#finnick x capitol!reader

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Just to kiss me (Part 5)

pairing: Finnick Odair x reader

64.media.tumblr.com

(AO3 mirror)

Part 5, My Hunger Games Masterlist

summary: The days begin to blur. Finnick provides some light.

warnings: angst, some suggestive language

required reading: The song "We'll never have sex" by Leith Ross <3

a/n: ....Reading SOTR and I remembered I had a draft for this fic lmfao. mb 🌚

taglist (comment if you'd like to be added <3): @agent-grey-fics, @starhastoomanyfandoms

wc: 3.9k

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If I said you could never touch me

You'd come over and say I look lovely

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I want to look…. council-womanly.”

There are blank faces. And with the click of a pen, a room full of suits fall over themselves to reassure your mother, Council-woman Arachne, of her status. Her poise, her grace, the flair with which she ties up her hair - all without fault. 

In the midst of it, you lean back and tuck yourself even further into the wall. The slight raise of an eyebrow is all you can muster. Indifference; or at least, you hope it comes across that way. A week of filming had been taxing, protesting her insistence at your presence even more so - appealing to the shred of human decency she had left. Of course, it had been to no avail. A child pawing at her skirt; sticky-fingered, fervent; was all she saw. 

As. Always.

“Mother.” You had said - or whined, maybe, it was hard to remember in such a stuffy room. “I've been working through the weekend. You have people you pay for their opinions - you can’t just ask me to take a whole week out for your campaign!”

“I'm not asking. It's important you stay by my side.”

“I would rather die.”

She tuts. “Always so dramatic. Must everything be a death knoll for the end times?”

She gets more verbose when stressed, you had noted. 

“Mother–”

“I need to be able to count on someone. Someone with your eye - these things are finicky; you know how Capitol people can be.”

“My eye?” You spat.

Her appeal to your ego had been shameless, and you curled your lips with disgust.

“Your–” She came closer, bony hand on your shoulder. It still burns with the touch, and like frost creeping up glass, she had made her way to your cheek. “Your eye. Like your father's; you see things my team won't be able to.”

You shove down fire and brimstone, resisting the urge to spit in her face at the mention of a man you never had the chance to know. You had met him only in whispers, in her faraway glances and the slight shake of her voice. For a second, she thawed, and like the snap of elastic against skin; your mother quickly pulled away.

What a load of shit.

You don't say what should, then and now. Your mother looks too shiny and manicured, especially in the glow of a holo screen. Billboards and magazine covers - hell, there was talk of cup holders and table runners. Ariadne, a face you can trust. In her bid for Overseer, it came across as insincere - as blatant as the propos The Academy passes off as history. A spotless history written by victors, white as falling snow.

She looks to you in a sea of fawning faces.  Lips tight, shoulders drawn back. Admittedly, you find yourself tempted to hiss and kick off. To do what you have always wanted to, a staunch middle finger at her bid to stir media frenzy. Council-woman Arachne clicks her pen. And like a well trained dog, you are quickly brought to heel.

“It's desperate, Mother.” You say it under your breath as the last dregs file out.

She huffs, the closest thing to a laugh she can manage. You think her body isn't built for it; her ribcage too tightly wound, without the space for joy. 

“It's… pertinent.” 

You read between the lines. They're too stupid to understand anything else. 

“It's fake.”

“Don't be stupid.” She sighs. “Of course it is.” 

You're drawn back to a night that seems so far-away. To clear waters and untouched beauty, wild and fervent Mother Nature tucked away somewhere in the capitol. To Finnick and his eyes, glassy and rehearsed. Fake. In the same way your mother is, you suppose, but with him there was something under the surface. Rusty and a lot less yellow-gold, but it was something.

“May I be excused?” It sounds pathetic, but a week of incessant nagging has taken its toll. 

Curt, she nods. Spun on a heel no higher than 1 and a half inches, she storms past; leaving with a click-click-click on cold marble. 

You're exhausted. A higher power takes you through the kitchen, past mock-ups and coffee-stained mugs. You thought you were used to the dozens in and out of your house; stumbling through meetings and tete-a-tetes at odd hours. Now it seems no different, and you are greeted by cushions out of place and chairs strewn into a circle. You push them aside and make your way up ornate stairs, limbs heavy with sleep.

There's a buzz at your wrist. Your heart skips a beat and you don't have the energy to clamp it down. It could be Vonnie, but you want it to be Finnick – so, so desperately.

You're bursting at the seams with his… friendship? That rings hollow. Nights spent on the phone, talking until your voice is hoarse and well into the early hours of the day. Friendship doesn't seem to span the width and depth of your feelings - as new and exciting as they are.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

His voice is impossibly warm. Tension at your temples melts away with its honey.

“Hey, Finn.”

It echoes in an empty hallway. It doesn't quite have the same timbre as his, and you find yourself worrying - do you sound tired? Haggard? Do you sound as bright as that first night on the balcony?

“Long day?” He posits.

You hum, trudging into your room. Every step feels like treacle, and so you collapse into bed, still in the day’s clothes.

“That's one way to put it.”

And he chuckles - in that way that brings heat to your face.

“So tell me all about it.”

“I–” Can’t. A word that rattles around in your head like pills in a little tin. “Just work. Like always.”

“You know, I've been thinking…”

“That never ends well.”

“Let me finish.” He titters. “I think you should quit.”

You snort into soft sheets. “You're just tired, Finnick.”

“And you're projecting, but I’m not being rude about it.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I am. Maybe I'm so tired that I've started hearing voices telling me to do stupid shit.”

“I'm being serious.”

“You're never serious.”

“Not true. I'm a very serious person–”

“Tell that to the Flickerman airing out your personal business every Friday at 10.”

A guilty silence follows. 

“Something about snake venom and hair dye?”

“It wasn’t– It was–”

“Fake?” You hiss. It comes out with more bitterness than intended, swiftly followed by regret. Wincing, you brace yourself for impact. But there isn't a crash-bang and sharp words, as you expect. Instead, he chuckles drily.

“It's horseshit, actually.” Now, he sounds tired, shuffling around wherever he is. You imagine him tossing and turning in a 4 poster bed with gold thread sheets, tossing away decorative pillows in frustration. 

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

Calling it lying feels a little mean, so you opt for something more… tactful.  

“Tell a story.”

He hums, intrigued. There's a click on his end and your comms chime.

“Finn, I haven't even showered.”

“Don't care.” He says simply. “I want to show you something.”

“Finnick–”

“Please?” He says it so softly you almost miss it 

Fuck. 

“Fine.” 

Through gritted teeth, you sit up and accept the video call. In an instant, he's there,  shiny and moonlit in a modest bedroom. 

“Wow.” He says, eyes sparkling. “You look–”

You giggle, a schoolgirl laugh that echoes in your room. Your room, crystal white and bare, seems to glow. It feels like Finnick’s warmth - but more likely, it was just the light from his holo.

He's smiling now, wide and sincere.

“Look,” He says gently, holding something up. “This was my mother's.”

It's a blanket, similar to the one you wrapped him up in that night. He cradles it in his palms, careful that gaudy rings don't catch at the threads. Turning it this way and that…. it sparkles in the light. 

“She made it for me when I was a baby. Would wrap me up in it every night.” 

The weaving is intricate, with every stitch revealing another, tiny threads that captures light like diamonds. It reminds you of Cinna’s dress; crystalline and light, draped like woven silk and water.

Simply put… “It's beautiful.”

“It is. I used to have these nightmares… drowning, if you can believe it.” His smile turns bittersweet. “And every time I would wake up screaming and gasping; she would bundle me up in that blanket and rock me to sleep.”

He doesn't look at you. Instead, he's engrossed by its shine, ethereal in dappled light. And.. is that a tear? He turns away; embarrassed, maybe, as if you've seen too much. 

Your heart hurts in a rush to comfort him, and you find yourself unable to find the right words.

“Finnick.” You start. “I–” 

It's sudden. A grimace, and he clears his throat. Whatever was there, crystalline, disappears in just a second.

“Real or not real?”

You blink twice, hard.

“...what?”

“Real–” He says simply. “-or not real?

Your throat is dry. “I don't understand.”

He smiles, a blinding one that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

“My mom's long gone. Died when I was born. I'm good, aren't I?” 

His eyes are puffy and smeared with shiny grease, and rosy blush kisses his cheekbones. You didn't notice before, but even his collarbones are peppered with bronze, patchy and orange gold. Maybe you weren’t the only one who had a rough night.

“I suppose.” You're curt.

“Experience is the answer, love.” He taps his nose, and stack of rings clinking with a flourish. “A shit ton of experience.”

~~~

There are nights Finnick falls asleep to the sound of your voice. That one was no exception, and he finds himself amongst a mountain of sheets. Morning light streams in, warming a face shiny with nothing but last night's sweat. He's grateful, although a little sticky, for some nights off - a far cry from last week's onslaught of debauchery and watered down wine. Monday was a press release; Tuesday was a cosmopolitan soiree; Wednesday, another Flickerman appearance; and so on, and so forth.

Somewhere in between the hangovers - which was new, he doesn't usually let himself drink more than a glass of ambrosia - was you, sleepy and shy. He liked seeing you blossom as the nights pass; opening up like the feathered petals of a lily. The musings of an overworked assistant turned poet, he thinks. You talk of Hadrian and his dull meetings, the latest music, and gossip from the shadows of council parties. Sure, he prides himself with his talents as a good listener, and an impeccable memory to boot; but God, his brain turns to mush. For all his charm and wit, all he can think about is your laugh. The way his heart swells when you begrudge a stupid joke, or roll your eyes at his sharp tongue.

In the morning light, he thinks of your hand at his cheek and swells with something else. How soft your lips must be, and how gently you would lay amongst amber sheets and woven blankets. He traces circles in his flesh; down, down, down, and past bruises still healing from other forays. You would touch him like this, he thinks, hand splayed against tan skin, lips brushing past his navel.

He sighs. 

A fantasy. Indulgence. Lips cherry red with sickly-sweet fruit and drink. Some of them bite, in his dreams and out of them. He scratches at scars carefully covered; the half-moon of fingernails pressed into skin amongst tawny constellations. He grimaces at a not-so-distant memory; shrill laughter like splintering glass. 

Freckles? She had said, an actress, or something - he chooses not to remember. How quaint. 

It makes his stomach turn, but you make his heart ache with what he decides is worry. Self-preservation, wrapped up in spindles of dandelion, soft and quaint. 

Would it be like that with you? Would he take that chance?

“Finnick?” It's Annie, yelling from somewhere downstairs. “Stannis is here!”

He stirs, unable to break away from that fantasy. He hopes it fades with the morning light.

~~~

Your days are a blur. Campaign prep makes your mother terse, wound up in the red string. It was odd to see her like this. She was… unsure. Unsteady, like she was wearing someone else's slimy skin; in a gaudy suit instead of her usual trim-and-proper linens.

Today was one of such days, and you are left at the dining table, picking at imaginary lint. Upon your mother's insistence, you have been dressed in something similarly over the top - ruffles and glitter and a tasteful show of legs. You've been bronzed and aggressively buttered; before interrupting the bedazzling with firm defiance, of course.

Clearly, your anger is displaced. There's a buzz in the air, assistants and suck-ups streaming in and out of the front door, setting up too-bright lights in your front room. There’s even talk of a camera crew, and a Flickerman - all before you've had your breakfast. 

As usual, you are ignored. Save for a pitiful glance or two, there is no explanation for the storm brewing in your house. The floorboards seem to rumble, and expensive crystal shakes in the cupboards at the footfall. Your usual passivity doesn’t suffice. After swallowing bitter pill after bitter pill, it seems you've reached your limit, with one question rattling around in your head…

…what the fuck is going on?

You manage to flag down a stray assistant - a familiar face, but you barely remember his name.

“Excuse m–” 

He holds a metallic finger up, before furtively typing at his wrist.

“You can't just–” You stop yourself, clamping down a quiet rage. “Excuse me.”

“Yeah?” He grimaces.

“What’s going on?”

“You haven't been given the schedule? Interns were meant to check in about a half hour ago.”

You're taken aback. Which vapid nepotism hire did he mistake you for? 

“I'm Councillor Arachne’s daughter.” 

A beat passes, and it's only when your lips press into a fine line does he see the resemblance.

“Oh!” Eyes wide, he fawns, ushering you to a chair tucked into the corner. “This is – well, you should've been debriefed, but – we're setting up for your mother's first TV appearance.”

“TV?” You're confused.

“Live television! I secured… I mean, I helped to secure the morning slot on Capitol+.” He beams, expecting congratulations. 

It doesn't come. He continues: 

“Introductions, mostly. The main thing we've learnt from the test groups is that the Councillor seems too much like a career politician – they didn't trust her, you know? At first, TV was out of the question – you know your mother – but we think this will help her seem more grounded. Less of the serious stuff. How does she do her hair? What perfume does she wear? And, of course, we let the capitol see her home, meet the family… you've seen the segments, right? The first of many, we hope.”

“W-Wait, the family? Will I be filmed too? Am I expected to–”

“He's here?” He taps at an earpiece, engrossed. “One second.” 

And then he's gone, whisked away by something or the other, leaving you flailing in the aftermath.  

You have a lot of questions - none of which were answered, frustratingly. Brushed aside yet again, it's all you can do to stalk off. Furrowed brow, you dig around in a kitchen drawer; poking at the corners. You find a pipe and tobacco, its edges smooth with use. A smoke break, away from the chaos. Exactly what you need.

There's a spot outside, shrouded by neatly trimmed hedges and stone. Once upon a time, as a reckless teen, you'd sit amongst the bramble and hope your mother couldn't see the smoke from her ivory tower. In an itchy dress, a size too small instead of too big, you do the same now.

The pipe was your father's. Made of bone – whale, she had said once, and hand-carved. It's small, compact, fits in your hands just right. You wonder how it fit in his. The tobacco burns roughly, cheap shit from a market your mother would never be caught dead in. A few unsteady puffs; shaky, but it's not the nicotine; and you lean back onto the wall, tucked into a corner. Something washes over you…. relief, maybe?

You cough, clamping down the noise lest someone hears. No, not relief. Acceptance, you realise grimly.

There's rustling, and a body slips in to the corner you've hidden away in. 6ft, tanned, with cropped sandy hair - he presses a finger to plump lips as if to say hush. Finnick - here, in your home - and it is all you can do to suppress a surprise splutter.

“Finnick?”

He hisses, eyes darting through the hedgerows before turning to you.

And then it happens - a wave of recognition crashing towards him at breakneck speed. When he says your name; confused, barely a whisper; you want to cry out. It's too much to explain, much too quickly - but you don't even get the chance.

The buzz of comms. The click-clack of dress shoes on concrete. A half-dozen interns, PR reps choosing that very moment to rush past. A crescendo, punctuated by your mother's voice, you think - and then they are gone. Quiet, at long last.

You sit back amongst the dirt, eyes looking up at the sky. 

“What are you doing here?” He’s exasperated.

“Smoke break.” You say simply, unable to help yourself. “What about you?”

He sighs, scooting closer. His hand is outstretched. 

“Smoke break.” He says.

Wordlessly, you pass him the pipe and lighter; watching as he takes shaky breaths. Better than last time, for sure, but he smokes like a teenager fearful of punishment: eyes on a swivel, hands restless. 

You keep your head trained to the sky, tracing outlines of clouds. Squinting, of course, lest the bright glare blinds you - you could keel over from Finnick's watchful gaze alone.

He sets the pipe down.

“How are you here?” He strains. “Is Hadrian here too?”

Your mouth goes dry. You’re drawing blanks, unable to come up with an excuse quick enough. 

“He… I’m working.” You decide to keep it short.

“Working, or hiding?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” You huff, batting away tobacco smoke and desperately avoiding eye contact.

He says your name, leaning closer. “Look at me.”

There’s something about his tone that makes you shiver - and so reluctantly, you comply. He sounds the way you feel; gravelly, fraught, and with an edge you can’t quite place. Sea-green eyes turn to steel - with a cold, murky depth akin to a swirling ocean. It’s intense, uncomfortably so. You catch the way his hands creep across to dig into the dirt next to you, the clench of his jaw, his furrowed brow. His body betrays him, as yours fails you. Your chest seizes as the facade drops. 

“Are you lying to me?” Your walls fly up at his tone: accusatory, like he doesn't lie for a living. 

“I’m–” You hesitate. He is no longer your Finnick; easygoing, charismatic, witty. He transforms: strong, corded muscle and wild eyes. 

He holds you down with a grip firm enough to cage you in.

“Who are you?” He spits. “Are you working for him?”

Your mind races at its implication. Who? Hadrian? The press? 

“Finn–” You start.

“Is he listening?”

“Finnick–” His grip tightens.

“Does he know?” 

“Fuck, Finnick.” You gasp. “You’re scaring me.”

Like the break of waves across a swollen sea, he seems to melt away. He dissipates, backing away, hands tight and drawn into his body. A moment passes, and he crumples, head in his hands to rake at blonde locs. 

“Sorry.” He mumbles. “Can’t help it, sometimes.”

