#finnick x male!reader

[theaawalker]

Something to Feel, Something Real [Finnick Odair Smut]

Pairing: Finnick Odair x male!reader Song Inspo: Call Me By Your Name by Lil Nas X Word Count: 1,394 Summary: You've seen Finnick around, often through pitying eyes, but haven't spoken to him. The times you have seen, he's either with a client (flirting) or leaving them (shaking with shame, rage, and disgust). You decide to make him feel something real and mutually pleasurable. Warnings: smut, oral (male receiving), emotional build-up, MxM, one-shot, begging, substance usage, cursing, narrator pov Masterlist: see fandoms (pc-friendly) A/N: This is not attached to "I Promise", my other Finnick imagine. The second part will be here shortly. Just adding a little twist to the end. *smirks villainously* In the meantime, here's some gay smut to tickle your tentacles. Peep the easter egg tho ;)

You and Finnick have your first real conversation when he’s arriving back at the Tribute center one night after spending an upsetting few hours with one of Snow’s clients. He’s in a foul mood, anger bordering on despair and self-hatred, still feeling the ghosts of unwanted fingers on his body, when he steps into the elevator and finds you smoking a joint.

"Shit, shit!” you curse, hiding the joint up your sleeve and coughing, waving your hands in the air like you can disperse the smell. “Sorry, someone was smoking in here before,” you lie.

Finnick can’t help himself. He laughs. “Give me a hit and I won’t tell anyone.”

You share the joint in the elevator, not hitting any button to go up to either of your floors. The chatter comes easy with both of you, but it’s not long before you’re stepping over friendly small talk into a genuine conversation about the wild shit you’ve seen in the Capitol and in your case, at home, too. District 2 loves to rub elbows with the Capitol, something you despise. Your comparisons and imitations have Finnick barking laughter.

During one of the lulls in conversation, he takes in your face and form, basking in the fact that he’s responsible for the smile on your face right now. He’d like to get to know you better, and fuck it, maybe he’s a little horny right now, too.

“Come to my floor?” he asks, the joint between his fingers. He takes a slow drag, watching you.

You stare at his lips as he exhales. God, the high must be hitting because all you want to do is cover his lips with yours. Like, it’s the only thought rattling around in your peanut brain. His lips curl into a smile and--Oh, shit. He asked you a question.

“Sure,” you answer.

One expression Finnick identifies all too easily is lust. And he sees it plain on your face. “Then let’s go.”

Finnick leads you to the lounge on the fourth floor, well away from the bedrooms. The giant windows let in light from the Capitol’s nightlife.

“I miss the stars,” you say once you’re both settled next to each other on a loveseat. “It’s not like there are a ton of them back home with all the light pollution, but still. There are more than here.”

Finnick gazes at the dark sky. “You should come to District 4 sometime. You can see the entire Milky Way. And instead of listening to all those cars you listen to the ocean. And you can forget everything for a few moments.”

Despite the lounge being much, much larger than the elevator, this feels far more intimate. Finnick and you face each other, your eyes flicking to his lips. He’s the Capitol sex icon and has always acted like an absolute peacock on camera, but you’ve seen him trying so hard mentoring his own tributes and taking care of Mags. There’s a lot more depth to him than what the cameras show. And you like the bits he shows off camera far, far more. Those bits are coming out tonight; a funny, deeply caring, deeply hurt young man with a vast capacity for kindness.

When he came into the elevator, he looked positively miserable and so, so defeated. Like he had been stomped on and ground down. You wanted to make him smile, a real smile, but then you couldn’t stop at just one, and now here you are. You know about his and Snow’s “arrangement”. You also know you can treat him better than any of the “clients” do even when they’re trying, and you wonder if he’ll let you treat him like that.

Your intense stare has Finnick shifting, feeling a few degrees hotter than before.

“Can I kiss you?” you finally ask, voice low. If there’s one thing being a Career has taught you, it’s to grab at any opportunity you see. Finnick swallows. “Yes,” he croaks. “Please.”

You lean forward and capture his lips, one hand on the back of the couch and the other securely in your lap. You’re close and leaning into him, but not holding him. The restraint surprises him at first. But he’s grateful for it and he relaxes. He sinks into the kiss, his own hands venturing to fist in your shirt collar and hold you there. You let him lead, let him feel your arms and touch your face and chest, but never move your own hands from their position, just pour your all into your lips against his.

The lights flick on. You and Finnick snap apart like a rubber band snapping back into shape. It’s Mags. She looks between you both with wide eyes before a mischevious smile breaks across her face. “No, no, Mags,” Finnick protests.

She winks, grinning, and flicks the lights back off. She exits.

Finnick groans. “I’m never going to hear the end of it.”

You grin and wink. “Well, if you’re never going to hear the end of it, we may as well make it worth it, right?”

His seafoam eyes lock on yours, an eyebrow lifting. He smirks. “Oh? What do you have in mind?”

Leaning forward, you whisper in his ear, “I’d like to suck you off.”

All thoughts leave his head and all blood flows straight to his groin. For once, he’s speechless. No one has ever offered this before. All the people he spends time with want his attention on them, want him to fawn over them, wants him to boost their egos with his attention. And if they did off, he’d wonder what they want in return. Exactly like he’s wondering right now. He should ask, but his brain is too focused on the thought of your lips around his dick. Does he really care what happens after as long as he gets what he wants, first?

At his silence you withdraw. “Only if you want me to, of course,” you add. The last thing you want to do is make him uncomfortable.

“Yes,” he hastily replies. “Yes. I’d love you to suck me off.”

That affirmation is all you need. You kneel in front of him and slowly unzip his pants, revealing plain boxers beneath. Finnick watches you, his heart pounding. With agonizingly slow movements, you touch his length and guide it through the gap in his boxers. He grips the cushions of the loveseat as you lick up the underside of his member, from the base to the tip. Your tongue is deliciously wet. Finally, you take Finnick into your mouth and work him slow, slow, slow. One hand balls into a fist on his leg and the other slips in your hair. He moans, a low sound that barely reaches your ears.

You can’t believe no one has ever done this before. You’ve barely started, and he looks absolutely wrecked and so goddamned pretty. His head falls back against the loveseat and he lets out a shaky breath.

Fisting him, you take your mouth off to quip, “Have I made the Finnick Odair speechless?”

He huffs a laugh, meeting your gaze. “Just wait until I have you on your back and—oh.” His words end in a strangled moan as you suck his head. You ease him a little bit further into the rhythm before you deep-throat him. By then both hands tangle in your hair and he’s whimpering and trembling, muscles taut. “Fuck. Fuck.” It’s so warm, so hot, feels so, so good.

He comes shortly after, cock hot and stiff in your mouth, his entire body rigid. As he comes down from his high he melts into the couch, both his hands gently tugging at your head. “Get up,” he pants. You comply and stand, bracing your arms on either side of his head, and kiss him. There it is again, that restraint.

“Touch me,” he moans. “Please.” He might combust if you don’t.

You obey and cup his cheeks. His hands mimic yours, holding your face to his while you kiss. His stomach feels warm and body completely relaxed, for once completely in the moment, his brain pleasantly quiet.

He opens his eyes. “What can I do for you?”

You press your forehead to his, cheeks hot. God, there’s so much you want to do to him, with him, but not tonight. “You can go to bed and get a full night’s sleep,” you answer.

What? He knows he heard you right, but what? “That’s not what I meant,” he says hesitantly. You chuckle and kiss his cheek.

“I know.” You brush back a lock of his hair. “And as much as I’d like to fuck you or you fuck me and make out well into the morning, you taking care of yourself is what I want the most. Can you promise me you’ll do that?”

Finnick can’t help the laugh that escapes him. “I promise.” He feels almost bashful. How do you know what he needs? Beneath your soft gaze he feels vulnerable and open, and while it’s foreign, it’s not unwelcome.

You smile at him, a brilliant smile that lights up the night. “Thank you.”

You’re thanking him. You just gave him a blowjob and you’re thanking him. Who the fuck are you?

After exchanging a few more minutes of sweet nothings, you leave to head to your floor. Finnick stays on the loveseat a while longer, smiling, watching the twinkling lights of the Capitol. The content expression gradually falls from his face and he sinks into the reality that is his life. At least this has been a sliver of good in what is his constant parade of masking for the Capitol. Maybe he can have a few more of those slivers when you’re around. He’s certainly going to try to grab the chances when they present themselves.

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[boypied]

THE CUM-FILLED GAMES.

pairings: peeta mellark x male reader x finnick odair

summary: finnick and peeta are too pent up during the games, so they decide to use male reader to help release their horniness.

requested by: anonymous

warnings: SMUT, anal sex, threesome, spit roasting, double penetration, choking.

You flop your body down against the sand, watching the waves clash against the shield that's blocking it from coming into the section of the beach you're on, Finnick and Peeta sit down either side of you laying their weapons down almost simultaneously. "So what do you guys miss about the outside?" I ask them while I continue watching the waves clash against the forcefield, Peeta's face lights up when he comes up with an answer."I miss the bakery, " he says in a soft tone, causing you to smile slightly, "y'know what I miss?" Finnick says with a huge smirk on his face. He gets up and pulls off his grey skintight suit revealing his rock hard cock, "I miss sex." He says in a seductive tone.

"...and I need a good blowie now," he says as he gently slaps his cock as it springs back into place, your eyes widen but you're practically drooling at the thought of tasting his salty pre-cum. You slowly crawl across the beach to him, wrapping your lips around his perfectly pink tip, "mhm" you moan out as the taste of his pre-cum coats your mouth. He's all you can taste, and you aren't complaining. Peeta watches from afar, and he nibbles at his lip, "I'm not missing out on this," he mumbles to himself as he strips himself out of the skintight spandex revealing his bushy pubes and girthy cock.

Peeta makes his way over and the wet sound of your mouth taking every inch of Finnick's cock gets louder as he gets closer, Peeta leans down and gently pulls down the zip of your costume sliding it down revealing more and more of your naked body, "fuck" he mumbles to himself as your body gets revealed to him in all it's glory. The way your back arches as Finnick grips either side of your head and thrusts his cock to the back of your throat, his cock coated entirely in your saliva. "Best. Blowjob. Ever." Finnick groans out in between breathy moans.

Peeta gets down on his knees and cautiously leans closer to your exposed asshole. He gently opens up your cheeks as wide as they go so he can really dive into your boy-pussy, he's worried about hurting you, you can feel his hot breath against your hole so you wiggle your ass slightly pushing it back showing him how much you want it. Finnick continues to face fuck you, causing your cheeks to redden with each time your face gets pushed into his pubes. Peeta finally licks a wet strip up your hole causing your body to shiver from pleasure.

You whimper around Finnick's large cock as Peeta's tongue pushes through your tight muscle ring and into your hole, he gently pushes a finger in aswell having it run under his tongue. The feeling of your throat being bruised from a thick cock was incredible but add someone finger and tongue fucking your hole; you could've busted right then and there but you held off. Peeta leans away from your hole slightly lining up his cock and gently pushing it in, he grips onto your hips as his body pulsates slightly. Finnick blushes at the sight, his cock disappearing into your throat and also Peeta's cock disappearing into your hole.

"Look at the way his ass jiggles Peeta, it's mesmerising," Finnick coos out to Peeta as he picks up his pace as his groin slaps against your ass causing it to ripple. In the control room President Snow watches this all unfold, his cock hardening "if you'll excuse me...I need to use the bathroom" he says to a technician as he adjusts his cock leaving the room. Finnick groans before pulling his cock out of your mouth, "Peeta... stop for a moment and go sit by that tree" he says in an almost demanding tone but Peeta obliged cause why not.

Peeta adjusts himself slightly before getting comfortable, he begins to jerk off his cock while he waits for whatever Finnick has just come up with, he whispers something in your ear and you immediately begin to walk back over to Peeta you hover above Peeta's cock with your back against his body, you slide down causing Peeta to let out slutty submissive moans. You lean back, resting your body against Peeta, where he presses kisses all over your neck, Finnick stumbles over and lifts up your legs, resting them on his shoulder.

He lines up his cock with your already full hole and with one thrust his tip is making its way inside. Your hole stretching to accommodate the size of another cock was the best feeling you've ever felt, the curve of both their cocks was an ungodly pleasure. After a couple of moments of their cocks twitching and pulsating they both begin to buck their hips back and forth gently pushing against your sweet spot in one way or another.

"m-mhm!" You whimper out as the pleasure takes over your body, the feeling of Finnicks hands on your hands and Peeta's hands trailing up and down your chest before finally settling round your throat, he tightens slightly as he begins to sexually choke you out. You stick your tongue out as your hole gets pounded into a pulp, constantly hitting your sweet spot. Your stiff member rubbing against Peeta's perfect body.

"You close?" Peeta and Finnick say in sync, causing you to chuckle slightly before nodding your head, with a couple more double thrusts from Peeta and Finnick they unload their seed into your hole. Finnick puts his hand over your mouth as Peeta pumps your cock a couple more times before you spill your load all over his body. "M-MHM!" You moan against his hand. Finnick's body collapses onto your back, where he whispers sweet nothings into your ear while he gently nibbles your ear lobe. Peeta watches as he gently cups your face and leans up to kiss your lips, "fuck... round two?" You hispers to the two of them causing them to smirk.

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[applecrispy]

Oct. 2 ; Begging

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Male! Reader x Finnick Odair (The Hunger Games)

HEADS UP!

Second Kinktober prompt, set! Enjoy this drabble

Ended up being a bit sweeter and not too 'begging' as the prompt said, but hey! There's always another chance to re-write this after kinktober!

Also, ignore the fact I haven't posted day one yet ajdhkcjks I'll probably post it later since I'm a tad stuck on it.

And how out of practice I am in writing- but I swear, all my thirsts will (hopefully) get better overtime!

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Finnick moans, his hands claw at the kitchen counter top as his boyfriend pounds into him from behind. He aches a bit, but god it's amazing and worth it all.

He had teased (Y/n) earlier today, he was in the mood, and seems like (Y/n) was as well after having Finnick drop to his knees and suck him off from under their dinning table. He wouldn't admit it straight up, but Finnick has been itching for his lover's touch since a few days ago when (Y/n) had returned from his trip to District 13 to check in. The kiss they shared at the station, Finnick liked it a bit too much, maybe he missed (Y/n)'s lips against his, the gentle touch on his sides, how he didn’t push him-

"(Y/n)- baby, fuck!" Finnick chokes out, another moan leaving him.

His chest felt cold from being pressed against their marble counter, but (Y/n) simply continued to piston into him. A hand gently holding his thigh up to the side, granting him a new angle, and Finnick felt his legs shake, and at some point he's pinned to the counter. He can barely keep himself up on the floor, and (Y/n) seems to notice because Finnick yelps briefly as he's flipped over and he's now with his back to the counter, staring up at (Y/n) as he hikes his legs up. Now presented with a canvas, Finnick reaches up and wraps his arms around his boyfriend's back, moaning as he tries to bite the noises back by biting his bottom lip.

His hair is disheveled, messy, and not in the usual styled and seductive manner that his ex-stylists used to fix it into, but rather into something raw and honest. His fingers draw down (Y/n)'s back as he shudders and soon sputters on a noise and breath.

"Another- inside, please-" Finnick begs quietly, he doesn’t care how he aches faintly from the past three orgasms he's already had which have stolen all the air from him, he needs another load inside of him. One more.

