#thg finnick oneshot

[auroralwriting]

𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦

pairing: finnick odair x victor!reader

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

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

: ̗̀➛ masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[amandamariee]

♡ finnick odair (my sweetheart)

you are so lovely by @tulipmusez

so high school by @ssweeterthanfiction

↳ cruel summer by @/ssweeterthanfiction

↳ you are in love by @/ssweeterthanfiction

↳ innocent by @/ssweeterthanfiction

↳ my angel by @/ssweeterthanfiction

slut! by @l5byrinth

one for the road by @libertyybellls

mirrors by @queuestarter

this fic by @bruisedboys

↳ this fic by @/bruisedboys

↳ this fic by @/bruisedboys

↳ jealous finnick by @/bruisedboys

devotion by @leviathanspain

↳ watercolor eyes by @/leviathanspain

echos by @onlybeeewrites

hold me steady by @humaling

↳ stacking seashells, falling hard by @/humaling

↳ between your hands and the world by @/humaling

west coast finnick by @auroralwriting

↳ just breathe by @/auroralwriting

iris by @simpforboys

she sells sea shells by the sea shore by @ellecdc

↳ this fic by @/ellecdc

↳ this fic by @/ellecdc

↳ wharf cats by @/ellecdc

↳ still? always by @/ellecdc

ivy by @daisyjonesgf

peace by @lqveharrington

falling in love all over again by @petriwriting

this fic by @gtgbabie0

a life of our own by @ervotica

↳ this fic by @/ervotica

the lights by @melgolbach

flower therapy by @wife-of-all-dilfs

[sweetheartsofpanem]

Twenty-year-old Y/N returns to the ruins of District 12, seeking something—anything—of the life she lost. Grieving, self-contained, and carrying the weight of a brutal past, she finds herself quietly drawn into the lives of Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch. As unexpected friendships form and long-buried parts of herself begin to resurface, Y/N starts to wonder if it’s still possible for something soft to survive the wreckage.

Pairing(s): Haymitch Abernathy x Female!Reader (romantic), Katniss Everdeen x Female!Reader (platonic), Peeta Mellark x Female!Reader (platonic)

Warnings: themes of grief, past emotional and verbal abuse from a parent, past physical abuse from a parent, past self-harm (cutting), past alcoholism (Y/N) / ongoing alcoholism (Haymitch), references to non-consensual sexual experiences (no explicit scenes), PTSD, mental health struggles, age gap romance between adults (20s and 40s), eventual smut, death, descriptions of death/gore, mentions of bombing, descriptions of district 12 after the bombing, might be slightly divergent from canon, peeta was not hijacked

All heavy topics are treated with care, but reader discretion is advised.

this is basically just a suuuuper long slow burn friends to lovers. Y/N’s backstory is very detailed but i have not and will not describe her appearance. the first 5 or 6 chapters are basically just providing Y/N’s background and building a foundation for the rest of the story.

Shadows of the Past - Six months after the Second Rebellion, you return to the ruins of District 12. Haunted by memories and loss, you wander through the wreckage—until a flicker of light draws you toward something, or someone, unexpected.

Fragments of Home - In the unfamiliar stillness of Victor’s Village, you find yourself cared for by an old friend and a stranger. As wounds are tended to, new connections begin to take root—quiet, cautious, and strange in their kindness.

The Space Between - You move through the stillness of what remains, caught between memory and reality. In the space left by loss, something quieter begins to grow—unspoken understanding, and the first fragile steps toward connection.

The Club - A nightmare drives you outside in the dead of night—and you’re not the only one who couldn’t sleep. An unexpected conversation beneath the stars begins to chip away at the walls you’ve built.

The Quiet Shift - You wake to a new day and begin to settle into your new reality. A simple visit turns into something more, as laughter and conversation spark the beginnings of something long forgotten: friendship.

Porchlight - Three months into your return, you’ve slipped into a quiet routine—baking with Peeta, trading late-night banter with Haymitch. But comfort doesn’t come easy, and even the smallest moments of ease shine like a porchlight in the dark.

The Shape of Warmth - You spend the day with Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch—what begins with a truth leads into something softer, steadier. Something that feels almost like belonging.

Shoulder to Shoulder - The weight of your thoughts pulls you under, but an unexpected knock reminds you that not all doors stay closed. Some nights don’t feel as heavy when you’re not alone.

Dust and Danish - The distance between you and the people around you is starting to shrink. Not all at once—but in the soft space of banter, taste testing, and old memories that still ache. You don’t trust it yet. But you’re trying.

Mint and Memory - You spend the morning in the woods learning the quiet language of herbs, your scars aching in more ways than one. In the comfort of kitchen light and soft laughter, something fragile and steady begins to form. But even in the warmth, some voices still echo.

What’s Waiting Inside - You leave with a smile that doesn’t quite reach, and a voice in your head that cuts too deep. But when you ask not to be alone, you’re met with quiet understanding—and something steady enough to lean on.

Something Real - As summer settles in, so do you. What once felt unfamiliar begins to feel like home. You spend a day with Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch—harvesting herbs, sharing dinner, teasing each other in the living room. And somewhere in the middle of the quiet laughter and small comforts, you realize you’re not surviving anymore. You’re living.

Almost Subtle - A quiet afternoon puzzle turns into something softer—shared teasing, easy silences, and the kind of presence that lingers longer than either of you mean it to. When Katniss and Peeta suggest a trip to the lake, you drag Haymitch along, sun and sarcasm pulling something looser from him. You see him—truly see him—and say something you didn’t mean to. Maybe he doesn’t mind. Maybe neither of you do.

She Fell First - You wake up with one goal: figure out what the hell is wrong with you. Why does your heart do gymnastics every time Haymitch talks? Why do you want to be near him 24/7 like some kind of emotionally confused barnacle? Naturally, you barge into Peeta’s house to demand answers and are promptly diagnosed with a crush. Disgusting. Mortifying.

Totally Chill - You’re totally fine. Completely normal. Not at all losing your mind over accidentally massaging mint balm into Haymitch Abernathy’s scarred, shirtless stomach. Nope. Nothing to see here. Except maybe the part where you sprint to Peeta’s house afterward to dramatically declare your emotional demise. Totally. Chill.

Paper Spine - The sharpness guts you like it always has—like it did before anyone ever said your name gently. You fold, crumple, unravel. And when the panic finally breaks you wide open, all you can do is hold your chest and hope it doesn’t stay like this forever.

Back to Steady - A few days after everything cracked open, you find your way back to normal—soft sarcasm, warm tea, and limbs pressed a little too close on an old couch.

Pinecone Problems - You spend the day with Katniss and Peeta, basking in cinnamon bread, emotional whiplash, and whatever flavor of denial you’re currently fermenting. Feelings are talked about. Trauma is unpacked. And Haymitch—unfortunately—still exists, looking unfairly good doing absolutely nothing. You’re not in love. You’re just dramatically inconvenienced.

Pinecone Emergency - You’re pretty sure spraining your ankle after dramatically chasing Haymitch through the woods wasn’t part of your character arc, and yet—here you are, face down in the grass, in pain, in denial, and in love. Probably. Unfortunately.

He Fell Harder - Haymitch starts the night in a classic spiral—staring at a wall, brooding about feelings he definitely didn’t mean to catch. Then Y/N shows up at his door (again), and things only get worse. Or better. It’s hard to tell when she’s stealing his couch, insulting his snacks, and looking entirely too good while doing it. He’s not in love. Definitely not. He just… likes her a little. A lot. Maybe forever. Who knows.

Storm Spirit and Sunshine - You feel the storm coming in your knees and immediately decide it’s your entire personality. Haymitch thinks you’ve lost it—until the sky starts throwing tantrums and the power goes out. Cue unexpected darkness, shared candlelight, emotional trauma bonding, and accidental (but very intentional) hand-holding. Turns out, thunder’s not so scary when you’ve got a grumpy ex-victor and his veiny arms beside you.

Tension? What Tension? - You go to the lake to cool off, not to feel warm all over. But between the splashing, the teasing, and a few glances that linger a little too long, things start to shift. It’s just a normal day with friends. Nothing’s different. Nothing’s changing. Except maybe it is. Not that you’ll admit it.

Don’t Ask Me How I Slept - Something wakes you in the dark. You follow it upstairs and find more than you expected. A name, a moment, a quiet unraveling. You stay. And when morning comes, everything feels a little different—though no one says it out loud.

Just One Good Day - It starts with laughter and leans too close to something real. For a moment, it almost feels safe—almost. But soft things are fragile, and you learn again how quickly warmth can vanish. When the silence finally breaks, it leaves you reaching for someone who’s still here.

One Good Day, Gone - You try to hold onto something soft. He tries to push it all away. But some silences say more than words, and when the quiet settles, it leaves you both with nothing but the truth—and the space where one good day used to be.

As Long As It Takes - You don’t expect to see him. He doesn’t expect you to stay. But when the night unravels and the ghosts are named, you offer him the one thing he’s never been able to ask for—time. You don’t know what this is. You just know you’ll wait. As long as it takes.

Casual, Right? - You and Haymitch are fine. Totally normal. Just two emotionally stable people moving a table and not at all panicking about how close you’re sitting. But when the teasing turns soft and the space between you disappears, you start to wonder if pretending it’s casual is getting harder to believe. Especially when Peeta and Katniss walk in and feel every inch of tension in the room.

This Year is Different - On the day before his birthday—and what would’ve been another reaping—Haymitch starts to unravel. You stay. Through the silence, the memory, the ache. And by the end of the night, with moonlight on the sheets, something shifts. He lets you in. You let yourself stay.

I Hope It Keeps Becoming - On the morning after everything shifts, you wake to the warmth of something you’re scared to name. There’s laughter. There’s teasing. There’s a quiet moment where something almost happens. And later, after the chaos settles and the kitchen quiets, you let yourself hope this softness might stay.

What We’ve Been Becoming - A quiet day drifts into something warmer, softer—something that feels a little too good to question. You spend it in good company, with laughter and teasing and quiet truths. But when the evening settles and it’s just the two of you again, something finally shifts in the stillness you’ve both learned to trust.

Now, Not Then - You wake up from the past like it never left you. But this time, you’re not alone. And even when the words won’t come, he stays—gentle, steady, and real. This is now. Not then.

Without Needing to Say It - You end the night wrapped in warmth, in quiet, in something that feels a lot like love. You both haven’t said the words. But you don’t need to. Not when it’s already there—in the way you touch, the way you stay, the way you keep choosing each other. Again and again.

Clinginess Is a Symptom - He’s got a minor fever and a major case of “don’t leave my side.” You make the tea, the soup, the rules—and he, apparently, makes whiny affection into an art form.

The First Time It’s Safe - In the quiet before sunrise, wrapped in shared breath and steady hands, you and Haymitch finally speak the truth that’s been living between you for months.

Soft Things Stay - You and Haymitch settle into something slow and safe—until Katniss and Peeta burst in, convinced you’re dead. The rest of the day is filled with teasing, toast, and sunlight, the four of you slipping into a rhythm that feels like home.

Soot Sprite - You return to the ruins of District 12 for the first time since coming home, with Peeta beside you. The walk is harder than you expect—but softer, too. Just as the past begins to settle, a reminder of the settling past latches to your leg.

Did You Just Whimper? - With Soot spending the night at Katniss and Peeta’s, you and Haymitch finally get the alone time you’ve been craving.

We Are Not a Normal Family - Soot causes chaos. Peeta makes up a game with no rules. Haymitch suffers. You laugh until it hurts. And for a moment, under stars and mismatched blankets, you remember what it feels like to belong.

I’ve Been Yours

Epilogue

[leviathanspain]

OMG I am living for the Finnick content!!! Could I request something with angst to fluff, with the prompt “look at me, look at me, you’re okay, we’re okay”? Maybe set after catching fire when they both wake up in district 13? Thank you!!

watercolor eyes

finnick odair x reader

synopsis: you didn’t think you would ever see those watercolor eyes again…

a/n: i used hearing loss as reader’s injury, there is no real explanation, so make one up :)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

it was a stunning color, almost indescribable. he was saying something, his hands moved frantically, you could see them in your peripheral. yet you remained in a trance with his eyes, watching them as they frantically searched yours. then, you realized his lips were moving, and you couldn’t hear him.

“do you think she can hear us?” he blinked, refusing to get emotional at just the thought. from how close you had been, it definitely could’ve resulted in hearing loss. the rescuing of who they could get in the arena didn’t go very well, and he hated to admit that he almost lost you. how he lost peeta and johanna, something that already weighed heavy on him.

suddenly, a scream erupted from you. finnick rose from your side, hands trying to calm you down. you were getting redder as you screamed, exhausting yourself.

“y/n!” he shouted, hoping you’d hear him and stop, but didn’t realize that you were screaming because you couldn’t hear your own voice.

you were panicking. from the looks of finnick, he could hear you, but you couldn’t hear your loud screaming. you felt the vibrations of your own voice, hand at your throat. but nothing was heard. your breath hitched as the stark realization dawned on you. you couldn’t even hear ringing in your ears.

helplessly, you gripped finnick’s arm as he searched your eyes. a doctor practically sprinted towards you. you panicked, gripping onto finnick as you fought off the doctor, a syringe in his hand. you screamed again, now out of reflex. finnick was trying to calm you down but it was hard for someone who had gone temporarily deaf. or at least he hoped it would be temporary. there was no knowing the damage.

“y/n.” he spoke as if you could hear him, shouting wouldn’t change things. you could feel his fingers on your cheek, gently wiping them as tears escaped your eyes.

you wanted to look at him, focus on his eyes, imagine the engulfing waters of the ocean, free to take you and finnick to places you could only dream of.

but the needle stabbing you wouldn’t let you float your mind away.

you wouldn’t be able to hear the ocean, let alone see it.

you grilled finnick’s arm, eyes fighting to stay connected to his, but they fluttered shut, getting one last glimpse of those watercolor eyes.

finnick watched as your eyes fluttered shut. he had been comforting you in a way he knew wasn’t helping. “you’re okay…” he whispered, “you’ll be okay.” he brushed a hair from your voice as your expression calmed. the doctors had decided to sedate you upon your outburst. “i’m sorry.” he whispered more, laying you down back into the bed, words repeating like a broken record.

it had been a week.

your ears were still sensitive, and you had been ordered to stay away from any and all loud noises, which meant you often stayed behind for when president coin called her meetings.

katniss had been making progress, from what you had gathered in whispers from finnick.

“only whispers.” he had whispered the first words you were able to hear. “doctor’s orders.” he smiled brightly. you exhaled, nodding as you matched his whisper. even the sound of your own voice was excruciating in volume. you had tried to force yourself to get used to loud volumes, but it was impossible.

it was more pain than it was worth, that even sometimes the whispers were too sharp.

so you and finnick often settled for a comforting silence. he would hold you in his arms, brushing your hair from your face as you stared deep into his eyes.

he grounded you, from the moment you met him, he had been nothing but kind. he loved you, killed for you, saved you.

“i love you.” you whispered so quietly you wondered if he could even hear you.

he looked down at you, having glanced away for a mere moment. his smile extended up to his eyes, “i love you more.” he whispered, still careful to be quiet.

[ilguna]

☼ six feet below (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; after being swallowed into the ground during the quarter quell, you’ve found yourself claustrophobic ever since. and so when you find out that district thirteen is a bunker, there’s no stopping the panic attack that comes.

warnings; swearing, torture and death mention, illness, claustrophobia, panic attack description.

wc; 3.5k

--

There has never been a more disappointing moment in your life than watching yourself get reaped for the Hunger Games a second time in less than a decade. Only this time, it was for a Quarter Quell. Which was destined to be your own personal hell.

The way your lips pulled up in disgust at the sound of your name, not at all amused by the Capitol’s antics. When you looked off, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of making eye contact with the camera, your face had been reflected back at you, due to a projection on a nearby building.

It was highly gratifying to know the entirety of Panem would see the irritation, and they’d never be able to edit it to make your reaction some other way. Even if they were to try and cut your expression out later on if you were to win, it would never fit. 

You barely got reprimanded for it after. All your escort had to say was that it wasn’t very lady-like. As if there was a more graceful way to take the news you’d be fighting for your life again. You couldn’t help it when you asked her what the appropriate response would’ve been. Should you have thanked her?

She didn’t give you an answer, either because she couldn’t think of one or she knew if she were in your shoes, she would’ve broken into tears the moment her name had been called. Especially since she knows what it entails and just how brutal it can be.

From then on, you did your best to steer a wide path from her for the rest of the Capitol week. The last thing you needed was her correcting manners, when you could be dead within the next two weeks. 

The week was far from what you thought it would be, not that you were expecting it to be easy. You knew there would be a lot of familiar faces, but it took until the Tribute Parade for you to realize what you were dragged into. You had to interact with other victors as a tribute that you’d met as a mentor. Several of your friends found themselves in the same position you were in.

Not to mention, your boyfriend had been reaped, too. 

Finnick couldn’t stop the onslaught of tears that followed. When you saw the way the stylist had dressed him for the Capitol—you were inconsolable. He thought it was because you were scared, causing him to swear up and down he would protect you. When really, you were terrified if you’d make it out alive without him, and you’d be forced to live with his ghost.

The Capitol had you trapped, something they were never able to do before.

When you were announced the winner of the Sixty-seventh Hunger Games, you promised yourself you’d never let the Capitol get the best of you. If you could control it, you’d always stay one step ahead, sometimes two if you could manage it. It’d worked out so far, right up until that point.