Rooted to the spot, you can still feel the rush of blood to your head, pounding at your temples. With the way he shakes, with every laboured breath; you think he feels it too. But you’re scared to name it, you think. Fear. The kind you’ve seen once before: a little blonde boy covered in blood, gasping and panting with a trident in his hands. Only this time, it’s not sandwiched between the 8 o’clock news and Flickermann interviews; you can’t change the channel and hide behind its black mirror. 

“She’s my mom.” You say carefully, unable to reach across the chasm that falls just past your feet. He doesn’t seem to react, so you clarify. “Councillor Arachne. That’s why I’m here.”

He doesn’t look up. “Real or not real?”

You move towards him, and he flinches. Now, the feeling that grips your chest is guilt. It tastes sour, like the bile that rises up to the back of your throat. 

“This is my house, Finn.” You say quietly. You paw at the foliage. “These used to be roses. Pink and white; my mother used to grow them. I’ve been sneaking off to smoke here since I was fifteen.” 

Why doesn’t he say something? Fuck. 

“And I didn’t lie, Finnick. I work for Hadrian, but not because of my mom. I worked hard to get a job, and I do want to help people at the council, and–”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to–”

“Real.” You say, a little too desperately. “I swear.” 

Finnick nods, finally looking you in the eye. It’s your turn to melt, withering in the heat of his gaze. But what right does he have to judge? Why must he know everything about you? You simmer and stew, lips tight. You must look like your mother, you think bitterly; turning away.

“Look at me.” He says it softer, this time, hand tracing your jawline.

“Why?” You try not to, but are drawn to him - a moth taken in by flicker and flash. “You sure I’m not a crazy fan?”

“That's not funny.” He shakes his head, decidedly not amused.

“Really?” You’re incredulous. “Was it funny when you said it?”

“I know, I know.” He sighs, shaken. “I'm an asshole. I’m sorry.”

He is an asshole, you decide. A beat passes. And then, with fingertips glancing the shell of your ear, he says with a soft smile: “Real.” 

With the way he looks at you, you falter. Tears well up - the embarrassing, blubbering kind - hot and threatening to spill over. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He avoids the word ‘lie’, you note. 

With links to a prominent council member, there was no telling who could be listening, who could want the information you have access to. You tell yourself it's for your safety; and not guilt at the blood spilt to get you there in the first place. Hissing and spitting, it slithers up from the cracks; shame, bearing your last name and it's heavy weight. For safety, you want to say, but it rings hollow in the grounds of your gated home. 

Swallowing roughly, you croak, “It was nice to be someone else for a while.”

He nods, and you rest your head on his shoulder. It is warm from the light peeking through hedgerows. 

“Okay.” He says simply. Finnick tucks himself into you, closing his eyes to match his breath with yours.

Like the sun, you suppose, heat radiates from his chest. Rumbling and steady, you watch as it rises and falls. Drawn towards each other, he runs his hands over your bare arms, before they come to rest in yours. You gasp. A red welt peek out from his sleeves, angry and swollen. As if on instinct, he shifts and it is swallowed by linen hem. You watch carefully, tracing the freckled skin on the back of his hand. Like a flower preserved in amber, he seems so fragile, like this.

And so you bite down dangerous questions, too scared of its answers – or worse, his distinct lack of them. 

_

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[taytrashmouth]

hello lovely!! would u consider writing a peeta x reader, where ur both in the quarter quell, but reader is separated from peeta from the start and goes through mutt attacks/blood rain/jabberjays by herself and when peeta and the group find her on the beach she is injured and traumatised. hurt/comfort, where he looks after her afterwards and comforts her, washes her in the water and stuff? loooads of gentle comfort and fluff. sorry for my bad english!!

Okay I am absolutely obsessed with this request!!!! Omg can’t wait for you to read this!!! Ahhhh! Okay okay I hope you love it 😊

Peeta x reader

(Catching fire)

Requests are open so don’t forget to send them in!!!! Prompts under my profile!

:readmore:

When you woke up the morning of the games in Peetas arms you somehow felt safe. It was like you weren’t being sent to die that day. He kissed your head and told you he’d be by your side.

You had dreamt about the last games, how you were separated and the only reason you survived was because he became allies with those horrible kids from 1 & 2

When you eventually found each other, all you did was help Peeta get better, applied the ointment and comforted him. He did all the killing, he saved you.

You only survived the first half by dumb luck, that spear was supposed to hit you…not Rue. If only you hadn’t moved out the way.

The whole lovers idea was Peetas too, only it was true. Deep down you both knew you’d liked each other since kindergarten back in 12

But here you were in the little glass tube that sucked you straight into hell. You felt sick but you really wanted to throw up when you couldn’t see Peeta.

“Peeta!” You screamed as the countdown started. Sweating and getting panicked. You couldn’t do this again, not without him. You had a deal: stay together.

The games had begun. You needed a weapon. You jumped off the platform into the water swimming for the weapons.

Once you found your feet at the cornucopia, you began to hear screams and watched people start to fall. You grabbed a machete and ran for the jungle on one of the thin arms of rock.

“Peeta!” You screamed from the beach. But no answer. That was when a knife flew past your head and missed by an inch.

You couldn’t kill somebody. So you ran.

You shoved past trees and vines running deep into the jungle.

You found a spot hollowed out under a tree. It was hot- and you needed water.

That was when you heard his voice. Peeta.

You screamed for him as you ran towards the sound.

“Help n/n!” He yelled.

“Where are you!?” You frantically turned around. “Peeta?”

That was until his voice became overwhelming. Your ears started to ring. His cried for help, his screams.

You began to cry, realising this was some cruel trick of the capitol. “STOP IT!” You yelled, throat raw. You screamed as loud as you could covering your ears to get it to stop but it didn’t help. It was overwhelming. You tried to run but a forcefield locked you in. You screamed and banged on it but nothing worked.

You grabbed your machete and banged at the field but it just ricocheted.

You sunk to the floor, covering your ears and cried. You were there for what felt like a decade but was probably only an hour.

When his cries suddenly stopped you felt a strange sense of sadness. The screaming had been awful but you were worried about him. What if he was dead.

You began to walk deeper into the jungle, sweating and with tear stained cheeks. You had never been so thirsty before, after screaming so loudly in what felt like 100 degree heat.

As desperate as you were you stumbled across a little pool of water. You smiled dryly and lay on the floor, drinking out of the pool. A sigh escaped your mouth as you quenched your thirst. You splashed your face. And sat up leaning against a nearby tree.

This is where you would sleep. You gathered sticks and placed them in a circle around the area, to ensure that if someone walked by you would hear them.

The music began to play, you looked up at the sky, holding your pin. Praying you wouldn’t see Peetas face. You didn’t. Relief washed over you as the final canon went off.

You barely slept when you felt a warm air hitting your face, as your eyes opened you were greeted with a large mutt, two inches from your face.

You took a shocked, shaky breath in and slowly reached for your machete. It belted a loud noise sending a signal to the rest of his friends.

You closed your eyes as you wedged the sharp end of your blade into the mutt in-front of you.

You pulled the machete out of its body and stood up. Swinging at any that got a little to close. Just as one of the beasts began to jump at you, you decided the best option was to throw the machete and run.

As the mutt jumped and you released your blade, the woman from 6 who had been hiding in the trees tried to save you. And the machete hit her instead. A scream escaped your lips. You had killed someone.

You covered your mouth with your hands, shaky breaths escaping your lips. “No!” You sobbed.

You bent down to try help her, applying pressure to the wound. “I’m sorry.” You cried as she became limp.

You held her to your chest in the hopes it would cause a miracle.

Soon you noticed the mutts had began to run as a white smoked reached the edge of the water, you stood up, knowing something was coming.

One of their claws ripped the back of your calf open as it ran away. “Shit!” You fell into the smoke, immediately screaming and running.

The sun had started to rise, and you were limping with an excruciating pain in your arms and legs with growing boils from the poison.

You screamed as you ran not caring about attracting other tributes. The sun has begun to rise, and you were now an easy target.

You ran through the jungle searching desperately for the beach but it was so overgrown you had no way of knowing.

You stopped in a small clearing. Crying and sitting in the dirt. Desperately wanting to rid yourself of the boils.

After a while of crying A cool liquid hit your face. Rain. You looked up at the sky, hoping the water would help your sores. Opening your mouth to quench your thirst.

It was definitely not water. You gagged. Spitting onto the dirt. Blood.

You sobbed and ran wherever you could and tripped over a log of wood. Tumbling onto the sand of the beach. 

You screamed and cried. Not knowing what to do. You hated the capitol. You hated that you didn’t know where Peeta was. You hated this. You hated that you had to die.

Just then you heard voices. You put a hand over your mouth trying to quiet your whimpers.

Tears running down your face. You couldn’t run anymore. This was it.

You shuffled back, trying to find and escape route but there wasn’t one.

You got on all fours and crawled on the sand, dragging your leg with a gash in it in the sand.

You let out chokes of pain and self pity as they grew closer, you refused to look.

“N/n!” You heard him…peeta. “Oh my god it’s y/n!!!”

You screamed and covered your ears lying in the sand. You would rather die than listen to the jabberjays again. Until someone rolled you onto your back and you were met with Peeta.

He looked so scared for you. You immediately started to cry as he hugged you tightly to his chest. “You weren’t real.” You sobbed into his chest, feeling his hair, his back, anything to make sure he was there.

“I’m real now. I’m here now.” He kissed your forehead and held you again. Until you hissed when he touched your boils.

“Oh shit! I had them too see-“ he showed you the faint scars on his hands.

“I need to get freshwater.” He began to get up but you held onto his hand. “Don’t leave” you whispered.

He stared at you for a moment too long, his eyes laced with concern.

“Finnick! I need water.” Peeta yelled at the group that was a safe distance away.

While you waited, Peeta brushed hair out of your eyes that was covered in blood and sand, just like the rest of you and you squeezed his arm in pain.

“It’s okay.” He kept repeating. Kissing your head despite your state.

When finnick returned Peeta poured water all over your boils and you screamed in pain as they vanished.

“Thank you.” You smiled sadly. Overwhelmed. Peeta often said you were a kind sole, you wouldn’t hurt a fly at home, literally. You sang songs and picked flowers. You weren’t meant for this. Nobody was really….

“Come on, let’s wash you off…if at least half this blood is yours, we’re in serious trouble.” He joked and you attempted to laugh. He picked you up bridal style.

You would argue that you could do it yourself but it just wasn’t true.

He dipped you into the salt water. You hissed in pain, clutching his wetsuit.

“I know it stings. I’m sorry.” He rubbed your arm but kept you underwater.

“It okay. Thank you.” You whispered again, almost scared something bad would happen like it had been. One after the other. Peeta cupped water into his hand and tilted your head back rinsing the blood out of your hair and carefully brushing through it with his fingers.

He washed you off, holding you with one had at all times. Afraid to let you go. He was careful around your cuts and scrapes.

“I killed her.” You let out, staring at nothing.

He stopped his movements and just helped you too his chest.

“Who?” He whispered.

“Six… she tried to save me and-“ you chocked on your tears.

“Hey hey hey, it’s okay…I’m here. You don’t have to talk about it now.” He assured.

You were both wrinkly like the raisins Peeta used in his raisin bread back home by the time you got out the water.

You tried to walk but you could barely stand on your right foot.

“What happened?” Finnick asked before Peeta got the chance.

“Mutts.” You answered simply, trying to see the gash on the back of your calf.

You almost fell but Peeta caught you. He picked you up agin and placed you on the leaves they were using as beds in the sand tonight.

“Now we match.” Peeta smiled at you pulling up the leg of his wetsuit to reveal his prosthetic leg.

You laughed, for the first time in days.

The others were asleep while Peeta took the first watch. You sat in his lap, and wrapped your legs around his torso, like a koala.

Head on his chest listening to his heartbeat as he leaned against a tree looking at the waves.

“I thought I lost you.” He whispered, a tear running down his face. You sat up slightly to wipe it. “Me too.” You assured and squeezed his hand.

“So much for sticking together.” He half laughed.

“Yeah.” You looked at his brown eyes and played with his blonde fringe. He leaned in and Kissed you gently but passionately. Holding your cheek and pulling you in by your back. Carefully avoiding your right leg that was tediously bandaged with leaves and vines.

When you broke apart for air. You smiled softly at each other. Heart still heavy from the past two days.

“I love you n/n.” He spoke with only truth in his tone. It wasn’t just an act and you knew that.

“I love you too…so much.” You teared up thinking about how you were going to have to say goodbye soon.

You resumed your position on his chest and fell asleep to his hand rubbing your back and his whispers of “it’s okay.” And “I love you.”

[ama0310]

The President's Daughter

Character: Finnick Odair

Requested: No

Type: Angst/Fluff

Summary: Arianna Flemings-Snow, the adopted daughter of Coriolanus Snow, bravely volunteers for the 75th Annual Hunger Games. Yet, her courage comes at the cost of confronting not only the repercussions of re-entering the deadly arena but also the profound challenge of sharing it with the man she passionately loves.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Finnick Odair, right?” 

Haymitch nods points towards the screen, “ Yes, he won his games at fourteen. Youngest ever. Extremely humble.” 

“You’re kidding right?” He looked like the most narcissistic show off known to man. His stance. His waves. His stupid smirk. He looked as if he were happy to be returning. 

“Yes I’m kidding. He’s a...” Haymitch dramatically flips his hair” …peacock. A total preener but he’s the Capitol darling. They love him here. Charming , smart, and very skilled at combat—especially in water.”

Peta leans forward glancing at the screen, “What about weaknesses?” 

“Well two. First Mags.” A frail looking wrinkly woman pops on the screen. “ She volunteered for Annie. Mags was his mentor and basically raised him. If he’s trying to protect her in any way it exposes him.” 

Katniss stares at the screen seeing the women bravely volunteer for the young girl in hysterics, “A guy like that has to know she’s not going to make it. I bet when it really comes down to it, he won’t protect her. 

Sadness flashes through Haymitch’s eyes, “Well Katniss,  I just hope when she goes…she goes quickly. She’s actually a wonderful lady.” 

The silence fills the room before Peta asks, “And his other weakness?” 

Haymitch lightly smirks before passing  to the next district when a beautiful girl with hair as white as snow comes up. “ District 5. Arianna Flemings. Mostly known as...”

“President Snow’s daughter?” Katniss snaps her head to Haymitch. Eyes widened. 

He tilts his head a bit. “Adopted. She won her games at fifteen. Everyone and I mean everyone fell in love with her. She was the purest of the pure. The cutest of the cute. And the most dangerous of the danger. After one of the tributes killed her district partner all hell broke loose and she murdered the last seven remaining tributes within two hours with one. singular. knife.”

Peta shook his head in disbelief, “If he adopted her then that means he has to have some sort of heart. And he’s letting her go back to the games?” 

Haymitch holds out his hand signaling for the kid to stop talking, “Well, there were rumors about Snow not really adding Arianna’s name into the reaping; however, when her childhood friend was reaped she immediately volunteered. Flabbergasted everyone.” The video shows Arianna immediately protesting and volunteering the moment her friend’s name dropped. The horror on everyone’s face was telling how much the district loved her. 

He cleared his throat and continued, “ I imagined Snow wasn't really happy about that. That’s what he gets for adopting a victor when he’s the leader of these games." He shrugs. "Arianna is very captivating. Even Snow’s heart had to have melt for that young girl. Took her right under his wing. Obviously she was treated like a victor but most importantly she was treated like a Capitol.” 

“If his daughter is that important wouldn’t he know that during the games people will be targeting his daughter. Who wouldn’t if his daughter means that much to him.” 