(Y/n) smiles slightly, both love and pure unadulterated adoration, and he leans down to groan into Finnick's ear "You want another inside? And here I was thinking of pulling out and finishing all over your thighs instead... why so desperate?" He teases, and Finnick scoffs as much as he can before he breaks into a choppy whimper mixed with a moan "I- Oh right there... There! Nail right there!" He can't help but purr out, and when (Y/n)'s thrusts slow and intentionally miss, Finnick is digging his face involuntarily into (Y/n)'s neck "Please- please please... So good, please, inside. Another, right... right tHE-" his words are cut off and hit a high as he throws his head back, and if it weren't for the gentle hand on the back fo his head that stops the movement by catching his head and curling a hand into his hair, Finnick would've slammed his head open. But he's too lost to properly adore the action, instead he only lets out a heavy, and noisey high pitched moan.

(Y/n) had shifted his thrusts, and was now thoroughly fucking into him, right into his prostate as he had asked, and the tease just chuckles breathily.

"There?"

"Yes... Yes! Please inside, inside." His last few words mold into messy shapes and noises, still coherent in a sense, but debaunched with his ecstasy. He lets out another softer whimper, and Finnick swears this man is the only one who has been able to reduce him to these honest words, begs, and noises. He's a mess, but shit it's so nice.

It doesn't take too much longer, and (Y/n) gives a small tug to Finnick's hair, reeling his mind back to quickly ask for honest confirmation "Inside?" And Finnick can't help how he begs.

"YES! Inside, inside, please- please (Y/n), need it. Please, need to feel it, feel you-" and Finnick is cut off with a yelp and moan as his hips are grabbed and he's pulled down to be plush against (Y/n)'s hips. He shudders as a weak orgasm leaves him, untouched, oversensitive, and the feeling of being filled and pumped with a orgasm once more in him, Finnick lets the fingers he hadn’t noticed that dug down (Y/n)'s back fall lax.

He lets his expression drop, content as he bathes in the after glow, breathing in heavily as he lets out weak little noises. He gently holds onto (Y/n) as his partner seems just as breathless as he is, pulling back to smile down at him as Finnick feels his heart briefly flutter at how he looks at him.

"Seems like you've missed me." And Finnick groans in complaint and jokingly tries to shove (Y/n) away with a little tired grin on his own face "Oh piss off!" He scoffs out a playful laugh despite how breathless it sounds, quickly diving in to kiss (Y/n) once more in something sweeter.

Yeah, he had missed him.

[cece693]

My Safe Place (Finnick Odair x M! Reader)

Going back to my Hunger Games phase and not enough fics for male/gender neutral readers can be found for him. So, I aim to fix it :) Hope you enjoy!

Summary: Finnick was known for his conquests whenever he traveled to the Capital, however, you were his main client—a man who didn't exactly act like the rest of the Capital society.

tags: mention of sex working, Finnick deserves better, reader is a safe place for him, President Snow being a dick, reader is different, Annie (unfortunately) is dead

The arrangement between you and Finnick was dangerous, but you didn’t care. All that mattered was giving him some semblance of safety, a fleeting escape from the nightmare President Snow had trapped him in. You never liked interacting with people, much less in the manner Finnick’s arrangement with the Capitol required. But when the murmurs began—stories of the young victor's so-called "conquests" echoing in the opulent halls—you couldn’t ignore the tug in your chest.

You weren’t foolish. You knew how Snow operated. Finnick’s dazzling smile was just another weapon in the Capitol's arsenal, a weapon honed through coercion and manipulation. Then you overheard a conversation at a party: a woman bragging about "paying" to spend time with him. Her words were dripping with self-satisfaction, as though exploiting someone so clearly tormented was a badge of honor. It made your stomach churn.

It was easy to connect the dots. Too easy.

The first time you reached out to Finnick, it had been awkward. Not for him—he was all smooth confidence, his charm slipping into place like a second skin. But you? You couldn’t keep still, looking around the suite for cameras or hidden microphones. You didn’t trust the Capitol, and Finnick was bound to be under constant surveillance, his every move scrutinized.

Sensing your nervousness, Finnick took control of the situation, his practiced mask of seduction sliding into place. He began unbuttoning his shirt, moving toward you with a deliberate air. After all, wasn’t this why you’d invited him here? Another Capitol indulgence, another client eager to own a piece of him.

“No!” Your voice cut through the tension as you stepped back, your hand flying up to stop him. The disgust on your face was immediate and unfiltered.

Finnick froze, his hands mid-motion, and for a moment, genuine confusion flickered across his face. “Then what do you want?” he asked, clutching the throw you’d hastily handed him.

It had taken everything in you to hold his gaze. "A safe place. For you. No strings attached."

For a long, tense moment, Finnick didn’t respond. He studied you, his sea-green eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to find the trap in your words. Then, to your surprise, he laughed—a bitter, hollow sound that didn’t suit him at all.

"Safe places don’t exist in the Capitol."

"Maybe not," you admitted. "But I can try."

From then on, it became a routine. You’d send the payment—an obscene amount, just enough to satisfy the Capitol’s watchful eye—and Finnick would arrive at your apartment late at night. He always used the private entrance to avoid prying eyes. At first, neither of you talked much. Finnick would sit stiffly on the edge of your luxurious couch, his shoulders tense, his hands fidgeting with the sea-green pendant around his neck.

You ignored his discomfort, going about your nightly routine as though he wasn’t there. You’d clean the dishes left on the counter, read a book with a steaming cup of tea, or sometimes sit at your piano and let your fingers wander across the keys. You never pressed him to talk, never demanded his attention. You simply let him exist in the quiet safety of your home.

When the time was up, Finnick would stand, his expression often a mix of confusion and gratitude, before slipping out the same way he came.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Months into the arrangement, Finnick began to open up. At first, he stuck to safe topics: the ocean breeze in District 4, the salty tang of the air, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocky shore. His words painted a vivid picture of home, a place you could tell he missed deeply.

You didn’t press him for more, content to let him share whatever pieces of himself he felt comfortable giving. But then, one evening, as you were reading, Finnick spoke a name that hung heavy in the air. “Annie.” The sound of her name made him freeze for a moment, as though he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. You looked up from your book, startled by the weight in his tone but careful not to push. You simply set the book down and waited.

Finnick’s gaze fell to the pendant he always wore, his fingers tracing the smooth surface of the shell. “She was my first love,” he said quietly. “She was different from everyone else. Quiet, kind, but strong in a way most people didn’t see. She didn’t care about the Games or the Capitol. She only cared about people.”

The smile faded from his lips, replaced by a shadow of grief. “But Snow couldn’t allow that, could he? He couldn’t let me have something that made me resist.”

Finnick’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the pendant, his entire frame trembling with suppressed rage and sorrow. “He killed her,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t quick, and it wasn’t painless. He made sure I knew every detail, made sure I understood that her death was my fault."

You watched as his grief and anger boiled over. With a sharp, guttural sound of frustration, Finnick stood abruptly, grabbing a vase from a nearby table. Without hesitation, he flung it at the wall, the porcelain shattering into a million jagged pieces. The crash echoed through the room, but you didn’t flinch.

Finnick’s chest heaved as he stood there amidst the broken shards, his tear-streaked face turned toward you. The raw vulnerability in his sea-green eyes was almost too much to bear. His lip quivered as though he was fighting a battle within himself, one final attempt to keep the walls he’d built intact.

But then, those walls crumbled.

Without warning, Finnick took a shaky step forward and collapsed to his knees before you. His head fell into your lap, his arms wrapping loosely around your legs as though anchoring himself to something—anything—real. The dam inside him burst, and his sobs came in great, shuddering waves, his entire body trembling with the force of his anguish.

You froze for a moment, startled by the intensity of his collapse, but quickly recovered. Gently, you rested a hand on his head, your fingers threading through his golden tousled hair in slow, soothing motions. Your other hand settled lightly on his back, offering a steady, grounding presence.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, your voice soft but firm. “Let it out, Finnick. You’re safe here.”

His sobs grew louder, his pain pouring out in every ragged breath, every muffled cry against your knees. His tears soaked through the fabric of your pants, but you didn’t care. All that mattered was being there for him, letting him release the emotions he’d kept locked away for so long.

“I couldn’t save her,” he choked out, his voice muffled against you. “I couldn’t…I wasn’t enough.”

“Finnick, stop,” you said gently, your voice breaking with emotion. “You were enough. You loved her, and that was more than enough. What happened to Annie wasn’t your fault. Snow…Snow took her because he’s a monster, not because of anything you did.”

He didn’t respond, but his grip on your legs tightened, his trembling body pressing closer against you. You continued to stroke his hair, murmuring soft reassurances, letting him pour his heart out in the safety of your presence. As the minutes passed, his sobs began to subside, the storm of emotions giving way to quiet, exhausted tears. His breathing slowed, though his face remained buried against your knees, as if he couldn’t bear to let go just yet.

“Thank you,” he whispered hoarsely, the words barely audible, yet they carried the weight of his gratitude and trust.

From that moment, something fragile yet beautiful began to bloom between you. Finnick grew comfortable in your space, his presence no longer guarded or wary. He started accepting small gestures of care—a cup of tea, a plate of fresh fruit—with a smile that wasn’t the polished charm he wore in public, but something tender and genuine.

His smiles were rare but transformative, softening his features in a way that felt almost sacred. It wasn’t the grin of a Capitol heartthrob or a victor playing his part. It was Finnick. The real Finnick. And it was in those moments you saw him as the man he was, not the mask he was forced to wear.

Finnick’s feelings for you deepened with every visit. At first, it was subtle: the way his eyes lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, the way his laughter grew warmer and more frequent when you were around. But over time, it became undeniable.

He found excuses to stay longer, to ask you questions about yourself—your favorite books, your childhood memories, your thoughts on the world beyond the Capitol. His curiosity was genuine, his attention focused solely on you, as though you were the one piece of sanity in his life.

And you noticed. Of course, you noticed. You weren’t blind to the way his gaze softened when it met yours, the way his voice grew quieter when he spoke your name. You weren’t stupid—you knew what it meant.

But you didn’t give in.

It wasn’t that you didn’t feel the same way. You did. Finnick had become more than a presence in your life; he had become someone you cared about deeply, someone you wanted to protect, someone whose laughter felt like sunlight breaking through a storm. But you didn’t want him to think that was all you were after. You didn’t want him to believe, even for a moment, that your care for him was tied to his charm or his body or any of the things the Capitol exploited. Finnick deserved better than that.

So you kept your distance, at least emotionally. You treated him as you always had—with quiet kindness and unwavering respect. Even as your heart ached to reach out, to tell him how much he mattered to you, you held back. Because Finnick’s worth was so much more than he realized, and you refused to let him think otherwise.

And then the 75th Hunger Games was announced.

The moment the words left President Snow’s lips—this year, the tributes shall be reaped from the existing pool of victors—you felt your chest tighten. You knew what it meant. Finnick would be going back into the arena.

When his name was called at the reaping, you watched from your apartment, your hands trembling as you gripped the armrest of your chair. Finnick’s face was calm, but you knew the storm that raged beneath the surface. You knew him too well to be fooled by the mask.

Days later, during the interviews, you sat in the same chair, your eyes glued to the television. The Capitol was abuzz with excitement, the crowd roaring with approval as Caesar Flickerman welcomed the victors one by one. And then it was Finnick’s turn. He stepped onto the stage, his signature charm firmly in place. The audience adored him, their cheers deafening as he waved and smiled. But when Caesar asked him the question that had been on everyone’s lips—is there someone special he's fighting for?—something shifted.

Finnick’s expression softened, the mask slipping just enough to reveal the man beneath. “There is,” he said simply, his voice steady but filled with emotion. The crowd erupted in gasps and murmurs, looking at each other as if he was speaking about one of them, but Finnick ignored them. "And I would like to tell them something, if you don't mind."

Caesar, ever the showman, gestured grandly for him to proceed but not before hushing the crowd.

"Though I cannot promise forever, Though the storms still rage around me, I leave my heart to you, And hope you’ll remember me kindly."

No one else knew who the poem was for. But you did.

And in that moment, it was both everything and not nearly enough.

[oweninadaydream]

𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐠𝐨 𝐩𝐭 𝟏 || 𝐅.𝐎𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐫

𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂 : Say Don't Go (Taylor's version) (From The Vault) or 4 times you say 'I love you' and Finnick says nothing back.

𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 : Finnick Odair x reader

𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽 : 2K

𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓼 : angst/fluffy ending (in part 2), (not really) unrequited love?, insecure reader, jealousy, TW: sexual exploitation (second story).

𝓪/𝓷 : This is my first time writing for Finnick and I'm so exited for you guys to read it!!! Hope you enjoy this fic :) Part two is already posted!!! You can find it here. If there are any mistakes I'm sorry , English is not my first language.

𝟣. 𝒟𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂 𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝑒 

The quietness of the night was only being disturbed by the sound of crickets and mockingbirds. The cold breeze was the only thing keeping you awake. Well, that and Finnick. You were seated next to him on the porch of your house which was right next to his. Three years had passed since you won the 67th Hunger Games and you still weren't used to the gloomy sight that was Victors Village, especially not at night, when the solitude and darkness of the streets made you remember things you thought (or hoped) were long gone in your memory but that deep down you knew would always haunt you, until the day you died.

Finnick scooted closer in order to share his blanket with you "Stop being so prideful, I can see you shaking" he scolded you for being so stubborn. " I did it on purpose, I just wanted to make you cuddle me" you joked, as it was normal in your friendship.

He had been your mentor the year you were reaped , you got along well but didn't become that close then. You knew that those were his second games as a mentor and you could feel that he wasn't emotionally prepared to bond with you just to see you die days later. Still, he prepared you the best way he knew and was always kind towards you. After you emerged victorious from that nightmare, the Capitol decided to profit off of your charm ; you were too young, scared and lost, just like Finnick once had been (and still was). That's when he took you under his wing , and you would forever feel grateful for that.

He was your rock, your light within the dark, your safe person and he saw you as his happy place, someone he could rely on, his partner in crime and the person with whom he shared his deepest thoughts, his dreams, his nightmares and hopes for an utopian future. Finding each other seemed something simply destined to be. You needed each other in ways that no one else could wrap their head around.

Despite having that special and heartwarming relationship with him, you wanted more. You were utterly and madly in love with him. Your infatuation had begun during training and only grew stronger after he approached you after the games. The thing between you was so fragile, so special that you had never thought of confessing your love. The possibility of driving him away caused your heart a kind of ache worse than any stab received back in the Arena. Your feelings felt selfish, how could you want more? Your greedy passion would ruin everything (or so you thought), so you settled for what you had.

On the inside, you knew he wasn't the kind of man that would dismiss your feelings rudely and that he would continue to consider you his friend , but it just wouldn't be the same, and seeing your dynamic change in such a way would be a more fatal fate than dying at the games.

" The way they're shining, how beautiful" he quietly mumbled loud enough for you to hear. "I know, the stars look unreal tonight" you agreed while staring completely mesmerized to the night sky. "I was looking at your eyes" you turned to see that he wasn't in fact stargazing like you were. You were out of words. He was usually flirty and he never ran out of lovely words to dedicate to you, but you still reacted as if it were the first time. "Charming as always, dear" you replied as you rested your head on his chest. He moved so you could be more comfortable and you wanted to stop time at that exact moment.

