier. Time had carved him into something harsher—like a statue softened by storms, not age. He hadn’t heard you yet.

“Finnick?” you called, voice fragile as driftwood.

He turned. And in the space of a heartbeat, he was in front of you—arms wrapping around your waist, breath hitting your cheek, lips crashing against yours like a wave that had waited years to break.

There was no hesitation. No words. Just the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for permission, because it already knows the answer. A kiss made of everything you’d both tried to drown—grief, longing, rage, hope. His mouth tasted like salt and sorrow, and your tears slipped down between you, catching in the corners of the kiss, but neither of you stopped.

His arms wrapped around you so tightly it almost hurt. But you didn’t pull away. You clung to him like he was a wound and you’d forgotten how to stop bleeding.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was teeth and tears and years of silence crumbling between you. It was desperate, broken, angry. It was everything you never got to say, poured out in gasps and shudders.

You kissed him like you hated him. Like you still loved him. Like you wished it didn’t still feel like this.

And when you finally pulled away, breathless and aching, it wasn’t relief that followed. It was the kind of silence that settled between people who knew they had no future—only history. Only ruin.

Finnick didn’t say anything. Neither did you. You just stared at each other, chest heaving, salt from the sea and your tears sticking to your lips.

This wasn’t forgiveness.

This was grief wearing love’s face.

“Promise me you’ll bring her back,” you whispered, the words trembling but edged with steel.

Finnick’s gaze flickered, sorrow rising like a tide behind his eyes. His grip on your waist faltered, and that alone was enough to send panic lurching in your chest. You reached up and cupped his face firmly, grounding him. Forcing him to look at you.

“Finnick,” you said louder, voice hoarse. “Swear to me you’ll bring my sister back.”

His lips parted, but nothing came out. Then soft and pained,“You know I can’t—”

“I’ll spend the rest of this life hating you,” you cut in, voice cracking like ice under pressure, “and the next one, too, if you don’t. I can’t lose her. Not after everything.”

He closed his eyes like it hurt to look at you, lashes brushing his cheeks as he pressed his forehead to yours, breath warm and shaky.

“That’s not fair,” he whispered, broken open.

A hollow, bitter laugh escaped you. “You stopped playing fair the day you told me to forget you. The day they took you away.” Your thumb ghosted across his jaw. “This is me returning the favor.”

Finnick’s hands curled around your waist again, tighter now. “I don’t control the Games, sweetheart.”

“But you can influence them.” You met his eyes without flinching. “You have power in that hell, even if you pretend you don’t. Use it. Use whatever the Capitol gave you—your smile, your secrets, your body, I don’t care.”

Your voice wavered, a thread unraveling. “Just bring her back to me.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek, and Finnick caught it with the pad of his thumb—slow, reverent. His eyes searched yours like you were asking him to walk through fire. And you were.

He nodded once—slowly, solemnly—as if sealing something ancient and sacred. His thumb lingered against your cheek, then trailed down to your jaw, gentle as a prayer.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he murmured.

And then he kissed you again.

But this one was different—less fire, more ache. Like he was memorizing your mouth. Like he was afraid this would be the last time he’d taste something that reminded him what it meant to be alive. It was a promise, a confession, and a goodbye, all tangled in the same breath.

He pulled you closer, crushing you to him as though he could will the world to stop. As though this kiss could delay the storm waiting on the other side of the sunrise.

The rest of the month was a slow, merciless bleed. You paced the floors until the wood creaked in protest. Sleep became a stranger. Your meals went cold on untouched plates. Every second was haunted by the thought of Annie—of her dying alone in an arena designed to chew innocence to pieces.

You couldn’t bring yourself to watch the broadcasts. Every TV in the house remained dark, silent like a grave. You didn’t go outside. You didn’t speak to anyone who tried to console you. Because if you were going to lose her, if the Capitol was going to steal her the way it stole Finnick, then you wanted to be the last to know. You wanted to keep the illusion of hope alive for just a little longer.

You weren’t ready to grieve her yet.

The thought alone was unbearable—it felt like the same knife, twisted again, deeper. Losing Finnick once had shattered you. Losing Annie would be the final blow. You couldn’t come back from that.

So you prayed. Harder than you ever had. Not to any god you truly believed in, but to anything listening. You whispered promises to the sea, lit candles at dawn, begged the stars overhead.

Bring her back. Please, just bring her back.

It didn’t matter if she came home broken or silenced or strange. You’d take her in any form she returned. You’d rebuild her piece by piece, hold her hand through every nightmare. You’d trade your sanity, your soul, your future—anything. Just to see her again.

Because you knew her heart. You’d watched her grow from a bright-eyed child into a girl who still believed in kindness, even in a world that tried to kill it. You knew the sound of her laugh in a crowded room. The way she curled up in her sleep. The softness in her that didn’t belong anywhere near blood-soaked soil.

If you could’ve taken her place, you would’ve. Gladly. Because this time, unlike with Finnick, you had a choice to save her.

The announcement came on a quiet evening, when the clouds hung low like they, too, were bracing for something. You hadn’t planned to be near the screen. In fact, you’d been doing everything not to be.

But your father called your name with a voice that shook. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t have to be.

You walked into the room like someone heading toward a noose. Each step dragged with the weight of too many memories, too many hopes stitched together by desperation.

The Capitol seal spun. The anthem played. You didn’t breathe.

And then, there she was. Her face is plastered on the screen as the gamemaker announces her win. But unlike a close-up shot of the victor they usually do, it’s a poster of her face.

You staggered back like you’d been hit. The world blurred as tears rushed forward with no warning, and all at once, the ache you’d been trying to smother cracked wide open. You fell to your knees in the middle of the room, sobbing so hard it tore something loose in you. She was alive. She’s alive. Not untouched—but breathing, standing. Still here.

You pressed your face to your hands, overcome by a grief that had been paused for weeks and was now finally allowed to finish its scream. Annie. Annie.

The sea carried her back to you days later.

You waited at the docks long before the train arrived. The sky was the same soft gray it had been the day Finnick kissed you goodbye. The waves lapped against the shore in a quiet rhythm. The gulls circled overhead like guardians, watchful and wide-winged.

You saw her before she saw you—standing in the doorway of the train car, framed by glass and metal and too much sorrow. She stepped out slowly, eyes scanning the crowd with a blankness that punched the breath right out of you.

She was thinner. Her lips pale. Her eyes—those green eyes—were distant, darting like she expected someone to leap at her from the shadows.

But she was here.

You didn’t call her name. You didn’t need to. Somehow, she found you.

Her eyes landed on yours like they were remembering how to be hers again. And that was it. You broke into a run and she did too, stumbling at first, then faster, until the two of you collided.

You wrapped your arms around her with a strength you didn’t know you had left, clutching her like she’d slip through your fingers if you let go for even a second. Annie buried her face in your shoulder and sobbed—not like the girl who’d survived, but like the one who finally knew she was safe.

“I’m here,” you whispered over and over, your voice cracking, your tears soaking her hair. “I’m here. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

And behind the two of you, standing by the tracks, was Finnick.

He didn’t say a word nor did he try to interrupt, but his eyes met yours—and they said everything.

He kept his promise.

The outside of the train station was packed, a wall of faces blurring into one another—cheering, gawking, reaching for a glimpse of the girl who survived. Annie clutched your hand so tightly your knuckles turned white, her small fingers digging into your palm like she was afraid the moment she let go, she’d vanish back into that arena. You leaned down, whispering comfort against her temple, but your voice was lost in the roar of the crowd. The Capitol had announced her return, spun her survival into a tale of quiet victory, and now the whole of District 4 wanted to witness the aftermath of a miracle.

You should have seen it coming. The way her shoulders tensed, the way her breath started to hitch. Her gaze flitted wildly, like she was searching for a way out. The noise, the crush of people—it was too much. She stumbled, her body trembling. You turned to her, trying to anchor her, to bring her back into the safety of your voice, but it was already too late.

Annie screamed. A raw, guttural sound that split the air like a struck bell. Her hands lashed out—not in anger but in sheer terror. And one of them caught your face. You didn’t register the pain right away. All you knew was the copper taste of shock and the wet warmth blooming from your cheek. Then the crowd recoiled. Peacekeepers surged forward. You tried to shield her, to stop them, but a pair of arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you back.

Finnick.

He caught you just as your legs gave out, holding you against his chest while Annie was wrestled from the platform. Her cries echoed, high and frantic, as the Peacekeepers restrained her and led her toward a waiting black car. She thrashed like a wild thing, like a child in a nightmare that no one could shake her from. Your heart cracked wide open watching her disappear behind the metal doors.

The medical wing of District 4’s Justice Building smelled like antiseptic and ocean salt. A doctor patched up the gash on your cheek while your parents sat silent, pale and stiff, across the room. No one spoke until a Capitol official—your district’s escort, dressed in muted tones for once—arrived with a folder clutched tightly in her manicured hands. She didn’t sit. Just read off the facts like they were weather reports. Annie was experiencing acute post-traumatic psychosis. She’d had several episodes on the train ride back. Screaming in her sleep. Refusing to eat. Moments of complete dissociation. The Capitol had deemed her unstable, unfit for interviews or appearances. She would not be presented to the public. She would not have a victory tour. Her Games were to be erased, quietly shelved. She was to be kept out of sight—"for her own good," the escort added, eyes glossed with practiced sympathy.

You thanked her, numb and hollowed out.

It was strange, the way grief and relief could exist inside you at the same time. Annie was safe. She would never have to play the Capitol’s game the way Finnick had. She wouldn’t be dolled up in sequins, forced to smile while being showed off to people with power. She wouldn’t have to go through the same things Finnick did when he’s in the Capitol to survive. You should have felt victorious.

But you didn’t.

Because you’d lost her anyway. Not to a blade or a cannon, but to something slower, quieter. Annie had come back breathing, but not whole. The girl who whispered sea shanties in her sleep and laughed like sunlight on waves was gone. And in her place was someone the Capitol couldn’t use—so they discarded her, tucked her away like something broken.

You pressed your face into your hands, sitting in a sterile room that reeked of tragedy, and for the second time in your life, you felt the Games take someone you loved and twist them into something unrecognizable.

You took care of your sister. You quit your job at the front of your family’s fishery, turned your back on the small sliver of normalcy you'd managed to hold onto, and redirected everything into Annie. Because no one else could. Not in the way she needed. Your parents tried—your mother cooked more than she ever had, your father offered quiet gestures of comfort—but it was you Annie reached for when the nights grew long and the memories returned screaming. It was you who held her through every fractured moment, every disoriented stare, every time she forgot where she was.

You moved into the mansion President Snow generously allotted in the Victor’s Village. The place was too big, too white, too hollow. Your mother did what she could to make it feel like home—curtains with warm colors, potted herbs in the kitchen, family photos tucked into glass frames—but no matter how much she softened the corners, it never stopped feeling like a cage. Everything about the house was a monument to survival, but none of it felt alive. You tried to ignore the way the walls pressed in. You tried to ignore the silence. You tried, but it never left.

This wasn’t the life you imagined for yourself. You should’ve been outside right now, maybe stringing fish with the village girls, maybe letting some hopeful boy walk you home, someone who resembled Finnick in all the worst ways—pretty, careless, distant. You should’ve been pretending that heartbreak wasn’t a part of your story. That promises never made don’t hurt when they’re never kept. That the boy you built your world around hadn't become a stranger dressed in silk and scars.

But instead, you were here. In a mansion that echoed with old grief and new fear, in hallways where your parents’ voices ricocheted like sharp stones. Your mother shouting numbers. Your father sighing in exhaustion. Their arguments wove into the background like music, and you watched Annie flinch at each crescendo, her body curling in on itself as if trying to vanish into air. Then it would be you again—kneeling, soothing, holding her as her breathing turned erratic and her eyes lost focus.

You were tired. Tired of the weight. Tired of the pain. Tired of pretending that if you worked hard enough, loved hard enough, you could undo what had already been done.

Sometimes, when the house finally quieted and your bones ached with fatigue, you’d lie flat on the cold floor of your room, staring up at the ceiling like it held answers. You’d imagine other versions of your life—one where Finnick was never reaped, where his smile never carried secrets, where you were both just two kids in love, dreaming of something small and safe. Or maybe a life where he didn’t exist at all. Maybe then your heart wouldn’t feel like it was still waiting for him. Waiting for something that was never coming back.

Your gaze drifted to the form curled up on the bed across the room. Annie’s breathing had slowed. Her face, so soft in sleep, looked like it belonged to a child again. But even peace looked haunted on her. The Capitol hadn’t just taken her sanity—it had taken her time, her youth, her quietness. You swallowed hard and looked away.

And then you remembered that day. The first time Finnick stepped off the train after his Games. You remembered the way your lungs had locked up, the way you recognized him instantly and yet not at all. He looked older, like someone had drained the color from him. There was a shine in his eyes that had nothing to do with light and everything to do with damage. He had been gilded in gold and clothed in silk, but all you saw was the wreckage.

You rose carefully, checking Annie one last time, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek before slipping from the room. A quick, hot shower to wash off the stillness clinging to your skin, and then you dressed in something simple and clean. There was an hour left��maybe less—before Annie would wake from the nightmares again. You moved quickly. Slipped through the front door, past the silent garden your mother kept trying to coax to life, past the white fences that looked like bones.

The path to the beach wasn’t long. It never was. The sea had always been near, calling to you like a lullaby too old to forget.

You didn’t stop until your feet met the sand, until you stood before the great stretch of gray-blue water and let the salt sting your lungs. The ocean didn’t ask for anything. It didn’t explain itself. It just kept going—crashing, shifting, changing, surviving.

You closed your eyes and let it drown out everything else. For a moment, just a moment, you could breathe again.

You sank down into the sand, drawing your knees to your chest as the tide whispered its hush. The sky was heavy above you, smeared with clouds that looked like they’d forgotten how to rain. The wind was colder than it should’ve been, brushing your skin like a ghost you didn’t want to name. But you stayed, arms wrapped around your legs, head bowed like prayer, as the waves pushed and pulled at the shore like they were looking for something too.

It was always the quiet that made you think of him the most.

Finnick Odair.

Even now, the thought of his name hurt in a place words couldn’t reach. It throbbed somewhere beneath your ribs, like your heart had been split open and stitched back wrong. You remembered everything too vividly—how his laughter once wrapped around you like a safety net, how his eyes found yours in a crowd like magnets. You remembered the first time he kissed you by these very shores, sand in your hair and salt on your lips, his hands trembling just enough to tell you he was scared too.

You remembered the promises. Not the grand, theatrical kind—but the small ones, whispered under breath in the shadows between curfews and the seas. He’d promised to teach you how to dive deeper, to build you a little house on stilts by the rocks where no one could find you, to grow old with you in a place where the Capitol couldn’t reach.

None of those promises were kept.

It wasn’t his fault. You told yourself that more times than you could count. But it didn’t stop you from aching anyway.

Because the truth was, Finnick didn’t come back the same. The Games took the boy you loved and sent back someone who wore his face but none of his softness. The Capitol dressed him up like a prize and passed him around like he didn’t bleed the same way everyone else did. And you had to watch—helpless—as the light in him died out piece by piece, each interview, each appearance, each year that passed.

And what hurt the most—what broke something inside you—was that he let it happen. He let the Capitol turn him into something you barely recognized. He never fought to hold onto you. He just let go.

You tried to hate him for it.

You tried to bury every tender thing you ever felt and replace it with anger, but no matter how hard you tried, it never stuck. Because you knew. Deep down, you always knew.

He did it to protect you.

He gave you up like a gift, a final desperate offering to a world that only knew how to take. He loved you in silence because that was the only way he knew how to keep you safe. And in doing so, he shattered you.

So you sat there on the sand, choking on the memories, wishing you could hold him one last time. Not the version the Capitol claimed, not the Victor they paraded on screens. Just him. Just Finnick. Barefoot, sea-soaked, thirteen. Telling you he’d love you forever with a smile that didn’t know yet what it would cost.

You pressed your forehead to your knees and let the tide sing you something soft. There were no answers in the waves, only ache. And you carried enough of that to last a lifetime.

You didn’t hear the footsteps behind you. You were too lost in your thoughts to recognize the soft thud of feet meeting sand, too wrapped in the ache of what could’ve been to notice the shift in the air beside you. The tide kept humming, but something about it changed—like it suddenly had company. You only realized someone had sat next to you when the warmth of their presence brushed against your side, quiet and steady like a second heartbeat you forgot you missed.

You didn’t turn right away.

You couldn’t.

Because some part of you already knew who it was. The weight of him settled into the earth like it belonged there, like he had always been drawn to your orbit, and you to his. And you weren’t ready—not to see him, not to unravel beneath that face again. But then came his voice, quiet, unsteady, like he hadn’t spoken all day.

“I figured I’d find you here.”

You closed your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to keep the emotion at bay, to swallow the thousand things you wanted to scream and instead let silence stretch between you. You opened them only when you were sure you wouldn’t cry at the sound of him.

“Don’t tell me you’re here to apologize,” you said. Your voice didn’t sound like yours. It sounded older. Tired.

Finnick didn’t answer right away. Instead, he brought his knees up, forearms resting on them, head tilted slightly toward the sea. He looked like someone trying to memorize the horizon, maybe because the present was too hard to look at.

“I don’t think I have the right words to say sorry,” he admitted. “Not after everything.”