That’s when Haymtich shook his head, “ Because my dear little Katniss… A) he calls the shots. If you haven’t realized everything in the games are controlled by him and people that love her. He’ll be hovering over you all the entire time. B) She’s a skilled competitor. Again seven tributes dead in two hours by the hands of a 110 pound fifteen year old, hello people keep up. Since then she’s never eased on her training. Obviously she’s bound to have enemies because of her father so she never stopped. Really good using her resources, excellent with knives, basically insanely dangerous. C) Finnick Odair. Both basically spent the last nine years together. Everyone thinks they’re together, but are keeping it hidden because of her father. I’m sure the President feels a lot better having Finnick with her knowing that he would risk his entire life for her. However don’t think it’ll make it easy to kill them. While you two are faking it. They—“ He points to the screen. “Are real. You hurt her and not only will you have Snow on your asses, but a trident in your chest. You hurt him and you’d have knives shoved up every hole in your body. They’re each other’s weaknesses but also strengths. They are who you want to be allies with. I’m serious Katniss don’t mess this up.” 

~~~~~~~

Arianna couldn’t breathe in her dress. It’s not that it’s too tight (which it actually is), but more-so that she’s again back to where she was those many years ago. 

“Breathe. Breathe. Breathe” She lightly whispers under her breath while entering to where all the other Victors were.  She was wearing a beautiful white gown with red lace at the top. Her red make-up contrasting her snow-white features. 

“Isn’t it Snow’s precious girl. Miss Flemings never thought I would have to see you back in the games.” She turns around and sees Gloss from Tribute 1. 

“You and me both. Don’t you look as charming as ever.” She smiles graciously wrapping her arms around her friend. “Where’s Cash?” 

He smiles and points behind him, “Getting the gang back together. Should we be expecting you to join us?” 

Her eyes immediately try to find the one person she truly wanted to ally with. “Gloss I would love to, but I have to check with Finnick. You know wherever he goes I go.”

He nods understanding completely, “And I admire your loyalty. Please try to get him on our side. We really don’t want to have to go against either of you.” 

She nods smiling softly at the man, “Speaking of Finnick do you know where he might be. He wasn’t with Mags.” 

The guy pointed behind her making her turn, “I guess he’s already trying to get the Girl on Fire on his side…without telling you?” 

Arianna lightly hit him, “Glossy I love you, but I hope you weren’t trying to turn me against Finnick. Like you said before I am extremely loyal.” 

He chuckles before backing away, “ Didn’t hurt to try. Now go to lover boy, but please remember what I said.” 

She watches him go back to the Career pack and lightly waves at them before heading towards the duo. 

“Then how do people pay for the pleasure of your company?” If only she knew the truth. 

She sees him lean forward, making the Girl on Fire look uncomfortable  “With secrets” 

Arianna thought it was the perfect time to break the tension especially since she wanted to talk to the golden boy before they had to parade themselves. “Nicky, we went over this so many times, you should never try to get with an engaged woman. Very inappropriate.” She wraps her arm his waist looking up at him. His smirk turned into a genuine smile. 

He immediately looked down at the young girl smirking, “Arianna, you know I’d never try to get with anyone else but you.” 

She lightly smacks his chest before looking over the girl staring curiously at the duo, “ Arianna Flemings.” She sticks her hand out smiling as Katniss took it. “ My niece absolutely loves you. She always wanted to meet you, my father never really introduced us, but you know how he is. You look absolutely beautiful by the way.”  

Katniss couldn’t help but like the girl in front of her. Though the fact that she is someone that Snow cares about keeps nagging at her, the girl alone seems genuine. “I’m Katniss. I saw your games. Very impressive.” Her curt response made Arianna look at Finnick then back at the girl.

“Thank you and your game was also very impressive.” She smiles and then turns her attention to the man next to her. “Nicky, can I talk to you over there please?” 

His gaze went to his angel and then to the girl who’s staring at them, “I’ll be there in a second need to wrap up my introduction to the Girl on Fire.” 

Arianna rolled her eyes playfully before turning to Katniss, “It was really nice to meet you.”

The two stared as Arianna glides away elegantly. Finnick leans towards the girl with a smile, “She is off limits. You hurt her and I’ll gladly pay back the favor with your fiancé while you watch and die an agonizing death. Got that? ” Before she can answer he backs away going to find his girl. 

He finally sees her talking to her district partner and then shoos him away. "Nicky? Did you really had to use that name? "

Her gaze filled with mischief yet care had him wrapped around her finger, "There's Nick, Nickey, Finnley, Finnerson, Fin-"

"Okay we get it, but there's only one name I like hearing you call me." He leans closer.

"Mon amour" She smirks before lightly pushing him back. "That's only reserved when we aren't about to dive head first into our deaths."

His smile drops, " You are not dying. Snow will not allow it and neither will I."

She caresses his face, "Finnick these are how the games are. Though my father cares for me he wants to destroy the girl even more."

He lightly glares at the girl, gripping her waist a bit tighter. " Why did you have to volunteer dammit. Everything was going to be fine, but you just had to volunteer. Why on earth did you even do that?"

She glances around noticing that people are getting on their carriage to start the parade. " I had to, love. But it's okay. I promise you, it will be okay."

The sincerity in her eyes truly made him believe it was all going to be fine even though his heart knew it wasn't.

They finally break eye contact when her partner tells her that the parade is about to start. "Better get on your carriage Snow White looks like Prince Charming needs you."

She kisses him on the cheek, "I'm not into Princes, I prefer fishermen" winking and getting on her carriage.

They both know that no matter what happens in the ring. Capitol be dam. Districts be dam. Both their goal is to protect one another no matter what the cost is.

[redwinetalks]

I Won't Let You Sink

Chapter 3

(Previous Chapter)

Word Count: 5.2k

Pairing: Finnick X Fem!OC

Warnings: slight self harm, angst, fluff , protective Finnick, Finnick is a sap, panic attack, violence/gore, death, hurt/comfort, pre-canon, young Finnick and Silk, Silk AND Finnick pov

Summary: It's the next year of the Hunger Games. Silk is a mentor now and Finnick will not let her go through this alone!!

*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°

~ Silk ~

The old apartment mom and I lived in didn’t have many windows, but that hardly matters when you barely see the sun in the sky. If you live closer to factories, the smog is so thick that you never see the blue in the sky. Victor’s Village is at the edge of town so the air quality is better. There’s still smog, but I can see the sky. The sun doesn’t have to try as hard to come out. It shines in my face and wakes me almost instantly. I’m still getting used to the brightness and the warmth that it brings me, but it feels inviting. It feels familiar. My mouth twitches into a small smile whenever the sun wakes me up. Like a good friend has come to visit and take the darkness away. 

I feel the sun’s comfort even on the days I have to leave for the Capitol. It tells me that I’ll be back soon and I won’t lose that warmth. I will find it in Finnick O’dair. Maybe it’s because he himself is always so warm. His hands are warm when he places one on my cheek to ease my anxiety. His chest and his arms are warm when he pulls me into calming hug. His legs are warm when one brushes up again mine as we sit together. Every time I feel Finnick’s warmth I’m reminded of the sun. 

We’ve grown closer with each visit to the Capitol. We regularly find each other when one of us is needing a moment to breathe. I think we’ve developed a sense for when it happens. I think Finnick likes it when I look to him for a way out of a dull conversation. He always dramatically whisks me away, playing hero. 

Finnick is so much different than the persona he turns on for everyone else. He isn’t arrogant or self centered at all. The real Finnick always wants to focus on how I’m feeling instead of himself. He can get so worked up and always wants to help anyone in need. It took me a bit to grow fully comfortable with his care, to let him in. I’ve never had someone worry over me the way he does. 

However, Finnick never wants me to worry over him. He has this idea in his head that he’s supposed to be the caretaker. That his own troubles are irrelevant. It’s like pulling teeth, getting him to be truly vulnerable. I never push too hard as I don’t want to overstep, but I can tell he wants the comfort. It’s almost as if he feels like he doesn’t deserve it. I can only imagine all of the feelings he has shut inside. With each visit I try to open that door a bit more. 

I don’t dread my train ride to the Capitol in the same way I used to. I would panic and I could never sleep leading up to my visits. I still feel that gut wrenching anxiety, and I always will, but now I don’t have to go through it alone. I now can give myself assurance that there will be a shoulder I can lean on. There’s someone who can look at me and understand the pain that I feel. I don’t have to see myself in the mirror falling apart when someone will come help me pick up the pieces. 

This doesn’t mean that what happens at the Capitol is no longer traumatic. It is still very much so. I will never get used to the pain. The way these people look at me and don’t see a real person. They don’t see a human being that deserves life. They see someone who won their favorite show. A prize that they can play with. They can customize me in almost every way. They pick what I wear, what makeup is put on me, how my hair is done. They give me instructions on how to behave and how to give them their fantasy. They don’t see anything wrong with it and they never will. 

“Don’t get lost in there, sweetheart.” Finnick sits next to me on the couch in his room, twirling a piece of my hair. 

“How was your shower?” I turn to give him my attention. His blonde hair is still damp and a few wavy strands rest on his forehead. 

“Not scalding enough.” he jokes. “Did ya miss me? I’m sure those twenty minutes were quite boring.” 

“Nope.” I say, popping the “p”. “Barely even noticed.” 

“I’m hurt, sweetheart.” He puts his hand on his chest and gives me a sad, pouty expression. 

“So dramatic. One girl turns you down and suddenly your ego is shattered.” 

“Only when it’s you, beautiful.” He smirks at me and I can feel the warmth creeping up my face. Finnick is the only person who has ever given me this kind of warmth. It still surprises me every time, this feeling I’ve never felt before. 

“You’ll get over it.” I shrug him, and the feeling, off and then turn to look back at the night sky.  He laughs to himself and sighs. 

“Did you know I’d never seen the stars before coming to the Capitol?” I suddenly say. Finnick faces me with a look of shock. 

“What? How is that?” I smile, his surprised expression making me laugh softly. 

“I’ve seen them in pictures but, you know how I told you the water at the shore in 8 is polluted?” He nods, now giving me a more focused expression. “Well, the sky is too. The factories cause the air to be polluted as well. There’s this smog that makes the sky look all hazy. During the day I can barely tell that the sky is blue. And at night, I can’t see any stars at all. I didn’t know that they were this beautiful.” I’m still gazing at them. They’re so much brighter than I thought they’d be. Finnick turns to look at them as well.

“They are, but you’re far more beautiful.” He says this so genuinely. I look at him surprised, yet confused. I’m taken aback. It’s not like Finnick hasn’t given me a compliment before. He’s kind and charming. He knows how to make someone feel seen. But this feels different. His tone doesn’t sound flirtatious, like it usually does when he gives a compliment. It’s much sweeter, much softer. He doesn’t give me enough time to dwell on it before he continues speaking. “When I’m home in 4, I sit on the beach and watch the stars almost every night. It’s so peaceful, watching the sun go down and then seeing the moon glow so bright. The sky goes from light blue to a vibrant orange or a soothing purple. And then it turns this dark blue, almost black. The contrast of the night sky and the sparkling stars can be breathtaking. One day, when you visit me, we can stargaze together.” 

A pang of jealousy hits me. As much as I love my home, it hasn’t been able to give me these wondrous experiences. The labor that is forced upon us all in Panem affects how we get to experience life. And unfortunately, I didn’t get to grow up in district 4. I didn’t grow up in a district with clear skies. I grew up in a district where being outside for too long can make it difficult to breathe. Sometimes I feel like 8 gets punished the most because of our rebellious nature, but I know that every district struggles with their own hardships caused by the Capitol. It isn’t fair of me to compare us all. I know that I’m just feeling bitter, now more than ever. 

“I don’t think I can be too hopeful of that.” He frowns at me. I know that he’s trying to give me something positive to think about, but my mind won’t allow me to dream. “How could I dream of something so wonderful when I know it’ll never happen?” He takes my hand and squeezes tight. 

“Come with me.” He gets off the couch and leads me out of the bedroom and onto the balcony. I don’t question what he’s doing. As I get to know Finnick, I learn how he goes to any dramatic lengths to help me feel better. His heart is so big. The fact that he hasn’t lost who he is to the Capitol’s torture makes him one of the strongest people I know. 

He ushers me to sit on the ground next to him. When I do, he then lays on his back and I copy him. I look at his eyes. Even at night I swear that they sparkle. 

“Look up, pretty girl.” I smile softly at him and then do as he says. “If I can’t yet take you to gaze at the stars in 4, then I’ll take this for now.” He holds my hand and then the few tears that I have been holding in finally let go. The night sky is vast and breathtaking, just like he said. I’ve never just taken a second to look at it like this. 

“Thank you” I say in almost a whisper. 

“I will always do whatever I can to bring a smile to your face.” He says and twirls a strand of my hair again. I turn back to face him and I’m looking into those sea green eyes. I watch them as they study my face. We both stay like this for a while, still holding hands. I feel a tightness in my chest. It’s like a pull towards Finnick, but I choose to ignore it. I let the moment continue to be just this. Just us looking at each other and feeling like we are the only people in the world. I’ve never felt the way I do now, but I would like this feeling to stay forever. It feels so comforting. I feel safe here. In this little world that is just me and Finnick. 

In the middle of the mattress, Finnick’s hand still holds onto mine. This is the first time we’ve fallen asleep right next to each other. He usually sleeps on the floor, going against my protests. But tonight, we lay in the bed. The bed that I used to be so afraid of. It doesn’t feel as scary with Finnick here. He seems to make all of my troubles fade into the back of my mind. I could never thank him enough for keeping me from sinking into that dark abyss. The next time I see him I’ll be a mentor. We won’t be back at the Capitol for parties, we’ll be back for the 69th annual Hunger Games. It is utterly terrifying that I will be the one guiding tributes, but he’s told me how he won’t let me go through it alone. He will be beside me every second he can, and I hope that I can make the year less daunting for him as well. 

*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°

The day of the reaping is finally here. The leading up to it felt somehow fast and slow at the same time. Today I get to relive the trauma of being selected by seeing two kids walk to the stage with the same gut wrenching fear that I had. I am terrified for them and terrified that I will let them down. Even if I do my job to the best of my ability, only one will come home. I will still lose one of my own. I don’t know how I’ll be able to get off the train and face everyone when I return home. 

District 8 is the sixth largest district. I know mainly just the people who’ve worked in the factories near me or live close to my home. My old home. I’m familiar with some who I see frequently in the heart of the district. Where people sell food or an assortment of clothes and items at their separate stalls. That doesn’t matter so much, though. It’s not better for someone I know or don’t know to be picked. Either way a child is going to die and a family is going to suffer. I don’t know how Cecilia pushes through. Woof, the other victor in 8, isn’t all there. She’s basically on her own. His dementia has caused him to be less and less involved. A part of me is happy for him that he is losing his memories. Maybe he’s losing the worst ones and is actually living peacefully. That’s what I would like to believe. 

I wonder how Cecilia feels today. How did she feel when she was mentoring me? How did she feel when Pinn, my district partner, died? How does it feel doing this year after year, especially now that she has children of her own. One day her children will be old enough to be reaped. I can’t even imagine the fear of having to mentor your own child. The thoughts swirling around in my head make me dizzy. 

I wince when I realize I’ve been digging my nails into my palm. I haven’t done that in a while. Finnick stops me whenever he notices and the habit has slowly started to break. However, it seems like I’m picking it back up with the additional stress. 

“Honey, are you ready?” My mom peaks through my door and looks at me with a sad smile. She holds my sweater over her arm. It’s one that she knit for me during a sleepless night. When I was away for one of my trips to the Capitol. She still doesn’t know the whole reason that I have to go. She tries to get the answer out of me every few weeks, but I never let myself reveal the truth. It’s just meaningless parties that I have to attend as a victor. I know she doesn’t believe me, but for now that’s all I can give her. 

“Just about.” I sigh, looking at myself in the mirror. I use a scarf to keep the hair out of my face for today. The green details complement the dark purple color of my dress. I wanted to wear some of my favorite colors, thinking they’d somehow make me feel more positive. But nothing about today will be positive. 

“You’re going to get through this. You are stronger than they know. You’ll have Cecilia with you. And Finnick when you get to the Capitol.” I nod and mom pulls me in for a hug. She squeezes me tight and kisses my head. “I’ll be in the crowd, but I won’t get to say goodbye before you leave. You’ll be back home in a few weeks. No matter how bad it gets just remember that this time you’re coming home.” She holds my cheek in her hand and rubs her thumb back and forth. I look at her and keep nodding. I’m coming home this time. 

Standing beside Cecilia, I watch all the kids fall in line. It’s such a weird feeling, not being part of that line. Not being part of the rows and rows of young girls. I should feel some kind of relief. I no longer have to worry about my name being called, but I still feel that worry. It’s just different. It’s now about who will be called on for me to mentor. 

Cecilia must sense the anxiety radiating off of me because she starts to rub my back. I look to her and she gives me a kind smile. She doesn’t have to say anything to me. I know that she’s telling me I’ll be okay. I’ll get through it. After all these years, Cecilia is still standing. She has a loving husband and two beautiful children. Watching her gives me a sense of hope that I could have a happy future. It’s hard to see right now, but maybe one day I’ll eventually be okay. 

I shake myself from my thoughts and see they’ve chosen a female tribute. I don’t know her, but she looks to be about 12 years old. Her first year in the reaping and she’s been picked. She’s already crying and the escort, Veridie, is smiling as wide and brightly as possible. I clench my fists. The anger I feel growing inside of me is indescribable. 

