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eightmakesonebraincell · 3 days ago

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can i get a name for your drink? yeah, peter parker

genre: delinquent!ateez x bubble tea worker!reader, meet-cute, high school au, fluff, crack

length: 6.6k

c/w: cliche depictions of high school delinquents, mentions of smoking, drugs and clubs, boys trying to act tough, everybody has bad humour, swearing is their mother tongue

synopsis: a bubble tea shop is one of the last places you would expect for a high school delinquent to walk into during the dead of night. yet here you are, forming an unlikely friendship with not one but eight of them. they may be kind of stupid, but they also kind of grow on you.

a/n: a fic with no angst? a fic without a 40k wc?? new writer who dis. just a short and sweet fic @sorryimananti-romantic helped prod me to write

you know that you are probably shaving a couple months off your lifespan each time you work a night shift at the bubble tea shop and subsequently fuck up your entire sleep routine for the next couple of days, but it gives you a bit of extra money, there are hardly any customers, and it is quiet enough that you can squeeze in some studying at the same time.

the shop probably averages about two couples and a few odd individuals here and there per night. why a small business would even decide to stay open during ghost hours in the first place, likely making negative profit, you have no idea. but you digress–you are just here to bum around for money.

so when your average customer number suddenly spikes not just by one, two or three people, but by an entire group of eight, it is safe to say you are more than confused. they are obviously your age because you can recognise the school crest embroidered onto the front pocket of their uniform shirts; it is one of the nearby high schools in the area. except, that is where the similarity ends.

only half of them are wearing their uniform, and even then they layer it unbuttoned over bold statement t-shirts like it is a mere accessory. the others wear black tracksuits and there is not a single pair of proper school shoes to be seen. your eyes cannot help but scan their pierced ears and obviously-styled hairstyles–you are pretty sure the shortest boy has dyed his hair a lighter shade of brown too.

it is hard to take your attention off of him as he takes one last drag of the cigarette in his hand, lazily blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth before he flicks the butt onto the floor outside and steps in through the door along with the others. you idly wonder how he got his hands on a fake id to purchase cigarettes in the first place, but at least he is polite about not smoking inside your store.

the group saunters up and you startle slightly as the boy at the front slaps his hand against the counter with the matching confidence to his glorified 6 foot height to demand, “give me a double shot of espresso.” he pulls away his hand to reveal a mismatched assortment of sad coins and crumpled notes.

“we, uh–” you glance not so subtly at the wall-sized menu behind you and the LED lighting decor sprawled across the other three walls with the phrases, ‘you’re a cu-tea’, ‘you’re pearl-fect’, and ‘you’re my bo-bae’, and wonder what gave these boys the impression they could order coffee. “we don’t sell coffee,” you state.

he does not seem fazed by your words at all. “can’t you just, like, charge me for your most expensive drink and make me a coffee?” he asks his absurd question with practiced ease, which makes you think that this is not his first rodeo.

unfortunately for him though, you deadpan, “i physically can’t. we don’t have a coffee machine.”

the boy’s expression finally cracks a little and you can literally see the cogs slowing down to a stop inside his brain. “aw, fuck,” he swears, “this worked last time.”

one his friends shrugs callously and snickers, “what did i say, mingi. told you they wouldn’t have one.”

“shut up, jongho,” he gripes in response.

you gesture vaguely at the laminated menu on the counter beside the cash register. “would you like something else to drink?” you offer.

the tall boy–mingi–takes all but one look at the barrage of words before his eyes flicker back up towards you. “recommend something.”

“depends on what you’re feeling,” you hum your scripted question, pointing to the different sections of the menu. “do you want something fruity or milky?”

he looks constipated as he weighs the two options. “fruity?” he eventually settles, still sounding unsure. “what’s good?”

at the question, all of their eyes turn to look at you intently and you feel yourself wilting internally at the thought of explaining the drinks to a group of boys that look like outright delinquents, because if there is one downside to working here apart from the crippling health impacts, it is the loss of your dignity each time you have to say the stupid names of the drinks.

“well,” you clear your throat and steel yourself, “we’ve got the bubbly butterfly blues, a purple grape and blueberry fruit ade, or the mysterious mermaid magic, a mango and passionfruit green tea with rainbow pearls.” you forge on with your explanations despite the furrowed brows and open mouths of judgement on their faces, deciding to give them a recommendation for a milky drink too just in case. “the rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles is also pretty popular. it’s a strawberry milk tea with whipped cream, sprinkles and marshm–”

“i’ll take that one,” mingi interrupts, unable to stand the onslaught of words that make the world around him explode into pink glitter. he drops an additional crinkled note onto the counter for good measure and then strides away to take a seat at the table in the furthest corner of the store to wait for his cutesy drink.

half a snort escapes the back of your throat at the sight. mingi may as well hold a megaphone to his mouth and shout “i am a manly man!” to make himself feel better. what an idiot.

you shift your attention to the rest of the group. “anything i can get for you guys?” you ask.

“fuck it, why not,” the one who had been smoking shrugs immediately. “get me the same thing he’s getting.”

most of the others pass and step away to join mingi at the table as you sort out the payment for delinquent number two’s cutesy drink. when you close the cash register–you are tempted to ask them why they have so many loose coins–the last two of the boys sidle up to the other side of the counter, peering down carefully at the menu.

you frown.

these two are actually wearing their uniform properly, only the first buttons of their shirt undone, no brightly-coloured tee peeking out from underneath, ties still around their neck and shirts tucked into their pants. they are even wearing their name tags; kang yeosang and park seonghwa. also, apart from the fact that the two appear prim and proper enough to be part of the student council, they are also very pretty.

said two look up at you, catch the frown across your face, fumble a little, then give you a small smile as a peace offering. “hi,” seonghwa greets softly, “can we get two regular pearl milk teas, please? thank you.”

you physically recoil.

“blink twice if you’re being threatened,” you blurt out, the words tumbling unwisely out of your mouth before you can stop them and definitely loud enough that all eight of the boys can hear you.

blink twice seonghwa and yeosang do, but not as a confirmation that the stark difference in their appearance and demeanour to the others is a sign they are being bullied into hanging out. they blink to ask–very respectfully–what the fuck you are on about.

they blink at you. you blink at them. the other boys blink at the three of you.

“sure thing!” you vocally sweep your own words under the rug. “two regular pearl milk teas coming right up!”

you swipe yeosang’s payment out of his hands–notes and coins carefully counted out to the exact amount–and punch the number into the cashier before swiftly turning your back to them to make their drinks. if you ignore something hard enough then it never happened. and it works, because they retreat to join the rest of their friends at the furthest table without further comment.

it does not take long to make all four of their drinks, but you do take a few extra minutes to carefully swirl the whipped cream on top of the strawberry milk tea orders and artistically shower them with sprinkles and marshmallows. you want to make them as cute as you fucking possibly can just for mingi.