You studied him from the side. The light caught his face differently now. The angles were sharper, the shadows deeper. His beauty hadn’t faded, but there was something hollow behind it now, something bruised. It was the kind of face you ached to touch but knew it might burn you.

It had been months since you last saw him. The last time was when Annie broke down at the station, when the Peacekeepers tried to restrain her and you lunged forward like instinct. Finnick had caught you then, his grip strong and desperate, as if loosening it meant losing you too. He’d held you like you were the only steady thing left in the world. He accompanied you to the Justice Building, stood at the far end of the hallway with watchful eyes, quiet and protective. He helped your mother when her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, helped your father when he stumbled trying to sit down, and when the doctors told you Annie could finally come home, he was still there—lingering, waiting. But after that day, you never really crossed paths again. Not truly.

Even though he lived just across the street in the Victor’s Village. Even though you caught glimpses of him now and then through curtained windows or the rustle of grocery bags left at your door. He visited sometimes, brought fruit, helped your father with the porch railings and fixed the roof when the wind tore shingles off. But you were too buried in Annie’s care—watching her every breath, terrified she'd be taken from you again. And so you both existed in proximity, orbiting the same grief but never touching. Busy in lives that revolved around a shared ruin.

You turned back toward the ocean, the sand shifting beneath your fingers.

“I used to think I’d never stop loving you,” you whispered, not meaning to say it out loud. “That no matter what happened, you’d always be the one.”

His breath caught, and that silence that stretched between you before now felt like a scream.

“I never stopped,” he said.

And god, how you hated him for saying it. Because he meant it. You could hear it in the way his voice cracked on the last word, how his knuckles whitened against his knees.

“But you left,” you said, still staring straight ahead. “You let them turn you into something I didn’t recognize. You didn’t fight for me. For us.”

“I was trying to keep you safe,” he murmured. “If they knew how much you meant to me... they would’ve used you. Like they used everything else.”

A bitter laugh slipped from your lips, tired and sharp. “And what difference did it make? I still lost everything.”

You felt his gaze on you then—heavy, full of everything he couldn’t say. Your breath hitched when his hand brushed against yours, hesitant, like asking for permission to hold something sacred.

“I miss you,” he said, the words so soft they barely reached over the waves.

You turned toward him, finally letting yourself look.

There he was. Not the Capitol’s toy. Not the Victor. Just Finnick. The boy you loved. The boy you still loved in all the ways that mattered.

“I miss who we were,” you whispered back.

The space between you closed before you could stop it. His hand slid into yours and you didn’t pull away. Not this time. His forehead came to rest against yours, and the moment held still—delicate, aching, reverent.

No kiss followed this time. Just breathing.

Just two broken people trying to remember how to hold on without shattering further.

Finnick slowly pulls away from you, as if that he had lingered any longer, he would have broken down. He plants his hands behind him and leans back on them, staring blankly at the dark horizon as the waves continue their endless crashing against the shore. You examine him in silence, drinking in the way his hair catches the breeze, how his features have sharpened with time—his jaw more prominent, his cheeks leaner, eyes more sunken, heavier. He looks like someone who’s been carried too far out to sea and barely crawled his way back.

Your eyes catch on something at the base of his neck. A bruise. Fading, but unmistakable. The sight of it knocks something loose in your chest.

You shift closer, your voice tentative as your fingers hover just near the discolored skin. “Where did you get that?”

Finnick doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t even flinch. He keeps staring out at the horizon like he’s searching for a way to disappear.

You draw back a little, heart beating faster, already fearing the answer but needing to hear it anyway. “Was it… from someone in the Capitol?” The words taste bitter in your mouth. You hate yourself for how jealous you sound. You expect him to confirm it, maybe shrug it off like he always used to when the topic came up—half a smile, a deflection, some comment about admirers with too many teeth.

But this time, he doesn’t lie.

“No,” he says quietly. “Not someone. Everyone.”

His voice is too hollow to be casual. Too cracked to be teasing. He finally turns to look at you, and what you see in his eyes isn’t embarrassment. It’s resignation.

Your stomach sinks. “Finnick…” you breathe, dread coiling in your throat.

“When you win,” he begins, slowly, like the words are costing him pieces of himself, “they let you think you’re free. You get your parade, your crown, the cheers. And then you find out that your real life—the one after the arena—is just another performance. Another prison.”

You don’t interrupt. You can’t. You’re barely breathing.

“Snow didn’t just want me to be a victor,” he continues. “He wanted me to be… presentable. Marketable. There’s a certain kind of entertainment the Capitol values more than blood. And they paid him well for me.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest. You look away, eyes stinging, your breath caught in your throat. “He sold you,” you whisper.

Finnick nods. “Over and over again. To anyone who had enough money or enough power. Old men. Women. Senators. Sponsors. Some of them just wanted to say they had me. Some wanted more.”

You shake your head slowly, unable to stop the tears now falling freely down your cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Because I couldn’t,” he says, his voice strained. “Because if I so much as hinted at it, they would’ve come after you. After your family. After anyone I cared about. I did everything I could to keep them from seeing how much you meant to me.”

You choke on a sob, your hand rising to cover your mouth. “God, I was so stupid. I thought you were just… sleeping around. I hated you for it. I thought you changed.”

“I wanted you to hate me,” he says quietly. “I needed you to. It was the only way I could keep you safe. If you thought I’d become just another Capitol puppet, maybe they’d think I saw you as nothing. Maybe they’d leave you alone.”

“She warned me,” he continued, eyes still locked on the sea. “Mags. The night I won. The Capitol hadn’t even let me sleep yet. They were already lining up people for me to meet. She pulled me into this quiet room, held my face like she used to when I was a kid, and said, ‘If you want her to live, you let her go.’ Just like that. No explanation. But I knew what she meant.”

Something cold twisted deep in your stomach. Mags—gentle, warm Mags—saying something so dire, so absolute. It made the back of your throat ache.

“They’d seen me with you,” Finnick said, his voice low and bitter. “Back home. Before the Games. They knew everything. They always know everything. And when a Victor becomes someone worth watching, the people around them do too. I thought maybe if I was careful… maybe if I kept just enough distance. But they made it very clear. You were a string they could pull if I ever misbehaved. So I cut it first.”

Your body trembles with the weight of it all. The months you spent hating him, envying his admirers, grieving the boy he used to be—all while he was being broken piece by piece behind closed doors. And you hadn’t seen it. You hadn’t wanted to see it. Because believing he’d become cruel was easier than imagining he was being hurt.

You wrap your arms around yourself, the night air suddenly colder, heavier, pressing down on your ribs. “You should’ve let me choose, Finnick,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I would’ve stayed. I would’ve fought.”

He shakes his head, a small, sad smile on his lips. “That’s what scared me. You would’ve followed me into hell if I asked. And they would’ve made you suffer for it.”

The silence that follows is thick with things unsaid, with the ache of love long buried beneath fear and sacrifice. The waves keep rolling in, the only constant sound between the two of you.

You feel the tremor in his words more than you hear it. Something inside you cracks again, like glass under too much pressure. You press your palm over his heart, feeling how fast it’s racing, as if the truth itself is clawing to escape from where he buried it for too long. You try to memorize the moment, etch it into your mind the way you did back then—his scent, the soft tremble in his breath, the way he says your name like it’s the only word that ever meant anything.

“I wrote to you,” he says, and your eyes snap up to his, wide with confusion. “After that night. Letters. Every week.”

You blink at him, stunned. “You… you did?”

Finnick nods slowly, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “At first, I thought maybe they weren’t getting through. But then I stopped getting anything back, and I started wondering if you just… couldn’t forgive me. And then your father came to see me.”

A cold chill spreads down your spine, dread pooling at the base of your stomach. “My father?”

Finnick leans back again, looking up at the stars like he’s searching for an answer he already knows won’t come. “He said I needed to stop. That it wasn’t right for me to keep reaching out. That you were better off not being tangled in something the Capitol was obsessed with. He told me I’d ruin you if I kept holding on. And he wasn’t wrong. So I stopped.”

You’re frozen for a moment. A long, bitter moment where your mind races to piece together all the holes in your memory—after your sixteenth birthday, the way Finnick kept looking at you like he’s expecting something from you, the silence that followed. You remember asking your father once, asking if Finnick had written or visited, and how he shook his head without meeting your eyes.

Your jaw tightens as heat stings behind your eyes. “He never told me,” you whisper, voice shaking. “He never told me anything.”

“I figured,” Finnick says quietly. “He was trying to protect you. I can’t even hate him for it.”

But you can. And you do, just a little.

The betrayal cuts sharper than you expected. Because while your father kept you safe, he also kept you in the dark. He let you believe you weren’t wanted. He let you think Finnick had changed into someone else—someone cold, someone selfish. And you let that belief root itself deep in your chest, never knowing it had all been a carefully constructed lie meant to keep you apart.

Tears prick at your eyes again, but this time they’re different. This time they burn. “I hated you,” you admit, voice trembling. “For so long, I hated you. I thought you threw me away.”

Finnick looks at you then, really looks at you, and you see all of it written in his face—regret, guilt, sorrow. But not once does he try to defend himself. “That was the point,” he says softly.

You can’t stop the sob that escapes you. You turn away, burying your face in your hands as your shoulders shake. All this time, you thought he’d chosen the Capitol. You thought he’d abandoned you, turned into someone else. But he had been breaking in silence, alone, while you grieved a version of him that never really died.

You feel him move beside you, the warmth of his hand ghosting over your back, not pushing, not pulling—just there. Just steady.

“I would’ve waited forever,” you whisper. “If I had known.”

The tears on your cheeks have dried, but your skin still feels tight with salt and grief. You sit beside him in the hush that follows, your fingers curled into the sand, knuckles white. The air is thick with everything—everything he said, everything he didn't, everything you finally understand. It presses down on you like the weight of the ocean, vast and cold and merciless.

“You don’t get to do that,” you whisper. Your voice is low, sharp-edged and unsteady, trembling with everything you’re trying not to say. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

Finnick’s head turns slowly, brows drawing together, confusion flickering in his eyes.

“You don’t get to rip me apart for years, make me think I was never enough, and then tell me it was all for my protection,” you say. “You don’t get to martyr yourself and leave me in the dark. That wasn’t fair.”

He looks away again, jaw clenching. “I—”

“No, you don’t,” you snap, voice rising despite the quiver in it. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t have let me believe I was forgettable. Replaceable. You wouldn’t have looked me in the eyes and made me feel like nothing.”

Finnick’s hands are fists in the sand now, knuckles scraped raw. “You think I wanted to do that to you?” he says, his voice breaking. “You think I wanted to see you cry every time I passed your house and didn’t look up? You think I didn’t die every time Annie tells me about you?”

“Then why didn’t you fight?” you ask, hating how wrecked your voice sounds. “Why didn’t you trust me? We could’ve figured it out. Together.”

He finally turns to you fully, and the look on his face guts you. It’s not anger. It’s not defensiveness. It’s devastation. “Because I wasn’t strong enough. Because they used me up, over and over, until I didn’t know who I was anymore. And I couldn’t ask you to love what was left.”

You suck in a breath, and it feels like broken glass in your throat.

Finnick’s voice softens, like he’s afraid the truth might shatter you now that it’s out. “You were the only thing that felt real, and I thought if I held on to you, they’d destroy you just to prove they could. So I let them destroy me instead.”

The sob that escapes you is ugly and jagged. “I spent years hating you, Finnick. Years thinking you never cared. And now I don’t even know where to put all of this—this guilt, this love, this hurt.”

He reaches for you then, carefully, like you’re a wounded bird. His fingers curl around yours, gentle and trembling. “Put it here,” he whispers, bringing your joined hands to his chest. “Put it where I kept you all this time.”

You stare at him, tears blurring your vision, your heart aching in every direction at once. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

“I don’t think we can fix it,” he says, quiet and steady. “But maybe we can carry it. Together, this time.”

You don’t respond. Not yet. The tide has gone still for now, but everything inside you is still churning. The world hasn’t shifted into clarity. If anything, it feels more uncertain than ever.

You draw your hand back slowly, fingertips brushing over the place where your palm had pressed to his chest. His heart still races beneath his ribs.

“I don’t know what to do, Finnick,” you admit. Your voice is soft, raw. “I don’t even know what to feel. It’s like I’ve been walking in the wrong direction for so long, and now I finally turned around, but everything behind me is on fire.”

Finnick doesn’t rush to comfort you. He doesn’t offer you promises he can’t keep. He just nods, eyes glassy, understanding exactly what that kind of lost feels like.

“Then we take it slow,” he says after a moment. “We wait. We try. One step at a time. That’s all we can do.”

You sit in silence after that, both of you listening to the waves breathing in and out. There’s nothing dramatic about how the night ends—no kiss, no dramatic embrace—just a quiet understanding, a fragile thread of something mending. When you finally stand, Finnick walks you home, his presence at your side solid and grounding. He doesn’t ask to come inside. He just watches you reach the porch, and when you glance back, he gives you a faint nod. No smile, no sadness. He’s just there.

Inside, the house is dark and still. But as you step into the kitchen, the lamp flicks on.

Your father sits at the table, a half-empty cup of tea cooling by his hand. He looks like he hasn’t slept all night, and judging by the silence, your mother must’ve taken care of Annie upstairs. The look on his face is hard to read—something between guilt and resolve.

You say nothing at first. You only walk past him, open the small drawer where loose keys and mail are sometimes left, and reach into the very back. You don’t even know what makes you check there. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s desperation. But your fingers brush something papery and old, bound by a fraying string.

You pull the bundle out slowly. Letters. Dozens of them. All addressed to you in Finnick’s handwriting.

Your hands tremble as you turn back to your father. “You kept them.”

He doesn’t deny it. He just exhales heavily, running a hand down his tired face. “I did.”

“Why?” The word is barely a whisper.

“Because he was already marked,” your father says. “We didn’t know how deep it went, but we knew enough. The Capitol had its eyes on him. And boys like that? They don’t get happy endings. They become warnings. Tools. Examples. I wasn’t going to let that destroy you too.”

Tears sting your eyes, but you refuse to blink them away. “You didn’t even let me decide.”

“It was for your own good,” he says. “I was trying to protect you. And if I had to do it all over again, I would.”

You clutch the letters tighter to your chest. There’s nothing more to say, not right now. The ache in your chest is too wide, too heavy. You turn and walk away, up the stairs, your father’s silence trailing behind you.

Later, in the quiet of your room, you sit on the edge of your bed, still holding the letters. You don’t open them—not yet. You’re not ready for that. But you press them against your heart, as if their weight alone can tell you everything you missed.

You lie back slowly, eyes unfocused as they settle on the ceiling. The wind outside shifts, brushing against your windowpane. You glance to the side.

Across the road, the light in Finnick’s bedroom is still on.

You don’t know what tomorrow will look like. You don’t know how much can be repaired. But tonight, you hold the truth against your chest and stare at the soft glow of his window, knowing—finally, fully—that you were never forgotten.

The year passes like the tide—slow in some places, quick in others, always shifting. At first, everything feels fragile. Annie flinches at the clink of cutlery, cries in her sleep, and stares blankly for hours. But you stay by her side through it all, arms always ready to catch her when she stumbles. You hold her through long nights, fill the silence with stories laced in childhood memories, and when words become too heavy, you sit with her quietly, just breathing beside her. You never ask for more than she can give. You’ve learned not to. You move at her pace, steady and gentle, letting her know with every small gesture: I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. And sometimes, as you lie beside her in bed, she’ll squeeze your hand before drifting off, and that squeeze says more than words ever could. It’s her way of thanking you—for staying. For drowning with her and never letting go.

You don’t mind if you’re going under too. As long as Annie’s with you, the rest doesn’t matter. You braid each other’s hair now, sit out on the porch with cold lemon iced tea, peeling fruit in the hush of late afternoons. It isn’t perfect. She still has days where she won’t speak, won’t move, where she wakes up screaming and thrashing. But she bathes herself now. She eats. She hums those ridiculous sea shanties she used to belt out as a kid.

Your father is another slow burn. At first, you barely speak. You leave the room when he enters, avoid his eyes, build a quiet wall between you made of resentment and pain. You hate him for hiding those letters, but deep down, you understand why he did it—he just didn’t want to see you hurt more than you already were. Still, understanding doesn’t make forgiveness easy. But time, as always, does its work. One quiet Thursday afternoon, you find yourself sitting with him on the porch, sharing coffee. You talk—not as father and daughter, not at first—but as two people who missed each other terribly and didn’t know how to begin again. You cry in his arms. He cries, too. It doesn’t fix everything, but it opens a door.

And through all this, Finnick is there—quietly, steadily, always showing up. He never asks for your forgiveness, never expects anything in return. He just helps. You wake up some mornings to find him in your mother’s garden, drawing water from the well or sweeping the steps clean. He shares easy laughter with your father as they work together in the yard. He reads to Annie with a voice that’s soft and careful. He never arrives empty-handed—sometimes it’s strawberries, ripe and sun-warmed, or slices of lemon cheesecake from the market. Sometimes it’s little seashell bracelets or small bundles of daisies tied with twine. Once, he brought you three lily buds—because he remembered how you like to watch them bloom.

There’s something between you. Not quite love—not yet—but the shape of it. The quiet promise of it.

When Mags' birthday comes, Finnick invites your whole family to her cottage. The house smells like salt and rosemary, the air thick with laughter and seafood boil. Mags glows with gentle pride, surrounded by the people she loves. There’s music playing from a battered old radio, someone’s whistling along out of tune. Even Annie sways to the beat, her fingers curled loosely around yours before she lets go, nudging you toward Finnick with the smallest smile.