" Thank you for always being there for me" he said in a more serious tone. " You know that I'd do anything for you. Are you okay? Where is this coming from?" you asked with a worried frown adorning your face. "These past few days apart have been rough and it made me appreciate you more" he confessed timidly. How privileged were you to be able to see him in his most vulnerable state. The moon, his hands holding yours, the heat you felt on your face, it was simply too much.

"FINNICK!" a blood-curdling scream came on the scene, startling you both. He quickly stood, as he had already identified the person behind such a yell. "ANNIE?!?!? WHAT'S WRONG?!?!?"

Annie was the victor of the last Hunger Games. She had been mentored by Finnick just like you, but unlike with you, Finnick had rapidly grown fond of her ever since they first met. You knew you shouldn't have thought too much of it, but your mind was your worst enemy. You couldn't stop yourself from imagining a very near future where he chose her over you , leaving you behind and all alone in this world. You liked her : she was kind, delicate but strong and very beautiful, but for those very same reasons you were becoming jealous of her and her chances of getting together with your best friend.

Annie appeared in front of your porch wrapped in a blanket and trembling while sobbing. " They're gonna get me" "Hey hey Annie c'mon, no one's gonna hurt you anymore, you know I'll make sure of it" How caring was Finnick, it was just natural for him to become the protector in every situation. "O-okay" Annie said with little confidence in her voice "Would you stay with me tonight? I had a really bad nightmare" her doe eyes had the reflection of the full moon in them ; it truly was a breath-stealing sight "Sure thing darling, I'll be there in a second, wait for me at home, all right? It's okay " his soothing voiced and calmed her down enough to return to her house by herself.

He turned around to look at you "I'm sorry, I have to go" "I know, Finnick, it's okay" you assured him, even though you were shocked by the term of endearment used for her, as it took Finnick quite a while to refer to you as sweetheart, honey or your favorite, love.

What was wrong with you? That poor girl had just got out of the games and was terrified out of her mind after dreaming about a traumatic experience she had recently been through (just like you did in you day) and the only thing you could think about was how jealous you were because she was being comforted by Finnick in such an intimate and caring way, because she had his full attention and she would be the one lured to sleep by his calloused hands running through her hair that night. You were not thinking logically and you lost control of your actions.

"Hey" you shouted to catch his attention, as he had already begun to leave towards Annie's house "I love you Finn, I just wanted you to know" you confessed as your froze in place . You told each other how much you loved each other all the time, but it had never been like this : not under that light, not with all that sentiment in your eyes and definitely not with such a voice tone. It was clearly a confession and you could't believe what you had just done.

He stared and smiled, transmitting you his appreciation for such kind words and he continued the way to his destination. Oh fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuck. He hadn't interpreted your words as you spilling your guts about your feelings, it was just a friendly 'I love you' to him. Annie was perfect for him, you could never give him that sweet innocent love you believed Finnick deserved. The anxiety quickly transformed into anguish and you went back inside to prepare yourself for a night full of tears and stupid hypothetical scenarios about them. About him.

𝟤. 𝐼𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒

Looking around the enormous gardens you couldn't spot a single person you genuinely cared about. This Capitol party, as the previous ones, were filled with members of high society that gazed at you and the rest of victors as if you were exotic wild animals.

Reaching your secret hiding spot, you felt yourself letting your guard down. Even if distracted, you noticed the warm hand on your shoulder. You spun on your heels to identify the person behind that unexpected and yet comforting touch. Of course, Finnick Odair. Your confident, your best friend, your protector and the love of your life (role that's he's unaware of). "Shit Finnick, don't do that!" you playfully reprimanded him while smacking his chest. He pretended to be hurting but ended up laughing at your little tantrum.

"Wow, Cinna has outdone himself, you look charming my dear" he said as he gently took your hand to make you spin and admire the fine clothes you were dressed in that evening. Based on the pink blush that adorned his cheeks you quickly arrived to the conclusion that he was far from being sober and you didn't blame him, these events were unbearable if not intoxicated. "You're not bad yourself, Odair" .

The two of you danced, talked, drank more than you'd be able to remember the next day and flirted, a lot. Your heart couldn't take one more touch nor one more compliment from this man . "There's something you're not telling me, I can see it in your pretty face" he commented while hugging you from behind. He'd always known everything about you, so that remark was not surprising. Still, your heart started beating at an alarming speed and you felt the sweat coming out from your shaky hands.

What if you told him? Based on the spark in his eyes during the party you could only assume he was at least interested in you as more than a friend. You were intoxicated and wrapped between his arms, what if you just told him? "I... I love... you..." you mumbled while closing your eyes as if that would make you invisible to him. The deafening silence brought out your worst fear : rejection. No, no, no, this couldn't be happening. You've fucked up real bad this time. You turned around to face him and get this done as fast as possible.

That's when you realized : he hadn't heard you confessing your most cherished secret. You had an opportunity to go back in time, to act as if nothing had happened. You couldn't risk losing him. You locked eyes with him and Finnick tilted his head to the side in drunken confusion as he hadn't caught on to what you had so shyly whispered. Smiling sympathetically you shook your head as if to not give importance to what had been previously said. He didn't give too much though to your dismissive answer. "Would you like another drink, love?" His characteristic smirk accompanied the proposal perfectly, inviting you to give in ; as always, you couldn't deny him anything.

Before you had the chance to approach the drinks table , one of Finnick's regular clients grabbed him by the waist and whispered something into his right ear. His eyes suddenly darkened and his once relaxed features stiffened significantly. You already knew what was about to happen. You were no stranger to the services President Snow forced him to provide to Panem's elite. In fact, you were another of the poor miserable souls in charge of satisfying every desire of anyone who was wealthy enough to afford the luxury of laying with a victor.

Telling the wealthy woman to wait at their usual meeting place, he shook her off. Finnick approached you, feeling guilty and not wanting to part from your side. After a single chaste kiss on your left cheek, he left in the same direction as his client. You let out a shaky breath you didn't know you were holding and tried to prevent the tears from falling. As common as this was, it never got easier for neither of you.

Later that night you found yourself in a similar position as Finnick. The man caressing your body didn't pay any attention to the way you were spacing out and you felt thankful for that. Your mind was elsewhere, replaying over and over again the moment you almost told Finnick how in love you were with him and wondering what would have happened if you had had the courage to repeat those three words just a little bit louder . But it doesn't matter, not anymore. He was drunk and so were you, nothing sincere would have come out of his mouth at that time and you highly doubt sober him would have corresponded your feelings anyway. If only things were different.

[bumblesimagines]

nice bedhead.

why don't you join me in the shower?

- Finnick Odair

nice bedhead.

why don't you join me in the shower?

i really like the plot and backstory for this... hm.

Pronouns: They/Them/Theirs, GN!Reader

You gazed at the window from the comfort of the bed, listening to the comforting sound of the ocean waves rolling in and inhaling the salty air wafting in from the open window. You enjoyed sleeping with the window open at night ever since you won the 68th Hunger Games. There was always a second of panic in the mornings. A split moment when your body awoke from a long night filled with nightmares and your brain hadn't yet caught up with your surroundings. That split second of dread and fear that coming home had been a dream and you were still in the arena always made your heart skip a beat. But then the sea breeze would seep in and fill your nose with the smell of home. 

Your eyes dragged away from the window when the muscular arms around your waist tightened and a nose buried itself in your neck. You were pulled closer into a bare chest and Finnick's face buried further into the nape of your neck, your ears picking up on the shakey exhale that left his lips. His soft bronze curls tickled your cheek but you remained still, giving him time to fully awaken and gain awareness of his surroundings. He needed his reminder too.

You'd known Finnick as many things throughout your life. He'd been the neighbor's son who'd bring over the day's catch whenever your father fell ill. He'd been the boy in your class who had everyone wanting to be his friend with his charming smile and then had everyone on the edge of their seats when he'd been reaped into the 65th games. And finally, he became your fellow Victor when you returned home from your own agonizing time in the games. But even then, even with such close history as neighbors and former classmates, you scarcely called him a good friend. 

You had always held Finnick at arm's length. He was the sweet pretty neighbor who lived across the stone path, the popular classmate whose eyes never strayed far from you, the fourteen-year-old who'd survived the games and embraced you the moment he saw you as if frightened he'd never get to see you again. His behavior had always been strange. With a flock of followers and admirers always at his feet, he'd always been eager to befriend you, not that you ever allowed it. Your parents laughed about it, cooing to give the boy a chance, that he meant well and only wanted a friend. Your teachers did similarly but you couldn't shake off the envious looks when Finnick sat beside you during lunch or when his hand would be the first to raise when you needed a sparring partner.

It was strange. He was strange.

You still remembered how his face paled when your name was pulled from the bowl. The way he avoided being in your presence during your stay in the Capitol and left Mags to solely train you. The way he whispered in your ear all the weaknesses your district partner had before you had to leave for the arena. The look of relief on his face when you returned that promptly fell when you lashed out at everyone and anyone who tried to help. But he stuck by. Always lingering, always checking up on you. Until you finally had enough of the nightmares and wanted an escape for the night. What was supposed to be a one-time thing turned into a common occurrence when you or Finnick wanted to forget about the games or the Capitol.

So, there you were. With Finnick Odair in your bed.

"How'd you sleep?" He asked softly into your ear, voice hoarse and still soaked in exhaustion. His arms remained around you, holding you closely but not constricting you. Finnick was a quick learner. One of the many reasons he'd always been top of the class. His observant eyes and quick mind had taught him how to handle you, how to ensure you wouldn't lock him out of your life again. 

"Fine." You responded in a murmur and shifted around in his arms to face him. He leaned back slightly for wiggle room before pressing himself against you once again and pressing a quick peck to your forehead. Who knew an Odair could be so clingy? Your eyes lifted to his tousled locks. It suited him better than the pristine, perfectly combed style. "Nice bedhead."

He made a noise of amusement and moved his hand up to your face, pressing his palm against your cheek and running his thumb over your skin. He smiled, a genuine dorky smile unlike the flirtatious one he put on for the people of the Capitol, and bumped his nose against yours. "Why don't you join me in the shower?"

"Because I know you'll start something you'll want to finish in bed." Your answer made him snort and he closed the distance to properly kiss you. He smiled against your lips and rolled on top of you, pushing himself up onto his forearms and giving you a cheeky grin. 

"Then I'll start something in bed we can finish in the shower."

[whillywisp]

Seeing a lot of talks about finnick as a dad/doting husband during pregnancy on the fyp and I must contribute to the conversation 🌱 (warnings: it's long and so fluffy you're gonna die). Part 1.

Part 2 ☁︎

The thing about Finnick is that he has a lot of love to give to anyone who would take it. His heart is overflowing with it, shining cerulean with it. So of course fatherhood came to him as easily as breathing—

Wrong. Have you seen that walking talking ball of anxiety, love and autism?

The day you tell him you're pregnant he passes the fuck out. On the floor. And when he wakes up he cries for an hour straight, thanking you enough times with kisses pressed into every inch of your skin he could reach that the words don't even sound like English anymore. He's so grateful, so fucking grateful and terrified but above all, completely and irrevocably in love with you.

Throughout the pregnancy, he's as paranoid as it gets to the point you have to beg him to please leave you alone and no, Finnick the baby won't be hurt if i eat too fast please breathe and let me breathe but it's all from a place of love. He's lost too much, almost everything in his life. The few people he could still keep were precious to him and he was not going to let any of them forget that least of all his babies. Or baby.

Finnick talks to the baby a lot. Asking the most bizarre question to your bump as if he actually expected a tiny, baby's voice to answer him. He was constantly on about something new and his favourite topic to talk about was whatever his new hyperfixation was and you just nodded and smiled because of course the baby wants to know how to do an alpine stitch! But it was so endearing and relieving to see him finally be happy, finally find a purpose, even if it was to just talk nonstop to your belly. He deserves this, these little pockets of happiness.

And one of his greatest happiness was taking care of you. Circling back to the fact that he starts hyperventilating when his lover so much as sneezes too hard, the hellscape that was pregnancy scared him. No, fuck it, it terrified him. So he did what he always did and loved to do and banned you from anything and everything that needed physical exertion. Chores of any kind were out of order. You were on a healthy diet of four meals a day and of course they included all your cravings that he always presented to you no questions asked thank you very much and you had to take naps, multiple of them, all with his presence as a requirement (you were sure those were just an excuse to cuddle you but you would rather take up another round of hunger games than call him out on it). He attended every appointment, had an alarm set for all the prenatal meds, and always a kiss for the belly and your lips just so you knew that this was it for him. You and your baby were the very centre of his universe and this was him orbiting you both. And you couldn't help but be grateful that you had him to love and cherish just as he did you.

And your favourite way of telling him you loved him was letting him take control over the one thing you knew he loved: baby shopping. With all due respect, this is the type of guy who bought baby shoes when he was eighteen with no baby in sight because look at how tiny this is it's so cute *big sparkly green eyes.* But it's particularly endearing watching him waltz around the store, arms full of onesies and plushies and you kind of just stand there, unable to do anything because what the fuck were you supposed to do at nine months pregnant and married to a man who you *checks notes* gifted a day where he could buy anything he wanted as a birthday present?

I promise you the answer was not 'go into an early labour the second he dumped the shopping bags in the living room' but who am I to say anything?

The baby coming two whole weeks early did not sit well with his anxiety. He was a mess, a complete and utter mess but he was also the most precious angel on this planet so seeing him holding back tears of fear so he could be there for you and hold you tight, so tight, because he was scared he would lose you broke your heart too. While the pain of the labour was bad, knowing he was close, holding you tight as he pressed gentle kisses everywhere, to cater to everything you needed, was enough to realise, he was the one. And you were going to fight through hell for him.

Such a wretched thing, love, you thought to yourself as you felt him shake beside you through the pain and haze, to ask you to hope against hope that the strain on your strength and your fading string of fate would persevere despite it all.

But you did. You survived and so did your precious little baby girl, and so did the last pieces of Finnick's soul, despite it all.

The first time he holds his tiny, tiny baby in his arms, something in his brain just clicks (or maybe his frontal lobe was finally fully developed because of course his baby picked the day before his birthday to make her own entry on planet earth) but whatever it was, it was perfect. His entire world narrowed down to the squirming little angel in his arms and he couldn't help but feel his heart leave his chest for the second time in his life to become hers. She fit right into the crook of his arms, the space in his neck. She fit into his life like another piece of puzzle that he never knew he was look for.

She was his little angel, his little girl. The person he never knew he fought through whole wars for but now, holding her against his chest as he watched you both sleep, he knew this is what he was meant to do. To love, to love, to love. For the sake of it. Simply because he could. Simply because he was alive and it was good enough reason to love with his entire being.

Part 1 because I don't exactly know if you people will like it enough to want more.

[undercoveravenger]

Rising Tides

Pairing: Siren!Finnick Odair x Male!Reader

Requested: Yes

Request: “Siren finnick odair trying to enchant the reader with his song and beautiful muscles but can’t get it. Take the story whatever direction you want”

A/N: Happy Spooky Month! This is post #2 of my Spooky Month writing event - #3 will be launching on Tuesday, October 17th. Hope you enjoy!

