#finnick odair fluff | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

obaewankenobis · 4 months ago

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close to you; finnick odair

pairing: finnick odair x reader (afab, rare/no use of y/n, female pronouns are used)

word count: 14.5k (sorry)

warnings: the usual hunger games warnings (violence, child murder, prostitution, etc). also smut (fingering, p in v, oral (m receiving)) mdni -- pretty pls!

summary: you're both victors — him from four, you from eight — assigned to mentor tributes from district nine who lack a mentor. you hate him because he played the role so well, accepting the gifts and glory of the capitol with a wide smile and charming words. unbeknown to you, the feeling is not mutual.

a/n: crashing out because of sunrise on the reaping so i wrote this.

DAY TWO — THE OPENING CEREMONY

It had been too soon since you'd last seen him, six months ago at your victory celebration in the Capitol. The circumstances were vastly different now, but the routine remained the same.

Physically, you were feeling your very best: strong and healthy, plucked and scrubbed and painted to perfection. But your prettiness, and all the work your prep team had done to your face and body paled in comparison to the unattainable beauty of him.

He, of course, was Finnick Odair, the person next to you subtly coughing and dragging you from your own mind and into the real world. You chose to ignore the cough, knowing who it was from and that he was doing it on purpose.

“I know you can hear me,” the voice said in an almost sing-song voice. No response, you wouldn't give him that. “You’re standing right next to me.” Again, silence. “I know you’re just ignoring me now, I’m not stupid.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” it slips out before you realize you’re supposed to be ignoring him, which only infuriates you further. Defeated, you turn to face the person with a voice so irritating you were about to commit a crime.

“Ha! Knew that would work,” Finnick smiled, showing off perfect rows of pearly white teeth. He was so perfect it was infuriating. You noticed, with an ounce of satisfaction, that his canines were razor sharp, sharper than most, and his front teeth stuck out from his lips ever so slightly when he smiled. It felt nice to know even the great Finnick Odair had flaws. Even if they only added to his charm, it made him imperfect, human.

“Whatever, Odair,” you rolled your eyes, trying to brush off the fact that he knew just how to get under your skin. It worked every time.

“Whatever, Odair,” he mimicked, raising his voice several octaves in a poor attempt to imitate you.

You were going to kill him, you were sure of it. Grab that stupid statue next to you of a soldier with a sword, and fashion it into a weapon of your own.

“Easy there, sweetheart. I can see you plotting already… so just remember, we’re supposed to be working together on this,” Finnick let out a chuckle as your eyes flashed in frustration, not because of what he said, but because he was right. You two were stuck with each other, whether you liked it or not.

“You two!” A high pitched, accented voice snapped, which you instantly recognized as Phaedra Day, the District 9 escort. “Please, come meet the tributes before the parade!”

Immediately you dislike her. Aside from her obvious disregard for her tributes’ wellbeing — that’s obvious from the way she shoves the two children forward — she’s the pinnacle of Capitol excess, and it shows everywhere. All the cosmetic surgery she’s had over the years gives her face an overly full effect, like a stuffed turkey.

She’s got this awful orange hair, not like the lovely ginger color you’ve seen, no, this is as bright as the flames of a house fire.

Her makeup, you think, is the worst of all. It’s hard to pull off orange eyeshadow, orange blush, and orange lipstick, and Phaedra is definitely not the exception. You suppose it’s meant to compliment her hair, but it just looks clownish.

Finnick greets her with a kiss on each cheek, and comes away with two orange splotches on both his own. You decide then you’ll hang back and let them do the talking.

“Well,” Phaedra nudged the two tributes forward. “They're your mentors, they're not going to bite. Introduce yourselves!”

“Hi.” The girl couldn't be older than twelve, with sandy brown hair, bright green eyes, and a smattering of freckles that made her look even younger.

“Eulalia!” Phaedra clicks her tongue in disapproval. “You can’t have expected them to remember you from the reaping, and that is not a proper introduction! What did we practice?”

The girl — Eulalia — straightens her back immediately, the curious, childhood look in her eye fading into something somber. “I’m Eulalia Overfell, I’m twelve years old, and I’m from District 9.”

“Nice to meet you,” you force a bright smile on your face, hoping this girl can't see the sadness in your eyes. You're rooting for her already, she’s your tribute, but you know realistically her chances are so very slim. You introduce yourself and look expectantly at Finnick, who seems like he's busy cozying up to Phaedra instead of paying attention to who actually matters: your tributes.

“Finnick Odair,” he rolls his eyes in a dismissive gesture, as if waving away the pointed glare you'd been shooting in his direction. “But I’m sure you already knew that.”

You give him another look that you hope can only be described as shooting daggers.

Then he surprises you — sticks out his hand and greets Eulalia like a proper adult, giving her his undivided attention. “It’s nice to meet you, Eulalia.”

It’s so unlike the eye roll and bored tone he used with you; he’s done a complete switch in a matter of seconds.

“Miller,” Phaedra gives him a pointed nudge, reminding you there’s another tribute. “Go on.”

The boy wears a brooding expression, brown eyes dark with distrust and hate, refusing to open his mouth.

Phaedra sighs, like she’s been dealing with this all day and expecting no less. “This is Miller Keene, he's fourteen. He has yet to learn his manners, so don't mind him.”

She shoos him away like a fly buzzing around her head, and focuses all her attention on the two of you. Or maybe just Finnick, by the way she's batting her lashes and twirling a strand of her hair. “You know, I’m just so glad that I have you two for this year! Old Mazie was absolutely dreadful company! I mean, she could barely hold a conversation. Always muttering to herself in the corner…” Phaedra sniffed in displeasure, then turned back to Finnick. “I look forward to working with you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” he flashes her a smile that's borderline seductive. You're about to object that this whole thing feels inappropriate when Phaedra is gone, rambling about finding the District 9 stylists and how they're never going to be on time at this rate.

You feel gross and uneasy in her presence for a number of reasons, however harmless she might appear. One, because of the way she was looking at Finnick, like she’d devour him in an instant. Two, because Finnick didn't even look bothered by the attention, no, he seemed to relish it. Three, because you knew of Mazie, of her story: she’d been driven mad during her games almost fifty years ago from a cumulation of starvation, dehydration, and witnessing multiple deaths right in front of her. Phaedra never had to worry about something every parent’s worst fear in the Districts. She had no idea how heartbreaking it must be, to lose your child once in the Reaping and then twice upon returning home.

Her comment also makes you wonder why Finnick was chosen for the task of mentoring tributes that were not his own. I mean, it made sense they’d give the tributes to you; you had no experience and the Capitol likely didn't care. But Finnick? The Finnick Odair, Capitol Darling? Wouldn't he be of better use mentoring his own tributes?

You zone out a bit, curious to be on this side of the parade — it was only last year you were preening in a chariot just like your tributes were now.

Unfortunately, your tributes didn't stand out in any particular way. You’d been chatting up a storm with as many people you could find, but none seemed interested in taking such a huge risk on two tributes who were not likely to make it past the bloodbath. Finnick had spent all his time with Mags, the aging District 4 mentor, and the Capitol citizens with her, instead of being by your side.

Right now you’re watching him as he talks with what you think is one of his many admirers, though you doubt he’s doing it in favor of Miller or Eulalia. No, her hand is squeezing his bicep and she’s laughing a little too hard for the conversation to be about sponsorship.

You feel a tug on your arm and tear your gaze away from Finnick and down, to find Eulalia slipping her hand into yours. You murmur a quick hello, unsure as to why she’s requesting your attention, when she whispers, “Is he your boyfriend?”

“What— oh, definitely not—” You splutter, your cheeks burning. “No, what would make you think that!”

She shrugs, “I dunno. You just keep staring at him. When my sister had a boyfriend, all she did was stare at him.”

“I—” How could you explain to a child that you were essentially slut shaming him in your head for not doing his actual job?

“Everyone stares at me, Eulalia. She just recognizes perfection when she sees it.” Finnick’s somehow snuck up behind the two of you and overheard everything, which is mortifying. He’s grinning at you, placing his hands on Eulalia’s shoulders while she giggles.

“Finnick’s a little self obsessed, don't mind him,” you say as you tug Eulalia back to your side, intent on leading her and Miller back to the tribute penthouse before he can bother you two any more.

When the two tributes are fast asleep, you whirl around to face Finnick, who has the sense to look a little bit worried at the anger etched into your features, though he still retains the easygoing air about him. His body leaned against the doorframe of his room — coincidentally across from yours — with his arms crossed in front of him. His eyes surveyed you with an air of caution, waiting for whatever storm that's been brewing in your brain.

“This is not something I’m doing alone! They were eating me alive out there, and you were gone!”

“Relax,” he sighs, dropping his arms so they now rest at his sides. “I’ve done this before, y’know. I know what I’m doing.”

“It didn't look like you were doing anything, honestly!”

Your heart is racing now, palms sweaty as the weight of responsibility comes crashing down on you all at once. His nonchalance bothers you even more. You wish he'd show a sliver of actual human emotion, not this cocky, flirty personality that leaves no room for anything else.

But it’s his, “grab a drink, honey, and calm down”, is what really sets you off.

“Look, if you want to do… whatever it is you do with all your Capitol friends—lovers—whatever, do it on your own time! Not when we’re supposed to be securing sponsors!” You whisper-shout, careful not to wake either Eulalia or Miller.

His mild expression melts into something unreadable. You think a hint of anger flashes across his face for a split second, but it’s gone before you can confirm if it’s real or just a figment of your imagination. You’re leaning towards the latter, because you’ve never seen Finnick angry before.

“You have no idea how lucky you are, do you?” He scoffs without bothering to give you a second glance as he retreats into his room.

“You better be here tomorrow at breakfast to help them before training!” You call after him, but he doesn't respond, just slams the door shut behind him.

It felt good to get a reaction from Finnick, but now, in the silence that followed, you couldn't help but feel a bit bad. Confused, but also guilty — your last comment had certainly struck a nerve. But what did he mean by lucky?

Lucky to be in charge of training two children who were bound for death? Lucky for your grandmother to die while you were in the arena, leaving nobody left in your life to care for you? Lucky for your friends to have all but abandoned you once you'd returned, off put by how much you'd changed?

If anything, he was the lucky one. He had Mags, who cared for and loved him like her own son. He was adored by everyone in the Capitol, and had a string of lovers that trailed behind him, ensuring he would never be lonely.

It was time to face it — maybe your anger towards him was misplaced and rooted in something else entirely. You were jealous of how he was surrounded by people admiring and loving him. It was something you yearned for so deep inside your chest it hurt.

DAY THREE — TRAINING

You were up before the first light, dedicated to making today better than the disaster known as yesterday. You were busying yourself before the rest of your ensemble awoke, pressing powders and creams into your skin, tickling your lips with a painted brush, and penciling in details that would make you seem up to date on Capitol trends without appearing too gaudy.

Soon you begin to hear the stirrings of everyone else in the apartment — Phaedra’s loud, obnoxious voice rang much louder than the quiet chatter of Miller and Eulalia as she directed them towards the dining room.

By the time you sat down for breakfast, almost everyone was there: both tributes, their prep teams and stylists, and Phaedra. The only one absent was Finnick, whose empty seat was directly across from you.

“I know you must be nervous,” you began, noticing how neither tribute had touched their food. “I want you guys to go to as many stations as you can, okay? Not just the weaponry — the survival stations really came in handy for me last year.”

Eulalia poked at her scrambled eggs with a fork, face pale and filled with concern, not disinterest. “Everyone’s a lot bigger than me.”

You weren't sure what to say to that, because it had never been an issue for you. You’d been eighteen upon your Reaping, and there were only two mouths to feed in your home: yours, and your grandmother’s. She’d owned a tailor shop, and while the two of you were never wealthy, you never battled real starvation. Compared to the tributes you had faced, you were fully grown and only slightly malnourished, like all district children were.

A scrape of the chair legs against the floor alerted you to the fact that Finnick had arrived and was taking his seat, saying, “Size can only go so far. You’re small, but you're quick. Use that to your advantage.”

Of course he would know something about that; he'd won his games at just 14, the youngest ever victor in the history of Panem.

“What about weapons?” You look towards Miller, surprised that he’s saying anything at all.

“Well… there will be stations that can teach you, find one that comes easier than the rest and—”

“You’d probably be pretty good with a scythe or pitchfork,” Finnick interrupts you like you weren’t even there. “I’m assuming, at least, since you're from District 9. Grain and all.”

Miller nods, sinking back in his chair as if to muse over what Finnick has said.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, shooting a pointed look at Finnick. “You shouldn't count on unusual weapons being in the arena, and tributes are rarely gifted their weapons of choice, even if they’re exceptionally talented.” That last part was a dig at Finnick, and you study him from the corner of your eye, hoping he’s just as annoyed as he makes you. You know it's petty and childish, but you're still upset about last night.

Of course, he doesn't give you the satisfaction. “The gamemakers want a good show more than anything. If you see something in the training center that you think you’d be good at, practice and use it later for your private session with them.”

“Don’t show off your skills in front of everyone,” you interjected. “You don't need to become a target.”

He finally turned to you, his voice laced with displeasure. “Well, they're already targets, sweetheart. They're going to be in an arena full of kids trying to kill them.” He turned back to Miller and Eulalia, who were both staring with wide eyes that shifted back and forth between the two of you. “Listen, the more practice the better. Focus on the weapons, it’ll give you the best chance.”

“Well, I was just telling them to go to all the stations, actually. Most tributes die from natural causes.” You’re trying not to grit your teeth for the children’s sake, but he’s making it exceptionally difficult by going against everything you’re saying.

“Okay, that’s fine and all, but I don’t think—”

“Well, I think they should be heading down now to the training center! Don't want to miss a moment of such valuable time!” Phaedra interrupts Finnick before it can turn into a full scale argument between the two of you, shooing Miller and Eulalia out the door before either of you can protest.

“What's your problem?” You ask Finnick once the room is empty.

“My problem?” His voice is brimming with disbelief. “You’re the one who's had a problem with me since the beginning!”

“I’m so sorry,” you almost let out a laugh at how ridiculous he was being. How could he not realize it? That he was a traitor to the Districts, and you weren't obligated to like him. “Is this the first time someone's ever disliked you? I mean, I know you're probably used to being pampered by all your Capitol buddies…”

“There you go again,” the muscles in his jaw suddenly have his mouth sealed shut with tension. “You make all these assumptions about me, and you haven't even bothered to ask if any of them are true. Do you know what I—” He cut himself off, glancing around the room like he's looking for someone. Or like he's being watched. “Nevermind.”

His fork clatters against his plate as he pushes his chair back abruptly, before heading off to his room.

Well, he was right about that. You did have your assumptions, but they were all based on everything you'd seen the past couple of years on live television.

Dinner is perhaps more awkward than breakfast, mainly because Finnick and Phaedra don't bother showing up, so it's just you, your tributes, and their stylists.

Making conversation is painstakingly difficult, mainly because neither of them seem to have much to offer to the questions you ask them past a nod or a short “yes” or “no”. Not that you blame them — no, that would be entirely unfair.

You’d spent the day alone in the Capitol, chatting up various people who'd sponsored you or were known to be particularly generous in past games. But it seemed like no one was willing to take a risk on a small twelve year old who looked no older than ten, and a brooding boy who wouldn't offer so much as a grunt to anyone.

“You'll have tomorrow and the following day in the training center,” you started. “But the last day is when they start to do the private sessions, so tomorrow’s your best bet to lock down any skills you've been working on.”

Eulalia nods. “The trainer at that foraging station said I was really nifty with plants,” she offers, but in a way that you suspect is meant to try to cheer you up more than anything.

“That's great, Eulalia!” You beam at her, because you remember the worst part of the Games — keeling over as sharp stabs of hunger plagued your body, while your throat turned as dry as sandpaper.

She asks to be excused the same time Miller stomps off to his room, leaving you alone in the living area of the penthouse.

I need a drink, you sighed softly to yourself, finding a near empty bottle of wine from dinner and pouring some into the same glass you’d used.

You turn the television on, flicking through the channels of awful reality shows, Panem news updates, and of course, recaps of previous Hunger Games in preparation for the 70th.

You’ve seen this one before— it's the one where the arena was a snowy forest, the freezing temperatures killing off nearly all the tributes in the first few days. You’re so engrossed in the recap you almost don't hear the door opening.

You do hear Phaedra’s loud laughs echoing down the hall from the entryway, and turn back to see her stumbling through the door. Finnick is right beside her, offering you a tight smile as he guides Phaedra, who has to be drunk, with one hand, and holds her heels in the other.

Not my problem, not my problem, not my problem, you repeat the mantra in your head, hoping your attention will go back to the TV in front of you.

You weren't drunk (you decided you’d want to be shot the day two glasses of wine inebriated you), but you were a little tipsy. Just a little. Enough for your filter, but not your inhibitions, to be gone.

The now empty wine bottle sat pitifully on the coffee table next to your equally empty glass, as if begging to be refilled. Since it’d been almost empty when you'd scavenged it, you weren't too far gone. Not far gone enough.

You happen upon the kitchen in search of another bottle as Finnick re enters it, not sure whether or not to make polite conversation or ignore him.

He makes the decision for both of you, “How’d they do today?”

“Alright,” you shrugged, biting back a jab about him not helping you during dinner. An awkward pause follows before you realize you're meant to give him something back, so you add, “Eulalia’s got a knack for foraging.”

“That's good,” Finnick’s clearly in his own world and paying little attention to you, searching the fridge for something to eat instead of asking for an Avox to do it.

He’s so lost in thought, saying absolutely nothing to annoy you, that you realize, for the first time, how young he is. You’d always associated him with being much older, since he had so many years of experience on you.

But his features were just so quintessentially… boyish. There were no lines on his face like there were so many other tributes, save for the small indents where his dimples popped out when he smiled. He was tall and lanky — not awkward with his long limbs, but like he still had time to grow into broader shoulders. His face, although perfectly chiseled and sculpted to perfection, had a fullness to his cheeks that could only be thinned out with age. The only thing that felt fully grown about him was the deep frown etched into his face at the moment, like he was worrying about something a nineteen year old wasn't meant to.

“I thought we already talked about your staring problem,” his voice is low and smooth, bringing you out of the trance you'd been in.

“I was just… observing,” you say, embarrassed at being caught in the act. You were just curious to know more about him, and whenever you spoke you seemed to stray further and further from that objective.

“Uh huh…” He squints his eyes at you, like he's studying you as well, to figure out what's going on in your head.

“Try to show up on time tomorrow.” It felt foreign to have a conversation with Finnick without it resorting to an argument, so of course you had to ruin the moment. “They’ve only got a day left before the private sessions, and I think… I think they could use your experience. And I think Miller likes you, for whatever that's worth.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on his face. “An insult and a compliment in the same sentence, all wrapped up in a bow just for me,” his teeth were beginning to poke from his lips, transforming his face into a full on smile. “You’re spoiling me.”

There was another beat of silence before you say goodnight and rush back to your room, hoping tomorrow will be better — it seems like that's become a daily wish before you fall asleep. One day it'll get better.

DAY FIVE — PRIVATE SESSIONS

Everyone was fast asleep in their rooms, the house silent save for the low murmur of the television as you watched an interview recap from previous years, a notepad in hand. You were trying to decide if it was a good or bad thing that neither of your tributes had nothing to make them stand out. With mediocre training scores, your job was turning more into an impossible task than ever.

The elevator door dings open, and you know it can only be Finnick, since he'd yet again left right after dinner.

“Why are you still up?” you ask as he passes by, though this time he doesn't bother slowing down and heading straight for his room.

“Just… preparing for tomorrow, I guess.” You notice his lips are inflamed and smudged with a lavender shade of sparkly lipstick, glitter trailing down his neck and disappearing under the collar of his shirt. His eyes are just as puffy as his lips, red rimmed and glassy, but all that pales when you see the long, rather deep scratch on his chin. It’s still bleeding slightly and trickling down the same path carved by the glittery lipstick, disappearing beneath his shirt and leaving a slight stain against the white.

Your instinct want you to jump up from the couch and ask what's wrong, any disdain you have towards Finnick melting away for just a brief moment. You're not even sure why, but maybe it's because this is the first night in several days he's left after dinner and not returned until late.

“Are you okay?” It slips out before you can suppress the humanity in you entirely. It had to be the blood that was making you ask.

He doesn't respond, save for a short nod, and slams the door behind him. You're left feeling disgruntled at what you saw. Who’d hurt him?

You went back to your interviews, but your mind remained distracted by what you’d seen. You’re trying desperately to return to the state of engrossment you’d been at before you were interrupted, but it was no use. With a sigh you shut the television off, rubbing your eyes that were growing heavy with sleep. You’d just passed the door of your room when you heard a loud clatter of something against something ceramic, followed by a quiet fuck.

“Finnick?” You called softly, uncertain.

“It's fine, I’m fine,” came the hurried response, though it was accompanied by a hiss of pain.

You decided, against your better judgement, that you were going to investigate what all the commotion was about. As quietly as you could, you opened the door to his room and tiptoed towards the adjoined bathroom, where the soft glow of a light under the door crack gave away his location.

“Finnick? Are you okay? I— I’m coming in.” You wait for any sign of protest, but upon hearing none, take a deep breath and open the door.

“I told you,” he said through gritted teeth, leaning towards the mirror in front of the sink. “I’m fine.” The countertop was scattered with clutter, colognes and lotions and other knick knacks. There seemed to be an array of things that’d fallen into the sink as well, which explained the clatter you’d heard earlier.

“Holy fuck that looks horrible!” You blurt out, then instantly wish you hadn't said anything. The small scar was now oozing more blood than before, dripping down his face and neck. He hadn't bothered to wash off any of the glitter either, so now he just looked… well, horrible. As horrible as someone with Finnick’s face could look, which still rivaled you on your best day.

“Thanks,” he said dryly, not even turning to look at you, still obsessing over the wound on his chin. “You can go now.”

“You’re doing it all wrong,” you blurted out as he wiped at his chin with a cotton pad, which only further irritated it. “Here,” you made your way towards him, grabbing a gauze from the first aid kit he'd opened and carefully turning his head to face you, pressing the gauze gently into to the wound.