You were sixteen when you won, and seventeen when you returned for your first year of mentoring. President Snow tried to negotiate a deal with you, but you’d already heard the rumors of what it meant. All the victors back home in Eleven warned you about what he would want from you, what it would mean going forward.

They weren’t wrong, and while you were ready for everything he had to throw at you, it was hard to keep a grip on your future. He threatened your family, only for you to tell him most of them had died due to the illness that was going around. Anyone still alive wouldn’t be for much longer.

He threatened your friends, all of which you’d lost following your Games. As glorious as the victor life is in the Career districts, it’s less so in District Eleven. And while the whole year of rations should’ve lifted a lot of spirits, it hardly worked in your favor. There weren’t a lot of congratulations to go around.

So, President Snow threatened your life.

You stared him in the eye as you gave him a shrug, telling him he was more than welcome to give it a go. Your quality of life had significantly decreased already, what else could he do? 

Nothing. Nothing was the answer. 

It was probably the first time a tribute has ever pulled one over on the president without having their hand slapped immediately after. Seeder was convinced he’d have something coming for you, but you were left alone. Maybe it was because he knew the Quarter Quell would be coming, and he’d have you then.

Well, he was right. The wishful thinking that you’d be able to escape them forever worked for a handful of years. As time grew on, it became harder to keep it that way, and when the Quell had been announced, you gave it up altogether. President Snow knew it was a matter of time before he’d get you under his thumb. And he had you good. 

The arena has been and always will feel like it’s targeted at you. You’re sure everyone thinks the same when they rise out of the podium, but your misfortune so far has been immeasurable compared to the others.

The jungle was no exception. 

You tried to regain your footing when it came to being a step ahead, by remembering how deceitful the arena had been for Haymitch. You figured it would be the same way, just by looking at how the arena had been sectioned out. 

The concentric circles seemed purposeful, with the way it had been the Cornucopia, the water, the beach and then the jungle. The only part that didn’t make sense were the twelve spokes that shot out from the center, but you shrugged it off, thinking the Gamemakers needed to add ground for the tributes who weren’t strong swimmers. 

The lightning, fog and monkeys should’ve been your clue as to what was happening, except you were too busy fighting for your life to be drawing up theories. So you can imagine your surprise when Katniss announced the arena was working like a clock, and that’s what Wiress had been attempting to communicate the whole time you’d reunited with the second half of the alliance.

It made sense for the next couple hours, the group of you had gone to the center to see it all play out. Then the Gamemakers spun that goddamn Cornucopia, confusing you all again. None of you had any idea on where to go, so you took a gamble on one of the spokes and decided to wait on the beach until one of the hours gave away what time it was.

At some point during this period, you thought you’d check out the jungle while you found a place to relieve yourself. Finnick wanted to go with you, but he got pulled away by Johanna when she began to argue with Katniss again. You promised him you’d be careful, and went off.

You don’t think you made it twenty feet in before you were swallowed by the dirt. It was as if you stepped into quicksand, only it was dry and you sunk much faster. You barely managed a scream before you were breathing in the jungle’s dirt. 

It felt like you were stuck in the ground forever, trying to claw your way out, holding your breath, but it couldn’t have been longer than a minute or two. By the time your hands broke the surface, Finnick and a few of the others were there, searching for you. As soon as you’d been spotted, they tugged you out and several feet away from where you’d been eaten.

You were choking on dirt while gasping for air, feeling the crunch of the soil between your teeth, the way it stuck to the back of your throat. You couldn’t help it when the first sob came from you, tears washing away the filth that was stuck in the creases of your eyes.

Finnick held you, rocking you as you cried into him. You couldn’t stop, you knew if they’d shown up a few minutes later, you’d be dead. Just another victor to be remembered but never forgotten. Anyone would’ve reacted the same way you had, even Johanna.

However, if you knew President Snow would capitalize off this moment, you never would’ve shown how vulnerable it made you. You would’ve just shaken off the experience and pushed through.

Instead, Snow exploited it. 

It was planned that at the end of the third day in the arena, what was left of the rebel alliance should meet at the lightning tree. Whoever was left in the area after the arena exploded would get rescued and brought to a safe place. The main goal was to make sure Katniss was there, since she’s the face of the rebellion. Everyone else was expendable. 

It worked out fine in the beginning, but the plan went to shit when what was left of the Careers tried to attack you, Johanna and Katniss while you were executing Beetee’s instructions. The three of you got split up, and while you were off fighting Enobaria, the arena went black, which meant the hovercraft would be appearing at any moment.

When you did get to the tree, it was far too late. The hovercraft had come and gone, and you were left to fend for yourself. You found you weren’t the only one left behind, because Johanna and Peeta showed up shortly after, accusations flying everywhere. 

It didn’t matter what you had to say to either of them, because you all wound up in Capitol custody. And all the pent up anger Snow had been containing was released on you for the next couple weeks. 

It was a good thing the rebels from District Thirteen rescued you when they did, because you were beginning to crack. Just a few more hours and you’re sure you would’ve started telling the Capitol anything and everything they wanted to hear—even if it would’ve been lies.

You’re just glad the people of Thirteen have been understanding of your situation so far. They’ve been so patient when it comes to interacting with the refugees—a bulk of them coming from Twelve. From what you heard, it’s been flattened by the bombs from the Capitol, following the abrupt ending of the Quarter Quell. 

You’ve slowly started integrating into their lifestyle after being in the hospital. The head doctor has finally allowed you to move into a compartment with Finnick, which means you have free reign of the building. You’re returning to normalcy, even if it’s taking forever.

Your favorite part about your newfound freedom is that you’re able to sit at a table with your friends, again. You never thought you’d be able to enjoy their presence after what happened in the Capitol. But it seems as if the doctors don’t care about the intermingling of the victors.

“How was your time in the Capitol?” Peeta asks you, stone cold serious. “Did you enjoy it?”

Although, maybe they should.

You stare at him for a long moment, not sure how you’d like to respond. You didn’t know Peeta super well prior to the Games, but he was always courteous in passing. If this is how the Capitol has left him, you can’t even begin to think of what they might’ve done. 

You’ve noticed that he’s lost his sugar-coating. Everything he says seems raw and unfiltered, which you can come to appreciate in the future. As of now, he needs to be reminded that sensitivity isn’t a weakness, even if the Capitol has taught him otherwise.

“Did you?” You shoot back at him. “I distinctly remember you crying for your mother, but maybe I’m mistaken.”

Peeta lets out a short laugh, a half-smile on his face. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about the Capitol so soon.” Finnick interjects, reaching over to rub your back. He raises his eyebrows, expression gentle as he watches your face. “It’s not the greatest subject.”

“Why not?” Johanna asks, mouth full of food. “Peeta and I can talk about it, right?” She nudges him with her elbow. Peeta gives a mechanic nod, causing your face to twist. “We’ve come to grow as best friends.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Peeta murmurs, looking away.

“Johanna, don’t tease him.” Finnick tilts his head. He stops rubbing your back, instead moving to hold your hand to squeeze it.

“I’m not.” Johanna says simply. “Would you rather me tease (Y/n)?”

“No.” He tells her, tone hard.

“Yes, absolutely.” You nod. “What do you have for me?”

She eyes Finnick, gauging whether or not it’s worth what Finnick will do to her. She must decide it isn’t, because she crosses her arms and leans forward onto the table, shrugging her shoulders. 

“Oh, come on.” You groan. “No snark? You’re going soft on me.”

“I would, but I’m mildly afraid of triggering Peeta in the process.” She says.

Peeta rolls his eyes, which is so unlike him that you can’t take your eyes off of him. 

“Okay, fine.” Johanna says. “Why do you always have Finnick walk in front of you? You never hold hands and walk side by side anymore.”

You look past her to the concrete ground, and all you picture is the ground opening up, a dark pit waiting for you underneath. It’s pretty self-explanatory on why you act the way you do. You thought she was more observant than this.

“The arena.” You tell her. “The sixth hour.”

“That’s it?” Johanna asks. “You let the jungle get the better of you?”

Finnick clears his throat, shaking his head at her. “Was the blood rain easy for you?”

“It’s not that the jungle got the better of me. Do you know what it’s like to be encased in dirt?”

“I do. We currently are.” Johanna waves her hand in the air.

Your face twists, eyes squinting at her. “What do you mean?”

She opens her mouth, raising her eyebrows as if it’s obvious. “Where do you think we are?”

“District Thirteen.” You say, not getting it. “Where else would we be?”

“Are you fucking with me?” Johanna asks. 

You two stare at each other for a minute. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Johanna. What do you mean we’re encased in dirt?”

“District Thirteen is a bunker.” Peeta tells you plainly. “Everyone knows that.”

No—no, not everyone knows that. You didn’t know that. You’ve been underground this whole time? You thought… you thought that Thirteen was just some building hidden in the woods, too far for the Capitol to reach. You never would’ve guessed it’s a bunker.

You can feel your heart begin to beat in your chest, room elongating due to the new information. You grip your silverware tightly in your hand, knuckles turning pale, swallowing hard.

“(Y/n)?” Finnick asks, trying to pull his hand free.

Your hands pop open, fork clattering against the metal table, fingers beginning to shake. You’re going to get trapped down here. The bunker could explode at any moment. It’ll be much harder to escape a cement chamber than it was to crawl out of dirt.

You can feel the air rapidly passing between your lips, a hand placed on your chest, which seems to grow tight with every passing breath. 

“Honey, breathe.” Finnick tells you, combing your hair out of your face. “What’s the matter?”

“I’ll never get out.” You gasp, shoving your food tray away from you.

You suddenly get to your feet, tripping when you try to step over the bench. You find yourself staring down at the floor, the same one that was opening up earlier. The only thing holding you up are your hands and knees, which are shaking so hard you can’t even see straight.

“(Y/n)!” Finnick shouts, sounding drowned and faraway.

Your hand forms a fist, which you slam against the ground, as if it’ll let you out of the nightmare. You’re stuck, though. You’re back in that box, body twisted in awkward angles to let you breathe, staring into the pitch black—into the unknown.

“Let me out!” You scream, bending your arms to push off. Nothing moves. Nothing ever moves. They won’t let you out, not until they’ve decided you suffered enough. You could be here for the next ten hours if they felt like it.

It’s always a box, and it’s never big enough to let you breathe.

“(Y/n), let’s go.” A voice says, grabbing onto your arms, pulling you to your legs.

You stumble, feeling the sweat dribble down your forehead, reaching out to stabilize yourself. Finnick’s face is in yours, too blurry to focus on. He’s saying something, trying to pull you along, but your knees have locked in place.

He just sweeps you up into his arms, hurrying out of the room.

“Please don’t take me back there.” You cry.

“I won’t, (Y/n).” Finnick places a swift kiss to your forehead. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” 

He takes you into the elevator, doesn’t bother shutting the safety door, and presses the button that will bring you straight up without stopping. When you reach what you perceive as the ground floor, you’re met with multiple unwelcoming faces.

“Please, she just needs to be outside.” Finnick begs, pushing through them. “She can’t be in there right now.”

“Let them through!” A voice calls, a man in black armor waves Finnick on.

He wastes no time, running through the space, straight to the nearest door. He backs through it, shielding you from the initial sunlight. As soon as it touches your skin, you break.

Finnick lets you down to your feet, only to watch as you collapse in the grass, crawling a few feet away from the door, sobbing into the Earth. You take handfuls of it in your hands, ripping the roots free from the soil, throwing them away.

Two weeks. 

You’d basically spent two straight weeks in a box. The only time you were let out was to relieve yourself, and then you were locked back in. It didn’t matter how much you screamed, how much you begged, how much you pushed against the walls. You could never leave. 

The spots that had been appearing over your vision are finally disappearing, but the lightheadedness isn’t. You lift your hand in Finnick’s direction, and that’s all he needs before he’s cradling you against his body, trying to console you.

“I’m so sorry.” He tells you, lips pressed to your hair. “I promised to protect you. I told you nothing would happen.”

“You never could’ve known.” You tell him, fingers tight against his jumpsuit. “He’s been trying to get me for years.”

“I know.” Finnick sniffs, holding you tighter. “I tried to stop it. I never wanted him to have you."

You sit in silence for a long time. He rocks you, humming a tune he learned from Katniss, gently massaging your head. You watch as the trees behind him seem to return to normal, no longer so far away. And there's a dull ache in your fingers from how hard you've been squeezing them.

"I need help." You murmur to Finnick.

"With what?" He asks, pulling away to see your face.

"I need to see the head doctor, don't I?" You ask, lips trembling.

Finnick brushes the sensitive skin on your cheeks. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, honey." He tilts his head to look at you better.

"I wanted to be fine." You tell him.

"And it's okay that you're not." He says. "Katniss, Peeta, Johanna, Haymitch and I got help while we’ve been here. And we knew it was only a matter of time before you’d follow in our steps.”

Your face twists. “What do you mean it was a matter of time?”

“You started doing things that weren’t like you.” His eyes fall away. “You won’t go into small rooms. You touch the tips of your feet to the ground to make sure it’s solid. You ask people to walk in front of you. You stop in doorways to look inside rooms before deciding to go in.”

Your lips wobble, hearing your mannerisms repeated back to you… You can feel another round of tears coming, building in your eyes. When Finnick looks up to see your reaction, his face softens. He cups your face in his hands, shaking his head.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“We’ll get you help.” He tells you, wiping away the tears that fall with his thumbs. “Just like we did for Annie. You’ll get better.”

“But I’ll never be the same.”

Finnick presses a warm kiss to your lips. “That will never stop me from loving you.”

[bruisedboys]

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

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

finnick odair x tribute!reader (quarter quell)

“It’s so hot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[allisluv]

aaahh yay for a new charger!! Hmmm ok if it tickles your fancy, can I request a Finnick x reader fic post-rebellion where she’s feeling perhaps a touch soft, maybe not even realizing it (like just a heavy/triggering day where she’s feeling anxious) and Finnick knows, doesn’t comment on it, just hovers/takes over stuff for her to lessen her load? (Sorry if it doesn’t make sense - I got excited & wanted to send something in hahaha)

farmers market.

pairing: finnick o'dair x shy!wifey

content warnings: reader is having a rough go of it, use of petnames, pre-established relationship, set post-rebellion, finnick is so soft and sweet it's giving me a tooth ache (/pos), teasing, banter, fluff with a sprinkle of angst, not edited.

word count: 2k

author's note: elle, i hope you don't mind me writing this one for finnick x shy!wifey! i hadn't intended to originally but i started writing and i was like this is so them coded for me not to, you know? so, without further ado... here's my first finnick x shy!wifey oneshot. requests for them are open!! please do note that this can be read as a finn x reader insert too if you prefer that!! also this is my first time writing in a hot minute so please be kind. reblogs and comments are appreciated <3

Bad days tend to creep up on you like the calm before the storm, and without really knowing why, you welcome those days back like an old friend.

Its strange, when you think about it; you would think that the promise of a life without a constant war would feel reassuring but in reality, all it does is instil you with greater fear, and that is saying something.

In no way shape or form are you saying that you would have preferred to live under Snow's rule-- even less under Coin. You're simply saying that it feels terrifying to have this glorious taste of freedom, when in the back of your mind, there's a voice that reminds you it could all be taken away from you in a matter of seconds.

Finnick can tell something is weighing heavily on your mind when you toss and turn in bed all night. He combs his fingers through your hair, and presses soft kisses to your forehead, but no amount of comfort is able to soothe those reeling thoughts.

Eventually, you manage to doze off with Finnick's arms wrapped tight around you. Still, your sleep is broken and even then, you cant escape your anxiety.

Finnick watches over you as you rest. When a crease forms between your brows, an indicator that your dreams are not being kind to your weary soul, he uses his thumb to smooth it out. When a pitiful whine slips past your parted lips, he holds you closer and mutters words of reassurance into your hairline.

It's nearing noon when you finally start to stir. Finnick's arm had gone dead long before now, but he figures the pins and needles that shoot through his arm are well worth it if he has you in his arms like this. He watches as your eyes lazily flutter open and you absentmindedly sink deeper into his embrace. "Hi," He whispers into the silence. You wipe your eyes and mumble something incoherent. He smiles. "Welcome back to the land of the living."

You hum sleepily as you nuzzle your cheek against his bare chest. He is warm and soft and he smells like home. You can't help noticing the absent scent of saltwater and a frown tugs at the corner of your lips. "You didn't go swimming?"

Finnick wraps his ankle with yours under the duvet. "Didn't want to."

Your frown deepens and even in your half-asleep state you know he's lying, so naturally, you call him out on it. "I call bullshit." You try to sit up straighter but he eases you back down onto his chest with a quiet hum. "Why didn't you go? You always go swimming in the morning."

He kisses your forehead. "Maybe I just wanted to stay here with you." His fingers trace a path up your back. He normally does go swimming every morning; it's somewhat of a ritual for him. But he doesn't want to leave you when he knows you're having a rough go of it, especially when you're almost as stubborn as him and won't ask for his help. "Is that okay with you?" He teases.

You fight the urge to roll your eyes, but his hands are gentle and soft on your body, and it eases some of the pent up tension in your frame. "Hmph. I suppose so." It's meant to be a joke, but your voice falls flat.

He doesn't seem to mind. He knows you're bound to be snippy or sad or on edge or all of the above. Hes had his own fair share of triggering days since the war ended and he's been the exact same. He just gives a quiet hum so you know he isn't ignoring you, and then he allows the silence to settle.