He takes your hand gently, as if asking, Is this okay? And you nod, letting him lead you into the open space where the others have been dancing. The music is lazy and slow, something old and familiar. His palm is warm against your back. You haven’t danced in a long time—not like this. Not with someone who looks at you like you’re something soft and not already broken.

For a while, you just move, guided more by his steadiness than the music. And then, you look up.

Maybe it’s the glow of the hanging lights or the way his mouth twitches when he tries not to smile too wide. But something shifts.

You see him—not the Capitol’s golden boy, not the heartthrob everyone whispered about, not the Finnick who broke your heart by vanishing into a storm of war and secrets. You see the boy who never stopped coming back. Who brings you mangoes in the heat of summer and lilies just about to bloom. The boy who reads to your sister and laughs with your father and doesn’t try to fix you—only stand beside you.

You realize, with a jolt so quiet it feels like a breath, that you don’t hate him anymore. You hadn’t even noticed when the hatred left, only that now, in its place, there’s something else. Something tender. Curious.

Finnick says your name like a question, maybe because you’ve been staring too long, and your hand tightens just slightly in his.

“I’m okay,” you murmur, and this time, it’s true.

Finnick doesn’t say anything right away. His eyes stay on yours, searching for something—not doubt, not disbelief. Just making sure. Like he’s afraid the moment will slip if he breathes too hard.

Then, almost in a whisper, he says, “I’ve been hoping you'd be. Not rushing you—just... hoping.”

His voice is low, almost lost beneath the music. There’s no expectation in it, no pressure. Just that quiet kind of honesty that always catches you off guard with him.

You feel his thumb brush against your knuckles where your hands are still joined. It’s a small touch, one he could’ve made a hundred times before, but tonight it feels different. More grounded. Earned.

“I missed you,” he says, and though you’ve heard those words before—from him, in letters, in memories—tonight they feel new. Not the kind of missing that aches, but the kind that holds room for hope. The kind that says, I’m still here.

Your throat tightens a little. You want to say something back—something real—but the words catch on the edges of everything you’ve carried. So instead, you step a little closer, rest your cheek lightly against his shoulder. You let the music carry you both for a while, and listen to the quiet thrum of your heartbeat and the way Finnick holds you like you’re something sacred.

When the party winds down, people begin to drift out one by one, laughter fading into the night air. Your family lingers the longest. Just as your dad starts to gather his coat, Annie suddenly turns to you with an impish glint in her eyes.

“You said you’ll help clean up with Finnick, right?” she announces brightly, grabbing your parents by their sleeves and tugging them out the door before either of them can protest.

You’re left blinking at the doorway, stunned, as the door swings shut behind them. Beside you, Mags lets out a low chuckle, patting your arm before hobbling off toward her bedroom. “Don’t forget the pie tins,” she calls over her shoulder with amusement. And then it’s just you and Finnick.

You follow him back into the kitchen. He’s already at the sink, sleeves rolled up, methodically scrubbing at plates while the warm glow of the cottage lights frames him in soft gold. You grab a rag and start wiping down the counters, trying to keep yourself busy—anything to avoid standing there and letting the silence press down between you again.

It’s not awkward, exactly. The air between you feels like it’s waiting for something.

Finnick breaks it first.

“Sweetheart.”

Your head snaps toward him. His voice was soft, but it still catches you off guard.

He smirks gently, biting his inner cheek to hide a laugh. “Sorry,” he says, setting a plate in the drying rack. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I wasn’t scared,” you mutter, grabbing a towel to dry the next plate.

“Mm, sure you weren’t,” he teases lightly.

You fall into a rhythm—he washes, you dry. Occasionally your hands brush, and each time, it makes your heart stutter in a way that’s both maddening and familiar. You glance at him once, just a glance, and catch him already looking at you. He doesn’t look away.

“I’ve missed this,” Finnick says suddenly, his voice low.

You pause, the plate in your hands halfway to the shelf. “What?”

“This,” he says again, softer this time. “You. Talking to you. Just being in the same room without feeling like I’ve already lost you.”

You set the plate down. You don’t say anything right away because there’s too much in your chest and not enough breath to say it.

“I didn’t know how to be around you anymore,” you admit. “It felt like… if I let myself be close to you again, I’d fall apart.”

Finnick’s hands are wet, and the dish rag is still hanging from his fingers, but he turns toward you anyway. “Then let me be the one you fall apart with,” he says, quiet and steady.

You’re not sure who moves first—maybe it’s you, maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s both of you at once, pulled forward by the weight of everything that’s gone unsaid between you, by the gravity of a love that never really left, only went quiet.

The space between you collapses all at once. Your hands reach for his shirt, fingers curling in the fabric like you’ve done in your dreams, like you did in another lifetime. His hands find your waist with a kind of desperation, like he’s afraid that if he touches too gently, you’ll disappear.

The first brush of his lips against yours is hesitant—testing the waters, asking a silent question. But you answer with your whole body. You rise on your toes, close the last inch of space, and press yourself to him fully, a quiet gasp slipping out as the kiss deepens.

It’s not gentle anymore.

It’s years of longing. Of silence. Of pretending. It’s the ache of missing someone who was standing right in front of you, and now you finally have him again. He tastes like sea salt and lemon and something so heartbreakingly familiar that it makes your knees weak.

You kiss him like you’re trying to memorize him all over again. Like you’re angry at yourself for waiting this long. Like you’ve just remembered what it feels like to be alive in someone else’s arms.

His hands slide up your back, anchor you to him, pull you even closer until there’s not an inch of space left. One hand cups the back of your neck, his thumb brushing just behind your ear in a way that makes you shiver. And when he pulls back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel him trembling a little.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers, voice ragged.

“You didn’t,” you breathe back. “You never did.”

The air around you is thick with everything unspoken, humming like a live wire. His breath brushes over your lips again—barely there, teasing. And then he's kissing you once more, deeper this time, like he’s finally allowed to want you and he’s starved for it.

Your fingers slide up, over the line of his chest, curling behind his neck as if anchoring yourself to something solid. He sighs into your mouth, low and shaky, and you can feel the tension unraveling from his shoulders as he melts into you. Like he’s been holding himself together for too long and now, finally, he gets to fall apart in your arms.

His hands move restlessly—over your waist, your back, like he’s trying to map out every piece of you again, relearn what it means to hold you without guilt, without fear. There’s nothing rushed in the way he touches you. It’s reverent. Intentional. Like he’s afraid this moment might break if he moves too quickly.

You pull back, just slightly, just enough to look at him. His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide like he’s drunk on this, on you. His chest rises and falls with each unsteady breath and he’s staring at you like you hung the stars and he’s only now remembering how bright they shine.

“Tell me this is real,” he says, voice hoarse, almost pleading.

You nod, eyes never leaving his. “It’s real,” you whisper, and your voice trembles because suddenly you feel everything at once—years of grief and guilt and hope crashing together in your chest.

His lips part like he’s about to say something else, but no words come. Instead, he kisses you again—and this time it’s rougher. Not angry, but urgent. Needy. You respond with the same hunger, your hands fisting into his shirt as he walks you backwards until your hips bump the kitchen counter. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the feel of him, the warmth of his body pressed against yours like he’s trying to make up for all the time lost between you.

His hands cradle your jaw, tilting your face up as he kisses you slow and deep, like a vow. You feel dizzy with it—like you’ve waited your whole life to be kissed like this, to be wanted like this. And for the first time in what feels like forever, your heart isn’t heavy.

You’re here. With him. And he’s here with you.

You break apart again, just barely, breathing each other in. His fingers slide down to your sides, squeezing lightly like he can’t believe you’re really in front of him.

“I love you.” He breathes out. “I never stopped,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours. “Not once.”

And there it is again—that ache, that softness, that overwhelming truth between you. A beginning born from everything broken.

This time, when he kisses you, it’s with no hesitation. Just certainty.

Just him. Just you.

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

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bruisedboys · 2 years ago

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ummmmm so finnick and manhandling 😁😁 especially casual manhandling 😁😁 we have any thoughts abt that orrrr 😁😁😁

ummmm yes!!!!!! I absolutely have so many thoughts ….. (also I’m very sorry this took me the longest time to answer. it was stewing in my brain hehe)

finnick odair x fem!reader

finnick odair is constantly manhandling you. it’s so easy for him, and even if he wasn’t as strong as he is it’d still be anything but a challenge because you’re so compliant and practically putty in his hands, and you’d do anything he wanted, you’ve told him as much — so yeah, it’s a breeze.

you’re brushing your teeth at the sink when finnick comes into the bathroom. he wants his razor, which is in the cabinet in front of your thighs, but rather than asking you to move he just takes you by the hips and moves you to the side easily. it’s so casual, but that’s exactly why it unravels you so much. “sorry, honey,” he’ll murmur, bending at the waist to grab what he needs, a hand on your lower back to keep you in place. he kisses your shoulder as he straightens up and you melt.

or like, he’ll be sitting on the couch, watching you do something, maybe arranging a bunch of flowers in a vase. and you look so so pretty — finnick thinks he could watch you for hours. when you move past him to grab something you need, you don’t make it far because finnick sticks out a hand and pulls you in between his legs with ease. “finn,” you’ll say, all breathless and giggly. “what’re you doing?” finnick shrugs, squeezes your hips and presses his face to your abdomen. “dunno,” he’ll murmur into your top, nosing the space under your breasts. “jus’ wanted a hug.” and then you put your hands in his hair and finnick almost whines out loud. it turns out to be a veerrry long hug.

also let’s talk about how strong he is??? like he can move you around with just one arm if he wants to. if he wants you up on the counter to kiss you he’ll just wrap one arm around your waist and hoist you up in an instant, not even a breath spared for the effort it takes. if he wants you to stay in bed with him, you best believe you are staying put, because as soon as he gets his hands on you it’s over. all he has to do is get his arm around your waist and you’re stuck for as long as he wants. he’s just too strong and too lovesick to let you go!!!!! <3333

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ssweeterthanfiction · 6 months ago

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Hey is there any way you could do the reader takes on clients in order to protect Finnick? Like she goes behind his back and begs Snow until she can make everything stop for Finnick and then doesn’t tell him but eventually he finds out.

oh i am CONVINCED that finnick girlies THRIVE off of angst

AND ITS MY JOB TO SUPPLY YOU GUYS SOOOOO

My Angel

HEAVY content warnings: trafficking of victors, implied S/A, cheating accusations, angst

part one. | part two. (not necessary to read, but if you would like some background i would definitely suggest reading these first)

masterlist.

Finnick had noticed that something was off about you. For the past few weeks you'd been more skittish and distant.

At night when you both went to bed, he noticed that you no longer wanted to be held in his arms. In the mornings, instead of waking up next to him with a smile, you woke up with your back facing him, hiding a look of dread on your face. You no longer wanted to to go to the market or to the beach with him, only wanting to go alone.

You refused any sort of intimacy. Anytime he would go to hug you, kiss you, anything, you would flinch. Even with the lightest brush of a hand, you would flinch.

Your trips to the Capitol were more frequent and longer now too, but he didn't worry about that too much because he would always see pictures of you out and about, at interviews, photoshoots— the standard for any Victor.

You were both in the living room, you sitting in your arm chair, reading a book while he sat on the couch, fiddling around with a piece of rope. Silence filled the room.

He had offered for you both to go take a walk on the beach to watch the sunset, but you declined saying you were "tired and wanted to just stay inside for the night."

He watched as you read, he watched all your movements and tried to get a read of your emotions. Then he saw something strange.

But before he could get a better look, you stood up and made your way to the kitchen.

Finnick’s eyes followed you across the room, his gut twisting as his gaze laned on the small, barely-there mark on the side of your neck, he knew he hadn’t left a mark, with the way you'd been acting for the past week he'd be lucky if you let him hug you without you flinching. It was dark and a little red. A hickey. The sight of it made his heart clenched painfully in his chest.

Were you seeing someone else? Were you disgusted at what he told you that you felt the need to be with someone else?

Did you not love him anymore?

"Angel?" He called out softly, but you didn’t turn around. His voice cracked slightly as he repeated it again, louder this time, and you froze.

You turned, realizing what he may have seen, but it was too late. He had already seen it.

"Where did that mark come from?" Finnick’s voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper, but it carried the sharpness of someone who’d just realized something they weren’t ready to face. He couldn’t stop himself from stepping toward you, his feet carrying him across the room like an instinct.

You reached for the collar of your sweater to pull it higher, to hide it. “It’s nothing,” you mumbled.

"It's not nothing Angel."

You didn't know what to say, you didn't want to tell him the truth. "I- I hurt myself while I was swimming a few days ago."

He looked at you with a look of skepitcism, "No, don't lie to me."

Silence filled the room once more as you looked away from him. His mind was spiraling as a feeling of dread consumed him.

"Have you been cheating on me?"

Your head immediately shot back up. "W-What?"

Finnick took a deep breath. "Have you been cheating on me?" he says, his voice firm, his heart aching as he said it.

You shook your head, "No- No Finnick I-I'm not cheating on you-"

"Then where did the mark come from?" he says, his voice slightly raised.

You stayed quiet, something inside you was screaming to tell him the truth, but you just couldn't bring yourself to.

"Please angel. Please tell me you haven't been seeing someone else."

"Finnick please- it's not what you think-"

"Then what is it?! You've shut me out! I need you to talk to me! You've been so distant these past few weeks, you don't want to go anywhere with me, you don't want me to hold you anymore, you haven't even said 'I love you' to me in weeks!" he shouts.

His heart was breaking, if there was even the slightest chance that you were cheating, he didn't want to believe it.

"Angel. Baby. Please talk to me." he says in a desperate tone as he walks towards you, holding you in his arms.

You hesitate and take a shaky deep breath in, tears fill your eyes. "I-It's Snow" you whisper.

Finnick instantly feels a wave of fear wash over him. "Angel, what are you talking about?"

You close your eyes, shaking your head, a weak sob escaping as cling onto his arms, tears rolling down your cheeks.

He quickly cups your face in his hand, "Please talk to me angel, please." he says in a soothing tone, wiping your tears away with his thumb.

"I-I made a deal with Snow...that if I take on the extra clients you took on for me...you wouldn't have to deal with them anymore" you say as you burst into tears, holding tightly onto Finnick.

Finnick stood still, tears filled his eyes, his heart felt like it was breaking even more. Suddenly, everything made sense, why you flinched at his touches, why you distanced yourself from him. It all made sense.

He was quick to wrap you fully in his arms, resting his chin on the top of your head.

"Angel...why didn't you tell me. I would've been there for you."

You cling onto his shirt and cry, "I-I didn't want to be a burden...this was my deal with Snow.."

His heart just kept breaking. You, a burden? Never.

"My angel...you could never be a burden. Never." he says in a gentle tone as he kisses the top of your forehead.

He holds you close to his chest, letting you cry it all out.

"I-I hate it so much Finny- they hurt me- t-they treat me like I-I'm a toy. They laugh when I cry- they enjoy it."

Finnick’s world shattered at your words, he could your body shaking with sobs. “I know, Angel,” he whispered, his own tears slipping down his face as he kissed your forehead, his fingers tangling in your hair as he held you closer “I know."

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice muffled against his chest.

“Don’t apologize, it's not your fault angel,” Finnick murmured, kissing the top of your head. "Never think it's your fault."

For the first time in weeks, you finally felt like you could breathe again, wrapped in his arms, finally feeling the comfort you longed for. And for the rest of the night you would stay in his arms as he whispered endless comforting words to you.

A/N: MWHEHEHEHEHEHHEHEHEHEHHEHEHEH (im crying like a bitch rn omg)

#finnick fanfic #finnick #hunger games finnick #finnick odair #thg finnick #thg #the hunger games #finnick odair x fem!reader #finnick odair x reader #finnick x reader #finnick x you #finnick odair angst #finnick odair fluff #sam claflin x reader #isa’s thoughts

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joluvsfinnick · 29 days ago

Text

What Was Never Mine

f!reader x finnick odair

summary - bound by capitol lies, she stood at his side, pretending. then pretending turned to actually feeling. but when the war ends, so did the illusion. he runs to the sea, to the woman he’s always loved. she was his partner in name, never in heart. yet now, she must learn to let go of what was never truly hers.

warnings - sfw ! mentions finnicks backstory slightly. heartbreak? slight angst. unrequited love. both of you need a hug tbh.

authors notes - i haven’t wrote a fanfic since wattpad was a huge thing so bare with me. idk the word count i’m sorryyy!!! you win the 70th hunger games instead of annie. i want to write a part two of this!

—

Your relationship was built on lies. A scheme crafted by President Snow to amuse the Capitol. It began as a joke. During your victory tour after the 70th Hunger Games, Caesar had made a quip about your mentor, Finnick, hinting there was more than just a mentor and tribute bond between you. You blushed, of course. Finnick was striking. A handsome young man, only a year older than you, and very flirtatious. Of course, that was simply part of his persona. But how could you have known? You barely knew him. All you knew was he was extremely good with a trident and helped you survive in that arena.

You brushed Caesars question off with a giggle and wave of dismal, shaking your head as you lowered it. The blush on your face was, no doubt, burning through your makeup. The Capitol viewers notice this, and begin a string of ‘awww’ and ‘coos’ while Caesar wiggled his eyebrows, hungry to know more.