He didn't say thank you, but he wasn't protesting, either. Just watched you from the mirror out of the corner of his eye.

“How’d you get this? It looks…” nasty, “...bad.”

The smile that appears on his face is rueful. “Capitol trends have gotten a little wacky lately,” he begins, and then hesitates. “Some people have cat claws instead of fingernails nowadays.”

Oh. So it was one of his lovers? It certainly didn't look like he was okay with it, but what could he have done to warrant such a reaction?

You threw the gauze in the trash, craning your neck to get a closer look at the wound, before reapplying more. “That… that sucks.”

You want to ask him how exactly he acquired this, but something tells you he won't be forthcoming in his answer.

“Yeah,” he huffs, “It does.”

“You’re probably going to need stitches,” you squinted at the cut. It was precariously deep; you wondered why he wasn't more vocal about the pain he must be in. “You can probably go to one of the hospitals in the Capitol—”

“No,” he says abruptly. “Absolutely not, I don't… I don't need that right now.” He pauses, “Can you do it?”

“Oh, I don't think I’m—”

“I’ve seen you stitch before. Saved your own life with it,” he says softly, and you're suddenly embarrassed and flattered at the same time. He remembered your games? Where you’d stitched 17 and a half stitches into your own stomach, passing out before the 18th had been completed, just as the trumpets began blaring.

“But this is your face, this is like…” you splutter, hands beginning to tremble, “... a national treasure! I don't want to fuck it up, they’ll have my head for sure.”

“You just keep showering me in compliments.” A real, genuine laugh passed from his lips, and you're surprised at how different it sounds from the one he gives when Phaedra makes an awful joke, or when a Capitol woman lays her hands on him. This one is sweet, melodic almost.

“Just… are you sure?” You tug at your lower lip, drawing blood by how hard you bite.

He nods, so you lead him to sit on the toilet, and stand in front of him to get a closer view. The circumstances are much better than they were in your arena, but it's still far from ideal. You, a wannabe seamstress with minimal experience, should not be working on a face famous for his exceptional looks. This could all go so wrong, and you didn't even like him as a person, which made it worse, because if you didn't like him, then why were you so nervous to fuck it up?

You get to work soon after, trying desperately to calm the shaking of your hands.

You wet a washcloth under the sink and bring it to the wound, patting it carefully. Gently, you move the washcloth down to his neck, wiping away the glitter that stained his bronze skin. He didn't object, just sucked in a sharp breath as you tugged the collar down, revealing an angry but fading purple bruise and wiping the cloth over that, too.

The silence is so, so loud. Yo turn to grab an antiseptic, the quiet hisses of pain making you pause before he urges you to continue swiping it across his chin. One hand gently cleans while the other rests on his cheek, allowing you to move and angle his face to best suit your needs for the task.

Aside from that, there's nothing, not even an insult or two thrown either way.

Like when he'd been in the kitchen he's zoned out, allowing you to take a closer look at him.

His eyes, glazed over and off into some far off place, were a perfect representation of the ocean; mostly green with a light blue mixing together to form a beautiful seafoam that people always claimed to get lost in. He had that youthful look about him, the frown he wore had melted away into an almost relaxed expression, which was odd considering the situation he was in.

You continued to work in silence, taking an extra long time to clean the wound to avoid the stitching for as long as possible.

He let out a hiss of pain as the needle pierced his bronze skin for the first time, to which you immediately jumped back and said, "I'm sorry! I can stop, just tell me when you need a break. Please."

He shakes his head ever so slightly, in silent approval for you to continue. "It's fine. Just do it."

Your fingers steadied after the first stitch, like a natural instinct summoned all your grandmother's teachings and flooded them through you.

It was over quickly, but you forced him to remain still, busying yourself with preparing a dressing so you didn't have to acknowledge the way his eyes followed your every move.

"Just hold still," you said quietly, pressing the cream to his chin and leaning in ever so slightly to make sure every inch of your stitches were slathered in ointment.

When you step back to take a look at your handiwork, you feel like somehow you're overstaying your welcome.

You didn't like how the bathroom had grown hot and stuffy, didn't like how his eyes had gone from glazing over to staring intently at you and never leaving.

You didn't like how his hands, which had been resting motionless on his lap, had started to fidget with the loose fabric of his pants, occasionally brushing against your legs, which were pressed up between his — as you worked on his chin, of course.

And you especially didn't like how whenever his fingers accidentally brushed against the skin of your legs, you felt like jumping out of your skin.

"Change it tomorrow," you instructed, clearing your throat. He nodded, watching you leave.

DAY SEVEN — THE INTERVIEWS

Today had been no better than the last one, or the one before that. The only thing was different was that you and Finnick had gone an (almost) two full days without getting into any squabbles, which was a big improvement. Even Phaedra commented something about civility at dinner.

He’d also made an effort to help Miller and Eulalia prep for the interviews; he was so loveable in the Capitol it only made sense for him to take the reins on this one.

You’d tried to help when you could, adding in tidbits of information that you thought could be useful. Phaedra even chimed in once in a while, whenever she would wander back to the penthouse in between her very full day of… whatever she did. Certainly nothing useful.

Now, night was just beginning to fall, and only you and Eulalia were sitting on the couch watching the interviews. Miller hadn't even bothered to stay past mealtime, and Phaedra and Finnick were off doing who knows what.

Both tributes had remained entirely unremarkable, and while that was not to their advantage, it wasn't to their disadvantage either. They were brushed off as tributes certain to die in the bloodbath, nothing more, and as much as that angered you, you understood why people thought that way.

“You should go to bed, Eulalia. You have an early morning tomorrow,” you said once the interviews had concluded. You felt that alluding to the fact that she was headed towards her death was a better thing to do than outright say it.

Eulalia nodded her head, though she didn't make any moves to leave. “I’m scared to go to bed,” she admitted after a long moment. “I… I think I’ll have nightmares.”

“I know,” you purse your lips, remembering how you felt the night before your own games. “But you need sleep, you'll regret it tomorrow if you don't even try.”

With a resigned nod she stands up, making her way slowly into her room.

Then, it's silent on the District 9 floor, empty in the living spaces save for yourself.

You’re halfway through a much needed massage of your temples when you hear the door creak open and assume it’s an Avox, until you open your eyes and see Eulalia running out of her room with a terrorized expression frozen on her face.

“Eulalia!” You jump up from the couch and run to her, “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I had a nightmare,” she whispered, eyes as wide as saucers.

“About tomorrow?” You asked, a hand on her shoulder and trying to coax an answer out of her.

She nodded, her bottom lip wobbling for a moment before she immediately burst into tears. “I miss my mom,” she let out with a sniffle, her little body shaking from the sobs that began wracking her body.

You could almost hear your heart smashing on the ground in a million little pieces. You were there in an instant, on your knees to be at eye level with her as you held out your arms. She didn’t hesitate, burying her face in your shoulder and continuing to sob, which only broke your heart further.

“It’s okay, sweet girl,” you said in what you hoped was a soothing voice, trying hard not to let a tremor seep in. “It’ll be okay.” Now you’re just lying to her, an evil voice in the back of your head snaps.

She clung to you like a lifeline, her small hands wrinkling the silk of your dress but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

“It was so scary,” she hiccuped, “I didn't even make it past the bloodbath.”

You pried her hands from your clothes so your own could find her face, thumbs gently gliding over her tear stained cheeks. “You are so brave, remember that, okay? And remember what Finnick and I have been teaching you, and you’ll be okay.”

Her sobs turn into small hiccups as she listens to your words, trying to make the rational part of her brain take over. But she's so young, and she's feeling so much, it's only a moment before the tears explode once more, and she's inconsolable.

You wish there was something you could do, but all that comes to mind is helping her back to bed, a proper routine despite it being in the middle of the night.

The door open and Finnick walks in, stopping short at the sight of you two curled on the floor of the living room. His eyes widen when you mouth the word nightmare, Eulalia’s face still buried in your shoulder.

“Hey, look!” You said as brightly and spinning Eulalia around to look at Finnick. “Why don't we both put you to bed?”

Eulalia nods, still sniffling, and says, very meekly, “Okay. Finnick’s strong.” She says it like he'll protect her from her own mind. Then she straightens up. “Can we please stay out here? I hate my room, it's so dark and scary and—”

“Of course,” Finnick spoke up. “You know, the night before my games, Mags made a pillow fort for us in the living room.” He begins to drag pillows from your room, his room, and Eulalia’s room while you tend to her.

You take time to brush her hair before your fingers twist the long locks into two loose braids. Her sobs have quieted down again, her eyes closing on themselves as sleep began to lull her.

The two of you crawl under the couch, which Finnick has done up with pillows and blankets to make a true fort that eases Eulalia’s fears just a bit. Not enough to coax a smile, but enough to quiet her sobs and hiccups.

“Please don't leave,” Eulalia begs, looking slightly embarrassed, but it's clear she's too tired and worn down to fight the embarrassment completely.

“Of course.” You tuck the blanket under her chin, trying not to let the rising bile in your stomach spill from your lips. She was just a baby, with little tear stained cheeks and deep circles under her eyes. Too young to be weighed down with the possibility of imminent death the next morning.

You lay down next to her, still in your finery from the interview day, but you don't even let that bother you anymore.

You’re so focused on Eulalia you don't even notice Finnick’s been by both your sides the entire time, settling down a little ways away from the both of you, with Eulalia in the middle.

She’s fast asleep almost as soon as her head hits the pillow, even snoring softly as she cocoons herself into your side.

When you wake, the sun is streaming through the cracks in the blinds. Eulalia’s gone, the only trace of her being the dried tear stains on your dress and the mess of blankets and pillows around you.

Your heart is heavy as you go through the motions of getting ready, allowing your prep team to do what they pleased. You’d be in the Capitol all day starting in an hour, watching the games.

DAY EIGHT — THE HUNGER GAMES

The night dragged on without an end to what had been a torturous day, which had passed at a snail’s pace that had only added to its misery.

Despite everything, all your blood, sweat, and tears, Miller didn't make it out of the Cornucopia. Not like you'd thought there would be a different outcome; he'd made it clear he didn't want to give anyone a show, he just wanted to die. He'd been slaughtered by a Career not even thirty seconds into the Games. Eulalia had surprised you, her face not projected onto the sky next to Miller’s, grabbing a pack by her feet and racing for the mountains.

That didn't mean you weren't miserable and drowning your sorrows in a bottle.

“I need another glass,” you decided out loud to no one but yourself, mustering up the balance to rise from the couch and head over to the kitchen and make the drink happen.

“Easy there, sweetheart. I don't think being hungover is a good look for sponsors. Especially since you seem to know best,” a small chuckle sounded behind you, scaring the ever loving shit out of you and causing you to drop your wine glass on the floor.

“Shit— What the fuck, Finnick?” You almost shouted, before realizing you had two sleeping children down the hall. “I thought you'd be out all night again!” You lowered your voice to a hiss as you crouched down to pick up the larger shards, not knowing if there was an Avox around at this time of night.

Finnick had been leaning casually against the doorframe until he heard the glass shatter, and was by you in an instant. “My plans ended early,” he offered little more than that.

You let out a sudden cry of pain as a shard sliced your palm open. The blood, dark and red and warm, immediately sent you into a panic.

Your heart quickened, a strangled cry barely managing its way past your lips as you were thrust back into the arena like you always were. Other people’s blood you could handle just fine, but the sight of your own caused your vision to become slightly blurry, from dizziness or tears you weren't quite sure.

Then, a palm on your shoulder. Grounding you, bringing you back to the present. You’d cut your hand on a broken wine glass, you hadn't just murdered a child. You were in the penthouse as a victor, not as a tribute. Blinking back tears you looked up at Finnick, whose hand was still on your shoulder, and stood up abruptly. You hated the look of pity in his eyes, it made you sick. You didn't need pity from someone who was contributing to the very system that made you like this.

You were about to open your mouth, lash out at him to distract from the pain of your hand, when an Avox melted from the shadow and hurried to clean up the mess you’d made.

“We should fix that up,” Finnick suggested gently, cautiously — like you were a wounded animal — his hand trailing down to the small of your back and gently guiding you to a bathroom. Normally you’d be brushing him away, because in what world would you accept help from him.

But you didn't have the strength to argue. Not when it was the night before. Not when Miller was dead and and Eulalia would soon follow. You simply nodded and let him lead you to the bathroom in his room, your head on autopilot as you stood leaning against the cool marble of the countertop.

You remembered being here a couple nights ago; things had remained the same except now your positions were reversed.

“Didn't think I was that sneaky,” Finnick joked as he looked around for first aid supplies, trying to fill the awkward silence.

“Don't give yourself so much credit, Odair,” you rolled your eyes, the quip making you feel slightly more normal. This was what you did. Show him you hated him through petty jabs and dirty looks. The past few days had been too pleasant for either of it to last.

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow, holding your wrist and gently examining the cut to make sure there were no glass splinters. “Then what was so interesting you didn't hear me open the door?”

“My brain. Duh,” you huffed, hoping he couldn't smell the alcohol on your breath.

“Your brain, or the wine?” Finnick’s eyes, that beautiful green flecked with blue that you pretended not to notice, were lit up with laughter.

“Maybe a little bit of— ow!” You yelped, trying to pull your hand away from whatever was making it sting so bad.

“Oh relax, don't be a baby,” Finnick kept a tight grip on your wrist so he could work, gently cleaning the wound with an antiseptic. “I know you've handled much worse.”

“I was so much nicer to you… This shit still hurts,” you grumbled under your breath, trying not to think about the last part of his comment. Yeah. You’d faced much, much worse. But perhaps the softness of the Capitol had grown on you, and you were becoming less and less accustomed to hardship. “Oh my god!” You exclaimed in horror. “I’m turning into you!”

This gave him pause. He had discarded the alcohol wipe and was reaching for a cream when he stopped. “I’m assuming that's not a compliment, coming from you… so tell me, what does that mean?”

You laughed, then hiccuped. “I’m getting soft! I’m letting all this nice stuff in the Capitol blind me from every horrible thing I’ve ever experienced at their hands.”

You’d meant it as more of a lighthearted jab than anything, but he’d gone completely still as he looked at you. His eyes seemed to darken, erasing any traces of blue or warmth, leaving an unreadable expression behind. Your eyes trailed down to his jaw, which was now clenched.

“Is that really what you think of me?” He asked softly. So softly, you thought you’d imagined it. It was then you noticed how close his face had gotten, forcing your neck to crane up and meet his gaze as he towered over you, your back pressed against the sink counter.

“I mean… yeah, sort of,” You shrugged. “People adore you here. I mean, look at all the gifts! All your friends and girlfr—”

“I hate the gifts. And they’re not my friends. Or my girlfriends,” he cut you off sharply. “You don't know… just… nevermind.”

His grip on your wrist tightened as he applied the cream, his movements slow and his eyes glued to your hand as to avoid eye contact.

“I— I don't know,” you admitted, watching his nimble fingers work expertly to wrap your hand. He exhaled sharply but didn't respond, pretending to be absorbed in his work.

“All done.” He dropped your hand and took a step back. Already you felt his body heat disappear from you, but it wasn't a warm welcome. You just felt cold. And mean.

“Wait, Finnick,” you grasped onto his wrist with your good hand, stopping him in his tracks and forcing him to look back at you. “Explain it to me.”

You wanted to know what he meant, and perhaps you felt a little bit guilty for the genuine hurt you'd seen in his eyes. One of the many assumptions you'd made about Finnick Odair was that he was immune to feeling anything but cool and charming.

He looks around for an escape, nostrils flaring and his palms closing and then flexing. Those famous sea-green eyes get that faraway look you've seen only a couple times.

Selfishly, you take time to notice the features you hadn't absorbed before. You observed veins of his forearms that ran up and disappeared behind his sleeves, where the muscle of his biceps were barely concealed through the thin material of his shirt. You even took notice of how his bronze hair seemed to match his skin, the pearly white of his teeth making his sun drenched tan even more striking.

“I won't judge you,” you say quietly, stupidly, because that's pretty much all you’ve done.

He seems to see the irony in your statement too because he laughs, coldly. “I’d tell you if I believed you even a little bit— but all you’ve done is judge me for things out of my control.”

“You're right,” you inhaled sharply, though it pained you to admit you were wrong to his face.

There's a long pause before he speaks again.

“President Snow sells me— my body. To the Capitol citizens. Those gifts… they’re pity gifts from people who buy me. I don't love any of them.”

Out of all the things you thought could come out of his mouth, that arrangement of words was something you could never even imagine.

“Oh.” Think of something better to say, you fucking idiot! You began cursing yourself for such a bland response, but nothing could compete with the overwhelming guilt that was rising in your chest.

Every awful, horrible, vile thought you'd ever had about Finnick Odair was based on the assumption he liked the Capitol’s attention, relished in it. But they were— they…

He took your lack of response as a dismissal. “Yeah, told you. Your hand’s fine now, so I think you can go now.”

“No, wait, I’m sorry!” You hurried to correct your response. “I didn't mean— I just didn't know he did that.”

It suddenly occurred to you that he might be listening in on your very conversation. Finnick sees your realization and shakes his head. “We’re fine in this room.”

“Oh.” Now you can't stop thinking about every awful, horrible thing you'd ever thought about Finnick, every malicious word you’d spat at him was now resurfacing as a bitter bile in the back of your throat. “Oh my god, Finnick, I had no idea, I’m so sorry—”

He cuts you off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I don't need your pity. There's nothing I can do to change it, he’ll… he’ll hurt Mags if I try to say no. I just wanted you to know so you’d stop looking at me like that.”

Suddenly his words make sense. Lucky. Because in a way, you had no one left you cared about, no one Snow could hold over your head. You were lucky, so lucky in that sense, you didn't even know it was a possibility.

“I know you don't want pity, but I really am sorry. Not just for your situation but— for every awful thing I’ve ever said to you. I would've never said any of those things if I knew.” How do you begin to bring up why you felt the way you did? That you were so incredibly jealous he could lead a life full of luxury and companionship?

“Thanks,” he shrugged. “You didn't know. How could you? Everyone you loved was already dead by the time Snow got his hands on you. You’re lucky for that. Once Mags goes…” Then I’ll be free, is what you're certain he wants to say.

There's a lapse in the conversation and you just stare at him, talking him whole in a completely different light. You don't even care that he's staring right back at you, when normally you'd be embarrassed with his undivided attention.

“Well thank you. For fixing up my hand.” You raised your bandaged hand up and saw a slight smile cross his face.

“Just returning the favor,” he responded simply. “Can you let go of my hand now, or are you planning on hanging around all night? Not that I mind—” You dropped his hand like it was a burning coal, much to his amusement.

“Can we… start over? Please?” You asked, feeling like a little kid on the school playground again. “As friends?”

“And here I thought we were friends all along…” He sighed dramatically.

“Forget it! I take it back!” You rolled your eyes and shuffled your feet in an attempt to bypass his large frame blocking the doorway, when his hand slid down to your waist.

“I was being serious! We’ve always been friends, since the day we met. You just didn't know it yet. You had to go through a mean streak.” His eyes bear into yours and suddenly the fingers splayed across your waist feel like burning embers against your skin. His eyes, that always remind you of the ocean, feel like they're setting you aflame with the intensity of his gaze.

“Alright, now you're just being dramatic,” you huffed after a moment, sidestepping him and heading towards the kitchen. You can feel his eyes on you as you walk, trying to focus on the ground in front of you and not the way your heart was beating so rapidly, like it was determined to leap out of your chest and run back towards the bathroom. Towards him. Your mind traced back to that drink you’d been in search of when Finnick scared you.

Every trace of your mess was gone, from the broken glass to the drips of blood that had threatened to stain the carpet. You rummaged around the cupboards for another bottle of wine, sighing in frustration when your search came up empty.

“It’s on the top shelf,” Finnick appeared out nowhere again, causing you to jump.

“You have got to stop doing that!” You whipped around. “Didn't you learn from literally ten minutes ago?”

He put his hands up in self defense, though a ghost of a grin outlined his features. “I’ll try to remember. For next time.”

“Can you grab it for me?” You asked, surprising even yourself as you looked back at him standing in the hallway.

With a nod, Finnick crossed the space between the two of you into the kitchen. Instead of asking you to move, you felt a feather light touch at your hip as his hand ghosted over your dress. You could now feel the heat of his body radiating on to your back, could feel the light, warm breaths he took as he stood for a moment before reaching above you. With a gentle firmness, he scooted you over so he could strain to reach the last of the wine bottles.

You sucked in a breath as you felt his chest against your back, sturdy and warm, and resisted the urge to lean into him. You were so tired of being strong for your tributes. You wanted someone to protect you, tell you everything would be okay.

But you didn't have that. Not anymore. Ever since your grandmother had died you’d been all alone — alone on your Reaping Day, alone on your victory, alone now.

“Red or white?” You felt Finnick’s lips almost brush against your ear, snapping you out of your morose thoughts and sending a shiver down your spine.

“Uh— I— you choose.”

The heat was gone just as quick as it had arrived, and the rest happened in a blur. Before you know it you were one, two more glasses into the newly opened bottle, your cheeks flushed from laughing and your body hot from the alcohol.

Ugh, how did you even hate him? He was so funny. And pretty. Especially his eyes. Had you mentioned how pretty his eyes were?

“I think I’ve heard it from everyone but you, to be honest,” Finnick chuckled.

“Oh— did I really say that out loud?” You hiccuped, now entirely sure you would fully overheat.

“Yeah,” he grabbed the glass from your hand and placed it on the coffee table in front of you. “Not to ruin your fun, but you should probably stop now. It’s… a big day tomorrow. You need to be ready. For Eulalia.”

“Right.” Suddenly the lighthearted atmosphere turned somber, like all the joy in the world had been sucked from the room. Your head was still heavy and dizzy, but you no longer felt as if your lips were so loose.