There's still a pit of unease in your stomach, but it's lessened slightly by his presence. "What time is it?" You ask after a while.

Finnick cranes his neck to one side to check the alarm clock on the bedside locker. "One."

You swear you give yourself whiplash as you shoot up and he grunts softly at the loss of contact. "In the afternoon?"

"No, in the morning. See the stars outside?" Finnick deadpans, trying to lighten the mood. You shoot him a withering look, and he grins and sits up now, too. "Its alright, angel. We're allowed to have a lie in every now and then." He soothes, pressing a soft kiss to your bare shoulder blade.

"We've got to go grocery shopping today," You argue, but it's a weak protest, even to your own ears.

"And we've got plenty of time," He responds patiently, smoothing his hand up and down your back once more. "It's a Sunday. The market doesn't close until seven. Just relax, my love. It's all okay." He knows you need to keep yourself busy on days like this; it's a way to remind yourself that you're controlling something.

He shifts onto his knees, the bedframe creaking underneath him, and wraps his arms around your midsection. "It's all okay." He promises. A kiss to your shoulder again. "We can get changed and leave right now if you want to, alright?"

You melt into his touch before giving a stiff nod. Maybe if you're out of the house, it'll ease your worries a bit, or at the very least distract you. Your eyes flutter shut as he presses a kiss to your neck this time around. "Okay."

"Yeah? That sound like a plan?"

You nod, more relaxed this time. "Yeah."

Finnick gets changed in a matter of minutes, and is ever so patient as he waits for you. He watches you flit between your wardrobe three or four times, choosing an outfit and changing your mind once you go to put it on,

"I'm sorry," You say quietly on your fifth time around. Your deft fingers anxiously toy with the hem of your sleep shirt as you sift through the contents of your wardrobe.

He's perched on the edge of the bed, and he offers you a gentle smile as he sees your fingers move to your mouth. You gnaw on a hangnail, and he pushes down the urge to lovingly scold you. "It's okay. Take all the time you need, angel. I'm in no rush."

Once you're finally dressed and out of the door, Finnick can't help but notice the way your eyes dart around nervously. He knows that you're no doubt feeling more wary, and he wants nothing more than to help soothe your heightened emotions. "So, angel, I was thinking." He slips his hand into yours as you move. He doesn't seem to mind how damp your palm is.

"Hm?" Your head whips around to see him. "Sorry?"

"I was thinking." He repeats patiently, matching your pace. He knows that you need a distraction right now and he Is more than eager to be of assistance. "There's this lovely cove off the coast. Malcom-- you'd know him, he's the coast guard-- was telling me about it. It's about an hour or two from here by boat. It's meant to be gorgeous out there. I was thinking we could go snorkelling there one day, if you'd like."

"I've never been snorkelling," You remind him softly.

He squeezes your hand. "I know. I could teach you." He offers. "We'd be able to make it a day trip. We could bring a picnic for the boat and we could sail for a while before getting to the cove." He presses a kiss to your cheek. "What do you think?"

The weight in your chest is shifting now that you're not tangled up in your thoughts. You can breathe a bit easier. "Yeah." You nod. "It could be fun. When were you thinking?"

Finnick hums in thought. "Maybe the day after tomorrow? If you're up for it. We can always do it later, I'm easy." He shrugs.

You nod. "Sounds like a plan."

The market is practically empty when you two arrive. Finnick insists on carrying the wicker basket you brought with you, and he follows your lead as you drift between stalls.

On your way out of the market, he tugs you toward a jewellery stall. Without even giving you time to ask what he's doing, he holds up a necklace, testing it against your complexion, before turning to the seller. "I'll take this one please."

You arch an eyebrow and give his hand a tug. "What're you doing?"

"Buying you a necklace." He replies simply.

"Why?"

"Because I want to."

"You don't have to."

"I said I want to, not that I have to." He corrects you, pressing a kiss to your joined hands. He pays the vendor for the necklace and secures it in the basket before letting you lead him out of the gazebo.

It doesn't take long to get back home, even with your goods from the market weighing you down. Finnick flicks on the air-con once you are inside, and once he sees you moving to turn the stove on, he secures his arms around your waist and practically manhandles you all the way back to the sofa. "Nope. Not happening."

"What are you--"

"Youre gonna sit there and watch something or read or... I don't know, do whatever you want while I cook dinner." He grins as he lets go and you flop down on the sofa. You open your mouth to complain, but he simply kisses you quiet before pulling away and pecking your head. "I have it covered. Don't worry about it, okay? Just relax. It's fine. Relax."

You sigh, but admit defeat, anyway. "Alright. Just... don't burn the house down."

Finnick arches a brow. "Are you doubting my cooking abilities?"

"Yes."

"Says the one who nearly did burn the house down making toast on my birthday."

"That was one time! And I was doing something nice!"

Finnick laughs and pecks your forehead again before sauntering into the kitchen. He's glad you seem to be feeling a bit better. "I know. But it still happened." He calls over his shoulder.

It doesn't take long for you to follow him into the kitchen; you're a tad bit clingy when you're feeling anxious like this. He doesn't make any remarks on it; he simply taps the countertop beside him in invitation and goes back to stirring a pot of sauce.

You swing your legs back and forth before finally finding your voice. "Finn."

He glances up from the pot. "Yeah, baby?"

You sigh. You've never been very good at naming your feelings, even when you were a kid. It makes you feel stupid. "I'm anxious today." You finally blurt out.

Finnick turns down the heat on the stove to give you his undivided attention. He nods sympathetically. "I know. Do you wanna talk about it?"

You shake your head. "No. I'm just letting you know."

He nods. "That's okay. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"You've done more than enough," You rush to say.

"That's not what I asked." He retorts gently. "Is there anything you need?"

You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. Asking for what you needed or wanted was also another thing you weren't very good at, but Finnick doesn't make you feel silly for it, and it feels easier to tell him. "Can I have a hug?"

Finnick wastes no time in reaching for you. His arms fit around you as snugly as possible but it doesn't feel constricting. It just feels safe. He rests his chin atop your head and nuzzles his nose into your hair. "Love you."

"I love you," You reply, melting into him. You can't help the smile that tugs at the corner of your lips when you see the steam bubbling from the pot over his shoulder. "Hey, Finn?"

"Yeah, angel?" He pulls away just enough to smooth your hair out of your eyes.

"Guess I'm not the only one who's awful at cooking."

He frowns and looks over his shoulder when you laugh. "Shit!"

[iydiamartinx]

HOME IS IN YOUR ARMS

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader

divider by: @kodaswrld count: 778 synopsis: After a long night of entertaining the Capitol, Finnick finally comes home to your arms

It was late when the door finally clicked shut.

Not that you’d been asleep. Sleep didn’t come easy on nights like this. Not when you knew where he was. Who he was with. What he had to do.

You lay still, your back pressed to the thin mattress, the blanket half-tangled around your legs. The city lights bled in through the curtains, casting pale gold across the floor. He was somewhere out there, and you couldn’t help him. You couldn’t even help yourself.

But you could be here.

You could be waiting.

You could hold whatever pieces of him made it back.

You didn’t move when you heard the apartment door ease open. But when your bedroom door creaked, you sat up, watching him.

Finnick crossed the room in silence, eyes downcast, not even looking at you.

He stripped off his clothes—jacket, shirt, belt—each one falling to the floor like something rotten he couldn’t shed fast enough. Like a costume he’d been forced to wear, layer after suffocating layer. His movements were quiet, but not calm. You heard the tremor in his breath. Saw the pause in his hands.

When he finally slipped beneath the covers, he didn’t reach for you right away.

He just lay there.

Still. Silent.

You turned toward him and opened your arms—slowly, gently—leaving the choice in his hands. If he wanted your touch tonight, it would be his to take. You wouldn’t force it. You wouldn’t be hurt if he didn’t.

Too many people had taken from him without permission.

You never would.

He didn’t move right away.

For a moment, you weren’t sure if he would. His body remained still beside you, muscles tense beneath the thin blanket, like he was carved from the same marble the Capitol favoured—beautiful but cold and hollowed out from the inside.

But then—he shifted.

Not toward you, not at first. Just the barest turn, enough that his shoulder brushed yours, and you could feel the tremble in him. A breath escaped him then, sharp and broken at the edges, and in that sound, you heard it all.

The shame. The disgust. The guilt that should never belong to him but clung to him anyway.

You said nothing.

You just kept your arms open, patient, unwavering.

And then he came to you.

He moved like he was drowning, like the bed was water and you were the last thing keeping him from sinking. He pressed into you, head tucked beneath your chin, arms sliding around your waist. His grip was tight—too tight—but you didn’t flinch. You held him in return, folding your body around his, wrapping your limbs around him like armour.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, damp with sweat and Capitol cologne. The scent clung to him like a lie, sweet and artificial, masking something much more fragile underneath.

You stroked gently, combing through the strands with a slow rhythm, letting the silence hold him when words couldn’t.

You held him tighter. Pressed a kiss into his hair, slow and gentle.

You knew exactly what the Capitol took. What they dressed up in gold and called privilege. What they made you smile through, entertain through, survive through.

Your hand slid into his hair, gently combing through it again and again, until his breathing began to slow—still shaky, still uneven, but no longer on the verge of unraveling.

He pulled you closer, he needed your heartbeat pressed to his chest to remind him of what was real. Of what still belonged to him. Of you.

Another kiss—this one to his temple. Then lower, along the slope of his cheekbone. And finally, his lips—soft, reverent, like you were kissing the hurt away piece by piece.

He didn’t kiss you back at first.

But then—he did.

Just once.

Just enough to say I’m still here.

Then his forehead pressed to yours, and he whispered, “I didn’t think I’d make it through tonight.”

“You did,” you said softly. “You made it home.”

He didn’t say this doesn’t feel like home.

He didn’t have to.

Because you weren’t talking about the Capitol apartment. Not the sheets beneath you or the walls around you. You were talking about this. The space between your bodies. The way you held each other like nothing else existed—like nothing else mattered.

This was the only place in the world that still belonged to you both.

Your fingers curled gently at the nape of his neck. Your legs tangled with his beneath the covers, anchoring him in place.

And in that small, stolen space—

where the Capitol couldn’t reach,

where the cameras couldn’t follow—

Finnick Odair let you hold him.

And you didn’t let go.

[eufezco]

IF IT WEREN'T FOR THE BABY𓂃 𓈒 ❀

finnick odair x fem!tribute!reader

synopsis – forced back into the 75th hunger games, finnick decided to play his role for the audience better than ever, staging one last trick to save you. but do you wanna be saved?

caesar flickerman beamed as he welcomed finnick onto the stage. the moment he stepped into the spotlight, the audience exploded—men roared his name, and women called out for his attention, their voices a symphony of the admiration they had for him.

―thank you, thank you so much, ―finnick smiled and waved to the audience who had welcomed him so warmly. the capitol had always adored him, but tonight, their adoration felt almost feverish.

he was especially handsome that night. his stylist had dressed him in a flowing white shirt, its fabric so light it clung to his frame like a second skin. the deep neckline plunged nearly to his navel, just daring enough to tease without crossing into vulgarity. the lower half of his ensemble was a long, fluid skirt that brushed his ankles, swaying effortlessly with each step. around his neck, layers of necklace made from shells, a subtle yet powerful reminder of where he came from.

from your place backstage you could appreciate how finnick's green eyes shone under the spotlights. they also had that lovely glow when he saw you arrive at the back of the stage with your outfit. he wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked but more than that, he wanted to ease the tension he knew was tightening in your chest. he knew better than anyone how uncomfortable these interviews could be, how caesar’s questions often dug too deep, exposing things meant to remain unspoken.

it had been days since you last spoke to finnick—not on camera, not for the capitol, but for yourselves. and now, with the roar of the crowd filling the space between you, it didn’t seem like that silence would break tonight.

you took the moment to let your eyes wander over him when he wasn’t looking. his posture was relaxed, confident, but there was something almost vulnerable in the way he carried himself when he thought no one was watching. but the instant his gaze shifted toward you, you were careful to maintain your composure, keeping your expression unreadable. you didn’t give him even the smallest sign that you had noticed him.

―you look great, ―finnick dared to say, his hands clasped behind his back, the minutes ticking by before he was called onto the stage. he didn't receive an answer from you. you kept your attention fixed on the tributes being interviewed, your face impassive.

now you were backstage, watching him with your arms crossed and with still no expression on your face. the trip had been suffocating, the weight of it all bearing down on you with every passing moment. the capitol had always been a place of cruelty and spectacle, but this time it felt different, more personal.

your attitude hadn't made things easy for fnnick, your mentor mags, not even for yourself. from the instant your names came out through your stay at the tribute's hotel up to that moment, you had been avoiding finnick. mags had tried to bridge the gap, tried to pull you back from the edge, but your anger was like a fire, too fierce to be extinguished. you were pissed off—pissed off at the capitol for forcing you back into the arena with finnick, pissed off at finnick for acting like everything was fine when you both knew it wasn’t, and pissed off at yourself for somehow surviving your first games.

you turned your head when you saw movement, a flash of white fabric. the girl approached you with effie trinket flitted around her, adjusting the layers of the dress with manic precision. you couldn’t help the roll of your eyes.

―a wedding dress. of course, ―you pointed out loud enough for the girl to hear you.

you and that girl liked each other. very similar personalities, highly challenging to the capitol, difficult to contain for president snow. you’d crossed paths a few times during training, exchanging glances that said more than words ever could. you wouldn’t call it a friendship, though. not in the traditional sense but there was a certain understanding between you, a shared rebellion against a system that treated you like pawns. you knew she felt it, too.

―snow made me wear it, ―katniss confessed.

you looked up and down at her and nodded.― make him pay for it.

you turned your attention back to the stage.

―finnick, it is an honor to have you here with us tonight.

they both sat and caesar grabbed both FInnick's hands into his own, shaking them. finnick’s smile remained steady, practiced.

―we thought we would never have you back but we're so glad that we get to see you once again. let's show some love to finnick odair, ladies and gentlemen!

the people in the audience applauded and shouted for him again. you didn’t flinch; you didn’t even blink. your eyes remained fixed on finnick. he looked so... relaxed. you couldn’t deny how well he played the part, the charming victor, the adored tribute who could do no wrong in their eyes. he was so good at pretending.

for a moment, it felt like the air itself was thickening around you. the tightness of the dress, the suffocating fabric pulling uncomfortably at your ribs. was it the capitol’s processed, tasteless food? was it the dress that made it hard to breathe? or was it the deeper disgust at seeing finnick so effortlessly slipping into the role they wanted him to play? even knowing he was faking it, it still made you uneasy.

―the pleasure is always mine, caesar.

―finnick, we saw that dramatic reaping day that took place on district 4 and i think i speak for everyone when i say that we lived it very intensely, ―murmurs of agreement swept through the capitol audience. finnick’s lips pressed together as he nodded. ―first, your name comes out, ten years after your first victory, and then her name comes out and we can see how your expression changes completely. look, look at that. ―the images from that day played on the big screens for the people to watch and you had to look away.

you swallowed and tensed your back, all the memories of that day came to your head unwanted. his name. your heart feeling heavy inside your chest. finnick walking to the center of the stage with a smile on his lips. his eyes on you telling you to not worry. your name. gasps from the people of district 4. finnick's jaw clenching. it became difficult for him to breathe. you walking to the center of the stage next to him with no smile on your lips. you shook hands. people clapped for you two.

―are you okay? ―katniss placed her hand on one of your shoulders and you nodded, closing your eyes and focusing on your breathing.

―people in district 4 love drama, ―a familiar voice chimed from behind you, cutting through the moment like a sharp knife. the girl in her tree and wood-inspired outfit approached you and katniss with a devilish smile on her lips. ―it's already done, girl. your name came out already and you are here. get yourself together. snow is watching, don't embarrass yourself like this.

the relationship you had with johanna mason was complicated—one moment you could almost call her a friend, and the next, she was pushing you to the edge. finnick, on the other hand, seemed to have mastered the art of dealing with her.

―we have been informed that she has expressly asked not to be here with you tonight, how does that make you feel?

―well, it makes me feel sad, obviously. as everybody knows, she is a very special person to me and i think we could've handled this situation much better together. things have been difficult but i strongly believe we are the best allies, in and out of the arena. the love i have for her keeps me from having any negative feelings about her not wanting to sit with me here tonight, caesar. i just hope that you all can enjoy her later.

―i'm sure we will have the best time with her. she's lovely, very lovely.

people clapped. they loved Finnick. you could see it on their faces every time the boy opened his mouth, how they nodded their heads to everything he said. in a way you were grateful for it, when the time came you knew they would rather save him.

―as you said, she'll be sitting here later and we know she's back there now, probably watching us and waiting for her moment. finnick, is there anything you'd like to say to her?

finnick nodded and acted for a few seconds as if he was looking for the words. as if he hadn't had this planned. ―my love, you have my heart. all eternity. and if i... if i die in that arena, my last thought will be of your lips.

―oh, finnick! you're going to make our hearts melt! when did you became such a loverboy?

―i've always been, caesar.

they all laughed.

johanna's laughter echoed in the space, mocking sound that you could never quite ignore. you ran your hand over your face, trying to hide the frustration. maybe johanna was right, maybe the people of district 4 really did thrive on drama. and the capitol? they just couldn’t get enough of it. katniss was left speechless, him and his ability to make those things sound natural surprised her. finnick reminded her of peeta.