“two rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles and two regular pearl milk teas,” you call out.

they all stand up, likely ready to leave once they grab their drinks. mingi leads the group with his long strides and he picks up his drink with one hand. he holds it up to eye level to study it like an unknown specimen and the moment he picks it up, one of his friends–you think you overheard the others call him wooyoung–cannot help but blurt out with distaste, “that shit looks sweet as fuck.”

mingi holds his drink closer to his body with a light glare because hey, it does look sweet as fuck but it also actually looks really good. and kind of cute, he will admit. he takes a tentative sip through the straw then a small lick of the whipped cream on top, the scattered toppings simultaneously crunching and melting in his mouth to spread sweet diabetes across his tongue.

it tastes like drugs in sugar form.

and it must show on his face because the tallest of his friends leans over to do the same, taking a sip from the same straw and a lick of the whipped cream from the other side, only far more generous and daring than the drink’s owner.

“bro,” comes the tall boy’s immediate reaction, “i’d get one of these every day.”

wooyoung suddenly looks less dubious and asks, curiosity now piqued, “give me a sip of that rainbow shit.”

“no,” mingi instantly responds, still keeping his drink close to his body and literally turning away to keep it protected and out of wooyoung’s reach. “you insulted my drink. get your own.”

the latter whines and you physically jerk backwards for the second time that night at their complete disregard for following stereotypical delinquent traits. you are starting to think that they are not delinquents so much as delinquent-wannabes and they seem increasingly harmless the more they simply exist.

“hongjoong,” wooyoung suddenly sings out, appearing to change targets to his other friend who had ordered the same drink. he is determined to try a sip tonight without having to spend his own money, but alas–

hongjoong flips him off and cradles his drink out of sight too. “you insulted my drink by extension.”

–determination can only get him so far.

this time, you cannot help the proper snort of amusement that leaves your mouth. you dare to hold your gaze with a lightly teasing lilt of your lips when wooyoung whips his head around with narrowed eyes. the boy cogs turn in his head as he deduces how far he can push the boundaries with you and he must come to some sort of conclusion that you are a newfound stranger-friend because he jokes with a straight face, “i’ll rob you.”

“sure,” you answer easily, tapping in a fake order onto the register’s screen to eject the cash drawer with a comedic ding! emphasising your words.

a few of them guffaw and wooyoung’s expression lights up to actually reach over the counter to help himself to a ten dollar bill. that is, until his hand is slapped away by somebody else with quite possibly the most perfect eyebrows you have ever seen. and no. you are most definitely not jealous.

“i’ll pay for your drink,” the friend chides, digging into his back pocket to fish out his wallet.

seonghwa shakes his head and advises, “don’t enable him, san,” at the same time that wooyoung brattily decides, “nah, don’t want one.”

“god, that’s it,” jongho mutters, starting to usher the group away from the counter towards the direction of the doors. “we’re leaving. mingi’s waiting outside already.”

they let themselves be herded and a few of them even turn to wave goodbye to you at the doors, cheerfully leaving behind the words ‘we’ll be back!’ in their wake as they exit the shop. your hand remains suspended in the air mid-wave even after they have disappeared and you blink blankly at the bizarreness of your entire encounter with the group of boys.

you do not know if they truly mean it when they say they will be back, but you do know one thing; you kind of hope that they do.

“can i get that thing i got last week.”

the tone of mingi’s voice ends his sentence more like it is a demand than it is a question, but the nuance of his words is still a request and already an improvement in comparison to your first encounter with him. if you are completely honest, you are also somewhat happy to see him and the others come back, so you will take the wins where you can. baby steps.

“which one?” you clarify. “i don’t remember.”

you do remember because their group of eight is pretty hard to forget, and they are some of the only customers you ever get. plus, you have made it somewhat of a personal challenge to hear mingi say something as stupid as ‘rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles’, which means that you are going to pretend for as long as you need to.

he scratches the side of his neck. “y’know, that drink you said is good.”

“we have a couple of those. was it the, uh, mysterious mermaid magic?” your head tilts with exaggerated thoughtfulness and from behind mingi, hongjoong and wooyoung cackle while the others look on with smirks, having caught on to exactly what you are doing.

“no, the rainbow unic…” he mumbles, voice growing increasingly softer with each syllable until his mouth is simply opening and closing.

you look at him with faux apologeticness and furrow your brows, “sorry? i didn’t quite catch that.”

“say it louder, dude,” his tall friend nudges him playfully. you are going to need to find out his name somehow because his is the only one you have yet to figure out, and you have a feeling you and him would get along real good.

“the rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles,” mingi finally gets out. if he were a cartoon character, you would see the rising colour of bright red creep up from under his uniform to the tip of his ears and then to the very roots of his hair.

god forbid a manly man purchase a cutesy pick-me-up drink on a friday night.

you smile brightly and use your cheeriest customer service voice to announce, “one rainbow unicorn fairy sparkles for princess mingi coming right up.”

the boy in front of you is flattered to learn that you know and remember his name but is also twice as horrified by the nickname you have crowned him with. his brain short circuits and his eyes widen at you in panicked masculinity and he shoves his payment across the counter before retreating to the same table in the corner of the store where seonghwa is already seated. if you look closely enough, there is a little wisp of smoke coming out from the top of mingi’s head too as he malfunctions. heh.

the boy whose name you still do not know comes up to the counter next. he jerks his head backwards in the direction of mingi and orders, “could i get the same? that rainbow fairy sparkling unicorn or whatever.” the name is wrong but he gets an a+ for trying so you do not correct him, simply nodding and putting his order into the cash register instead.

then you ask for your own personal gain, “can i get a name for your drink?”

he does not appear to question your intentions nor realise he is the only one you have asked because he is too occupied grinning widely at you, unable to curb his cheeky excitement at the thought of what he is about to say. “yeah, peter parker,” comes his proud answer, quite literally naming his drink.

and that is how you find out that he has the best (read: worst) humour out of all of the boys.

it is frankly right up your alley but you refuse to let him one-up you. instead, you use it to your advantage. you nod, “p.p. for short,” dragging the abbreviated initials out for longer so that it sounds intentionally crude.

“peepee,” wooyoung repeats with unrestrained laughter, high-pitched shrieking that sets off the others as well.

and that is also how you find out that wooyoung has the easiest funny bone to tickle out of all the boys.

p.p.’s eyes glint with delight at the fact that you can both take and dish out your own freak. he leans against the countertop on his elbow, which is a sight to behold with how far he has to stoop down because of his height, and exposes you with no qualms, “it’s yunho, by the way, since you wanted to know my name so badly.” he adds a flirty wink for good measure as his friends ooh like the true teenage boys that they are.

you mirror his mannerisms and bat your eyelashes at him to say, “okay, whatever you say, peepee.”

hongjoong intervenes and shoves yunho aside before the latter can fall in love with you and your wack-ass humour or something. he shoos him away, “go sit at the table,” as if he is sending the taller into the naughty corner.

yunho concedes with his hands raised in mock surrender, walking backwards as he reassures his friend, “don’t worry. you won’t hear a peep-ee out of me.”

your facade cracks and you let out a laugh, which only grows louder when jongho takes the liberty to grab a wrapped straw from the container on your countertop to peg it at yunho’s face. it bounces perfectly off the middle of his forehead and lands on the floor, where seonghwa–bless him–bends down to pick it up. you think he might just be your favourite.