The two of you take your drinks to the couch, where you see a glimpse of Finnick’s real personality. He's still charming and confident, but not in a cocky way. He's surprisingly sweet, and somehow remembers everything about you. No seriously, everything. Things you hadn’t even mentioned directly to him or anyone around you, but from your interview and the interviews from your former friends once you’d reached the final eight.

In turn, you tried to learn more about Finnick, the real Finnick, and not the persona he put on. You learned his mother and father had died when he was young, just like you, and that he'd trained in the Career Academy in 4 as a poor substitute for finding a family. He found it in Mags, who’d been the closest thing he had to a mother, friend, mentor, and grandmother all in one.

“Does it get easier?” You asked after a particularly morbid joke about the Hunger Games.

Finnick shakes his head. “Not really. You just get more used to it,” he hesitates before continuing. “It's like grief. You just think about it less often, but it's always there. And when you remember…” his voice catches in his throat. “It hurts just as badly as when it first happened.”

“Well that fucking sucks,” you sigh, downing the last bit of your wine, earning a laugh from Finnick.

You chat a bit more about things that don't even matter, but there's something that continues bothering you as you talk.

“I really had no idea,” you blurt out, repeating yourself for what seemed like the millionth time that night. You’d apologize a billion more before you felt even an ounce less guilty.

“I know,” he says simply, and that's what you like about talking with him. He doesn't brush it off, say everything you said is okay, but he doesn't blame you either. He just accepts it as is.

“How'd you get so… okay about all of this?” You asked him.

He ponders for a moment, like he’s never really thought about it himself. “I’m just desensitized, I think. I care about Mags, and as long as she's safe… I can deal with the rest of it.”

“And if something happens?” You can't help but ask.

He shudders slightly. “I don't think you’d recognize the person you become.”

“Evil? Insane?” You half joked.

But he's not smiling anymore, and the glazed over look in his eye has returned. “No. More like damaged beyond repair.”

Oh. Well isn't that a morbid thought. Another question suddenly pops into your mind. “Why are you telling me all of this? I said all those things… I hated you up until like… four days ago.”

The smiles returned, though this one is unlike any one you’ve ever seen before. It's genuine and sweet but it's so, so sad. “I’m lonely, I guess.”

That hits you right in the gut because you’re lonely, too. So lonely.

So the two of you decide, at least for the night, to seek company in one another's loneliness.

DAY NINE — THE HUNGER GAMES, CONT.

Your mentoring had been cut short early into the second day. Eulalia, who'd done everything right, had been killed by a pack of bat mutts, who'd descended upon her while she sought shelter in a shallow cove in the mountains. With their huge wings and even bigger talons they'd dragged her off deeper into the cave system, though not before you’d witnessed them ripping out chunks of her flesh.

It was so bloody and gruesome you’d run off in the middle of a conversation and thrown up your breakfast.

That's why you were in the bathroom stall, leaning against the cool ceramic of the toilet and not caring how disgusting it was. You felt sick, so sick to your very core, wishing that Eulalia’s nightmare had been her reality instead of whatever had just unfolded before your screen.

All you want to do is go back home — not back to the tribute apartments, not your house in the Victor’s Village, but home. The little, shoebox apartment above your grandmother’s tailor shop in 8. It was tiny but it was cozy, perfect for the two of you and always smelling like the home you were now longing for.

But that's not an option. The most you could get away with was showering and retiring for a few hours, returning after lunch. You wipe your mouth with the sleeve of your shirt and force yourself to stand, wobbling a bit on your heels.

When you walk out the door you’re greeted by Phaedra, who’s got a sour expression on her face.

“Oh— there you are. Can you believe this! Day two and I’m already done for the rest of the Games! Why didn't you train them better! Oh, I bet Finnick probably distracted you— not that I can blame you, but you could've been a little less selfish!” You realize now that she's drunk, but that doesn't stop the anger boiling in your stomach at her comments.

She's probably one of the Capitol citizens buying him for her own pleasure. Your lip curls in disgust but you have the decorum and common sense not to make a scene.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” is all you end up saying. This just causes Phaedra to scoff and push past you.

Today is the worse day of your life. So much worse than your Reaping Day, than your victory tour, than anything. Because this time, it's your fault.

When you walk back to the apartment, it reminds you more of a graveyard than anything.

Finnick seems to think the same; you're not sure when he came back but he's sitting on the couch with his face in his hands.

There's nothing you want to say to him. Nothing you can say, really, but he says something that forces you to listen anyways. “It's better this way.”

“How,” you gasp in disbelief he could say something so horrid.

“The alternative would've been worse for her.” And suddenly it dawns on you what he's thinking, he says it at the same time the thought comes to your mind. “She would've turned out like me.”

“She was only twelve, they wouldn't have—”

“I was fourteen,” he cuts you off, though not harshly. If anything he seems pained. “They said they waited until I was sixteen, but they lied. For their own consciences.”

Yeah, now the conversation’s over. You make your way to your bathroom, trying as hard as you can to compose yourself, make yourself feel just the slightest bit human.

It doesn't work; you spend the rest of the day feeling like a zombie, laying on the plush mattress of your bed and not moving. The goosefeather pillows are so comfortable it has the opposite effect you desire, only reminding you more that you’re in the Capitol.

You only know it's become nighttime when Finnick comes in because the sun of midday and sunset have both passed, fading into a deep twilight that remains. All you want to do is sleep, wash away this horrid day with a good night’s rest, but you can't. You remain paralyzed on your bed, studying the intricate carvings of your ceiling, counting how many little birds there were in a row.

“Glad to see you're alive,” Finnick’s voice is grounding and familiar, but also a reminder of what has happened the past two days. Of who you’ve lost and how you lost them.

“Barely,” you groan without lifting your head to look at him, a numbness overtaking your body as you're brought back to reality.

“I told you it'll get easier,” he said, “the first ones are always the hardest.”

The bed dips and you can feel Finnick’s body heat radiating off of him, but you don't move, don’t. even turn your head to look at him.

“I know,” you sigh, defeated. “It just kills me that I can't do anything about this.”

There's a long moment before he responds, “I know. I hate feeling powerless, too.”

It's nice to lay with him, have him articulate every emotion you're feeling without even having to tell him anything at all. It's comforting.

You’re not sure how much time passes before you hear Finnick rustling around, and ignore it until he's tugging on your wrist. “I have an idea.”

You hope he's going to whisk you away somewhere so incredibly far from here, but your journey stops at the pillow fort you’d created two days ago. It feels like a memory frozen in time, too painful to look at but too painful to move.

You’re not even sure why you’re doing this, subjecting yourself to feeling your grief so strongly. When the two of you are comfortably settled into the fort, it's as if you're thrust back in time. It feels weird, but not unwelcome. You’re lying flat on your back like you were earlier, beginning to count each thread in the plush blanket.

“I don't even know why I feel like this! I barely knew them — I spoke like, four words to Miller!”

“Because you're human,” he responds almost immediately, rolling over and propping his head up with his hand. “It would be weird if you didn't feel so bad.”

You suppose he's right. Not mourning them at all would make you no better than the Capitol citizens betting on and cheering for tributes.

You’re burning alive. You pound on the door to the oven, begging and screaming to be let out, until your vocal cords are fried. You try to move, but it's such a tight fit you can't help but squirm uncomfortably, feeling restrained.

Let me out, let me out, let me out! You scream into oblivion, but no one hears you. It's just you, the oven, and a pile of burning embers that crackle and pop as they get hotter.

Stop moving, the oven groans, starting to shake you.

Then let me out, you struggle harder against the straightjacket that binds you.

Go back to bed, the oven grumbles again.

Wait — the oven?

You wake with a gasp with sweat dotting your forehead, desperate to inhale gulps of cool air.

What a weird dream, you think sleepily, the stuffiness around you making you feel as if you’re melting.

You remember, then, that you’re sleeping in a pillow fort, which has to be trapping all your body heat within the confines of the blankets and pillows. All you want to do is fling the blanket off you and strip yourself of the pajamas that stick to your skin like wet paper. And move away from this stupid heated pillow. Who even has heated pillows?

With a groan, you move to throw the blanket off you and sit up, only to find your arms trapped against your body. Now you’re a little more awake, blinking the sleep from your eyes as they adjust to the darkness.

“Has anyone ever told you about your sleep habits?” A very familiar, very human voice rumbles against your ear. “Because they suck. You move around so much.”

Oh.

You were not confined to a straight jacket. No, those were arms you had examined carefully when he wasn't looking, studied the smoothness of the tan skin, the muscles rippling underneath when he flexed to tighten his grip around your waist.

His arms circling your waist, tugging you closer.

His voice, causing vibrations in the chest that was currently pressed against your back, repeating the voice of the oven in your dreams.

“Wh— what are you doing,” you whispered, relieved your voice was working but hating how unsure you sounded.

“Dunno… kinda just woke up like this,” he yawned, not moving. “Think this means I’m irresistible even in my sleep.”

It's nice, but weird. His voice is heavy with sleep, making it sound deeper and rougher than it normally is. That, combined with the way his arms, corded with muscle, don't leave your waist, and the firmness of his chest… it makes your heart beat at an astronomical pace, your breath quickens, your knees weak.

“You’re trembling.” He's propped up on his elbow again, his fingers drawing small circles up and down your arms in a motion that's meant to be soothing, but it just makes you want to squirm.

Every fiber of your being is vibrating, all the emotions of the past week finally catching up with you in this very moment.

You’re not sure when the energy shifted, but it's gone from something warm and compassionate to something far more serious.

He loosens his grip enough for you to roll over onto your back, the breath catching in your throat at the intensity in his gaze. Yet again you’re reminded of the ocean, letting those sea green eyes with flecks of blue swallow you whole.

When you speak, your voice is shaking like the rest of your body, your words muffled with unspilled tears. “I’m so tired of being lonely, Finnick.”

“Then don't be.” Without hesitation, his lips dip down to meet yours, and it feels like you've jumped head first into a frozen lake, then dipped into molten lava the way you're both shivering and on fire at the exact same time.

They're warm and soft and they feel like the home you've been craving, and it’s crazy you could ever think otherwise. His hand reached up to cup your face and glide a thumb over your cheekbone, the rest of his fingers tangling their way into the hairs at the nape of your neck.

As he pulls you impossibly closer, the kiss deepens and you can finally taste him. It’s so new it just makes you hungrier, like you’ve been starving your whole life until now.

It makes you feel alive again.

You whine as he separates from you, then quickly change your tune as his mouth reattaches further down. The sensation of his cool teeth scraping against the delicate skin of your neck, followed by the warmth of his tongue elicits a moan which he quickly swallows with another kiss.

You want him more than anything you’ve wanted in your entire life, you're sure of it.

Still connected, your hands trail down the exquisite planes of his chest to the ridges of his abs, marveling at the hard muscle and how they flex instinctively with each touch.

He's just as touchy, mesmerized by the softness of your skin as his hand slips under your shirt and inches its way up to the underside of your breath, stopping immediately when you let out a soft gasp.

He whispers your name, coaxing the two of you apart just long enough for him to look at you. Really look at you — not just as an enemy, or a fellow mentor, or even a friend. He stares at you like you're the only other person on the planet, the only one that ever mattered.

The intensity of these emotions startle you and you instinctively draw back, because how can you feel so strongly for someone you’ve known for so little time?

“Are you okay?” He asks immediately, his hands leaving your body and leaving you not only cold, but wanting more.

You nod earnestly, “I just got overwhelmed for a second— I’m good. You don't have to coddle me.”

He shakes his head. “I'm not coddling— I’m just making sure this is something you want to do.”

You remember then, the conversation you’d had with him about Eulalia’s death.

And I was fourteen when it started, but they lied about that too.

Suddenly you feel ill— no, selfish. Your hand immediately retracts from its place by his torso. “I’m so sorry, I should've asked— I didn't even think—”

He cuts you off with a kiss, a sweet and gentle thing that eddies all worries from your mind. You doubt he's ever kissed anyone with such tenderness before, especially since he's said his only encounters have been with Capitol citizens. “It's okay,” is all he says.

This time it's you who surges forward and closes the gap, desperate to make up for the lost seconds you'd spent talking.

If you were going slowly and sweetly before, pulled back by hesitation, it's all gone now. Finnick’s fingers unfurl from the back of your neck and trail down to your hips, pulling them flush to his own. You felt his desire for you then and there, evident through the thin material of his pajama pants, and suppressed a shudder.

He continues grasping at your hips until he finally rolls flat on his back with you on top of him, head bumping against the blanket roof of the pillow fort.

One slow rock of your body against his and you know it's all over. “Please—” you beg, your earlier conversation still on your mind though you were desperate not to let it ruin the mood. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

His fingers gripped your hips even tighter, staring at you like you were ethereal. “I don't think I’d ever ask you to do that,” he admits, which only makes you blush harder, on top of the heat you were originally feeling. You kiss him again, desperate for the feel of his lips on your own.

Your hips rolled more forcefully this time, earning a moan from Finnick’s lips that barely escaped past your own. He broke the kiss for a moment, only to tug impatiently at the thin shirt that did little to cover your hardened nipples, which had grown sensitive to the slightest touch. Once the shirt was off and he was in full view of your newly bared skin, he reattached your lips immediately, then broke the kiss yet again to stare. He shifted you easily so that he was more in a sitting position with you on his lap, his back pressed against the bottom of the sofa behind you.

You felt slightly embarrassed at this and the way his sea green eyes roamed your skin, devouring every inch that he came into contact with.

It seemed like he was completely in tune with your mind, always knowing what you were thinking without you saying anything. “You're so beautiful,” he whispered, swallowing hard before bringing his hands up to your chest. They were large, warm and a welcome contact against your breasts, which were aching for something. You arched your back towards him, desperate for more, more, more, and let out a sigh of pleasure as he kneaded them between his hands before bringing his mouth to your chest.

He trailed open mouthed kisses around the swells of your breasts, teasing you as his tongue before taking one nipple into his mouth.

You don't think you can wait honestly. You're certain you’re a wet mess beneath the silk of your pajama shorts, so desperate to feel him you want to skip everything else.

Finnick seems to be keen on taking his time though. When his hands leave your breasts and trail down to the waistband of your shorts, you stop him, shaking your head ever so slightly.

“No,” you remove his hands and urge him to lie flat on his back, wetting your lips in anticipation. “I want to say sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?” he looks at you through half lidded eyes. When you plant a kiss on his collarbone and suck a hickey onto the hard planes of his chest, his eyes immediately widen as he lets out a groan. You can feel his heartbeat increase rapidly as your kisses descend downward, taking your time to kiss every freckle, every scar, everything imperfect that makes him so much more real.

One hand tangles itself in your hair when you reach his waistband and palm him over his pants, while the other fists the blanket next to him as he tries to regulate his breathing.

He can't help it though, as his hips buck involuntarily at your touch. You know it's just his body’s reaction but it makes you feel desired; something you haven't felt in a long, long time.

Your fingers hook into the waistband of his pajama pants and boxers, a little nervous at the sight that awaits you. It's long and thick and already glistening with precum, twitching as you wrap a hand around his cock and truly feel him for the first time.

“You don't—” his eyes flutter shut, like doing anything but moaning requires great effort “—have to apologize for anything.”

“Finnick,” you laugh a little. “I want to.”

He seems to like this answer, his head falling back on the pillow behind him as you flatten your tongue and run it along the underside of his cock.

He’s so obviously into you there’s no time for any insecurities to cross your mind. It's given you a new state of confidence as you take the head of his cock into your mouth, swirling your tongue around and lapping up the bead of precum that had gathered. Finnick’s hip twitch, like he's fighting the urge to thrust up into your mouth.

You don't want him to hold back, not even in the slightest. You want to see him completely unraveled at your touch, which is why you squeeze his hip and look up at him through your lashes.

“Fuck,” he gets out through gritted teeth, the hand in your hair tightening its hold as you begin to move, bobbing your head in a steady rhythm, determined to take him deeper with each one.

“You're so— I—” he can't even muster a full sentence as you moan around him, sending vibrations down. It's addictive, having so much power over him while also wanting so desperately to please him.

His hand that's in your hair pulls you back from his cock.

You begin a protest, “I wasn't done—”

“I need to feel you,” he chokes out, fingers still locked in your hair as he brings your head towards him. Your lips crash together in a perfectly synchronized move as he sits up, flipping you over so that your back is now the one pressed against the blanketed floor.

Despite his eyes being so wild with desire, Finnick is so, so gentle as he connects your lips together once again, this kiss being so much more searing than any of the ones you've had before.

He wants you, so bad he thinks he might die if he doesn't get you. But when he looks down at you, eyes wide and wanting, he knows there's no need to rush, because he has you. All of you.

His hands fumble with your shorts before he pulls them down your hips, tossing them to the side before returning his full attention to you. His hands tease you as they pry your legs apart, trailing slowly up your legs and rubbing small circles along your inner thigh.

“Stop— teasing—” you squirm, desperate for something, anything he could give you.

“Patience is a virtue, you know,” he grins, his hands sneaking up further and further until they've just barely brushed your clit, but it's enough to have you whining again.

“Finni—” he cuts his name off with a kiss, this one just as sweet as the rest of them. At the same time, he connects fully to your clit, rubbing slow, tantalizing circles that have your hips bucking for more.

He takes this as an invitation to sink one long finger into you, enjoying how your back arched as you chased his touch. After more slow, easygoing pumping he added another finger.

“That's it,” he coos, his eyes never leaving yours.

You realize at this point neither of you have been very chatty — but that's probably because you prefer to have your lips connected, not spilling out ramblings.

“Please, Finnick— I can't wait any longer, I—” You let out a moan as he adds a third finger, and you can feel the familiar tingling sensation begin to take over.

“You can do it,” he coaxes, “Just a second."

You try, you really do— but when he curls his fingers inside you and presses his thumb to your clit the coil unravels and you're gripping his shoulders, crying out his name as your fingers rake through the soft bronze waves of his hair and tug on them ever so slightly.

You inhale and exhale quickly, trying to regain your composure. He's looking at you with a self satisfied smile, but you're not satiated. You want him, all of him, and you tell him so.

This time he obliges.

He leans in and kisses you once more, tongue sliding past your lips, and you can feel his cock pressed against you. He's hesitating again, half wanting to make sure you're okay, half trying to reassure himself it's not a dream. It's real, he's about to be inside you, and you're practically begging for it.

In an act of finality you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer until in one thrust, he's done it.

It stings, and you gasp, only because it's been a while and his size takes some getting used to. His fingers grip your thighs as gently as he can muster, his lips never leaving yours.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Finnick groans, burying his face in your neck and peppering kisses along your collarbone.

His pace is slow and steady at first. As it becomes more comfortable, his pace becomes more relentless, his hips snapping against yours as he fucked you with deep, powerful strokes that leave you breathless, sending scratches down his back and marring his otherwise perfect skin.

His thrusts increase in both force and in pace as you feel every inch of him filling you.

You're overwhelmed with pleasure, unable to say anything and resorting to just squeezing his shoulders and digging your nails into them.

His lips find yours for the millionth time, and it's then you can feel that all too familiar pressure building.

“That's it, sweetheart,” he panted between kisses. “You’re so perfect — squeezing my cock so good.”

You can't muster a response as the overwhelming pleasure of your second orgasm overtakes you, not even noticing Finnick continuing his pace to chase his own release.

You feel him as he collapses on top of you, pressing a soft kiss to your neck before he rolls off you. You're empty and cold for a moment before his arms wrap around you. Their weight is a welcome presence. It makes you feel protected. Safe.

He falls asleep before you do, and in the pale morning light, not only is Finnick’s face relaxed, it's truly weightless. His arms don't move from your torso, even in sleep. His eyebrows occasionally twitch in response to whatever dream he's having, but overall he looks so peaceful. So much younger, too, without the frown or seductive smile he normally wore.

It's then that you decide you’re no longer as lonely as you thought, because you need to study him for the rest of your life.

You’ve never been inside the President’s Mansion. It’s even more intimidating than the grounds that surround it. The walls are tall and imposing, making the rooms feel empty and chilled and making you feel tiny and insignificant.

They’re decorated with wood paneling, hand carved with so many details it makes you dizzy trying to look at them all. Plush rugs just as ornate as the walls cover the dark wood of the floors, making your steps — and anyone else’s — near silent.

“Your home is beautiful,” you breathe out to the man in front of you. He doesn’t look that intimidating, but you are on the verge of screaming in terror if he doesn’t say something soon.

“Thank you, my dear. It’s a shame you haven’t gotten the chance to visit before now.” President Snow motions for you to take a seat in front of his desk instead of continuing to stand there awkwardly.

You fumble your way into the chair, and you hope he can’t hear your heart threatening to leap out of your chest and explode all over his beautiful carved oak desk.

“Have I done something wrong? Like— am I in trouble?” You force out the question that’s been eating you alive.

He smiles, the corners of his mouth pushing into his puffy cheeks. “How did you find mentoring with Finnick Odair to be?”

The way his smile doesn’t reach his eyes terrifies you, but not more than the fact that he hasn’t answered your question. The way his eyes, beady and cold, are staring at you expectantly suggests he knows everything that happened in the tribute apartment. Everything.

“Oh— it… it was fine.” Your nails are now digging into your palms, probably strong enough to draw blood.

“I’ve heard you and Finnick Odair have come to a newfound… friendship.”

Your blood runs cold, confirming every anxious thought you’ve had since stepping foot into this place. “We…”

He raises a hand to stop you, like he’s not interested in any excuses. “I’m sure he told you how he helps the Capitol,” he began, and you feel sick. Help was a poor excuse of a word to describe what Snow did to Finnick. “And I’m sure you know why you haven’t been asked to help as well.”

Because everyone who loves me is six feet under, you think. All except— no. He wouldn't.

“Well I’m telling you, that changes now. If you have any reservations about this, I encourage you to think of your new friend.”

There’s no way he would harm Finnick to keep you in line, he’s so much more valuable than you are. Surely he’s bluffing, and you want to say that, when he continues.

“If you’re willing to risk his life to see if I’m bluffing, there’s nothing stopping you. I would just encourage you to think hard.”

Panic is rising in your chest, threatening to force sobs out your throat as you nod. “Can I go now?”