-----

Throughout Finnick’s years he’d seen the other sirens of his pod pick off humans with ease, using their stunning looks and alluring voices to draw their prey below the inky waves of the sea. The human’s mistake dooming them to be torn apart by the pod, sirens ripping and tearing the human apart until the wisps of blood in the water is all that remains of them.

He’d doubted he would have any issues when his turn for the Hunt arose- he’d grown up knowing he was beautiful, with fins and scales the same cool seafoam color as his eyes and hair that shone almost golden. He had learned how to be charming, to play coy, and to use his looks to draw people in. He hadn’t learned how to deal with someone like you.

Finnick had known you would be his prey as soon as he saw you, a sharp pain seizing in his chest when he saw you walking along the seaside edge of your district, picking at bits of seaglass and shells absently as you meandered along the sand. He’d been transfixed by the way the sinking sun made your skin glow, the soft look in your eyes as you looked out over the waves reminding him a bit of himself and his family. 

He hadn’t been quick enough to sing for you that day, too distracted by you to remember how to string notes and words and melodies together before you wandered back up the beach and into town, but he had plenty of other chances. Apparently you were no stranger to the beach, making it a nightly habit to stroll down the sand, watching over the waves and examining the small treasures brought up by the current. Sometimes you were joined by one or two others, but Finnick could never really bring himself to pay them any mind, fixated on you the same way he always was.

He’d tried to sing for you on one of the evenings that you wandered the beach alone, voice echoing quietly over the low rush of the waves coming and going, smooth and soft and sultry just the way he’d been taught. Like he had expected, you perked up at the sound of his song, taking a thoughtless step closer to the waves lapping at the shore before seeming to snap yourself out of his spell, turning swiftly on your heel and making your way home with your hands clasped over your ears to block out his voice. For the first time, Finnick doubted himself. Was his voice not as alluring as he’d been told? What if you didn’t like his song? Was he not perfect enough to draw you in? Would his pod think him a failure?

His doubts gnawed at him further when you continued to flee from him when you heard his voice, and further still when he had laid himself out along a large rock protruding from the water so you could get a good look at the way the light gleamed off his muscles and still turned away from him.

He got lucky one day though, arriving at the shore just in time to see you set off in a small boat - something he’d heard you call a ‘kayak’- with several of your friends paddling off ahead of you in their own small crafts. He smiled a bit to himself as he heard a laugh escape you, slipping soundlessly back into the water and darting swiftly after you, tail propelling him effortlessly through the water in pursuit of his prey.

With your friends’ head start, it was pretty easy for him to separate you from them, waiting until they had rounded the edge of the bay before latching onto the small handle at the front of your kayak and tugging you further out to sea. You had scrambled to try to paddle back toward the bay and to your friends, but Finnick was stronger than you. He was faster. Built to cut through water without faltering. He was an apex predator.

Eventually Finnick deemed that he had you far enough from shore that you could no longer ignore him, releasing his hold on your tow line and moving to circle your boat, watching you curiously from just below the surface of the water. A laugh bubbled out of him at the way you twisted sharply in your boat to keep your eyes fixed on him and then having to scramble to right yourself when the sudden movement threatened to overbalance you.

He surfaced right beside the kayak, clawed hands gripping tight to the edge of the kayak, just beside your own. Finnick does his best not to put too much weight on the plastic vessel, knowing he could tip it easily and not wanting to scare you more than he already had. He wasn’t sure when his fixation on you had shifted from hunger to something so much softer but he didn’t want you to fear him. He didn’t want to hurt you, he just wanted- Well. 

He just wanted you.

He opens his mouth and for a moment he is torn between singing and speaking to you. There is a split second when he thinks about how easy it’d be to tip you out of the boat, to drag you beneath the waves and present you to his family like he was supposed to. He thinks about it for longer than he should’ve, but he knows he can’t. 

“Why do you keep running away?” He finally forces out, words twisted and strange on his tongue without the saccharine sweetness he’d been taught to use. “Why wouldn’t you look at me? Why did you leave when I called for you?”

You are visibly shocked by the way he looks at you and he knows it must seem strange, to see a predator like him begging at your side like a love-struck dolphin. 

“Because you’re going to kill me,” you say simply, edging back in your kayak despite there not being far to go. “I’ve heard the stories about your kind. If I got too close-”

Finnick’s brows furrow as he looks up at you, “Was.” he says, releasing your boat in favor of swimming slow circles around you. “Not anymore.” He tips his head back, studying the way the clouds drifted in front of the sun. 

“So you’re… not trying to kill me?” you ask cautiously, eyes not wavering from Finnick even as he started to preen at the attention.

Finnick laughs, tipping his head to look at you and flicking water at you with the fluke of his tail. “No, not anymore.” He dips under the water, reemerging on the other side of the kayak and propping his head up on the edge of it, studying you intently. “I should, if you listen to what my family says, but I don't want to. You’re… interesting." 

He can tell you're really not sure what to make of that, but his heart jumps in his chest at the hesitant smile you give him in return.

"Swim with me?" The words escape Finnick before he can catch them, coming out breathy and desperate in a way he'd never expected to find himself sounding. He rushes to continue before he can consider the weight of what he'd asked you to do, the way he might brush against you or his tail might curl around your legs and the way he might get a look at you in something less… covering… than your usual clothes if you agreed to swim with him. "Maybe not now," he amends, eyes dropping sharply to where one of his pointed claws taps out a rhythm on the thin plastic of the kayak. "You don't trust me yet and I don't blame you. But maybe meet me tomorrow? Give me a chance?"

Finnick could see the way you jerk up straighter in your seat and your grip on your paddle shifts as you pick up on the sound of your friends calling for you. He's not sure if your answer is just an attempt to shoo him off in time to get back to your friends or to keep them from seeing him or just something you said without thinking, but the second that yes escapes you he's pushing himself up out of the water to press a sea-salty kiss to your cheek and promising to meet you at the beach at sunset the next day. 

He dives then, submerging himself well below the waves and trailing slowly after you until he's sure you and your friends made it back to the beach and then watching for just a bit longer as you disappear out of view before beginning to meander back to the labyrinth of sea caves his pod calls home.

Sure, Finnick isn’t sure if you’ll actually show up, but for the first time in weeks, his confidence has been restored and his charm feels as secure as ever. He’s definitely going against his pod pursuing you like this, but with his luck rising with the tides, he can’t bring himself to care, not with someone like you at stake.

[bigfan-fanfic]

Cracked but Unbroken (Capitol!Reader x Finnick Odair)

does it count as a request if I'm begging for more Finnick and capital reader?

Finnick finds it hard to cope with the fact that almost legally, you own him, but he loves you.

You've sacrificed a lot to protect him, and Finnick can't shake the idea that at some point, you'll want to collect on that debt.

It's the moment that you provide him with a room in your place. A room with a door that can be locked from the inside.

Finnick tests it, and something just rocks him to the core.

You've given him the opportunity to keep you out. To protect himself.

And even if it's largely symbolic, the gesture is not lost on him.

You've had food delivered to your penthouse, and Finnick emerges to join you.

It hurts too much to thank you for thinking of him, for seeing him not as a Victor but as a fragile person without a scrap of comfort and giving him something of his own, so instead he just gathers up several dishes and invites you into his space, locking the door behind you.

You follow him, and he wordlessly pulls you close, and you eat with your hands, sitting on the floor, blankets around you.

Finnick laughs at your obvious lack of experience eating like this and feeds you instead.

Not in a sexy way, he's not even thinking of that- he's literally just helping you so you stop dropping food back on your plate and pouting adorably.

Finnick talks softly to you, not about anything in particular, but you love his voice and how he sounds when he's not worrying.

The conversation lulls when you finish eating. Finnick is just holding you in his lap, your back against his chest.

The trust you've shown him. The care you've given. Finnick is unsure of whether he wants to protect you or accept you as his protector.

For now, it's both. He holds you tight when you try to move.

"Don't go."

You hold his arms. "I won't."

He pulls you onto the bed, and just holds you.

You've slept in the same bed together before, but never so intimately.

He doesn't seem to know what to do besides hold you, so his lips find their way to your neck.

"Finnick... you don't have to-"

"I want to." He interrupts, softly biting your neck. "Now hush. Let me... let me kiss you."

"Anything you want," you breathe.

He holds you tight, his arms pinning yours - protection? restraint? lust? And resumes kissing your neck.

"I want you," he growls. "But... not like I've had it. I want... I don't want. I..."

"Go ahead." you soothe. "Whatever you'd like. However you like."

There's no more words that night, but you two become closer than you've ever been...

[luxbub]

100% finnick would massage your feet and your shoulders and he’s GOOD at it

I cant stop thinking about that side of finnick, i mean he is the king of massages!!

And especially after a stressful day and you come home as if like the whole world is weighing on your shoulders, finnick would massage you SO GOOD. He just can’t help it, with your lips in a little frown and slumped shoulders, he just has to do something about it.

So he sits you both down on the couch, gently pulls your legs into his lap and starts kneading the skin on your feet. He slowly trails his hands higher and higher up to your calf and something about his hands working at the tension in your legs makes you whimper at his touch.

Maybe some time after, you would turn to lay on your stomach and finnick’s thighs would go on either side of your hips, as his hands start trailing across the taunt muscles of your back, the tension melting away.

[defectivevillain]

of circumstance

pairing: Finnick Odair/Reader

The reader's race and gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

“That was too pessimistic,” Finnick chides you after you finish your interview with Caesar Flickerman. You continue walking quickly, forcing your mentor to quicken his pace. “I’m just being realistic,” you maintain, struggling to make sense of everything that just happened. To think, a mere week ago, you were a normal citizen in District 4. Now, you’re a sacrifice. You feel a shiver roll down your spine. “I’m probably going to die.” Your stomach churns unpleasantly at the thought. You’re not at peace with it, not in the slightest. But you also know that living with false hope is pointless.

word count: 10.5k | ao3 version | dystopia playlist

warnings: canon-typical blood/violence, suicidal ideation, helplessness/hopelessness, survivor's guilt

author's notes: This is Finnick/Reader focused. Finnick is the District 4 mentor and the reader is an adult tribute. I’m weak for charismatic & popular characters being met with people who don’t fall at their feet or treat them differently. An unstoppable force meeting an immovable object, if you will.

The reader’s race and gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used. The other tribute is female, but feel free to ignore that “one male tribute & one female tribute” bullshit if you choose.

There will be some canon divergent and non-compliant details. For example, I forgot tributes are literally children… And I didn’t realize that until I already had 14 pages of this written… So just pretend this Games has adults, for some reason. Also, Annie doesn’t exist, because I said so.

enjoy <3

You’re one of two tributes chosen to represent District 4 in the Hunger Games. The Capitol tries to play it off as an honor… a chance to do your district and home proud. But you’re not that deluded, and you recognize the Games for what they are: a sickening bloodsport performed for the highest echelons of Panem’s society. Selfishly speaking, you don’t want any part in that. Of course, the universe has other plans for you—as your name is pulled from the Reaping bowl. 

Now, you’re sitting on a train speeding down the rails through the Panem countryside, to the facility where you will train in preparation for the Games. The other District 4 tribute sits across from you, clearly just as distressed as you are. Neither of you have bothered to speak to one another, too busy attempting to piece together what little remains of your futures. 

The sound of footsteps reaches your ears and you look up to find a man with bronze hair, tanned skin, and vibrant green eyes. He looks familiar, but it isn’t until he introduces himself that you can place the feeling. “Finnick Odair,” he states, his eyes flitting from the other tribute to you as he evidently scrutinizes both of you. “I’ll be your mentor for the Games.”

The other tribute warms up to him rather easily, introducing herself and speaking with Finnick about his experience at the Games. You’re content to watch from the sidelines, trying to gather information on both of them. It’s unfortunate, but you don’t think the other tribute will be anything more than an enemy to you. You don’t intend to make an alliance with her, so you don’t really see the point in pretending as if this week at the Capitol will be even mildly enjoyable. You’re already dreading the training, interviews, style consultations… 

As if sensing your negative thoughts, Finnick turns towards you. “And you are?” He hums. You want to believe that he doesn’t know who you are, but since he’s the District 4 mentor, you suspect he was watching the broadcast of the Reaping. Something ticks in your jaw and you mutter your name, if only to placate him. 

Finnick stares at you for a long moment. You stare back. “Not very talkative, hm?” He eventually hums. 

“Just thinking about my impending doom.” You say wryly. You hide your shaking hands in your pockets and stare ahead at the darkened windows, watching as the passing mountains blur around you. Finnick blinks at you in surprise, before laughing. He doesn’t seem to realize you’re being serious. After all, being a tribute in the Hunger Games is practically a death sentence. There can only be one victor, amongst twenty four tributes. Your chances at survival are increasingly low. 

Finnick continues on, unaware of how quickly your thoughts are spiraling. He explains the process leading up to the Games themselves and provides you with a general idea of the schedule for the next week. The other tribute is quick to ask him questions about his strategy and how he survived, while you just sit there in silence. You can’t help but think that most of Finnick’s advice won’t be particularly relevant. 

Some of the guidance he provides is helpful, you have to admit. Yet you can’t help but be reminded by the stark differences between your perspectives. Finnick is almost endlessly optimistic, speaking in hypotheticals and asking the two of you what you will do with your winnings. Meanwhile, you’re unable to suppress the voices in your mind, reminding you of how the odds are decidedly not in your favor. 

You keep those thoughts to yourself for the first few days. But there’s only so much you can hold back. Delusion and unfounded optimism seems to be the other tribute’s ways of coping, while yours seem to be uncomfortable dread and grief in hindsight. You can only fake appearances for so long—you’re fighting against increasingly large waves, and you will soon fall under the surface. 

Somehow, you manage to make it through the Tribute Parade unscathed. The stylist chose clothing that’s a bit gaudy, but you’re just grateful you weren’t sent out there wearing anything scandalous. In the days after the Tribute Parade, all the tributes take part in mandatory training sessions—involving everything from archery to camouflage and fire-starting. You’re not particularly talented at anything; although by the end, you feel confident enough to wield a knife correctly and distinguish between poisonous and nontoxic berries. Of course, those skills will mean jack shit if you don’t play your cards right. Plus, there’s no telling what the arena will look like. There have been tough years when the arena was a desert or a snow-covered forest. You can only hope you won’t be dropped into something like that. 

The training days pass rather quickly, leaving you only two days before the Games begin. Each tribute now has to appear in front of the Capitol (and all the Districts watching through a broadcast). The thought makes your stomach stew in unease and disgust. You hate how the Games are treated as nothing more than entertainment. Your death will be broadcast for the whole world to see. Your survival will be gambled and bet on. It’s disgusting, and you hate that you’re forced to be a participant. 

You soon find yourself standing backstage, watching the District 1-3 tributes interview with Caesar Flickerman. Finnick stands at your side, a relentless presence despite the unapproachable aura you’re trying to exude. You don’t want to talk to him—don’t want to pretend that everything is okay. Your mentor doesn’t seem to care, as he tries to give you advice on how to succeed in the interview. “Just be charming,” he suggests. Then a mischievous smirk rises on his lips. “I know that’s going to be hard for you.” He taunts. 

You just scoff at him. Being charming to the Capitol citizens—who are practically the reason you’re here—is the least of your priorities. That sentiment must be apparent on your face, because your mentor just sighs.  “It’s only thirty minutes,” he tries to reassure you. 