“I mean, hey, who wouldn’t want a piece of that?” He asks the crowd, his lips quirking into a smirk before giving an obnoxious laugh. You look up at him, your face hot with embarrassment. “And– oh! Well look at that, maybe I’m getting at something here?” He says, pointing out the obvious blush on your face. This makes the crowd erupt with excitement and delight.

Snow wasn’t a fan. He loathed how much the crowd adored you, but he despised even more how much they loved the idea of you and Finnick together. After all, Finnick was one of the finest bodies he owned in the Capitol. Praise poured in endlessly for the perfection of the District 4 victor, yet that praise began to wither the moment whispers of a relationship between you and him reached the ears of his buyers.

After a few weeks of people fawning over the idea of such a thing, Snow decides to give the people want they want. Give them a show to enjoy. A mentor and his mentee. How scandalous yet… riveting! It wasn’t long before your relationship was announced to the public, and you both began making appearances together. He was good at this. He seemed to effortlessly slip into the role. He’d take your hand with a tender squeeze as you walked into Capitol parties, press soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, even your upper neck, if he was truly aiming to show off. And wrap his arms around you from behind whenever the cameras were rolling.

Yet behind closed doors, he was never really yours.

You only found out about his relationship with Annie after Snow had proposed, no, commanded you two to get married. Finnick was outraged. You could tell on the train ride home that something was obviously bothering him. When you brought it up, he got defensive. He was almost rude with his responses, scoffing when you ask what was bothering him and if there was anything you could do to help.

“No, quite the opposite. You’ll make it worse.” Oh. That made your stomach drop. He had never once spoken to you like this, but something in you can see that he’s hurting, and hurt people sometimes hurt others without meaning to. You stay silent, your lips in a thin line as you observe him. He lets out a deep breath, regret racking his body once he realizes how rude his comment had been. “I’m sorry– I didn’t mean that.”

“No, no it’s okay.” You speak softly, as if talking any louder would get another reaction out of him. You hesitate for a moment, but when you notice he’s calming down you reach over the table you two are sitting at on the train and take his hands into yours. “Tell me what’s wrong.” And oh, how you regret asking. He explains everything. How there’s a girl at home waiting for him, how they’ve loved each other for years, and how he never imagined Snow would take this fake relationship so far.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” You whispered, your eyes falling to your shoes as you avoid his gaze. You purse your lips into a thin line, anxiously awaiting his response.

“I was trying to protect her. The fewer people who know about her, the less chance Snow has of finding out. If he does, he’ll use her against me.” He muttered, raising a hand to rub the back of his neck, trying to steady himself. That night, your heart broke for two reasons. First, because Finnick may never truly know peace. He is haunted, by Snow, by the Capitol, by the sick things they’ve done to him. The torment they’ve inflicted never seems to end, not as long as he’s forced to perform for their amusement. And second, because the feelings you’ve come to nurture over these past few months… are feelings that will never be returned.

Now that the news of your wedding-to-be was swirling around the Capitol, Snow had decided it’d only be fitting if you two were to move in with each other. Because obviously, people are going to be watching you two like hawks. Two district 4 victors, especially one as stunning as Finnick, always have eyes watching them.

It’s easy at first, you both decide that your house will be the one they share, so he starts bringing his few, but precious, belongings over day by day. You guys stay in separate rooms, of course. He takes the guest room down the hall from yours.

You don’t complain, you know how dedicated he is to Annie. And although you can’t say you wouldn’t love the idea of sharing a bed with him, cuddling up next to him during those stormy nights, you respect both of them.

It doesn’t take long after he moves in for you to realize that you aren’t the only victim of nightmares from your games. You wake up in a cold sweat from your own nightmares sometimes, only to be met with shouts from his own.

Was it nightmares from just his games? Or did what he experience in the Capitol also take part in it? You never ask, you just get up and run to his room every-night you hear him. You sit on the edge of his bed, whispering soft nothings and you lightly touch the skin of his back, trying to soothe him. It works, he relaxes into your touch and feels comfort knowing he’s not alone.

The first night it happened, you hesitated for half an hour on whether or not you should go in there. A major part of you wanted to, knowing exactly what he’s going through, but another part of you was worried.

Would going in there to try and help even do anything? Or would it make it worse, seeing someone he’s been forced into a relationship with by the name of someone who’s put him through hell on earth.

Eventually, your heart outweighed your head, and you found yourself twisting the doorknob of his door. He’s sitting up now, hands cradling his head as he seems to rock back and forth on his bed.

“Finn?” You whispered, not wanting to scare him. His head shoots up, and that’s when you notice how tear stained his face is. He looks miserable. He looks vulnerable. You’ve never seen him like this.

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be more quiet.” He mutters, his voice cracking as some tears escape his eyes. You shake your head, not daring to move any closer.

“No, it’s okay.” You keep your voice soft. “I get them too.”

He knew that, of course. Every victor gets them, the nightmares, the ghosts, but knowing it doesn’t make enduring them any easier. When you turned to leave, his voice stopped you.

“Wait.”

You paused, turning back to face him. The misery etched across his face made it impossible to walk away. So when he asked you to stay, staying was the easiest thing in the world.

You tried to distance yourself, you truly did. But on those cold, lonely nights, you’d find yourself in the warmth of his bed, wrapped in the comfort of his arms. And each time, you felt yourself falling for him a little more. The soft words he’d whisper to soothe you when you woke up gasping from dreams of the arena. The gentle caress of his hands as you spoke of your hopes, your dreams, for a world that might someday be good again. And the warm, smug glances you’d exchange across crowded Capitol rooms, silently acknowledging what you both knew: that most of these people were complete idiots.

“You mean you really did have a crush on me?” He teases, his hand coming to his stomach as it shakes with laughter. Your eyebrows pinch together, trying to appear frustrated at him.

“I was 18, Finnick. I saw a tall, blonde, muscular man that was nice and flirty. What else do you expect?” You playfully scoff, rolling your eyes. You’d never tell him, but even now at 21, those feelings still remain. His laughter calms down, his gaze meeting yours before giving you a light shove with his elbow.

“I thought you were just trying to get some attention from the Capitol.” He admits, leaning back into the couch of the house you two now share.

“Trust me. I already had enough of that.” You mutter, crossing your arms as you remember the endless amount of sponsors that supported you throughout your games. “I didn’t want you to find out. Well, in that way of course.” This gets an eyebrow raise out of him.

“So you planned on telling me yourself?”

You pause. Had you planned on telling him? Absolutely not. He was intimidating, impossible to be around without feeling small. The moment you learned he would be your mentor, you became a nervous wreck. Your knees would buckle, your voice would tremble every time you answered one of his questions.

“No. I didn’t,” you admit, inhaling a sharp breath.

The conversation more or less ended there. He teased you about it now and then, until he realized the crush hadn’t entirely faded. No matter how hard you tried to hide it, he saw it. In the lingering glances you cast his way. In the soft touches that stayed a moment too long during public appearances. And most telling of all, in the quiet sadness that settled over your face whenever he spoke of his love for Annie.

You’ve met her twice. Both times, she was so sickeningly sweet and beautiful, it made it impossible for you to have any ill feeling towards her. You understood why Finnick loved her so dearly. She was the epitome of gentleness. Soft-spoken, radiant, and heartbreakingly pure in a world that had taken so much from them both. They were perfect for one another, and here you were, a brick wedged in between them.

One night, you both found yourself out on the shore as the comforting light of the moon shined down on both of you. You spoke for hours, discussing the future that we’d more than likely be spending together because as long as Snow is around, you have no choice. You feel like a monster admitting it, but a part of you is slightly in love with the idea of being with him forever.

“One day, when all of this is over, we can both be ourselves.” He had whispered, staring up at the different constellations that scattered the moonlit sky. “We’ll go our separate ways, have our separate families,” He pauses, turning to look at me before continuing. “But I will always remember the nights we shared like this.”

Your heart shattered hearing him speak of a future that didn’t include you. You couldn’t imagine a world where you didn’t need him. and yet, he already seemed to have one where he didn’t need you. Yes, you’d grown close over the years, maybe even become best of friends. But you would never be someone he couldn’t live without.

At least, that’s how it felt.

“I’ll remember every night.” You had replied, your voice almost in a hush as your pain stricken eyes searched his.

He let out a soft chuckle, one you couldn’t quite decipher. Was it laced with sympathy, or did he genuinely find it amusing? He sat up, steading himself with his hands behind him.

“It’d be hard to forget them, wouldn’t it be, sweetheart?” he said, his voice low, almost wistful. You sit up with him, a half hearted smile on your lips. That stupid nickname. One that began as a joke when an old man overused it while trying to flirt with you at one of the Capitols parties. And when you say overused, you mean it. He would add it on to every sentence. Finnick got a kick out of it, and decided that would be what he called you from now on. It’s stupid. So stupid. The worse part of it is how it makes your heart flutter, even knowing it’s not genuine.

It’s almost unfair how effortlessly your heart can fall for someone who may never be yours. To love them in silence, in stillness, in moments they may never notice. And yet, still find a kind of joy in the nearness. Because even if you’ll never own his heart, a part of yours will always feel at home in him.

2 years later

You’re 23 now, Finnick 24, and the quarter quell announcement had just been made.

“The tributes for the Third Quarter Quell are to be pulled from the existing pool of victors,”

Snow’s voice booms from the television, and a sick, hollow feeling anchors itself in your stomach as the words register. In District 4, there are only two living female victors: you and Annie. Only two males as well. Finnick and an older man whose name escapes you, though you know he must be nearing seventy. And you know, with chilling certainty, that Finnick will be reaped. It’s too perfect. Just the kind of twisted spectacle the Capitol feeds on.

As for you and Annie… all you can do is hope it’s you. Because if something were to happen to her, Finnick would break. Not just bend, but shatter completely. And if that happened, you know you’d lose him, the small part of him you have. Not just for a while.

Forever.

As expected, Finnick is reaped. He offers the crowd a smug smile, shoulders squared, confidence painted on like armor. But you know better. You know from the last few nights you’ve spent tangled in whispered fears and quiet embraces that all he really wants is to run. Far, far away from here.

You draw in a shaky breath as they reach into the bowl for the girls’ names. Only two slips of paper lie inside. Only two possible fates.

“Annie—” they begin. Your heart drops straight to your stomach. You turn to look at Finnick. His smile vanishes, replaced by a shadow that passes over his face as his gaze drops to the ground. In that moment, you know exactly what you have to do. And maybe, just maybe, it even plays into the Capitol’s twisted love story a little more.

What could be more tragic, more romantic, than volunteering in her place?

“I volunteer,” you shout, the words bursting from your lips before you can second-guess them. Annie flinches beside you, already trembling, already too close to breaking. Finnick’s eyes snap to you, wide with shock, and something else you can’t quite name. Annie sobs, her relief immediate and overwhelming. She doesn’t have to go back into the arena. But the fear remains, for the man she loves, and for you. A friend she’s come to care for, now walking willingly into the fire.

—

When asked why you did it by Caesar, you just shrug.

“I can’t imagine a world without him.”

Truth.

“If something happens to him in that arena, I can only pray I’ll receive the same fate. Living in a world without him is like living without sunlight, cold, dim, and unbearable. He’s in everything now. Every breath I take, every hope I hold. Without him, I’m not sure I’d know how to keep going.” This response gets a kick out of the crowd, some crying while others shout about how unfair this whole situation is.

You couldn’t agree more.

The night before you head into the arena, you once again find yourself in the comfort of his bed. You both just lie there, looking at the ceiling. No words are spoken for what seems like hours, before Finnick finally speaks up.

“What are you taking as your token?” He murmurs. You shrug, not having thought about it.

“Not sure. Guess it’s too late now, right? Games are in…” You pause, glancing at the clock. “Seven hours.” It’s ridiculous, really, how soon it all begins. And yet here the two of you are, wide awake, restless, lying side by side in silence, staring up at the ceiling like it might hold some kind of answer.

It’s quiet for a long moment before he finally speaks, his voice rough around the edges. “I have something I want you to take… if you want to.”

He sits up, reaches into the bedside drawer without looking at you, like it’s easier not to. When he turns back, there’s a bracelet in his hand, ocean-blue thread woven through with tiny seashells and pale, glimmering pearls.

You sit up with him, the sight of it stealing the breath from your lungs. “I made it a long time ago,” he murmurs, still not quite meeting your gaze. “Before any of this. Before you.” He runs a thumb over the shells like they still hold pieces of who he was. “I didn’t know who it was meant for until now.”

You swallow hard, heart twisting. This isn’t a confession of love, not the way you once wanted. But it’s something else. Something heavier. A bond built in shadows, stitched together by fear, survival, and the strange, silent comfort of knowing someone else understands the weight you carry.

He gently presses it into your palm. “We’re both walking into hell again,” he says. “I just… I don’t want you to forget that someone sees you. That someone knows you. Even if it’s not the way you hoped.”

And for a second, it’s almost worse than if he had said he loved you.

—

The moment Katniss shot that arrow at Coin and left Snow to die at the hands of the others was the moment you realized the Capitol had been officially taken down. No more fighting. You, and everyone else, were finally free.

Which means so was Finnick.

He was free to return to his one and only true love, Annie. You knew there was no stopping him, and even if you could, would you want to?

You’d seen him break, crying into your chest on those endless nights when the nightmares of Snow using her against him wouldn’t relent. Nights when the ache of missing her was so raw all he could do was clutch the worn picture of her he kept tucked safely in his pocket.

Those painfully bittersweet weekends you shared, the forced smiles, the carefully scripted dates, the stolen touches meant only for the cameras’ eyes, all to make your charade more believable to the Capitol.

A performance of love that was never yours to hold.

And the night of your wedding. How could you forget? He sobbed for hours, his heart heavy with a mix of guilt and anger. It wasn’t fair to any of you, and it definitely wasn’t fair to Annie. She loved him so deeply, so completely, and yet here she was, forced to watch another girl marry him, to witness him share moments with you that she had only ever dreamed of. She longed to hold his hand in public, to place gentle kisses on his lips, to show the world he was hers. And yet here you are, living out everything she had silently wished for.

You knew all of this. Yet it was so hard to let him go.

Reluctantly, you did.

You had taken on his last name, by Snow’s orders, but when the rebellion toppled the Capitol, Plutarch found a way to end the charade. To terminate your marriage. Finnick was more than willing to sign the papers, his signature a quiet surrender.

But you? You couldn’t shake the ache.

Because even if it was never real, at least not in the way others saw it, a part of it had been real to you. And maybe, just maybe, it was real to him too, if he ever dared admit it.

That strange, fragile connection you both had, a tether woven through fear, hope, and a love that wasn’t quite love.

You sit alone in the quiet that follows, the weight of years pressing down like a stone on your chest. The echoes of laughter, whispered promises, and stolen moments haunt the empty spaces where he once was. You reach for the bracelet he gave you, tracing the worn threads between your fingers, a fragile reminder of a bond that was never meant to be.

After all, was it right of you to miss someone that was never really yours?

The question lingers in the silence, unanswered and aching, as you finally let the tears fall for what was lost, not love, not quite, but something painfully close.

Something you’ll carry with you always.

Beside your chair, a half-empty bottle of amber liquor catches the light, its surface smudged with fingerprints. The glass in your hand is nearly empty, warmed by your grip, its burn long since dulled by repetition.

At first, it was just to sleep. The nightmares seem to come back full force and stronger now that you don’t have the gentle embrace of his arms. Then, to forget. Now, it’s just something to hold when there’s nothing else.

You sit still, curled into yourself, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the window. Outside, waves crash against the shore in a rhythm that hasn’t changed, even though everything else has. A jacket hangs untouched over the back of a chair. His.

The room stays quiet.

The world goes on.

And you don’t move.

Psssttt. Pt. 2 & Pt.3

#finnick odair fluff #finnick odair x reader #thg finnick #finnick x reader #the hunger games #thg fanfiction #thg fic #unrequited love #the hunger games fluff #the hunger games x reader #fluff #president snow #mockingjay #first post #finnick x you #finnick x y/n #finnick odair x you #finnick odair #annie cresta

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spencersmopbucket · 1 month ago

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No Papers Served | Finnick Odair

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Summary: A few years back, you and Finnick separated in your marriage. When you reunite in preparation of the Quarter Quell, you're hit with a quick reminder that it wasn't legally bound. Warnings & Themes: violence KINDA, yearning, mostly light hearted, tension, kind of angst with resolution

He saw you before you saw him. He always did.

The Tribute Parade was always an affair designed to dazzle and distract. Smoke curled from the torches lining the avenue, wafting upward into the Capitol sky as cheers thundered from the balconies above. The light of hundreds of flashbulbs flickered like heat lightning across the square. Gold and crimson banners fluttered from windows. Music throbbed like a heartbeat beneath the surface of it all.

And you stood still at the center of it.

Glitter shimmered across your bare shoulders and collarbone, catching in your lashes as your chariot rolled forward. The stylists had outdone themselves. You were dressed to intimidate, wrapped in sleek fabric the color of ink and dark forests. It hugged your form like a second skin, whispering of elegance and violence in equal measure.

You could feel his eyes. After years of him admiring you, you knew exactly what it felt like when his eyes heated up your skin. You refused to look back.

The crowd loved it.

They always did.

Because your persona, the one you crafted from survival and smoke, was made for this moment. Silent. Cold. Deadly. A mystery dressed in deadly grace. You didn’t wave. You didn’t smile. You didn’t need to.

You just stared ahead, chin lifted, eyes like cut glass and the Capitol roared for it.