She glides over to the other bowl to pick the male tribute name. I’m trying not to start hyperventilating. I need to look as calm as possible. I’ve done this before. I didn’t allow myself to react at my own reaping. Why is it so much harder now? Because these kids are going to be looking up to me to survive. The pressure is so heavy. It feels like I’m being pushed into the ground. 

My eyes focus on Veridie as she shouts the male tribute’s name and I realize I know this tribute. We went to school together and worked in the same factory. He’s the same age as me, 18. He was so close making it. So close to being free. 

The panic is rising in my chest. I can feel tears brimming in my eyes, but I quickly blink them away. I feel horrible. I can’t do this. How the fuck am I supposed to do this?

*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°

~ Finnick ~

The train ride to the Capitol was the same as it is every year. The air is tense as I explain the hell my tributes are about to go through. I teach them about getting sponsors and making allies while Mags tries to do some consoling. 

I wonder how Silk is doing right now. I wish I was with her right now. I wish I could try to ease her distress. I’m afraid she’ll be more closed off when I finally see her. She doesn’t want to look weak. She doesn’t want for people to be able to read her, but I know how strong she is. How she’s feeling right now doesn’t make her weak. She’s always able to hold herself together when she knows she’s being watched. That takes an enormous amount of strength. I don’t want her to feel like she has to be that strong around me. I don’t want her to close herself back up after I’ve finally helped her relax. 

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the last night I saw her. She looked so beautiful in the glow of the night sky. With her hand in mine, I felt an electricity shooting up my body. I never wanted to let her go. And when she looked at me. I could have kissed her right there. I wish I had swept her up in my arms, but I don’t know how she feels. I don’t want her to feel comfortable with me now and then ruin it all. Her hand in mine is enough. I never want to let her go. 

I still haven’t seen Silk after arriving at the Capitol. The opening ceremony will be happening soon and I’m hoping to catch her. I just need to see how she’s holding up. 

Mags keeps teasing me about how I’ve been so distracted. She continues to do so while I’m looking around the carriages. I spot Cecilia, but I’m struggling to find Silk. I stifle a laugh, thinking about how her short stature is probably the reason I don’t see her. 

I make my way to Cecilia. If I can’t find Silk I can at least ask about her. As I’m almost to the older mentor, I finally spot her. She looks even more beautiful than the last time I saw her. She’s talking to her female tribute. I see the kindness in her eyes as she tells the girl what to expect. Even though this child is a spectacle to the Capitol, Silk tries to make it sound more magical. She tells the girl how lovely she looks and that being on the carriage feels like gliding through the air. 

“Go show everyone out there how strong you are. I’ll be right here when you get back.” She rubs the girls arm and then guides her onto the carriage. When she turns back around she locks eyes with me. 

“Finnick” she says with a sweet smile. My heartbeat speeds up a little, her focus now being on me. 

“Hello, sweetheart. Want a sugar cube?” Her brow furrows and I let out a breath of a laugh. “They’re for the horses, but I think you deserve a treat just as sweet as you.” She rolls her eyes, as she usually does when I flirt with her, but then takes it. She pops it into her mouth and I can’t help but look at her lips. I bet they taste just as sweet as that sugar. I take a deep breath to try and keep my focus. A task that proves to be difficult whenever I’m around her. 

“Thank you.” She doesn’t say more than that. She has on a brave face, but I think that’s all she can give right now. 

“How are you holding up? It’s been a long day.”

“It’s been…okay” She says distantly. She’s looking just next to me, eyes lost in space. Her mind must be racing. 

“Anything going on in that beautiful head of yours that you’d want to talk about?” 

“Finnick…how do I do this?” Her eyes now stare directly into mine and I feel heavy. How do you prepare kids to go and fight to the death? There’s no real answer to that question, but she knows that. If there was an answer I would’ve told her immediately. So would Cecilia. What she’s really asking is how do you cope? How do you keep from breaking down every second? 

“You just…you have to push through this first year. It’ll still be hard next year and so on, but you learn the routine. You know what to expect and it makes it easier to process.” I rub her arm and she hums a response. I want to give her more comfort, but I don’t want to overwhelm her. We’re in too public of a space for me to fully embrace her. “You’ll be okay, though. I’m here if you need anything at all, sweet girl. I mean that.” Her lips twitch up into the softest smile. Her hand cups my cheek and I could almost melt into her touch. 

“I know, sweet Finnick.” 

*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*

~ Silk ~

After the long days of training and interviews end, the watch party starts and I sit next to Cecilia. Her demeanor has gotten more tense throughout these past few days. I know she’s feeling drained and I wish I could be more help. She’s told me not to worry about it. She just wants me to try and get through this first year the best that I can. 

We’re in a room full of mentors from the other districts. Finnick is sitting with Mags. He’s tying and untying knots into some rope and I assume it’s to help with stress. I see Haymitch in the corner drowning himself in liquor and I wonder if I’ll have to drink like that to get through these trips in the future. I hope it doesn’t come to that, but I don’t think I’d be surprised if it does. It’ll just mean I have something in common with my father. 

The countdown is starting and I’m gripping the couch cushions. I don’t know what to expect. If I’m being honest with myself, my tributes don’t stand a good chance at winning. Both of their training scores were low. Not impressive enough to get any sponsors. It’s horrible, but I know that they’ll die. I just hope it’s quick and painless. That’s all you can really wish for. 

The games start and everything is moving so quickly. I can barely even keep track of where my tributes are. I hear the canon going off over and over. Cecilia gasps quietly and holds onto my hand. When I look to see what has happened, I feel like the air has been punched out of me. That little girl, my tribute, is dead on the ground with an axe in her head. Just a few feet away my other tribute is falling to the ground after being stabbed by a career. 

“Cecilia” I don’t know what to do. I feel like the room is spinning. “Um…I think I need to take a minute.” 

“There’s a bathroom just outside the door. Take however much time you need. I’ll go grab some water.” She rubs my arm and then helps me stand. I try to walk as calmly as I can out of the room. As soon as the doors close behind me I rush into the bathroom and start hyperventilating. There are no tears flowing, there’s only panic. Panic from me not doing enough to help them. Panic from having to watch their gruesome murders. Panic from failing them. Everything around me is spinning and I feel my stomach churning. 

“Silk? Can I come in?” That’s not Cecilia. I’m too upset to be able to focus. I don’t even answer. I just keep failing at trying to breathe. 

I whip my head at the door as it slightly opens. Finnick peaks in calmly and then shifts into extreme worry once he sees me. 

“Hey, hey it’s okay. You’re okay. Look at me.” He holds onto my arms and locks eyes with me. I shake my head at him. 

“They’re dead. They’re dead, Finnick. And I couldn’t help them.” He pulls me into a tight embrace. He has one hand on my head and the other rubbing my back. Even at the Capitol he still smells of salty air. 

“It’s not your fault, Silk. None of this is your fault.” I’m still shaking and my breathing is still rapid. I hear what he’s telling me but I can’t process it. The panic in my stomach is rising. 

“I’m gonna be sick.” I mumble and push him away. I rush over to the toilet and then I feel Finnick’s hands grab my hair out of my face. He sits next to me and continues to rub my back. “You don’t have to stay in here.” I say, breathily. 

“I’m not going anywhere, sweet girl.” I sigh deeply and then flush away the sickness. I still feel awful, but at least the anxiety attack has ceased. 

He hands me a glass of water and I gladly take it. I clean myself up at the sink and then slowly sip on the water. Finnick stays close by, hand still on my back. I feel calmer now that he is here. I feel the warmth that he brings with him. I lean my head against his chest and he kisses the top of my head. Somehow, even during this horrendous night, he still makes my heart swell. 

“Why don’t we go and look at the stars, huh?” He runs his hand through my hair and I nod, still leaning on him. He guides me out of the bathroom and upstairs to his room. 

Once inside, he grabs a blanket and wraps it around me. We walk out to the balcony and the warm air hits my face. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Finnick pulls me close to him and I feel myself letting go of some tension.

I wonder how I’d be doing right now if I never met Finnick. I wonder if my nights alone at the Capitol would start to drive me to insanity. There’s a part of me that is afraid of much he means to me. How it feels like I need him. I want to be strong enough to hold myself up, but that isn’t how people work. Pushing others away only makes things worse. I’ve always been afraid of letting people in. I usually keep to myself. The only person who truly knows me is my mother, but I think Finnick is starting to know me. Really know me. That fills me up with so much anxiety. But it’s not really the bad kind. It’s more of a feeling of want. I want Finnick to stay in my life for a long time. 

“I wish I lived amongst the stars.” I say while we both stare at the sky. “I want to be the moon and feel the sun shining on me, making the me glow.” He looks down at me while listening intently. I feel like Finnick is always shining. And his sunshine makes me glow. He casts away the darkness. “You’re the sun, Finnick. You are so bright and so beautiful.” I run my hand through his hair and then rest it on his cheek. He’s smiling and I rub my thumb over the dimple that appears. My eyes rest on his lips and I feel that pull that I felt last time we looked at the stars. This time though, I don’t want to keep the moment still. I don’t want to resist the pull. 

I raise myself up on my tiptoes and pull his face towards mine. I close my eyes and kiss him. I breathe in his sea salty lips that have a hint of sweetness from a sugar cube. One of his arms holds onto my back while the other tightly wraps around my torso, and there is nothing else in the world. It is just me and Finnick and the stars. 

Our kiss eventually breaks, but he doesn’t move his face away. His forehead stays resting on mine. 

“Silk…” he says breathlessly. His cheeks are flushed and his sea green eyes are locked onto mine. I wait for him to continue speaking, but he doesn’t. He pulls me in for another kiss. This time feels even more passionate. He holds me even tighter and my feet are just barely touching the ground. 

“For the past two years, I thought I’d never feel true happiness again. I was completely defeated.” He starts and I’m now back to standing fully on the ground. “Meeting you has felt like a dream. You bring me serenity amidst all the despair I have endured. Your glow, your incandescent light has guided me out of that pit I fell into. I can’t express how grateful I am to have you in my life.” He still has one hand around my torso, keeping me close, but now his other hand brushes through my hair and then rests just between my jaw and neck. He glides his thumb over my lips and then traces my cheek. I smile and then breathe out a light laugh. 

“Such a sweet talker.” He gives me the eye roll that I’m always giving him, but then he laughs and kisses my head. 

“I have to keep up the dramatics for you, pretty girl.” I hum happily in response. We stay like this for a minute, just holding each other. I think back to the reason we’re up here in the first place. My face falls and I squeeze Finnick a bit tighter. 

“Thank you for helping me get through all of this. Especially tonight.”

“I wasn’t going to break my promise to you. I am here for you and I always will be.” 

*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°

Thank you so much for reading! I had some rough writer's block for this one sooo hope its okayyyy. I hope you enjoyed :) As always I am open to kind feedback. Also let me know if you’d like to be tagged for the next chapter!! <3

Tag list <3

@yourmumstoyboy2-blog @ghoulbabs @lusy98 @marvelescvpe @simplymurdock @marcyss @miserablebl00d @wife-of-all-dilfs @mrsnancywheeler @princessofyourmom @babypaperwitch @stxr-slut

[brookesophelias]

thg & nine little things

1. there is something so fucked up about writing Mature-rated fanfiction featuring sexual acts with Coriolanus Snow but never understanding he is the fictional version of Hitler, Stalin, Zedong, & Mussolini, Franco & Il-sung

2. there is something so fucked up about knowing that Finnick was prostituted by thousands & still Mature-rated fanfiction featuring sexual acts with Finnick Odair & yourselves.

3. there is something so fucked up about writing YA Fanfictions that are Submit-Your-Own-Tribute Games to this day.

4. there is something so fucked up in knowing people hated The Hunger Games, even in the Capitol—in the early days, too—& writing our own FanFictions of the gore & deaths because we want more

5. there is something so fucked up in knowing how barely-alive these 10th Games Tributes were while they were expected to perform & treated inhumanly, except not understanding that Black Lives Matter & Gazans deserve to live without genocide.

6. there is something so fucked up about saying Peeta & Katniss deserve a happy ending & then when the author gives you what you asked for, you have a long list of reasons why it shouldn’t be canon

7. there is something so fucked up about knowing servers get sexually harassed by customers or get more tips when they change their hairstyle/makeup & Mature-rated fanfiction featuring sexual acts between Glimmer & Seneca Crane.

8. there is something so fucked up about protesting Avoxes but telling people to never complain about an opportunity or their employers.

9. there is something so fucked about hating the injustices in daily life while consuming The Hunger Games Novels, only to reduce its importance by avoiding messages other than the ‘shipping.

[countrymusiclover]

7 - The Games - Day One

Part 8

Are You Capitol or District

Tag list ( send an ask in my ask box to be added ) @lemonluvgirl @virtualsweetsdreamer @emma-andrea1 @voiddylanobrosey @kmc1989 @tallrock35 @agentxx92

“Now the time has come for us to select one courageous young man and woman. For the honor of representing District 12 in the 74th annual Hunger Games.” Sitting in my father’s chair in front of the tv screen I nervously watched the Reaping of the 74th Hunger Games. Effie trinket drew out a name from the female bowl heading back over to the microphone. “Primrose Everdeen.”

“Oh my god no!” Covering my mouth with my hands I saw the young blonde haired girl walk through the crowd. Being able to see she had to only be 12 years old.

Prim spun around on her feet with the cameras showing a older girl with dark brown hair rushing towards her with the peacekeepers began to stop her. “Prim! Prim, no, no, I volunteer. I volunteer - I volunteer as tribute!”

“I believe we had a volunteer.” Effi declared to the crowd.

The peacekeepers let the two hug before the older girl told the young one to get out of there. “Prim, you need to get out of here.”

“No.”

She told her again. “Go find mom.”

“No.”

“Prim, go find mom. I’m so sorry.”

A guy walked over to them scooping up the young girl and carrying her over to her mother with the older girl being escorted up onto the stage. “No, no, no!” Prim cried out with such terror in her voice.

“What’s your name?” The announcer asked her.

She responded to her question. “Katniss Everdeen.”

“Well I bet my hat that was your sister wasn’t it?”

Katniss replied. “Yes.”

Laying back I felt tears welling in my eyes at what had just aired on the television. District 12 had never had a volunteer until today. So this would change the Games forever, nobody knew it at the time.

Katniss had refused to go to sleep like Mags and Peeta had just laid down on the ground when the sky started turning dark meaning it was nightfall. Leaning my back against one of the trees seeing Finnick lay his trident down beside my feet sitting down next to me. “How are you feeling now about all this?”

“Still freaked out. But I think it’s better than what alternative Snow offered me.” I replied, eyeing a sleeping Mags laying across from us.

Finnick glanced at me. “What did he demand from you?”

“He wanted me to be his Capitol Rose.” I paused thinking back on the conversation I had with the president. “It took me a minute to realize what he meant by that when I started thinking about you and the little bit you told me about what he did to you.”

He clicked his tongue. “Selling your body to the Capitol citizens.”

“He claimed that they loved me almost as much as they do you.”

He slowly reaches down, intertwining my hand with his larger one. “I'm sorry he tried to threaten you, Ari.”

“I thought he couldn't do that until you were 18 years old. It's only the rest of this year and then he could force that fate upon me if we made - if I made it out of here.”

Finnick shot his head around so fast I swore it would’ve spun around if it physically could. “You're getting out of here. I swear that to you. Now you should get some sleep. I'll wake you up if anything changes.” He tells me, tucking some wet strands of hair behind my ear.

Pushing some leaves out of the way I managed to find a not so harsh spot to lay my head down on. “Night Finn.” I muttered closing my eyes and falling asleep.

He whispered back to me. “Night Ari.”

Finnick stared down at the golden bangle he was wearing on his left wrist from Haymitch. When he had given it to him during their conversation he secretly knew that he was saying take care of my daughter, even though the bracelet was meant to show Katniss that Haymitch trusted the district 4 tribute.

Haymitch and Effie were watching the Games inside the nearest bar area in the common area of the Capitol. Everyone had their attention focused on the Games. Effie lightly hit her lover on the arm. “This is madness. She has no experience in here like all the other victors do.”

“Don’t you think I already know that. And besides if I attempted to do anything against the games Snow would kill her instantly before our eyes.”

She slumped her shoulders in disbelief. “I can’t have this conversation with you right now.”

Haymitch watched her walk away from him in those bright red heels clicking on the floor. He stayed there for a few minutes knowing he couldn’t tell her the real backup plan he had in mind. “We gotta talk about Ariyne. She needs to come out of the arena alive.” He moved through the crowd finding Plutarch was walking around outside until he pulled him into the nearest elevator.

“I can't guarantee that can happen, Haymitch. Katniss is the lightning rod for the rebellion.” He started to say to the man in front of him.

Haymitch snapped at him. “She’s my daughter and I refuse to leave her behind!”

“I didn't mean it like that but we have to have Katniss and Finnick.”

He glared at him. “Either you get my daughter out of there like we talked about or you might lose my support along with Effie and Finnick. Because he now cares about her too.”

“What do you mean he cares about her. They’ve only known each other for two weeks.”

Haymitch shrugged his shoulders with a weak smile. “I’m not really sure how it happened so fast. But it has and I told him to do whatever he could to protect her in that arena. I saw the look in his eyes, Plutarch. It’s not love, but if they made it out it could turn into that. She’s - she’s missed out on living life.”

“I’ll do the best I can. I will, I promise. But I’ve gotta make it not look rigged with Snow watching.” The head game maker warned his friend.

The former victor extended his hand. “I understand. Please rescue my little Ariyne.”

“Enjoy the show, Abernathy.” Plutarch shook his hand before the elevator door dinged open and they parted going their separate ways.

[cheriladycl01]

The 1st Hunger Games

In this series I’m creating OC victors (and using the OG victors) and showcasing Victors 1 - 74! Any characters here apart from know ones in the show is strictly fanon! And I’m just having fun and being creative while I try to work out if I want to write for Haymitch or Finnick first!

So welcome to the 1st Hunger Games…

Name: Bespole Plinth

District: 2

Age: 17

Gender: Male

Height: 5'8