That’s not the point, you think to yourself. You decide to keep quiet, if only to appease Finnick. Yet he seems to sense that you’re a bit frustrated, because he shoots you a sympathetic smile before you’re accosted by your stylist and forced to change into a needlessly extravagant outfit. 

Your fellow District 4 tribute has her interview and she does rather well. You’re happy for her, but nervous for yourself. You know you’re not the best at speaking in large groups—let alone in front of the entire country. You can’t get rid of your anxiety. You’ve had no media training, aside from those brief remarks from Finnick. 

Dread, revulsion, and shame are coursing through you as you walk up to the steps and greet Caesar, before sitting down across from him. His questions start off rather innocuous, as if he senses that you’re nervous. But the subject of the conversation soon becomes your thoughts on the Games. And despite your knowledge that these interviews are important for securing sponsors, you can’t quite filter your thoughts well enough. 

When Caesar asks you about your thoughts on victory, you lose any credibility you built. “Do I think I’m going to win?” You repeat the question, something ugly building in your throat. You feel like you’re going to throw up. He nods and you feel the words slipping out before you can stop them. “Probably not. The odds are slim.” You see Finnick frowning out of the corner of your eye. But all you can focus on is the ugly stewing feeling in your chest and the bright spotlight that almost seems to sear in your skin. 

“The odds are ever in your favor,” Caesar says, attempting to remain optimistic as he shares a smile with the audience. 

Your brows furrow. “I don’t think they are.” You mutter. Your hands are shaking furiously at your sides, just barely hidden by the arms of the armchair you’re sitting in. Caesar seemingly doesn’t expect your negative answer, because he blinks for a moment before quickly diverting the audience’s attention. 

“You have quite a popular mentor, though!” The camera pans over to Finnick and he smiles, causing raucous applause. Frustration courses through your blood. It’s just so easy for him, isn’t it? Caesar continues on, immune to your internal conflict. “He’s a crowd favorite, I’d say.”

“Sure,” you acquiesce, if only to please the audience. “But he’s not the one in the arena.” Not to mention, there are tributes who have spent their entire lives training for this very moment. The Careers were born for this very moment. You, on the other hand, are nothing more than an unprepared victim. 

“You heard it here first, folks,” Caesar smiles at the camera awkwardly, clearly sensing the tension that seems to fizzle in the air between you. He turns towards you and plasters on a brighter smile. “Thank you for your participation; I believe that’s all the time we have.” 

You murmur a word of gratitude and practically storm off the set, shoving your hands in your pockets and striding to the backstage area. You’re walking so fast that you don’t notice Finnick attempting to beckon your attention, until he’s falling in step next to you. 

“That was too pessimistic,” Finnick chides you. You continue walking quickly, forcing him to speed up to quicken his pace. 

“I’m just being realistic,” you maintain, struggling to make sense of everything that just happened. To think, a mere week ago, you were a normal citizen in District 4. Now, you’re a sacrifice. You feel a shiver roll down your spine. “I’m probably going to die.” Your stomach churns unpleasantly at the thought. You’re not at peace with it, not in the slightest. But you also know that living with false hope is pointless. 

“Don’t say that,” Finnick chastises you. The two of you have consistently clashed on how you’re supposed to present yourself. While you don’t particularly care enough to maintain pretense, Finnick has been adamant that you appear charismatic to gain the Capitol’s approval and boost their interest. 

“Why shouldn’t I say it?” You frown, confused by the troubled expression on his face. Finnick isn’t new to this song and dance: he’s lost tributes before. You’re not sure why this time would be any different; if anything, you’re just preparing him for what’s to come. 

Finnick is silent for a moment, the muscle in his jaw working as he seems to grit his teeth. “You won’t get any sponsorships by acting so macabre.” He eventually says after several seconds. Somehow, you get the feeling that wasn’t exactly what he meant to say. You grit your teeth. 

“Sponsorships only prolong the inevitable.” You murmur, stepping into the quarters allocated to District 4. Finnick closes the door behind the two of you, and you can see the moment he truly processes the gravity of your remark. 

“You’re just a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” He snaps furiously. The juxtaposition between his public persona and what you see now is… startling. Suddenly emotions are warring across Finnick’s face, and he looks genuinely frustrated. “Why do I even fucking bother?! I’ve had difficult tributes before, but none were so morbid!” 

“It’s not morbid to acknowledge the hopelessness of this situation.” You try to defend yourself. “I can only do so much! I’ll try my fucking best, but there’s a good chance it just won’t be enough. There’s no use in pretending otherwise.” 

“Right, because why would you try to capitalize on the time you do have left?” Finnick hisses sarcastically. There’s a stark silence drawn across the needlessly luxurious living space. The ornate silverware remains neglected on the dining table. “Why would you try to actually change that, when you can just roll over and accept your fate?” 

You storm off to your bedroom, not intent on fighting a losing battle any longer. For whatever reason, Finnick is intent on ignoring the realities of the situation. That’s his prerogative, and there’s nothing necessarily wrong with that. But you don’t have the luxury to pretend as if your survival is guaranteed. That notion is what will keep you alive in the arena. Because if you’re not wary or paranoid, you’re complacent. 

That night, things between you and Finnick are tense, to say the least. He doesn’t offer any more advice on being charismatic and approachable , as if he senses it’s a lost cause. In return, you’ve stopped making such “morbid” remarks. The two of you barely even speak to one another. You go to meals and pretend everything is fine, despite the voice in the back of your head berating you for pushing away your only ally. 

You try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Because Finnick may be an ally in terms of sponsorships, but he won’t be in the arena with you. You’ll be entirely alone. If anything, it’s better to get used to that feeling now. Right? 

From the moment you wake the next morning, though, your heart is thrumming quickly. It’s the day you’ve been dreading: when you’ll be loaded into a glass capsule and transported to an unknown arena, where you’ll spend your remaining days fighting for your life and survival. For a long moment, you contemplate staying under the covers. It’s an illusion of choice, a fleeting glimpse at power. But you know you can’t do that. The Capitol and the Gamekeepers don’t care how much or little you desire to be a participant. They will force you to be a tribute in these Games, regardless of how much you may try to fight it. That’s your fate, after all.

There’s a knock on your door. You blink away traces of sleep and get to your feet, walking over to the door and opening it to find Finnick standing there. He looks sheepish for a moment, before resolve passes over his face and he nods at you. “Ready?” He asks. 

“No,” you admit in a huff. Finnick frowns in sympathy and you’re forced to remember that he just may be the only person who truly understands how you feel right now. The tense argument from yesterday seems to fade into obscurity, as you both seem to realize the gravity of the situation. Together, the two of you make your way to the train—which takes you to the Launch Room. Your heart is steadily thudding in your chest, your hands unable to stop restlessly fidgeting.

When you arrive, you’re dressed in black clothing—a small number 4 emblazoned on the left side of your chest. You try to scrutinize the fabric to get a hint of what’s to come, but it’s frustratingly nondescript. Finnick senses what you’re doing, evidently remembering when he was in your position. 

A monotone, pre-recorded message explains that you have five minutes until you’ll step on the pedestal and rise into the arena. Five minutes of normalcy, until your life will change forever. You take a shuddering breath, feeling your hands trembling at your sides. You can feel Finnick’s gaze burning into the side of your face, but you pretend not to notice. This moment right here, shared between the two of you, will be the last fleeting glimpse you’ll have at privacy—before millions of people watch your every move in the arena. 

Finnick places a hand on your shoulder, breaking you out of your thoughts. You drag your eyes towards him, despite every nerve in your body wanting to shrivel up into a ball on the floor. His grip is strong, anchoring you to this horrid reality. 

There is nothing to say. No condolences, no apologies, no words of affirmation, no motivating speech. Instead, there is only the grating hum of the fluorescent lights above and the measured breaths of your mentor, interspersed with your significantly less collected breaths. Your eyes meet and before you can attempt to break the silence, Finnick is pulling you into a hug. His hand rises to cradle your head and you hesitantly embrace him back, knowing this is likely the last human contact you will have. 

You’re not sure how long you stand there—all you know is that, at some point, the automated voice announces you have one minute to get on the pod. Finnick releases his grip after several seconds, looking torn for a split second before maintaining a calm façade. You step over to the pod and helplessly look up, seeing nothing but darkness. 

The countdown is beginning. In ten seconds, your pod will rise to the arena. You dig your nails into the palms of your hands, your heart thundering in your chest and roaring in your ears. Finnick locks eyes with you. “You’re not alone,” he says, his gaze intense. “Remember that.”

The most you can manage is a silent nod, before the pod is careening upwards and transporting you to the arena. You feel tears building in your eyes and a burning sensation at the back of your throat and you quickly wipe them away, summoning some composure for the arena. You will not show the other tributes your distress. 

The pod finally shudders to a stop and the pedestal beneath your feet rises. The harsh sunlight burns into your eyes and you blink dazedly. It takes a moment for your vision to clear, revealing the tributes arranged in a circle around a massive rock formation crawling through the air and evidently digging deep into the ground below. There’s the mouth of a cave right in front of you, and you can see two or three tributes on each side of you. It appears this formation is a lot more spread out than the ones in the past. This arena must be huge. That doesn’t necessarily help the nerves stewing in your chest. 

You then realize that the cornucopia isn’t right in front of you, like you expected. In every Games, the cornucopia is located right in the middle of the tributes. Frowning, you drag your eyes up, up, up, and your ears start ringing at what you find. The cornucopia isn’t just far away—it’s also pretty high up, dangling precariously on the rock formation that stretches into the sky. You estimate it would take nearly an hour to get all the way up there; plus, falling would promise an instant death. The more you look at the cornucopia, the less convinced you are that you should even run for it. 

The mouth of the cave in front of you looks increasingly enticing. As the countdown continues, you try to plan your first move. The cornucopia doesn’t feel like a practical option, which leaves you with no choice but to go for the cave in front of you. The darkness will help you—if you’re quiet enough, you can avoid confrontation. You glance behind you to make sure you didn’t miss anything, only to find impossibly high rock walls enclosing the tributes in the elaborate rock formation and attached cave system. It seems the entrance to the cave is your only real option. 

When the countdown reaches ten, you hear a loud explosion and your chest starts to hurt. One of the tributes must’ve left their platform too early and triggered the mine system beneath it. The unmistakable sound of a cannon firing confirms your suspicions. Your stomach churns at the thought, but the ensuing countdown quickly recaptures your attention. Five… four… three… two… one. 

Let the Games begin. 

You sprint for the opening of the cave and nearly sigh in relief as the cool darkness gives you a reprieve from the boiling hot sun. You’re immediately sure that what you’ve just entered is far more than a single cave, but instead an interconnected system of hundreds (perhaps even thousands) of caverns. You can just barely make out your surroundings, and you immediately decide to go as far in as possible. There’s nothing back at the pedestals that would make the starting area worth returning to, so you can only hope this cave system has pockets of sunlight and air above ground. You have to think that’s the case, unless the Gamemakers want everyone to die of suffocation. 

A backpack on the ground immediately catches your eye. You quickly grab it and duck down a corner, your hands practically shaking as you open it to find water, a few nutrient blocks, and a flashlight. It’s not much, but it’s certainly a helpful start. You throw the backpack on and are about to keep going when you hear footsteps in the distance. Immediately, you freeze and hold a hand over your mouth to quiet your breathing. 

The footsteps draw ever closer and, for a horrible moment, you think you’ll be spotted. But the tribute seems to turn down another path, taking them further into the cave and away from you. You’re not sure how long you stand there paralyzed, before shaking yourself out of it with the realization that you need to keep looking for supplies. 

One thing’s for sure: you need a weapon to defend yourself with. It takes you a painfully long time to look at the stalactites above and rip one from the ceiling. You look for the sharpest one before reaching out and giving it a harsh tug, freeing it from its confines. You look down at it in your hand, testing the point of the fashioned weapon and confirming that it’s rather sharp. You suppose this will have to do for now. 

As you continue exploring, you find supplies scattered about—water bottles; bits of food, just barely big enough to count as a snack; and some sort of jacket, tucked behind a pillar of rock. You fold it and place it in your bag, suspecting it’ll get cold at night. You’ve been walking for hours and haven’t come across sunlight or a water source, which concerns you. Moreover, you’re suspicious of the cave’s oxygen supply—your head has already started to pound, which isn’t a good sign.

You sleep fitfully that night, unable to let your guard down enough to truly rest. Every minute noise sinks into your mind. You’re constantly torn from slumber by the slightest of sensations: a brief chill, a rock crumbling down the wall. It’s torturous. You know you need rest if you want to survive, but you can’t quite seem to suppress your paranoia. You’re a quiet sleeper, fortunately—but still. Nothing can rid you of the knowledge that there are nearly twenty other tributes scattered throughout this cave system, willing to do whatever it takes to survive. 

You slowly manage to build a routine as the days pass. You spend most of the day moving, descending deeper into the cave and searching for supplies. Each night, the Capitol broadcast seems to buzz and hum through the rocky walls. You suspect there to be holograms painted over the night sky, but you haven’t gotten a breath of fresh air since the Games first started. A few tributes die each night. You’re not sure if you should feel grateful for your survival or envious that they escaped from this whole mess. 

This year’s Hunger Games is different from the others: you can tell that much. The arena was designed for long periods of solitude. This will take much longer than the other years. You will be here for several days—maybe even weeks. Why is the Capitol suddenly so patient? Why are the Gamemakers so insistent on broadcasting your every waking moment, regardless of how boring or mundane it may seem? 

You quickly learn that you’ve grown complacent in your solitude, as you catch a flicker of movement across your vision. You’re not alone anymore, it seems. Before you can even begin to contemplate your next move, you’re being roughly thrown to the ground. You hiss and kick at the other tribute, but the other tribute is big and brutish—they’re quick to throw you back down, their hands gripping your throat and tearing the breath from your chest. You’re writhing in their grip, attempting to knee them in the gut or scratch at their eyes or do something-  

But your vision is sputtering and morphing around you. You can’t even see the tribute’s face, but you can still sense the anger and righteous fear pushing them to rip your life away from you. You don’t have much longer. Your hands fall from their wrists and you desperately explore the ground around you. For a moment, you genuinely think you aren’t going to make it—and you’re forced to accept your demise at the hands of this faceless assailant. 

Then, your hand finds the sharpened stalactite you fashioned on the first day… and you strike. Your makeshift knife finds their neck and you stab them, finally throwing their grip as they scream in pain and release you. You quickly scramble to embrace air greeting your lungs, maneuvering into a sort of kneeling position as you suck in air. Your hand shakes around your weapon as you try to fight off the dizziness threatening to send you toppling. 

But, of course, because things are never easy, you recognize the tribute moving out of the corner of your eye. Against all odds, they survived that deadly blow. Their hand is pressed to their neck and they’re glaring at you furiously. Pure fear runs through your bones, prickling down your skin as you try to come to terms with the situation you’re in. It’s either you or them. Only one of you will survive. 

You stumble to your feet and just barely throw yourself to the side as they barrel at you. The tribute only whips around and reaches out, punching you in the face and sending you staggering. Their movements are sluggish—and as they reach out again, you manage to yank them forward with your free hand and bury your stalactite into their neck once more. They yowl and kick a leg out as they fall, tripping you and sending you to ground with them. Their free hand finds a blunt stalactite and they strike at you, puncturing skin and digging��into your ribs. You just barely hide a scream, letting out a frustrated and helpless sound as your arm reels back and you stab them yet again. A third time, a fourth, a fifth. Until they stop heaving, until their form falls limp. Until all you can hear is the ringing in your ears and your own labored breaths.