Your district partner stood beside you in the chariot, stiff and sweating under the lights, trying to look like they belonged there. You didn’t offer them comfort. Not because you were cruel, but because comfort made things worse. You knew that firsthand.

Up ahead, the circle of the Avenue of the Tributes widened. Firelight danced across the giant Capitol seal. You passed by chariots from the other districts -- flickers of silk, armor, feathers, fire. Every pair a tragic story, rewrapped in glitter and spectacle.

It was a horrific event, at least in your eyes. This was when it became real. Your name being called on the stage to ride back into war hadn't hit as hard as you being served up to President Snow on a silver platter, wearing your finest clothes.

Every step of the horses pulling your chariot forward echoed in your bones. Every cheer from the crowd reminded you that they didn’t want to save you -- they wanted to remember you.

And that was the Capitol’s favorite illusion: that this wasn’t a massacre. That it was theater. Entertainment. That it could be gilded enough to hide the blood.

Your spine was straight. Your gaze unflinching. But inside, your stomach churned with every passing second.

And somewhere, in another chariot, under the same false lights and fire, was the man you hadn’t touched in months, the man whose name still twisted something sharp and unspoken in your chest.

Finnick Odair.

You didn’t look for him. Not yet. Simply because you could feel him looking at you.

You'd married him. You'd spent years in love, years preparing for a future that neither of you knew would never happen. As things heated up in the Capitol with Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, it became harder to see each other. Your expectations and loyalties to the Capitol became more demanding. Snow didn't care about your union, though of course he'd televised it and made it a huge deal -- the union of two districts.

But it was just that. You were from Seven and he was from Four. Two different districts with two different expectations from the same overlord.

Snow didn't love you as much as he did Finnick. Finnick was more useful.

He started coming home less and less until it was months in between. And finally, the last time he came home, you weren't there.

You were tired.

Tired of waiting in empty rooms. Tired of seeing your love turned into propaganda. Tired of waking up to a world that always wanted more than it gave back.

So you went home. Back to Seven. Back to the trees. Back to something real.

No papers were served. No separation announced. Snow wouldn’t allow it -- the Capitol didn’t like broken fairytales.

But the silence was enough. The absence was enough. It was unspoken, but the citizens knew. It was a tragic love story of two Victors broken up.

And now… now, you were both here again. Painted and packaged and paraded through the streets like gods on a pyre.

You didn’t look for him.

Because you didn’t need to.

Your partner's voice interrupted your thoughts.

Blight smirked beside you, casual in the way only someone long used to horror could be. His arms were folded over his chest, eyes scanning the crowd like he was counting exits instead of cheers.

“You’re doing well,” he drawled, leaning just slightly toward you. “Lover boy? Not so much.”

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t look at Finnick either. Not yet.

But something flickered in your chest. That name. Lover boy. Like it wasn’t more than that. Like it didn’t still sting. Like the burn didn’t still linger in the softest parts of you.

“Is that so?” you murmured, keeping your face placid, your smile frozen in place for the Capitol cameras. “Shame. He always did love a good performance.”

Blight chuckled low. “Well, he looked like he’d seen a ghost when he caught sight of you. Or maybe a dream. Hard to say.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Because Blight knew you well enough to read the smallest shift in your jaw, the flicker of tension behind your eyes.

“He’s not gonna be your problem,” he added, more gently now. “Not unless you let him be.”

Nodding, you glanced up at the Capitol citizens. “I know he's not. He's smart. He wouldn't put us in any compromising positions. Drawing extra attention.”

Blight raised an eyebrow.

“Name. He looks about ready to jump into this carriage and make himself noticeable.”

“Ignore it,” you said under your breath, adjusting the fall of your costume. “We need them to believe it’s all dead and gone. Love stories don’t win wars. They win sponsors, which I've never even needed.”

Blight chuckled quietly, the sound lost beneath the cheering crowd. “No,” he said, “you haven't.”

You exhaled slowly, staring straight ahead as the chariots rolled forward. You wouldn’t give them a show. Not yet.

Not until it mattered.

Days passed. Training ensued.

It was what people wanted to see. The training room was where you revealed your skill, your tact. You were always the most interesting to watch. Your coldness, your ferocity when sparring, your wordlessness. This gained you sponsors. It also gained the Gamemakers' support.

You zipped your training suit up, tucking your braid into a bun. Then, you pushed through the doors of the facility.

It was less intimidating than it was the first time.

The training facility was large. Cold. Echoey. It was full to the brim with deadly weapons and survival scenarios, making it the ideal place to train a killer.

You already were one. But it always helped to brush up.

You'd learned quickly, through the experience you'd had and watching other tributes for years, that you couldn't rely on weapons. They were hard to find if you were looking for the special ones, the ones with the true advantage.

So, you trained in hand-to-hand and wielding knives.

It was muscle memory, by now. The way your fingers curled around the hilt of a blade. The way your feet shifted just slightly before a strike. You moved like someone who had nothing left to lose but everything to protect.

The rubber mat was cold beneath your boots as you stepped into the sparring circle. A boy from District 2 was already waiting -- broad-shouldered, cocky, and clearly amused by the sight of you. That amusement lasted about ten seconds.

The second the bell rang, you struck.

Fast, clean, efficient. You dodged the first swing and landed a quick blow to his ribs that knocked the air from his lungs. When he staggered, you hooked your leg behind his and sent him crashing to the floor. Then you knelt, knife at his throat, not even breathing hard.

You held it there just long enough to make your point, then dropped the blade beside him and walked off. Cold. Quiet. Controlled.

You were sweating. You sat on a mat on the floor, opening your water bottle and taking large sips. Heaving, you put it down and looked around, thinking. Strategizing.

You hadn't even seen him coming until he settled beside you.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat down beside you like no time had passed. Like you hadn’t spent years apart. Like you hadn’t almost died thinking you might never see him again.

Finnick Odair.

Still golden, still carved from the sea and salt and charm that made the Capitol swoon. But there was something different now. Tired beneath the tan. Hollow under the easy smile he offered as he nudged your water bottle gently with two fingers.

“You always push too hard on the first day.”

You didn’t respond. Not at first. Your throat was tight, pulse thudding too loud in your ears to form words.

So he kept going.

“I saw the fight. That move at the end? Brutal. Clean.” A pause. “You’re even better than I remember.”

You turned your head slightly, eyeing him. “I had to be.”

He analyzed your face like he didn't want to forget it. Like you'd walk away and disappear for months again. His eyes were just like you remembered -- easy to fall in love with, easy to stare at. Like seaglass. Aquamarine.

“I was surprised you called to explain yourself. You know,” He said quietly. “After you left.”

Your breath caught -- not at his words, but at how gently he said them. Like he wasn’t accusing you. Just remembering.

“I owed you that,” you said after a beat, staring ahead. “You came home and I was gone. I didn’t want you to think I vanished without a reason.”

Finnick’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t interrupt. He just listened. But you didn't continue. You avoided the conversation like the plague every time it was brought up by anybody. Finnick had noticed that, like he noticed every single other thing about you.

In interviews, you declined to comment on your separation. In your televised interview with President Snow, you simply told the man it was a "mutual decision." Bullshit.

“Bullshit,” Finnick echoed under his breath, like he couldn’t help himself -- like the word had been sitting in his chest for years, and now it had finally clawed its way out. He hadn't meant for his thoughts to leave where they originated.

You glanced at him. Surprised. Not angry. Tired.

“What?”

Now that it was out, he couldn't go back on it.

“What you told Snow last month. It was bullshit.”

You stared at him, stunned into silence for a moment.

The fluorescent lights above hummed. Somewhere in the distance, someone grunted as a blade hit a target. But here, beside him, it was quiet. Still. The space between your bodies felt tight -- not in proximity, but in weight. In memory.

Your voice was thin when you finally answered. “You think I didn’t know that?”

Finnick shook his head, eyes still fixed on the floor. “I think you knew. I just don’t think you cared that I had to hear it like everyone else. That I had to sit in some Capitol suite, with Snow watching me watch you, and pretend it didn’t fucking hurt.”

The words hit hard. Not loud -- he wasn’t yelling. But they were worse that way. Softer. Realer.

Your jaw clenched.

“Finnick--”

“You haven't even divorced me. You're too much of a coward to make it official, but you're telling people on TV that it was a mutual, peaceful decision,” he continued. Letting it all out. Finally. “Why'd you lie, huh?”

His eyes were full of frustration now. Anger.

You met his gaze, feeling it like a knife pressed to your throat -- not fatal, but sharp enough to make breathing hard.

“I didn’t want them to know they broke us,” you said quietly. “I didn’t want to give them that. If I told the truth, it would’ve been a spectacle. They would’ve twisted it into a new love story, or a tragedy they could sell. Something shiny. Not something real.”

Finnick scoffed, shaking his head. “So instead you made me the villain? The distant husband. The Capitol’s whore who left you behind.”

Your eyes flared. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you didn’t disappear, Finnick.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” he snapped. “You think I wanted to be passed around like a prize? You think I liked being pulled from you every week to satisfy the Capitol’s idea of loyalty? I did what I had to, just like you did.”

You looked away. Your throat ached. “That’s exactly why I couldn’t talk about it.”

He was quiet for a second. Then, softer: “So you didn’t divorce me because you still loved me. But you lied because you were ashamed of how we ended.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

“I needed to know if it meant anything to you,” he continued. “All those nights you stayed gone. All those months you didn’t call. But it's clear to me that I didn't mean a thing.” He hissed.

Something snapped in you. Glaring, you grabbed his hand in a tight grip, yanking him behind you. Out of the training facility. Out of the corridor. Into a lounge room, slamming the door and locking it.

Finnick barely had time to register what was happening before he was backed against the wall, your chest heaving, eyes alight with fury.

“Don’t you dare say you meant nothing to me,” you growled, your grip still firm around his wrist. “You think I went back to District Seven and lived some perfect life without you? You think I slept at night without waking up to the ghost of you in my bed? I burned for you, Finnick. Every damn day.”

His breath hitched, sea-glass eyes searching yours -- but you weren’t finished.

“You stopped writing. You stopped fighting. You let them rip us apart piece by piece, and I kept my mouth shut so they wouldn’t do worse. So they wouldn’t put a fucking target on your back. I lied because it was the only way I could protect what was left of us.”

Finnick was silent for a beat, lips parted, his chest rising and falling fast. His eyes narrowed.

“So you're blaming me? You're blaming me for you leaving when things got hard?” He hissed.

You faltered.

He stepped forward, looking down at you with a heated gaze.

“You're just as frustrating as you have been forever. And just as stubborn.” He huffed, grabbing you by your waist. He quickly switched your positions, backing you into the wall instead, pressing you closely.

You gasped, your back hitting the wall with a soft thud, his chest flush against yours. The air between you sparked like flint to steel, searing and volatile.

“I fought for us,” Finnick growled, voice low and shaking. “I fought every way I knew how. But there’s only so much fighting a man can do when the woman he loves won’t even let him in.”

Your heart was pounding, fury and grief and longing all crashing together inside your chest. But you didn’t push him away. Couldn’t. Not when his hands were gripping your waist like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth. He was so close -- he smelled the same as he had when he was yours. His signature cologne, the faint smell of sea salt, and clean linen.

“Finnick--”

“No. It's your turn to listen. You're still my wife, you never sent me a damn thing saying otherwise. I never asked you to protect me. I never asked for you to save our reputations. All I asked for was you.” He said steadily, his nose almost touching yours.

Your breath hitched, the heat of his words igniting every nerve ending. You swallowed hard, caught between the ache of truth and the desperate want swirling in his eyes. He lifted a hand to grip your jaw, to force you to look into his eyes, to see how much he meant it.

His wedding ring glinted. He was still wearing it.

Your fingers trembled as they brushed lightly over the ring, tracing the smooth metal like it was a lifeline back to a past neither of you wanted to let go of -- but neither had dared fully hold onto either.

“You still..” You trailed off.

He nodded, his hot gaze still resting on your face.

“Of course I do. I'll wear it until the bitter end.”

Frustrated tears started to meet your eyes. You threw your head back, huffing.

“Why can't you just hate me like a normal person would, Finnick?”

“Because I don't want to. Because I can't. Because you belong with me,” he hummed. “And I won't pretend that you don't.”

His voice was velvet-wrapped steel -- soft, but unyielding. It rooted you in place. Unraveled you. Broke through every defense you’d rebuilt since the day you walked away.

You stared up at him, throat tight, lip trembling. “Finnick…”

But he didn’t give you space to run. Not this time.

His forehead pressed against yours, breath mingling with yours, as intimate as any kiss. “We were never done, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Your fear just tried to convince us we were.”

You closed your eyes, a tear slipping down your cheek. He caught it with his thumb.

“We’re in the Games again,” you murmured. “We could die.”

“Then I’ll die wearing your ring and loving you. And if we live,” he said, voice low and firm, “we fix it. For real this time.”

You opened your eyes. And he was right there waiting. Always had been. While your fear of abandonment consumed you, while you hurt him repeatedly, while you ran from him, he'd always been there. Waiting.

Instead of speaking, you leaned forward, giving into your desires. You kissed him.

It was like coming home after a long trip. It was like sinking into warm sheets after a sleepless night, like exhaling after years of holding your breath. His mouth met yours with the same ache, the same urgency -- not rushed, but hungry. Like he’d been starving for you.

Finnick’s hands gripped your waist tighter, pulling you flush against him, like if he didn’t hold you close enough, he might lose you again. Your fingers found his jaw, your hand scraping softly against his stubble as your lips moved in tandem.

You broke the kiss only when air became necessary, both of you panting, foreheads pressed together, your hands still clutching each other like lifelines.

You weren’t done. You’d never been.

#fanfiction #finnick odair #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #finnick odair fluff #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair fanfic #johanna mason #the hunger games fanfic #the hunger games katniss #the hunger games rp #the hunger games trilogy #the hunger games quarter quell #quarter quell #finnick x reader #thg finnick #hunger games finnick #finnick fanfic #mockingjay

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hungergamesheadcanons · 1 year ago

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I FORGOT

Touch starved boys getting hugs... That's another category of guilty pleasure fic I love. Particularly if the aforementioned touch starved boys have tragic backstories...

I'm looking at you, Finnick Odair, Zuko, Nico di Angelo, Klaus Hargreeves, Keith Kogane...

What's your guilty pleasure fic?

Like, a trope that you love but is for some reason embarrassing to admit?

I've got to admit, for me it's Reading The Book/Watching The Show fics. I loved seeing how different characters react to people in different situations - and as an example tailored to this blog, I'd find it so interesting to see how people from the Capitol react to District 12 and how everyone thinks of the Games or seeing how Capitol citizens react to Finnick being a rebel, etc etc.

So what about you? What's your guilty pleasure fic?

#im weak for sad boys what can i say #my favourite kind of fic is forcibly wrapping aforementioned sad boys in numerous blankets and giving them hugs #starting to think i have a type #and my type might be slightly concerning...#idk man I see a sad character and I think 'he needs some love' and i write him getting that love #and also whump him a million ways to sunday apparently #sorry finnick #personal #question #the hunger games #the hunger games fanfic #guilty pleasure fanfic #guilty pleasure #sad boys #finnick Odair #idk if i should tag the other sad boys #i think not?

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eufezco · 2 years ago

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THREE LIES AT ONCE

FINNICK ODAIR X FEM!STYLIST!READER

this is based on a prompt from character.ai c:

SYNOPSIS -> You're his stylist and you discover bruises.

You liked it when Finnick visited the Capitol and Finnick hated doing it except for the fact that he knew you would be there.

You had already earned a reputation as a stylist in the Capitol when you two met. And it had been four years since Finnick won his games but President Snow had kept him close because nothing was more appealing than a charming boy in his twenties to the people of the Capitol.

You learned from the best. Cinna taught you everything he knew about fashion and then made you forget about it all so you could build your own style. It actually worked quite well because your designs were sold in the Capitol as if people needed them to live.

Your colors and characteristic shapes, your outrageous skirts, your long dresses, and your headdresses were worn by everyone, men and women fought over your designs and they spent all their savings on your clothes. President Snow was more than delighted with you, not only because his granddaughter deeply admired you but because you knew how to be liked, and he loved that about you.

That's why President Snow found the perfect match with Finnick and you and for once in his life, he did something right.

Finnick became your muse. From the moment you were introduced at the Capitol and you saw him walking towards you with those bright green eyes, his perfectly messy blonde hair, his tanned skin thanks to the way the sun in District 4, and his body that looked like it had been sculpted by the gods. You knew you never wanted to design anything else but for him.

―When did you arrive and how is it that you haven't come to see me earlier? ―You threw yourself into his arms, your fingers dug into his blond locks of hair. This was not the typical relationship that stylists used to have with their models but after working with him for a couple of years now, it was inevitable that some affection would grow between the two of you. Especially when, during his stays in the Capitol, you spent most of your time together. You were the only thing that kept him from going crazy.

He would sit and watch you while you sketched out his next outfit. You would share a drink and ask him questions about how his life was back in District 4. Finnick loved to talk about his home and you loved to imagine yourself there, in the places that Finnick described to you so precisely. The sea reaching your feet, the sun shining against your skin, the sound of seagulls flying across the bluest sky you had ever seen... And for some reason that you were still trying to figure out, every time you imagined yourself in one of those scenarios, he was by your side. District 4 seemed like a lovely place.