“didn’t know you were into that kind of humour,” hongjoong notes with a tone of amusement.

“oh, there’s a lot about me that you don’t know,” you respond, a hint of flirtatiousness in your words.

fuck being professional. these boys would probably be the last people on earth to ever report you for something like a coquettish comment, and god forbid you want to flirt with a couple of really hot guys. the image of hongjoong taking a lazy drag from his cigarette burns at the forefront of your mind as he stares intently into your eyes, and his seeming nonchalance to his own charm only makes him that much more attractive.

he raises an eyebrow, “is that a challenge?”

“only if you’re up for it,” you respond coyly.

san coughs and interrupts, “not to be a cockblock, but can you flirt after we order our drinks.”

the boy in front of you rolls his eyes, pairing it with a loving middle finger at his friend. however, he moves over anyway, half mumbling that he is not going to get a drink. his spot at the counter is immediately snagged by san who mimics yunho’s earlier pose leaning against the surface. “so,” he gives you an overly-smouldering gaze, “tell me something about yourself that i don’t know.”

a bubble of mirth rises from out of your chest and san drops the act utterly pleased with himself. you humour him, though only partially, by revealing, “the desserts here are actually really good. i love the cookies.”

“which one’s your favourite?”

you point to one of the cookies in the second row of the display counter. “the biscoff and peanut butter fudge.”

one of his beautiful brows raises upwards as if to ask why the cookie name is so normal. you give him a miniscule shrug. beats me. he shakes his head with a slight chuckle then requests, “i’ll have one of each cookie and one of each donut that you’ve got.” your eyes bug out of your head because that is a fuckton of cookies and donuts, but san reassures you they all have caves for stomachs.

you get started on their drinks then slide the glass doors open to pull their desserts out, only to realise that yeosang has lingered close by to watch you. he is not wearing his uniform today, instead in a tracksuit like the others but in white. he looks good in that colour and you tell him such, “your tracksuit looks good.”

“thanks,” he replies easily, “wooyoung shoplifted it for me.”

your jaw drops at his sudden confession, too taken aback to appropriately school your expression in time even if you should not really be too surprised by their shenanigans. at your obvious stupor, yeosang’s stoic face breaks immediately and he reveals, “just kidding, hehe.” despite his joke, he blushes to the very tip of his ears like rudolph but elf style and rushes away.

you are left dumbfounded in a good way. one day, you are going to teach yeosang a thing or two about confidence because his uncanny ability to keep a straight face whilst saying the most out-of-left-field thing when it is least expected then leaving the other person wondering whether he is being genuine or only joking is top-tier humour–he just needs to learn how to own it.

you are also left wondering whether there is a single sane soul in this friendship group. you still hold some hope for seonghwa and maybe san, but who knows.

when their drinks and spread of desserts are ready, you expect them all to leave like they did last week. except this time they drag two circular tables closer together in the far corner of the store that they seem hellbent on claiming as their spot, where they then lay out all of the desserts across the joint surface. you watch from behind the counter. there is both a sense of systematic order and chaotic mess to the way they take a bite out of a cookie or donut, nod enthusiastically at how good it tastes whilst shoving it into the face of somebody else, who will in turn take a bite and join in on the enthusiastic nodding and moan an affirmative that it is good.

“wait, this donut is fucking fire,” you hear, and, “this cookie is The Shit, bro.”

they are sort of really fucking cute; boys you would expect to see loitering in alleyways with cigs in their mouths and sneaking into clubs with fakes to pop pills, instead sitting hunched over on cute plastic stools around rickety circular tables sharing sweet desserts like they are at a tea party.

wooyoung catches your gaze over the top of jongho’s head and he gets up instantly to drag you out from behind your counter. all of your warbled protests go unheard as he pulls you by one of your loose apron ties–his strangely endearing way of being respectful not to actually touch you–towards their tables whilst refuting, “there’s nobody else in here but us.”

that is how you find yourself squashed between seonghwa and jongho, your shoulders and thighs touching from close proximity.

“try this blueberry lemon cookie,” seonghwa offers from beside you the moment you sit down, extending the treat for you to take a bite from.

mingi so helpfully reminds, “she literally works here.”

seonghwa shushes him, “yeah, but she probably hasn’t tried everything on the menu.”

he is not wrong. you may have the appetite, but you do not have the physical stomach to try an entire serving of each dessert available in the shop, even if you were to try one per shift. now that the opportunity has handed itself to you on a silver platter, you are not going to refuse. plus, you do not think that you could ever bring yourself to say no when seonghwa is holding the cookie out with both hands so eagerly.

he is definitely your favourite.

you take a tentative bite out of the cookie and eight pairs of shiny eyes do not leave yours until you give them an affirmative and enthusiastic nod at its taste. all flurry of activity starts up again as they continue to trade desserts with those sitting beside them and across the circle. it feels like you are suddenly back in primary school, sharing your snacks out of your lunch box and trading sandwiches with your friends. they include you easily in both taste-testing and conversation, filling your usually quiet shift with antics and laughter.

it has always been a perk that you do not get many customers, but now more so than ever, you hope that nobody comes in for the remainder of your shift–or at the very least, not until the boys leave. in just two meetings, they have all grown on you in their own ways and you kind of want this to become a regular thing. you could definitely get used to this.

despite their appearances and rough-around-the-edges personalities, they are really just a bunch of boys living their life to the fullest in the diabetic form of bubble tea, loaded cookies and glazed donut runs in the middle of a random night.

and honestly? if you had a group of friends like them, you would too.

yunho’s eyes narrow fiercely at the couple who are walking along the footpath outside the perimeter of your shop, daring them to step in through the doors. his glare is not needed though–the very sight of what is going down inside is more than enough for their eyes to widen and for the man to hastily pull his girlfriend away.

“oh look, there goes another two potential customers,” hongjoong notes with sarcastic dismay. “i wonder why people are always in such a hurry to leave.”

yunho blinks his murderous intent away and faces you with round, innocent eyes as you roll your own and cross your arms. your insides wilt at the loss of potential revenue but only by a tad, because whatever business they boys scare off, they make up for several times over. you state as a matter-of-factly, “maybe it has something to do with jongho.”

said boy currently stands about three feet away from you, his arms raised and fists clenched threateningly as the rest of the boys surround the both of you in a circle of sorts as if they are about to witness a bloody fistfight. you suppose it does not look too far from the truth–you are about to get punched in the face.

jongho shrugs dismissively, “it’s not my fault other people aren’t interested in learning how to get knocked out by a sucker punch safely.”

“i don’t think any of those words should go together in a single sentence,” you tell him honestly, unimpressed.