He nods, and you try not to sprint out of his office.

Finnick, on the other hand, doesn’t need a meeting with President Snow to be reminded his newfound fondness for you has its consequences.

Once Mags had passed, he was supposed to be free. Now, he’s only extended his sentence to life.

#finnick odair x reader #the hunger games #thg series #sunrise on the reaping #finnick odair x you #finnick odair angst #finnick odair fluff #finnick odair #finnick odair smut #thg fanfiction #thg #thg finnick

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wife-of-all-dilfs · 2 years ago

Text

a darling and a virgin | f. odair

masterlist

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

pairing: finnick odair x reader

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

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

word count: 6.8k

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

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

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

For six whole months.

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

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

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

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

“Pretty cold out here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something inside him snapped and he broke from his stupor.

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

“Finnick.”

“He’s a fucking—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re a virgin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alright, now he was really starting to scare you.

“Okay,” you said warily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But your gaze remained on the bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you nervous?” he asked softly.

You nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

“Finnick,” you whispered. “Kiss me.”

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

Finnick Odair was kissing you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that okay?” he asked.

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

“Okay, good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, please,” you breathed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does it hurt?

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

He returned your smile with a grin. Gladly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you alright?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Are you sure? His lustful eyes spoke.

You pulled him back down to your mouth. Absolutely.

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

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

“Fuck,” he breathed.

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

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

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

“Finnick,” you moaned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes!” you cried out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it hit you all at once. “Fu—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He whispered, “Me too.”

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m0nnypie · 3 months ago

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I'VE GOT MY EYES ON YOU

Finnick Odair x fem!reader

Summary: Just the pov of Finnick loving you over the years, and remembering everything about you

Warnings: cute but with a bit of angst on Finn's part. Other than that, all happiness and love.

a/n: Well, excuse any spelling mistakes, English isn't my first language. And I tried my best to make it as much like Finnick as I could, but this is my first fic of his lol. Anyway, I hope you like it and enjoy <3

Words: 1.8k

Finnick remembers the first time he saw you. He was eight and you were only six. Your father had gone to see his for some reason Finnick can't remember — not least because he hadn't been paying attention to them. What he does remember is you glaring at him. It made him laugh, which only deepened your frown.

He imagines it was because you didn't like him very much at the time. He didn’t blame you. With your older brother constantly saying that no boy was any good, it was hard to be friends with anyone he was always badmouthing. Finnick didn’t blame your brother either — in a world like theirs, any protection, even unnecessary, was better than none. Still, nothing changed how cute and funny he had found you at the time. After that day, you never met in person again.

The time he considers the second was when his name was called at the reaping. He remembers your eyes glued to him; you were twelve, and he was fourteen. He could feel your pity seeping through his skin. He didn’t blame you — after all, like it or not, it was still the Hunger Games. But knowing that you were looking at him made it almost funny to him, and it was with that thought in mind that he entered the arena.

The third time was when he returned home victorious. Of course, there were lots of people congratulating him — his relieved family and everyone else — but the only thing he saw was you, walking toward him. He didn't think it was of his own volition, considering you was with your father and brother, but as soon as you approached, you wore the best, most beautiful smile he had ever seen you give. And for the first time in years, you spoke to him.

"Congratulations on winning, Finnick. I'm glad you're back... well, we're glad."

He could see the smile on your father’s face, though he couldn’t say the same for your brother. Not that he minded. So he just smiled back at you — not the smile he reserved for the Capitol, but a real smile.

"Thank you. I'm glad to see you too."

He saw you get embarrassed, and he wanted to laugh at that. But he wouldn’t — not in front of your father. Not yet.

For the rest of the day, he listened to his father talk about how much your father complained about you, because you wouldn't stop talking about Finnick. His father laughed as he ruffled his hair affectionately. And it’s not like Finnick was going to complain.

Everyone said it was normal for girls to have a little crush on boys who won at something — at least, that’s what the people he knew told him. Maybe that’s why, two months later, it was as if Finnick no longer existed to you. You were back in your own world, with your friends, without him. Not that it bothered him — not really.

The next time he really saw you, you were sixteen, and he was eighteen. He was a mentor now, and when your name was called at the reaping, he could see on your face how much you hated it. Most people didn't care or thought that a dead kid from District 4 wouldn't make much difference, since you wasn’t a Career or someone important. Finnick hated it — but he would never say so.

He also remembers how, for whatever reason, you didn't put any effort into your training. He thought it was because of what everyone thought of you as a tribute, or maybe you just didn't give a damn about dying in the arena. He didn't admit it at the time, but he had been terrified that you wouldn't make it out of the arena alive. He also remembers how surprised everyone was by your training score — including him. It was a ten. He remembers it clearly, and you didn't seem to mind.

On the day of the Games, all you did was say goodbye to your stylists. You didn't look in anyone else's direction, but he didn't blame you. If you were going to become one of the last survivors, there would come a point when you would have to kill someone. It wasn't something everyone wanted to face.

He remembers seeing you in the arena — you did well. For the first few days, you kept to yourself, hiding and trying to survive. But at some point — he can't say exactly when — things changed. Perhaps it was when the male tribute from your district was killed, or when you saw a pair of boys, just twelve years old, die.

It wasn't a change that anyone on Capitol had noticed. But Finnick knew you well enough to say that the deaths of people you barely knew had affected you. He still remembers when one of the tributes from District 4 was a twelve-year-old boy - you didn't know him, but you still went to say goodbye. You were only fourteen.

And at that very moment, you had just thrown an axe into the head of the boy from District 3 who had killed the twelve-year-olds. You hadn't thought — you had just acted. Obviously, this had a positive consequence for you in the Capitol's eyes, because a while later, you were sent food that would last for about four days.

He remembers the exact moment you won. He wanted to say he was relieved, but that wouldn't be fair to you. Until you left for District 4, you didn't say a single word to him. Perhaps because no one was looking at you with such high expectations anymore, you felt confident enough to speak.

"Do you regret killing those people to survive?"

"No."

He had to be honest; he couldn't lie. But after that, he didn't hear your voice again for the rest of the journey — you didn't even look at him. Still, when you arrived in District 4, you acted as if you were fine, as if you didn’t care.

He also remembers when you became friends. It was a good thing — a big step, considering that before, you wouldn’t even look him in the face. Now he understood why. Even though it hadn't seemed like it before, you had lots of friends. You were funny, entertaining, and you cooked extremely well. Finnick admitted that he envied your food — and he couldn’t lie about that.

He obviously remembers the following year, when the two of you were mentors. You were only seventeen, but you didn't seem bothered about directing two people toward a possible death. He saw how hard you worked not to get attached to either of the tributes, because if they didn't come back, you wouldn't feel guilty. But when Annie returned, alive and safe, he also saw you break down. You hugged her as if she were going to disappear. And he didn’t blame you for that either. Over the next year, no one ever brought up the subject of Annie becoming a mentor.

When you were nineteen, things went to another level. Once ignored, now he was kissed when no one was watching — well, that was a breakthrough. He remembers every kiss, every smile. He also remembers when you woke him up at dawn to help Annie. He didn't mind; he was spending time with you and helping a friend.

While he was making tea, if he looked over his shoulder, he could see you hugging her, whispering what sounded like a lullaby — the kind you sing to babies when they can't stop crying. He could see how much you loved and cared for Annie, and that always made him fall in love with you a little more, even if he didn’t know it at the time.

He certainly remembers the time he told you he loved you. You had just turned twenty-one. You said it back. And you held each other for the rest of the night.

He also remembers the 74th Hunger Games. He saw your relief when those two young people, madly in love — though he didn't believe in that farce — survived together. You didn’t know them, but you were obviously happy for them.

He also — sadly — remembers the Quarter Quell. When his name was called, he had imagined it would happen. But that day, once again, he saw you. Annie had been called, and before Mags could volunteer, you did. He saw you hugging Annie, comforting her as he heard her whisper "sorry," but you just smiled at her. And as you hugged, he heard you say:

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't let that happen to her again."

"I know..."

He didn’t know. No — actually, he did. He just didn’t want to admit it, because admitting it meant facing the reality that this year, he’d be going into the arena with you. And he didn’t even want to think about that.

In the arena, he did everything he could to protect you, Katniss, and Peeta. He really wanted the plan to work. He believed that you would be fine if they separated. But when he woke up, you weren’t there with him. You were in the Capitol with the others. For the first time in years, he wished he had died in that arena when he was fourteen.

He felt it the moment he got you back — you weren’t really there. He spoke to you, but you didn’t listen. And if he tried to touch you, he saw you despair, screaming as if he had hurt you. And he felt that way — he felt guilty for letting the Capitol lay even a single finger on you. They told him to take it easy. He wanted to tell everyone to fuck off, but when he looked at you, he knew they were right.

At that very moment, he was keeping you company, obviously giving you space — he didn’t want you to get hurt. But when he heard you calling him, he admitted he was desperate; you hadn’t even looked him in the face for days. So probably, if you had asked him to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness, he would have — even if he didn’t need to. But he held back.

"Finnick?"

"Yes, dear? Do you need anything?"

"I'm sorry..." It came out as a whisper.

"Hey, hey, what are you apologizing for? You have nothing to apologize for."

"I..." You didn’t manage to finish before tears welled up in your eyes.

"Hey, hey, please don’t cry..." He tried his best to comfort you without having to touch you. But before he could decide what to do, you hugged him — a little hesitantly, but you hugged him. And at that moment, he collapsed. He shouldn’t have cried — not when you were in such a fragile moment — but he couldn’t help it.

For a moment in his life, he had thought he had lost you, that he would never see you again. And at that moment, he decided he would never let go of you — not with the possibility of losing you again. He would never let that happen. He would always see you now.

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spencersmopbucket · 3 months ago

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Jabberjay Calls | Finnick Odair

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Summary: You black out in the Quarter Quell — when you awaken, you believe you've killed your husband. The jabberjays don't help.

The next thing you knew, you were sprinting.

Your chest heaved with full, panicked breaths, each less relieving than the last. You ducked tree limbs, jumped over rocks, did anything you could to just keep running. You were confused. You were terrified.

A scent caught your nose. Metallic, one you'd smelled before. One you hadn't smelled since your Games. Since you'd last slit a throat.

Glancing down, you let out a gasp, almost loosing your footing.

Your hands were covered in a thick sheen of blood, shining in the light of dusk.

You stumbled to a halt, chest rising and falling as the world tilted beneath your feet. The blood was warm, sticky, too real. And it wasn’t yours.

“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling as the trees around you pressed in too close. “No, no, no—”

What the hell had you done? What had you done that was so bad you couldn't remember it?

Your legs gave out beneath you, knees slamming into the mossy forest floor as you stared at your stained hands. You didn’t remember what happened — and that was the worst part. Because in the arena, if you couldn’t remember, it meant you lost control. And losing control meant someone else had died.

A sob left your lips. Your breaths became more frantic, shorter, and not relieving at all. You felt like you couldn't get a single molecule of oxygen into your lungs.

“Finnick,” you choked, your voice breaking on his name.

The jabberjays heard it.

They swarmed.

Suddenly, the trees were echoing with his voice — agonized, screaming in pain. Your name on his lips. Begging. Crying. Screaming like his soul was being ripped out.

Your hands flew to your ears. “No! Stop it! It’s not real!”

But it was real, wasn’t it? You’d blacked out. You’d been covered in blood. You’d heard nothing from him since you'd come back to. You'd heard nothing from the one that was usually always by your side.

You curled up, sobs wracking from your body, until you felt it. The acidic feeling in your stomach, crawling up your throat. Leaning over, vomit sprayed from your lips. You choked and coughed as the jabberjays continued to wail, your husband screaming in despair.

Blood smeared onto your clothes and onto the ground as you tried to brace yourself. The smell of the blood unearthed another wave of vomit.

You collapsed forward on your hands, shaking so violently it felt like your bones might crack under the weight of your grief. The jabberjays were merciless. They repeated his voice like a broken record —twisting it, warping it. "Please! Don’t — Name — please don’t leave me!" His cry pierced the air like a knife through flesh. "It’s me! I love you!"

And you believed it. You believed every damn word.

Because why else would the blood be there? Why else would you be alone?

Your mind was spiraling, slipping into that abyss you hadn’t touched since your own Games. Since you’d thought survival meant severing yourself from humanity. But Finnick had stitched something soft into your heart again. Something real.

Now it was tearing apart.

You retched again — dry this time, your throat raw and lips trembling. You didn’t know how long you stayed like that. Minutes? Hours?

You looked up to the sky, a scream tearing through your throat. Hot tears flowed down your face.

You didn't even register the strong arms wrapping around your frame. The familiar scent. The quieting of the jabberjays as you were hauled off somewhere else.

You didn’t fight the arms pulling you in — maybe because part of you thought you were finally dying, and it was death cradling you. Maybe because it didn’t matter anymore.

But then — a voice. Not the high-pitched mimicry of the jabberjays. Not a hallucination.

A real voice.

“Hey. Hey, hey — breathe. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Finnick.

You blinked, your vision swimming, unable to believe it until his thumb brushed under your eye, wiping away tears and blood and dirt like he was afraid you’d shatter.

"I hurt you—" You sobbed frantically, looking down at your hands. "Blood, there's blood—"

“Honey, no, no, hey — look at me.” Finnick cupped your face in both hands, gently but firmly pulling your gaze back to his. His eyes —those sea glass eyes — were wide, desperate, but whole. “You didn’t hurt me. Not a scratch, okay? This isn’t my blood.”

You shook your head, breath hitching, but he didn’t let you slip away again.

“I swear it,” he said, his voice trembling now, cracking like a wave against rocks. “You blacked out for maybe two minutes. You bolted into the trees. I ran after you. I never stopped.”

Your hands hovered uselessly between your bodies, stained and trembling. “Then whose blood is it?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “There were mutts in the area. Could be one of them. Could be one of the other tributes who didn’t make it out in time. But it’s not yours, and it’s not mine.”

“I thought I killed you,” you whispered, eyes welling again. “And the birds — they used your voice. They knew what it would do to me.”

Finnick’s expression crumpled for a brief, unbearable moment before he pulled you in, arms wrapping tight like he could protect you from everything if he just held hard enough.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I should’ve gotten to you sooner.”

Your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt, still trembling, still unsure if any of this was real. But he was solid. He was warm. His heartbeat thrummed steadily against your ear, proof of life.

“I couldn’t hear you,” you whispered, voice wrecked and thin. “I kept calling, but I couldn’t find you. I thought — God, Finnick, I thought—”

“I know,” he said, breaking a little with every word. “I know. I was calling for you too.”

You felt his hand slide up your back, anchoring you, grounding you. He didn’t try to rush you or pull away. He just held you, like he was trying to hold your broken pieces together.

The jabberjays were gone now. The screams had faded. All that was left was the humid quiet of the jungle and your ragged breathing as you clung to him.

You began to cry again. To sob. You didn't know why. Fear. Relief. You clutched the material of Finnick's suit.

"Shh, baby. I've got you." He cooed, pulling you impossibly closer.

He rocked you gently, as if you were something fragile — and maybe you were. Maybe the Games had finally cracked you down the center, and only Finnick’s arms were keeping you from breaking apart completely.

“It’s okay,” he whispered into your hair, over and over. “You’re okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You wept into his shoulder until your throat burned and your fingers ached from how tightly you were holding on. It was primal, wordless. A grief too big for language, a terror too deep for sense. But Finnick never let go.

Eventually, the sobs quieted into hiccups, then shaky breaths. You were still trembling, your whole body aching with exhaustion, but the panic had dulled — replaced now by the awful throb of aftermath.

Finnick pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering. “Let’s get out of here, alright? Let me clean you up.”

You nodded against him, too tired to speak.

He helped you to your feet like you weighed nothing, like he’d carry you if you asked. You didn’t have the strength to argue.

And as he guided you through the trees, his hand in yours, you realized something that terrified and comforted you all at once:

You would do anything to keep him alive. Even if it meant breaking yourself open all over again.

The walk was quiet.

Finnick kept his hand clasped with yours the entire way, thumb stroking the back of your fingers like he needed to remind himself you were still here. Occasionally, he’d glance over, watching you like you might vanish again — like if he looked away for too long, the jungle might swallow you whole.

Eventually, the trees broke into a clearing, revealing a small stream winding through mossy rocks. The water sparkled in the early evening light, soft and cold-looking, untouched by blood or nightmares.

“Here,” Finnick murmured. “Sit.”

You obeyed, letting him guide you to a flat stone by the edge of the water. Your hands were still shaking, your body humming with fatigue, but Finnick was steady. Solid.

He knelt beside you, pulling a small packet from his belt — standard Games-issued medical gear. But in his hands, even something as impersonal as gauze looked like an act of love.

“Let me see,” he said softly, and you gave him your hands.

He dipped a cloth in the cold stream and began gently wiping the blood from your skin. He didn’t flinch at the stains, didn’t comment on the cuts or bruises blooming along your arms from your frantic run through the trees. He just worked in silence, careful and slow, like he was afraid of hurting you further.

The cold made you hiss a little, and Finnick looked up instantly, his brows pulling together. “Sorry. I’ll be quick.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “Doesn’t hurt as much now.”

He smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I scared myself,” you admitted, voice barely audible.

Once your hands were clean, he dried them gently and started wrapping a few fingers with gauze, where the skin had torn. His hands were warm, sure. So careful.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmured, brushing your knuckles. “Want to sit back? I’ll do your face next.”

You let him maneuver you like a doll, leaning against a mossy boulder while he soaked another cloth. This time, when he touched your face, you didn’t flinch — not even when the water traced over scrapes or when his fingers ghosted beneath your jaw.

“Better?” he asked when he was done, voice low.

You nodded, watching him with wide, wet eyes.

He reached out, brushing a thumb beneath your lower lip, wiping away the last streak of blood you hadn’t noticed.

Finnick didn’t speak. He just leaned in.

His kiss was soft — impossibly soft for someone who’d seen so much war and horror. His mouth tasted like saltwater and something sweeter, like a promise. He kissed you like he was trying to stitch all your broken pieces together again. Like if he loved you hard enough, the Games couldn’t touch you anymore.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

"You're so beautiful. So strong, yeah? The strongest woman I know." He said softly, a gentle smile on his face.

Your breath caught, tears stinging your eyes again — but not from fear this time. From the sheer weight of his tenderness.

You shook your head slowly, voice cracking. “I don’t feel strong.”

Finnick leaned in, brushing his nose lightly against yours. “That’s the thing about strength,” he whispered. “It’s not about never breaking. It’s about surviving even when you do.”

You blinked at him, lips parted slightly, as if trying to memorize the shape of every word. Every look.

“And you,” he continued, pressing his forehead to yours again, “you survive. Even when the world tries to rip you apart.”

His hand found yours again, fingers threading through like it was second nature.

"I love you." You said, a tear slipping down your face. Through the blurry layer of your tears, you spotted the glint of Finnick's wedding ring. You gently stroked it with a finger.

Finnick looked down as your finger traced the silver band around his finger, the symbol of a promise made long before this nightmare began. His lips trembled with something that looked like awe, like reverence, like he couldn’t believe someone as shattered and beautiful as you had ever chosen him.

He brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles, slow and tender.

“I wear this because you’re my home, you're the best choice I've ever made,” he murmured against your skin. “Even in here. Especially in here. I love you more than words could ever tell you.”

You let out a soft, broken sound — not quite a sob, not quite a laugh — and leaned forward until your forehead was tucked beneath his chin, letting the steady beat of his heart calm the shaking inside you.

“I thought I’d lost you,” you whispered. “I thought the Capitol had finally taken everything.”

Finnick wrapped his arms around you again, holding you like a man clinging to the last piece of light in the world.

“They can’t have you,” he said, voice fierce and low in your ear. “They’ll never take you from me.”

You stayed there for a long time — just the two of you, curled together by the water as the sun dipped lower and the jungle quieted around you. For now, you were safe. For now, the blood had dried, the voices had gone silent, and you had each other.

And somehow, that was enough.

#fanfiction #the hunger games fanfic #the hunger games fanfiction #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen #finnick odair x you #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair fanfic #finnick x reader #finnick odair #finnick odair fluff #johanna mason #catching fire #mockingjay #thg x reader #thg fanfiction #angst with comfort

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etherealily · 4 months ago

Text

same page? // f.odair

My other Finnick fics, if you have the time.

This was from my poll .

Finnick Odair + fem!reader. Warnings: Cuss words.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : Panem's most publicized situationship.

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Make them speculate.

Make them wonder.

Distract them.

Entice them.

Convince them.

He tucked your hair behind your ear, kissing your temple as he did so. Your insides turned. "Are we on or off today?"

"He didn't say."

"Hm.", he murmured against your forehead. "It's up to us, then."

You took a sip of your champagne.

Listen, Finnick Odair was a fucking menace.

Seven years. Seven years of this shit.

"Do you never wonder what it'd be like if we actually did end up marrying each other?"

"The entire Capitol would burn down.", you scoffed softly, eyes running around the room.

"Snow would be pissed, for one. It's a will-they/won't-they until we do."

"Which we won't."

He pouted, shaking his head as he brought your hand to his chest. "You wound me."

Your whirlwind romance had swept Panem off its feet. According to their knowledge, you'd first met at a Post-Games party, after your first time as a mentor, and you couldn't keep your eyes off each other. Cue the mess.

On and off. Sometimes, never, and always. That was you and Finnick, in the eyes of Panem.

It wasn't exactly all false. In the beginning it really had just been you, Finnick, and a couple of nights that neither of you wished to label. But there was no sex, that was what was morbidly hilarious here. Just deep, drunken conversations.

In Panem, the most intimate thing you could do with someone was not sex, no, it was developing a true connection, and that's what had happened all those nights — what had scared you both.

So sue you if you didn't want to label that shit. It'd only end badly for the both of you.

Sure, Finnick might have thought he might, possibly, maybe want more. But that was only on late nights when he was watching the moon or nostalgic footage of District Four on the TV, but at the end of the day, both of you knew this decision was the best.