―forgive me but i must ask because i know people are dying to know. is everything okay between you two? has the quarter quell been the cause of any couple crises?

people in the audience laughed again and so did finnick. he didn't find it funny but laughed anyway which made you angrier.

―no, that has not happened, no. we have had our ups and downs since that day, as you said, there have been a lot of emotions going on. we had plans for the future but we are trying to get through it.

―i'm sorry, finnick, but you can't leave us like this. plans for the future? tell us more about that.

―we were trying for a baby.

that statement hit you like a big wave and swept you breathlessly to the seashore. you heard johanna chuckling and katniss, on the other hand, was as surprised and as confused as you were. people in the audience got up from their seats, demanding more information, asking if there was a wedding planned, and questioning if you were already pregnant.

the world froze around you, the noise from the audience growing distant, muffled, like the roar of the ocean in a storm.

―no, we weren't, ―the words escaped your lips before you even had time to stop them. the two girls beside you turned to look at you, startled by the intensity in your voice. ―no, we weren't! ―you tried to go on stage, angry like the sea during a storm and about to do something foolish that you would regret later and for which mags would tell you off.

johanna was quick to step in front of you to prevent that from happening. effie let out a little scream, seeing the scandal that was being made. ―whoa, easy there

―johanna, move.

she shook her head at you, smirking. that smirk. she knew all along.

―i'm not asking, johanna. move.

johanna, again, shook her head at you.

behind you, effie let out a nervous little laugh,―ladies! let's mind our manners and a let's calm down. please.

―he knows snow is not canceling the games. he's saving you.

―i do not need him to save me. i do not want him to save me. if i have come all this way, it is to save him.

johanna smiled. ―well, he beat you to it.

―what's going on? ―peeta appeared and effie jumped on his neck to fix the white suit he was wearing.

―she's pregnant, ―johanna answered him.

―i'm not!

―congratulations, ―the boy from district 12 told you.

―i'm not pregnant!

the chaos in the audience refused to die down. the capitol loved a scandal, and finnick had just handed them one wrapped in gold and tied with a ribbon. the murmurs had turned into full-blown shouting. you could see caesar lean in towards finnick, whispering something in his ear. whatever was said, finnick didn’t argue. he simply nodded, his face unreadable, and allowed himself to be led toward the back of the stage.

―girl from 4, you're next, ―one of the capitol staff said. his fingers tightened around your arm, already trying to drag you toward the stage as caesar worked to redirect the audience’s attention.

you yanked your arm free with a sharp twist of your body, stepping back before they could grab you again. ―get off of me. i'm not going anywhere.

finnick said goodbye to the audience, his smile faded the moment he stepped off the stage. he knew what was waiting for him there, an even angrier you who would not understand why he had done that. all this time moving around the capitol and with much of your relationship on display for everyone, and you still hadn't learned how to play the real game.

―i'll go for her. i'm ready, ―peeta offered instead of you. the man seemed satisfied and before walking peeta to the stage, he warned you that you would go after the boy from district 12 whether you liked it or you didn't.

finnick walked with his head down. you were no longer interested in Johanna but you were surprised by the way she and finnick shared a look of complicity when he passed by your side. his eyes never landed on you but they did on his friend. you turned around and walked after him. your fists were close, your jaw was tight.

you pushed him by his shoulders, now it was finnick who seemed unbothered. you shoved him again, harder this time, but he barely reacted. he just kept walking, his face unreadable. he was calmed, he did what he thought it needed to be done.

people in the capitol will have mercy on you, you will have plenty of sponsors and you will make it out alive. but you didn't want that. you wanted him to be the last one standing, you had already discussed that with mags. the woman assured you that she'd do anything in her power to get finnick out alive.

―why did you do that to me?! who gave you the right to do that?! finnick i swear to god if you don't speak to me right now!

―oh, now you want to talk, don't you? what happens if now i don't feel like it? would you like that? would you like me ignoring you like you've been doing with me for the past days?

by the way his eyes looked at you and the way he had said it, practically spitting the words in your face, you knew he had been holding it in for days. you shook your head. ―it's not the same.

―oh but it is. trust me. you just don't want to see it. and for your information, it was mags. she gave me the right, ―he turned around and answered your previous question. ―you didn't expect that? did you think you were the only one she made promises to?

you clenched your jaw. you did think that. whatever she'd promised finnick would contradict the promises she had made to you, so she was clearly fooling one of you two. and you knew it wasn't finnick.

―you made me look weak!

―but you're not so why do you care? right now you have more than half of those people in the palm of your hand. you could need the stupidest thing in the arena and they would send it to you without even thinking about it. they will make you the victor.

―i didn't want that! i didn't want that and you don't even care!

―you're right, i don't.

―you bastard, ―you threw yourself against his chest, hitting him with your small hands compared to his body. he was still standing on the spot while you beat him with tears in your eyes out of anger.

―come on, come on, give him a break, ―haymitch, who went backstage to be with katniss when he saw peeta on stage, tried to separate you from finnick by grabbing you around your waist.

―why don't you save all that anger for when we're in the arena? it'll be better.

―finnick! ―effie said, shocked.

―i fucking hate you, ―you mumbled. while Haymitch managed to get you away from finnick, your hands grabbed his shirt, he wasn't going to get off that easy, not after that comment. your body shook against district 12's mentor.

―i could really use a helping hand right now, you know? ―haymitch struggled to hold you. katniss and Johanna freed finnick from your grip and he left. you tried to go after him but obviously, you couldn't do anything against three people. as you continued to fight to free yourself from his grasp, peeta's voice sounded louder over the loudspeakers, getting your attention.

if it weren't for the baby.

you looked at katniss and she looked at you, still trying to process what had just come out of peeta's mouth and trying to find a way of not going into that stage and choke him to death. now you were going to be the one who was going to hold her down.

―qell, congratulations to you two. you are going to be amazing moms if you make it out of this one alive.

[libertyybellls]

RIDE COWGIRL !

pairing; finnick odair x f!reader

summary; a slow kiss with finnick has a twist of fate.

contains; SMUT!! mdni. riding, small innocence kink, size kink, established relationship, takes place pre- third quarter quell.

☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩

it was a cozy night in, finnick had been laying in bed with you on top of him, stroking your hair as he read his book.

he’d been so enamored with his book and you whined, so desperate for his attention.

“my baby is so needy.” he lets out a tsk as he places his book on the side table. placing his palms on both sides of your face in an effort to pull you close to him.

you grin, sitting with your legs on either side of him now as you leaned into the warmth’s his hands offered.

your lips connect with his, his hands left your face to run up and down your back as you let out a sound of satisfaction.

the kiss slowly turns into a his tongue assaulting yours in the sweetest way. you can taste him in your mouth- smiling through the kiss.

your hand reached behind his neck to dance with the hairs at the nape of his neck, still so soft, so pure. he deepens the kiss at this, stopping his hands at your hips and grabbing them firmly.

in reaction to his grip your crotch rubs further into his through your sleepwear. he pulls away from the kiss- letting out a huff of air.

you move your hips to slide off of him- but he buckles you down, forcing you to stay put. “stay on top of me.” he demands lowly.

you know exactly what he means behind those words, feeling an ache in your core.

his shirt had already been disregarded as he’d gone into bed- but now his nimble fingers expertly unhooked you bra and rid you of your shirt within seconds.

you grind down on him once more, his head falling back onto the pillow. his neck looks so inviting, so sapid.

you lean down into him, your mouth carries on attack to his neck as his hands find you chest- kneading into your breasts.

once you retreat from his neck he lifts your waist, neglecting your sleeping shorts and underwear. his follow soon after and you find your way back atop him.

finnicks size is well accounted for, you hesitate above his length. he of course, notices. taking his time to tease you, he’d never been in a rush in times like these. always wanting to take all the time in the world to be inside of you with that pleasure, he blames you for making it hard to last too long.

“don’t think it’ll fit sweetheart?” finnick purrs. his rough, big hands find your waist once again , lining you up and sinking you onto his tip. “don’t worry, i’ve got you doll.”

you all but scream out at the intrusion. “you can take it baby.” you sink into him completely, hiding your face in his neck- engulfed by his scent as you attempt to set a steady pace.

“fuck finnick.” your voice rings through his ears- fucking him dumb as he moves your body for you- he just about rolls his eyes back into his head at the sensation this new position brings.

he thinks he’ll cum now just by the way your tiny body can barely take all of him.

your sit upright, back arched and hands finding stability on his chest- taking back the control of your body as you let your hips subsequently rise and fall whilst rubbing against him.

“atta girl.” he cooes, hands finding your ass.

you feel that all too familiar coil build in your stomach, “i’m close.” you choke out.

“not until i say so.”

the pleasure is too much for you- he knows this- but pushes you further, placing two fingers in between where the both of you connect- rubbing and pressing on your swollen clit.

you whimper obscenities, unnerved at his insistence. i can’t’s and it’s too much.

“so pretty like this, so tight.” finnick chokes out, grabbing your hips and bouncing you against his length. expletives follow as he recognizes he’s nearing his climax.

just when you think you can’t hold it back anymore he lets out a low, “you can let go now sweet girl, cum for me baby.”

at his words, his beck and call, you moan out- the feeling causing your legs to shake. he pants your name like a prayer- like your body is his to worship, cheeks red like a sinner.

he continues to bruise you love handles with his grip- allowing you both to ride out your high. once you’ve come down your body falls slack against him- too dumbfounded to do anything else.

once more he strokes your hair, once more he tells you, “i’ve got you doll, i’ve got you.”

-

[matchpointfaist]

orpheus!finnick x eurydice!reader “how will you remember?” “that I love you?” “yes” “that’s easy i can’t help it.”

i’d tell them put me back in it

finnick odair x victor reader

tw for memory loss, violence (the hunger games), angst, smut, hurt no comfort for a while!

he loved you. the pain in his head was blinding, and the hands of peacekeepers were all he could feel, all over his body. he loved you. he trembled, truly terrified for the first time in his life as they blindfolded him, leading him to a room deep inside the capitol. he loved you. they had him hooked up to wires, pumping him full of chemically generated memories and falsehoods. he loved you. they twisted you into a monster, the antagonist at the center of his anguish. he woke up. he forgot you.

district 13 was a flurry of movement, dozens of people dressed just alike, footsteps echoing through metal hallways, not a lick of laughter amongst the groups. you were in a small room off to the side, kept away from the real work, left to heal, to rest. rest, as if you could relax when finnick had been taken, as if any of this was alright, as if your body didn’t ache with the knowledge that he was somewhere away from you, probably alone. finnick hated being alone, as long as you’d known him, and the thought of him somewhere in the capitol, lonely and afraid, worsened your condition by the second.

after the quarter quell, when plutarch and coin’s plan played out, they’d prioritized katniss, of course. you just happened to get lucky, really, the closest one to her when they took her away, freed you both from the arena. peeta came later, on their last trip down, by sheer luck. when they returned to district 13, finnick and johanna were missing. they’d told you to calm down, told you they’d find him, that he was safe, but nothing worked. katniss held you while you sobbed, comforted you while you screamed, but it wasn’t enough. you laid in that hospital bed, useless and scared, relentlessly tying a knot in a small piece of rope you’d managed to carry out of the arena; the last thing finnick had touched, besides your skin.

they told you this was the revolution, the path to a united panem, a new start for everyone involved. it just felt like betrayal, cold and metallic, plaguing every waking moment. they wanted to safe everyone, but they refused to send anyone to the capitol, refused to bring finnick to you. finnick, your finnick, hurt and terrified, probably being tortured for information, or simply for their amusement. as if half of his life hadn’t been spent under their thumb already. the nightmares kept you up at night, your screams echoing through the empty halls, your mind full of images you couldn’t erase. finnick broken and bleeding, crying for help, just out of reach.

the first time you see him again, he’s a ghost of the man you knew. they won’t let you in at first— they say he needs time, needs quiet, but quiet is all you’ve had since they took him. quiet and waiting and waking nightmares. so you wait just outside the door, listening. you think maybe hearing his voice again will be enough, but when they finally let you in, it isn't enough at all. he’s sitting up in bed, shoulders hunched, arms pulled in tight like he’s trying to fold himself into something smaller, less visible. his eyes snap to you the second you enter the room. those sea-glass eyes that once looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense in the world now flash with fear, pure, unfiltered panic. you stop dead in your tracks. “finnick,” you breathe, and your voice cracks on his name. his whole body tenses, like you saying it hurts him. “stay back,” his voice is hoarse, like he’s been screaming, “don’t—don’t come any closer,"

you freeze, hands half-raised, not in defense but in surrender. “it’s me,” you say gently, like he might remember if you just sound right, if you say it the way you used to when it was just the two of you in the quiet corners of the arena, “it’s okay, you’re safe now," but he just flinches like the words are knives. “i know who you are,” he spits it out like it tastes foul on his tongue, “you’re one of them," his words suck the air from the room, out of your lungs, “one of who?”

“the ones from the capitol. the ones who—who hurt me. you were there," his hands shake, his voice rising in pitch, “you laughed. i remember—you laughed while they—” “no,” you whisper, your heart cracking in two, “no, finnick, they made you see that. they put those things in your head, they made you believe—” "don’t lie to me!” he roars, the sound ripping out of him, painful and raw, “they told me the truth, they showed me. i trusted you, and you—” you flinch, not from the volume, but from the pain, the pure betrayal in his voice.

“i would never hurt you,” your voice is shaking. you want, desperately, to reach for him, but you don't, not yet, “finnick, they changed your memories. they wanted you to hate me, because they knew—” “because i loved you,” he says flatly, “that’s what they said, that’s what they took from me," he looks at you, eyes wild and wounded, “so why does it feel like hate when I look at you now?” you don’t have an answer.

you stay frozen as the orderlies come in, gently, slowly, like they’re approaching a wounded animal. he doesn’t fight them, just sits there trembling, sweat shining on his forehead, breathing like he’s still drowning in it. they usher you out without a word, and you don’t resist. the door closes behind you with a final click, and you slide down the wall outside, shaking, trying not to cry too loudly. you press that stupid piece of rope into your palm, tighter and tighter, until it leaves deep grooves in your skin.

days pass. you’re not allowed to see him again, not until they clear him. psych evals, memory checks. behavioral risks. you hear the words like needles, cold and clinical. you wonder how long they'll treat him like something broken. a threat. as if he hasn’t spent enough of his life being owned. you ask plutarch once—“is he okay?” he just sighs through his nose and says, “define okay," that’s all you get.

you wait outside the medical wing every day anyway, silently. they bring you food, which you don’t eat. sometimes, johanna passes by and sits next to you without saying a word. her presence is blunt and solid like stone, a different kind of comfort. she doesn't ask how you are; you think she already knows. then, one evening, a nurse pulls you aside. she doesn’t say much, just nods toward a small surveillance room behind the infirmary. “he’s not ready for visitors,” she says softly, “but you should see this,” the screen is grainy, black and white, but he’s there. finnick sits cross-legged on the floor of his room, back against the far wall. his face is pale, drawn—like the color’s been drained out of him. he’s quiet, focused. in his hands is a thin length of twine, pilfered from a blanket seam or a laundry bag maybe. you don’t know how he got it, you don’t care.

he’s tying knots. slowly, carefully, repeating them over and over. his fingers falter, but he keeps going, like his life depends on it, like the motions are a language he doesn’t quite remember, but his body does. one knot, then another. you press your hand to the screen, tears silently slipping down your cheeks. he doesn’t know you’re there, doesn’t know what the knots mean. but something inside him remembers the rhythm, the purpose, the feeling. a mere whisper of you, still alive in him.

you don’t push to see him again, not yet. you leave things outside his door instead. a little paper packet with another piece of rope. a note with his name in your handwriting. just that, finnick. a reminder of who he is, before and far beyond this. the seashell he once strung onto a necklace for you after a swim in district four. you never know if he looks at them, but the nurse tells you he stopped having the screaming fits at night. that when he wakes up gasping, he holds the rope. that his hands remember before his mind does. you wait. you hope. you tie knots in your own room, every night. you wonder if one day, he’ll remember the shape of your hands.

it comes like a crack in the dam, a single thought breaking free from the crushing weight of lies. he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, the rope still clutched in his hands, the knots finally becoming smoother, more fluid. it’s a quiet moment, the hum of the air conditioning the only sound in the room. he’s not crying anymore, not screaming, but the emptiness in his eyes is still there, like something vital’s been erased. something important.

then, just when it feels like everything is hollow, it happens. he’s halfway through tying a knot when the memory hits him, sharp and sudden, like an electric shock. his hand jerks, the rope slips from his fingers. his breath catches, and his chest constricts. he blinks hard, as though trying to clear the fog in his mind, but it’s too late. It’s already there. a memory of you, of the two of you. he’s standing on the beach, water crashing against the sand, salt and wind tangling in their hair. you're laughing, head tipped back in the sun, and he’s beside you, his hand pressed to your back as you walk toward the ocean. his voice, full of teasing warmth, echoes in his head, “careful, love, the water’s colder than you think,"

you roll your eyes at him, but there’s that smile on your face—the smile, the one that always softened the hardest parts of him. he can hear your voice in his ears now, soft and teasing, “you think I can’t handle it?” he remembers how you had splashed him, grinning like you were ready to leave him in the wake of the waves. then, it’s gone. just as quickly as it came, it fades, leaving only a soft ache in his chest. his hands are shaking. he doesn’t know what that memory was, who that was, but the feeling of it sticks—like it’s something he should’ve held on to. something he’s lost. his hands move to the rope again, but they tremble so violently now, he can’t tie anything. he sets it down, frustrated, and rubs his face with his palms, as though he could just erase the confusion.