Looks: Tanned Skin, Brown Hair, Brown Eyes

Family:

Sejanus Plinth (Younger Brother)

Strabo Plinth (Father)

Mrs Plinth (Mother)

Occupation:

Victor of the 1st Hunger Games

University Student at the Academy

Financial Advisor to the President

Status: Dead as of 60th Games

Home:

District 2 (Formerly)

Capitol

Weapon: Sword and Sheild

Arena: Amphitheatre

What happened in the games:

Where it was in an Amphitheatre the first 9 games were always pretty short as there wasn't really any entertainment value at this point and there wasn't any hiding places as such. He teamed up with the rest of the careers in Districts 1, 2 and 4 to pick of the weaker districts before taking a backseat and watching the careers fight it out between themselves, exhaust taking over the last remaining career, a boy from 4, and now Bespole having the most energy is able to kill him. No mutts at this point, no game-maker interference it was just a pure bloodbath.

Post Games:

After the games the Plinth family was allowed to become Capitol elites with the knowledge that Mr Plinth also really helped the Capitol in the first rebellion with his innovative masonary skills and Bespole had shone light on his family name by becoming a Victor of the Hunger Games. He was used like the Victors ended up being used for as he and his father brought their way into the Capitol and only got more wealthy once there!

Taglist:

@dragon-in-a-stew

[loganlermanstanaccount]

I'm finally reading sotr and I'm getting nostalgic for my old finnick fic!! updating today or tomorrow for the 3 ppl that read it back in the day 🥹

[lizzyhowards]

tell me why

finnick odair x fem!reader

summary: you broke up with your ex long ago, knowing he was sleeping with women from the capitol, but how could you be oblivious to his pain?

he was your world, and you were his.

that is, until he came home from the capitol with a few too many hickeys and red lipstick stains on his neck.

it was always rumoured that he had lovers in the capitol, but who were you to believe in these whispers? you had always turned the blind eye towards the people who accused finnick of hopping from one woman to another in search of pleasure.

but that was a terrible mistake. a truly terrible one.

"finnick…" you gasped as his hunched figure appeared in the doorway, making the harsh winter wind come into your house and slap you across the face. his wrinkly white shirt was unbuttoned, his hair tousled. he looked like a skeleton, a mere collection of bones. his eyes were sunken into his skull and he couldn't bring himself to look at you. but the only thing you could see at the time were the bright red marks at the side of his neck. and who could blame your oblivion at the time?

you were only just confused, shocked, angry, and heartbroken.

you only felt like your heart has been ripped out of your chest and torn into shreds, all while the devil jeered.

You only just lost the only person you truly loved.

he had tried, he really had, to stay loyal to his real love and protect her from all the demons. he's was completely guilt-ridden from cheating on you, even though it was forced. and he knew he deserved whatever was going to come at him next.

the glossiness of your eyes were soon replaced with fire.

you staggered towards him and pushed him, hard.

"im sorry," he muttered. his heart felt like stone. oh how he wanted to kill himself at that moment.

"screw you, finnick!" you growled, "you know, you are unbelievable. is this what you have always been doing at the capitol? finding filthy women willing to please you and then coming home for some more?"

"i'm sorry, sweetheart i-" he chocked on his own voice and you grabbed the opportunity to fire at him some more.

"'sweetheart'?" you mocked, you pushed past him, slipped on your shoes, and slammed the door behind you, hugging the cold wind like an old friend.

seriously, you'd be willing to hug anything, anyone, other than finnick.

but now you were looking out of your living room window, which coincidentally happened to be the vague direction of finnick's house, which stood facing yours in the victor's village. it was a particularly chilly night and you watched the snowflakes dance in the wind in silence while sipping on your hot chocolate.

wait a minute

you saw something move

it was a person

who could be out here on such a cold winter night? you thought to yourself as you snuggled deeper into your couch.

shit

that was finnick

he looked bad. really bad. he was mildly limping, slowly to the front steps of his dimly lit house. those stairs suddenly seemed like a cliff in the condition he was in. he must have thought the same thing, for you watched as he paused in front of the steps and instead turned around and sat down, burying his face in his arms, which were resting on his knees.

he was your ex, yes, a cheater. but you still couldn't help the way your heart seemed to fall apart when you saw him in this state.

some time passed. you weren't exactly sure for how long, he was definitely out in the cold for too long.

next thing you knew, you were out in the cold with him, pulling his surprised body up and forcing him into his house. you had caught sight of his keys dangling in his pocket, and you had grabbed them and unlocked the door. he was still in a daze. you didn't know if it were because of the cold or because of whatever had caused that limp.

nevertheless, you grabbed him by the arm and guided him into his house. he gladly followed and slumped into the couch next to you.

it was at that moment when your sense came back and you remembered how much you truly hated him. you hated him, right?

yes, of course you hated him

right…?

you got up to leave, but it was too late. finnick had already snaked his arms around you and now he was nuzzling you neck lovingly.

you cursed yourself silently for how slow you were and got up quickly, shaking yourself free of his limbs.

finnick looked up at you. the touch of his arms lingered on your skin. were you imagining things or were his eyes wet?

"y/n…"

you gathered your breathe.

"get your shit together, finnick. don't you have enough women in the capitol already?"

"i-"

"'i'? you? you what, finnick? i really don't fucking care because you didn't give a fuck either." at this point you were screaming. "you didn't think that maybe, JUST MAYBE, being with two people, OH FORGET ABOUT TWO, being with, YOU KNOW WHAT I DON'T EVEN WANT TO GUESS HOW MANY PEOPLE YOU WERE WITH will hurt me?" you voice suddenly became a quite sob.

"y/n, i'm so sorry i-"

but he was interrupted with your sobs. immediately he pulled you in, onto his lap and started stroking you hair.

you basically gave in.

but that's ok

you guys figured things out eventually, and nothing could ever come across your love for each other.

[auroralwriting]

just breathe

finnick odair x victor!reader

masterlist

your stylist must hate you, putting you into a corset so tight. thank god finnick odair is there to save you

warnings: female reader, finnick and reader are friends with implied feelings, mentions of capitol people being awful people, finnick being a sweetheart, no use of y/n

If there was one thing you were certain of, it was that you hated Capitol parties. They were always extremely extravagant, filled with the most obnoxiously unaware people you had probably ever met. Being a Victor was nothing less than a major pain in the ass. You lived, but you also lived with the pains of the Capitol and Snow breathing down your neck every five seconds.

It wasn't uncommon for Victors to be invited to parties in the Capitol. It was actually rather unusual for them not to be invited. After all, they were the real Capitol stars. So, here you were, drinking some bubbly liquor that tasted incredibly awful in comparison to any other drink, fake smiling and laughing with some socialites who wouldn't leave you alone for more than two minutes at a time.

Their stories were very unimpressive. Dull and lifeless, like how someone stepped on a bug while shopping, or how another ate so much they had to throw up six times. Stories from the Districts were always better. Folk stories or real, it really didn't matter. At least they were interesting and not about something stupid like fashion or gossip.

The worst part of the whole night was that your stylist must've hated you. You wore some long, pirate-esque, flowy skirt with the most painful heels that had ever been made along with the tightest corset you'd ever worn. It was squeezing all of your insides in all the wrong ways. If you turned the wrong way or breathed too hard, it really hurt. You were sure if you bent over, you'd crack your ribs. It was torturous to be wearing such a thing.

You managed to laugh at all their jokes, share stories back and forth, and pretend to be interested just long enough to tolerate the pain. But now it was becoming a little bit too hard to manage. It felt like you could no longer breathe normally. You were all too aware of your breathing. If you stopped thinking about it, there was a chance you'd stop completely, at least, that's what you convinced yourself. Your fake smile seemed harder to keep up as a socialite finished their story.

"Honestly, isn't that just the most terrible thing you've heard?" You fake laughed, nodding along as best as you could with your circumstances and disinterest. "I mean, I couldn't imagine anything more awful that a broken heel!" How ignorant. Ever heard of The Hunger Games?

"I would have thrown a fit it if were me," another socialite said, seeming very remorseful.

A different one nodded, "Truly the most nightmarish ending to your evening."

As you stood there, you wondered if it could it be possible that the corset was getting tighter. There was no possible way it could have been, but it sure felt like it. The squeezing was becoming incredibly unbearable. Every little breath ached your ribs and sides. You were positive there would be bruises in the corset's place tomorrow. Maybe the injuries you'd sustained during your Games a few years ago weren't so bad seeing as you were sure you were about to suffocate and die right there on Snow's courtyard.

"The only nightmarish ending I can think of is leaving this party without a lovely lady on my arm." It was like the heavens had graced you with Finnick's presence. If you could have released a breath of relief, you probably would have. "Good evening, ladies, gentlemen," Finnick turned to you, giving you a small smile. You returned it, strained, but you returned it.

Oh, sweet Finnick. He was your best friend. His presence was so comforting no matter where you were. It was times like these you wondered how he could just waltz over when you needed him the most. You weren't sure how he did it, but you were damn thankful that he did. You were hoping he would get the hint that something was wrong without needing to raise all hell to make it obvious.

"I can't see you having a hard time leaving without a gorgeous, lucky woman on your arm," the first socialite said to Finnick. She must've hoped it was her. "After all, you are our Golden Boy."

Finnick chuckled, smiling with those gorgeous teeth of his. "Well, someone has to keep the standards high."

"I'm sure you won't have trouble leaving here with a lucky man, either, darling." Your eyes shot over to the third socialite who had addressed you. You could barely breathe, let alone speak anymore.

"I'm sure I won't." Your voice felt strained. Did it sound strained? You hoped it didn't. The last thing you wanted was to look like you were suffering.

Finnick, however, could sense the tone in your voice from a mile away. You were his friend, after all. Probably his best one if he was being honest. The sharp nod you gave, the raised, airy tone to your voice were all very worrisome signs. His eyes searched your face for answers you tried to hide from any prying eyes. However, the way you tugged down at the bottom of your corset was.. something. Were you anxious, uncomfortable, upset? Finnick couldn't place it. There were just too many missing details. He knew something was wrong. It was like putting together a puzzle without looking at the picture on the box.

The conversation continued onwards. Eventually, you found yourself leaning into Finnick's hand that moved to softly rest on your lower back. You couldn't decide if it was for comfort or in case you passed out from lack of oxygen. You assumed it was for comfort. The good news was that if your face turned blue, you'd match the shades of your outfit for the night. If you considered that good news. Maybe it wouldn't look all that displaced after all.

Only one singular minute had passed and you quickly realized that not even Finnick's welcomed gesture would be enough to help you. You felt yourself begin to panic, the worst possible thing you could do in this situation. The more you panicked, the more your breathing would increase. That would only cause yourself more pain and frustration, not to mention it would double your anxiety. What a horrible domino effect that would be.

Keeping your cool was becoming impossible. You tried to hold as still as a statue to keep from moving and upsetting the corset more, but it was proving very difficult. Holding your breath wasn't really an option here, so the only thing to do was try and remain calm.

When the first very sharp pain radiated through your ribs, you knew you were done for. You sucked in a very noticeable breath, thankfully, only Finnick had heard. The conversation had continued, but the words had fallen deaf to your ears. It had been long forgotten amid your growing panic.

"Ah," Finnick said, abruptly pausing the conversation, "we completely forgot, but we're meant to meet with the president. If you'll excuse us." Finnick was pushing on your lower back, now. He guided you through the crowd, up some stairs and into one of the first open rooms he could find. The moment you were inside, you pressed on your stomach, trying to give yourself comfort, but ultimately failing. "What's wrong?" Finnick quickly asked, approaching you with worry in his expression. "Sweetheart, talk to me."

Now you were positive you couldn't talk. Your head felt dizzy and your tongue felt numb. You shook your head, tears brimming your eyes as you scratched at the corset. Finnick's eyes were darting to your hands and back to your face over and over, trying to understand what you were trying to convey to him.

You opened your mouth, trying to find words, but all you could manage was an awful wheeze. Your lungs and throat burned like fire. You were sure your face was turning red. Finnick's eyes widened as he quickly grabbed your shoulders, turning you around so your back was facing him. You felt his hands on your back again, but this time, they had a mission. Finnick grabbed a hold of the ribbon of your corset, not so much as grunting as he tore it apart.

The moment the ribbon tore, you gasped, sucking in as much air as you could as you fell to your knees, holding the front of the corset to your chest as you heaved, the air feeling so incredible that you took note to never take breathing for granted. Finnick was by your side in a heartbeat, hand on your back rubbing soothing circles on your now exposed skin. "It's okay, you're okay. Slow, deep breaths. Don't rush, nice and slow." His voice slowly worked the panic out of your system, your inhales deep, but exhales shaky and unsteady.

"I couldn't breathe," your voice was soft, almost as if talking were still too much to handle, "every breath hurt."

Finnick nodded, "I know, honey. I know, it's alright now. You're okay." You looked up to Finnick, watching his expression. He no longer looked panicked, but he still looked just as worried as before. "Do you need anything? Water?"

You shook your head. "Sit with me? Please?"

The two of you sat against the couch, sitting on the floor looking utterly exhausted. It was obvious the night had worn you both out, from the socialization to your near suffocation. Your head fell over, leaning on Finnick's shoulder as his head rested on top of you own.

"Do you want to go sailing tomorrow?" Finnick quietly asked. "I heard the waves will be perfect. You can bring that book you're reading and we can have lunch."

"That sounds nice," you hummed, "I'd like that a lot."

After a few more quiet minutes, you realized both of your absences would start to look rather suspicious. You both knew that it was long past time to go back to the party, but the silence you shared was too nice to give up just yet.

"Thank you for saving me," you thanked, looking over and up at Finnick.

He shook his head with a soft exhale, "You don't need to thank me. I'm just glad I got you up here in time." Finnick slowly stood up, holding your head as he stood so you wouldn't fall over. He held out a hand to help you stand up.

"Wait, I can't go back out there like this." You could. The Capitol people would love it. Seeing you holding the corset onto your chest to cover yourself. You knew deep down that the position you were in would make the people go wild for you. It was the kind of attention you weren't looking for. The kind of attention you never looked for.

Finnick didn't hesitate to take off his poet shirt, leaving his upper half bare, besides his shark tooth necklace. He didn't even need a second thought. The moment you started to speak, he knew what you were going to say. It was an easy choice for him to make. He would do anything to protect you.

Denying Finnick's kindness wasn't something he'd let you turn down, so you accepted. Finnick turned around while you put it on, only turning back around when he heard you fumbling with the sleeves. He helped roll them up so they weren't as long, while you began to tuck it into your skirt.

"You'll get cold," you commented worriedly, remembering what the chilled breeze had felt like on your own skin not too long ago.

"Then stay with me and keep me warm," Finnick replied, a small smile on his face. You chuckled airly, smiling back at him. "You look beautiful. They'll think we both just did a small wardrobe change. And that's what we'll tell them if they ask. I doubt they will. Capitol isn't all that observational."

You looked at Finnick, biting your bottom lip, "I wish we didn't have to go yet." You wished you could stay in this room with Finnick all night. Unfortunately, that was no option.

He seemed to agree based on the way his smile turned lopsided. "Just think about all the fun we'll have tomorrow. The waves, the wind, us. I'll even bring us some coconuts to crack open."

"And my book," you insisted. "I'll read it to you."

"My favorite activity," Finnick nodded. He held his hand out to you, "C'mon, honey. Let's get this night over with." His offer was easily understood, even if he didn't say it. Let's get this night over with together.

[onlybeeewrites]

Could I request a one shot where Finnick odair x fem! Reader reunite after the reader is saved from the capital?

Hi my darling!

Absolutely. Here’s some angst with comfort with Finnick: Echos

Hope you enjoy<3

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

a darling and a virgin | f. odair

masterlist

summary: you are a victor from district four, having just ended your first victory tour. after being confronted by president snow, you have no choice but to lose your virginity. luckily, your previous mentor is willing to provide some guidance.

pairing: finnick odair x reader

warnings: mentions of forced prostitution, angst, gentle smut, loss of virginity, fingering, lots of consent, praise, happy but also unhappy ending??, reader takes contraceptives.

notes: i’ve recently found that i’m incapable of writing short smut one shots so… i’m sorry y’all. love describing every detail too much.

word count: 6.8k

Your hands were clasped over the balcony railing of the penthouse you were spending the night in, the vibrant artificial lights of the Capitol burning your retinas as you overlooked the city. You had finally completed your first Victory Tour and were offered one more night in the Capitol to enjoy its ‘luxury’ and ‘generosity’ before returning to District Four in the morning.

For the past two weeks, you had read fabricated speeches to each District, resurfacing both your trauma from the Games and the families of the tributes you had murdered in the arena. The toll it was taking on you was heavy, but you managed to put on a splitting grin for every interview, speech, and disturbing congratulation. But not for your previous mentor, Finnick Odair.

Finnick had been there for you through the whole nightmare, even during the week before your Games. His support was unwavering which was one of the many reasons you had managed to survive from the moment you were Reaped to the end of the Tour. It was hard to tell when his mentorship had turned into something more complicated, but it had. It had become more about feelings than simply survival. Not a relationship per se, but not just a friendship either. You teetered on the line between the two, never crossing it and never discussing the fact that you were both aware of it either.

For six whole months.