Toxic, definitely, but at the end of the day, although his long string of dalliances followed his reputation everywhere he went, he always came back to you.

Panem thought it was because no matter how twisted, he always loved you.

Snow thought Panem would like that.

You preferred that than actually discussing with him why he always came back.

"Off.", you replied.

"We've been 'off' too many times this year. Snow's going to freak."

He was right. "Fine. Is Caesar here?"

His eyes flicked around the room, scoping it out. "Yes."

You groaned. "He's going to lip read, then."

Caesar Flickerman was a dynamic host as well as an expert lip-reader. You'd only found that out on your second year of this charade, when Finnick had been talking to you about missing home - taboo topic around the Capitol - and Caesar had caught it.

All over the news the next day. He'd had to cover it up and say he meant you were his home. The Capitol went positively feral.

"Look at you, all sexy.", Finnick whispered, with his maddening smirk. "For me?"

"For me." He rolled his eyes. Wrong answer, his glare told you.

"Tell me, gorgeous.", he breathed, hands placed tantalizingly and strategically on your shoulders. "Do the cameras love you as much as I do?"

His iconic line. He'd come up with it three years ago, and it was a cop-out for when he was too tired to come up with any other segue, and besides, the Capitol loved it. It was basically code for you to chill out on the responses, because he was way too exhausted that day.

"Do the cameras love you as much as your family does? Or do you just live here, now? In the Capitol? In the limelight?"

Wait, what?

"I live in my district. Most of the year." The hell was he doing?

"Do you now, beautiful? And why is it you're always here?"

"Why are you always here?"

"Photo ops, of course. Snow needs his best out here all the time to make the Capitol as spectacular-looking as he needs.", he replied, eyes glistening.

"I'm here for the same reason."

"Yes, but you act like you don't give a shit where you are. Like you winning the Games was nothing. Like you being bestowed with riches - more than most, actually, because of the hot little outfits that you model- is nothing. Impassive, deadpan, nonchalant, innocent but too-cool-for-school Y/N.", he mocked.

No way was he actually letting anyone lip read this.

"Caesar's not here, is he?"

He chuckled, nodding. "You're right. I just needed an excuse for you to listen."

"I will not have you judge me."

"Let me kiss you, Y/N."

"What?"

"Please."

"I am not going to let you kiss me. We've got... we can't act as if we've had this conversation in private. It has to progress slowly. Every single moment of ours must be 'accidentally' captured, and jus—"

"Same page?"

He always asked you that before he did something he thought would get the cameras off your back for a couple weeks.

"No! No, no, not this time, what?", you hissed through gritted teeth, doing your damndest to work on your ventriloquism skills.

He rolled his eyes, his lips moving to your cheek. "Let. Me. Kiss. You. I swear, you'll understand."

Finnick's knuckles on your jaw, he tilted his head, as if to say 'come on, I'm already this close'.

You acquiesced.

He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, before murmuring against them. "Kill Snow with me."

You didn't pull away, you didn't push him away, you didn't frown, you didn't scream. You just froze.

"Johanna— everyone, basically, is on board.", he said, in between kisses to your unresponsive lips. "And the Mockingjay. She... god, Y/N, please, I can tell you're two seconds away from killing me, but please—."

His kisses kept growing more feverish by the second, his hands cupping your face and using it to pull you closer. It was getting increasingly hard to ascertain whether he was addicted to your lips or the words he was corrupting them with.

"Finnick, Finnick, wait—"

"Please, please, Y/N." He was begging. He was pleading. "Just... shh."

"I'm not — stop.", you hissed, and he begrudgingly pulled away, though his lips lingered on your neck. "I'm not going to kill anyone. Not Snow, not you— though I should probably kill you for this. What if you're mic'd? Snow's done that befor—"

"You wouldn't be doing any of the killing, my love.", he smiled against your neck, his hands pulling you flush against his body, and something told you it wasn't even because this whole conversation was supposed to be a secret anymore.

He was drunk. You'd only seen Finnick drunk a couple times - the nights that had led you two to being friends (?) and being spotted talking (obviously fucking, according to the Capitol) - but it had never been this bad. He'd always had some form of control over his faculties.

"Finnick, there's cameras right now, we can't—"

"I'm in love with you, Y/N, more than the cameras."

One good thing about Finnick was that his words never slurred when he was psychotically, unforgivably inebriated. They simply hastened.

"Okay, Finnick, I'll get you back to your—"

"Like so much, and I—"

Before he could say something that could be picked up by the cameras around you and analysed by Caesar, you shook your head, covering his mouth with your palm.

He frowned, making unintelligible noises against your hand.

You rested your forehead against his as you whispered. "We'll talk about this later. Get some rest."

════════════════════ ⋆⋅🌀⋅⋆ ═══════════════════

Hours later, you knocked lightly on the door to his room before walking in gingerly.

He lay down, looking up at the ceiling as though it had every answer he could possibly need.

"Finnick?"

"I'm... a failure."

Shit. "Now, Finnick, remember what you have to do when you think like this? Think of your family. Who you're protecting."

"Oh, my god, princess, it's not himself he's disappointed at."

Johanna motherfucking Mason.

"Johanna?"

"In the flesh. But I won't be for long if you don't listen.", she reminded, elbow on her knee.

You closed the door behind you, locking it as you turned on the light. "You're in on this? It's crazy talk!"

"It's a rebellion. It supposed to sound out-there until you actually do it.", she snorted, hopping off the bay window and stretching.

"It's that District 12 Victor, isn't it? Everdeen-something? She's got you guys all riled up."

"Katniss Everdeen, yes. The Mockingjay."

"Jesus, you guys are all fuckwits."

"C'mon, baby, that's no way to be. I thought you were the polite, innocently sexy one? The one who could never even call someone stupid, let alone a fuckwit.", she pouted.

"Snow will kill everyone you've ever loved."

"He already is. Except it's slower, torturous. This way, we're nipping it at the bud so our kids don't have to go through this bullshit again. What about, uh, you two?", she teased, raising a brow as she gestured between you and a plastered Finnick groaning the headache away. "Your cute little Capitol-bred lovechild will still be made to go through the Games. You don't want that, huh?"

You groaned, yanking open the bedside drawer supply of water bottles, passing it over to him. "Jo."

She raised a brow, sitting next to you. "Y/N."

"You can't kill Snow."

"Watch me, sweetheart."

"Jo, this isn't even funny. She lucked out, alright? Katniss, you said her name was? She lucked out big time. Snow's seething. He's seething, and—"

"We know."

"Lie back down, Finnick, you're drunk."

"I'm hungover. This was a big deal for me, okay? I was nervous you'd react just like this and jeopardize it all, okay? Needed liquid courage. Cut me some slack."

"I'm leaving. I'm not going to fucking sit here and listen to you talk about a rebellion when the Capitol's at their strongest and Snow's at his angriest, it's your funer—"

"You're going back into the Arena!"

You paused at the doorway, your fingers on the frame like it was your only tether to reality. "What?"

"Heavensbee. He told us that the Quarter Quell will reap previous Victors."

"What?"

"Snow wants - needs - Katniss dead."

Your attempts to force breath to stay in your lungs proved futile when you realized exactly what that meant. "You guys are going to try protecting her?"

"We have to."

"No, actually, you don't. Finnick, please don't tell me you're going to volunteer if you aren't reaped."

He groaned, rubbing his face over his hands as he sat up. "There's one chance, and this is it. She is it."

Good lord, you were fucking surrounded by idiots.

════════════════════ ⋆⋅🌀⋅⋆ ═══════════════════

The moon was the only beauty you'd found in the Capitol.

Finnick had taught you to look at it. Especially when you were scared. Worried. Or feeling nothing. Or feeling everything. Or feeling too many things.

It worked, actually, but this time, you looked at the moon, and all you could remember was when eighteen-year-old Finnick pointed the moon out to newly-sixteen-year-old you.

"Beautiful, right?"

"Yes."

"Do you know it controls the tides?"

"What?"

"Yeah. That was my reaction when I first heard it, too!", he'd whispered. "It's your sweet sixteen, right? So just go ahead and pray that the tides change. Wish on the moon."

"Tides change?"

"You know, that this whole 'we're-in-love-spiel' can stop."

This had been the first ever year of this goldmine of a plotline for Capitol TV.

"I want to go home."

You'd said that some three times the past couple hours, but you knew Snow wouldn't let you do so.

"I know. Wish on the moon that you can do that, too. Wish on the moon you can spend all of your birthdays with the people you love. Well, besides me, of course.", he'd grinned, nudging your shoulder to make you laugh. "Just wish on the moon."

You'd closed your eyes to do just that.

"It'll take care of the rest.", he'd whispered.

Sweetest boy on Earth, he was back then.

Right now? Ugh. You wished on the moon that he'd get a brain.

A knock.

"What?!" Fine, snapping may not have been the best thing for you to be doing, as your blood pressure was already terrifyingly high.

"Can I come in?"

"Yeah, Finnick. Sure. Come in.", you mumbled, rubbing at your forehead.

"I... I can't even begin to apologise. Um... that was—"

"No, it's fine, you're good, it's wh—"

"No, that was... there is no excuse for that. Springing all that on you, and giving you all but five seconds to... I— I don't even know what I was thinking."

"Johanna got in your head, it happens.", you shrugged, watching as he frowned, sitting down opposite you on your bed, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together. Huh. Your tone was understanding, but your words gave him pause.

"Same page?"

"I'd say we are."

"I don't know.", he muttered, picking at his knuckles for a second before turning to you. "Are you with us?"

"Okay, we're not on the same page."

"I thought not."

"Finnick, this is madness. Snow is at his angriest because he got his ass handed to him by two kids from District Twelve. Twelve. Like...", you scoff-laughed, gesturing wildly to illustrate the sheer bizarrity of the situation. "That shit doesn't happen every day. He's got us both going on more calls because the Patrons need to be pacified. Hell, he's now planning to send us all back into the Arena?!"

"Exactly! Don't you think it's enough?"

"What? Finnick—"

"Enough bloodshed, Y/N, please! Yeah, we're Careers, but when has that ever meant we were safe from the bullshit of the Capitol? Hm?"

"This isn't about us being Careers. It's about the fact that you could die!"

"We're going to anyway! It's like Johanna said! He's killing us slowly! We won't be able to live with ourselves once we're old and not wanted anymore!"

"FINNICK!"

"What?!"

"The first rebellion caused the Hunger Games. What the fuck do you think a second rebellion is going to bring? Hm? Mass genocide of the Districts? An arena with even younger kids? Every rebel and their families becoming Avoxes?! Are you fucking insane?!"

He paused at that. Silence. Good. At least he wasn't deluded enough not to consider the probability of failure.

You stared at him for a little while, before sighing. He wasn't weak, far from it, but you had just violently burst his bubble, the only thing he probably had going for him. And it must have been huge -and have been on his mind for a long time, a perfectly formulated plan that he was very excited about - seeing as he hadn't said anything to you.

He had a habit of doing that.

He never wanted to give you anything that wasn't just perfect.

He'd brought you back this seashell one time. From District Four. It had taken about five months for him to find the perfect one, with the best weight, the best colour, shape, texture, girth, whole shebang.

He stored your return-gift of a trident - you were masonry and weaponry district, after all - in a literal vault in District 4, until you gave him a tiny charm-version. He wore that around his neck.

Another time, he'd decided he'd write you his impression of your district from his Victory Tour. But that day, he'd been incredibly nervous, so he didn't look anywhere but his feet, and oh, how they longed to be home! In the sand, with waves kissing at his heels.

He figured he'd pretend he'd seen you in the crowd, all those years ago. In reality, you'd have only been about twelve, though you were raised above your parent's heads, so it was possible he could have seen you.

He hadn't, though.

For the case of this very humble birthday present, however, he pretended like he did. He took the wildest guess he could, that your hair was not tied up that day, and began to talk of your home.

How lovely everything had seemed.

How excited you looked.

You loved it. You really had. And he loved that you loved it.

And this whole rebellion thing was no different. He knew you'd be reluctant, but he also knew you'd secretly pray on the success of it, and he'd meticulously spent ages going through everything, every single thing, to make sure it was absolutely perfect for you, to make sure you could never call it anything but the best gift you'd ever gotten.

This, though? This argument had thrown him for a loop. You had a point. One he hadn't thought of.

"I'm—", you sighed once more, shaking your head. "Hey, I'm sorry, I... that was harsh."

He bit the inside of his bottom lip. "Mm."

"Finnick, I really am."

"Yeah, I know. I just... what if we don't fail, though?"

Wish(on the moon)ful thinking.

"Then great. But is that a chance you really want to take?"

"What if it is?" It's quiet in your room, and his response is almost engulfed in the silence, but you manage to catch it.

"Don't you think that's what the First Rebels thought?"

You were just dynamite today, weren't you? Finnick loved it when you were like this, but a tiny bit less when it was directed against him.

At least he knew he was an inch closer to receiving your amazing hugs.

"Yeah. Yeah, no, for sure."

You nodded softly, and then he kissed you.

And once more, corruption blossomed on your lips. "But you're deluded if you think when we're in that arena, I'm letting you kill Katniss."

"I won't have to if my theory is right."

"What theory?", he scoffed against your lips, pulling you closer as his hands crept up into your hair.

"That Snow will do things specifically to kill Katniss, and the only way anything will ever work is if you, I dunno, find a way to save Katniss and yourself and Peeta and Joha—"

"We're hacking into the arena."

He really hated kissing you when you didn't reciprocate, but he had to for the next few seconds when you froze, before pulling you away. "What?"

"We're... I can't tell you, but we've got District 3 in on it, they're going to get a wire and basically, like—"

"What, blow up the arena? Are you sure you're feeling okay? Are you still hungover?", you asked, placing your palm on his forehead.

He rolled his eyes, taking it in his and kissing it once. "I promise, I am perfectly fine. And yes, we have a solid plan—"

"Holy shit, this is what you meant by 'the Capitol Patrons give me information' ? I figured it was about the next Games, so you could help your tributes win, not... fuck, Finnick! This is treason!"

"I DON'T GIVE A SHIT!"

You glared at him as he stood in sheer fury. "I'm sorry for yelling."

Wow. Sweetest boy on earth and you'd made him miserable. How do you do it?

"It's alright."

"I don't care that it's treason, alright? But we need to end this bullshit. Okay? So I will ask you for the last ever time, Y/N, because you know that whatever you say next will affect whether we see each other again. Are you with us?"

You licked your lips, picking at the duvet. "Can I have some time?"

"Reaping Day."

"Reaping Day?"

"Reaping Day. I'm not even kidding."

Yeah, he almost never was.

Fuck.

"I'll tell you by Reaping Day."

"Okay."

He didn't leave. It was a long moment of either meeting or vehemently avoiding each others eyes.

"I'm sorry about the yelling.", he repeated.

"You're not volunteering."

"What?" He was halfway out the door when you said it, and he was this close to slamming it.

"If you're not reaped, you take it as the odds being in your favor and shut up. Alright?"

He turned to you, slamming the door and leaning on it with crossed arms. Incredulity painted his face. "Are you kidding me?"

"No."

"Who are you to order me around? Fucking Snow?"

"I'm—"

"Who?! My on-screen-propaganda-lover?!"

That stung more than you'd expected it to.

"Fine. Fuck you! Go ahead and volunteer. Like a fucking dumbass. Go get yourself killed because you can't handle the truth! This is how it is and how it'll always be!"

"It doesn't have to!"

"Yeah, tell that to District 13!"

"Oh, if only you fucking knew!"

"Knew what?! That your half-baked 'plan' is bound to fail?!"

"If you're such a fucking loyalist, go tell Snow the big 'half-baked' plan!"

"Maybe I will!"

"Yeah, go! Go right now, scurry off, become the fearless Savior of Panem, the title of the Most Loyal goes to you!"

You stood, attempting to shoulder past him, but honestly, you should've known better. He grabbed your arm. "If you're going, stay on your knees in front of him so we can shoot you in the back of your head when we storm the Capitol." Pretty picture he could paint, you'd give him that. He could paint a dazzling romance and a grisly murder all just with words.

"That's if you do it. You won't."

"Yeah? Watch us."

You mirrored his clenched jaw. "Let. Go."

"You don't like me holding you?", he asked, tilting his head in mock curiosity.

"No."

"In the Snow regime, in the Capitol, sweetheart, that word has no meaning.", he spat.

"Does treason? Does murder? Does anarchy?"

"Snow gave you a comprehensive list of his favourite vocabulary, how cute."

"Oh, fuck off, Finnick, alright? Let go."

"Are you with us?" He shook your arm.

"No!"

"Are you with us?" More desperation this time. But he knew you, and his eyes held a calm that suggested he knew exactly where your heart lay. With him. With the idea of a free Panem.

"I'm not!"

"ARE YOU WITH US?!", he snapped, finally yelling once more.

"YES!"

The silence had snuck back in unnannounced.

"This is why I love you. You're a fucking trip."

Great. You were not only having to play an innocent, his lover and now a rebel, but you were also, evidently, to play jester for him, since he thought you were so fucking amusing.

"Do the cameras love you as much as I do?"

Oh, my god, he was being funny now, was he?

"Don't die.", you scoffed.

"Not if you won't. Same page?"

You scrambled to come up with a plan. Rig District 4's reaping? Fucking how? Beg Heavensbee for a glimpse into the arena? You barely knew if he was actually on your side, no matter how much Finnick seemed to trust him. Tell Snow and not include Finnick or Johanna or Katniss or — okay, too many variables. Oh! Wait! When he was busy protecting Katniss in the arena, you'd be busy protecting him. Okay. Could work. Right, okay.

He kissed your temple, looking down at you expectantly. He had no idea what he'd do if you hated his gift. "Right.", he muttered, after a little while of watching you play with the hem of his shirt. "I gave you till Reaping Day."

You nodded, and he whistled lowly, looking out at the window, his eyes brightening. "But... you know it's Full Moon Day today.", he grinned.

So you two sat there watching the moon for... quite a while, actually.

Wishing that the other would just fucking listen for once.

Finnick Odair was a fucking menace.

But he was also the sweetest boy you knew.

So, if you had to be on the same page, you would be.

"Same page.", you affirmed, finally, when it got too late and his hands went slack around your shoulder, and your eyes started getting heavy. You were truly, in entire honesty, unable to fathom a future where the rebellion worked and Panem was free.

But your plan was at least still intact. No matter how this clearly poorly thought out rebellion went.

At least, with your plan, he'd be alright, either way.

At least he'd live.

665 notes · View notes

wonderlandwalker · 4 months ago

Text

The Promises We Cling To

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐭𝐡𝐠 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬t / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱

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

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

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

And yet—

He still dares to believe you’re alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Get your fucking hands off her."

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

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

Crack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[prequel: The masks we wear]

777 notes · View notes

allisluv · 4 months ago

Note

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!"

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thedelicatearcher · 4 months ago

Text

every morning, finnick odair wakes up next to you. the sun filters through the curtains, filling the room with soft light as the clock strikes 5 am. he quickly realizes it’s early, and you’re still in deep slumber, breathing steadily without any worry about the world around you.

he can’t help but succumb to his selfish cravings. leaning in, he buries his face in your hair and hums at your scent. the soft scent of lily soap makes his heart flutter like a schoolboy.

your lover wraps his arms around you and holds you close to him. finnick tries to keep his hold on you as light as a feather to avoid disturbing your sleep. but the moment his body is pressed against yours and his chin finds its place on your shoulder, he feels you begin to stir.

a pang of guilt tugs at his heart, and he scrambles to lull you back to sleep. “shh, honey,” he coos. “it’s just me. just wanted to hold my pretty girl for a bit,” he whispers softly in your ear, his voice a bit husky. he presses soft kisses to your neck to lull you back to sleep.

after you fall back to sleep, he cuddles your sleepy figure and enjoys the warmth of your body against his. with your back against his chest, he wonders if you can feel how fast his heart beats for you, even in your sleep.

his strong arms around your torso make him wonder if you feel safe with him, the way your presence makes him feel like he can breathe a little easier. your gentle voice, as you tell him how brave he is, silences the self-deprecating voices in his mind. and your sweet, tender touches contrast with everything he’s ever known.

ever since he opted out of the mission assigned to him by the now-deceased president coin, he has felt a deep ache in his chest. he feels useless, constantly comparing himself to his fellow victors and the rest of the prop team.

it’s a feeling he can’t shake, even after you’ve reassured him time and time again that he’s already made enough sacrifice for the rebellion, and that his worth doesn’t depend on how much he has contributed to rebuilding his district from the ground up.

memories of his time in the capitol still cloud his mind, his arms tightening around you every time his thoughts take him back. but beneath all the self-deprecating thoughts, finnick is quietly grateful he didn’t go with the prop team.

if even soldiers like boggs didn’t make it back, how could he believe he would have? the day before the quarter quell, he promised you he would come back to you. the thought of running away, going so far away that he could live a simpler life by your side, was one of the few things that kept him going through the games. and every time his mind wandered to the possibility of his death, his heart ached as he pictured you completely shattered and alone, especially knowing that a death at the hands of the capitol would be neither quick nor painless.

when he feels you moving in your sleep, finnick is pulled from his thoughts and back home to you, to a simple life in district four. to a small house by the beach, where the biggest worries are whether the fishing nets you cast will hold, and making sure the neighbor’s cat doesn’t snatch more fish than you’ve already given him.

#this is set years after the rebellion #finnick lives au #i hadn't written in a really long time so i'm sorry if this isn't very good #finnick odair #finnick odair x reader #thg #the hunger games #finnick odair fluff #finnick odair x you #finnick odair fanfics #thg x reader

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ervotica · 2 years ago

Note

"I'm here, I've got you-" with mentor!finnick right after reader wins the games?! ilysm 🥺🥺

pairing: mentor!finnick odair x victor!reader.

warnings: finnick greets you after you win the games, and consoles your anxiety. something more ensues…

hunger games masterlist

Your bruised knuckles shake where you wring them in your lap; the tribute quarters are so empty, hollow and bereft of any signs of life other than yourself. You've scrubbed your skin raw in the shower, still flushed and tingling from the coarse brush you used to rid yourself of the dried blood and dirt.