Your hands are shaking as you mechanically bend down and dig through their pack, looking for anything that could be useful. You take their rations and the bundled up jacket they had, stuffing it into your own backpack before pushing yourself to your feet unsteadily. Your hand finds your aching side and blood drips across your skin, confirming your suspicions that they had inflicted a sizable wound.

You stare down at the tribute, an undignified sound crawling from your lips when you hear the distant sound of a cannon. They’re dead now—and you were the one to kill them. You swallow hard as you look down at them, your neck aching from their attempts to strangle you. They tried to kill you. You shouldn’t pity them. But… you would’ve done the same. 

This tribute has a family—or friends—waiting for them back home, you’re sure. And that family just saw you snuff the life from their eyes. That district just watched as their neighbor, friend, met their end in this dark and dank cave system. 

You’re not sure what compels you to do it, but you bend down and close their eyes. It’s a small mercy, hardly worth anything given the fact that the entire Capitol just witnessed their death. There is nothing resembling dignity in these Games. And yet… you feel compelled to give them this small gesture, this tiny allowance. 

Then you’re thrown back into reality as pain ripples through your side, dripping up your back and across your ribs. You need to get moving now. You tear your eyes away from the victim—your victim—and start to walk away. The effort is painful and slower than usual. Your free hand finds the wall of the cave system and you brace yourself as you walk, your breaths still not nearly as calm as you want them to be. You’re not sure how you get yourself to keep moving. You almost just want to sink down to the ground and give up right there. None of this is worth it. You’re not sure you even want to live anymore.  

You don’t know how long you traverse the cave system. You just know that, at some point, your legs start to wobble under you and you have to accept that you need to rest. There’s a stretch of winding tunnels now, and you follow one of them until you find a corner with enough rocks and stalagmites to keep you hidden. You’re trembling as you slowly lower yourself to the ground, your body giving out as you lean against the wall and finally stop moving. Your heart is still racing; your head is pounding and pulsing; and your throat is very dry. But the pain is ushering in a whole new sense of exhaustion and fatigue; and soon, a tear slips down your face as you finally surrender to unconsciousness. 

Unsurprisingly, when you wake to the Capitol broadcast, you find that the pain has barely gone away. You’re going to have to treat the wound to ensure it doesn't get infected. The dead tribute’s name is announced as you’re digging through your backpack to find the alcohol wipes you swiped off of their corpse. You finally convince yourself to look down at your wound, and you suck in a startled breath at just how bad it looks. There’s blood everywhere, coloring the surrounding fabric of your shirt and staining a murky crimson across your hands. It takes you a few moments to convince yourself to bring the wipe down to your skin, and you have to put the collar of your shirt in your mouth to stifle your pained screams. The alcohol wipe is a necessary evil, but damn it, it’s causing some of the worst pain you’ve ever experienced. Your vision is greying as you wipe at your wound. 

It takes you a long time to finish cleaning the wound, as you’re forced to take intermittent breaks to keep yourself from passing out. When you’re finally done, you’re left feeling… helpless. You’ve cleaned the wound. Now what? You don’t have any other supplies save for bandages. Is this really the best you can do? 

A fluttering sound breaks you out of your thoughts. A short distance away, there’s a parcel with a parachute attached to it. It’s stuck between a few stalagmites, the parachute occasionally fluttering as it evidently settles. You stare at the parcel for a long moment, half-convinced you’re seeing things. Eventually, you manage to push yourself up and walk over to it. This must be a sponsor gift. 

But how in the hell did it get here? Usually the gifts fall through the air with parachutes. But this one almost appears as if someone placed it here. You frown and look up at the ceiling, half-expecting to find a conveniently placed hole. But there’s only rock. You reach down to grab the parcel, realizing you need to focus on treating your wound. Upon closer examination, it appears to be a metal capsule. With quivering hands, you hesitantly peel it open to find a tube of ointment. After a moment’s contemplation, you press the ointment to your wound, wincing at the cool temperature before leaning your head back at the relief it gives you. Thanks, Finnick, you think to yourself. His last words to you ring in your ears: “You’re not alone. Remember that.” That reassures you far more than you’d like it to. 

You idly wonder what he’s doing now. Well, he’s getting you sponsorships, apparently. Finnick is probably watching the broadcast just as everyone else. Perhaps he’s even attending parties and social events, if only to give you a fighting chance. You feel uncharacteristically thankful for his efforts. And the air in the caves must be getting to your head, because you swear you almost miss him. You shake off the thought. 

The next few days, against all odds, are unremarkable. You explore the cave system and routinely treat your wound, slowly returning to your normal pace. You manage to find a cave with a water source in it, which proves to be a lifesaver. After some more exploration, you find a water treatment device and return to the cave to get yourself some drinkable water. Aside from that, you mostly spend the time divvying up your resources and exploring the surrounding tunnels. You develop a marking system of sorts, notching the walls that you pass by. Ordinarily, you wouldn’t do something so loud and risky—but more tributes have been dying each night, leaving you with less competitors. More importantly, you can’t lose your way back to the small spring you found. You will not die of malnourishment or dehydration—you refuse. 

As you slowly recuperate, you think back to your time at the Capitol preparing for the Games. You wonder how Finnick will react when you inevitably die. The odds are still against you, after all. He got you a good chunk of the way through the Games, though. There are, what, seven or eight tributes left aside from you? That’s a lot better than you thought you’d do. Four of those tributes are the Careers, and you can only hope you never run into them. Hopefully, they’ll begin to fracture as time passes. 

You’re finally starting to feel better, though. Your side barely hurts anymore—that ointment must be pretty powerful. You have some scarring along your ribs, but you’re not particularly bothered by that. You’re just thankful that Finnick got you what you needed. If you make it out of here alive, you’ll thank him, you think. Maybe. 

A few more days pass and you’re soon one of four tributes remaining. And it seems the Gamemakers are growing impatient, because you can hear the walls shifting and collapsing around you as the arena begins to shift and shrink. They’re forcing you all towards the center of the cave system for a final conflict, you suspect. 

You don’t want to fight, as selfish and naive as it may sound. Your plan is a bit different: just hide in the shadows until they eliminate themselves. Is it cowardly? Sure. But you don’t want to participate in the bloodbath unless you absolutely have to. Finnick’s voice echoes in your mind: Don’t engage. Stay alive at all costs.  

You hear a commotion and immediately realize there are at least two tributes in the tunnel ahead. Something like clarity passes over you as you hear them fighting. You feel like a bystander, an observer—which just reminds you of how many people are watching across the Capitol and Districts. And you are nothing more than entertainment to them: a deer encircled by hungry lions. They are waiting for your demise with salivating maws. 

You’re so frustrated. You think of the Capitol citizens, cozied up in their sharp buildings of glass and metal… draped in fine, bright fabrics… eating decadent bites of food and discussing your fates as if you’re horses in some sort of race. It makes you sick to your stomach. You don’t want to participate in this at all—don’t want to give them the satisfaction of a good show. 

But that’s the dilemma: you have to participate if you want to survive. Giving up won’t give you your life back. It won’t bring back all of the tributes who died. You’ve made it this far—there’s no choice but to keep going. With that in mind, you slowly sneak down the tunnel, peeking around the corners as you continue.

You soon find yourself hiding near the mouth of the tunnel, which opens up into a large enclosed clearing of rock. There are two tributes fighting, and a third attempting to enter the fray. You frown and try to give yourself a moment to think. You stand no chance of surviving if you have to fight more than one person: you know your limits. That single fight with that tribute from before is proof of that—you barely even survived. If you get stuck in a hand-to-hand fight, you’re screwed. 

You need to find a way around that, then. The tributes are too distracted right now to notice you lurking near the mouth of the cave, which gives you just a little time to think. It’s not nearly enough, but you’ll have to make it work.

There has to be some way for you to hurt them at a distance like this. You don’t have a bow and arrow or any long-distance weapon, but there’s got to be something you can do. You frown at the pressure building in your temples, a dull ache radiating down your face and sliding through your cheekbones. Maybe you weren’t as healed as you thought you were, because that dizziness and vertigo from earlier is returning. You bring your shirt collar to your mouth, uncomfortable with the thickness that almost seems to permeate the air. 

The other tributes seem too busy to notice, but you can tell by their labored breathing that they’re also affected. The pieces of this particular puzzle suddenly slam together. It’s a cave system—there’s natural gas. The Gamemakers purposely led you all into an area that was volatile and ready to collapse at any moment, to ensure that the Games would have a swift end. 

You explore the walls of the cave system, suddenly coming to an idea. If you can find a way to sway the uneasy structure of this space even more, then the ceiling will cave in. You can already see the telltale signs of stress: the cracks spreading through the walls, the small chunks of rock occasionally falling from the ceiling. If you can just find a weak spot, you can eliminate your opponents from here. 

The ground is practically shaking. The Gamemakers must be having fun with this, you think wryly. You feel that familiar fury rising in your chest again, but you refocus your thoughts and survey the area around you.

In your distraction, you forget to keep yourself hidden—and one of the tributes sees you. Shit, they’re running at you now. You manage to duck to the side and run past them before they can hit you, looking around at the rock walls for a sizable crack or unsteady area. Unfortunately, the other tribute is faster than you expect, and they’re soon shoving you to the ground and reeling their arm back to stab you in the head. You manage to block the blow but the knife grows through your hand. You scream and try to shove them off, but they only tug their grip down and exert force to send the knife even closer to your skin. The blade is almost kissing the skin between your eyebrows. It takes all of your effort to keep them from sinking the knife into you, and with a harsh tug, they manage to slice down your face. It’s a shallow cut but it stings and burns in the dense air. 

You can’t even contemplate your next move before the tribute’s grip is slackening and the knife is slipping from their hands. Suddenly the energy and resistance seems to leave their body and they fall onto you, their eyes almost empty as a knife protrudes from the back of their head. You look up to find another tribute standing over you, and quickly shove the corpse off of you and scramble to your feet. You glance around the space once more, realizing that it’s just the two of you now. 

“I need to win.” The tribute says, breaking through the tense silence. He’s standing a little unsteadily and there’s blood splattered across his skin, but you get the feeling it isn’t his. He looks largely unharmed. That’s not good. 

“I do too.” You say, if only to keep him talking as you study the cave walls. There’s a crack here, a crevice there… You’re about to give up on the ceiling collapse idea when you suddenly find a large rift on the edge of the wall near one of the branching tunnels. 

Everything seems to freeze as you catalogue your next steps in your head. The other tribute is clearly losing patience, as he starts for you. You take action and whip around, running away from him and heading towards the fissure. The stalactite in your hand should be enough to upend the cave system, if you strike at the weak area hard enough.  

Every muscle in your body is burning as you sprint towards the far tunnel, the other tribute hot on your heels. You lunge forward, using all of your momentum to pull your arm back and digging your sharpened stalactite into the wall of the cave. You rip it out and yank at the crack a few more times, before turning around and just barely dodging the other tribute’s assault. The ground beneath your feet is almost roaring now and you race for the tunnel, picking at the interior wall near the space for good measure. The tribute is running for you, and for an awful moment, you think he’s going to make it to the tunnel and survive to kill you. 

But then the ceiling caves in, and rocks of all sizes rain down on him. You suck in a startled breath as you hear his pained scream, knowing he’s being crushed under the debris. The other tributes must be dead too, as the cannon fires three times in short succession. For what feels like far too long, you’re just standing there, warm blood trickling down your face as you stare at the pile of boulders currently blocking off the mouth of the tunnel. You’re breathing hard and wavering on your feet, your headache insistent. 

May I present… the winner of the Hunger Games.

The Capitol broadcast echoes through the walls of the cave, nearly ringing in your ears. It takes you several moments to come to terms with what you just heard: …you won. Your adrenaline is quickly fading at the confirmation that you’ve survived. Your vision is spiraling as you lean against the wall. Exhaustion and relief are quickly winning the battle against your fear and dread, making your balance uneasy as you struggle to keep conscious. You don’t want to be vulnerable. But your body doesn’t care—and you’re soon falling to the ground, your vision fading to black as you try to come to terms with your survival. 

From there, you catch glimpses through bleary eyes. The rocks are crumbling and shattering around you, breaking away to reveal the blinding sun. You’re picked up by some sort of helicopter, with medics waiting for you. There’s a pricking sensation on your arm. Some shouting. And then… nothing. 

You wake to aches and pains all across your body. There’s an oxygen mask fixed to your face, an IV dripping at your side, and bandages across your arms. You’re reclined on what feels like a hospital bed, in a space that is blindingly white. You try to shift and sit up a bit, the movement hurting far more than it should. A tired exhale leaves your lips and, somehow, that seems to be enough to inform the person at your bedside of your consciousness. 

“Don’t do that to me ever again.” A familiar voice says. You squint as your vision slowly starts to adjust to the brightness of the room, revealing a presence at your bedside. Finnick is sitting next to you, his hands shaking as he studiously wipes the blood from your fingers. In an impromptu move, you clasp his hand weakly. The strength of his returning grip is nearly enough to bruise, as if he needs the physical reminder of your presence. 

Your mentor looks… well. As close to horrible as a person like him can look. Finnick just appears so horribly exhausted, dark circles under his eyes. His hair is messier than usual and his gaze shoots about the room impatiently. His entire body seems to thrum in restlessness. 

“You look tired.” You frown. Your voice is a bit raspy—likely from neglect. How long have you been unconscious? 

Finnick stares at you in complete disbelief. “Me?” He asks incredulously. “Look at you.” He scoffs, the strength of his grip on your hand betraying his concern. 

He’s right, of course. You’re so incredibly exhausted. It takes every ounce of energy you have to keep your eyes open and meet his gaze. Finnick scrutinizes your form, taking in the dirt and blood scattered across your skin. “Thanks.” You remember to respond sarcastically. 

Finnick rolls his eyes, interlacing your fingers. “That was smart.” He says a few moments later, his eye contact firm and unrelenting. “Collapsing the caves. Reckless, but smart.” There seems to be something unspoken in the gleam of his eyes and the rapt attention with which he studies you, scrutinizing your form and searching for injuries. 

“Thanks.” You manage to choke out, when you realize he’s waiting for a response. 

“It was quite the ending.” Finnick admits, a strained smile on his face. It’s like he’s trying to poke fun at the situation, but can’t quite bear to do it. You understand the feeling. “Very dramatic.” He nods. He looks weirdly fidgety and restless now. 

“That’s what I was going for,” you huff wryly. Both of you know that’s not the truth. Finnick recognizes that—recognizes that you despise the Capitol’s commodification of life and survival. He shakes his head. You swallow hard, your throat feeling dry. He’s quick to press a glass of water into your hand and you drink it, the liquid soothing your throat. “I didn’t want to fight.” You eventually say, after the silence starts to drag on for too long. 

“I don’t blame you.” Finnick nods. “Your fight with the District 6 tribute was…” 

“Rough.” You supplement. You bring a tired hand up to rub your face. “I thought I wasn’t going to make it for a second there.” You don’t quite notice the distressed expression that passes over Finnick’s face as you continue. “But thanks for the ointment.”