“they normally don’t,” jongho’s mouth ticks up, “which is exactly why you’re learning.”

you cannot win against him or any of them. last week it had been learning how to pop a dislocated shoulder back into place, the week before it had been how to dislocate a shoulder, and then the week before that it had been how to reverse-jump a person if they were chasing you into an alleyway.

it has become an ingrained part of your weekly routine for the boys to rock up during your friday night shift, order half the menu, hang around for hours where you usually join them, then leave until the next week rolls around again. but these random tutorials have only just recently become a new routine within your pre-existing routine.

it all started when wooyoung snuck behind your counter one night while your back was turned to make their drinks and decided it would be hilarious to scream in your face as you turned around. you had jerked backwards so hard that you knocked over the entire stack of blender jars, which toppled over into the dirty sink one after the other like noisy dominoes. seonghwa had made wooyoung personally clean and stack them all again as punishment, but the damage had been done and hongjoong had declared that you would not survive in the real world if a little fright like that could make your butthole pucker right back up into your own intestinal system.

and so had begun your weekly crash courses on survival instincts because according to them, you had none. you had refused to submit to their antics at first, but then yeosang had pointed out, “it’s true. wooyoung was standing behind you like a creep for a full five minutes and you didn’t even notice.” san had also threatened that they would not order anything until you complied each week.

“that’s not fair,” you had complained petulantly. “i just won’t serve you guys at all then.”

san had given you a cheshire grin. “you wouldn’t. we’re like, eighty percent of the total revenue you make during your shift.”

that shuts you up real quick and san knows, so you have no choice but to give in to whatever tomfoolery they choose to teach you for that week. if it is learning to ‘get knocked out by a sucker punch safely’, then so be it.

“okay, i’m all set to be punched in the future,” you declare dryly as jongho reigns in his fist after a pretend swing at your temple, “are you guys going to order now?”

hongjoong nods like he is the little leader of this delinquent gang, but jokes on him because they follow behind you to gather in front of the counter in a single file of sorts with practiced ease, an endearingly crooked line of ducklings. you know right off the bat that it means they already know what they want to order because other times they will come together as pairs or even triplets so that they can umm and ahh over the menu together.

you do not think you can ever take them seriously as proper delinquents–if they even count as such.

as if to prove your point even further, mingi throws up double gang signs and makes a poor attempt to rap, “i want an emineminem,” and when seonghwa not-so-subtly pinches his elbow, he adds on, “please.”

you bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing as your hands automatically move to input his order into the register, long past familiar with what his order truly means; mysterious mermaid magic, because the alliteration of the name ‘m and m and m’ sounds the same as the rapper’s name twice. go figure. you do not know if ‘emineminem’ is worse, or, as san calls it whilst flexing his biceps, ‘the merman’.

the boys have a shockingly terrible incapacity to remember the names on the menu correctly, but it is also partially due to the fact that they could give less than zero fucks about them. they will either say what they think the name is, or what they think the name should be.

they make the rules. you simply follow.

the first time it happened was during their third time at the store. “yo, give me a triple b,” jongho had confidently ordered.

“a fuckin’ what?” you were positive you were having a stroke.

“a triple b,” he had tried again, frowning at how you did not automatically understand him. “the big butterfly bus or somethin’.”

you could not take him seriously. “big butterfly bus? what are they gonna do after hopping on? go to fucking school?” you had jested. “also, you can’t just make up your own name and expect me to–you know what, sure.”

it sort of becomes a game. you will roll over in your grave before admitting it, but it is sort of fun to hear an absolutely rubbish string of words–or letters–come out of their mouths for you to then follow their ridiculous train of thought backwards to work out what the actual drink is. the silly boys with their silly names kind of grow on you.

and you may or may not indulge them a little too much. they are the first to try any new items on the menu, even when they are still technically not meant to be available to the general public. but when they pounce on whatever you present to them on the table like puppies and fresh kibble, it is very hard not to keep doing so. which is exactly why you bring out the batch of cupcakes you had made earlier specifically for them to taste.

they look like normal vanilla-frosted cupcakes, except when you bite into them, there is a dark chocolate cookie inside the base. it is the perfect mix of soft and chewy, and when the gooeyness is maximised by slightly warming the dessert up, it is–

“fucking fire, bro,” yunho says around a mouthful, blatantly ignoring the dirty look that seonghwa shoots him for talking with food in his mouth.

yeosang inspects the cookie at the core. “have you named it yet?”

you do not get a say in what the menu items are named and they always do in fact already have a name by the time the boys get to try them. regardless, you answer, “not yet,” because they love the power trip they get when they have creative liberty over your store’s products.

“i have an idea,” wooyoung pipes up immediately. “the frosted ultimate cookie cupcake.” then in a falsetto voice, he role-plays by himself, “hi, could i get a fucc please?”

mingi snorts himself silly and continues, “actually, could you give me two fucks?”

you oblige, “fuck you, and double fuck you,” flashing your middle finger at wooyoung first then mingi second to punctuate the fucks you are gifting them.

the boys snicker at your crudeness, absolutely delighted. not the type to let any opportunity to swear go by, the rest of them join in as san yanks you down to sit at the table with them before you can roll your eyes and walk away.

and out of all moments, it is this exact moment, when you are surrounded by the eight of them throwing out colourful words left and right with the giddy enthusiasm of toddlers, each holding a half-eaten vanilla-frosted cookie cupcake in their hands, that you realise you may actually give a few too many fucks about them…and not just in a friendly way.

well. fuck.

when you get a call on friday morning from your branch manager the following week, your immediate thought is that somebody finally chanced upon watching the store’s security footage and you have been caught making friends with delinquent customers and literally feeding them with business secrets. except when you pick up and tentatively greet him, he starts to say something that is arguably just as bad.

“i need you to swap shifts with gayoung. she can’t work this tuesday night so i need you to cover that day ‘cause there’s nobody else available,” he informs. “gayoung will cover your shift tonight instead.”

you are still trying to process his words as you repeat, “tonight?”

“yes, so you won’t need to go into work tonight.”

your heart skips a beat. for the first time in your life, you find yourself asking, “can’t i take both shifts?”

“no, you can’t. sorry,” your manager apologises but he does not sound sorry at all.

you have never voluntarily taken up extra night shifts, much less asked to take up additional shifts. yet, there is a heavy sense of disappointment that simultaneously settles itself deep inside your stomach and lodges itself in your throat, because it is friday today and friday night is for your boys. you do not even have a way of letting them know that you will not be in tonight.

you wonder if they will notice your absence and whether they will care. after all, you may just be somebody who happens to work at the bubble tea shop they frequent. but it turns out that they do and turns out you are not.

“where were you?”

those are the first words that are thrown at you the moment the boys walk through the door during your friday shift the week after you swapped nights with gayoung. they stomp up to your counter sporting furrowed brows and pressed lips, and if it were not for seonghwa’s soft smile and warm, “we missed seeing you,” you would have thought that they were angry at you.

you can only imagine how terrifying their demeanours would be if they were actually to be angry.

“my manager made me swap shifts with another coworker,” you explain and their expressions soften immediately.

jongho breaks out into a triumphant smirk as he turns to hongjoong with an upturned palm. “i told you. pay up.”

the latter sheepishly pulls out some crumpled notes as you gawk, “you bet on why i wasn’t at work?”