You want Finnick.

You know mentors are always the first to greet victors after the games, and you need him more than anyone else right now.

The door creaks your head snaps up where you're laying. He’s at your side in an instant, concern carved into his features as he reaches out for you.

You tremble at his touch; palm against your cheek, arm hooked around your waist as he begins drawing you up and into him.

"How are you doing?" he asks, voice low and soft and caring.

The tears well almost unconsciously, catching on your waterline and spilling down your hot cheeks.

"Not so good," you admit despite yourself.

"I know, honey. I know," he murmurs, tugging you toward him as gently as he can manage. You're in his lap before you can register what's happening, and you tuck yourself up small, head under his chin, shoulders under his armpits.

"I'm sorry," you cry, "I'm so sorry."

"Shh, you have nothing to be sorry for. You did everything you were supposed to." He kisses the top of your head, hair still damp from the shower.

"Okay." You nod vehemently, almost like you're trying to convince yourself that he's right, that you're not a monster after what you had to do in the games. "Will you hold my hand?"

Finnick smiles and it pushes his dimples out- they're crescent moon shaped. You resist the urge to reach out and touch them.

"Of course I will."

His thick fingers entwine with yours like puzzle pieces, like that's where they've always been, where they're always meant to be. You bring his knuckles to your face and hold them there, against your cheek as you rest on his broad shoulder. Your bottom lip starts to tremble.

"I'm here, I've got you," he murmurs. "I'm right here."

You tilt your head to gaze at him, uninhibited affection practically oozing from your every pore. He leans in- you’re close enough to feel his breath on your face.

Your lashes kiss at the corners as your eyes flutter closed and he takes that as an invitation. His lips slot between your own like they live there and the kiss feels like coming home. When he pulls back, you chase him.

He meanders away from your lips with his kisses: the corner of your mouth, your cheek, a lingering one on your forehead. Your hand, still laced with his own, is holding him so tightly you’re scared you’re cutting off his circulation. He can feel your anxiety.

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You’re smiling this time when you say,

“Okay.”

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libertyybellls · 2 years ago

Text

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.”

#finnick angst #finnick fanfic #finnick fluff #finnick imagine #finnick odair #finnick odair fluff #finnick odair smut #finnick odair x reader #finnick oneshot #finnick smut #finnick #finnick x oc #thg finnick #hunger games finnick #finnick x reader #finnick x you #finnick x y/n

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obaewankenobis · 4 months ago

Text

till forever falls apart; finnick odair

pairing: finnick odair x reader (female pronouns, y/n not used)

word count: 10.6k

summary: not quite friends, but not quite lovers; you and finnick odair have been living in a careful balance that always leaves the both of you wanting more. when the third quarter quell arrives, you realize it’s better to be late than never.

warnings: typical hunger games stuff like child murder, forced prostitution, etc... slight mention of like suicidal thoughts but it's brief. smut (fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, i can't remember anything else, pretty vanilla stuff).

notes: there's kind of a lot of plot which i was nawwwt expecting. my bad if you're not into that i guess i know a lot of people look forward to the freaky stuff and it's def not my strong suit so i apologize 😭.

It was a little fucked up, the way you actually looked forward to being summoned to the Capitol.

Yes, they’d tortured your district for generations by killing children for decades upon decades.

During your games, they starved you, maimed you, and forced you to kill other innocent children when you were just sixteen–a child by any means.

The torture hadn't stopped after the games, either. Even the nightmares were a walk in the park compared to the prostitution that awaited you in the Capitol. The looming threat of your family’s safety being compromised should you dare get any ideas of disobeying.

So yes, it was a bit crazy to have a smile tug at the corner of your lips when a peacekeeper knocked on your door and told you President Snow had summoned you to the Capitol for the End of Victory Tour celebration.

The smile, like always, was followed by quiet humming and a little skip in your step as you’d hurried to pack what few possessions actually mattered to you.

The reason for this temporary insanity was simple: whatever despair and destruction the Capitol had thrown at you, they’d also given you something to make up for it, even if it was purely unintentional. The apology came in the form of Finnick, another victor who’d shown you the ropes after you’d been crowned the year after him.

Being from different districts, the only time you were able to see him was when you’d both been called to the Capitol.

Gazing out the window as the station came into view, you sighed and imagined what you’d do upon arriving.

You take in the bright pinks and yellows of the stone streets, the rainbows that glittered against stained glass windows as the sun shone through them. The looming presence of snow-capped mountains provided a dramatic background and suit of armor around the Capitol, a stark contrast from the bright, bubbly city.

For such an evil, awful place, it was breathtakingly beautiful. Your body had the same reaction it did the first time the train had screeched to a halt: completely frozen in time, so still a breath could not be squeezed from your lungs.

You hated the feelings that overcame you, of such paralyzing fear it made you weak. Hated how your fingers became so shaky it took you several attempts to button up your coat. Hated how your legs were so unsure of themselves you feared you’d collapse if you stood up too suddenly.

All of a sudden you were sixteen again, a terrified tribute arriving in the Capitol like a lamb for slaughter.

You hated coming back here every six months at the very least — once for the Games, once for the tour, and however many times you were summoned by Capitol citizens.

The Games were obviously hard–and so was the business you did in the Capitol–but the Victory Tours were a special form of torture. You hated looking at the winner, because they always seemed so lost and terrified, trembling like a lone leaf on a branch as the wind whistled through.

This past year had been a little different — there'd been two Victors this time, and their win sparked something in the districts that you’d never seen in your life. You didn’t hold any hope there would be long lasting change, but you were glad to see this year’s Victors weren’t alone. You wished you could’ve had that.

A gust of wind sweeps through the door as a Capitol attendant opens it, bringing you back to reality, and you force a small smile as the sunlight hits your face.

Waves of bronze hair catches your eye, and it takes everything in you not to jump from the platform and run to greet him.

He’s as beautiful as ever; the sun turning his hair a nice gold. His skin is a little paler and his hair is a little darker, given the winter months, but it’s only noticeable to you because you’ve spent hours running your fingers through it; spent days admiring the way water sluiced off his skin and glistened while he swam.

You notice him immediately–not just because you’ve been subconsciously searching, but because he’s never greeted you at the station before. It’s then you notice dark circles under his eyes, the way they’re glassy with fatigue, and the rigidness of his posture. Your eyes narrow slightly and you open your mouth to greet him, when his arms open wide in invitation to his embrace. It’s then you know something’s really, really wrong.

Because as much as you care for Finnick, and as much as you know he cares for you, he’s never been so openly affectionate with so many people watching.

It’s part of the agreement you have; around others you’re polite, friendly even, and everything else you actually yearn for is tucked away behind closed doors.

So, when you wrap your arms around his neck, you’re hoping it's brief, because you don’t want to get used to being so close to him in public. And when you begin to pull away, you’re startled to find him gripping you close to his body, lips brushing your ear so he can whisper something without anyone else knowing or overhearing.

“I need you to meet me in my room in half an hour. It’s important. Don’t be late,” he says quietly, urgently, before suddenly releasing you. It doesn’t sound like one of your late night rendezvous, unless he’s wound really tight and that desperate for release — no, this seems far bigger than that.

When he finally leans back, you grasp his forearms and study him, searching for answers in his eyes and only being met with apprehension.

Forcing a small smile, all you can say is, “It’s good to see you too, Finnick.”

He squeezes your hand in his own for a brief moment before disappearing, leaving you alone with two Capitol attendants who are supposed to just be carrying your bags to your quarters — but you know they’re guards in disguise, making sure you have nowhere to go.

It’s exactly twenty eight minutes later when you appear in front of Finnick’s door, a hand raised to knock when it flies open.

He’s a little more relaxed, though you can see the tension in the ticking of his jaw and the tight grip he has on the door. Still, the corners of his mouth lift upward in a smile as his eyes land on you. “I was worried you’d be late. Y’know, you’ve never been a very punctual person.”

“I’ve never seen you so high strung before.” You shrug, “Thought I might hurry my ass up for once, in case you had a heart attack.”

He laughs, a lovely melody that makes your insides melt a little whenever you hear it, but you can tell his mind is occupied. “We should get going.”

“Yeah, about that… where exactly are we going?” You ask, though you know deep down you’d follow him anywhere.

“You’re asking so many questions. You don’t trust me?” He asks teasingly, flashing you a smile, and you’re overwhelmed for a moment because Finnick was like the sun — golden and glowing, blindingly radiant from the smile on his lips down to the tips of his toes.

You do trust him — and as he leads you to an awaiting black car, you reassure yourself that he’s not leading you to your imminent death.

Well, maybe you were wrong. Because the words coming out of Finnick’s mouth–backed by Plutarch Heavensbee of all people–are nothing short of treasonous. And in Panem, treason is inevitably followed by death, or a fate so much worse death seems merciful.

“You’re sure she’s not going to say something?” Plutarch asks, and you think it’s because you haven't said a word since they told you about it all. About District 13, the stirrings of rebellion in the Districts, the plan to escalate into a full scale rebellion with the newest victors from 12 — Katniss and Peeta — being the face of said rebellion.

“No, we can trust her. I promise,” Finnick nudges you with his shoulder, as if urging you to confirm what he’s said.

You look around to the others in the room at the Heavensbee mansion: Beetee Latier from Three, Johanna Mason from Seven, and Haymitch Abernathy from Twelve. They don’t look nearly as surprised as you do, so you suspect you’re one of the last people to be told this news.

“Yeah— I just… you really think it’ll work?” You cringe as your voice comes out in a dry croak.

“We won’t know unless we try,” Plutarch says, and you wonder why he’s in on whatever this is. He’s just been promoted to Head Gamemaker, and he lives in this mansion that spans the entire street and is packed to the brim with books and priceless art. Surely there’s nothing wrong with his life that would make him want to rebel. “You and Six are the only ones we haven’t talked to… and we need as much unity between the Districts as we can get.”

“Okay,” You say after a moment, willing your voice not to shake. It's less fear and more excitement at the prospect of something better in your future.

You can hear Finnick’s audible sigh of relief, hear the soft scratch of his chair against the floor as he pushes it back, and feel the softness of his lips against your temple as he kisses you.

You wish he wouldn’t do that. Not because you’re embarrassed that anyone would see it, but because it just serves as a reminder that he’s just out of your reach. Every touch or kiss was on stolen time, and one day, the feeling you got around him would catch up to you in the most devastating way possible.

So, instinctively, you duck down in an attempt to escape him, and try not to notice the slight frown that overtakes his features.

“I’ve kept you all long enough,” Plutarch says in dismissal, checking his watch. “The victory party is tonight, and I would hate for any of you to miss seeing the little lovebirds.”

“C’mon.” Finnick grabs your hand and tugs you to your feet. “We’ve got to get all prettied up.”

“Excuse me,” you scoff. “I’m perfect just the way I am. You on the other hand…” you look him up and down. “Well, we’d better hurry up.”

He gasps and clutches his chest like he’s been struck. You know he knows it's a joke, because there truly is nothing prettier on this earth than Finnick Odair.

The brief joy you feel when you see Finnick can only last so long.

While they’re not particularly awful, just annoying, looking into the faces of your prep team makes you nauseous. All it does is throw you back to nearly a decade ago when you were a tribute.

And, sometimes, being constantly reminded of the horrors you endured made you wish you died in that arena. Not all the time, but sometimes.

“Arms up!” Shrills Iris, who resembles a lemon the way she’s dressed head to toe in bright yellow. You obey the command on instinct. Something cool, almost metallic, slides over your body. The dress is made of a thousand tiny silver-white jewels, each rope swishing and clicking against one another when you move. Matching jewelry weighs down your ears and neck, twinkling and making you appear to be a jewel yourself.

“All done!” The woman beams, clapping her hands together and practically shoving you out the door and towards the direction of the car waiting to drive to the President’s mansion.

You’re sure making victors attend every celebration in the Capitol brings Snow a special kind of pleasure. It’s probably the only kind of joy he ever feels in his life, looking at the miserable faces of past tributes and knowing that because of him, their bodies have either been sold to the highest bidder or withered away due to addiction — or sometimes, in the worst cases, both.

You are grateful for the chance to see the newest Victors, though. You want to be in their presence and somehow have them light a spark of hope in you.

“You were right,” a voice behind you says. You turn to see Finnick.

“What?”

“Earlier,” he continues, his eyes briefly flitting to your dress before returning to your eyes. “You are perfect just the way you are.”

“I—” Stupidly, you can feel a hotness in your cheeks, and know he’s managed to make you blush. He always does that, finds a way to make you stumble over your own words. “Thanks. I think I was right, too.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow.

“You do look so much better all dolled up,” you tease, using this as an excuse to take him all in. He, of course, looks breathtaking, which is a bit annoying because you’ve never seen him be anything less. He’s wearing a seafoam colored shirt that brings out the green in his eyes. It’s nearly see through, mostly where his muscle strains against the fabric. It gives everyone a glimpse of his body you feel honored to have seen up close, but it also makes you feel sad at how obviously he’s being objectified. His trousers are a light linen, and you frown again at how… Well, conservatively he’s dressed, despite the sheerness of the shirt.

“I haven’t seen you this covered up in years, shouldn’t you be practically naked?” You blurt out, and you’re rewarded with another laugh that makes your heart sing.

“If you want to see me naked, sweetheart, all you have to do is ask,” he grins, the tips of his teeth peeking through his lips.

“I meant,” you clear your throat and will the blush in your cheeks to subside, “Normally you’re a lot more… distracting.” Well that doesn’t sound any better now that you’ve said it out loud.

“Distracting, hmm? I’m free in…” He pretends to check the imaginary watch on his wrist. “Just a couple hours, if you are. Your place or mine?”

“Finnick,” you grit your teeth. You know he knows what you mean, and yet he still teases.

“Ye-es,” he replies in an almost sing-song voice before his expression becomes a little more serious. “I’m not supposed to take away from the lovely couple tonight. Apparently I can be a little distracting. Did you know that?” His eyes twinkle with more laughter you’re dying to hear.

“You? Distracting? Never,” you reassure him, patting his chest as you move past, trying not to notice how his eyes linger on you.

You disappear into the crowd, not only in search of a drink, but some different company. You, Finnick, and alcohol were a deadly mix you swore you’d never combine again. Luckily, there's no shortage of people holding trays of drinks, from bubbling champagne to deep red wines, and you quickly pluck a glass of rosé.

You’re not sure how much time has passed, all you know is that you’ve just finished your third glass and are reaching for a fourth when your stomach starts rumbling. You realize then you haven't eaten since you’d been on the train. It’s not that there wasn’t any food at this party, there was, in fact, an excess, but it was so rich you were worried it would only further upset your already queasy stomach.

The voice that finally made you understand the phrase butterflies in your stomach calls your name, and you can't help but smile as you turn around and see Finnick holding a plate of shrimp drenched in a red sauce, setting it down on the bar in front of you. Your favorite.

“Thank you!” You can’t contain yourself as you throw your arms around his neck, nearly brought to tears as you think of how delicious the shrimp would be. “I am sooo hungry.”

Finnick doesn’t even budge at the force of you throwing your weight towards him;he probably knew you were going to do that, just as he knew you hadn’t eaten. He knew you eerily well, Observing you must take up a lot of his time. “I figured you could use a break between all that wine.”

You smell the alcohol on his breath and know he's been doing his fair share of drinking, but that’s not the only indicator — the touching becomes almost second nature when he’s got enough alcohol in him.

Although you’ve pulled away from him, his fingers curl around your waist to keep you in front of him, his thumb drawing circles on the small of your back. You can feel his chest pressed against your back, feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest as you lean into him. He’s a sturdy and comforting presence behind you. You tell yourself as you lean back that it’s to steady your feet, but you know deep down you long to feel his skin against yours, and you’re too drunk to think about the consequences of people seeing you.

“How much longer do we have to stay here?” he whispers, and you suppress a shudder at the tingles that erupt up and down your whole body, starting where his lips touched your ear.

“We haven't even seen Katniss or Peeta yet.” You hate how breathless your voice has become as his hand trails down to rest on your hip.

“I was being serious earlier, you know,” he says, and you're so close to him you can hear his heart race. Why would he be nervous to ask you to come over? It was casual, you were friends. Friends who helped each other out sometimes, but friends above everything. Being anything more terrified you.

“Really?” You pretend not to notice the pounding of his heart or the sharp intake of his breath. “Mine or yours?” It's funny to pretend either of you really have a place here — the training center’s living quarters hardly count as home.

“Mmm, we can decide later,” he says, suddenly pulling away. Cold air nips where his body once stood, and you’re thinking he’s finally come to his senses about being so handsy in public, but then he’s dragging you to the tile platform where people are dancing, and he’s sweeping you into his arms.

The shrimp is long forgotten, as is the grumbling of your stomach. It’s too busy forming knots as you sway.

“You didn't even ask if I wanted to dance,” you smile, one hand instinctively going to Finnick’s shoulder while the other grasps one of his. His free hand rests on your lower back.

“Do you want to dance?” He drinks in the sight of you, savoring how close you’ve become.

“Yes,” your voice is barely above a whisper. The music is slow and soulful, and all you can do is stare at one another.

“Good,” he says, but you’re not sure how good this really is.

There was a reason you’d created rules for this whole… arrangement in the first place. You drew a hard line in the sand that Finnick kept trying to cross.

When Snow first told you what happened to desirable victors, you hadn’t believed him. And then, two days later, your boyfriend wound up dead. A freak accident at the power plant, they’d said, but you knew. Deep down you knew the timing was too close to be a coincidence, that Snow really did mean what he’d said about everyone you loved dying if you didn't comply.

You were terrified of the same thing happening to Finnick, so much so it was the only recurring nightmare that occupied your brain.

He’d been the one to suggest it be nothing more than just sex, though, probably for the same reasons that had held you back from asking for anything more. And, yeah, that should’ve been what you wanted, but you could admit to yourself that you were a hypocrite. For wanting all the good parts of him, but not the danger that came with it. For wanting him to be able to look past his own fears and want more from you, but not being willing to do the same.

“When should we leave?” Your palms have grown sweaty at the unspoken desires racing through your brain, so you use it as an excuse to disentangle your arms from his body and rearrange them to clasp around the back of his neck.

To steady yourself, of course.

Now, both of his hands are on your hips and he draws you even closer so that you’re chest to chest, so close your breaths become one.

“Not yet.” His voice is soft, even pleading. “One more song.”

Upon closer inspection you find he’s tipsy, but not drunk. He’s a little looser but still of a sound mind, which is why it’s even more terrifying to look at him, because you can't think of a time where the two of you have acted like this fully sober. Neither of you are under the influence of drugs, or alcohol, or even overwhelming emotion that would make you do crazy things. Except the morning after the first time.

The sexual attraction had always been there, but the first time either of you acted on it had been after a particularly wild night that left the both of you to fill in the blanks as you woke up next to him, naked in your bed.

“I’m so sorry — so so sorry! Things got so out of control last night, it was a mistake,” you’d said hastily before he could say the same. You’d rather not be rejected when your head was pounding and you’d felt so sick. You’d clutched the sheets tight to your chest, suddenly self conscious by how bare you were.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he'd said it so casually you thought you'd misheard him at first. You probably looked as confused as you were, because he continued, “ It doesn’t have to be a mistake. I like you, I like… this,” he gestured to the two of you, and when you said nothing, he added hurriedly, “It doesn’t have to be anything. Actually, forget I even said—”

You'd cut him off with a kiss, and had fallen back against the silk sheets with the intention to burn every inch of him to memory, since you couldn’t remember the previous night and cursed yourself for it.

“Hello-ooo,” Finnick’s voice tore you back to reality. “Did you even hear what I said? The song’s over, we can leave now.”

You don’t really want to leave, but you suppose it’s for the best, so you nod and let him lead you to one of the many black cars that sit outside the President’s mansion. One designated for the tributes and victors that only drove to and from the training center.

Finnick wishes he could read your mind, especially when you get that glazed over look in your eye, the one that signals you were in a land far away from here.

All night, he’d wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked.

Glittery, silver eyeshadow made it look like your eyes were really sparkling when you looked at him. In a dress that was tailored to fit you just right, hugging you in all the right places and flowing down to your ankles, yet somehow leaving a tantalizing amount of bare skin exposed.

Your smile completed everything, though. The way it met your eyes when you saw him across the room… he’d do just about anything to make sure you’d smile at him like that again.

When he’d led you to the dance floor in the gardens, it’d been for his own selfish reasons. Not just that he wanted an excuse to hold you close to him, but because he knew you’d look exquisite against the night sky littered with stars. The moon bathed you in a softness that made you glitter and glow, every beam that struck your figure only further highlighting your beauty until he was certain you were from another world entirely.

He’d especially wanted to tell you how you looked then. But like the rest of the night, whenever he opened his mouth, his mouth went dry and his tongue became stuck in the back of his throat, forcing him into silence.

You might think he was the sun, but he thought you were the moon.

He looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky every night just for him.

If only you were willing to see it, instead of whatever twisted reality you’d decided was the truth.

He feels like he’s in somewhat of a daze as he leads you to the car, feels out of his body when the two of you push past his door in a tangled mess of hands and teeth and tongue.

It’s rough and fast and everything he’s not feeling as your lips attach to different spots on his neck and suck hard enough to leave marks. When he’s sure there’s not a spot left untouched by you, he begins to return every bruising kiss you’ve left with some of his own with enough force to match. His lips detach from yours and dip down to your neck, your chest, until he’s biting at your breasts, sucking your nipple into his mouth with a hunger he hasn’t felt in so long.

He wants to feel you, taste you, hear you — he wants his whole being to be consumed by you. He removes his mouth to continue his kisses down your body, relishing in the soft moans he manages to elicit from you and committing every sound to memory, like he’s never going to get this opportunity again. He kisses between your breasts, down your stomach, and purposely skips past where he’s sure you want him most before settling his lips on your inner thighs, his kisses turning almost lazy.