hours later, you’re walking down the hall, passing the room where finnick's been kept, and you hear it—the faint sound of his voice, quiet, hoarse, like he’s talking to someone who isn’t there. you freeze. “...i remember... the ocean, the waves,” he says, as if testing the words out loud, seeing if they fit, “there was someone... the girl. she... she was laughing," his breath hitches, “she—” a shaky exhale, “she loved me,"

the door is barely cracked open. you’re tempted to go in, to step forward. but something in his voice—something raw, broken, like he's afraid of even the memory itself—stops you. you press your hand against the doorframe, leaning in just enough to hear. “she... god... she was everything," the words hang in the air like a curse. then, finally, his voice breaks completely, "i can’t remember why i hate her,"

you spend days like this—waiting, watching, listening. but each time you step closer, each time you try to fill the silence with something that might remind him, you feel it—the distance. the thickening wall between the man you love and the stranger the capitol has made of him. the frustration swells inside you, churning like a storm in your chest. it’s a helpless kind of rage, the worst kind, because it’s not his fault. he didn’t choose this. but god, it hurts. every second. you tell yourself over and over that he'll remember, that he has to. but he doesn’t,not yet. and the longer you wait, the harder it gets to keep pretending like you have all the time in the world.

it’s late one evening when you can’t hold it back anymore. you’re standing at the window of your quarters, staring out at the dull, metallic skyline of district 13. the shadows stretch across the floor like they’re swallowing you whole. it’s quiet here, too quiet. the kind of silence that’s full of too much unspoken pain. your fingers twitch, almost instinctively, reaching for something—anything—to hold on to. but you don’t have anything anymore. The rope is gone. the notes are gone. and even though you know you’re still here, even though you’re still alive, all you feel is the crushing weight of absence.

you turn. the walls feel closer now, like they’re closing in on you. your heart pounds in your chest, louder than the steady hum of the ventilation systems. you want him, need him. you want him to look at you and remember, to see you again. but instead, you see him in your mind—eyes clouded, voice trembling, distant. when he remembers, he’ll remember the pain, not the love. and that’s the part you can’t undo. that’s the part that breaks you.

and then it’s too much, all at once. the tears hit first, too suddenly for you to catch them, and the sobs come right after. you double over, pressing your face into your hands, as though you could somehow block out the ache that’s splitting you wide open. it feels like you’re shattering into a thousand pieces, and you can’t stop it. you want him. you want to fix him.

but all you’ve got are the echoes, the empty spaces where his love used to live. you slide to the floor, your knees pulled up to your chest, curling in on yourself like a child. your body shakes with the force of it—of everything you’ve lost, of everything you might lose if he never remembers you. you hate this feeling. you hate that you can’t fix it, can’t just walk into that room and make everything right. you’ve been through so much, survived so much, and yet here you are—powerless. and somewhere, deep inside, you realize that’s what hurts the most. not the loss of him. not the memory of the capitol’s horrors, but the helplessness.

you don’t know how long you sit there, the tears eventually tapering off into quiet exhaustion, but the emptiness stays. finally, after what feels like an eternity, you whisper into the dark, barely a sound at all. “i can’t keep doing this. not like this," your throat aches. it’s raw, the admission—like you’ve just torn a part of yourself free, but it’s the only way to breathe. you don’t have the strength to chase him anymore. you can’t make him remember, no matter how much you want to. so you let go. you let it all go. all the waiting, all the fear, all the hope, and you let it burn down into the simplest truth you have left. he will come back to you when he’s ready. when he remembers. when the world inside his mind stops spinning in circles. until then, you’ll wait.

it’s early morning when the knock comes at your door. you’re not expecting it—no one’s ever come for you this early—but the sharp sound rattles you out of sleep. for a moment, you just lie there, the weight of the blanket like a heavy thing over your chest, your mind slow to catch up with your body. then, another knock, a little softer this time, almost hesitant. you blink a few times, trying to shake off the haze of sleep, and pull yourself up. the silence in your room is thick—suffocating, almost. you reach for the door and pause, your fingers hovering over the handle for just a second. then, you open it, and there he is. finnick.

standing in the hallway, looking as lost as you’ve ever seen him. he’s thinner than he was. his hair is unkempt, like he hasn’t bothered to comb it in days. there’s a tiredness in his eyes that wasn’t there before, and something else—a flicker of confusion, maybe even a little fear. his body is rigid, like he’s bracing for something. you take a step back without thinking, your heart pounding in your throat, and his eyes follow your movement like he’s waiting for you to say something, anything. but the words catch in your mouth, and all you can do is look at him, waiting for the moment to break. he clears his throat, his voice hoarse, "i don’t know why i’m here,”

it hits you—this is it. this is the moment where it either breaks you or pulls you together. his words don’t make sense. he doesn’t know why he’s here, but you do. you know exactly why. it’s the moment you’ve waited for. the moment where he takes one step closer. your throat closes up, and you manage to choke out a single word, barely audible, “finnick,” he flinches, just slightly, but it’s enough to remind you that even though his body is here, the man you love is still somewhere buried under the rubble. the capitol’s poison still clings to his mind. “i remember,” he shakes his head like he’s fighting something off, running a hand through his hair, “i remember the ocean. the knots,” his voice falters, and his gaze drops to the floor, his fingers curling into a fist, “but i don’t remember you,”

your heart shatters. you want to reach out, but you can’t. you’re too afraid to move, afraid he might break further, and you might not be able to piece him back together again. he stares at the ground, his shoulders trembling, “i remember you, i think... but i don’t,” his voice cracks, raw with something close to despair, “how do i remember you if i don’t remember me?” for a long moment, neither of you move. the distance between you feels like miles. then, without thinking, you take a step forward, and then another. he looks up at you in surprise, his brow furrowed, “what are you—?”

you stop right in front of him, not touching him, not yet. just standing close, close enough that your breaths are the same, and you can feel the heat of his body—the warmth that’s always been him. you’re shaking too, just a little, but you can’t stop yourself from reaching for him. “finnick,” you say again, quieter this time, like you’re testing the name out, like maybe if you say it enough, he’ll remember, “you know me. you know me in here," you press your hand over your chest, where your heart is thundering, “you feel me, don’t you?” he doesn’t answer right away, his eyes searching yours like he’s looking for something he’s afraid to find. you take another step closer, just a fraction, but enough for him to feel it, for him to sense the truth in your presence.

“you loved me,” you whisper, each word weighted with years of lost time, “i loved you, and I’m not going anywhere, finnick. i’m not,” he stares at you, his face hard with frustration, but you see the struggle there—the war in his mind between what the capitol made him believe and what his body knows to be true. and in that quiet space, with everything hanging between you, you realize something. he’s not lost. he’s just been broken. and breaking isn’t the same as disappearing.

he takes a breath, the sound ragged. his eyes flick to your hand, which is still hovering, a fraction of an inch from him. and slowly—so slowly, like he’s afraid of the consequences—his hand moves toward yours. the air around you crackles. his fingers brush yours, hesitant, unsure. but then, he closes his hand around yours completely, as if your touch is the anchor he’s been searching for. you don’t say anything more. you don’t need to. his eyes are still wide, but the fear in them is softer now. he’s not fully back—not yet. but there’s something in the way he holds your hand, the way he lets himself feel you, that tells you everything you need to know. he's still there.

the first time he speaks your name again, it’s in the middle of the night. you’re lying in the bed they gave you, the one that still feels too cold even when you wrap yourself in the thick blanket. the room is dark, save for the dim light from the corridor creeping in beneath the door. it’s quiet, except for the soft, steady hum of the ventilation systems. and then you hear it. a whisper. his voice, hoarse, uncertain. your heart stops, and you sit up so fast you almost knock the pillow off the bed. his voice—so soft, so tentative—has a crack in it, like he's testing the waters. as if he’s unsure whether the sound of your name still means something. whether it still belongs to the same world.

you push the blanket off and stand. without thinking, you cross the room and open the door. there he is, standing in the hallway, leaning against the wall, his face drawn and pale, eyes searching for something that makes sense. you don’t hesitate this time. you reach for him, your hand instinctively going out, and he looks at it like it’s a lifeline. “i’m here,” you say softly, almost breathless. “i’m here, finny, i’m right here,"

he flinches just slightly when your hand touches his arm, like he’s still not used to the warmth of a touch that isn’t laced with pain. but then, slowly, his hand comes up to meet yours, and he holds it—not tightly, but enough for you to feel that small connection. you lead him back into your room, wordlessly, and sit together on the edge of the bed. there’s a silence between you now—soft and awkward, but not uncomfortable. it’s the kind of silence that feels like an unspoken promise. his voice comes again, quieter this time, “i don’t know how to fix this,” he admits, his eyes downcast, his hands trembling in his lap, “i don’t even know if i can.”

you take a deep breath, steadying yourself, “you don’t have to fix it,” you say gently, “we just need time to remember, time to heal,” he looks at you then, those sea-glass eyes searching your face like he’s looking for something hidden, “but what if i don’t remember everything? what if—what if you’re still just a stranger to me?” you squeeze his hand, your heart aching, “you’ll remember. i know you will," and for the first time since he came back to district 13, there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. not the fear, not the confusion, but a spark—like he’s beginning to recognize the familiar warmth in your touch.

the next few days pass slowly, like the breaking of dawn, inch by inch. each time you see him, it feels like you’re meeting him again for the first time. there’s no rush—just patience. you bring him small things that used to matter—pieces of the life you once shared. you show him the knotting techniques again, with slow, careful fingers, and he watches, silently, as if trying to remember the rhythm of it, the feel of the rope in his hands. “you used to do this all the time,” you say, your voice quiet but steady, “i’d just sit there, watching you, and you’d make knots for hours,”

he tries, his hands fumbling, but he doesn’t stop. the rope slips through his fingers, but he doesn’t give up. “i used to like doing this with you,” he says, voice thick with something that feels like regret, “i’m sorry i can’t remember more,” but you just shake your head, a smile pulling at your lips despite the tears in your eyes. “you’re here, okay? that’s enough. you’re already remembering, little by little,” and little by little, he does. it starts with the small things—the laughter, the teasing, the quiet moments when you both sit together, when he leans his shoulder against yours without thinking, and you let the silence speak for you. there’s a tenderness now, a slow rebuilding, like rebuilding a house brick by brick.

then one day, after a long morning of training, he comes to you with a simple question. “do you remember the first time we kissed?” his voice is hesitant, like he’s afraid of what you might say. you look at him, feeling the weight of the question, but also a familiar warmth spreading through your chest. the answer is obvious, even though it’s been buried under everything that’s happened. “of course i do,” you nod, your voice soft, but filled with love, “you were so nervous, finnick. you kept saying you didn’t know how to kiss someone in a way that would make them stay. and i—” you pause, letting the memory flood back, “i told you it didn’t matter. i would stay anyway,"

his face softens, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. “i don’t remember it exactly, but i think i believe you,” you reach out, cupping his cheek gently, and for a moment, the world feels still, safe. he leans into your touch like he’s searching for something. and in that moment, you know—it’s not just the memory that matters. it’s the feeling underneath it, the connection, the love that’s always been there, even when it felt lost. “i’ll help you remember,” you whisper, “we’ll do this together,” he nods slowly, his eyes dark and soft, “i want to. i want to remember you, remember us,"

he comes to you later that night, after everyone else has fallen asleep, his movements quiet and his face hidden under the vale of night. he knocks on your door, familiar by now, bright blue eyes meeting yours the second you open it. “are you alright?” you ask, brows knit in concern. he nods, quick and eager, “i had to see you,” he pushes into your room, closing the door behind him, unlike himself, “i remembered- we were home, in four, and we were in bed, you were reading to me. mags was there, she came in and brought us tea-“ he pauses, running a hand through his hair, “you had a ring, a silver ring on your finger,” he grabs at your hand, pulling it to him, “where’s your ring?” your heart aches, threatening to crack open, to spill out everything you’d been holding back, “i lost it during the quarter quell,” you tell him softly, “my hands were slick, it slid off. i’m so sorry,” “we were engaged,” he says the word like it pains him, “you were going to be my wife,” “yes,” you nod, eyes brimming with tears, “you remembered that all on your own?”

he doesn’t answer, taking a rushed step closer and pushing you back to your bed, catching your lips in a kiss. you gasp, hands on his shoulders, heart racing as he kisses you like he’d never forgotten how. “i love you,” he sounds like the words are tearing at his throats, “show me how, please, show me how i used to love you,” you don’t have it in you to protest, to tell him that this isn’t a healthy coping mechanism, finding yourself at a loss for words as he kisses you frantically, tears mixing with your lips. you’re unsure who the tears belong to anymore, if it’s one or both of you, fully overwhelmed by the feeling of his hands all over you, clutching and grabbing like you might slip away again.

“finnick,” you whisper like a prayer, running your hand through his hair, “maybe we shouldn’t rush it,” “not rushing,” he mumbles into your skin, “been waiting to remember, this is a good thing, right? show me, show me how i used to touch you,” you let yourself give in, leading his hands over you, his touch gentle and hesitant, testing the feelings resurfacing for each of you. you take it slow, getting used to each other again as you both peel off each others layers, soft kisses pressed to each others shoulders and shaky hands discarding each others clothes. “you’re so beautiful,” he sounds truly awed, his eyes shining as he looks you over, “never dreamed you’d be this beautiful,” “you’ve seen it before,” you flush, pulling him down to kiss you again. “not like this,” he mumbles into your lips, his hands sliding between your back and the mattress, arching your spine into his touch.

he’s patient, but when he finally pushes inside you, the sound is guttural, his voice raw and breathless, your name falling from his lips like he’s delighting in the memory alone. “i remember this,” he pants, dragging his lips across your chest, hips rocking just slow enough to have your eyes rolling back, “i remember how you feel, how beautiful you are,” he holds you tight and delicate, treating you like some sort of holy figure, like you’ll break if he’s a touch too rough. “i love you,” you bury your face in his neck, your legs locking around his waist, holding him close, “knew you’d remember,” “i love you,” he chokes out, hands gripping your thighs, “could never forget this,”

he takes his time with you, learning all the motions, absorbing the way you look as you come undone like it’s the first time. when it’s over, he stays wrapped up around you, holding you to his chest, kissing your head and running his fingers through your hair, his eyes brimmed with fresh tears. you wake in the morning to him still beside you, watching you as your eyes open, a soft smile on your lips. “hi,” you murmur, kissing his shoulder, “how’re you feeling?” “like i woke up,” he can’t wipe the smile from his lips, kissing your cheek, “thank you,” “mm, don’t have to thank me,” you shake your head, but you know he means it- you brought him back, whether you thought you could or not.

years later, when the war has been won, when katniss and peeta have little children running all over their fields, when johanna is in love with a woman she no longer has to be afraid to lose, people will ask. they’ll ask how he returned from that place, how he remembered when they’d tortured him so extensively. he’ll look at you across the room, a shadow of a smile on his lips, “i couldn’t help it,”

[auroralwriting]

𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯

pairing: finnick odair x reader

summary: at a lavish capitol party, you reunite with finnick odair—the victor you've loved in secret, the one who knows you like no one else ever could

it is recommended you listen to this song while reading for best immersion

warnings: smut smut smut! dni if you are a minor, vague mentions of finnick being used sexually by the capitol

: ̗̀➛ masterlist

The lights of Capitol parties blind you. The shining, shimmering hues reflecting off the glass and the polished floor would be overwhelming to anyone from the Districts who wasn’t used to this sort of lavish lifestyle. The music was enchanting. The sort of music you’d envision in your wildest dreams.

You find him when the light turns honey-thick. The world burns orange, soft as silk, and Finnick Odair leans against the railing like he owns the place. Of course he does.

He’s all salt-kissed and golden brown, the very hue of dusk and desire. Muscles lean, taut as ropes on a sailboat, shadows curling like fingers across the planes of him. His eyes catch on you—sea-glass green, sharp, knowing. His flowing, white shirt and deep brown pants remind you of sailors you’d imagine from folklore stories passed down through the generations. 

He sees you before you’re ready for it.

Leaning into the curve of the marble archway, you think you’re part of the scenery, just another piece of decoration in a party too grand for its own good. But Finnick’s gaze slices through the glitter and music like a knife. His lips curve, slow and knowing. It’s the kind of smile that feels like it was carved just for you.

And gods, it hits you like the tide. That smile. Like he’s already undressed you in his mind, memorized the way you move, the sound you make when you sigh his name. There’s a magnetic pull in that gaze, a gravity that wraps around your ribcage and tugs.

You shouldn’t look at him like this. Not here. Not in the Capitol, where everything you do is watched, weighed, recorded in the minds of people who love their victors too much and not at all. You shouldn’t. You know the rules of this place. What it means to want in the Capitol. But Finnick’s never played by rules unless he’s breaking them with elegance.

You make your way towards him. Because how could you not?

The glow catches on his cheekbones, gilds the line of his throat. His shirt billows slightly in the artificial breeze, hinting at the strength underneath. He looks like he stepped out of a dream, an old story told by candlelight, a sailor who wandered too close to the shore and caught the eye of a god. It’s hard to say, in this scenario, who was the sailor and who was the god. 

He raised a glass to you—champagne, no doubt, something delicate and expensive—and tips it ever so slightly in your direction. His eyes never left yours. It’s a challenge. An invitation. A warning. You took the bait.