“don’t mind them,” wooyoung waves his hand dismissively. “hongjoong has trust issues–said that you were avoiding us.”

“i would never!” you refute at the same time that hongjoong exclaims, “i did not!”

“either way, fuck your manager. the fucking audacity to take you off our shift?” wooyoung complains.

you try to keep a straight face at the fact that wooyoung has just very casually claimed your shift–and by extension, you–as theirs. you babble the first thing that comes to mind, “the drinks are all made using the same recipe. it doesn’t matter who makes them.”

yunho’s eyes narrow with offense that you would even suggest a thing. “it’s nowhere near the same.” he is not the only one who wants to tell you that as long as it is not you it will never be the same.

their collective thoughts come out instead through mingi, “nobody understands when we order a triple b or an emineminem or a ‘horse drink’.”

“yeah, no shit sherlock,” you fire back, because apparently sarcasm is your automatic defense mechanism when you are flustered, “might help if you call them by their proper names.”

“or maybe the problem is that nobody knows us well enough like you do,” san insists with a wink and in response, yeosang reveals, “we don’t let just anybody get close to us.”

you joke before you can truly think your words through, “sounds like a you problem then.”

“you’re right,” hongjoong banters easily with smugness.

your nervous fidgeting as you tap useless buttons on the screen of your register gives you away despite your attempts to stay collected. they chuckle and it is difficult not to crumble under their unwavering gazes because it is obvious they can see right through your facade. but can anybody really blame you when you had not been expecting them to reciprocate your feelings of interest, much less admit to it so easily and straightforwardly?

in a last ditch attempt to regain some control over the conversation, you ask, “so, what do you guys want to order?”

from day one, the boys have surprised you in the most unpredictable ways–eight not-quite-delinquent delinquents with simultaneously calloused fists, pottied mouths and insatiable sweet tooth. today is no exception, and you have a feeling that you should start becoming accustomed to their antics because they are here to stay, especially after today.

“what we want to order?” they look at you with confident flirtatiousness. “your phone number and a date.”

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humaling · 2 months ago

Text

Between Your Hands and the World.

pairings: jealous!finnick odair x victor-f!reader

summary: finnick isn't particularly fond of the gift you received from one of your sponsors.

warnings: allusion to finnick's prostitution, the usual hunger games

word count: 5.2k

Breathe in. Breathe out.

You repeat that mantra in your head, over and over again, as you stare at yourself in the mirror. Your reflection feels foreign, almost unrecognizable beneath the layers of Capitol perfection. The gown you’re wearing is nothing like the ones you wore before the Games; it’s heavier, louder, a statement crafted to draw eyes and hold them captive. Iridescent silk clings to your figure, shifting between shades of deep teal and midnight blue as the light catches it. The fabric cascades into a flowing train of sheer organza, cut to resemble twisting fins and seaweed, edged with tiny crystals that glint like salt spray. The bodice, sculpted from mother-of-pearl and opalescent glass, curves tightly around your torso. Silver thread traces delicate patterns across the surface, mirroring the movement of ocean currents, with scattered pearls embedded so precisely they almost seem to pulse with life.

Atop your head sits a crown of twisted silver and coral-shaped branches, thin chains of pearls and crystals dangling from its frame to brush against your cheeks. The weight of it is surprising, a quiet reminder of how much the Capitol loves to dress up its victors like dolls. Your makeup is haunting; smoky shades of deep blue and emerald sweep across your eyelids, blended so flawlessly they resemble the depths of the sea. Tiny pearls are glued to the corners of your eyes, and your lashes are tipped with iridescent beads that catch the light each time you blink. Your lips, painted in a bruised plum gloss, gleam with a wet sheen that makes them look just kissed—or just dangerous. Small pearls and crystals trace along your temples and collarbones, giving the eerie impression of salt and seawater drying against your skin.

Silver armlets twist around your biceps like seaweed caught on driftwood, the metal cool against your skin. Long, dangling earrings shimmer like jellyfish tendrils as they sway with each breath you take. Even your hands are decorated—rings with pearls and shells wrapped around your fingers like delicate sea creatures. You look less like a victor and more like a siren—designed to lure, to captivate, to destroy. And the Capitol expects you to play the part perfectly.

You don’t recognize yourself in the mirror. All you see is someone else. Someone who had to throw their morals and dignity out the window to survive the Games. Someone who tainted their hands with crimson liquid for the sake of survival. Someone who glorified the inhuman acts committed inside the arena because that’s what the Capitol demanded—a show, a spectacle. And you gave it to them.

It makes you shudder, knowing that someone is still you. A part of you. No matter how much you want to tear it away, to separate yourself from the choices you made, it clings to you like the salt in the air back home. It disgusts you to no end, makes your skin crawl beneath the delicate silk of the gown they dressed you in. How could you go from being a sweet, bubbly girl from District 4—someone who would sit on the docks weaving seashell bracelets with your younger siblings—to a cold-blooded murderer who learned how to kill before learning how to live?

The Capitol dressed you up to cover the damage. They wrapped you in pearls and mother-of-pearl, in iridescent fabric that glitters beneath the harsh lights, but no amount of beauty can hide the blood beneath your nails. You see it in your own eyes—the hollow sharpness that wasn't there before the arena. You might look like a siren now, but the Capitol knows the truth. They turned you into one.

“You look like you’ll puke any moment.”

Your head jerks to the side, snapping you out of your thoughts when the deep voice cuts through the thick silence. Your eyes go wide, your hand darting toward the nearest object—a silver hair comb—to use as a weapon. But when you see the familiar bronzed hair paired with sea-green eyes, you let out a breath, the tension seeping from your muscles as the comb slips from your hand and clatters against the marble floor. The sound echoes off the walls, sharp and jarring, but you barely hear it over the pounding in your chest.

Finnick watches you carefully, his gaze steady and unreadable as you stare back at him with a mix of relief and shame. You don’t know how to feel—relieved that he’s here, that he always seems to show up when you’re unraveling—or sick with despair, knowing that Finnick knows. He knows what you did to survive. He knows the blood on your hands, the weight you now carry. And yet, he stands there, calm and still, like he’s waiting for you to fall apart.

His eyes sweep over you, not with judgment but with quiet understanding. He sees it—the storm brewing beneath your surface, the haunted vacancy in your gaze that wasn’t there before the Games. Finnick knows this feeling better than anyone. He saw it in his own reflection after he got out of the arena, after his first night pleasing a Capitol client during his victory tour. He knows the weight of survival and how it corrodes you from the inside out. And he knows you weren’t built for this. You’re strong, but not for this kind of cruelty. He knew that from the moment your name was called out during the reaping.

Finnick blames himself. He swore he’d protect you, swore he’d keep you safe from this twisted life. But the odds are never in his favor. Snow’s grip is too tight, his reach too deep. And Finnick knows—sooner or later—Snow will push you too far, and you’ll break. He just hopes that when that day comes, there’ll still be enough of you left for him to save. Until then, all he can do is try to make this twisted version of victory a little less unbearable. And hope that his sweet girl—the one who used to make seashell bracelets by the shore—can hold on long enough to survive it.