He wants to continue this slow pace, like you have all the time in the world, but that’s just not how the two of you do things

It’s not a show, or even a display of real passion — no, it’s just two pathetic people making the best out of a lousy situation, acting like physical pleasure will somehow cure the constant ache of your hearts.

He fears the sweetness he seeks from you is souring at that realization.

It’s not that he doesn’t want this. Oh no, he’s been thinking about this since the moment he saw you in that dress and measured how difficult it would be to take it off. Actually, if he was being completely honest with himself, he’d been thinking about this the moment he saw you step off the train platform.

It’s that he wants all of this and more, but he’s not sure how to go about it. It’s not like they’re being totally subtle, but if Snow found out… he’d likely use it against both of you. You’d be just another thing for Snow to hold over his head, another person for him to worry about, and Snow would probably do the same to you.

So maybe, if Finnick continued pretending this was nothing more than casual sex and you were nothing more than a good friend, Snow would be convinced too.

“Finnick,” you’re breathless beneath him. “What’s wrong? You sort of spaced out for a sec… we can stop if you want.”

No, he doesn’t want to stop, but it’s probably the first time he’s ever been asked that.

He shakes his head, both to answer you and to clear his head, and leans over to kiss you again.

He’s glad you don’t press it further, not as his tongue finally laps at your clit and elicits a loud gasp from you that gives him the self satisfaction to continue.

Your fingers card through his hair and pull instinctively when he adds his fingers. Now it’s his turn to moan, and the vibrations make you shudder.

All this does is spur him on, wanting to hear the little moans and whimpers from you that he’s grown so familiar with. They only make him harder to the point where it’s almost painful, but it does nothing to slow him as he continues flicking and swirling his tongue. In fact it has the opposite effect, he only becomes more earnest and determined in his efforts.

When he adds a finger he feels a sharp tug at his roots and knows he’s doing the right things.

Since that very first night, Finnick Odair had thought you were too good to be true and too easy to slip through his fingers. So he made it his mission to commit you to memory, treating every encounter like it would be the last one. As a result, he knows every sensitive spot you have, every noise you make and what they mean.

When he gently sucks on your clit and lets his teeth graze it, he knows it’s only a matter of minutes before you become undone. Your hips buck towards him, begging for more, and he obliges with sliding in another finger.

He detaches his mouth for a second so he can soak up the memory of you like this. Your head is thrown back against the pillow and your hair strewn in every direction. A faint sheen of sweat has appeared on your face as you pant, eyes are screwed shut with pleasure.

You’re so beautiful he cursed himself for stopping, even for a moment. At that moment, he doesn’t care about his own pleasure, all he can think about when he closes his eyes and returns his mouth is the image of you.

You’re together when the theme of the Quarter Quell is announced.

The day starts out normal enough. You both have your… clients to attend to, but when Finnick walks through the doors of the apartment you’d been given to share with several other Victors who were bought by the Capitol, you can push the awfulness of the day aside to soak up as much of him as you can before one of you is sent back to your district.

When he suggests a shower, the horrors of the past few hours are washed down the drain when the hot water pours over you. It’s so hot that Finnick begins to complain that he’s starting to feel — and look — like a lobster being boiled alive.

“But now I’m cold,” you whine with your back to him, clattering your teeth together for dramatic effect.

“Really?” He’s inched closer, and suddenly you’re not shivering from the cold.

He is all consuming.

When you emerge from the shower you find your fingers pruney and the mirrors all fogged up — you've been in there far too long.

The two of you finally separate to get ready for bed, and when you finally slide into the bed next to Finnick, his arm instinctively goes around your shoulders.

He’s flicking through different Capitol channels that are all different forms of mind numbing torture, before landing on the official news station where Snow is about to read from a card announcing the twist of the Third Quarter Quell.

“Oh! Wait, stop here, I forgot they were announcing it today,” you say.

“I don’t think it matters that much,” Finnick’s expression is sour, but he doesn’t turn the television off. “It’ll be just as difficult to mentor as any of the other Games.”

“I don’t know… I mean, I couldn’t even imagine trying to train two extra tributes,” you muse, thinking about the last Quell, and almost miss what Snow says next.

In the next moment, you almost wish you had missed it.

“...shall be reaped from the existing pool of victors.”

The two of you have vastly different reactions. Finnick immediately springs up from the bed and begins to pace, only stopping when he hears the sound of strangled sobs fighting their way past your lips.

In an instant he’s next to you, wrapping both his arms around you and tugging you close to his chest. “It’ll be okay,” he tries to soothe, but his own voice is shaky and you suspect the embrace is meant to comfort him just as much as it is you.

I’ve wasted so much time, you realize, and the awful, choked noises you make turn into something so much worse.

You begin to weep, utterly defeated. There’s no fight left in you, and that’s why it’s worse than the short cries, or even hot, angry tears. Realizing the past nine years of torture hadn’t been worth it, and you really should have died in that arena. It would’ve been so much more merciful than whatever this was.

You’re the only living female victor from your district, there’s no hope for you. Finnick, at least, has a chance at not being reaped at all.

“We’ll figure something out,” Finnick continues. “You know… with everything that’s been going on.”

His reference, although vague, makes you think long enough that your cries have paused. Plutarch and Thirteen, you realize. Surely they would be scrambling to come up with a plan right now, because how could Katniss — their beloved Mockingjay — perform for them if she died in another arena? But saving her didn’t leave much room for the rest of you.

“You’re right,” you force out even if you don’t believe him, because you don’t want his calm demeanor to disappear. If he starts to panic you’re sure you’ll lose it completely.

“We should get to bed,” he says abruptly. “I think we’ll have somewhere to be tomorrow.”

There are three of you victors gathered around the dining table in Plutarch’s mansion with him. You, Finnick, and Beetee. You know there are more victors in on it, but you three are the only ones currently in the Capitol, and nobody wants to waste any time. When everyone else arrives for the games, whether as a mentor or tribute, they’ll be informed.

“We have a military, we have political unrest, and we have our symbol. We have everything we need to make this work. Do you know how rare this is?” Plutarch laments. “Thirteen has hovercrafts, so we’ll have a way to get you all out if we can figure out how to work around the forcefield.”

“Which is easier said than done,” Beetee adds. You’re not sure how to feel about him — he’s incredibly intelligent, that’s for sure. He’s such a genius you feel out of place in this discussion, because what could you possibly have to add when he could solve basically anything?

He carries himself with such palpable sadness, though. His shoulders are always hunched like they’re physically weighed down with emotion, and you’ve never seen him without deep circles under his eyes.

“Can’t you just turn them off?” Finnick asks, turning to Plutarch, “You’re the head gamemaker.”

“I wish it was that easy, but it won’t work,” Plutarch shakes his head. “It’ll give Snow too much of a warning, we need it to be so sudden he’s left scrambling.”

“We have to blow it up,” Beetee squints his eyes, deep in thought.

“Tell me what supplies you need and I’ll make sure they’re in the Cornucopia,” Plutarch promises. “But do you know how to do that? Can you figure it out?”

“It’s Beetee,” Finnick insists, “Of course he can.”

Beetee brushes off the compliment with a shake of his head. “It will require a lot…” he pauses at an odd place in the conversation, a habit of his you’ve picked up on, “... of calculations.”

“I could probably help with that,” you interject yourself into the conversation for the first time. “With the calculations, I mean. We do a lot of stuff like that at the power plants in Five.”

Plutarch breaks into a smile while Beetee nods his head slowly. “Excellent. Tell me what numbers you need, and I’ll get them for you.”

You nod earnestly, your chest swelling with a mix of emotions you haven’t felt in forever: confidence, pride, and hope. Like it isn’t just the talk of four lunatics around the dinner table, but a feasible option. A better future for Panem was being dangled above your head, just out of reach.

By the time you see Finnick again, that hope has been completely squashed in all the fuss of the week.

Right now, you’re both just tributes changing out of the ridiculous costumes you’d donned during the opening ceremony.

You’re not talking to him though, not after you saw him cozying up to Katniss Everdeen in nothing but a knotted golden net.

Rationally, you know you’re being a little ridiculous. The net isn’t his choice, it’s his stylist’s angle to get him sponsors. And he’s talking to Katniss in that awful persona he takes on when he’s in the Capitol, the personality everyone expects him to have.

Still, bile rises in your throat at the sight of them.

Trying to slip away unnoticed, though, proved to be difficult due to your illuminated costume shining bright against the evening sky. At least your stylist tried to make your outfit unique this time, dressing you up as lightning to represent Five’s industry of power. It’s still a poor imitation of Twelve’s fire costumes though, because they blow everyone else’s outfits out of the water with no competition.

You hear Finnick call your name as you hurry towards the tribute center and ignore him. You reach the elevator alone and turn around quickly, only to see Finnick standing as the doors closed on him.

Well, almost closing. A hand jutted through the elevator doors and forced them open again, revealing Finnick in all his glory — he hadn’t changed out of the net.

“Almost thought you were trying to avoid the pleasure of my company, honey.” His voice is annoyed and the nickname is not endearing but patronizing.

“Why don’t you go ask Katniss to keep you company?” You didn’t want to say anything, because really it’s irrational to think anything could be going on between him and Katniss, which just means that you look like a jealous fool and nothing else. But seeing him with someone so strong and sure of herself, the complete opposite of you, made you realize how quickly Finnick could slip through your fingers. He was so easy to lose.

“Sweetheart…” he begins, and you can tell he’s trying not to sound too amused, “The whole reason she’s in this mess is because she’s with Peeta. And… she’s seventeen. She’s a kid.”

Both good points, which only annoys you even further because it just proves you have no reason to feel the way you do. “Whatever,” you scoff, turning away from him and wondering how much longer this elevator is going to take. Please, let it be done.

It’s like someone’s answered your pleas because the door rings at the level four and it’s Finnick’s cue to steps off. “By the way,” he says over his shoulder. “I didn't know you were the jealous type. It’s cute.”

The door shuts before you have the chance to retort.

In training, it’s hard to do anything at all. The only things flashing in your mind are the faces of the tributes in your games and the tributes you failed to train. All of whom have been dead at least a year, but they haunt you just as much as they did on the first day.

You’d gotten so close last year. Finch — a clever, redheaded girl — had made it to the final four before she’d died. It was the closest any of your tributes had gotten to victory since you’d been crowned.

She haunts you the most, the way she was little more than skin and bones by the time she died. A direct failure on your part; everyone had been rooting for the star crossed lovers or the stereotypical career from Two that they’d overlooked your tribute, no matter how hard you’d advocated for her and practically begged for sponsors.

“You alright?” Finnick sidles up beside you, holding a thick rope in his hand that’s tied suspiciously like a noose.

“Yep!” You force out a more cheery tone than you’d wished, and cringed at how sharp and on the verge of a breakdown you sounded. “I’m going to help Johanna out.”

Johanna Mason did not need help. She was throwing axes at one of the weapons stations when you popped up behind her and forced out a greeting.

She gives a little shriek and drops the axe dangerously close to her toes. “You see a girl with an axe in her hand and decide to jump her?” She seethes, “Do not do that! Or it’ll drop on your toes next time!”

Her words are furious, but you know she’s harmless at the moment. You know her well under unfortunate circumstances, from two years ago when your tributes had formed an alliance and the two of you had been forced to work alongside one another as mentors.

Until the tribute from Seven split your tribute’s head open with an axe.

“Sorry,” you huff, picking up an axe and marveling at the weight of it. “I had to get away from Finnick. He’s been freaking me out lately.”

“Freaking you out… how?” Johanna narrows her eyes, and it's then you remember she’s in on the rebel plot to break Katniss out of the arena, and the rest of you if you were lucky.

Your eyes widen as you realize what she’s thinking. “Oh— not about that, he’s just… hovering. I don’t think I’ve spent this much time with him during the daytime since we first met.”

Johanna visibly relaxes and then rolls her eyes. “Please tell me you guys aren’t still doing that stupid friends with benefits thing. Please.”

“It’s not stupid!” You object, a little offended by the way she’s framing it. “I told you, it’s for the best… right now, at least.”

“You guys are such idiots,” she sighs, eyeing the axe in your hand. “Are you actually going to use that?”

With a shake of your head you hand it off to her carefully. “It’s just that… you know, with… Snow…” your voice drops to a whisper.

She cuts you off. “Yeah. I know.”

Oh. Yes, she does know exactly what you mean. A wave of shame overwhelms you and you open your mouth to shower her with apologies but she cuts you off.

“I don’t need you to pity me. Well—” She thinks about this for a moment and changes her mind. “Actually, if it makes you listen to what I’m gonna tell you, then yeah, poor me, all alone. Whatever. I’m telling you, you’re being a fucking idiot.”

“I am not—”

“You are!” Johanna hurls an axe at the board with so much force it breaks completely. “He likes you. It’s kind of sickening, actually, and so obvious. I mean, he’s literally staring at you right now— no, don’t look, brainless!”

“Johanna,” You begin, watching her pick up another axe. “I appreciate this tough love… aspect… whatever you have going on, but—”

“If you want to waste your last week alive pining for a guy you already have… be my guest. But don’t talk to me about it, it’s annoying.”

She’s crude, and mean, but she’s right. All the worries you have will be gone in a week. Either one of you will be dead, or you’ll be freed from the Capitol’s chains and in the safe hands of Thirteen.

“I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” you say abruptly. “How are you doing with this whole Quell thing?”

She snorts and throws another axe, her jaw tight with anger. “I don’t really want to talk about that.”

You’re starting to feel that maybe she hates you when she asks, “Have you ever thrown one of these before? I mean, probably not, judging by the way you were holding that one, but…”

“Yes, I’d love to learn!” You know that’s what she’s trying to ask. It’s her version of trying to be kind, even if it’s laced with insults and sarcasm.

A hint of a real smile appears, and you can't help but admire how pretty she is, behind all the anger.

For the next half hour, Johanna teaches you how to throw an axe, while you chit chat about mildly unimportant things. She soon gets bored of small talk and starts cursing the Capitol six ways to Sunday, and you think how nice it must be to be free about how you feel.

Not that Johanna hasn’t paid the price for it— no, the Capitol deserves every spitting word she throws their way. You brush off her rants with nervous laughter and look around to see if anyone’s listening, because you still have your family at home, but deep down you agree.

It’s refreshing though, to talk with a real friend who’s unafraid to speak her mind and actually understands what you’re going through. Your friends back home, however sweet, couldn’t even begin to know the half of it.

“I wish I could teach you something,” you say ruefully, wiping the beads of sweat from your forehead. “Working in power plants doesn't really prepare us for the Games.”

Johanna shrugs. “It wasn’t a trade, I was just helping you out. And… you’re the least insufferable person here, so I'd rather talk with you than anyone else.”

You’re sure it’s the kindest thing she’ll ever say to you, so all you do is grin and hand her an axe back. She catches your arm and pulls you close, like she’s going to hug you, but instead just leans in and whispers in your ear, “Don’t back out. Or I’ll actually have to kill you.”

You know what she’s talking about, and you know she’s not kidding this time.

Now it’s time to find another victim — err, friend — at a different station to continue avoiding Finnick. You spot him with Katniss, again, but to her credit she looks less than amused at whatever he’s saying. You squash the flame of jealousy beginning to burn in your stomach, because you’ve been over this with him already. That, and the fact that you don’t really have the right to be jealous in the first place.

Finnick looks up from the rope he’s fiddling with and his eyes find you, which now means you have to scramble to find a station.

You spot Cashmere at the archery station and make a beeline, relieved to see her brother is not with her, because it makes the introductions and inevitable awkward small talk a little more manageable.

“Hi,” you force out. Cashmere fixes you with an icy stare but says nothing for a long moment, she just observes. She’s terrifying, to say the least. To busy yourself you pick up a bow and fiddle with it a bit, examining the craftsmanship in an attempt to look busy.

“You shoot?” She says after a minute, her voice almost making you jump.

“Not… really…” And just like that, you’ve lost the singular ounce of interest she held for you.

You listen to the instructor as he tries to teach you how to shoot, but it's clear after the first few tries this is not your strong suit.

You wish you’d been born into a district that gave you a natural advantage in the Games; you’d won yours by nothing more than sheer luck. Everyone who hadn’t been killed by starvation, dehydration, or mutts were too busy killing one another before they paid any attention to you.

You hear him before you see him, the soft chuckle as one of your arrows misses the target entirely. “You should take lessons from Katniss,” Finnick says lightly, but it only makes you frown.

“I’d like to see you try,” you grumble, but you don’t actually want him to try because you’re sure he’s legally required to be perfect at everything he does.

“Why don’t I show you how to throw a trident instead?” He suggests, and that's the last thing you want to do. What you want is time. Time to think about what Johanna said, if all this angst was even worth it when you’d be dead in a week. Time to think about what you actually want.

Time, unfortunately, is a luxury a victor would never be able to afford, often wasting it locked in a prison of their own minds.

“Okay,” you concede finally. “I guess you’d be an okay teacher… I’ve heard you’re not half bad.”

The training week has come and gone, the interviews with Caesar Flickerman having been the last hurrah before they sent you all off to die.

You tried, unconvincingly, to remind yourself of the rebel plot to break everyone out, but it did little to soothe your nerves. You suspected they didn’t let you in on everything; that much was clear by the silent communication between Finnick and Johanna.

All of these thoughts are racing through your mind and keeping you from sleeping. The pillows have been thrown around and the sheets have tangled and bunched around your legs as you toss and turn, trying to find a position that would pull you into at least a few hours of slumber.

All of your thoughts circle back to Finnick. Throughout the week you’d spent several nights in his bed, but tonight you’d both agreed you needed your rest to prepare for the day tomorrow.

Still, you can’t worry about him any more knowing he’s just a floor below you. Throwing on a thin robe you make your way to the elevator, not exactly sure what you want but deciding your mind will be made up by the time you reach him.

You don’t even have to raise your hand to knock, the door flies open and you’re met with sea green eyes that pierce right into yours. They’re clear of sleepiness and brighten as they land on you, so you know he’s been awake like you.

You walk past him and know he’s trailing behind you, closing the door to his bedroom once you’re both inside. “I want it to be like the first time.”

“What?”

“You know, the first time we…” you trail off, suddenly shy, and hope he’ll fill in the blanks on his own.

“Yeah… what about it?” Finnick’s eyebrows furrow into a slight frown, like he’s trying to remember that night, the one that’s hazy with emotions and drenched with alcohol.

“I just… I mean…” You struggle to find the words, because what about it is right. “I guess what I’m saying is I don’t want to think about the consequences.”

Not a whole truth, but enough of one. You want to be able to be with him one last time, and don’t care about the consequences because you're sure to be dead soon.

There’s a long, drawn out pause as he looks at you. Really looks at you, like he’s staring straight into your soul. It’s so silent you’re sure he can hear the pounding of your heart as blood roars in your ears, sure he can feel the air that’s become suffocatingly thick with tension.

“Okay,” he says simply, and that’s all you need before you close the distance and kiss him.

You’ve kissed him many times before, but this one is different. You’re expecting it to be like the others, desperate and rough like you’d lose each other in a second.

This one is slow, like you have all the time in the world. For this one night, only two things are really certain: you have Finnick, and Finnick has you. The ones that follow that first one are just as deliberate and calm, so much so that you lose track of time. While it couldn’t have been that long, it was beginning to feel like hours, any pause being reduced to nothing more than short breaks to breathe before you reconnected.

You’re so wrapped up in the feeling of his lips against yours that you don’t even notice you’re moving until the back of your legs hit the bed and you almost fall back.

He steadies you with a hand on your waist and pulls you back in for another kiss.

“Someone’s eager to get me in bed,” he mumbles against your lips with a smile.

“Am I that obvious?” You ask with a giggle, a little embarrassed at how breathless you sound.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” he pulls you closer until your body is flush against his and you can feel everything. “I think I’m a little more desperate.”

Yes, judging by the hardness you feel against your body, maybe he is.

This time you fall back intentionally, pulling him with you and savoring the feeling of his weight pinning you against the mattress.

You never want to stop kissing him like this. His lips are working in a way that’s so sweet and gentle you’re getting dangerously close to blurting out something you shouldn’t.

When he pulls back, propping himself up with his forearms on either side of you, you can really look at his face.

The green of his eyes are barely visible because his pupils are completely blown out, like even his eyes are desperate to get as much of you as they can. His bronze curls are beginning to stick to his forehead from the sweat beginning to dot his hairline.

The only thing that shocks you is that his cheeks are tinted a light pink, and his lips, reddened and glossy from the kissing, are pursed together in…

“Are you nervous?” You blurt out, eyes widening at the realization.

“No,” he mumbles, leaning forward to kiss you again, but you press a hand to his chest that forces him to keep your gaze.

“Why’re you nervous? We’ve done this like, a million times,” you laugh, but he’s not smiling.

Finnick’s answer surprises you so much that your own smile is instantly wiped from your face. “I just want to make sure it’s good for you. I want you to be happy… even if it’s only for a little bit.”

His tone is so earnest and anxious you’re sure you’re about to cry, because no one’s ever been this sweet to you. Except him. “Okay,” you whisper. Those funny three words are jumping in the back of your throat, and you have to swallow hard and kiss him to make sure they disappear.

Still connected by your lips, you roll over until you’re straddling him, his back propped against the headboard. You never want to stop kissing him; when his lips are on yours it’s like you’re in a whole different world. One without all the worries that weigh you down and pry you apart from him. It’s the most relief you’ve felt since your Reaping Day that you whine when his lips leave yours.

He laughs a little at your desperation, his hands sliding under your shirt and raising it above your head before tossing it aside.

Finnick makes quick work of the rest of your clothes and his own, and before you know it you’re both naked.

You’re glad he flips you over because you're a little embarrassed how wet you’ve become — not that it’d be a secret for long.

His hands slide down and gently pull your legs apart so he can settle comfortably between them.

Now it’s your turn to feel nervous, unfamiliar with the position you’re in — at eye level with one another. It’s so different from the impersonal ones you’re used to.

When he’s behind you, you can almost be satisfied with it being just sex. You’re free to pretend it’s anyone, it doesn’t have to be Finnick.

But now, looking into his eyes and being met with a stare just as intense, you hope he can't feel your pulse skyrocketing.