“No need to thank me.” Finnick says easily. “I’m glad it helped.” 

You just nod in agreement. It’s growing more and more difficult for you to keep yourself awake. You feel incredibly stiff and dazed—you must be on a few painkillers. When you blink, Finnick’s face blurs and the walls almost seem to curve towards him. You blink again, wetting your dry eyes.  

Finnick’s hand is still on yours. When you notice and look at his hand, he still doesn’t remove it. Instead he briefly squeezes your hand. Your eyes are drawn to your joined hands and you realize there’s still blood under your fingernails. It sickens you. “You should rest,” Finnick suggests, successfully distracting you from the blood on your hands (both literal and metaphorical). “I’ll be here.” 

“You don’t have to be,” you hum, leaning back against the pillow again. Finnick’s hand is still on yours. You must’ve given him quite the scare. You would attempt to reassure him if you weren’t so fatigued. And you’re sure you don’t paint a great picture now: somewhat malnourished, bruised and scratched up, vulnerable. The thought discomfits you. 

Finnick doesn’t budge. You don’t have the energy to say anything more, instead surrendering to the exhaustion creeping into the edges of your vision. 

It takes a few days for you to return to anything resembling normal strength. For a while there, you’re relegated to bland meals—bananas, rice—as you regain your stamina. The medications you’re on must be helping, in addition to the attentive medical care you’ve received since the end of the Games. But slowly but surely, you start to recuperate. You can soon walk around the room, albeit slowly. When you’re feeling a bit stir-crazy, Finnick will stop by and walk around the facility with you. He’s never quite far from you, which you secretly appreciate. You’d never admit it, but his presence is comforting. 

Unfortunately, once you’re healed, you’re forced to participate in the “victory tour”: where the victor visits every District and undergoes several interviews with Caesar Flickerman. The entire thing bothers you. You don’t want to visit the Districts who lost tributes—don’t want to have to look the parents of your victims in the eyes. It’s not fair. None of it is fair. The Capitol is painting you out to be some kind of hero. But you’re only a survivor.

Fortunately, you’re not alone—as Finnick accompanies you on the tour. He’s pretty popular with the Capitol population, and since he was your mentor, he shares a part of your victory. Supposedly. You won’t deny that the ointment he got for you likely saved your life. It’s helpful to have someone else there with you, someone who understands the unfortunate mix of survivor’s guilt, dread, and frustration running through you. 

Throughout your tour, you have many taxing individual interviews—and a few joint ones with Finnick. Finnick is his typically charismatic self, albeit with a withdrawn sense of uncharacteristic quiet. It’s not until he’s faced with the question of how he felt watching the Games… that his façade begins to crack. 

“I could hardly sleep,” Finnick admits. “I- I didn’t want to think about what could happen if I wasn’t watching.” You raise your brows from your position backstage, squinting at him on stage. He’s a pretty good actor—he looks genuinely unnerved. But it’s got to be an act, right? There’s no way he actually felt worried for you. You’re taken back to the look on his face when you first woke—the relief flickering in his eyes, the way his hand found yours and never let go. 

Caesar Flickerman nods in sympathy. “And the final battle…” He says, breaking you from your thoughts. You tune back into the conversation. 

Finnick shakes his head for a moment in a wordless gesture. “I felt like I was going to throw up.” The only tangible sign of his torment is the tightness with which he’s clenching his fists—a gesture that is only visible from where you’re standing backstage. 

Thankfully, Caesar soon moves onto lighter subjects. You watch as the conversation slowly wraps up. When Finnick walks off stage, he seems lost in his thoughts. You can’t tell if you should approach him or not, and by the time you attempt to make a decision, he’s already retreating. 

After a few more minutes of contemplation, you decide to check up on him. It’s not like Finnick to walk off without any warning or explanation. He’s a seasoned professional when it comes to these interviews, after all. Typically he can go through them with ease. But something about this one seemed to bother him. “Finnick?” You ask as you knock on his dressing room door. 

The door falls open and Finnick’s standing on the other side. “What are you doing here?” He blinks. 

“Checking on you,” you decide to answer truthfully, studying him. He looks a little frazzled. “Are you alright?”

A plethora of emotions flicker across Finnick’s face, none of them remaining long enough for you to identify them. “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” You question lightly. “That was unlike you.” Finnick’s gaze snaps up to you and he almost looks offended. You quickly try to elaborate. “I just mean… you’re usually pretty private on camera.” A muscle works in his jaw and you watch as his gaze flits about your form, before settling on your eyes. 

“You concealed it well,” you say helplessly, trying to reassure him. You just know him well enough to know when he’s suppressing his emotions. “The audience didn’t notice that you seemed…” You just trail off, not quite sure what to say. 

Finnick gets up silently, inexplicably breaking the distance between you until he’s standing rather close. His gaze flits about your face, before settling on the jagged scar carving a path through the side of your face. It’s a testament to your trust in Finnick that you don’t flinch when he reaches out and runs a finger along your cheek. You can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. 

“The medics offered to heal it,” you choke out, desperate to dissipate the tension settling in the air. “But I wanted the reminder.” You don’t want to forget how you felt during the Games. You don’t want to forget the Capitol’s brutality and manipulations. You will never forget that bone-deep desperation.

There’s a whisper of a self-deprecating laugh. “You’re far more suited to this than I am.” Finnick remarks. His gaze explores your face for a long moment, his finger running down the length of the scar and ending near your jaw. 

You frown at the statement. “That’s not true.”

“You are,” Finnick continues. “You’re honest. You didn’t conform to the Capitol’s pressures, and you have the scars to prove it.”

“That’s not a fair comparison to make,” you say, catching on to what he’s trying to say. “You did what you had to do to survive.”

“I’ve spent this entire time pretending,” Finnick states, his hand slipping from your face. “Pretending to be this- this heartthrob,” he breaks off, his voice dripping with venom as he recounts the title the Capitol has given him. “Pretending to be unaffected by the Games and the suffering they inflict.”

“I was jealous of you,” Finnick continues, his knuckles whitening as he clenches his fist. “Envious that you could acknowledge the truth, and still keep fighting. That you could stand firm and unrelenting… That you could scorn the Capitol’s citizens and still force them to pay attention to you.” 

You’re surprised at the admission. There’s nothing for him to be jealous of. And, more importantly… “You were just a kid, Finnick,” you remind him. “Don’t fault yourself for that.” 

Finnick just shakes his head, looking tortured. He takes a deep breath and continues. “As I grew to know you, I realized it was more than jealousy,” he says, averting his eyes briefly. He looks uncharacteristically hesitant. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but I knew it would be selfish. It would be a distraction.” You stare at him in silence, patiently waiting for him to continue. Truthfully, you really have no idea what he’s going to say next. But whatever it is, it seems to be troubling him greatly. “I-” 

Whatever he means to say falls to silence, as Caesar Flickerman bursts through the door with perfectly unfortunate timing. You immediately step away from Finnick, but Caesar is perceptive. “It appears I’ve interrupted something.” You shoot a helpless glance at Finnick, who looks irritated for a moment. Caesar continues speaking, although his eyes keep shooting between the two of you with interest. “The audience is just ravenous, and I was wondering if the two of you would be willing to come out together for a quick final interview.” His eyes are glittering and there’s a warm smile on his face. Despite his manners, it’s clear Finnick and you have no choice in the matter. 

The two of you soon find yourselves back to the stage, where you’re both seated on matching armchairs. Finnick looks entirely at ease—or, at least, to the untrained eye. But you’d venture to think he’s a bit frustrated from being interrupted. Admittedly, you’re a bit irritated too—if only because whatever Finnick had to say seemed important to him. 

It’s immediately clear that this last interview is solely for the audience. And while you’d done a rather excellent job at avoiding gossip and rumors during your interviews before the Games, you now find yourself faced with rather uncomfortable personal questions. Caesar is relentless, as if scrambling for some sort of secret that will capture the citizens’ attention. In particular, he seems particularly interested in your romantic pursuits. The Capitol always seems to want a love story. You will never give them one. 

“Surely you have someone to go home to,” he continues to press you, raising his eyebrows suggestively. You can’t help but be annoyed with him, despite knowing that he’s just doing his job. This dogged persistence is uncharacteristic of him—he’s usually a bit more subtle. “We’re just dying to know. An eligible young victor such as yourself has suitors lined up around the block, surely!” He shares a smile with the audience and cheers resound. 

Before you can respond, there’s a flash of movement out of the corner of your eye. You glance over to find Finnick standing up and promptly walking off the set. You stare after him in perplexment, a bit worried for his sudden departure. You thought you caught a pained expression on his face, but that could’ve just been your imagination. 

The crowd seems disappointed that Finnick left, but their whispers are effectively silenced by Caesar. “Oh, I’m afraid I pushed the lad too hard,” the host says with a click of his tongue. He shares a conspiring smile with the audience. “Terribly sorry.” 

“Finnick isn’t feeling well,” you immediately fib, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate any speculation about the cause of his departure. 

“I’m sure,” Caesar responds with a wink. You blink at him, wondering what he knows that you don’t. You’re about to elaborate—conjure up a story about Finnick being sick—when Caesar continues. “Regardless, that’s all the time we have. Thank you!” He chirps. Finally, you’re dismissed and you can go backstage. 

You don’t see Finnick for the rest of the day. He’s uncharacteristically quiet at dinner, and once you’re all released to enjoy your evenings, you find yourself looking for your mentor. He’s been acting a bit strangely, ever since that interview earlier today.

Your first inclination is to look in his room, but he isn’t there. He isn’t standing on the balcony outside or sitting in the common area. After checking the usual areas and coming up with nothing, you realize you’ve been neglecting one easy answer: the training room. Finnick could be working with his trident, letting off some steam. 

The first thing that strikes you upon entering the space is its unsettling resemblance to the training grounds from the beginning of the Games. You hear the harsh sound of fists colliding against something and frown, exploring the area before your eyes land on Finnick in the corner. He’s going at the punching bag rather fiercely. For a moment, you’re just stuck staring—both impressed with his forms and concerned by his focus.

After a few seconds, you decide to approach him. “Hey, Finnick,” you greet him as you head over. You watch the relentless way he’s assaulting the punching bag and you’re unable to hold back a teasing remark. “What’d that punching bag ever do to you?” You say with a lopsided smile, trying to get rid of the tension settling in the air. 

Finnick quietly grabs it and straightens up, evidently finished with his workout. He doesn’t respond to the jab, or to your initial greeting. You scrutinize him for several moments, taking note of the tension drawing his shoulders together and the firm pull to his lips. “Are you okay?” You ask, concerned by the uncharacteristic silence. 

He takes a slow breath. “We need to talk,” Finnick then says, his heated gaze falling to you. He looks a little breathless and his hair is plastered to his forehead. “I didn’t get to finish what I was saying earlier.”

“Right,” you remember, looking at him expectantly. 

You watch as Finnick glances about the space, as if making sure there’s no one nearby to interrupt. “It’s been driving me crazy,” he admits breathlessly. He waits a moment to catch his breath. “I feel like I just need to get it out.” You patiently wait for him to continue, admittedly a bit worried by the sheer apprehension on his face. Finnick looks genuinely nervous. “To put it simply… I care about you. Quite a lot, actually.”

“I think Caesar picked up on it earlier,” Finnick says, something like frustration pulling his lips together. “He kept asking you those questions to get a reaction out of me. And it worked. Because… I want to be the one you return home to.” 

You’re staring at him in disbelief and bewilderment. What did he just say?

“You don’t believe me.” Finnick realizes with a frown. 

“I just don’t understand.” You clarify, squinting at him and studying his expression. He looks perfectly sincere. “Why me?” You nearly sputter. 

“What do you mean?” He squints at you, looking at you like you’re crazy.  

“I just mean…” You trail off, your eyes flitting about the room restlessly as you try to comprehend what you just heard. “I’m me. And you’re… you know, you.” Finnick is outgoing, charismatic, and popular. And you’re nothing of the sort.   

“I’m not following,” He frowns again. 

“I don’t think I’m the kind of person you’re looking for.” You settle for saying. The reality of the situation, from your eyes, is that Finnick is way out of your league. You thought that would be obvious. 

“Of course you’re the person I’m looking for.” Finnick asserts, squinting at you disbelievingly. “I’ve always wanted you.” Always?  He takes a step forward and the distance between you is slowly shrinking.

“Why do you think I reacted the way I did, after your first interview with Caesar?” Finnick continues. “Because I didn’t want to think about you dying. I couldn’t stomach it. I still can’t.” You’re staring at him with wide eyes, searching his face for a hint of dishonesty or amusement. But there’s nothing to be found. Still, Finnick notices your doubt. “Let me prove it to you.” He says. 

“You don’t need to prove anything,” you say with a shake of your head, realizing your mistake. “I trust you, I believe you. And… I care about you too.” You choke out, feeling restless and nervous as you admit your feelings. 

“You do?” It’s Finnick’s turn to be surprised. 

“Of course,” you blink at him. His cool green eyes find yours and you suddenly feel as if everything around you fades to black. You blink again and try to sort your thoughts into a more comprehensible statement. “When I was in the arena, I kept thinking about what you said to me. And it was… nice… to know I wasn’t alone. That someone was looking out for me.”

“I was hoping…” you choke out, feeling awkward and embarrassed and nervous all at once. “…that interaction, in the transport facility, wouldn’t be our last.” 

Finnick’s pulling you into a hug before you can say anything more, his grasp strong but comforting. “I hoped it wouldn’t be, either.” He admits quietly. You both remain there for a while, nearly tangled in each other’s holds. Two victims of the Capitol’s vicious entertainment, victims of circumstance—but victors nonetheless.

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finnick odair x (d8 victor) m!reader

(an: first post! i love finnick and wanted to make smt for the male readers !!)

finnick shuffles, spooning you in bed. you turn and kiss his nose. "hi." he says soon after. "hi, beautiful." you respond. he kisses you, softly caressing your cheek. finnick holds you close, kissing your earlobe as he praises you, making you melt. when you guys first met, was when he was mentoring his tributes to win. when you were crowned victor, after sewing your opposition into sleeping bags and setting them on fire/slashing them, he almost felt.. proud. he was astonished by your presence and how, you didn't act like somebody that would do that. he blinks, looking at you. smiling.

"mine, my pretty boy !!" you say, latching onto him

"all yours~.." he affirms.

[boypied]

pairings: finnick odair x male reader

request: a finnick odair x male reader where Finnick is highly protective and possessive of his short male reader husband. All he wants is the reader to be under him and moans out his name as he breeds him.

warnings: SMUT ! , swearing, size kink.

MDNI + FDNI !

When you first began sleeping with Finnick, the sex was dirty. But once you got married, the sex became rough, dirtier, and finnick dominating your hole. Finnick has always been protective of you, even before you were together. He's obsessed with the way your body moves, the way you speak, the way you breathe. He is madly in love with you and would never let anyone lay a finger on you.

Your legs wrapped around his waist while he gripped your bare ass in his hands, and you both swapped spit. His tongue fighting for dominance in your mouth, your back pressed against the wall.

Your hard-on pressed against his body leaks pre-cum, coating his rippling abs. You gently thrust your hips up against him, and Finnick pulls away from your mouth. "Woah, don't get too ahead of yourself, baby." He smirks as he lays you down on the bed.