“You snort, eyes flicking toward him. “What a keen observation you have, Sherlock.”

Finnick’s lips curl into a lazy smile. “Well, you’re not exactly subtle. You keep staring at yourself like it’s going to move and swallow you whole.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” you mutter, arms crossing over your chest.

Finnick’s gaze darkens, the teasing edge softening just a little. “I suppose it’s better than going back out there.”

You force a smile onto your lips, but it fails miserably. It fades almost immediately when you decide to meet Finnick’s eyes. His expression is unreadable—steady—but his eyes are soft, tracing over your face like he’s searching for something you don’t know how to give him.

“You know, if you’re trying to play hard to get, it’s not working,” he says, lips twitching into a smirk. “People will only want you more.”

You scoff. “Am I that transparent? I want you. I need you. Oh baby, oh baby,” you tease, voice dripping with sarcasm as you step toward him. Your gaze drops to his outfit, and damn—you’d be lying if you said he didn’t look good.

The Capitol dressed him like bait. His outfit mirrors yours in theme but with an edge designed to exploit him rather than elevate him. A shimmering, open-front jacket made of seafoam-green silk hangs loosely off his broad shoulders, the sleeves lined with silver embroidery resembling ocean waves. But it does nothing to conceal him—his chest is bare beneath it, smooth skin catching the light as if he’s been dipped in seawater. A thin chain of pearls drapes across his collarbone, leading down to his abdomen, where it disappears beneath the waistband of his low-slung pants—tight, dark blue, and threaded with silver in swirling patterns that mimic the pull of the tide. The Capitol didn’t dress him to look powerful—they dressed him to be devoured. He’s a prize on display, a body meant to be admired and claimed. And yet, even standing there with every inch of his beauty exposed to the world, the most dangerous thing about him is still his eyes—the quiet strength in them, the way they soften when they land on you.

Finnick smirks when he notices you staring. “See something you like?”

You roll your eyes and step past him, walking toward the black box placed on the table behind him. It’s wrapped in a silky pink bow, a small envelope resting neatly beside it. The Capitol’s idea of subtlety.

Finnick moves behind you, his front pressing lightly against your back, and you freeze. His breath fans over the nape of your neck, warm and steady, and it makes you shiver. He’s so close you can feel the rise and fall of his chest with each breath. The heat of his skin bleeds through the thin fabric of your gown, and your fingers tighten around the edge of the box.

“Who’s it from?” he murmurs, his voice low and rough in your ear. His lips brush dangerously close to your pulse point, and you swallow hard, trying to mask the way your heart hammers beneath your ribs.

You shrug, your hand reaching up to tug the ribbon loose. “No clue. One of the Avoxes handed it earlier when I was getting ready.”

The bow falls away, and you lift the lid. Inside, resting on a black cushion, is a delicate seashell-designed hair clip. The silver metal catches the light, glinting with an otherworldly shimmer. The center is studded with pearls—different sizes, some round and smooth, others irregularly shaped like drops of frozen seafoam. When your fingers graze over it, you realize with a start that the pearls are real. Heavy. Perfect.

“Wow…” you breathe out, awestruck.

“Wow,” Finnick echoes, but his voice is cold. Flat.

You’re too preoccupied with the gift to notice how tense he’s gone behind you. His jaw ticks, his smile gone, sea-green eyes darkening as they narrow on the clip in your hands. Who would give you something so personal—something tied so closely to District 4? And how would they even know to get you this? His hands curl into fists at his sides. Someone gave you this. Someone thought they had the right. Who?

“Isn’t it so pretty?” you chirp, holding the hair clip delicately in your hand as you turn toward him.

You don’t notice how close you’ve gotten—how his face is just inches from yours. You don’t care. Too absorbed by the pretty thing in your hand, you beam up at him, bright and careless. Finnick’s expression remains carefully neutral, but his eyes burn beneath it. Years of experience and training keep his smile intact, even as his body hums with jealousy.

“Not as pretty as you are,” he says smoothly, reaching out to take the clip from your hand. His fingers graze yours, but before he can place it back in the box, you stop him.

“Can you put it on me?” Your voice is soft, hesitant. Sweet. Like you’re almost too shy to make the request—but you know exactly what you’re doing.

Finnick’s lips part slightly. He wants to say no. There’s no way in hell he’s letting you wear something from a stranger—something that wasn’t from him. But then you flash that sweet smile of yours, your lashes fluttering just so, and he’s done for. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Sure,” he says, his voice strained.

Your eyes light up, and your smile widens. You tilt your head to the side, offering him the perfect spot. Finnick’s large hands lift to your hair, taking off the crown and smoothing out a few curls as he tries to figure out where to place the clip. His touch is gentle, reverent, his fingers threading through your hair with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

And you—you're too busy watching him to notice much else. From this close, you can see everything. The Capitol dressed him like a creature pulled from the sea—a weapon disguised as a gift. His skin gleams under the lights, faint mermaid-scale patterns dusting his neck and jawline, shimmering every time he shifts. His freckles—sun-kissed and soft—spread across his nose and cheeks, barely visible beneath the faint blush that tints the apples of his cheeks. His lips look fuller, glossed with something subtle that catches the light, making them look distractingly soft. His blonde lashes curl upward, framing those impossibly green eyes of his—the color of the ocean after a storm. Blue eyeshadow dusts his eyelids, dark at the edges and lighter toward the center, resembling the shifting hues of deep water. Small pearls are glued to the corners of his eyes, catching the light with every blink, like drops of seawater frozen in place.

You wonder if Finnick knows how beautiful he looks—how haunting he is. If he does, he doesn’t comment. His brows furrow slightly as he focuses on securing the clip into your hair, his fingers brushing over your ear as he adjusts it.

“There,” he murmurs, stepping back to admire his work. His eyes linger on you longer than necessary. His lips twitch into a half-smile. “Perfect.”

But his gaze flicks down to the clip again, and the tension in his jaw returns.

The Capitol spares no expense when it comes to a victory party. The grand hall is suffocating in excess—gleaming marble floors, ceilings strung with crystalline lights that mimic a starry night sky. Towering floral arrangements line the walls, spilling over with exotic flowers dyed in unnatural shades of violet and emerald green. Gold-accented columns frame the room, their surfaces etched with intricate patterns of sea creatures—tributes to your District. The theme is so on the nose it almost makes you laugh. They’ve turned your trauma into decor.

The people are worse. Capitol elites float through the space like they own it, draped in fabrics so heavy and layered that they might collapse under the weight if not for their sheer arrogance. Their faces are painted in unnatural hues—bright blues, shimmering golds, and jeweled embellishments—and their bodies are adorned with pearls and netted silk, a cheap imitation of the oceanic beauty they try to claim as their own. They laugh too loudly, clutching glasses of champagne and exotic cocktails with long, jeweled fingers. Every smile is too sharp. Every touch lingers too long.

You stand stiffly at the edge of the room, the satin of your gown cool against your skin. Your head is starting to buzz when your escort suddenly appears at your side, their hand pressing lightly against your arm.