When the final destination of the Tour came—the grand celebration at President Snow’s mansion—Finnick had told you it was the easiest part. All you had to do was manage a happy face, mingle with obnoxious Capitol citizens, and eat an abhorrent amount of food. He would have been right if you were a different person. If President Snow hadn’t demanded your singular presence at the end of the night.

You exhaled a shaky breath, watching the white mist drift into the light-polluted sky. The President’s words bounced around your head: Desirable… Customers... Family. The conversation played on a loop in your mind. You could remember the repugnant smell of roses, the overwhelming whiteness in the room, and the way his too-pleasant face lit up as fireworks exploded outside the window.

Shivers trickled down your spine, forming goosebumps that were borderline painful. The fact that you were on the ninetieth floor and wearing flimsy pyjama shorts and a thin long-sleeve shirt wasn’t helping either. The crisp wind blew against your body, but you had no intentions of moving to seek warmth. It felt appropriate to stay in the cold when your body would soon know nothing but unwelcome heat.

So lost in your spiralling thoughts, you failed to notice as another body silently took up space beside yours, warming up the side of your arm. This heat was welcome.

“Pretty cold out here.”

A startled gasp escaped your mouth. You straightened up and turned to the owner of the voice, only to find Finnick leaning against the railing, forearms over the edge the same as you.

“Sorry.” He chuckled. “I know my presence can be a little breathtaking sometimes. Nice shorts by the way.”

He turned his head turned to you, revealing his infamous flirtatious smirk. The dimples in his cheeks were prominent and charming. His bronze hair was perfectly dishevelled as usual, as if someone had purposefully placed each strand to give him the ‘sexy bed hair’ look. He was still wearing his white button-up and black trousers; the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows and a few buttons were undone, revealing his toned chest. The outfit had been accessorised with a metallic golden corset-like belt among other decorations that made him fit in with the Capitol crowd, but he must have taken them off. Now the outfit sort of resembled one that a boy would wear to a Reaping. Simple yet formal. Still gorgeous, not that he needed reminding.

Normally, you would retort with a snarky remark or, on the off occasion, flirt back, but instead, you resumed your previous position over the railings. You weren’t immune to Finnick’s charms; you praised anyone who was. You would usually be internally swooning at the sight of him, especially with the way he looked right now and his obvious flirting. But this night was much different. Flirting and swooning were at the back of your mind. All you could think about was your interaction with the president; the way his guards manhandled and escorted you to his study. The conversation that destroyed your hopes of a peaceful future.

Desirable. One word that sent ice coursing through your veins. Or snow, to be more poetic.

“I don’t think you’ve said a word since we got back,” said Finnick, still a hint of playfulness in his tone. He watched your gaze—eyes distant though not really seeing. It was clear something was wrong, so he continued, this time more softly. “You were gone during the fireworks.”

You remained unmoving, staring straight ahead at the city. Only when he uttered your name did he finally gain your attention. As you turned your head to face him, tears began to well up in your eyes.

Finnick noticed the silent distress in your expression and straightened up his stance. He towered over you, brows knitted together whilst his sea-green eyes flickered across your face, looking as if pieces were slowly falling together in his mind.

“He spoke with you, didn’t he?” he said. “Snow.”

To answer his question for you, a tear escaped your eye, but you were quick to swipe it away with a sniffle.

Your arms wound around your torso, hugging yourself as the words began flowing. “After I won my Games, when I was being crowned, he said something to me that I didn’t really understand." Your voice was gentle, just above a mere whisper. “Months passed and I’d forgotten all about it. Until now at least. He told me…” You swallowed the ache in your throat. “He told me, ‘I have big plans for you, Miss (L/N). I think you will be a very valuable asset to the Capitol citizens.’”

Finnick’s face had melted into an unreadable expression. His entire body turned to stone; it was like he was a marble statue portraying a Greek God. All of a sudden, he was sixteen again. He was in Snow’s study, being told that if he didn’t cooperate and essentially sell himself to the Capitol, his family would pay the price. And they did.

With a sad smile, you whispered, “I know what he meant now.”

Something inside him snapped and he broke from his stupor.

“No.” He vigorously shook his head. “He can’t do that. You can’t. I’ll go to him and—fuck!” His hand ran through his hair, making it even more dishevelled. The bright lights from the city were reflecting off his eyes, revealing the shine that was starting to gloss over them. “I can fix this for you, I swear I’ll—"

“Finnick.”

“He’s a fucking—”

“Finnick.” The plea in your voice ceased his panicked movements. He just stood there, looking completely and utterly helpless. You both did. Another tear slipped down your cheek as you stared at him, your voice wavering as you asked, “Can you hold me?”

He let out a breath as if the air had been knocked from his lungs and in one fell swoop, he stepped forward and pulled you into his arms. Silent tears began to flow more heavily, saturating his white shirt which he held you tightly against. There was a hand wrapped protectively around your lower back and another stroking the hair flowing over your neck.

You were certain Finnick let a few tears slip too because you could feel the cold breeze nip at the top of your head the slightest bit more. He mumbled the words “I’m so sorry” over and over into your hair but you just shook your head. You told him it wasn’t his fault, but he wouldn’t accept it. He had told you months ago about his arrangement with Snow. You couldn’t have imagined what it was like for him then, but you would be able to now. You would know every single little detail.

His embrace tightened as you turned your head and pressed your ear to his thumping chest.

The tears had stopped, and you managed to find your voice again. “Snow threatened to kill my family. What if the customers don’t think I’m good enough and he takes it out on them? I mean, I don’t have any experience.”

You remained silent, awaiting his response. When the hand stroking your hair halted, you realised your mistake. You realised what you had just admitted to him and mentally kicked yourself. Repeatedly.

Finnick moved both hands onto your forearms, gently pushing you away from him to get a clear view of your face. The surprise in his expression was enough to make you want to jump over the balcony ledge in embarrassment.

“You’re a virgin?”

Hearing the words out loud would have sent you over the edge—literally—if Finnick’s large hands weren’t wrapped around your arms. You tried to turn away from him, but his grip was unshakeable. Your eyes began to water again, and you felt pathetic.

“Hey,” he said tenderly as he tried to regain your eye contact. “It’s not a bad thing.”

Your distraught red-rimmed eyes snapped back to him. “Not a bad thing? Of course it’s a bad thing, Finnick! I have to give my body to a stranger despite never even having my first kiss! Let alone sex!” As you said the words, the full reality of your situation began to set in. Panic turned to sadness as you realised yet again, the Capitol was taking another innocence you thought was your own to give away. You looked down, your tone becoming quieter. “I thought my first time would be special. Or at least with someone I loved.”

God, you felt so embarrassed admitting that to him. Sure, a lot of your conversations were flirty and full of sensual banter. Sex, however, was not a topic that came up very frequently. You would never want to accidentally cross a line with Finnick, especially given what Snow forced upon him. So you liked to avoid the subject as much as possible. Now, it was inescapable.

He released his grip and sighed heavily, looking out toward the view as if he were deep in thought. The vivid city lights cast an unnatural hue on his usually golden-tanned skin; even now the Capitol was changing him into something he wasn’t. His eyes shut for a quick second before he reopened them and looked back at you. The only time he had looked this serious was the morning of your Games and the night you returned. It was a little intimidating.

His jaw ticked and his gaze bore down into your own. “Sweetheart, I’m going to ask you something,” he began, “and I want you to know you do not have to say ‘yes’ if you don’t want to, okay?”

Alright, now he was really starting to scare you.

“Okay,” you said warily.

The hardness on his face remained for a moment longer, but then his expression softened and became the most vulnerable you had ever seen.

His voice was gentle. “Do you want me to take your virginity?”

*************

You were sat on the edge of Finnick’s bed, toying with the black satin sheets with a frown. Your room didn’t get satin sheets. It was probably one of the benefits of being the Capitol Darling. Not that you envied him very much. He would probably be content with sleeping on a dirt floor if it meant he got his autonomy back.

Finnick was in the bathroom doing God knows what. You weren’t sure if he was trying to make himself more presentable or hyping himself up to have sex with you. The latter worried you. The last thing you wanted was to pressure him into something he didn’t want to do. Then again, he was the one who asked.

After you had told him “Yes, please”, he had tentatively but oh-so-gently taken your hand in his and guided you inside and to his room. Neither of you had spoken along the way; you just walked in silence toward something that would either ruin or deepen your relationship. Despite being two victors, this was still a mentor making sure his tribute stayed alive.

You heard the bathroom door slide open and looked up to see Finnick standing outside the door. Shirtless, pants still on, and towel in hand. It took everything in you to not stare at his perfectly sculptured torso, his equally toned arms, or his broad and muscular shoulders. Instead, your eyes met his for a split second before you returned to the satin sheets.

Blood rushed to your head and everything felt too real. Finnick Odair was standing before you, looking like an angel and willing to fu—

“You’re allowed to look, you know,” he chuckled.

But your gaze remained on the bed.

“I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“You won’t.’” He spread the towel on the bed, positioning it in the middle. Then he stopped his movements as he realised what you meant. “It’s not like that. I’m not being forced to do this. I want to.”

Your head snapped up and your heart leapt as those three words left his lips—I want to. For a second, you believed him, but then reasoning came to deflate your hopefulness.

“You wouldn’t want to if I weren’t in this situation.”

He let go of the towel, sitting down mere inches beside you, his eyes amused despite the solemn context. “And how do you know that?”

“Because…” you trailed off, searching your brain for an explanation only to find none. “Because.”

He smirked. “We need to work on your argumentative skills, sweetheart.”

A small smile worked its way across your lips. He returned it with a comforting smile of his own, though the sense of playfulness never left. It never really did and that was one of the things you admired most about him. Even in the darkest of situations, he was able to provide some light.

Rosy heat crept into your cheeks and you were forced to break eye contact again. Hiding how much he affected you was pointless now; if this was going to work out, you needed to be vulnerable with him. With each other. You looked down at the space between your bodies. His hand was resting on the bed beside him and soon enough, it was slowly creeping across the sheets over to your own. He gently brushed his fingers across your knuckles before sliding his hand beneath your palm and interlocking it with yours. You couldn’t help but notice how small your hand looked compared to his, feeling butterflies flutter around your stomach at the small observation.

The both of you silently watched your intertwined hands. That is until Finnick decided to speak up.

“I would,” he said ambiguously, caressing the side of your hand with his thumb. “I would still want to. Even in different circumstances.”

The blush on your face reddened even more; your cheeks were on fire at this point. Even in different circumstances. Was that his way of confessing… that he did have feelings for you? It wasn’t exactly explicit, but it was certainly implied. Oh god, you didn’t know what to think.

You didn’t bother to reply; words probably would have failed you anyway. You just gave his hand a slight squeeze in acknowledgement—well, it was more in appreciation. It was obvious how hard he was trying to make you feel comfortable, but no matter how hard he tried, you couldn’t shake the nerves that were rattling your entire being.

Sex was a pretty big milestone—to you, at least—and here you were, on the precipice with someone you trusted with your life. Did you love Finnick? You weren’t sure. What you did know was that your feelings for him were deep, and even though neither of you had ever clearly confessed to each other, you knew he felt something for you too. Which made everything all the more daunting.

“Are you nervous?” he asked softly.

You nodded.

“We still don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

You shook your head, lifting your gaze to his. “No, I—”

His eyebrows pulled inwards, awaiting your answer. His eyes were so inviting and full of understanding, if you hadn’t lost the ability to form full sentences, you would have found yourself spilling all your secrets to him. He was so patient with you. So good. You had to rethink your uncertainty about loving him.

“I…” you tried again. Your eyes flickered back and forth from his sea-green eyes to his soft, pink lips. As shameful as it felt to admit, you had imagined what it would feel like to have his lips on yours many times before. Usually right before you went to sleep. Never would you have thought the day would come when it would actually happen.

He was still caressing the side of your palm, silently reassuring you, encouraging you to communicate with him. You sighed, closing your eyes. If he wanted you to communicate, then you would.

“Finnick,” you whispered. “Kiss me.”

Your words drifted into the air, stilling everything in the room—the air, Finnick’s hand. Your heart. He just stared at you, unblinking, unmoving, like someone had hit pause on the television at the tensest moment. The tension was tearing you apart and you almost got up and left the room. But you didn’t. Because suddenly, the sides of your face were cupped by large hands and his lips were on yours.

Finnick Odair was kissing you.

His lips pressed against yours once more in one long close-mouthed kiss before leaving again. Shock came and left within seconds and you found the courage to copy his actions. Your lips locked perfectly onto his, remaining still, enjoying the pressure and tingly warmth of simply having them connected. Then your lips moved to kiss him again. And again, and again until soon enough, his tongue had slyly slid into your mouth and you had somehow instantaneously become a master at French kissing.

This kiss felt familiar, despite it being your first. Like something you had done millions of times before, but only with him. Like having his lips on yours was the most natural thing to ever exist.

A hand moved onto your waist and suddenly you were being pulled onto his lap, legs straddling his lap. Your hands fell on his chest, mindlessly wandering and feeling the toned muscles ripple underneath your palms as he pulled you closer by the neck to deepen the kiss. Damn the people of the Capitol, but they were right to say he was an incredible kisser.

“Finn,” you huffed in between kisses, “have you got a rock in your pants?”

He pecked your lips once more with a smirk, resting his forehead against yours as you both attempted to catch your breaths. “No,” he chuckled. “I’ve just got a beautiful girl on my lap.”

Your eyes opened to see him grinning at you with mischief. Oh.

“Is that okay?” he asked.

You nodded jerkily. “Ye—Yes, that’s okay.”

“Okay, good.”

Biting your lip, you looked down between your bodies. Curiously, you rocked your hips along the length of his lap once, earning a quiet grunt from him.

He tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. “Careful,” his voice was low, tempting.

And of course, in full defiance, you did it again. His warning was a bluff. He made no real action to prevent you from grinding any further on his erection, so you kept moving, and he kept revealing how good it made him feel. The thin fabric of your shorts created a little barrier between his hard lap and the growing sensitivity between your thighs.

Meanwhile, you found yourself never wanting to be parted from Finnick’s lips. With every rock of your hips, your hands ran over every inch of his upper body, eventually settling in his hair. The way he kissed reminded you of stories of District Twelve. A district full of hunger and desperation. Only what Finnick was craving wasn’t the fullness of food in his stomach, but the desire to devour you whole. To ravage you. And by God, would you give anything to satiate him.

Forget what you thought before. This wasn’t just a victor keeping his tribute alive. As clear as the sea on a sunny day, this was a man giving himself over to a woman he loved. You. Finnick loved you.

When you pulled back to tentatively lift your shirt over your head, his eyes stayed on yours. Your breasts were literally bare and he just continued to scan the features of your face. However, you did notice the subtle shift in his breathing.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, stroking the side of your breast.

A shy, cheek-warming smile crept on your face and then suddenly, Finnick was rolling you over. Your head fell back onto the soft silk pillows, Finnick hovering above you. This position remained for a long while, the time spent simply kissing each other, alternating between deep tongue-filled kisses and soft sweet pecks. There were moments when you both stopped to flirt or giggle. These were the times you entirely forgot the whole reason you were doing this in the first place.

It was just you and Finnick. Two new lovers in a perfect world.

After a while, your lips had swollen with warm, passionate heat. You were flushed and you didn’t even need to look to know your hair was already a tangled mess. But you didn’t care.

One of Finnick’s hands had begun to wander down your stomach, breaking the established pattern of merely making out. You knew what was coming and surprisingly, you weren’t afraid. Unlike outside the penthouse apartment, there was no danger. Not in this room, in this bed, or in the hands that caressed you. He grazed across the skin beneath your belly button, causing your body to flinch up into his.

Of course, he smirked at that—the smug asshole.

He returned to your lips before lowering down to your neck and sucking soft, red marks into your fragile skin. His fingers found the edge of your waistband. At this point, you were already breathing like a marathoner.

His lips detached from your neck. “Can Itouch you?”

“Yes, please,” you breathed.

As he travelled down, down beneath your waistband, he pecked your reddened lips once more. A soft gasp escaped you and warmth tingled between your thighs. His fingers were gentle as he began circling that sweet, sensitive spot only you had ever touched. Having someone else touch you felt so much more different, so much more exquisite. Your body responded to his touch immediately, hips following each movement of his fingers, breaths quickening in pace.

Finnick gazed down at you, observing each pleasured twist of your expression. He began to pick up the pace as he noticed your body familiarising itself with the sensation. More pressure was applied and the gasps leaving your mouth were gradually turning into quiet moans.

“This feel okay?” he asked. Obviously, he knew the answer, but after years of having others take advantage of him, he couldn’t help but want to hear your willingness. Your consent.

But you weren’t sure if the words could form. Everything felt like it was vibrating. All you could do was focus on the pleasure his fingers were building.

“Come on, sweetheart. You can tell me.”

His voice had taken on that seductive purr he was well-known for and you just couldn’t deny him. It took everything inside you to muster up the words. “It—it feels so good.”