Finnick jerks his cock a couple times before leaning down to face your hole, he grabs your ankles pulling your legs open. "I've missed this tight hole." Finnick says, which causes you to blush. "Finnick, we've been married for two years now... we fucked this morning" You say which causes Finnick to role his eyes while laughing.

He pulls your legs, which causes your body to move with it, his tongue making contact with your hole, "fuckk." You moan out. Finnick spits against your tight pucker and pushes his tongue inside your hole, flicking it around in there, hitting all the right spots. "F-Finnick!" You stutter, which causes his tongue movements to become more precise as he knows which spots get your body shaking.

Finnick leans away from your hole, stripping his underwear off to reveal his hard on. "I can't hold back anymore, I need to fuck you." He smirks as his larger body towers over you. "I forget how small you look below me, makes me want to fuck you... hard." You blush as Finnick leans down to place a kiss on your lips before thrusting his cock hands free into your hole.

"FUCK!" you let out, as Finnick's cock opens up your tight walls. "After all these years and your body still hasn't gotten use to my size." Finnick smirks as you've become cock-numb.

Finnick continues to fuck you in an aggressive rhythm, hitting your g-spot at every thrust. Your eyes roll back into your head. "Who owns this hole?" He asks while thrusting deeper into you, "y-you!" You let out as maintain eye contact as your hole gets punished. "My name... say my name!" Finnick smirks as he leans down to suck on your nipple while thrusting into you. "F-Finnick!" You moan out as the pleasure takes over your body.

"Wanna cum for me, baby?" He says while kissing along your jaw.. "come on, cum for daddy!" Finnick looks in your eyes and nods at you, giving you permission.

"F-Fuckk! Daddy, I'm cumming" you moan out, as your shoot your load up across your body, hitting your chin, you breath heavily. Finnick continues to thrust deep inside you before releasing his load and painting your walls white. "F-FUCK!" He moans out.

He pulls out and lays down next to you. He leans forward and licks the cum off your chin "I love you" he says while kissing your jaw, "I love you too daddy"

[mlmfantasywrites]

Rules:

- I only write for male reader, and I only write for male character’s

- I write for most kinks and I do angst, smut, and fluff.

- I’m not really into Dom reader and I’m better at writing bttm sub reader and Dom top character so keep that in mind.

Some of the character’s I write for include:

Luke Castellan (PJO)

Scot McCall (teen wolf)

Zed Necrodopolis (zombies)

Wally Clark (school spirits)

Milo manheim

Nate Jacob’s (euphoria)

Jacob Cutos (the quarry)

Vinnie hacker

Noah Beck

Jacob Day

Charlie Bushnell

John B (outer banks)

Rare Cameron (outer banks)

JJ Maybank (outer banks)

Trevor Wagner

Joe Bartolozzi

Finn Hudson (glee)

Blaine Anderson (glee)

Sam Evans (glee)

Billy Loomis (scream)

Ethan Landry (scream)

Chad Meeks (scream)

Finnick Odair (hunger games)

Peeta Melark (hunger games)

Bellamy Blake (the 100)

Sean Anderson (journey 2 the mysterious island)

And any more! Feel free to ask if you don’t see someone listed.

[supercap2319]

Y/N rubbed his horse’s face in comfort, trying not to attract attention to himself from the other past winners of the Hunger Games. It doesn’t work so well. “Y/N.” The young man turned his head and was met with Finnick Odair’s sea green eyes. They’re possibly the greenest eyes that Y/N has ever seen. Greener than grass or the leaves in the trees. “Hello, Finnick. Or is it Mr. Odair?”

He chuckles and gets closer to him, tossing a sugar cube from his left hand and into his right. “Do you want a sugar cube?” He has his hand sticking out in offering, but Y/N doesn’t take it. It’s then that he notices that Finnick’s outfit left little to the imagination. “I mean it’s supposed to be for the horses, but I mean who cares about them, right? They got years to eat sugar, whereas you and I… Well, if we see something sweet, we better grab it quickly.” He licks it in a slow manner and tries to pretend like he’s not seducing Y/N with sugar.

Finnick Odair was as close to a living legend as you could get. He won the sixty-fifth Hungers Games when he was only fourteen years old. That already put him at a higher advantage than Y/N. His beauty was also the key to his success. Tall, athletic, with bronze skin and golden hair, Finnick Odair was a force to be reckoned with, despite his flirting attitude. He won the games with a silver trident that was given to him by sponsors. In a matter of days, the crown was his and the whole Capitol was drooling over him and his success.

Whatever the case, Y/N wasn’t going to allow Finnick to charm him like he had everyone else in his life. He was beautiful. Stunning. And if Y/N would admit it out aloud; he might even have fallen for him as well. But it doesn’t change the fact that he was the enemy and wouldn’t hesitate to kill or hurt Y/N the second he got the chance.

Y/N shook his head. “No, thanks. But I would love to borrow that outfit someday.” He looks down at Finnick’s outfit. If you could call it that. He was draped in a golden net that was knotted at his groin so he couldn’t technically be called naked, but he was as close to it as you could get. With a pretty ocean blue necklace and a shark’s tooth that hung for a cord. Finnick smiles and looks him up and down. “You look pretty terrifying in that getup. What happened to the handsome little boy suits?” He licks his lips, which probably drives most people crazy.

“I outgrew them.”

“You certainly did.” Finnick agrees. He steps closer and runs a hand over Y/N’s outfit. “Shame about this Quell thing. Now, you… you could have made out like a bandit in the Capitol. Jewels, money, anything you wanted.”

“Well, I don’t like jewels. Though, I wouldn’t mind a necklace as pretty as that one you’re wearing. And I have more money than I need, so… what did you do with all your wealth anyway?”

“I haven’t dealt in anything as common as money for years.” Finnick tells him.

“Well, then how do people pay for the pleasure of your company?” Y/N asked him.

“With secrets.” He told him softly. His lips were so close to Y/N’s, that could kiss him if he wanted. And he did. As shameful as that was to admit. “What about you, boy on fire? Any secrets worth my time?” His voice was smooth and husky and Y/N was sure this was how Finnick entrapped all those men and women into his bed. Y/N blushed, but tried to hold his ground.

“None that you would be interested in. Besides, everyone seems to know my secrets before I know them myself.”

“Unfortunately, I think that’s true.” He smiled sadly as he looked to his side."Though, Peeta and Katniss are coming.” He pops another sugar cube in his mouth and smiles charmingly. "Have a good day, Y/N. I’ll definitely be… catching you later.” He winks and saunters off, but not before he bends down to pick up an imaginary object that he dropped and shows off his muscle toned ass in his net outfit. All other Tributes look on in awe. Y/N looks away with a blushing face.

[oweninadaydream]

𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐠𝐨 𝐩𝐭 𝟐 || 𝐅.𝐎𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐫

𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂 : Say Don't Go (Taylor's version) (From The Vault) or 4 times you say 'I love you' and Finnick says nothing back.

𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 : Finnick Odair x reader

𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽 : 2k

𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓼 : angst/fluffy ending i promise, TW: mentions of torture ,anxiety and kidnapping (first story).

𝓪/𝓷 : As promised, here's part 2 of say don't go pt 1 !!! I hope you enjoy the fic!!!

3. 𝓰𝓱𝓸𝓼𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝔂𝓸𝓾

You woke up in your bed, yet you could not recall how you got there. Your body felt sore and stiff but nothing could top the way your head was pounding. You were seated against the headboard and you noticed that something wasn’t right ; you couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but you knew deep inside that something was different. To help calm your distress, you tried to remember anything about the day before . You realized right and then that your memory was completely blank, leaving you even more worried than you were prior to that failed attempt. 

You had assumed you were all alone, but then you saw Finnick pass through your bedroom door. “Thank God he’s here” you thought, convincing yourself that everything would be alright now that he was there with you (even if you ignored the motivation behind his unexpected visit). He slowly made his way inside and stood in the middle of the room, keeping himself at arm’s length, something extremely unusual that confirmed your gut feeling. Once he had entered your bedroom, you couldn’t help but analyze him and his strange attitude.  His movements were robotic as if someone had a remote control that forced him to act like that. His eyes had never been a mystery to you , you could always tell what was going on inside him with a single stare . But this time it was different; he was staring at you with an impassive look that you couldn't quite read, making your whole body tremble in fear and distrust.

You felt intimidated and tried to figure out what was wrong with him “Finn dear, what’s going on?" you asked with a quivering smile. You tried to lift your hand to reach his but ,for some reason, you couldn't. It felt like you were strapped to the mattress and you started panicking, as you couldn't figure out what was happening. Seeking comfort, you pleaded with him in between sobs "I'm very scared Finnick please tell me something, anything. Or just hold me because this is very confusing. I- I feel like- I can't move out of bed, I- I need you" 

He simply continued to play his stoic role ; he didn't move one inch before your panic attack or your efforts to set free from the invisible restraints holding you down. "Help me" you whispered with an expression of pure pain on your damped face. Your foggy brain couldn't process the scene before your eyes ; the person who represented love, hope and comfort in your miserable life was being a passive witness to your spectacle of fear and it didn’t seem like he was going to jump into action anytime soon. 

You noticed a rapid change in his factions. His eyes burst into flames of hatred and his clenched jaw only accentuated the shift from indifference to hostility. Instead of hurrying to console and aid you like the Finnick you knew would, this empty shell of a man that resembled him broke the distance between you and wrapped his hands around your throat, beginning to strangle you purposefully. 

You had been living in survival mode ever since you were chosen as a tribute for District 4 all those years ago, you were no stranger to fighting or death, but never in a million years would you have imagined that the man who swore to shield you from any danger would be the one stealing your breath with his bare hands in an extremely violent manner . You were desperately gasping for air and coughing while he continued to focus on his mission. 

For a moment, he seemed to let his hold loose a bit and you took the chance to try and talk him into letting go "Finn, it's me. Why are you doing this?Is anyone making you do this? We take care of each other, remember? I love you more than anything." you told him with a soft but raspy voice as a consequence of his assault. You were tired and wanted to give up, but you continued to fight for him, for your Finn to come back. Apparently, hearing your desperate confession only aggravated the situation, because you felt the strength returning to his hands. 

Suddenly, in between your cries and the lack of air , you felt yourself fading away. But before that happened , you heard a very loud scream. In the blink of an eye, you were no longer in your house and Finnick was nowhere to be seen. A white sterile room welcomed you to reality as some doctors accompanied by two peacekeepers entered the room. 

Oh, you remember now. You were kidnapped by the Capitol, who had been subjecting you to all kinds of  twisted experiments and never-ending abuse for who knows how long. The loud cries and several swear words that made you snap out of that nightmare were Johanna's, whose room was at your right. Peeta was your other neighbor, allowing you to hear them both being tortured at any given time. You looked at your arms and legs and saw the ropes tying you down , justifying the oppressing feeling you had while hallucinating. 

The main theme of your punishments for not snitching was him, Finnick Odair. Snow was more than aware of the deep devotion you held for him and how dear you were to him so he figured the perfect torture would be messing with your memories and use several techniques to impose fear and pain in your heart whenever you thought  of him or saw his face. That way, you would finally be all alone in this world ,  scared of the only thing you've ever loved so greatly and he would have to witness you shy away from him in pure terror. To meet his goal, they would drug you and play videos and recordings of him saying the meanest and cruelest words that you knew he would never be able to pronounce, but as the days passed , the truth and the imposed thoughts started to blur in one big and confusing mass. 

You were resisting quite well to President Snow's diabolic plan, but you could only hold onto your actual memories for so long. One of the last things you remembered thinking about  before you let yourself fall into madness were his eyes, and how much you loved them.

If your suffering assured his survival, you'd tell the Capitol to put you through it a thousand more times , and you would gladly do it again. If only you could have held your sweet Finnick for one more minute before letting him go forever…

4. 𝓪𝓷 𝓸𝓭𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓘 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮

The setting sun turned the white-sanded coast of District 4 a soft but enchanting shade of orange. The waves crashing against the rocks accompanied perfectly the idyllic landscape and brought a sense of calmness to the people assembled there. The summer solstice is a day where usually people celebrate the arrival of a new season, but that was not the case this time.

The beach looked magnificent, Effie had been the chief in charge of making everything (and everyone) look ideal for the occasion that brought them all together on that day. The first rows of white chairs were occupied by Haymitch, Effie, Katniss, Peeta, Johanna, Annie and right next to her, there was Mags, the woman who had taken care of you both for so many years and had seen how you two where meant to be from the first time you and your fiancé (soon to be husband) exchanged looks.

Neither you nor Finnick had ever thought about marrying anyone ; under Snow's regime, you were mere pieces of a game with no actual power of decision. But that didn't matter anymore. You were walking towards Finnick, who was nervously fidgeting with the sleeve of his suit , waiting for you at the end of the isle. When you finally arrived at your destination, you couldn't help but to turn around and go back to hug Mags, who received you with open arms and a couple of shed tears over her face. After this emotional moment, you went back to Finnick's side "Hi" you whispered so that the conversation could remain secret from all the guests "You come here often?" he teased with a beaming smile on his face. You let out a breathy laugh to relieve some tension and then you both turned so that the ceremony could start.

"I want to keep this vows short because I would need another lifetime just to expose the million reasons why this is the best day of my life. We're free, my love. It's truly over. This is our reward after a whole life of suffering and holding back. I am so in love with you, it's hard to put it into words. You know? Mags once told me that the thing I needed the most had always been right in front of me and I didn't get what she meant by that in that moment. She just laughed at me and told me that I would understand, one of these days" Mags in the front row was a tearful mess "and now I do. I really do" he stated confidently while holding your hands on his.

"My soul craves intertwining itself with yours until there's no way to separate them. So, with this ring" he then proceeded to grab your left hand so cautiously as if you would break at the minimum touch, and slip the golden ring in your finger "I, Finnick Odair, swear to protect, satisfy and devote myself to you ; my friend, my savior and now my spouse. I can't wait to spend the rest of my days with my forever love, which happens to be you" He had always hated to see you cry, even if they were happy tears, so he had to insert a little joke to see you chuckle and be able to hear the most beautiful sound on Earth ; your laugh.

You could sense that your voice would betray you at the minimum attempt to speak, so you needed to rush through your vows before you would explode into tears "God Finnick, you always know how to leave me speechless." the guests all laughed, moved by the evident complicity between the two of you.

"I always knew you were my soulmate, the person I was meant to find. The love I carry for you in my heart used to feel too heavy, but now that I get to set it free, it's more like energy rushing though my whole body, healing all the broken parts. I have the privilege to experience how it feels being loved by you and I want to try and describe it for all our friends who are here today" you breathed in and out and kept talking "Being loved by you feels like being rocked by the sea, like waking up to the smell of freshly baked goods or like being tucked into a warm bed in wintertime. It's exiting, comforting, amusing and an insane amount of other things that I could say right now" you recited while staring at his piercing green eyes that were completely red and filled with tears . You caressed his cheek and tried to wipe them away. "I will always follow you wherever you go, until the end of time. That's what I've always wanted to do and I couldn't be more exited about spending the rest of my life with such a handsome and amazing man. I love you."

Before you could do or say anything else, Finnick held your face between his hand and kissed you like he had been wanting to do since the ceremony started. You said 'I love you' and he said nothing back, but it wasn't so bad this time.

TAGLIST : @bambikitten , @thefourrealms , @shooting-a-star-at-the-moon , @justtrying2getby .