Finnick's arms wrapped around your waist while his face hid in the crook of your neck. He inhaled your familiar scent when you hugged, too sweet for the Capitol, not like the perfume people there used to keep up with their continuous call for attention.

―Yesterday but I was too tired from the trip.

That was the first lie that Finnick told you that night.

There was an expression of relief on your face with something like a small smile on your lips, grateful to see him again after such a long time and when everything in your life was chaos thanks to the preparation of the next games. Your eyes were closed, enjoying him holding you until you heard him say those words and then they opened in a combination of surprise and confusion.

―Don't think that being tired is an excuse for not coming to see me, Finnick Odair. That should always be the first thing you do as soon as you set foot here. ―You said, still thinking about why would he lie to you.

You moved apart from the hug and Finnick had a big smile on his lips that inevitably made you smile too. ―I'm sorry. ―He apologized.

―You better be. But now I need you to tell me if you like it.

You turned to grab your notebook and showed him the sketch you drew. Finnick took the notebook from your hands so he could take a better look and admire every detail.

―This is beautiful. You're an artist. I doubt there is anyone half as good as you in the whole Panem.

―Oh, there's Cinna. I haven't managed to dethrone him yet.

―Come on, you outdid Cinna a long time ago. He says so himself. The student surpassed the master, there's nothing wrong with that.

You shook your head and said nothing. Finnick rolled his eyes, he knew you didn't like hearing from him or anyone else that you were better than Cinna. Not even when Cinna himself tells you.

―Have you started sewing it yet? Can I see it?

―That's why I needed to see you. I haven't started yet because I need to measure you again. The last time you wore one of my garments it was too tight. I don't want to risk it not fitting you this time. ―You grabbed the measuring tape and pins from the table in your studio, full of fabrics and patterns for the new tributes. Cinna had given you his notebook with some beautiful sketches and had told you that he needed something similar but for the male tribute, a guy named Peeta Mellark from District 12, and you had been working day and night to meet Cinna's expectations. ―The robe is behind the dressing screen.

―Yes ma'am.

Finnick walked over without saying another word. You admired his figure as he walked away. Finnick's back was twice as wide as when you met him, his arms had grown stronger, now you could identify each of the muscles in them and his legs had also doubled in size, unfortunately, Finnick loved to wear long skirts, if it were up to you he would be showing them all the time. The features of his face had also changed, now they were more pronounced. Finnick's dimples were more visible and his jaw was so sharp you'd swear if you slid your finger along it you'd cut yourself.

―This looks great on you. I don't know why I try to design you something new every time. I should let you go around with that.

Finnick shook his head, failing in his attempt not to laugh at your stupid joke. ―You are not only the best designer but also the funniest one, huh?

You rolled your eyes. Finnick knew you didn't like it when he told you that and he did it on purpose to tease you. ―Come on, take it off.

Finnick stood before the mirror as you stood behind him. Once he slipped it off, you gasped and jumped back, horrified.

―Gosh, Finnick, what is this? ―You took a few steps backward at the sight of the bruises that trailed down his back. By their bright red color you would say were rather recent. You didn't know how to react, you were petrified staring at his back.

Finnick smiled, dismissing what you just saw with practiced charm. ―Ah, just a little souvenir. My lovers like to play rough. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.

That was the second lie Finnick told you that night.

Finnick's chest was heavy but he was trying to keep his cool. He had assumed that by the time the two of you saw each other the wounds would have healed, besides the fact that he didn't think he would have to undress in front of you.

―Your lovers? This absolute atrocity was done by one of your lovers?

―They were probably just a little too... enthusiastic. Besides, I don't have a problem with it, I like it. My skin heals fast so I'll be all good in no time.

And that was the third lie. His skin did not heal fast. You had always told him off for coming to dress rehearsals all bruised up from his training sessions and those bruises had lasted for days. These new ones were sure to stay on his skin for at least a month.

―How can some one like this?

Finnick could hear the disdain in your voice. You should be disgusted, horrified and definitely judging him, but don't worry, so was he.

―Honey, if you don't understand it's not my problem.

―No, you're right. I don't understand. I don't think you enjoyed that.

―Oh, you're gonna tell me what I can or cannot enjoy?

―Have you seen your back? Have you seen how bad this looks?

Finnick chuckled. ―I don't know why you're making such a big deal out of this. Do you need all the details? Is the life of a stylist so boring?

―Finnick, listen to me. I don't want all the details I want the truth, and now it's the perfect time to start. ―You said. You grabbed him by his shoulders and turned him around to look at you. Finnick groaned as your hands were placed on his shoulders and when he stood face to face with you, he could see how upset you were.

―I don't know what you're talking about. ―He bit the inside of his cheeks, that was just what he had been told, not to tell anyone the truth about what had happened. He saw you roll your eyes and let all the air out of your body through your mouth, annoyed.

―I know that you didn't arrive yesterday. Cinna told me. Do you really think you can go unnoticed? Here? And I know for a fact that those bruises are not from one of your lovers, let alone that they were done to you a couple of days ago.

Finnick swallowed, looking at you with his head held high. He tried to keep the smile on his lips, pretending that everything was okay, that he did enjoy it when those bruises were inflicted on him, but his lower lip betrayed him and began to tremble. You bent down to pick up the robe and carefully threw it over his shoulders so he wouldn't feel so exposed. Finnick's head was bowed. You lifted it using your thumb and index finger on his chin very gently.

―I need you to tell me who did this to you. I can't help you if you don't tell me.

Finnick chuckled amid the sadness and shame he was feeling. ―Help me? You can't help me.

―I'm sure there's something I can do. I could―.

―They were Peacekeepers following Snow's orders.

Your jaw dropped and your heart rate accelerated. It was the first time that Finnick was admitting that to someone. It had been impossible to tell anyone, let alone a citizen of the Capitol like you. Finnick couldn't possibly admit that without compromising his carefully cultivated image. Besides, if he made himself out to be a victim, the Capitol would never allow someone they saw as weak to perform the role of the Golden Boy and all the people he cared about in District 4 would die. At that moment you realized that all the times he showed up at your studio claiming that his injuries were from training were not true and you felt sick to your stomach.

―How did it happen? ―You asked, swallowing the lump that had formed in your throat

―I tried to leave the Capitol. Before I could get on the train back to District 4 I was arrested by Peacekeepers and they took me to Snow's mansion. A lot of people came and when I refused to see them... I've been locked up there since then, that's why I couldn't come to see you earlier.

You shook your head, feeling awful. ―Don't worry about it, Finnick. I'm so sorry this is happening to you. ―Your stomach complained and begged your brain to stop imagining everything that Finnick would have been put through since then. The beatings, the strangers paying to sneak into his bed, the Peacekeepers bursting into his room and leaving him bleeding on the floor...

―Snow likes me. There has to be something I can do for you.

―You don't understand. It's not something that I can quit.

―I can spend all day designing and sewing to pay Snow the money he would make with you. I can talk to Cinna to raise the price of our designs. People here are rotten with money, they'll keep buying them anyway.

―It's not that simple. You can't just buy my freedom.

―Has anyone tried before?

Finnick thought about it and shook his head. ―Snow wouldn't allow that to happen. ―You ran your hand over your face in despair, not knowing what else to do to help him and feeling a responsibility to do something about it. You were the citizen of the Capitol, the one who had superior status and the favor of Snow, there must be something you could do.

―What if I buy you?

Finnick's eyes widened in surprise. ―Buy me?

You nodded and realized how bad that sounded. ―But not in like, a slave type of way. Gosh that sounded awful. I would just― Do it so you can live your life in your district. I wouldn't― keep you here, no. You'd just have to come to the Capitol a couple of times, make a few public appearances, and leave again.

―Why would you do that for me?

You bit the inside of your cheeks and nodded. ―You're my friend. I care about you.

You had managed to give him something he had long been missing. Hope. Maybe what you wanted to do would work or maybe not but at that moment Finnick felt that someone cared and that gave him hope that everything would work out.

Finnick took a step forward and placed his hands on your cheeks. He leaned in slightly and connected his lips with yours. Your hands ended up resting against his warm bare chest, closing your eyes and allowing him to kiss you. You knew it was the emotion of the moment, the adrenaline rush of knowing that maybe he could live his life in peace. You had given him hope and he was happy that someone had shed some light on his situation.

When you parted ways after the kiss, you both were smiling.

―Go and put your pants on, I'll treat your bruises.

―Do you know how?

―Well, not really, but I'm not short of needle and thread and I still have some alcohol from last night.

Finnick pressed his lips together and nodded. That would work. He walked to the dressing screen and you watched him as he walked away in the mirror's reflection. Before hiding behind the dressing screen, he said something that lit up a flame in your heart and made butterflies flutter in your stomach.

―I wish you would come with me to District 4.

my requests for the hunger games are open 📥

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reesereadsalot · 3 months ago

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𝐹𝒶𝒸𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒜𝓇𝑒𝓃𝒶

previous chapter - next chapter

Pairings: Finnick x pregnant!reader

Warnings: refer to series masterlist

Desc: Your 7 months pregnant with Finnicks baby. When your the happiest you were in your life, your whole world comes crashing down. You were reaped for the 3rd Quarter Quell.

｡𖦹°‧masterlist

a/n: I reread some chapters of Catching Fire to write this lmao. I will have part 3 out sometime this weekend or on Monday because I am hanging out with family for Easter weekend.

────୨ 🔱 ৎ────

You look at Peeta, fear filling your face, making your stomach churn. You’ve grown to like him. He’s a nice boy. You can tell he really does love Katniss even if Katniss doesn’t realize it. Katniss is crying her eyes out yelling Peeta’s name when Finnick shoves her out of the way.

At first, you’re shocked. Why would Finnick be so aggressive? Then, you realize he’s performing CPR on Peeta. CPR is something everyone learns in District 4. Before the games, people would call you to help people who weren’t breathing. You look at Katniss. She is stunned too, at first, but you can see the recognition on her face.

She’s still bawling her eyes out. When Peeta takes a breath. Finnick backs up from Peeta to give Katniss and him space. Finnick walks over to you and hugs you as close as your belly will allow while Katniss is talking to Peeta. You can see the confusion on his face. He didn’t think there love was real but you knew and now he knows. He pulls out of the hug and wipes tears from your face that you didn’t even know were there.

Katniss helps Peeta up and they hug. You see the snot coming from her nose to her lips. You walk over and find some moss to pick up. You grab a small bit of it and hand it to Katniss.

“Must be the baby hormones. Making her emotional.” Finnick says gesturing to her belly. You understand what he’s trying to do. He’s helping her not seem weak to sponsors. You decide to help too.

“Yea. I’m the same way.” You say shooting her a smile. You can tell she understands that we’re helping her which makes you glad.

────୨ 🔱 ৎ────

With Finnick and Katniss’ help, Peeta stands up and we continue through the jungle. Katniss goes ahead because somehow she can hear the forcefields with her reconstructed ear. Katniss occasionally throws nuts from the floor onto the forcefield.

You don’t know why but you decide to inspect a nut. You recognize it from a safe plants book that you read before the reaping. You decide to take a bite and surprisingly it’s good. It’s sweet and savory in your mouth. There quite sticky so you need to chomp to eat them and Katniss hears you.

“Hey Y/N, don’t eat that it could be poison.” She says slapping it out of your hand. You look up at her confused. They were really good nuts. You just shrug and pick up another to snack on while Katniss gives Finnick an expecting look.

“Let her eat them. There obviously not poison.” He says laughing at Katniss’ seriousness. You let out a chuckle.

“I haven’t died yet.” You say and Katniss snorts.

The group continue walking for what seems like ages. You remember walking for hours on end in your games but pregnancy tires you quickly. You can tell Peeta is also worn out. He has a prosthetic—and he just died—which makes him trip a lot.

After a while Katniss notices how tired the group is so you guys make camp. You and Finnick make mats from stringy thin leaves that can easily be woven. You’re so thirsty that your mouth has dried up. Katniss goes out to hunt and comes back with a squirrel.

“It had water on its mouth so there has to be fresh water somewhere. I looked everywhere and I still couldn’t find it.” She says stumped.

“How are we going to cook that tree rat?” You say coming up with a name for it.

“Tree rat? Ha!” Finnick laughs but not too loud in fear of being heard.

“Here let me.” Peeta says grabbing the tree rat and throwing it into the force field. It flies back burnt on the outside but cooked on the inside. Everyone gives him a small applause before realizing where they are.

────୨ 🔱 ৎ────

Everyone in the group is slowly dying of thirst. Your mouth is dry and hot. You are so thirsty you have barely gone pee all day. Which isn’t normal because the baby pushes on your bladder all day making you pee more.

“We could really use a sponsor gift now Haymitch!” Katniss yells in frustration as a parachute slowly comes down. When it lands no one touches it.

“Who do you think it is for?” I ask confused.

“Well it doesn’t matter anyway. We should let Peeta open it since he died today.” Finnick says as he hands the grey metal ball to Peeta.

He opens it and inside a think grey stick thats hallowed out. You’re unsure of what it is. Everyone examines it though. Finnick even puts it around his pinky which makes you laugh. He’s ridiculous.

Finally, Katniss throws it in the dirt in frustration as she lays down to examine it. Peeta rubs her back trying to sooth her. You give Finnick a look and fake gag at there romance. He laughs. Recognition is all over Katniss’ face.

“I know what it is! It’s a spile to get syrup out of a tree. But, I think theres water in these trees.” She says getting up.

We all crowd around her. Finnick grabs it and puts it up to the tree. He grabs a rock and is about to slam it down.

“No! You could damage it. Dig a hole in the tree first.” You say. You recall learning about spiles when you went to school. If you damage it, it’s useless.

Finnick digs a hole and Katniss places it in the tree. We wait for a moment before water starts running out of it. Katniss waists no time to start drinking out of it. Peeta and Finnick follow shortly. You can’t because of your swollen belly so you start to make bowls out of more thin, flexible leaves. After you make around 5, you hold each one up to the spile filling them to the brim. When the bowls are filled you cant help but gulp all of them down. It’s warm water but refreshing.

Katniss decides to take first watch. The flutter of kicks keeps you up. You put Finnick’s hand on your stomach thinking he’s asleep. He doesn’t sit up but he rub your stomach. Now that you’re no longer thirsty you cuddle close to him and fall asleep.

────୨ 🔱 ৎ────

“Wake up! Wake up! We have to go!” You hear Katniss yell as she pushes Peeta to wake up. “The fog is poison!” She says while gathering our things. You look behind to see a white fog creeping up on the group. You gather your weapons. Luckily, you kept the belt of knives on when you slept.

Before you know it, you’re all running as fast as you can. You have to slow down because your baby is pulling you down. When you stop to take a breath the fog hits you. The pain shoots up your arm and you scream. You automatically put a protective arm on your stomach and use the hurt arm to hold your spear. You run like your life depends on it.

────୨ 🔱 ৎ────

Part 3

#finnick x reader #finnick odair x you #fanfiction #fanfic #x you #x yn #x y/n #thg #thg fanfiction #reese’s pieces

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daisyjonesgf · 1 year ago

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let me down easy // finnick odair x f. reader

based off this blurb

summary: finnick pushed himself away, isolated himself, and you're slipping through his fingers like sand.

masterlist

3.8k words

warnings: angst, a tiny bit of fluff at the end, a little smutty but also very brief, mental illness, insecurity, paranoia, allusions to cheating (no one is actually cheating), slightly mean!finnick, self destructive behavior on all sides, more insecurities, arguments, feeling isolated, slight blood and injury, female rage things, male masturbation, unedited, no use of y/n, brief mentions of vomiting, girls girls all around, annie cresta my beloved being a girl girl, people pleaser reader

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Once every day had felt like it was full of sunlight, even if there were ups and downs you always had each other by the end of it. Now you weren't even sure if you had yourself, let alone Finnick. Worst of all you had no idea what you'd done wrong, at first you chalked it up to how he'd just returned from the Capitol. But usually his isolation was a day at the most before he'd succumb to your comfort. Instead it had been nearly a month of radio silence.

He stopped the way he'd pepper your face with kisses to wake you up and bring you to the kitchen where he'd have made breakfast, telling you mindless stories about his morning swim. Now if he did anything for you it felt robotic, out of necessity, there was no helping you with your hair, having fun picking out your outfits, he was barely around. Never would you have thought you could be such an outcast in your own home, your own relationship.

At first you'd thought you just weren't doing enough, that he needed some extra love to help him open up. Reluctantly you'd fully wake yourself up when you felt him rise for his swim, take up the position of making him breakfast instead. Busying yourself with his favorites until he returned and you put on your best smile when he did, hopeful it would be somewhat successful.

“Good morning!” You greeted and were met with a confused look, a nod. You'd always hated getting up this early yet here you were and he did nothing.

“I have to take a shower." He muttered and was up the stairs. It was a disappointing resolution, but then your hopes had still been high. So you kept making his favorites throughout the next few days, scattering gifts for him throughout the house, writing notes to hide where he might find them, desperate to show him how much you loved him.

“Where are you going?" Your voice startled him and he slowly turned his head towards you.

Finnick's voice was so dry, rigid, “Fishing."

“Oh, let me get my shoes on, I'll come with!" Bright smiles, you reminded yourself when it felt like wavering.

“I'd rather go alone."

“Right." It wanted to falter so bad, “How long are you gonna be gone? I could make you lunch to go or something."

“I'm okay."