“Come,” they say brightly, the falseness of their smile barely concealed beneath the layers of powder on their face. “There are some very important people who’d like to meet you.”

You’re pulled away before you can protest, guided through the throng of bodies until you’re standing before a group of Gamemakers. Their robes shimmer under the low light, gold and crimson and deep navy, each one embroidered with symbols of their status. They greet you with indulgent smiles, their eyes sharp despite the pleasant expressions they wear.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” one of them says, grasping your hand briefly. “We’ve been watching you closely. You showed such… promise.”

You smile stiffly, thanking them, while trying not to recoil from their touch. After a few more minutes of stilted conversation, your escort discreetly tugs at your elbow and whispers, “Why don’t you go enjoy yourself now?”

You don’t hesitate. You cut through the crowd toward the dessert table, drawn in by the delicate towers of candy and pastries shaped like coral and seashells. You pick up a pastel-colored macaron, bringing it to your mouth. One bite in, and your face immediately scrunches in disgust—it tastes like perfume. You swallow it down with effort, already regretting it, when you sense someone approaching from the side.

“Careful,” a voice says lightly. “The Capitol likes to make things look better than they taste.”

You turn, still chewing, and your eyes land on a tall figure with sleek dark hair and sharp, fox-like features. He smiles at you, eyes glittering beneath the glow of the lights. It takes you a second to place them—he was with the Gamemakers earlier.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he says smoothly, extending a hand. “I’m Lysander.”

You take it hesitantly. “I’m—”

“Oh, I know exactly who you are,” Lysander interrupts with a charming smile. His eyes drop to the hair clip nestled in your curls. “Ah, it looks even better than I imagined. I knew it would suit you perfectly.”

You blink. “You gave this to me?”

“I did.” His smile widens. “It reminded me of you. Strong, elegant… dangerous.”

Heat rises to your cheeks at the compliment, a soft flush creeping up your neck. Maybe—despite everything—you were still you, even if a Capitol man was the one making you feel this way.

“Thank you,” you breathe out, your hand drifting up to your hair. Your fingers graze the cool metal of the clip, tracing the curve of the delicate shells. “I really liked it.”

Lysander’s smile widens, his eyes gleaming with quiet satisfaction. He tilts his head slightly, a smug glint sharpening the edges of his expression—like he knew you would like it.

“I’m glad you did.”

Finnick’s eyes narrow as he watches you laugh at whatever the hell this Lysander is saying to you. His jaw clenches so tightly he swears he feels his teeth grinding. Across the table, one of the Careers—Gloss—follows his line of sight and smirks.

“Careful, Odair,” Gloss drawls, swirling the deep red wine in his glass. “You might break that pretty smile of yours.”

“I’m fine,” Finnick mutters, eyes still glued to you. Lysander’s hand drifts just a little too close to your arm, and Finnick’s grip on his glass tightens.

“Oh, you’re not fine,” Gloss chuckles, leaning back lazily. “I’ve seen you pissed before. This is worse.”

Cashmere leans in, chin propped on her hand. “I don’t know,” she says, amused. “I think it’s cute. Finnick’s jealous.”

Finnick shoots her a glare. “I’m not jealous.”

“You’re practically vibrating,” Gloss snickers. He leans in close, his breath brushing Finnick’s ear. “Y’know, if you don’t make a move right now, he might steal her away from you.”

That’s it.

Finnick shoves his wine glass into Gloss’s chest without a word and strides toward you, cutting through the crowd with dangerous precision.

You’re laughing at something Lysander says when an arm slides smoothly around your waist. Warm fingers press lightly against your side, and the scent of salt and citrus washes over you a second before Finnick’s voice hums beside your ear.

“Well, isn’t she a beaut?” he says smoothly, his smile bright and dangerous. “I’m the one who chose the outfit.”

You freeze, eyes widening as Finnick’s hand slides up to graze the shell of your ear, his thumb brushing over the edge of the hair clip. Lysander’s expression shifts, polite but guarded, as Finnick’s gaze flickers toward him.

“But,” Finnick murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register that coils through the air like smoke, “you’re more breathtaking without it.”

The glint in his sea-green eyes is sharp, predatory as he tilts his head toward Lysander. He winks—slow, deliberate—and the effect is immediate. Lysander’s smile falters at the edges, thinning like a blade. An awkward chuckle slips from his lips, but the gleam in his eyes remains calculating as he shifts effortlessly back into the conversation.

“You see, Finnick also has quite a few admirers,” Lysander says, swirling the golden liquid in his glass with lazy precision. The amber reflects the glow of the chandeliers above, casting rippling patterns on his hand. “They’re very… passionate. You might find yourself with a few of your own soon.”

A crease threatens to form between your brows as your lips pull downward. What did he mean by that? You glance toward Finnick, searching his face for answers. His smile remains fixed, charming as ever—but the tick in his jaw betrays him. The muscle flexes, tension carving sharp lines into his perfect features.

Lysander’s gaze flicks toward Finnick, his smirk sharpening. He lifts his glass in a lazy toast—toward Finnick first, then toward you—his brow quirking upward in a silent challenge.

“Careful, Finnick,” Lysander drawls, voice silk-smooth but laced with poison. “You know how possessive the Capitol can be.”

Finnick lets out a low, hearty chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest as his arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. His fingers splay across your hip possessively, as if to remind both you and Lysander exactly where you belong.

“I’m sure we can handle ourselves just fine,” Finnick says smoothly, though his smile hardens at the edges. His knuckles turn white where they grip your waist, and his eyes glint dangerously beneath the flicker of candlelight.

Lysander’s smile widens. He sets his glass down on a passing tray and steps toward you, invading the space Finnick has carefully claimed. Finnick’s grip tightens, but Lysander only smiles. His hand finds yours, his touch light but deliberate as he lifts it toward his lips.

His eyes never leave yours as he presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, lingering just long enough to make Finnick’s hand twitch at your waist.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, (Y/N).”

Lysander’s eyes flick toward Finnick—just a flash of triumph beneath his lashes—before he slips effortlessly into the crowd, swallowed by the sea of Capitol excess.

Finnick’s arm remains locked around you, his hand still pressed against your hip. His smile doesn’t return. His eyes remain dark, fixed on the spot where Lysander disappeared.

“What?” he says at your questioning look, his voice low and edged with something sharp. “Couldn’t let him have you all to himself.”

The music swells, a slow, haunting melody carried by the soft hum of strings and the delicate trill of a harp. Golden light from the chandeliers above reflects off the marble floors, casting flickering shadows across the velvet-draped walls. The Capitol’s elite swirl around you in a blur of silk and sequins, their laughter mixing with the music like a distorted symphony.

Finnick’s hand slides down to yours. His touch is steady, warm, grounding—but there’s an edge to it. His thumb brushes across the back of your hand as he steps toward you, his sea-green eyes dark under the soft glow of the lights. He doesn’t speak. He just waits.