Your heels echoed against the marble as you crossed the floor, weaving through drunken elites and the sharp scent of Capitol perfume. The air hummed with electricity, the kind that exists between storm clouds and waves. When you reached him, he said nothing. Just watched.

You stopped beside him, hands on the cool railing, gaze fixed out over the cityscape. The skyline sparkles like it’s been dipped in jewels. “You always haunt the edges of parties like this?” you ask, voice soft, the kind meant only for him.

His smile deepened, eyeing you in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. “Only when I’m waiting for something.”

“Or someone,” you said.

He chuckled low in his throat. “Touché.”

There’s a pause, filled only by music, laughter and voices, and the distant clinking of glasses. You feel him lean in slightly, just enough for his shoulder to brush yours. “You look out of place here,” he murmured.

You glance at him sideways. “So do you.”

He smirked. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? Make them believe you belong until they forget where you came from.”

Your breath caught. “Do you ever forget?” you asked.

He turned to you fully then, the city lights catching in the green of his eyes. “Not for a second.” It’s the truth. You felt it in your bones. And suddenly, the Capitol didn’t exist. The music faded. The people vanished. There’s only the warmth of his body next to yours and the steady rhythm of his voice, like waves brushing against shore.

“Come with me,” he said, barely above a whisper. You don’t ask where. You just follow.

You let your eyes trail over him, slowly now as he guides you through the marbled halls. The sea-slicked hair. The shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at collarbones and the edge of a secret. His skin kissed by sun and storm, that warm, golden brown of driftwood and firelight. He’s a thousand stories wrapped in silk. Dangerous. Achingly beautiful.

Once you were far enough from the party, far enough from the prying eyes of the Capitol’s nosey citizens, Finnick delicately pushed you against the wall. “When I said “out of place”, I meant ethereal.” His voice is hushed, and not because he’s worried about anyone hearing. Niot when he had a stolen, secret moment with you. 

“I could say the same for you,” you let your fingers dance over the frill of his shirt, tracing the lines and edges like they were a puzzle you were piecing together. His finger softly caught under your chin, raising it so your eyes met his sea-green ones once more.

“You’re dressed like royalty,” Finnick commented. His adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke, his pupils blown and hazy. His tongue slowly emerged to wet his lips ever so slightly. “You’re dressed like a princess.”

You smiled softly. “Would that make you my prince?”

“Far from it,” Finnick chuckled, his hand cupping your cheek as his thumb softly rubbed over your cheekbone. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget this. The way you look right now. I don’t think I could ever forget this in my life.” His words hold so much weight that you believe him fully without a doubt. You never questioned his loyalty to you.

Your lips parted slightly, and Finnick’s gaze dropped, lingering there. His thumb still grazed your cheekbone, slow and reverent, as if he was afraid you’d vanish. “I thought nothing in the Capitol felt real,” you whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.

He exhales, a sound like surrender. “You do.”

Your heart stuttered. You couldn’t tell if it’s the wine you’d had or the way he said it, like it hurt to admit. His forehead pressed gently to yours, and for a moment, the world held still. The golden light pools in the hallway, casting shadows that swayed across your skin, across his chest. The distance between your mouths is a breath, a heartbeat, a choice.

He made it for you.

Finnick kissed you like he was afraid it was the last time. Like you were something rare he’d been given just this once, and he didn’t intend to waste a second of it. It’s not rushed. It’s not showy. It’s soft, velvet-soft, and far too honest. His lips moved against yours with a gentleness you didn’t know he possessed, and when his fingers slipped from your cheek to your neck, to your waist, you melted into him without hesitation. The kiss deepens. Not frantic. Not needy. Just hungry in that quiet, aching way, like he’s been starving for something more than touch.

When you finally part, breathless, your hands rest against the center of his chest. His heart is thundering beneath your palms.

“No one can know,” Finnick mumbled, his touch both gentle yet tight, as if he couldn’t fathom letting you go. “No one can know that I have you. No one can know I’m yours.”

You shake your head. “No one will. It’s just us. Always and forever, just you and me.”

He didn’t waste another second. He took your hand again, threading his fingers through yours. His hands engulfed your own, but it felt so right, so safe, so warm. 

He untied the sash at your waist with a tenderness that shouldn’t have existed in a place like the Capitol. Every inch he revealed, he studied like scripture, observed like a painting, worshiped like prayer. And when you returned the favor, pulling at the buttons of his shirt, brushing your fingertips down the ridges of his stomach, he trembled just once beneath your touch. He kissed you again. Slow, deep, deliberate.

His hand gently squeezed down from your waist, hooking beneath the plush skin behind your knee. He gently raised your leg, wrapping it around his waist, pushing himself impossibly closer to you. Your hands threaded through his bronzey hair, scratching softly at his scalp. 

He groaned softly at the touch, low and guttural, like it had been pulled from somewhere buried deep inside him. His mouth left yours only to travel lower—your jaw, your neck, the sensitive hollow just beneath your ear. Each kiss was unhurried, reverent, like he was trying to memorize you through taste and touch alone. Maybe he was.

“You’re…” he started, but the words caught in his throat. He didn’t finish the sentence. Maybe he didn’t have to.

The leg he held around his waist tightened instinctively as he pressed you harder against the cool marble wall, a sharp contrast to the fire building between you. His breath came faster, warm against your collarbone as he hovered there, waiting. Not for permission—he could read your body well enough to know it was already his—it always was and will be—but for something else. A sign. A moment. A beat in the symphony where everything aligned.

Your forehead touched his, your noses brushing, and in the golden hush between your exhales, you whispered, “I love you.”

The shift in him was electric. Still careful, always careful, but deeper now, his movements more urgent, more sure. Like he’d been holding back the tide and finally let it crash. His hands explored you like a man mapping unfamiliar terrain, slow at first, then boldly, reverently, like every inch of you answered some long-burning question.

The sounds between you grew softer and heavier. Breaths, gasps, the whisper of silk, the creak of the wall behind you. Time stretched out and folded in on itself, and nothing existed outside of the heat curling through your core and the way he moved like he knew your body already, like it had been calling for him long before tonight.

You couldn’t remember the last time Finnick had the chance to get his hands on you, or you him. Your time in the Capitol was limited, and you were separated by Districts. These rare chances were little wrinkles in time you wished to keep forever. To freeze time to be with him longer.

Your dress was bunched up around your hips, one of his hands squeezing and caressing the skin there like he was memorizing it. The thought of someone walking by didn’t even cross your mind. Your thoughts were solely focused on Finnick and Finnick only. After all, it was hard not to keep your attention on him when he looked the way he did, styled to perfection.

His name tumbled from your lips in a breathy whisper that made his grip tighten ever so slightly. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, mouthing at your skin with a hunger he didn’t bother to hide anymore. “I missed you,” he breathed, and it wasn’t a line. It wasn’t part of a game. It was truth, stripped bare and trembling almost like you were right there in that hallway.

His fingers dug into your thigh, the other hand braced above your head, steadying you both against the cool marble. You clung to him, arms looped around his shoulders, nails dragging lightly down the curve of his back, leaving promises in their wake. You could feel the tension in him, the restraint barely holding him together. It wasn’t just lust. It never had been. You were something else to him. Something dangerous. Something safe.

Your fingers made quick, nimble work of undoing his pants, just enough so he could take himself out. Your eyes, however, never left his face. Because it wasn’t about that, it was fully about him. He must’ve felt the same; his eyes bore holes into your face. He moved with precision, knowing full well where to move and how to do it.

There was no foreplay for this moment. Your time apart was enough to make your desire palpable whenever you saw each other again. Finnick pushed in, the two of you making your own sets of strangled noises at the feeling. Relief, pleasure.

“I love you, I love you,” Finnick mumbled, taking your face in his hands like you were a glass sculpture. You pressed a kiss onto his lips, a silent echo of his words.

Finnick’s hands dropped to your hips, holding you up so he had better access to thrust up into you. Your arms draped around his neck, keeping yourself propped up. Your feet were just off the ground, your toes barely grazing the ground, but you paid no mind to that.

Your bodies moved in tandem, a rhythm built not just from want but from knowing—knowing the shape of each other’s pain, the stretch of absence, the cruel hand of distance that always pulled you apart too soon. This was more than just a reunion. It was a reclamation.

Finnick's grip was tight enough to bruise, and you welcomed it, needed the reminder that he was real, that this was real. That for however long this moment lasted, he was yours, and you were his. Even when separated by Districts, you would always belong to each other, and these stolen moments were just proof. A gentle reminder of your desire and passion. His mouth found yours again in a kiss that was all heat and desperation, teeth and tongue and the soft, broken sound he made when your walls clenched around him.

He thrust harder, deeper, and you gasped against his lips. “God,” he breathed, “you always feel like home.” You wanted to cry at that. Because you knew what home meant for someone like Finnick, something stolen, something mourned. And yet, here he was, making one out of you.

Your hands slid down his back, fingers curling into the fabric of his half-removed shirt as your bodies rocked together. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut like the feeling was too much—too good, too close, too honest.

“I don’t care how long we’re apart,” he said, voice cracking, “I don’t care what they make us do. This—you—you’re the only real thing I have left. You’re everything. You’re my world and my stars. I'll do anything for you. I'll do anything to protect you, to keep you safe.”

You kissed the words off his mouth, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. His thrusts grew more erratic, deeper, needier, the kind of pace that said he didn’t want to finish, didn’t want this to end. You held him tighter, burying your face in his neck, breathing in the salt and sweat and soft remnants of expensive Capitol cologne.

The moment shattered around you in heat and light, a white-hot surge that stole the air from your lungs as you came, clenching around him, taking him with you. He groaned your name, so wrecked it sounded like prayer, and spilled into you, his hips stuttering as he held you impossibly close.

Then silence. Not awkward, not empty, but full. Like the hush after a storm.

Your legs trembled around him, his body still flush with yours. Neither of you moved, unwilling to let go, unwilling to believe the night might already be over. Too soon. Not enough time together. You never got enough time together.

"Just love me. That's all I need from you."

His fingers brushed your cheek, curling a stray piece of hair behind your ear. He looked at you like he was memorizing the exact way your lashes touched your skin, the way your lips curved even when you were trying not to cry. Because even when you cried, you were still the most beautiful thing Panem had to offer. At least, to him.

“I’ll find a way back to you,” he whispered.

You smiled faintly. “You always do.”

[ssweeterthanfiction]

7 minutes.

finnick odair x fem!reader content warnings: ANGST ANGST ANGST summary: 7 minutes. wc: 2.8k

masterlist.

7 minutes.

The water was cold.

7 minutes.

Yet Finnick felt like his body was on fire.

7 minutes.

Pulled in every direction.

7 minutes.

He could feel his skin being ripped apart.

7 minutes.

His lungs burned, water rushing in, drowning the last of his screams.

7 minutes.

He should have been afraid. He should have been in agony. But all he could feel now was the warmth of something else. Someone else.

Of you.

The darkness ebbed and flowed like the tide, pulling him under, then pushing him back to the surface. His body no longer mattered. The pain no longer mattered. Only you did

The warmth of your fingertips ghosted over his skin, chasing away the cold of the sewers. He could almost see you now, soft laughter spilling from your lips, eyes shining beneath the golden glow of the Victor’s Village sunsets.

6 minutes.

The world twisted, and suddenly, he wasn’t dying.

He was standing in the square of District 4, the salty air wrapping around him like a familiar embrace. He felt the weight of his victory, but it didn’t feel the same. His eyes scanned the crowd, the cheers of his people deafening, but there was only one face that stood out among them.

You.

For a moment, everything else faded. The applause, the cheers, none of it mattered. It was just you.

His feet moved before his mind could catch up, closing the distance between the two of you. When he reached you, there was no grand gesture, no words.

Just the relief of finally being home.

He pulled you into his arms, his breath ragged, and for the first time since the Games, he felt something other than loss.

“You came back,” you whispered, fingers brushing against his face, as if making sure he was real.

"I always will." he murmured, gazing down into your eyes.

His fingers traced the line of your jaw, his eyes memorizing your face as though you were the only thing that mattered.

Because you were.

“I’m home now,” he whispered, as though reassuring himself more than you.

The weight of the victory, the promises, the pain, it all settled inside him.

Finally, it didn’t feel like it was too much.

Finally, it felt like everything was where it was supposed to be. With you.

5 minutes.

“Winner of the 68th Hunger Games…”

Finnick could still hear Caesar Flickerman’s voice announcing it, could still see the way the Capitol erupted into cheers. But here, in the arena, it was silent. And Finnick knew, he knew, that all you could hear was the echo of everything you’d lost.

He had never felt so helpless.

Watching from the mentor’s viewing room, he had wanted to tear through the screen, break through the Capitol’s walls, run straight into that arena and get to you. But all he could do was sit there, gripping the edge of his chair so tightly his knuckles turned white.

He had fought for you. Bargained for you. Made deals he could never take back. All to make sure you made it this far.

And now you had.

You had survived.

But at what cost?

The hovercraft descended, its mechanical arms reaching for you. And you didn’t move. You didn’t react. You just stood there, your chest rising and falling like you were still trying to catch your breath. Like you were still trying to wake up from the nightmare.

Finnick knew that feeling.

And that’s what broke him the most.

By the time you were on the hovercraft, he was already moving. Pushing. Shoving. Fighting. Peacekeepers tried to stop him, but they didn’t understand, he needed to get to you.

He needed to.

When he finally found you, you were in the medical bay. Small. Too small. Wrapped in a Capitol-issued blanket, staring at your own reflection in the metal walls like you didn’t know the person looking back at you.

He called your name, but you didn’t respond.

So he crossed the room and did the only thing he could.

He pulled you into his arms.

At first, you didn’t react. You were still stiff, still stuck somewhere between the arena and the real world. Then, slowly, your hands gripped the fabric of his shirt, clinging, desperate.

“You did it,” he whispered, voice rough, breaking. “I promised I’d bring you home.”

You let out a shaky breath, but it wasn’t relief. It was something broken, something hollow. “Home,” you echoed, like you weren’t sure you even knew what it meant anymore.

Finnick squeezed his eyes shut. Because he knew the truth.

You weren’t going home.

Not really.

Because he hadn’t.

Because no one ever did.

Because the arena never let anyone go.

His grip on you tightened, as if he could hold you together, as if he could somehow shield you from everything that was coming. The interviews. The parties. The nightmares. The things the Capitol would take from you, just as they had taken from him.

The things they would never stop taking.

“I’m here,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your temple, breathing in the scent of blood and antiseptic. Breathing in the last pieces of you before the Capitol could steal them away.

Your voice was small. Fractured. “Finnick…”

“I know,” he whispered, throat tight. “I know.”

4 minutes.

It was late at night in District 4. The kind of night where the sea was calm, where the world felt quiet. Finnick lay beside you in bed, tangled in sheets that smelled of salt and home. The only light came from the moon filtering through the window, casting silver shadows across your bare shoulder as you rested against him.

You were half-asleep, pressed against his chest, your fingers tracing lazy, absentminded shapes along his skin. He didn’t know if you were even aware you were doing it. It was soft. Comforting. The kind of touch that made his heartbeat slow, made the tension in his body melt away.

He remembered the way you sighed, content and drowsy. “You’re warm,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

Finnick chuckled, pressing a lazy kiss to the top of your head. “You say that every night.”

“Because it’s true,” you whispered. Then, softer, “I don’t like it when you’re cold.”

His breath hitched. Maybe you hadn’t meant anything by it. Maybe it was just a sleepy thought, something that had slipped out before you drifted off completely. But it stayed with him.

You hated the cold. He knew that.

And now, here he was.

Dying in the dark, in the cold, in a place where you weren’t.

Finnick wanted to reach for you, to hold you, just like he had that night. Just like he had every night after. But the warmth was fading, and he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore.

You stirred in his arms, still half-asleep, still safe. “Finnick?”

He hummed in response, his lips still against your hair.

“Promise me something,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

“Anything.”

You hesitated, then nuzzled deeper into his chest, your breath warm against his skin. “Promise you’ll always be here when I wake up.”

“I promise.”

He kissed your forehead, sealing the words into your skin.

But now…now he had broken it.

And the last thing he thought before the memory finally faded away was that he would give anything, absolutely anything for just one more night like that

3 minutes.

The air smelled of sterile hallways and scorched metal, the underground world humming faintly with electricity. He had been pacing for hours, waiting, praying. The moment the radio transmission came through, the moment they said your name, he stopped breathing.

You were alive.

The Capitol had taken you. Just like they had taken Peeta. Just like they had taken Johanna. He had imagined the worst—torture, memory loss, a lifeless shell of the girl he loved. But now they were bringing you back.

The moment the hovercraft landed, Finnick was already running. He barely heard the voices calling after him, the orders to wait, to let the medics do their job. None of it mattered.

Then the doors opened.

And there you were.

His breath left him like a punch to the gut.

You stood in the dim light of the loading bay, wrapped in a thin blanket, looking so much smaller than you had before. Dark circles framed your eyes, your skin pale, bruised. Worn.

But you were alive.

And when your gaze finally met his, the world snapped back into place.

Neither of you hesitated.

You ran.

You crashed into him, and he caught you. Just like he always did. His arms wrapped around you so tightly it almost hurt, his fingers digging into your back like he was terrified you’d slip away if he let go.

You were shaking. He could feel it, the tremors wracking your exhausted body. But you clung to him just as desperately, fists twisting into his shirt, burying yourself in him.