He smiled and pressed a kiss to your forehead. The gesture was so sweet, you could have cried. So sweet even with his hand stroking between your legs and his hard cock pressing against your thigh. Time slowed as his fingers sped up. Muscles in your stomach were tightening. Your insides were churning—not like when you first entered your Games’ arena, but in the best way possible. It was a sensation you had never felt before, but before it could build any more, Finnick’s hand stilled. And you genuinely whined at the loss of friction.

Then his hand moved even lower, resting a singular finger over your slick entrance. Your eyes were wide, unsure of how to feel with the sudden turn of events.

Finnick’s eyes flickered between your own. "You trust me?”

You weren’t sure if an easier question existed. “I do.”

And his lips were on yours again, deep and sensual. His tongue rolled over your own, pushing forward and then retreating in a perfect rhythm. He almost successfully distracted you from the feeling of his middle finger sinking into you knuckle-by-knuckle. Some sort of sound resembling a mix of discomfort and surprise vibrated in your throat as his finger bottomed out.

There wasn’t much pain. It was just an odd feeling.

Your lips parted from his and he looked down at you, his eyes holding an immense amount of security as he communicated through your shared gaze.

Does it hurt?

You gave him a gentle smile. No. Keep touching me.

He returned your smile with a grin. Gladly.

His buried finger curled, shooting a sharp pang up into your stomach which caused your back to arch up against his bare torso. Whether you considered it painful or pleasurable was uncertain. Perhaps a mix of both. He did it again. This time you settled on describing it as a tight twinge in your lower stomach which sent a wave of chills down your legs. Definitely pleasurable. Only, he stopped indulging you with the sensation after the second time.

Instead, you felt another finger slowly slip inside you and whimpered. Now that hurt. You felt your inner walls stretch with the second addition and it stung. Especially when he began to scissor his fingers inside you. This was him preparing you for the real deal. How you were supposed to have Finnick inside you when just his fingers had you stuffed was incomprehensible. But you allowed him to keep going, trying to enjoy the comforting kisses he pampered onto you.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he said.

Your hands moved to push back his messy bronze hair as he hovered above you. His dimples deepened with a grin and you swore you would endure any pain to keep them etched on his face. After he deemed you stretched out enough, he slowly rose to his knees, unbuttoning his trousers and throwing them aside. You couldn’t do anything but stare. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

The way you gulped was almost cartoonish. How the hell was he supposed to fit? You had never seen a man naked before—you weren’t even sure Finnick was human. He had a body sculptured by the Gods, a face carved by angels, and a… well, let’s just say he didn’t disappoint in any other areas. You weren’t sure if the smug look on his face was real or a carefully curated mask created for his Capitol customers. By the way it quickly washed away, you could tell it was the latter.

He began sliding your shorts down your legs, tossing them to the floor. Suddenly, you felt extremely vulnerable. Almost inferior. Your knees fell together, concealing the most private part of yourself from him. You avoided his gaze, cheeks becoming red and hot as he observed your naked frame. He had a way of looking at you as if you were a long-forgotten masterpiece, rediscovered from centuries of being lost. No one had looked at you like that before him.

Gently, he pried apart your legs and you didn’t bother trying to resist. Only when he descended and settled between your legs did the insecurity dwindle into the background of your mind. Your naked bodies were hot against each other. His weight pinned you against the bed. Everything that was yours touched all that was his. You thought this experience would feel like a dream, but it all felt so real. You were nervous, you were trembling, and your breaths were shaky.

Finnick was quick to recognise the nervousness radiating off you. His arm curled beneath you, somehow pulling you even closer, meanwhile, his other arm rested beside your head. He brushed strands of hair away from your face, soothing you with his tender touch.

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

You nodded. You wanted this—wanted Finnick. It was just the anticipation that was killing you. Your thighs squeezed his sides to tell him you were ready. For a few moments longer, he restarted the pattern of sweet kisses, rolling tongues, and the warmth of blood rushing to your head. His hand was caressing your cheek; yours were splayed on his back, gliding over the rippled muscles.

Then finally, he shifted, his hand moving south to align himself with your entrance. All you could do was watch his focused expression. This was the moment. The threshold of your relationship would be ­­crossed as soon as he pushed forward. There was no one else you wanted to share the experience with because you knew this wasn’t just sex. Not for him or for you; it was more than that. Something bordering spiritual, breaking the bounds of physical pleasure and entering into a deep emotional connection. Something no paying customer of the Capitol could provide.

He was gazing down at you, half-cradling your head as he began to say, “Are you su—" But before he could finish, you had pressed your lips to his, answering his question. You were sure. He nodded in response.

His eyes were hesitant he began to push his tip between your folds. Your fingers dug into his back, more from anxiety than anything else. It became a game of stopping and starting as he moved deeper inside inch-by-inch, allowing your walls time to adjust around him. Never had you seen someone’s face filled with so many emotions—concentration, controlled gratification, affection. So many feelings twisted his expression. Meanwhile, yours held only one. Discomfort. He was so big; you felt like you were being split apart and he wasn’t even fully inside yet.

Finally, when his pelvis connected with yours, you exhaled a heavy breath. It hurt. Bad. Finnick had the right idea to lay down a towel because you definitely needed it. He had you filled to the brim, stretched out and stuffed. Even the slightest shift in his position had your hands flying to his shoulders in pain.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yes, just—” You bit your lip in an attempt to suppress a whimper. “Just go slow.”

He nodded. You smiled. Then for some odd reason, you laughed. And then so did he. Finnick’s face fell into the crook of your neck, muffling his boyish laughs into your skin. The added movements had your insides dully aching, but you didn’t pay it much attention. The moment was so innocently intimate that you wanted to stay in it forever. He lifted his head to press his grinning lips to yours and the laughter began to dissipate. Your mouths moved slowly together, full of heat and fervent emotion, and suddenly, Finnick’s body began to move too.

Careful as not to harm you, he slid himself backward in one slow motion and then pushed forward again in another. Pain stung at your inner walls and your lips left his as a gasp escaped your mouth. You were tempted to close your eyes whilst riding out the discomfort but couldn’t bring yourself to look away from Finnick’s face. He was so mesmerizingly beautiful.

His cheeks were a baby pink. Lips were a rosy red. There was a thin sheen covering his forehead, slightly wrinkled by his furrowed brows. Those messy bronze locks you adored so much fell in strands across his forehead. The evident concentration and care on his face just made him look all the more picturesque.

While you admired his features, you started to notice the pain accompanying his slow thrusts was becoming more tolerable. There was still a sting, but also a dull twinge in your stomach that had you biting your bottom lip. It felt sort of… nice. And you wanted to experiment with that feeling.

Your hands were hooked around his shoulders. “Faster.”

Are you sure? His lustful eyes spoke.

You pulled him back down to your mouth. Absolutely.

And so, his hips started to rock back and forth at a faster pace. You could feel yourself clench around his cock from the change of rhythm but forced yourself to relax. He thrust in and out, rubbing against the ripples of your walls, tip brushing at a spot inside you that was anything but pain. That is what you focused on—that one sweet spot.

Time went on and he gradually increased his speed. Your lips were swollen and red, no doubt from the way he would nip and suck on your bottom lip in between each flick of his tongue. His breaths were coming out louder, heavier, as were your own. Soon enough, you were in a rhythm that was both pleasurable for him and for you. The pain lingered but it was no longer unbearable. A shudder ran down your body and your pussy fluttered around him. Finnick broke away from your lips with a breathy groan that you swore you could feel in the pit of your stomach.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

His thrusts became a little faster, a little more painful. A hand slipped down between your bodies and the pain faded quicker than it came. He was rubbing circles around your clit, occasionally running his fingers across it which caused you to lurch upward. All of a sudden, you came to the realisation that everything bad that had been clouding your mind had disappeared. The ache, the confrontation with Snow. Everything. The only thing you could focus on was the pleasure slowly building between your thighs and in your stomach. And Finnick. His tantalising eyes. His wicked mouth. His throbbing cock.

People always said your first time would be horrible; this was anything but. Maybe it had to do with the fact that you… loved him? Yeah, you loved him. Also because he was something of an expert at sex. You were in a pretty unlucky predicament but having Finnick willingly fucking you was a blessing.

His fingers were relentless, applying the perfect amount of pleasure that had you writhing beneath him. And added with the sensation of his cock repeatedly hitting that spot inside you, your uneven breaths turned into soft moans. He fucked, he rubbed, he nipped and sucked at the delicate skin of your neck. Heat was enveloping your entire body.

“Finnick,” you moaned.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” His voice was strained and hoarse.

His hand left your clit, hooking around your thigh, and curling it around his back so he could thrust even deeper. He restarted his rhythm of rubbing circles, but his thrusts felt different. Instead of just brushing that sensitiveness deep inside you, he was mercilessly hitting it. Over and over. Your moans were louder now; Finnick was more vocal too, grunting and occasionally uttering words of praise.

This went on for a while. His stamina was incredible—if you had a moment to think, you would have realised the depressing reasoning behind it. But you couldn’t think at all. Your heel was digging into his back; nails scratching at his skin. Both of you had a layer of sweat covering your bodies, skin wet, slapping and sliding over one another. Your pheromones had filled the room with the smell of sex, driving your need to finish.

Finnick’s mouth had been everywhere at this point. Your lips, your neck, shoulders, and breasts. Everywhere except your pussy, not that it really mattered anymore.

It was hard for you to comprehend how fucking amazing the sensations you felt were. There was heat and pressure pooling in your stomach, increasing at a slow pace, and growing more powerful by the minute. Finnick’s hips moved at a steady pace, but his hand had begun to slow. Even he had to succumb to fatigue at some point. He sounded like he had run for miles though was obviously pushing himself on for your benefit.

Instead of ceasing his tiring hand movements entirely, he switched hands. And that was when the heat in your stomach turned into a blazing inferno. He was much faster now. Applied more pressure. Your head fell back against the pillow with a cry. His cock was throbbing inside you at the sound.

“That feel good? Huh?” he practically moaned.

He left kisses across the stretch of your neck, running his tongue over the skin and leaving behind red marks.

“Yes!” you cried out.

Your entire body felt like it was being dipped into a white-hot flame of pleasure and the feeling was only increasing. It was clear Finnick felt the same way. His thrusts were becoming more frantic, he was cursing left and right, and he was practically pulsing inside you.

The heat in your stomach was overwhelming but you needed more.

“Finnick, I feel—I feel—” You couldn’t even describe it.

Finnick nodded, breathing heavily above you. God, he looked gorgeous. “You’re gonna come.”

Your half-lidded needy eyes met his. Something about him saying those words sent a wave of acceleration through your body. You hadn’t known what the edge was until you were on the brink of coming, and there was no stopping it. His cock plunged in and out, pushing deep inside you, practically rocketing your orgasm to the surface with each thrust. His fingers moved at such an intense pace you didn’t even know was physically possible.

As your eyes fluttered shut, your mouth fell open and every frantic breath, moan, and cry was able to escape. Finnick had the same problem. Fuck, he sounded so sexy, it only spurred you on.

Then it hit you all at once. “Fu—"

Every inch of your body tensed. You were sent into a space where white noise filled your hearing and bliss was all you knew. No pain. No sadness. Just ecstasy. Electric sparks jolted up and down your body, rising to your head, and causing you to see stars behind your closed eyes. Your moans were uncontrollable and desperate, voicing Finnick’s name over and over.

His thrusts were frenzied and sloppy, prolonging your orgasm as long as he could. He had lifted your lower back into an arch, enhancing the sensation coursing through your body. Your walls were clenching and pulsing around him, so much that he was abruptly thrown into his own high. His hips stuttered and eventually, his cock filled you as deep as he could, spurting out warm strings of white that coated your inner walls.

He collapsed on top of you, face buried in the crook of your neck. Your fingers wound into his hair, clinging to him as the aftershocks of your orgasm ravaged your body. Legs trembling and mouth panting, you lay there allowing yourself to regain your breath and ability to move.

After pressing a lazy kiss to your neck, Finnick slid off you, falling onto the bed beside you. Hopefully the towel was enough to save the silk sheets.

Now that you were resting, exhaustion had the chance to cloud your mind. You weren’t sure what the customs were after sex—whether you made conversation or simply went to sleep. The latter sounded pretty good though. A warm hand slipped beneath your back, turning your body sideways and pulling you so you were half strewn across Finnick’s chest and legs. You made no effort to resist.

Eyes closed, you listened to the heart beating inside his ribs. Thrumming intensely though starting to return to a normal rate.

“Are you okay?” he asked with a murmur, sounding utterly drained.

His thumb drew gentle patterns on the skin of your waist.

You nodded against his chest, remaining silent. After a little while you finally decided to speak. “I’m glad it was you.” And then after a few more moments of silence, you added, “I wish it was just you.”

You felt him press his lips to the top of your head. A long and emotional kiss. The whole reasoning behind losing your virginity returned to mind. It felt heavy, weighing down the atmosphere in the room. No matter how hard you tried to deny it, what was coming was inevitable. You wouldn’t get to stay with Finnick in this bed. You wouldn’t get to belong to him, or he you. You both belonged to the Capitol. To Snow. No matter how much you wished to belong to each other.

He whispered, “Me too.”

[iguanagwen]

idk if its odd to say this but this is the first reader persona i see myself in! would love to see how she realizes the truth about the games and how she handles it.

i also see her to be outspoken in a way¿ she’s well mannered and polite, yes. but she also has this fire in her (hehe). that yearns to speak out for what’s right. once she realizes ofcourse

naive capitol escort!reader has my hearttt (and probably my soul too)!

it probably stems from my love for effie🦋.

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ naive capitol escort!reader headcannons/lore!

. you've grown up surrounded by luxury, soft cushions, warm meals, and glittering parties, so you can’t comprehend true suffering.

. your father is an important politician/businessman, always talking about how great the capitol and president snow is.

. your mother is a perfect capitol wife who doesn’t question things. she focuses on appearances, etiquette, and maintaining their family’s standing. she ensured that you were to be raised to be polite, well-mannered, and effortlessly charming, traits absolutely necessary for social success in the Capitol.

. when you were little, your mother dressed you up for viewing parties, treating them like a fun social event for you to be with your friends instead of the reality of watching other kids in a deathmatch.

. you believe the districts are poor but well taken care of, assuming they are grateful for the capitol’s governance. but if you ever did see a moment of rebellion or defiance, you'd assume it was just ungrateful troublemakers stirring up problems.

. you genuinely believe that tributes should feel honored to be chosen, thinking it’s a tragic but beautiful sacrifice.

. as i've said, you've never seen hardship. if you ever scraped your knee, were sick or cried, your were comforted with sweet treats, warm baths, and expensive gifts.

. you grew up watching only the capitol-approved, censored versions of the Hunger Games, where the violence was minimized, and the drama was emphasized. (i'm actually gonna expand on this in a seperate post, if i don't end up falling asleep after i post this)

. you even had a sort of "storybook" filled with simplified, heroic retellings of past victors’ journeys, turning their trauma bedtime stories.

. you played with capitol-made dolls of famous victors, taking extremely good care of them, not knowing their real backstories.

. you wanted to become an escort because you genuinely see it as a prestigious and honorable role, one where you can help the tributes. obviously you don't realize (til much later) that escorts are just powerless figure heads that make the games the spectacle that they are.

will post more with how she interacts with finnick either later or tomorrow!

[bruisedboys]

hi!! could you write something about r and finnick in the quarter quell and they are in an established relationship? maybe j how they are with each other in general, and how others perceive them? hope that makes sense xxx

hi lovely, you requested this forever ago but I hope you’re still around to read it!! thank you for your request x

finnick odair x tribute!reader (quarter quell)

“It’s so hot.”

Finnick hums beside you. You’re both stretched out on the damp jungle floor, sweat shining on your foreheads. It’s so sticky in here. Peeta’s alseep a little ways to your left, and you and Finnick are supposed to be asleep too, but it’s much too hot for that. Katniss is perched on a rock keeping watch.

Your boyfriend props himself up on one elbow. Despite the heat, despite the frankly terrible day you’ve had, despite everything, he’s still so pretty. And he’s still yours. For as long as you can both stay alive, at least.

“Do you want me to get you some more water?” He asks. The tips of his curls glow in the soft white moonlight. He brings a hand to your face and brushes some hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear. “Might help.”

You nod, turning your head to the side to kiss his palm. You think it’s sweet that he’s still trying to make this okay for you, even though it’s far from that. “That would be nice.”

“Alright. I’ll be two seconds, okay? Don’t go anywhere.”

He squeezes your shoulder before getting up and moving away. You hear him ask Katniss for the spile, hear the thud thud thud as he knocks it into a tree.

A few quiet moments pass, and then there’s a soft rustling to your left. You startle, but it’s just Peeta, rolling onto his back. Apparently the heat’s keeping him up, too.

“He’s different to what I expected,” he says quietly.

You roll onto your side. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know. I guess I just … didn’t expect him to be so nice. He’s really lovely to you.”

You hum. You get what he means. Finnick might put on a show of arrogance, but it’s nothing but that. Just a show, for the Capitol, for Snow. Alone with you, with the people he cares about, he’s the sun, warm and bright.