You fidgeted with your fingers, “Yeah, okay, well, um, have fun." Then he was gone, without a kiss, even a hug goodbye. Come to think of it there hadn't been any at all for a while, not even in the morning which is something he'd always do. So after a few days failing with those attempts you'd convinced yourself of a different reason.

“Annie, be honest with me, do you think I'm pretty?" The two of you had been out in the garden of Victors Village and she seemed taken aback.

“Honey, of course you're pretty. You're beautiful, what brought this on?" She dropped what she was doing to look at you.

You darted around the specifics, “What about the way I dress, is it too frumpy?"

“No! There's nothing wrong with anything about you." Her voice was so soft and she felt like the only person you could talk to now that Finnick had pushed himself away from you. “What's going on?"

You felt yourself finally crying all the held back tears you'd hid for the moments alone, “What if he's found someone prettier and more exciting?” You sobbed out and Annie hugged you.

"Finnick worships the ground you walk on, he'd never do that.”

"He barely even talks to me anymore, Annie. It's like I don't exist.”

“He's just going through a rough patch, it's not your fault."

Regardless of what Annie said, you disagreed. He must have had someone else, but you couldn't confront him about it. No, if you did then it would become real and he'd leave you for them. There had to be someone else taking on his hardships and loving him the way he'd once let you. So you bought new makeup, new lingerie, new clothes, tried to feel more attractive, more desirable. Yet it didn't seem like he even noticed.

You'd waited for his return all day, he'd left so early you hadn't even seen him. You made dinner praying that he'd see the effort you made, and find you irresistible once again. Of course, this effort seemed to be in vain.

“Welcome home, Finn!" You greeted when he walked through the front door, pained by the sound of your own faux bubbly voice. You put a plate down in front of his usual seat.

“Thanks." He mumbled and you smiled cheerfully. Perhaps you'd been too solemn and he'd prefer someone who exuded more sunshine-like behavior. “How was your day?" His voice was sharp, curt, but it was a conversation nonetheless. Always better than nothing.

“It was good!" You lied through your teeth, there hadn't been a single moment where your brain hadn't been infested with the thought of him pushing you away, him with someone else. It was something you desiped, you preferred to be in the moment. When you had been confident in yours and Finnick's relationship you could immerse yourself in the company of others, enjoy menial tasks with humming and daydreams, but now the isolation haunted your mind. “Annie and I planted some new flowers and cut some that recently finished blooming. I finally changed our vases out." He didn't even glance around, just kept eating. Your Finnick had always made an effort to look around, praise you for anything you did, he took pride in you, now the only thing he took pride in was being able to avoid you.

He curtly nodded his head in response and you felt like you might snap. Especially as the silence persisted, nothing except the sounds of the house and his fork clinking on the plate. You chewed at your bottom lip, leg bouncing up and down waiting for the smallest bit of conversation, but nothing came. Eventually you shot out of your seat, grabbed your plate, which you were sure you wouldn't be able to stomach, and began cleaning up dinner. Hands gripping each dish so hard as if to contain all the rage you'd been repressing.

“I can clean up." Finnick murmured as he rose.

Being lazy was another thing you thought could be a reason. He did so much for you and whatever you had to offer must not have been enough. Yes, he'd always insisted that you should just be his pretty girl that he could look at when he did the tasks, but in secret he must have just wanted you to resist and do more. So you vehemently shook your head, “No, I've got it!" Your voice was strained and several pitches too high to sound natural.

“It's fine, I can do it.” How dare he have the gall to sound annoyed with you.

“I've got it Finnick, just go to bed!" Or whatever the fuck else is he does to be away from you. You regretted how snappy you were, he wanted someone easy going, not how uptight you were being. But god, hate that man for how he looked like a wounded puppy dog. “Sorry." You muttered, only partially genuine. Harshly grabbing a glass to clean, hands gripping around it, so harshly it seemed that when you went to put it to dry, it shattered in your hand. Your reaction was delayed as you stood there in disbelief, you hated your life, “Fuck.”

Then his hand was on your back and you involuntarily jerked at the contact you hadn't felt for so long. “You're bleeding." How the hell was his voice still so stony, a mystery you'd never know the answer too. It sent tingles up your spine the way his hand was on your back, you missed his touch. He led you to the bathroom where he carefully tended to the cuts in your hand. Carefully taking out the pieces of glass and although you occasionally winced, it was like your brain couldn't comprehend the pain over the buzzing about his hand touching yours. But once he bandaged it up the touch was gone and so was he with a, “I'll clean up."

Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him. But you hated being angry with him when he was probably going through something, he'd struggled so much and just needed help. Was it really excusable though when it was tearing you apart to be in all of this. You got up and without a second thought walked straight out the front door. Feet guiding you to the comfort of the beach. Of course it invoked memories of all the better times spent with Finnick, but out here at least you had the ocean. It has started to rain and you didn't care. Walking out into the sea, as far as you could touch, and letting the freedom of the waves surround you. And you screamed, at the sky, at the waters, into the night. Trying so desperately to let go of the aggression, so you could keep trying. Inhaling the salt air before you walked back inside, you could do this. Every relationship had trials and tribulations, but you could be stronger, stick together.

As you were walking back, Finnick was jogging towards you, “Are you okay?" There was actual emotion in his voice, you longed to be privileged to it more often.

“Yeah."

“I thought I… " He trailed off, hand running through his hair. The way he looked like he might cry sparked guilt in you, but also a sick pleasure that he actually cared. “You're gonna get sick." Just as quickly his tone returned to being straight-laced.

You didn't care, if you were sick maybe he would take care of you. So you walked inside and he said nothing. You showered and changed, you'd gotten a new nightgown that left little to the imagination. Maybe you could get a rise out of him, get him to touch you more. But he seemed to be fast asleep by the time you left the bathroom, so you slipped into bed beside him. In the past he'd always sleep with his arms around you, but now you slept beside each other rather than with one another. It left you cold, despite the blankets, which were barely there as he'd always been a blanket hog, which you used to tease him for, but was fine because you were attached to him. Now you laid there and felt yourself crying. You cursed yourself for it, not right now, but you couldn't stop. So you covered your mouth with a hand as you sobbed into it.

The next morning you felt him wake, but there was no energy to make breakfast. You were exhausted and it hadn't made him love you again anyways. So you drifted back off until the sound of floorboards creaking when he returned woke you up. You sat up in bed as he entered the bedroom. “Morning, Finn." The smile you worked hard to maintain was back.

“Morning." He mumbled and then his eyes faltered on you. That's when you remembered the nightgown, it was a relief for something to keep his eyes on you. ‘Love me, even if it's just for my body, love me in some way.’ Your brain begged to no avail. “Shower." He slowly said even though he'd very obviously grown hard.

You felt humiliated, completely embarrassed to be dressed the way you were and him to still not want you. It made you want to cry again, but you had to persist. Rising to get dressed until you heard your name. It took you a second to process that he was moaning it, you were right there and he was getting himself off to the thought of you when he could've just had the actual you. That had to be a new type of low. You hadn't even dared to touch yourself no matter how badly you wanted him because you knew nothing you did could match the things he'd made you feel. Yet here he was, so easily jerking off. There was nothing you could do except seethe as you got ready for your day. At least it was your name and not some other girls.

You were in the kitchen when he walked downstairs, “Going to the market." He announced and you got up from your chair.

“I'm coming too." It wasn't a question.

"No, it's okay. I've just got a couple things to grab.”

"So do I, so I'll just come along to grab them. You don't even have to stick by me, I'm just going.” You were exasperated. Honestly you hadn't left the confines of Victors Village for a while, besides when you tried to recall your look, and this would be a good opportunity to see if he was being honest. There was nothing you really had to get, but at least you'd somewhat had his company.

He said nothing but waited as you put on your sandals and then the two of you set off. The silence was deafening as you two walked, your Finnick would always hold your hand, would've taken you from booth to booth and ramble on endlessly, buy anything you glanced at with interest, but now he stood too far away for your hands to even brush by each other. The bustling of the market was a relief and for the first time in a long time you naturally smiled. Although it was jarring how quickly Finnick put on a smile, made conversation with all these people when he hadn't blessed you with the same thing. In fact, it instantly dampened your mood.

“Haven't seen you in so long, missed seeing that pretty smile!" All your favorite vendors gushed and you'd smile, make small talk. Even if everything made you think of Finnick. When was the last time he'd called you pretty? When was the last time he kissed you?

“You look a little sad, are you alright?" And you'd insist you were just feeling a little under the weather. You'd somewhat kept your distance from Finnick until you saw him laughing with a girl in the market. When was the last time he'd laughed with you? Is this what he did, found pretty girls in the market, charmed them, and went back home with them?

You'd slowly approached and showed fake interest in one of her necklaces. “They're real pearls." She said. She was so pretty, stunning. What did she have that you didn't? You hummed, smiling and without a word, Finnick was handing you money.

‘I don't want your money, I want you to pay attention to me.’ You thought and shook your head, “I don't need your money, Finn." The only thing you'd want from him was something he'd pick out because he wanted to give it to you, something he'd always done if you hadn't been there with him. Showing up at home with little treasures to show off to you. He looked at you quizzically, it wasn't like you had any money of your own on you.

“Is this your girlfriend?" The woman asked, her voice was sweet like sugar, you were too gruff, that's what you were missing.

Right now though, your voice was breathy, anxious. “Yeah." The woman must have been able to sense something off because she looked at you with pity. Finnick left the money on the counter by you regardless of what you said and walked off. You sighed.

“I'm sorry, I didn't know."

You gave a sad smile, “It's okay, not your fault." You picked the money up, ready to go find him.

“He's just a guy, even if he's Finnick Odair, don't let him dim your spark." It should've been encouraging, except you knew you loved him too much to ever leave him.

You found him, chatting and smiling as he bought produce. You missed his smile. “Here." You said quietly, handing him his money.

“Where's the necklace?"

“Didn't need it." You didn't care about needing it, you care that he would rather have you buy things for yourself then make you feel valued.

He huffed, like you were frustrating him, annoying him. “Okay, use it to find something else then. You said you weren't going to stick around me." You couldn't stop yourself from physically recoiling from his venom.

“I just came to tell you I was going home." You said weakly, staring at the ground. “Have fun." Your voice cracked slightly and you didn't even bother looking up as you walked home. Immediately settling yourself into bed where you refused to move. Eventually he came home, something clicked onto the dresser table, the sun went down and you stayed put. When he crawled into bed the most movement you made was flipping onto your side to have the protection of your back facing him.

For days it was a cycle of laying in bed, only rising once he left, usually to stand under the burning hot water in the shower until your skin felt raw. Then immediately returning back to bed. He'd return, put something on the dresser, and you'd stay still. Eventually one night he'd come home and sat at your feet, mattress dipping. “We need to talk."

Your hands clamped over your ears, this was it, he was done with you, all that effort for nothing. The anxiety knotted in your stomach, “I'm gonna be sick." You forced yourself up and found yourself throwing up in the toilet, Finnick holding your hair back.

“Hey, it's okay. It's okay, sweet girl." When you were done you said nothing as you brushed your teeth, praying he would leave and forget whatever bad news he was surely bearing. But he didn't, he waited and sat on the bed, waiting for you. Who exited, arms crossed, trying not to cry.

“Please don't break up with me." It was pathetic to beg for but he stood up, looking bewildered.

“No, no, no, I'm not gonna break up with you, sweet girl. I wouldn't even think of it." His hands cradled your face and you melted into them.

Finally you let the tears fall, "Then what are we talking about?”

"I've been so terrible to you, a terrible partner, a terrible person. I…” He took a deep breath in, "I had a rough time in the Capitol, I always do, especially last time though. And I knew you would be able to tell and try to help, but it was easier for me to just block you out so I didn't have to deal with it. Because it hurts to think about." He was crying and it made your heart ache. "And I took you for granted. I didn't try to be there for you, I was selfish and I can't make up for it enough. I will spend the rest of my life making up for it.”

You were both sobbing and he pressed his forehead to yours. His hands were so warm, his touch was so perfect. "I want to help you.”

"I know.” He pulled his forehead away, putting his hands on your shoulders. "I need you to tell me how you felt. Not the sweet way you usually explain things, be honest, so honest.

You shook your head, “No, it's okay. It was just miscommunication."

“No, I think I nearly broke you and everybody else noticed before I did. I need to know your raw feelings, so I can attempt to make it up to you.” He let go of your shoulders and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"I thought you were cheating on me.” You said quietly, anxiously playing with your fingers. He already looked hurt, "Like you found someone else because I wasn't, I don't know, fun enough, pretty enough, hardworking enough. And you didn't want me to do anything with you ever or notice anything I did for you." You took a deep breath, you could feel yourself getting angrily worked up and he could tell.

“If you're angry, be angry." He said and you obeyed.

“And I bought new clothes for you, changed my makeup routine, smiled more, made all your favorites, woke up earlier, tried to take on burdens and you said nothing. Do you know how lonely I was? How bad that made me feel about myself? One day you weren't letting me lift a finger, telling me you loved me, now pretty I was, and the next I thought I'd never hear any of that again, let alone have you touch me. No kisses, or hugs, you didn't even hold me when we slept! And you were so closed off and sometimes mean on top of that and all I wanted was your attention. Until finally I gave up because at least even if you weren't really with me, I still had you, and I didn't want you to leave me just because I found out there was someone else, which is so fucked. And then I thought, maybe at the very least, he’ll have me for my body, I had new lingerie, I tried and you didn't give a fuck. No, you got yourself off in the goddamn bathroom and I was right here!” Your voice had risen and your inhales were sharp between the ranting, "And everytime I hated what you were doing to me, I'd feel bad because what you've been through is so much worse and I should still try to be there for you. So I tried and then you'd be annoyed with me and it was like torture. And I swear to god, if you ever do that again, I'll leave.” A weight lifted off of your chest and he hugged you.

“I'm so sorry, I won't ever do it again, I love you so much, you're so pretty and kind and I need you in my life." You held onto him like he would slip away, kissing away your tears that were falling even though he was also crying. He held you until the sobbing had mostly subsided, “You know I bought you all these stupid gifts when you were laying there, thinking it would make you feel better, but I don't even think you noticed." He chuckled and you turned your head, not wanting to tear away from him. All you could see was the necklace from where you were standing. “Not that it would've done anything after all the time I spent letting the castle crumble around us.

"Thank you.” It was muttered and then he tried to pull out of the hug which made you whine. Trying to cling on forever.

His hand tilted your chin towards him, “You wanna put one of those sets on that you got for me so I can show you how pretty you are and how sorry I am for neglecting my sweet girl?"

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

sorry y'all angst is my default settings. thank you for reading, comments, likes, reblogs, feedbacks is all super appreciated. asks and requests are open, love you all, sorry again 💋

taglist: @wowzabowza69

#wanda 💋#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair #finnick odair x y/n #finnick odair fluff #finnick odair angst #finnick odair x reader fluff #finnick odair x you #finnick odair x reader angst #finnick odair fanfic #finnick fanfic #finnick x you #finnick x reader #finnick odair smut #finnick odair imagine #finnick imagine #finnick odair x reader smut

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starkeymeow · 23 days ago

Text

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter twenty-five, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, training day 2&3, a peak at plutarch, plotting, a bit of rafe and y/n content, peeta !! all platonic btw

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous next

later that night, your entire body aches. your shoulders pull like they’ve been strung too tight and used as weapons, and your knuckles are a little bruised.

the bathroom mirror’s foggy with the shower you just took, and you’re standing at the sink brushing your teeth while rafe sits on the counter next to you, legs hanging, arms braced behind him as he leans back and watches.

he doesn’t say much at first. he just listens as you ramble through a mouthful of toothpaste.

“so johanna, right—” you pause to spit, “—we go into it thinking it’s just a warm-up, but she’s like . . . elbowing me like we’re in a bar fight. and then finnick’s off to the side like, ‘use your hips, not your face’, which by the way, i didn’t even know he knew how to fight without his trident—”

you glance over, brush hanging from your mouth.

rafe just grins, head tilted as he watches your reflection in the mirror. he doesn’t get half of what you’re saying. the foam muffles most of it and your words come out tangled, but he likes the sound of your voice anyway.

you rinse, sigh, then lean forward to wipe your mouth on the towel.

“anyway. i nearly took her head off at one point. kind of proud of that.”

rafe laughs a little under his breath, but then he quiets, gaze dropping to the floor.

“we need to talk to katniss,” he says. “make her trust us. get her to think about an alliance.”

you pause, and your eyes flick to him in the mirror. he’s still looking at the ground, like he doesn’t want to look up yet.

“did you talk to her at all today?” he asks.

you think about it as you chew the inside of your cheek. “unless you count her trying to kill me and you in a simulation . . . then no, not really.”

rafe finally looks up, scrunches his face in that way he does when he’s frustrated but can’t argue with the facts. he scratches the back of his buzzed head, groaning softly.

you pull open the bathroom drawer, digging for something, and lean against the sink next to him. “we’ve still got two more training days. we can figure something out.”

“yeah, and she still hates the capitol and we look like their mutts,” rafe mutters, “i mean, i doubt she’s just gonna shake hands ‘n hug it out with us because we smiled at her.”

you glance at him. “what about peeta?”

rafe makes a face. “what about him?”

“i don’t know. maybe we talk to him, see if he can help. he’s clearly close to her.”

he narrows his eyes. “you think he’d go for that?”

you shrug, “maybe. if we play it right. not fake or anything. just . . be honest, ‘n careful.”

he watches you for a second, then nods once, “could work.”

“or it could blow up in our faces.”