“I thought-“ your voice cracked, muffled against his chest. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Finnick squeezed his eyes shut. “I know,” he whispered. “I know.”

He pressed frantic kisses into your hair, your temple, your forehead, anywhere he could reach.

You were here.

You were real.

“I tried to hold on,” you choked, gripping him tighter. “I thought about you. About us. Every day, Finnick.”

His throat burned. He pulled back just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over the sharp planes of your cheeks, the hollows that hadn’t been there before. His beautiful, brave girl.

“I’m here,” he promised, voice thick. “And I’m never letting them take you from me again.”

Your lip trembled. Your eyes glistened.

Then you surged forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate. Messy, frantic, filled with everything that had been stolen from you both. Finnick poured every ounce of himself into it, every second of waiting, every sleepless night, every prayer that had gone unanswered.

And for a moment, the war, the Capitol, everything else faded away.

For a moment, you were just you and him.

Alive. Together. Whole.

2 minutes.

It was the closest thing to happiness Finnick had ever known in his 24 years of life.

The war was still raging. The world was still burning. But for one night, none of that mattered.

Because for one night, you were his, and he was yours.

The underground halls of District 13 had never seen something like this before. There were no grand cathedrals, no towering waves crashing against the shore like there would have been in District 4. But even here, in this place of concrete and rebellion, you had managed to make something beautiful.

Sea-glass beads had been woven into your hair, catching the dim light like pieces of the ocean itself. You stood barefoot in the candlelit room, looking at him like he was your entire world.

Finnick had never seen anything so perfect.

The traditions of District 4 were simple. No extravagant vows, no elaborate ceremonies.

Just a promise. A binding of two souls, witnessed by those who mattered. A love as vast and untamable as the sea.

His hands trembled as he lifted the small fishing net, the same kind they had used in District 4 weddings for generations.

His father had once told him that nets were made for catching things, food, fish, survival. But when wrapped around two hands, they meant something more.

They meant forever.

Finnick gently took your hands in his, his fingers ghosting over your knuckles before wrapping the net around them both, binding you together.

Tying himself to you.

You smiled at him, soft but sure, your eyes shimmering in the candlelight. He had never seen anything so beautiful.

“From now until the sea claims the land,” Finnick whispered, voice steady despite the emotion tightening his throat.

“From now until the tides stop turning,” you echoed, squeezing his fingers.

His breath shuddered. His hands tightened around yours.

This was real.

Not something the Capitol had forced upon him, not a transaction, not a performance.

You were his. And he was yours.

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Now you’re stuck with me.”

Finnick let out a soft, breathless laugh. “I always was.”

The final knot was tied.

And just like that, you were one.

The moment you leaned in, the moment his lips met yours, the room erupted in cheers.

Your hands found his face, pulling him in like the tide, like you had waited your whole life for this moment. And Finnick kissed you like he would never get another chance.

He didn’t know he never would get to again.

1 minute.

Finnick didn’t want to open his eyes.

Because if he did, the day would start. And if the day started, time would slip through his fingers like sand. And if time slipped away, he would have to leave.

So he kept them closed, holding onto the last fragile seconds of pretending.

Pretending that today was like every other morning. That he wasn’t about to walk away from you. That he would always wake up like this, with you in his arms, tangled in thin sheets that smelled sweet like you.

But even with his eyes shut, he could still feel you.

You were curled against his chest, your breath warm against his skin, your fingers trailing slow, lazy shapes over his shoulder like you always did when you woke up first. Finnick wondered if you even realized you were doing it.

A soft sigh escaped your lips. “You’re awake.”

He swallowed, tightening his arms around you. “Mmm. No, I’m still asleep.”

You huffed a small laugh, but it was quiet. Too quiet.

He felt your breath hitch, just for a second. Felt the way your fingers stilled against his skin before you started tracing again, as if trying to memorize the feel of him.

Finnick knew.

You weren’t just lying here because you were tired.

You were lying here because you didn’t want to face what came next.

And God, neither did he.

“Do you have to go?” Your voice was soft. Small. The kind of voice that came from a place of knowing the answer but still hoping to be wrong.

Finnick exhaled slowly, pressing his lips into your hair, breathing you in. Trying to sear this moment into his bones.

“I do,” he whispered.

Your grip on him tightened.

“Then don’t make me let go yet,” you murmured, fingers twisting into his shirt.

Finnick squeezed his eyes shut.

He wanted to be selfish.

Wanted to stay here, in this bed, in this moment, in a world where war didn’t exist and you never had to wake up alone.

But he couldn’t.

And it killed him.

He pulled back just enough to cup your face, to memorize you. The softness of your lips, the curve of your cheek, the way your eyes shimmered with unspoken fears.

“Hey.” his voice was gentle, but firm. A promise. “Remember-“ he swallowed, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “I always come back to you.”

You blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears from falling.

Finnick leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. His lips barely grazed against yours as he whispered, “I always will.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek.

He quickly kissed it away.

You didn’t speak after that. You just held each other, as if sheer willpower alone could make the world stop turning.

And Finnick let himself believe it.

Because if he had known.

If he had known that this was the last time he’d ever wake up beside you, the last time he’d feel your warmth, the last time he’d hear your voice whispering his name.

He wouldn’t have let go.

Not ever.

0 minutes.

They say that after death, the brain remains active for seven minutes.

Seven fleeting, final minutes where a person relives their most important memories. The moments that defined them. The moments that made life worth it.

In the seven minutes after Finnick Odair died, the only thing he saw was you.

You, standing in the crowd the day he won the Games, the only face that mattered in a sea of strangers.

You, collapsing into his arms after he pulled you from the wreckage of your games.

You, laughing under the golden sun of District 4, the scent of salt and sea air tangled in your hair.

You, running to him the day you were rescued, clinging to him like he was the only real thing left in this world.

You, standing before him, glowing as you tied the wedding cord around his wrist, sealing yourself to him forever.

You, in the morning light, tracing circles on his skin, whispering, “Do you have to go?”

You.

Always, always you.

And then, nothing.

The memories fade. The warmth disappears. The light dims.

And Finnick is gone.

And the cruelest part of it all?

You don’t even know yet.

[sweetheartsofpanem]

The Warmth Between Waves

masterlist

okay wow i made myself cry while writing this, i need someone to take care of me like this on my bad days:( i did some research on fibromyalgia and tried to make it as accurate as i could based off of what i learned, i apologize if it’s not.

pairing(s): Finnick Odair x Chronically ill!Reader - request was from someone with fibromyalgia and i based it off that but i think it can be read by anyone with chronic pain

warnings: Y/N experiencing intense pain, finnick and Y/N take a bath together, slight angst, tooth rotting fluff

word count: 1.37k

When the world narrows to pain, he becomes the place where it softens—where love steadies, and warmth waits between each crashing wave.

The pain doesn’t start sharp. Not at first.

It begins as a dull throb in your knees, the kind you can ignore if you just breathe through it. Then it spreads—slow and insistent like ink in water—seeping into your shoulders, your spine, your hands. The weight of your body becomes too much. Your skin starts to burn where your shirt touches it. Even your eyelashes feel heavy.

You curl onto your side, limbs trembling, every movement sending bolts of fire through muscles that feel like they’ve been crushed under invisible stones. You’ve had flare-ups before. Hundreds. But somehow it still surprises you how completely it can consume you.

How helpless it can make you feel.

You bite your lip hard to keep from crying out. The ceiling above you blurs as your eyes sting, but you don’t make a sound. You’ve learned how to be quiet. How to endure. How to exist inside the pain without letting it spill over.

But it’s not just you anymore.

The door creaks open, and soft footsteps cross the floor. You know the sound of his gait by heart—familiar, confident, always sure in its purpose. You don’t even have to look.

Finnick.

He kneels by the bed without saying anything. You feel the mattress dip slightly as he places one hand on the blanket near your waist—not touching you yet, just a silent offering.

“Talk to me, love,” he says gently. “How bad is it?”

You don’t want to answer. You hate this part. You hate the sound of your own voice when you’re like this—small, hoarse, not yours. But you know you don’t have to be strong with him.

You never do.

“Everything hurts,” you whisper. “It started in my knees this morning… now it’s everywhere.”

Finnick’s face softens, even though you can’t quite meet his eyes. His fingers move slowly, carefully, drawing a slow line along the edge of the blanket. “Bad flare, then.”

You nod, blinking back another wave of tears. You hate crying in front of him, not because you think he minds, but because you don’t want your body’s betrayal to become his weight too.

But he’s already moving.

“I’m gonna help you get in the bath, okay?” he says softly. “I’ve already drawn it. Lavender oil. Just like you like.”

You let out a small, broken sound. “You always know.”

He smiles, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Of course I do. I watch you. I love you.”

He says it so easily, like it’s not something you ever doubted, even when your body makes you feel unworthy of that kind of love. Like your pain doesn’t scare him.

Finnick shifts the blanket back and moves with a slow, practiced grace. He doesn’t rush you. He never does. He just helps—first with sitting up, one arm around your back and one under your knees. Then with the slow walk to the bathroom, his body curved protectively around yours.

You lean heavily on him, each step agonizing, but he steadies you like he’s done it a hundred times. Because he has.

And he’ll do it a hundred more.

The steam from the bath curls into the air like ghostly fingers. The scent of lavender hits you first—soft, soothing, familiar. He’s placed a small candle on the sink, and the flame flickers low, casting golden light across the tiles.

Finnick helps you sit on the edge of the tub and slowly begins to undress you, his fingers careful, never pulling or tugging. He treats your body like something sacred, even when it feels like it’s failing you.

When he slides your shirt off, you gasp—more from the pain than the chill. His eyes flicker to your face immediately.

“Too fast?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Just sore. Like I got dragged through coral.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You scoff lightly, but the warmth in your chest flares stronger than the ache in your back. “You’re biased.”

“Completely,” he grins. “Hop in with me?”

You nod. “Please.”

He helps you into the bath first, lowering you in inch by inch. The warmth of the water soaks through your bones, easing the worst of the stiffness. You exhale shakily, and your head tips back against the edge of the tub.

When he slides in behind you, the bath ripples. His arms wrap around your middle, pulling you gently against his chest. You melt into him—into the warmth, into his steady breath, into the kind of quiet that isn’t lonely.

His chin rests atop your head.

You sit like that for what feels like forever. The water hums around you. His fingers trace slow, absent-minded circles on your stomach, sometimes drawing shapes, sometimes just resting flat against you.

“I hate when it gets this bad,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says.

“I feel like a burden.”

He leans down, kissing the shell of your ear. “You’re not.”

“I know you say that, but—”

“No,” he cuts in softly, not unkind. “You are not a burden. You are the love of my life. You are soft and brave and stronger than anyone I know. Your pain doesn’t make you less lovable. It makes me want to hold you closer.”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t fill the silence with more words. He lets the truth of what he said settle around you like a second skin.

After the bath, he lifts you from the tub and wraps you in the softest towel he could find—one he bought from a traveling merchant after months of searching for something gentle enough for your flare days. You’d made fun of him at the time, called it ridiculous. But now, with the terry cloth cocooned around you, you feel your throat tighten with quiet gratitude.

He dries you slowly, carefully, then helps you into a loose nightshirt and carries you back to bed. He tucks a warm heat pack beneath your lower back, adjusts the pillows behind you, and presses a glass of water to your lips.

“Drink a little,” he says. “You always forget when it hurts.”

You sip, wincing, then settle back.

Finnick sits beside you on the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. “Massage?”

You nod once. “Please.”

He warms oil between his palms before sliding his hands under your shirt, palms gliding gently over your lower back. His thumbs move in slow, rhythmic circles, never applying too much pressure, just enough to coax the tension from your muscles.

You close your eyes and let yourself fall into it—the scent of lavender and the sound of his breath and the feel of his hands grounding you.

“You’re so good to me,” you whisper.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “You deserve good.”

You laugh, a fragile sound. “I don’t always believe that.”

“Then I’ll keep telling you until you do.”

His hands move up your spine, slow and steady. You feel each breath of his against your back, every soft exhale a promise.

Eventually, the worst of the pain recedes into a quiet throb. Still there, still humming beneath your skin, but not screaming anymore. You sink into the mattress, boneless and heavy, the warmth of his body a balm.

He lies down beside you and pulls the blankets over both of you. You curl into him, your face pressed against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

He brushes his fingers through your hair. “Sleep, love.”

“I’m afraid it’ll hurt worse when I wake up.”

“Then I’ll be here when you do,” he says simply. “And we’ll fight it together.”

You let out a slow breath and nod, your hand finding his beneath the covers. He squeezes gently.

As your eyes drift closed, you think—not for the first time—how lucky you are to have found someone who doesn’t flinch from your pain. Who doesn’t run. Who doesn’t try to fix you, but instead chooses to stay.

Finnick kisses your forehead one last time. “I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you, too,” you murmur back, the words curling into the space between you like another blanket.

And when sleep comes, it feels almost kind.

[leviathanspain]

Hello!! Would you be able to write a request for finnick? Just like he’s the capitols darling, reader is the capitals hound dog. Known to be fiercely protective and exceptionally violent and brutal. During the third quarter quell, katniss’ group is afraid of reader because they haven’t seen her all match, but they run into her and she defends them brutally against something? Sorry I know it’s specific:) love your writing!

my body is a cage

finnick odair x reader

synopsis: his focus was protecting katniss, but he sleeps with an eye open as long as you’re still out there..

a/n: i made some changes, jus go with it lmao

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“she’s still out there, katniss.” finnick had made this pointedly to katniss, who wanted to go out hunting for the remaining victors with johanna. you were shrouded in mystery, out of all the victors, finnick knew the least about you.

“where would she be?” peeta looked at finnick, who sighed, shrugging, “the arena is different than the arena she won in, i assume somewhere low to the ground-“ finnick sweeped the beach, eye catching on a rustle in the bush, straight across from them, “and close.” he remembered now how you had won your games.

you had tracked all the tributes like prey, manipulating their surroundings to kill them, it had been one of the most invigorating games for the capitol ever. “she’s a bloodhound, probably sniffed us out before we realized.”

johanna watched the area that finnick had saw you, but still offered her commentary, “she’s brutal, katniss.”

katniss looked at them all, surrounded by skilled people yet found herself doubting their abilities, especially her own. none of them were sure they’d win, not against her.

“the careers are the least of our worries with her out there.” peeta noted. finnick looked at him and shrugged, “she might just kill them herself.”

they knew getting back on the island was a bad idea. katniss ducked at the sound of a mysterious voice, feeling as something flew past her head, stabbing cashmere right in the chest.

“get up.” katniss looked up to see you, standing over her. you had an array of weapons on you, and you were reaching for another one. katniss felt the panic in her throat until you launched it at enobaria, who had thrown herself at katniss. “get up!” your voice sounded more frantic and katniss did, struggling from keeping her eyes off of you.

suddenly the island began to spin.

your grip was loosening, and you groaned with slight fear as you felt the cold water thundering against your feet. katniss reached out for you, “grab my hand!” she screamed, but the water trashing drowned her out.

you could see her hand amidst all the water and grabbed it tightly, closing your eyes as the island slowed to a stop.

you sat on the beach, alone as the others argued over you. katniss had defended you, deciding she wanted you as an ally. but finnick and johanna deemed it too risky, “she could kill us all in our sleep, then what?” johanna had made that point as one of your methods, and you inhaled sharply.

finnick glanced at you, noticing the solemn expression on your face. he had known that expression far too many times, and it made him change his mind.

“johanna.” finnick called her name and sighed, “she saved her life. that’s not something we can just ignore, we don’t even know her.”

there was silence between them all, katniss had looked to johanna, watching as she fought internally before giving in. “i’ll go get her, maybe threaten a little.” she stood up, taking her axe with her.

finnick looked to katniss as johanna left, “i’ll keep an eye on her. for you.” he knew that once katniss settled on allies, she settled. her choices weren’t always the best, but somehow it would work itself out.

“why did you save her?” finnick had taken the first watch with you. johanna had convinced him, as just having you as watch would be ‘asking for it’.

you shrugged, “why not.” there hadn’t been much decision making on the island. it was either her or cashmere, and you didn’t see much of a choice.

finnick looked at you, “i don’t believe that.” his eyes slid themselves back to stare at the beach and you scoffed, “and why is that?”

finnick shrugged, “no one would just randomly save someone without an ulterior motive.” he said it like a fact and you smirked, “do you have one?”

“have one what?” he looked confused, obvious by the furrow in his brow.

“do you have an ulterior motive?” you repeated the full length question and watched as finnick practically whipped his head around.

“no.” he stated plainly, and you rolled your eyes, “i saw you saved katniss, similiar to how i did. you and johanna can’t just be doing this,” you glanced back to katniss and peeta sleeping, “for nothing. whatever it is, finnick, is an ulterior motive.” finnick pursed his lips, almost as if he couldn’t believe it.

“i’ll let you have yours if you let me have mine.” you finished, catching his gaze. finnick knew there were layers to you. you were different than most victors, your brutality is what made you like the rest of them, the willingness to kill. but you were turning out to be way more than what meets the eye. whatever your motive was, finnick sensed it wasn’t malice.

finnick settled to watch the sun rise upon your face, ending the conversation with a nod.

finnick watched as you sat by the beach. it had been post jabberjays, you, him and katniss had all been trapped with the birds, fluttering and screaming your names. now it seemed, like you had decided to decompress by the beach, just as he was going to.

he piled up next to you, close but far enough to give you a good amount of space.

it was then that finnick realized you had been crying, tears evident on your cheeks. he had heard katniss yell her sister’s name, and he had heard annie. you had just screamed in response, as if you were trying to drown out the birds with your own voice.