You hesitate. Your pulse thrums beneath your skin, too loud, too fast. Lysander’s words echo in your head like a ghostly whisper:

"You might find yourself with a few of your own soon."

What did he mean by that? You’ve had admirers before, of course—you’re a victor now, and victors are Capitol property whether they like it or not—but Lysander’s tone was different. Knowing. Almost… possessive. Like he knew something you didn’t.

Or maybe he just wanted you to feel that way.

A sharp tug brings you back to the present. Finnick’s eyes search yours, his brow pulling into a subtle crease. His hand is still waiting, open, patient—but there’s something tight around the corners of his mouth, like he’s not sure you’ll take it.

You slip your hand into his. His fingers curl around yours instantly, and without a word, he leads you toward the dance floor.

The crowd parts around you as Finnick turns, his other hand sliding to your waist with practiced ease. His palm presses into the small of your back, pulling you closer. Your breath catches as his chest brushes against yours, and the warmth of his skin seeps through the thin silk of your gown.

Finnick’s eyes flick to your mouth before meeting your gaze. “Relax,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “I don’t bite.”

You let out a shaky breath as he guides you into the first step. His movements are fluid, effortless, like he’s done this a thousand times before—which, of course, he has. Finnick Odair, the Capitol’s golden boy. The heartthrob of Panem. The victor who could seduce a room with nothing more than a glance.

But right now, the sharpness in his gaze isn’t meant for the crowd—it’s meant for you.

Your hands settle on his shoulders as he steers you through the room. You can feel the strength beneath his skin, the tension humming through his muscles. Finnick’s jaw tightens every time another pair of eyes lands on you—hungry, possessive eyes. The Capitol’s gaze feels like a thousand knives pressing into your back.

And yet, Finnick keeps you steady. His hand on your waist, his thumb tracing slow circles through the silk of your gown. His lips hover dangerously close to your ear as he leans in.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he whispers, his breath ghosting against the shell of your ear. “Whatever Lysander said—don’t let it get to you.”

Your hands tighten on his shoulders. “How do you know that?”

Finnick’s mouth curves into a small, knowing smile. His hand slides further around your waist, drawing you so close that the thin barrier of your clothing feels nonexistent. His voice drops, low and rough:

“Because I know you.”

Your chest tightens painfully. You want to believe that—that Finnick knows you, that someone understands you—but Lysander’s words are still coiled in the back of your mind like thorns. What if Lysander was right? What if you were already losing yourself to the Capitol?

Finnick’s hand at your back presses more firmly. His green eyes glint under the light as he tilts his head toward you. “What else did he say to you?”

You hesitate. You think about how Lysander also mentioned how the Capitol likes to show off sometimes. You didn’t think of it at all at first but when he started referencing how the victors of the hunger games are some sort of objects, to be praised, and show off as trophies; it had you navigating the conversation to another topic. Too scared to dwell on a sensitive topic like that. Not wanting to know what’s lying ahead for you in the future.

The music shifts to something softer, the strings slowing into a lilting cadence that urges you closer.

“He said… How he would like to show me off like they do to others.”

Finnick’s grip on you tightens almost imperceptibly. His mouth flattens into a thin line.

“Of course they do,” he says, his voice losing some of its softness. “You’re beautiful. That’s the whole point.”

Your heart twists painfully. The whole point. To be admired, desired, paraded like a doll in silk and pearls. That’s what the Capitol does to victors—it makes them beautiful so it can break them more easily.

“Finnick,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the hum of music. “What if that’s all they ever see?”

His eyes flash. His hand at your waist tightens, dragging you flush against him. Your breath stutters as his mouth lowers to your ear, his voice hard and sharp and dangerous.

“Then they don’t deserve to look at you.”

Your breath hitches. For a moment, the world blurs—just you and Finnick and the heat of his body pressed against yours. But then, movement from the edge of the room catches your eye. Lysander, standing at the edge of the dance floor with a fresh drink in hand, his eyes gleaming beneath the crystal light. His gaze locks with yours—and he smiles.

Finnick notices it too. His hand slides from your waist to the curve of your hip, his palm pressing possessively against your side. You feel his breath stutter as his mouth ghosts against your ear.

“You want to know why Lysander gave you that clip?” Finnick’s voice darkens, his eyes fixed on Lysander’s smirking figure. “It’s not because you’re beautiful. It’s because he thinks he can own you.”

Your heart hammers painfully in your chest.

Finnick’s hand finds your chin, gently tilting your face toward his. His green eyes burn through you, fierce and protective and something deeper, something raw beneath the surface.

“But he’s wrong,” Finnick murmurs, his mouth a breath away from yours. “Because you only belong to yourself.”

The music swells. You don’t know if it’s the heat of the room or the weight of Finnick’s gaze, but suddenly it’s hard to breathe.

Finnick’s lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile. “Shall we give them something to talk about?”

Before you can answer, Finnick spins you effortlessly beneath his arm, his hand catching yours just as the music shifts into a faster rhythm. His laugh—a low, rumbling sound—brushes against your skin as he pulls you close once again.

From the corner of his eyez he sees Lysander’s smile fades at the edges.

Finnick’s smile widens, slow and knowing, before his gaze flickers back to you. His hand rises to your hair, fingers brushing delicately against the strands as he works at the clip. His touch is so gentle, so precise, that it sends a shiver racing down your spine. Despite the distraction, neither of you miss a beat—your steps remain perfectly in sync with the lilting rhythm of the music.

You lead him across the floor, your hands resting against his shoulders as he follows your movements effortlessly. Finnick’s other hand lingers in your hair, carefully undoing the clasp. His knuckles graze the nape of your neck as the clip loosens, making your breath hitch.

When the cool weight of the clip leaves your hair, Finnick’s arm shifts. He twirls you beneath his raised hand, the silk of your gown swirling around your legs as you spin in the center of the dance floor. Your laugh bubbles out unbidden, mixing with the soft strains of the strings.

As he pulls you back toward him, his eyes glint mischievously. An avox passes by, head lowered as they weave through the dancers. Finnick’s hand moves so smoothly you almost miss it—a single swift motion as he slips the hair clip into the avox’s pocket without breaking stride. His arm snakes back around your waist, his hand splaying wide across the small of your back as he draws you flush against him once more.

“There,” Finnick murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Much better.”

Your hair, now loose and tousled from his handiwork, spills over your shoulders in soft waves. Finnick’s eyes flick over you, satisfaction curling at the edges of his mouth. His hand shifts, his thumb skimming the bare skin of your back where your gown dips dangerously low.

You raise a brow at him. “Did you just—”

“Return it to its rightful place?” Finnick interrupts smoothly, his smile turning dangerous. “Let’s just say Lysander might have a hard time finding it again.”

Your chest tightens as Finnick’s hand presses more firmly against your back, leading you deeper into the dance. His eyes darken as they flick toward the edge of the room—where Lysander stands, his smile thin and cold as he watches you both. Finnick’s mouth curves into a knowing smirk.

“Now,” Finnick purrs, his hand gliding from your waist to the small of your back, his gaze sharp and unwavering.

“Would you like to see the garden?

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

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