“also true.”

you’re both quiet for a minute. and you don’t say it out loud, but you both know it’s your best shot.

she needs to trust you, at least enough to keep you alive. or at least long enough for the plan to work. and if she doesn’t, you’ll be dead before you get the chance to try.

“okay, but let’s say peeta’s not interested,” you continue, grabbing a hair tie off the counter and wrapping it around your wrist. “what’s our backup?”

rafe stretches his legs out a little, thinking. “we could impress them in training tomorrow, get katniss to see we’re not threats.”

you toss the towel you were holding into the laundry bin, brushing your hands off before stepping over to him. his eyes follow you with that little awareness he always has.

you move to stand between his legs and rest your hands gently on his sweatpants. your palms start to slide up and down slowly, grounding yourself in the feel of him, in the way his muscles shift slightly under your thumbs.

“so we need to give her a reason,” you say softly, looking up into his eyes. “not just to team up, but to trust us. us specifically. everyone else is gunning for her to be allies, too, whether they’re in on the plan or not.”

“so you want to tell her the truth?” he asks.

“no,” you say immediately. then you hesitate. “maybe . . . like not the plan, just enough about us to let her know we’re not capitol pets.”

rafe’s jaw ticks slightly, and his hand comes up to rest lightly on your waist, fingers curling there. “we’d have to be careful. say too much and it’s dangerous.”

“say too little and she won’t buy it.”

his eyes scan yours. “you think she’d really team up with us?”

“i think,” you say quietly, “she’s more like me than anyone else in that gym, i feel like.”

his thumb brushes absentmindedly at your side. “yeah?”

you nod. “and if that’s true then she’ll know we’re not lying. she’ll feel it.”

rafe leans down a little, forehead nearly touching yours, “guess we better make her feel it then.”

you smile’s small, but your eyes don’t lose that focus. you’re thinking a thousand moves ahead. you let your hands smooth along his thighs again, slower now.

you lean in just enough to whisper, “then tomorro—” you barely finish saying it before rafe leans in and kisses you, probably to get your mind off of all the plan-talk, just for the night.

it’s slow, the kind of kiss that doesn’t need a reason. his hands settle at your hips and your fingers curl gently into the fabric of his shirt. you just kiss him back without thinking, just breathing him in.

he pulls back slightly, not far, just enough to slide his hand behind him and bring something around between the two of you. your lotion.

you blink, “. . . seriously?”

he grins, holding it right in front of your face like it’s a trophy. “you always forget.”

you give him a look, but you still reach down, grab the hem of your shirt, and tug it over your head. your back faces him now, bare under the low lights of your bathroom.

your thorns have been healed for years, but they still press under your skin like a memory that doesn’t wanna go away.

you gather your hair and sweep it to one shoulder as you hear him hop down behind you. he untwists the containers lid and scoops some lotion into his hands, then sets it aside.

his palms smooth gently across your back slowly. you close your eyes and melt under his touch. his thumbs sweep in small circles along your lower back, around the curve of your spine, staying mindful of each thorn. you swear he maps them every night like it’s the first time.

he doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. and when he’s finished, you turn back around to face him again, letting your shirt hang loosely in your hand. rafe’s gaze flicks downward instinctively, but then he lifts his eyes again, meeting yours.

“we have to get out,” you murmur. “someday. right?”

his eyes linger on you. there’s so much in his silence. you step up on your toes and kiss him again, but it’s gentle, like a promise, then you pull your shirt back on.

you wake up the next morning feeling like death’s counting backward.

it’s day two. another tick off the clock. another step closer to the arena, but you try not to think about it.

rafe’s already up. you catch sight of his figure in the kitchen, mid-conversation with brutus. you don’t say anything. you just wash your face and tie your hair back, eat whatever they put in front of you. cassaline talks too chipper and you nod along until it’s over. you aren’t rude, you just keep your focus elsewhere. that’s how you survive mornings like this. by not really being in them.

when you make it to the training center, you don’t even wait for rafe. you split off early, deciding to duck into one of the side survival rooms, just to get away from the crowded floor for a while. you let your fingers run along the wall absentmindedly before entering a room, then you stop.

at the back of the room, crouched over a bench with a tray of paints beside him, is peeta mellark.

he doesn’t notice you right away. his focus is fixed on his arm, paint streaking across his skin in long strokes with different shades, muted tones of gray and green and brown that start blending against each other. he’s camouflaging himself. or practicing, anyway.

you rub your palms against your leggings. your heart flutters, not because you’re nervous, but because you recognize the opportunity. it’s peeta mellark, sweetheart of the capitol, katniss’s other half, and more importantly, your in.

he glances up when he hears someone come in, expecting maybe a trainer or someone from an outlying district like him. his face changes slightly when he sees you. not in shock, but more like surprise. like he didn’t expect you of all people to walk up to him.

“hi,” you say, stepping closer.

he gives you a small smile, “hey.”

you peer down at his arm. “that’s amazing.”

he glances down like he forgot he was even doing something. “thanks,” he says, brushing his thumb along the inside of his wrist to blend one of the darker patches.

“so you did this?” you ask, even though the answer’s obvious. peeta doesn’t comment on how dumb the question sounds. he just shrugs a little, nods.

you crouch beside the bench, angling yourself to see the tray of paints. “how’d you even figure out how to blend into your surroundings like that?”

peeta dips his brush into one of the colors. “my mom always wanted me to be a baker so i used to decorate cakes for customers,” he says. “you learn a lot about color and detail that way.”

you raise your eyebrows, impressed. “so if you wanted to, you could probably disappear in this room.”

“i could try,” he says, still not quite looking at you.

you nod, looking up at him, “show me.”

he tilts his head, amused by the challenge, and then moves without saying a word. he presses his arm against the table again and smears a bit more color onto his exposed skin, runs a few lines across his fingers and forearm, and angles it to follow the pattern on the marbled surface. you blink, and suddenly, it’s like he’s gone if you’re far enough.

he’s right there. but the color, the way he’s blended himself into the countertop, it’s nearly flawless.

you exhale through your nose, a smile tugging at your mouth. “you’re good at that.”

“yeah, well. it’s not much.”

you shake your head slowly. “i mean it. most of us just throw knives or punch things. you make it . . .” your voice softens, “quiet . . . in here.”

peeta peers at you now. there’s something a little hesitant in the way he looks, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking or not. you aren’t.

his cheeks flush the faintest bit. “guess someone has to balance it out.”

you smile. “someone like you, then?”

he chuckles, ducking his head a little. “i think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in here.”

you tilt your head, watching him. “you’d think more people would be saying nice things to the golden boy of twelve.”

“you’d be surprised.”

you don’t push it or try to steer the conversation, but when he sits back down and starts repainting another patch on his arm, you quietly lean against the table beside him, resting your elbows on the surface, staying close.

something about the quiet around you both makes him lean back a little against the table, brush still between his fingers as he glances sideways at you.

you tilt your head slightly and murmur, “katniss is lucky to have you, you know.”

his gaze drops immediately to the floor, a shy smile tugging at his mouth. it’s small, almost like he’s trying not to acknowledge it, but it’s there. you raise your brows.

“what?” you ask, amused. “did i say something wrong?”

“no,” he says, quietly, rubbing his thumb over a patch of dry paint on his wrist. “it’s just . . . weird hearing you say that. it’s kind of surreal.”

you blink, letting out a light laugh. “what?”

“i . . .” he starts, “i used to watch your interviews, back when you won ‘cause they’d play your highlight reels all the time on tv. it was hard not to.”

your eyebrows lift a little. “seriously?”

he nods, sheepish. “the closest i’d ever come to you was when you came to twelve on your victory tour. i was there, in middle of the square with my brothers. i think it was snowing that day.”

you pause, then narrow your eyes at him like you’re trying to remember. “that was, what, seven years ago?”

he chuckles. “yeah.”

you glance at him, doing the math in your head. “how old were you?”

“ten,” he says with a wince.

you laugh again, “so you had a crush on me.”

he throws you a playful look. “it was more like . . . admiration.”

“sure,” you drawl, teasing him. “i’m sure every ten-year-old bakes a loaf of bread and imagines handing it to their favorite victor in the cold.”

“i would’ve,” he says, matter-of-fact, and for a moment, it’s quiet. you’re still smiling, but something about the honesty in his voice makes your heart soften. not in a romantic way, this isn’t that, but it’s still sweet. and it’s real. it’s something that belongs to a version of peeta that isn’t shaped by war or reaping bowls or televised deaths.

you reach over and nudge his free arm with your own. “well,” you say, “i guess it’s nice to know i made an impression.”

he smirks and glances up at you, and you see it now, why katniss trusts him. why even the capitol leans into his smile. then you shift just a little.

“and katniss?” you ask, the tone of your voice dipping slightly. you try to sound more genuine.

he looks over, and you watch the change in his face, the way his smile doesn’t really fall, but it freezes.

you continue before he can answer. “i’m sorry,” you say. “about all of this. about the quell.” you aren’t totally sure if it’s gotten to a point where they do love each other but everyone around you has practically assumed it’s all for show. but soulmates or not, the story was forced, and maybe there’s a chance it isn’t as forced now.

peeta looks away for a beat. his jaw tightens slightly, but then he nods. “thanks,” he says quietly. “it’s . . . been a lot.”

you don't push or don’t ask for more. instead, you just sit with it. then you offer him a softer smile. “for what it’s worth,” you say, taking a few steps toward the exit, “i think you’re stronger than people realize.”

he meets your eyes.

you pause once you’re a few paces away, spinning around on your heel to face him again. peeta’s still sitting there, paint drying across his arm, his brush loosely gripped in one hand. you tilt your head at him.

“come with me, we can train together,” you ask, waving your hand toward you. “we could spar. i’ll show you the ropes in case you’ll need it.”

he blinks, eyebrows lifting slightly. “in case i’ll need it?”

“you never know when you’ll need it in there.” you nod toward the main gym. “come on, baker boy. it’s time to show me what you got.”

his smile grows, surprised but not unwilling. “i should probably wash this off first.”

you’re already walking backward. “i’ll be on the mat.”

peeta watches you go, then looks down at the paint on his hands. he stands, a quiet laugh to himself, before turning toward the sinks.

you’ve got him hooked so far. not just to the plan, but to you. this is good.

you turn from peeta with a grin still stretched across your face, your fingers tap lightly at your side. but just as you reach the mouth of the door that opens into the training center, your gaze lifts.

you don’t know why, maybe it’s instinct, maybe it’s just a flicker of something in your periphery, but your eyes catch on the high glass window embedded in the gym wall. the gamemaker room, where they sit and analyze. your body stiffens before you can stop it.

they’re always watching, but there’s only one figure at the front right now.

plutarch heavensbee, who haymitch mentioned before is going to help you. finnick knows more about him than anyone though.

he’s seated with one elbow propped against the table, hand resting near his mouth like he’s thinking too hard for someone practically watching people play. but he’s not watching the room anymore. he’s watching you.

you freeze mid-step, just long enough to feel the tension in your shoulders. he doesn’t blink or flinch, but when you make eye contact, something shifts behind his gaze.

you narrow your eyes just a little. he looks normal, like not particularly threatening, like he could blend in anywhere. but you know better. haymitch’s words from days ago still echo in the back of your mind—we’re not the only ones. you didn’t know what to expect. but now here he is.

you give the smallest nod, just enough to acknowledge. it wouldn’t raise eyebrows to anyone else, but you watch how the corner of his mouth twitches in return. not a smile, exactly, but the shape of satisfaction. maybe even approval.

you turn again, breath steady, feet carrying you back into the main space. you're already scanning for rafe. you’ve got work to do. and now, you know someone else is watching your back.

your eyes scan quickly, searching for him. he’s usually standing at the maces like it’s his second home but he's not there. your steps start to slow as your gaze keeps moving, slipping toward the back of the gym, around the climbing structures and racks of knives. still nothing.

you press your hands to your hips, sighing under your breath. of course the one time you actually need to find him he’s decided to go rogue. you stay planted in the center for a second longer, eyes trailing across the room—

then a hand comes to your shoulder.

you whip around fast, already grabbing for whatever you don’t have on you, instincts kicking in before you even think, but the moment you see his face and his crooked smirk, that small arch of amusement in his brow, you exhale all at once.

rafe’s standing a little too close to be casual, but not enough to raise suspicion. you don’t realize you’re staring until he murmurs low under his breath, “relax. it’s just me.”

“you scared the shit out of me,” you say.

his smile deepens, then he leans in just a little closer, “i talked to her.”

you blink. “katniss?”

he nods, eyes flicking toward the rest of the gym before landing on yours again. “yeah. it wasn’t a long conversation. stubborn as hell, like haymitch said. i don’t think she likes eye contact, but . . . i think i got through to her a bit.”

you stare at him for a second, brows lifting in quiet shock before your hand instinctively reaches out, fingers curling around the sleeve of his arm.

“that’s perfect,” you say softly. “i literally just talked to peeta.”

his head tilts. “just now?”

“like— seconds ago. i’m gonna teach him hand-to-hand.”

you can see the shift in his expression instantly. he’s not annoyed or angry, but he’s amused. amused in that boyish, you’re mine sort of way that he doesn’t even try to hide. he tries to keep it subtle, keeps his lips pressed together like he’s thinking, but you see the corners turn up as he raises an eyebrow at you.

“oh,” he says slowly, “so you and lover boy are training together now?”

your head tilts with a grin already forming, and your grip on his arm drops only so you can place both palms against his chest and push him back half a step. “don’t start.”

he just laughs and grins wider now, his hands coming up briefly like he’s surrendering but it’s all in that teasing glint in his eyes. like i’m just saying. you shake your head but don’t say anything else.

then, over his shoulder, you catch sight of peeta stepping away from the camo station. he wipes his hands off against a towel slung over his shoulder, glancing around the gym before his gaze lands on you again.

your eyes flick back to rafe. “i’ll come find you after,” you promise.

he nods once, doesn’t stop looking at you, so you find his hand again, yours slipping into his naturally, fingers fitting between his for a few lingering seconds as you start to walk away.

“just try not to end up somewhere i can’t follow, a’right?” he says. “stay within reach today.”

you slide your arm across his until the tips of your fingers are the last thing touching. and still, you feel his eyes follow you.

you don’t look back until you’re almost to peeta. when you do, he’s still standing in the same spot, watching.

you smirk to yourself, then wink at him over your shoulder. peeta doesn’t notice. he’s already heading toward the mat. and just like that, you follow him.

by day three, you’ve found a rhythm. it’s not one you asked for, but one you’ve stopped resisting.

you walk into the gym before your escort or stylists can find something to fuss about, already tugging on your sleeve to fix where it’s twisted around your wrist again. rafe’s a few steps behind you, running a hand across his buzzed hair, yawning into his shoulder.

peeta’s easy to spot. he’s already got weights in his grip. you stop beside him, nodding toward the stack of plates.

“you wanna touch up on your fight skills again today?” you ask.

peeta grins as he reracks his bar. “thought i’d teach you something today.”

you raise a brow, shifting your weight onto one hip, curious. “oh yeah?”

he reaches over to grab a towel, swipes it across the back of his neck. “try sitting still for five minutes. we’ll start there.”

you snort. “i’d rather fight you again.”

he just nods toward one of the nearby survival rooms. “come on. you survived the arena, you can survive patience.”

your smirk widens, just slightly. you wave a lazy hand in the air, calling behind you, “i’ll be around,” to rafe without looking back. peeta glances at rafe too before following you.

across the gym, rafe’s gripping a barbell, his elbows flaring as he presses up again and again. he watches you go with peeta out of the corner of his eye, not really focusing on his own movement.

“that’s new,” finnick says behind him a few minutes later.

rafe exhales hard and racks the bar, turning to find finnick standing a few feet away, towel slung over his shoulder, arms crossed, eyes flickering toward the room you and peeta disappeared into.

“what?” rafe asks like he didn’t hear it even though he definitely did.

finnick doesn’t bother repeating himself. “you okay with that?”

rafe bends to grab his water bottle. “with what? peeta?”

finnick gives a half shrug, the kind that says you know exactly what i mean.

rafe unscrews the cap, drinks, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “it’s strategy.”

“sure it is.”

“it is.” rafe levels him with a look. “we need katniss. peeta’s our in. it’s working.”

finnick watches him, head tilted slightly, like he’s checking for cracks in a wall. “so you’re not bothered?”

rafe doesn’t answer right away. his hands stay gripping his water bottle, but his eyes have already drifted to the far end of the gym where you and peeta are.

you’re sitting now, elbows resting on your knees as you let peeta lean in, holding a small brush between his fingers. his hand comes up to your face without hesitation, and for once, you don’t flinch.

it surprises you. you can see it in the way your brows lift slightly, but you don’t move away. rafe’s watching all of it.

peeta smiles as he sweeps a faint streak of earthy green pigment under your jaw. “you’d be good at this if you slowed down,” he murmurs.

you snort softly. “sure. when have i ever done that?”

he leans back, expression amused, and offers you the brush which you take. your attempt is nothing like his. it’s messier, less thought-out. he doesn’t flinch either. he just blinks at you with that same easy gaze.

across the gym, rafe’s jaw flexes just once. he speaks without looking back at finnick, “if it means she gets out of this alive, i’ll let her charm every last person in this damn place.”

there’s a pause.

“she doesn’t even have to try,” finnick says finally. “that’s the thing.”

rafe exhales through his nose, but doesn’t say anything. then he picks the barbell back up.

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