“i’m sorry.” you apologized to finnick, wiping your eyes as he settled down. you sniffled, watching as the waves moved.

“don’t apologize, there’s no need.” finnick spoke, “who did you hear?”

there was silence for a moment, until you spoke, “my best friend.” your mind shuddered back the sound of his screams and you laughed, painfully. “he’s been dead for years. i killed him.” you admitted, “he died because of a mistake i had made during the games.”

your mind flashed back to the games, where you had accidentally launched a knife to his chest, thinking it had been another tribute.

“he had spent all of his games searching for me. and once he found me, i had killed him.” it was cruel for him to be your district partner, for only one would survive, but you “never thought it would be me.” you glanced at finnick, who had been listening.

“it was supposed to be him.” you cried, “i killed everyone else to get to him, and when it was down to four, was when he came to get me.” you shook your head, “there is nothing in this world that i loved more than him, finnick. now that he’s gone, there’s nothing left for me.”

finnick shook his head, “stop. you know that’s not true.” he tried to comfort you, your words mirroring his own thoughts.

“that’s my motive, finnick.” you revealed, “my body is a cage, and i can’t stand to live in it much longer.”

johanna had woken up abruptly. she clutched onto her weapon, eyes glancing around before she settled on the two figures on the beach. she squinted and made out finnick’s hair, and you. the only two missing from the group. you had your head leaned on finnick’s shoulder, as the two of you watched the rising sun.

[ilguna]

☼ deflection (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; ever since you were young, you dreamed of the day you would meet your soulmate. you always pictured him as a knight in shining armor. never in your wildest dreams would you have thought they would be your mortal enemy.

warnings; swearing, alcohol and vomit mention, use of weapons, physical violence.

wc; 3.6k

notes; soulmate au!!

--

Every time you step into the Betting Room, it feels like you’re stepping into an active warzone from how disgusting it usually is. For an elite group that lives their life in luxury, they sure know how to destroy a beautiful sunroom. When it opens early in the morning, it smells fine and it’s in pristine condition. By the time the afternoon comes around, the entire place is reeking of body odor and vomit. 

It’s your least favorite place to be in the Tribute Center, which is why you avoid it as much as you possibly can. It’s taken you a couple of years, but you’ve got your timing down to the minute on when you should be here. You always stick around for the first couple of days in the arena, since that’s when tensions are at its highest.

As soon as you’re in the clear, you won’t be caught dead in the Betting Room unless there’s an emergency with your tributes. There’s absolutely no reason for you to spend two weeks surrounded by people you don’t like. You’re helpless when it comes to your tributes most of the time, anyway.

They’re not dumb enough to get themselves in a situation where they’re hurt, hungry or dehydrated. Which means the time you spend here is wasted. You could be making connections elsewhere, but instead you’re required to be here for at least ten hours throughout the week.

And if you’re being honest, which you usually are, you wouldn’t mind being here if it weren’t so awful. The issue you have lies beyond the smell and the way the room looks, though. It has something to do with the fact that you’re not able to be down there and be left alone. 

If you were to try to have a relaxing afternoon, you’d likely be interrupted about a dozen times in just an hour. It doesn’t matter who it is, it could be by potential sponsors of fellow mentors. Either way, they’re trying to cut a deal or pry any secrets they can out of you about your private life.

It’s extremely irritating, even on a good day.

If you want to make a deal for the sake of your tributes, then you’ll get up and get the work done yourself. Otherwise, you let the Games play out how the tributes want them to. It’s not your fault if tributes from other districts get themselves in a sticky alliance with yours.

Beyond that, people can be so nosy nowadays, and they’ll sell out to the Capitol if it means they’ll get a boost while they’re mentoring. Which is why you keep a strict lockdown on what people know about you. They already got more than enough insight on your life during your Victory Tour.

All in all, the Betting Room is a miserable experience, no matter what way you try to take it.

You sit back in your chair, arms crossed over your chest as you observe the Career pack. So far, the Seventy-First Hunger Games has gotten off to a slow start, there weren’t a lot of deaths during the bloodbath, which means it’ll be a matter of time before the Gamemakers intervene. 

This year, the arena’s a forest. The Cornucopia was placed in the middle of one of the many fields they have throughout the woods. From what you can tell so far, it’ll be a good environment to survive in if there’s plenty of water sources and a reasonable amount of animals.

Your tributes will have it easy this year, which makes you incredibly jealous. When you won five years ago, the Gamemakers were just starting to go through a phase of throwing tributes in weird arenas. A couple of trees is nothing compared to an abandoned city.

“Have you reached your quota yet?” A voice asks.

You tilt your head back, finding your mentoring partner, Thorne. “I have for today, but I was going to sit here for a little while longer so I don’t have to tomorrow.”

He lets out a laugh through his teeth, shaking his head. “I thought Lyme was kidding when she said you hated this place.”

“You like it?” You ask him, raising your eyebrows.

“No, but I don’t despise it nearly as much as you do, apparently.” He leans on the table, tilting his head to read the journal you have open.

You turn it so he can read it better. “Did Lyme catch you up on the note-taking?”

“Is this high school?”

You roll your eyes a bit. “Trust me, I don’t like doing it, but we’ll get our heads bitten off by the Academy when we get back if we don’t have something to give them.”

Thorne reads over what you have written down so far, face twisting. He pushes the book back toward you, “Can’t the leaders just write this stuff down?”

“We get more insight.” You tell him, resting your chin on your hand. “We have upfront access to the betting odds and whatever.”

He squints at you. “But how are you supposed to keep an eye on that if you don’t spend a lot of time here?”

You shrug, “I’ve gotten good at it. I come in the morning to see where they’re at, and then I come right before closing to make sure odds haven’t changed. If anything big happens throughout the day and I’m not here, then I’ll stop in for a moment. It’s really, really easy to do.”

“Do they know you do this?”

You smile, “They do, actually. And I told them that if they have a problem with the way I mentor, then maybe they should be here instead.”

Thorne makes a face, “You know they’ll never do it.”

“Which is why I get away with it.” You place your pen in your journal, folding it shut. “I think I’ll talk to some of our sponsors before I go. That way if anything happens while I’m gone, you’ll be set up.”

“Meeka and Amias will be fine. We’ve just barely started.” Thorne says.

“It doesn’t hurt to be prepared.” You tell him, getting to your feet. You nudge the journal in his direction. “I’m leaving this with you, I’ve got a meeting with our escort to talk about our tributes and sponsors.”

“Do you want me to write in it?” He asks.

“Only if it’s something significant. You can read through it if you’d like to get a better idea of what you’re looking for.” You pat him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you later.”

You wander away from Thorne, looking around the room, trying to spot a group you’d appeal to. You’re sure you could approach anyone and end up with a few extra dollars in your pocket, but that’s not exactly what you need. You need someone that can stick around through a few sponsorships.

You find a group in the corner, dressed in the latest trend, expensive bags hanging off their elbows, skin shaded unnatural colors. As soon as they notice you’re interested in them, they wave you over. This is where you spend the next hour and a half of your life.

It wasn’t your intention to stand here this long, you thought you’d be here for maybe another thirty minutes, but you got carried away. They were really interested in what your tributes are like and how they spend their freetime. Once you started talking about their home life, it was all over from there.

You don’t regret a single minute, though, because it got them to commit to being sponsors. 

You start toward the exit of the Betting Room, since you really need to get moving now. Earlier, you’d saved yourself enough time to have lunch before the meeting, but you’ve got less than fifteen minutes to get yourself across the building. It won’t be the end of the world if you’re a few minutes late, you just know the escort will never let you hear the end of it. 

“I always knew you were full of yourself.” An irritating voice says, you stop where you stand, turning to look over your shoulder. “But I didn’t think you’d stoop low enough to steal sponsors.”

Finnick Odair. 

“I wasn’t stealing your sponsors.” You tell him, crossing your arms over your chest.

Finnick motions behind him to where Thorne is, surrounded by the group you’d been talking to. It seems like they’ve migrated to him on their own, which you’re sure he’s thrilled about. Being stuck in a conversation with them for longer than a couple minutes is his version of hell.

“They went over there on their own.” You shrug.

“Right after you spent the last hour talking to them.” He raises his eyebrows.

You stare at him, not entirely sure what he wants out of this conversation. If he wanted to continue to have them as his sponsors, then maybe he should’ve gone over there to say so. Why would he wait until you were leaving to tell you they belonged to him?

“Well, you weren’t over there.” Your arms drop back to your sides. “You’re a pretty lousy mentor if you’re letting things go like that.”

Finnick scoffs, “After what happened last year, you shouldn’t be calling anyone lousy.”

“I was at a disadvantage.” You tell him, eyes narrowing.

It’s true, even the Capitol officials were saying they’d never seen a sickness go through a district that fast. By the time the reaping came around, most of District Two was sick, including the victors. The tributes who were chosen were beginning to show signs they’d caught it, too. The only reason why they didn’t fully come down with it is because the Capitol administered medicine as soon as you stepped foot on the train.

You were given quite a dose, yourself. 

You were the only victor well enough to be sent to the Capitol to mentor, everyone else was just starting to recover. They couldn’t afford for you to be coming down with some illness you could easily pass on. Which meant you were forced to mentor by yourself for the very first time.

On top of that, the pair of tributes that had been reaped did not want to listen to the advice you had to give. They wanted to make the decisions for themselves, they didn’t really care about what you had to say about the Games. A part of you wanted to give up on them because you were exhausted, but you knew it would make you look bad.

You fought tooth and nail for them to look decent during the tribute parade. You kept telling them to score high during training, otherwise sponsors were going to suck. And it honestly felt like a miracle had taken place when they got through the interview without accidentally insulting the Capitol in some way.

He makes a face, “And that’s an excuse? The rest of us run around here with one mentor all the time. You, my friend, saw what it was like to lose your privilege.”

You glare at him, “It’s not a privilege to have two mentors. It’s not my fault everyone else’s tributes can’t tell the difference between their ass and a hole in the ground.”

“Just like yours?” Finnick asks back. “I’m sure it eats you up inside that a girl who lost her mind won the Games and not your stupid pedigree pets.”

You point a finger at him. “You forget my tributes are the reason why she couldn’t think straight at the end.”

“She was still able to swim herself to victory, wasn’t she?” Finnick is smug. 

You grit your teeth. You don’t like Finnick, not even under different circumstances. Ever since you met him, he’s been nothing but rude. You’re not sure what happened in order for him to treat you this way, but you’re fucking sick of it.

There’s only about a years difference between you two. You won the year right after he did, you were sixteen, which made him fifteen at the time. And the following year, you were able to talk to him as a mentor. Or rather, you didn’t, because he came up to you, talking about some nonsense while you were in the middle of an important conversation with the escort.

You looked at him, confused and disgusted. He stunk like fish and saltwater, and looked like he’d barely dragged himself out of bed. His hair was a mess, his clothes weren’t matching, and if you didn’t know any better, you would’ve thought he was another lowlife trash from your district.

But he couldn’t have been, because you two were in the Capitol, where luxury is a first and everything else falls into a neat line behind it. So, you weren’t entirely sure why a boy like him was approaching you, who looked the exact opposite. You looked like your life was put together, while he was just starting to get a hang of it.

You didn’t like the situation, so you ignored it. You went back to the conversation you were having before he came around, pretending as if it never happened. He left, you got what you wanted, and you never spoke about it. In fact, you don’t speak to each other at all unless it’s mandatory. Even then, you make your mentoring partner do it for you.

“That’s the only thing she could do, since she’s so braindead.” You tell Finnick.

“You know, maybe if you hadn’t been so caught up in what you looked like last year, your tributes would’ve been more inclined to listen to you.”

Your hands ball into fists, anger dripping inside you. Before you can put a thought behind your actions, your knuckles are already aimed for his nose, fully intending to break it to teach him a fucking lesson about appearances. 

Finnick doesn’t realize what’s happening before it’s too late. Your fist makes his head whip to the side from the amount of strength put behind the move, but nothing else happens. There should be pain throughout your hand, you know what it’s like to punch someone—something—because you train at home with a bag. There’s no ache when you flex your hand.

You watch as Finnick reaches up to touch his nose out of habit, which hasn’t moved in the slightest. You should’ve broken his nose from the force alone, and there’s not even blood to back you up. With the way he’s prodding his skin, the area isn’t even tender, it didn’t even hurt.

Your lips part, staring at him in shock. The entire room has gone still, as if they’re afraid any noise will trigger another attack. Finnick stares right back at you, hand slowly lowering, the gears turning in his head. 

This piece of District Four trash cannot be your soulmate. The thought of spending the rest of your life around this asshole makes your blood boil. You waited twenty-one years to meet the love of your life, and it’s him? And the only reason why you found this out was because you punched him and it didn’t do any damage?

“This is bullshit.” You tell Finnick.

He looks down at your hands, eyes widening when he realizes they've formed fists again. He takes a step back, shaking his head, mouth opening to speak, but you won’t hear it. You don’t want to hear anything he has to say.

You back toward the doors that will lead you out of the Betting Room, only a few more steps away. Right as you slam through the door, you can hear your name being called behind you.

—

Well, it seems like your sudden violence yesterday afternoon was enough to get everyone off of your back. You haven’t been approached once after what happened, and it feels like it’ll stay that way until the trip is over. 

For now, Thorne has agreed to keeping your sponsors straight as long as you keep track of the tributes. All you have to do is tell Thorne what you need and he’ll take care of it, not that you think you’ll have to.

Since you’ve been effectively banned from the Betting Room, and sitting in the Two apartment is less than ideal, you decided it would be best if you picked a nice spot to have lunch and watch the Games. 

It’s been pretty mundane so far, you doodle in the journal, you sip your drink. You’ve been picking at the food on your plate for the last thirty minutes because you’re hungry but not enough to actually eat. The avox came around a little while ago to see why you weren’t eating and you had to tell him you were going to be here for a while and he didn’t have to worry about you.

You draw circles on one of the napkins you can spare, watching as your tributes travel from one side of the arena to the other. They’re hunting, as they always do. It’s typical for the Career pack to look for other tributes the first couple of days of the Games, they do it while they have the energy to. 

Although, they’d be able to do it for longer if they got a re-up on supplies every couple of days. If they’re well-fed and rested, then that makes it easier for them to keep going, but they usually get a second chance at supplies during the second bloodbath, anyway. By then, there’s not many tributes left. The ones who are still alive are either on the brink of death or they’re ready for the long haul.

You reach for your journal, flipping it open to the page you were writing on earlier today. If you were able to give the Career tributes an extra backpack of supplies at the end, then they’d be able to hunt one more time and end the Games without risking an event from the Gamemakers. 

You stop writing mid-sentence, eyes flickering up to see why someone is standing over your table. At the sight of Finnick, your face contorts. He’s got his hands on the back of the chair across from you. “That seat is taken.”

“Really?” He asks, turning to the table closest to you. He grabs the chair, placing it next to you. “I’m sure this one isn’t.”

“Get away from me.” You sigh, going back to writing in the journal.

Finnick sits in the chair he’s stolen. “We should probably talk about what happened yesterday.”

“I don’t think so. I’m fine pretending as if it never happened.”

He laughs, “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

You put the pen down, flipping the journal shut to give him your full attention. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Maybe kissing one of the many hundreds of girlfriends you have?”

“Nope.” He smiles. “No one to be kissing. Maybe soon, though?”

You squint your eyes at him. “And you say that I’m full of myself.”

“You are.”

You make a face at him. “I am not.”

“You don’t remember how we met?” Finnick asks, shaking his head.

“Yes, I do. You came up behind me, interrupted my conversation, only to ask me where I got all this honey.” You motion to your body.

“You were wearing a gold colored dress.” Finnick says with a smile. “I was trying to flirt.”

“Well, you’re a fucking idiot for thinking that would work.”

“I was sixteen.” He says back. “Of course I was. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize this was what put you off.”

Your eyes narrow, looking him over, trying to decide if he’s being genuine or not. He might be trying to get information out of you to use as leverage. If you agree to forgiving him, then he can claim you had a change of heart because you realized your true feelings about him or whatever. 

“Really, (Y/n), I’m sorry.” He says.

You relax a little, “I suppose I can forgive you.”

Finnick raises his eyebrows. “That’s it? It was that easy?”

You press your lips together, shaking your head.

“I’m kidding.” Finnick says. “I would like to start over, if you think it’s possible. We don’t have to agree to anything in the future, we can just let fate take it as it goes.”

You bite your cheek. “We live in two different districts.”

“That hasn’t stopped soulmates in the past.” He says.

He’s right, there were a pair of victors who realized they were soulmates a couple years back. The boy was from Six and the girl was from Three, they were friends working on a project for the Capitol. He’d accidentally swiped at her with a knife when he was trying to hand it over, it glided right over her skin, not a scratch on her. 

The Capitol recognized they were soulmates, and since the boy didn’t have any living family, they allowed him to move to District Three under the condition he continued to work for them. They’re both still alive, neither of them mentor anymore. 

“It wouldn’t be that simple for us.” You tell him. “I have family, and you’re the Capitol Darling. We’ll be lucky if Snow doesn’t kill me just so he can keep you for a little while longer.”

“He won’t kill you, but he’ll definitely have a talk with you.” Finnick says. “Are you willing to try, then?”

You sigh, “I am.”