“Yeah,” you agree softly. “He’s lovely.”

Heavy footsteps crunch towards you and Finnick appears out of the half dark, a leaf cupped in his hand, water sloshing inside of it.

“Hey.” He kneels next to you, grinning, his dimples sinking into his tanned cheeks. “What’re we talking about?”

You lift yourself onto your elbows and smile at him. “Just you.”

“Oh, really?” Finnick raises his eyebrows as he gets one hand behind your back, helping you sit up properly. He brings the leaf to your mouth and helps you drink, his hand steady at the small of your back. “Were you telling Peeta how good of a boyfriend I am?”

Peeta audibly sighs, but you just smile at Finnick, properly lovelorn.

“Uh-huh,” you nod. “Something like that.”

Finnick grins wolfishly and presses a chaste kiss to your mouth.

[wonderlandwalker]

The Promises We Cling To | Finnick Odair x Reader

thg masterlist / inbox / part two

summary: this is basically just me starting with the "people are watching / then lets give them something to look at" prompt and maybe getting a little lost in the process tags / content warnings: angst, fluff, violence, blood, injury that whole shebang, I actually proofread this one but that doesn't mean I spotted everything sorry in advance word count: 3.6k

a/n: apparently the only time I'm capable of writing is when im less than a day away from my constitutional law final and delusional because i've been awake for 38 hours so hopefully this will give me enough dopamine to actually get a passing grade

Finnick knows how this works; he’s known it since he was fourteen years old and first stepped foot in an arena. Since the moment he lost sight of you, since the bloodbath separated you, Snow’s words haunt him with every cannon he hears: "She is just another thing I can take from you."

And yet—

He still dares to believe you’re alive.

Not because the Capitol hasn’t tried. Not because the odds are kind. But because you promised. You swore you’d fight. And Finnick clings to that vow like a prayer, even as the arena’s cannons rattle his bones. Last night, he’d counted the fallen—your name absent from the sky’s grim ledger. But three more cannons have split the air since dawn, and now—

Now he’s not sure what to believe. The rational part of him—the part carved into survival by years of Capitol cruelty—knows the truth: They’re playing with him. But the other part, the raw and bleeding thing behind his ribs, doesn’t care. The rebels’ plan echoe in his head, "Stay put. Wait for extraction." But he’s itching to move, to act, to do something besides sit here and wait. Every muscle in his body is filled with restless energy, his fingers tapping a precise rhythm against his trident. The inaction is worse than any challenge the arena could give him. He wants to run back into the jungle, to tear through the branches until he finds you, but he knows you. That's the cruellest part.

He knows how you think, the way you map escape routes before you even enter a room, the way you always have a back-up plan for your back-up plan. And right now, this beach is your plan. It’s the rendezvous point you had all agreed on before the Games even began, a secret strategy the rebels had managed to lay out. If he leaves, he risks missing you. If he stays, he risks leaving you to die alone. The dilemma claws at his ribs, and around him he can hear the others strategise, but their words blur into static. All he can hear is the phantom echoe of your voice in his head as you tell him it will be okay. Johanna catches his eye from across the beach, her glare sharp enough to cut. “Stop pacing. You’re making me twitchy.” He forces himself to let out a deep breath, focusing on the movement of the water in front of him. He needs to put himself back together; he needs to stay here.

But then—your scream. It tears through the jungle, a sound so visceral his body moves before his mind catches up. He’s already sprinting, the grip on his trident tight as his instincts kick in.

"Finnick, stop—!" Johanna’s voice is lost to him over the rushing of blood in his ears. The trees blur as he runs; he doesn't think about the careers that could be close by, the traps that he could trigger or the fact that he’s doing the exact opposite of what he’s supposed to. The flicker of movement to his right catches his attention, and he’s about to change directions when the jabberjays descend. They’re a swarm of wings and needle-sharp cries as they surround him, their voices stitching together into an illusion of you: your gasps, your sobs, the way you’d whispered his name before being forced apart. He stops moving and staggers to his knees. It’s not real. He knows it’s not real. Knows that Snow’s fingerprints are all over this new form of torture. But logic means nothing when his hands are shaking, when his lungs refuse to work, when every instinct screams to run, find, save—

Johanna grabs his shoulder, her nails biting through his skin. "Breathe, Odair."

The jabberjays' cries fade into the jungle's chorus, leaving Finnick hollowed out and raw. Johanna's grip on his shoulder remains, her fingers digging into muscle like she's the only thing keeping him from splintering apart.

"Get up," she hisses, voice low and urgent. "We need to move before those things lure anyone else here." Finnick's hands still tremble as he pushes himself to his feet. The phantom echoes of your voice cling to him, sticky as blood. He wants to argue, to plunge back into the green hell after you, but Johanna's right—the sound of the jabberjays could be a beacon for every tribute left in the arena.

The walk back to the beach is a blur of snapping branches and Johanna's muttered curses. When they break through the treeline, Beetee's head jerks up from the makeshift radio he's been tinkering with, his glasses flashing in the sunlight. "Did you find—?"

"No," Johanna cuts him off, shoving Finnick toward the water. "Go clean up before I toss you in the water myself.” Finnick's gaze drifts to the treeline, his fingers twitching at his sides. You promised you'd fight. He just needs to believe you're still fighting.

You wake to the taste of copper and dirt. The world swims into focus slowly—first the ache in your ribs, then the sticky warmth of blood matting your hair to your scalp. Somewhere in the chaos of the bloodbath, a blow to the head had sent you sprawling into the undergrowth, separating you from the others. The jungle hums around you, deceptive in its tranquillity. Every rustle of leaves could be a mutation, every snapped twig a Career hunting for stragglers. The beach is your only chance—you know Finnick will be waiting there, even if it kills him. You press your back against a tree, lungs burning, and your ribs scream where a Career’s boot found its mark yesterday, but you know you need to keep moving; too much time has passed already. You know the way his voice cracks when he’s trying not to beg, the way his hands shake after nightmares, you know he’s counting cannons, just like you are—each one a fresh wound. So you bite down on the pain and move.

The arena doesn’t kill you quietly; it creeps in through the cracks—the stench of rotting foliage, the too-sweet tang of tracker jacker venom lingering in the air, the way your own sweat stings the cuts on your palms. So you move in bursts, pausing to listen between steps. The arena's traps are everywhere.

When the jabberjays come, their shrieks weaving together your name in Finnick's voice, you almost believe it's real. Your chest cracks open with want, but you bite your tongue until you taste blood. The jabberjays' voices fade, but their poison lingers in your bones. You press a trembling hand against the rough bark of a tree, counting breaths until the phantom sound of Finnick's screams stops echoing in your skull. Every rustle of leaves sends your pulse skittering. The wound on your ribs throbs in time with your footsteps, a fresh bloom of pain with each misstep. You try to focus on the memory of Finnick's hands steadying you after nightmares – his thumbs brushing your wrists in slow circles. Breathe. Just breathe.

The first hint of salt air cuts through the jungle's rot. Your knees nearly buckle at the scent – it smells like Finnick's skin after swimming, like promises whispered against damp hair. The ground begins to slope downward. Somewhere beyond the trees, waves crash in a rhythm you'd know blind. You're close now. So close. A twig snaps; you freeze, muscles coiled.

Then—a sound. Not a cannon. Not a mutation. A rhythmic tap, too precise to be accidental. You know that sound, like you know the hitch in Finnick’s breath when he wakes from nightmares. Like you know the way his fingers drum against your hip when he’s impatient, when he’s afraid, when he’s trying to pretend he isn’t either. The beach is close. You know that rhythm, the way his hands move when his mind is racing, when the nerves he’d never admit to are fraying his control. And just like that, you’re running; you’re reckless. You can smell the sand now; you can almost hear their hushed voices. But the arena has one last cruelty in store.

You feel it before you see it, that split-second prickle at the back of your neck, the sudden hush of the jungle like the arena itself is holding its breath, and you know the fatal mistake you’ve just made. Memories crash over you like a riptide. The bouncing of his knee under the kitchen table on the morning of the reaping, the way he’d flinched when your fingers brushed his wrist, then clung to you like you were the only anchor in a storm. You remember the Tuesday he’d shattered a teacup at 3 a.m., his breathing coming out in jagged bursts. You hadn't asked him why; it didn't matter why. You had just slid down beside him, pressing your forehead to his temple until his lungs remembered how to work.

And that damned peach pie, the memory of flour dusting his lashes as he’d laughed at your frantic perfectionism, only to turn pale as a ghost when you’d yelped at the oven’s burn. His hands, so careful, always so careful, cradling your blistered palms while his voice stayed as steady as the tide. “Breathe, sweetheart. It’s just pie.” It had been his mother’s recipe, the first thing he trusted you with that hurt to share, and you were more upset over messing it up than the burn on your hands. And that night on the beach, salt air clinging to his lips as he whispered “Promise me” with a desperation that carved itself into your bones. The version of Finnick the Capitol moulded was gone; there was only the raw, trembling truth of him.

It had reminded you of the first time you met. The way Finnick’s laugh had faltered when your eyes locked across the room years ago—like he’d been sucker-punched by his own heartbeat. The Capitol’s golden boy unravelled in an instant. The sun was starting to rise over the water, the soft light showcasing the tension in his shoulders.

You’ve seen Finnick Odair wear a hundred masks, but this—this restless hesitation, his fingers worrying the edge of his sleeve—is new. You open your mouth to ask him, but he speaks first. “I know you like to tease me about the clichés I tell you.” His voice is rough, like he’s been screaming into the tide. “But I need you to know I mean every fucking word.” When he turns, the look on his face steals your breath. This isn’t the polished charmer from your early days or even the fractured man who once sobbed into your collarbone after a Capitol party. This is something rawer. Something terrified.

Your fingers find the nape of his neck on instinct, threading through sweat-damp curls. He shudders, leaning into your touch like a dying man offered water. “I know,” you whisper. “No.” His hand clamps over yours, pressing your palm flat to his pulse. It’s racing. “When I say I’d die for you, I mean it. Let me mean it.” The words are a blade between your ribs. “Finn—”

“We’ve both known what will happen at the reaping, even if we pretend we don’t.” His thumb traces your knuckles—so gentle, so at odds with the fire in his eyes. “You’d walk into that arena alone just to spare a stranger. That stubbornness is why I—" He chokes. “But you have to let me be selfish too.” A tear slips down your cheek, but he catches it before it can fall from your face. “Promise me.” His voice cracks.“Promise you’ll survive, even if I don’t.”

You want to argue. To shake him until his teeth rattle. But the plea in his gaze is a mirror of your own soul. “I promise.” His exhale is a seismic thing, like he’s been drowning for years. You seize his wrist before he can pull away. “Promise me too. That you’ll fight, no matter what.” There’s a flicker of agony in his eyes, but just like you had known, he knows you need to hear him say it. “I promise I’ll try.” There are so many unspoken words as he looks at you. So many more clichés you know he wants to give to you, so many reassurances you wish you could give him, but the one promise you have always shared is louder than ever: you won’t let them have the satisfaction of knowing they can break you.

So maybe this is how it was always meant to be. The thought comes to you with eerie clarity as Brutus enters your line of vision and his fingers crush your windpipe. You’ve kept your promises, you’ve fought like hell, and now—now you’ve made it back to him, even if only for a final heartbeat. Your vision tunnels, and every gasp is like a knife being dragged through your lungs, but you don’t stop moving. Your fingers reach for the blade embedded in your palm — the one you’d taken from another tribute hours ago, the one still slick with your own blood. Brutus snarls as you drive it into his wrist, and for one glorious second, his grip loosens. You suck in a fractured breath, but then his other hand slams you against a tree. “Is that all you’ve got?” His breath is rancid, and stars burst behind your eyes, the world around you fracturing into fragments as he lifts you off the ground, once again stealing your breath from you.

You think of Finnick, the real him, the one who kissed you like he was starving as he trailed a path all over your body, who whispered against your thighs like he was reciting a prayer. Just as you’re about to give in to the memories, throught the static in your ears, you hear it, and Brutus’ head snaps toward the sound.

"Get your fucking hands off her."

The voice is raw with fury, edged with something worse—terror. Brutus actually flinches. It’s a voice you’d recognise anywhere; you’d know it underwater. In a hurricane. At the end of the world. Finnick.

You hit the ground hard, your lungs screaming as they try to reclaim the air you’ve been gifted once more, but all you can process is him. The unmistakably feral look twisting on his face as he slams into Brutus like a tidal wave, the sickening crunch of his fist meeting jawbone—once, twice—each blow precise and vicious, the way his trident lies abandoned behind him; he didn’t even bother using it. This isn’t combat; this is butchery. Your vision swims as you stagger upright, only to collapse again. Every gasp feels like swallowing broken glass, but you have to get to him—

Crack.

The sound isn’t just heard. You feel it in your bones. Brutus’ head snaps sideways, his knees buckling as Finnick drives an elbow into his temple. There’s no finesse, just a boy who’s spent too many years sharpening himself into a weapon, finally cutting loose.

A wet cough wrenches from your throat, and Finnick’s head whips toward you so fast it’s a miracle his neck doesn’t break. For one fractured second, his rage falters. You’ll remember that look forever. How his eyes went wild, how his breath hitched—like he’d just watched you die. The sound of your wheezing seems to snap him out of his trance. Though he’s covered from head to toe in blood spatter—none of it his—he has never looked more fragile to you. He rushes to your side, dropping to his knees as one hand cradles your face while the other takes yours, pressing your palm against his ribcage to help you steady your racing breaths. His thumb strokes your cheek in slow, uneven sweeps—a nervous habit. The blood smearing your skin is thick, still warm, but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when Finnick is looking at you like this, like you’re dawn breaking over the ocean after the longest night of his life.

Despite the ache in your arms, you lift your free hand and catch his—the one that had been tracing restless patterns against your skin—and press his palm to your chest. You know the steadying rhythm of your heartbeat is one of the few things that can anchor him now. A spark flickers to life in his eyes as they roam your face, as if he’s memorising the proof that you’re here, alive.

“I’ve missed you.” The words are too small for the weight in your chest, but they’re the only truth you can grasp. His chuckle is rough, warmth bleeding into the sound, and it reignites the dull ache in your heart—then fans it into a wildfire when he murmurs, “I missed you more.” You can feel the want boiling inside him—the way his adrenaline sings for him to crush you against his ribs, to kiss you like he’s pouring every unsaid vow into your lungs. But he hesitates, fingers twitching against your collarbone. Still afraid, still fragile.

“I’m okay, Finn. I promise.” A smile ghosts his lips, but his next words are barely audible. “Everybody’s watching.” He doesn’t need to say anything else. You remember the first oath you ever swore to each other: Don’t let them in. Don’t let them twist this. Your relationship was never just yours—it was a stage play for all of Panem, a performance where even you sometimes forgot where the script ended and the truth began.

Yet here he is, clinging to another promise—the one where he swore to shield you, even from himself. You see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands hover like he’s afraid touch might shatter the illusion of control. He’s trying so damn hard to be what you need: steady, selfless, safe. But the irony is delicious. His restraint is the proof you crave. It screams what the cameras will never understand—that this, right here, is the most real thing either of you has ever had. So you tilt your chin up, your voice a challenge and a dare as you scan his face: “Then let’s give them something to look at.”

Your words are another whisper, so quiet you fear they might dissolve before they reach him—but then his head snaps up, his gaze scouring your face like a man reading a map in the dark. And then he breaks. He lunges forward, lips crashing into yours with a desperation that steals your breath. It’s overwhelming, it's perfect, the familiarity of his mouth against yours is everything you had been craving since you last saw him. You kiss him back like it’s the only language left to you, pouring every unsaid ‘I love you’ into the press of your lips. His touch is featherlight yet feverish, hands tracing your arms, your spine, as if trying to memorise you through his fingertips. And in this fragile bubble of shared breath and tangled limbs, you find it—the truth you’ve been starving for.

Finnick kisses like it’s his salvation. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging gently, insatiable, while his arm bands around your waist, hauling you flush against him until not even air separates you. You feel the frantic thudding of his heartbeat where your chest meets his, a wild counterpoint to your own. When he groans into your mouth, it’s a sound you want to bottle. It’s not enough. Even now, with his skin against yours and his pulse thundering under your palms, you’re already aching for more—more of him, more of this, more of the way he makes the world vanish.

A very deliberate cough shatters the daydream you’d been lost in, and the two of you spring apart like kids caught making out behind the gym. “You two never fail to disgust me.” Johanna’s voice is flat, devoid of even her trademark sarcasm, and the heat that floods your cheeks is embarrassingly familiar. “If you’re done trying to swallow each other’s faces, we’ve got shit to do.”

Finnick snaps back to reality first, hauling himself upright before pulling you up with him. His hands linger, like he needs the contact to convince himself you’re really here. Johanna rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t stick, already stalking back toward the clearing—but not before you catch her gaze flickering over you, her lips twitching like she’s fighting a smile. Of course she cares, she's the one who introduced the two of you to begin with.

“I think she might actually be glad I’m not dead.” You murmur, and his laughter is warm against your ear. The sound settles something in your chest, a reminder: You’re here. You’re together. Maybe, against all odds, things will be okay.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he jokes back. “She’s just relieved she won’t have to suffer through my moping anymore.” The lightness in his grin tells you everything—he’s found his footing again. And so have you. But as Finnick’s thumb brushes your wrist, you both hear it: another cannon in the distance. The Games aren’t over yet.

[small prequel: The Masks We Wear]