Just as you feel the familiarity of one of his fingers working its way inside you, you’re hit with a force of emotion so hard it knocks the wind out of you and you have to hide a gasp. You realize, with a stab to your chest, you never want this to end, but know it will. Know you have to make this a memorable goodbye in case only one of you survives.

He makes you feel so good, knows your body so well it’s basically second nature when he pumps his fingers in and out in a way that makes you arch towards his hand, silently begging for more.

He’s just about to slide a second finger in when you know he senses the change in how you’re kissing him. It’s more like the desperate, hungry ones you're both used to.

In a moment he’s withdrawn completely and you cry out at the loss. “Why’d you do that?” You groan.

“What’s wrong with you?” Finnick demands, holding your chin with one of his hands and forcing you to hold eye contact with him.

“Nothing, can you just get back to—”

“Bullshit.” He withdraws his body from you completely, leaving you cold and lonely as he sits back on his knees. His eyes widen as he looks at you, and you can literally see his pupils returning to their normal size. “You don't want to not worry about the consequences,” he realizes. “You’re just here to say goodbye.”

You want to protest and sit up, but he’s reading you to filth. “Finnick, I—”

“No,” he says with so much force it surprises you, squeezing his eyes shut like he’s in pain. “No, I told you we’re going to be fine, why are you acting like this is the end?”

You can recognize the edge of terror in his voice and know he’s not really mad at you. He’s panicked, because if you don’t believe his words, why should he?

“Finnick,” you say again, gently this time, and he slowly opens his eyes. You reach your hand towards his face and cup his cheek, an act so tender you can feel your own heart sinking to the bottom of your stomach. “I want to believe you. About everything. Really, I do, I just… I just want to do it right this one time.”

And it’s true. You’ve been intimate with him countless times, but they all feel so wrong compared to the rawness of tonight.

“We’re gonna be fine,” he whispers, grasping onto the hand that’s on his cheek and bringing it down to his chest. You feel his heart beating a million miles a minute, thudding so hard against his chest it might just burst free.

You nod, knowing you don’t have the strength to argue. You want tonight to be perfect, just in case it’s the last time, and you’re already missing the feeling of his lips.

Finnick seems to have lost the internal battle he’s been warring against himself, because when he surges forward to kiss you, his words are seemingly forgotten.

His kisses are still tender and steady, but an edge of desperation creeps toward the end. As if when you pull away to catch your breath, it’s the last time he’ll ever feel them.

You return to the position of before and try to fall back into the rhythm that’d been temporarily disrupted.

His fingers find their way back inside you just as his lips reconnect to yours, but this time you’re impatient. You want to be ready and able to enjoy it, but you can’t stand wasting time without him inside you, knowing you only had a few hours left together.

He seems to sense this, too, because his fingers curl inside you and send shockwaves up and down your spine. Blindly, you reach for his pants and fumble with the waistband for a moment before slipping your hand inside.

Instantly you find his cock, hard and practically jumping at your touch as you wrap your hand around it. You’re rewarded with his hips jumping towards your touch and groan that’s immediately swallowed by your kiss.

Just a simple touch has him impatient, understanding your sudden desperation. The brief whine as his lips leave yours is replaced with a moan as you feel the thickness of him pressing at your entrance.

“Wait!” You cry out, so suddenly it startles him into jumping back.

“What’s wrong?” He looks panicked, then grief stricken, like he’s done something wrong.

“Nothing, I just needed to say—” Please, just let me say it, you beg your brain. “I love you.”

Finnick’s features instantly relax and he’s back against you in an instant. The smile that’s overtaken his entire face is the brightest you’ve ever seen.

“I love you too,” he says in between kisses, “I thought I was being pretty obvious about it though.”

He doesn’t even wait for a reply before thrusting into you. Your nails dig into his shoulders and he pauses, letting you adjust for a moment.

“I think you were made for me,” He breathes, forehead dipping down to connect with yours.

“Oh come on, don’t be cheesy— ah!” He’s setting a pace that’s been like the rest of the night, slow and sweet, but you know it’s only a matter of time before you both grow impatient with it.

For a while there’s only the sounds of labored breathing and skin against skin as he thrusts into you, until your gasps and moans grow more frequent and you both know you’re getting close.

He increases the pace to something much more demanding now, not caring about the path of scratches your fingernails are making down his perfect skin, marring his perfection ever so slightly.

“Please—” You don’t even know what you’re begging for, because you know he’ll give you the release you so desperately crave. Still, with the coil wound tight at the base of your spine it’s all you can do in your sex-drunken mind.

You both come right after the other, completely in sync, there’s no hesitation when Finnick wraps his arms around you and pulls you onto his chest.

“I meant it, y’know,” you say quietly after a minute.

“Me too. All of it.”

The giddiness you feel at his words disappears at the reality of the situation. “I wish you would’ve told me sooner. We’ve wasted so much time.”

“I know,” he sighs, because that's all he can say.

Tomorrow, everything will change. Both your lives will be on the line for a greater cause, your next breath will not be guaranteed, and neither will his. But for these few sacred hours, before the first cracks of dawn seep through the curtains and drag you back to reality, you have certainty, you have contentment.

A sigh escapes your lips, and Finnick looks down at you resting your cheek against his chest.

He hopes you can’t feel his heart accelerating when you begin to draw little patterns in his skin.

“What’s wrong?”

The look in your eyes makes him wish he hadn’t asked.

“I’m just going to miss you.”

He could protest. Could point you towards the logistics that favor both your survival, could ramble about how the rebels are going to get all of you out. How you won’t ever need to miss him because he plans on sticking to you like glue until he draws his last breath.

The little part of him that's just as scared as you are stops him from saying any of it. He’s agreed to sacrifice himself and everyone around him to ensure Katniss and Peeta make it out. He could do it without hesitation if he didn’t have to think about you.

Instead, he just presses a long kiss to your temple and pulls you impossibly closer. You think he’d burrow himself in your skin if he could.

“Me too,” is the last thing you hear before the lull of sleep, aided by the warmth and safety you feel in his arms.

You hope tomorrow never comes.

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair #the hunger games #finnick odair x you #thg series #finnick odair smut #thg fanfiction #finnick odair angst #finnick odair fluff #the hunger games fanfiction

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wife-of-all-dilfs · 2 years ago

Text

what friends do | f. odair

masterlist

summary: you were a simple town girl. finnick odair was the crown jewel of panem. both of you needed an escape and found it at a secluded beach just outside district four. these were three ingredients that created a year-long friendship. but were friends supposed to have… impure thoughts about one another? you weren’t so sure.

pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader

warnings: smut, wayyy too much detail, dirty thoughts, friends-to-lovers, mild angst, mostly readers pov, pre-rebellion, HEAVY dirty talk, fingering, unprotected p in v (big no no), multiple orgasms, so much pining, creampie, cock-warming

notes: i’m so sorry this took me so long. life has been up my ass lately and, as y’all know, i’m a slow writer. but thank you sm to everyone who patiently stuck around, i love y’all <3 this was supposed to be a short smut fic but um, apparently not. anyway, this has taken long enough to come out so imma stop rambling. ENJOY <3

word count: 11.7k

Mid-Autumn was closely approaching District Four.

Harvest in the fishing industry was at its peak and the docks were chock-full with boats bringing in their plentiful catches. The town centre was a bustling scene, crowded with people selling produce and trading for food to bring home to their family's kitchen table.

Last year's autumn harvest was the same picture—overflow, hustle, commotion; chaos like this was something you never came to enjoy. So, it was also around this time last year that you had decided to set off in search of the perfect location away from the rest of society. A place where you could be at peace, where you could forget the disastrous world you lived in.

District Four was home to many popular beaches, but the one you discovered was uninhabited, isolated, found after an hour-or-so-long trek through overgrown dirt pathways and a thicket of sea-grape and palm trees. A true paradise away from society. Or so you had thought in the first few weeks.

You weren't too sure when he had started showing up or how he had even discovered the beach.

However, one evening, as you were seated in the sand watching the sunset on the darkening horizon, you noticed a dark figure diving and surfacing in the flat, glimmering water. Their movements were so poised and fluid like the ocean was something they had conquered. You guessed it to be a dolphin or shark because there was no way a human being could move so gracefully.

But then the figure started wading to shore, and the next thing you knew, they were standing on two legs and exiting the water. You knew then that you had guessed wrong. The sun behind him obscured the bronze of his hair and the swirling lukewarm sea that pooled around his pupils. All you could see was the outline of his tall broad figure as he hiked through the sand toward you.

Fear had told you to bolt from the approaching stranger. You were in the middle of nowhere—it was the perfect place to be murdered or kidnapped. But something else, some deep and tangible instinct, also told you to stay.

"Didn't realise I had a captive audience," thestranger spoke, droplets of gleaming water sliding off his body and into the sand as he stood a few feet away.

Taken by surprise, you fumbled over your words trying to form a sentence in response. "I wasn't—I didn't—"

"Easy, honey," he chuckled. The sound was so warm and pleasant that it almost alleviated the slight chill in the air. "Just pulling your leg."

Your mouth formed a small circle. "Right," you said, gaze locked on the golden sand in embarrassment. "I, uh, didn't think anyone else knew about this place."

To be honest, you were pretty sure it was a restricted area. Probably the reason it was so isolated. If a Capitol official found you, the consequences would most likely involve your tongue, a scalpel, and a hell of a lot of pain. All for a wanting a little peace and quiet.

"Neither did I," the man said. "I only come every now and then. Need an escape from the constant buzz back home. Time for myself, you know?"

"Yeah." You smiled, feeling the stranger's words resonate in your soul. "Yeah, I do know."

You thought you saw the corners of his lips curve into a smile, but the shadows on his face were so prominent that you couldn't tell.

"Mind if I sit?" he asked.

Well... if he were going to murder you, he would have done it already. So, you nodded. Sometimes you questioned your survival instincts. Or lack thereof.

He didn't leave much space as he sat beside you. Only an inch or two, meaning you could feel the humidity of body heat and salt water emit from his skin. Even sitting down, he was still quite tall compared to you, but that wasn't what caused your heart to drop into your stomach.

The setting sun, which no longer disguised his face with shadows, now illuminated his entire figure and revealed his identity. His hair was a mess of wet wavy strands, the colour alight like a pale fire beneath the sun's orange radiance. His skin was sun-kissed, no doubt from days he had spent perfecting his swimming abilities. And those dimples... wow.

He was gorgeous. A man sculpted by the gods of beauty, just like everyone in Panem had depicted him to be. Even his sea-green eyes were as striking as everyone said.

Finnick Odair.

The man who was crowned victor of the sixty-fifth Hunger Games at fourteen. Who trapped multiple tributes at once in a net and killed them one by one with his famed trident. A killer.

The man whose reputation in the Capitol was known nationwide. A proud womanizer.

That was what everyone made him out to be.

Only, in the brief interaction you shared with him, he seemed like quite the opposite. He radiated effortless charm and warmth, but not in the arrogant way the media had portrayed him. Then again, did the media ever accurately portray the truth of anything?

It was then that you determined it didn't really matter who people said he was or what he had done. He was a human being—just like you. He deserved a chance.

His pink lips stretched into a knee-weakening smile; you were grateful that you were sitting down.

"I'm Finnick, by the way."

The both of you knew he didn't need to introduce himself. The whole of Panem knew his name and face. Though the fact that he humbly did so anyway made you like him the tiniest bit more.

You returned his smile with one of your own and introduced yourself.

Time passed and the sun had set; the moon had risen, but you both remained sitting side-by-side in the sand. Conversation flowed so naturally between the two of you that it was difficult for you to remember that stopping and getting some air into your lungs was an important factor in keeping a conversation going... as well as keeping you alive.

You told him about yourself as he did himself—some things that were meant to remain secrets, some things that seemed too strange to tell anyone else.

At some point, he had offered to walk you back to your house. The trek was over an hour long but neither of you seemed to care. The time flew by.

When you were standing at your front door and he was gazing up at you from the bottom of the steps, you both promised to meet again the next day. And you did.

As you did the day after that... and the day after that... and the day after that...

**********

As soon as the nights carried that familiar chill and the town congested with markets and fervent buyers, you knew mid-autumn had made its return. This meant most of your evenings were spent at a certain secret beach with a certain District Four victor.

Having already finished his pre-sunset swim, Finnick was sitting beside you, fingers weaving dried palm leaves into the mat beneath you. A couple of weeks after you had first met, he had shown up one day holding it all rolled up in hand.

"Made this for you to sit on," he had said with a proud smile. "Took nearly all night and earned me a few good finger cramps, but I think it was worth it."

Pinpointing the exact moment your attraction to him first formed was tricky. However, that gesture was one your mind returned to often. That little palm-leaf mat, the time and effort he put into making it, was scored on your heart.

Finnick was very much a gentleman.

He would always offer you a hand when standing up and whenever you walked back through the overgrown seaside forest. Sometimes he picked fruits for you such as sea grapes and mangos or would climb one of the palms and knock down a few coconuts. One thing he always, always did wasmake sure you got home safe; he never let you out of his sight until you were safe inside your front door.

All those gestures, big and small, added up. Soon enough, Finnick Odair had infiltrated your heart and consumed all your thoughts. You saw his sea-green eyes staring back at you whenever you gazed out at the ocean by your house. Felt the ghost of his hands on yours whenever you picked a grape from the kitchen fruit bowl. Heard his voice calling out your name in your most vivid of dreams.

But there was more to it than innocent adoration.

The guilt came when your gaze started lingering on his body a little too long whenever he left the water at the beach. Shimmering droplets would glide down his beautifully tanned skin; his arm muscles would flex as his fingers raked back his dripping wet hair. It wasn't yourfault he was the walking definition of perfection.

Unholy was the closest word to describe the filthy thoughts that had perverted your imagination. What started as endearing daydreams soon became fantasies that had you seeking relief between your thighs late at night. Your thoughts went wild whenever he dropped you off at your house. It took everything in you not to invite him inside and ask him to fuck you senseless against the front door.

All you had to do was ask. You knew he would say yes.

A year is a long time to know someone. A long time for feelings to grow. It also serves as a lot of time for things to happen between two people—things that linger in your mind even months after they have happened.

Like the times he would walk by you and teasingly whisper something provocative in your ear, then disappear for an hour of swimming, leaving you all hot and flustered in the sand. Neither of you would acknowledge it when he returned. Or when conversations took such a flirtatious turn, the tension only dissipated when houses were separating you at the end of the night.

But that's just what friends do, right? They tease and banter?

Maybe.

However, not all things could be chalked up to being just friends.

Another thing about Finnick's eyes was that they were transparent. You saw how helplessly they clung to you the days you stripped to your underwear and joined him in the water. He had this sort of reaction that turned his eyes into a dark violent sea, like you were some divine temptation planted to test the strength of his resolve.

Sometimes he could resist. Other days it was obvious he couldn't help but reach out and touch.

He would try to be subtle about it. Hands holding yours a little longer than necessary when he helped you stand up. Sitting too closely beside you so that your arms and legs would graze against each other. Brushing off pieces of seaweed that would stick to the dip of your waist and then constantly using the same excuse just to feel the heat of your soft skin.

There was one interaction, though, that you fell asleep to the thought of every night. It was a moment when things almost went too far; an interaction friends definitely did not share.

You could remember it clear a day. Hell, you could still feel it clear as day.

It was a hot summer evening. Both you and Finnick were at the beach and swimming in the water since being in the muggy coastal heat for more than five minutes was parallel to roasting in a thousand-degree sauna.

You were about twenty meters offshore, bobbing beside Finnick as he dived to collect various seashells. That boy could hold his breath for an unbelievable amount of time which meant sometimes you spent minutes alone on the surface, waiting, listening to the calm waves lap eerily around you.

This is exactly how people die in shark movies, said an unwarranted voice in your mind.

As usual, a minute went by. Nothing to worry about. Then a minute turned into two and you were starting to become a little concerned. And then it was two and a half minutes and you were now panicking.

"Finnick?!" you called out, hoping he could somehow hear you from the dark depths.

Three minutes had totalled, and you were pretty certain he had drowned. Just to add to the utter dread coursing through your veins, something slimy brushed against your foot. Most likely a piece of seaweed, but you didn't make that connection at the time.

That very same moment, Finnick burst through the water's surface, only mildly breathless and pinching a small iridescent shell between his fingers.

"Look at thi—"

Before the words could leave his mouth, he found himself enveloped in your distraught embrace. Your face was buried in the crook of his neck, crying tears of relief.

Damn that stupid seashell.

He automatically secured you in his arms, concern palpable in his voice as he asked, "Are you okay?"

You pulled away, an indistinguishable combination of tears and saltwater rolling down your cheeks. Though it was hard to miss the look of distress found in your furrowed brows and trembling lips.

"Don't ever do that to me again!" you exclaimed, gripping his arms to emphasise your urgency. "You hear me?! Ever!"

Finnick's head tilted slightly, surprised by your emotional reaction. He hadn't realised he meant so much to you. The surprise faded into remorse, softening his features.

"I won't. I won't, I promise," he said sincerely. His eyes flickered over the worry lines etched on your forehead. He unconsciously brushed his thumb over the lines, hoping to draw out the anxiety with his touch, and then tucked away a strand of hair. "I'm sorry I scared you."

You took in a deep, shuddering breath in an attempt to compose yourself. A mess of emotions stirred inside you—worry, embarrassment, irritation. You were partially frustrated with Finnick for making you fear for his life. Mostly annoyed with yourself for showing such vulnerability in front of him.

"God, you're an idiot sometimes," you sighed, shaking your head.

He smirked. "Didn't think you cared so much about me."

"No, you just don't think, Finn."

He glanced off into the distance for a moment with furrowed brows. "Well, that's definitely not true," he countered, meeting your gaze again with a half-smirk. "I think about a lot of things, actually."

"Oh? Like what?" you asked, slightly annoyed. "Do tell me what the great Finnick Odair thinks about instead of his own safety."

Slowly, the smirk faded from his lips. Something new tinged the atmosphere and suddenly everything around you seemed hotter than it previously was. Not an uncomfortable or sweltering heat, but one that held an intensity that sparked the air with electricity.

You suddenly became very aware that Finnick was still holding you in his arms. You recognised the confined proximity between you and him and realised that, before this moment, your bodies had never been so close.

Your legs were curled around his hips, pelvis pressed firmly against his. The position of his hands, which were keeping you afloat, was bordering on inappropriate but would only be deemed as such if you cared. Which you didn't. You liked it—having his hands on you.

One thing you couldn't ignore was the flickering of his gaze. How his eyes kept dropping to your lips. How they blatantly revealed a long-awaited confession that words just couldn't capture. Still, you wanted to hear him say it. You wanted to hear the purr in his voice as he told you.

Then he was leaning in. You weren't sure whether it was on purpose or if the pure magnetism of the tension between you was drawing him closer. Regardless, you started to lean in closer too, eyes drooping as you focused on his mouth.

And before the short distance between your lips and his became immeasurable, you whispered, "Tell me, Finn."

The hands keeping you afloat trailed up and down your back restlessly as Finnick forced a tense exhale through his nose. He seemed to be wrestling with thoughts. You waited in anticipation, and right when it seemed like he was going to make a move—

"I think..."

—you were interrupted. By no less than a pod of dolphins as they leapt from the water, causing you and Finnick to jolt from each other's embrace.

The rest of that evening was not worth mentioning. Not because you had forgotten what happened, but because the sheer awkwardness between you and Finnick afterwards was so torturous that you wanted to keep the memory squashed in the recesses of your mind. Neither of you acknowledged what happened. Finnick still walked you home, but it was done so in agonising silence.

Surprisingly, you both returned to the beach the next day. You hadn't expected him to be his usual upbeat self, but he was. So, in turn, you too acted like the previous day was erased from history. But your friendship with him was never the same.

Flirty conversations no longer felt like a joke; they now had a deeper meaning. Fleeting touches caused full-body goosebumps that didn't happen before. There was so much unresolved tension, and it was painfully thick. Inescapable.

So, as Finnick sat beside you present-day, weaving dried palm leaves into the mat beneath your bodies, you couldn't help but notice the transparency of your body language and his. The gap between you both was comparable to the size of a pearl and even though neither of you acknowledged it, you kept catching each other stealing quick glances every half-minute or so.

When you were sure he wasn't looking, you found your gaze drawn to his fingers. They were sturdy, yet nimble; curling and manoeuvring in ways that had your face feeling hotter than the heat of any sunburn or warm summer's day. This heat was beneath your skin. Spreading through your limbs in little tendrils and wrapping around your nerves. A dip in the salty sea wouldn't cool you down nor would a gulp of cold fresh water.

As you stared at his hands, you knew only the source of the sensation could offer reprieve. But that wouldn't happen, so there you burned.

The fact that he was shirtless and that his hair was a gorgeous mess of damp bronze curls helped not one bit with taming the consuming desire inside you. God, you were a mess yourself.

You sighed.

The sun, glowing intensely with a divine orange, was beginning its descent on the horizon. Your feet were buried beneath the soft sand, trying to retain some warmth as a slight breeze blew against your exposed skin.

Wearing a short sundress probably wasn't the most practical idea. Embarrassing as it was to admit, practicality wasn't what was going through your mind when you decided to wear it... Someone—Something else was.

"Something on your mind?" Finnick asked suddenly.

Your heart fumbled in your chest, terrified that he had somehow heard your thoughts. "Sorry?"

"You sighed," he said, turning his head to look at you. "Or am I just getting so old that I'm already starting to hear things?"

With relief of his lack of mind-reading abilities, you laughed softly. "You're definitely getting a bit old, Finn," you teased. "Any nursing homes you've been considering?"

"I heard retirement by the sea has its perks," he quipped, subtle dimples present as he returned to his weaving. "Although, I will need someone to make sure I don't fall asleep while swimming and get carried out by the tide. What d'you say, sweetheart? Up for becoming my personal lifeguard?"

Absolutely. "Depends. Will you force me to wear one of those awful flowery swimming caps with a matching tankini?"

He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "I'm thinking more like those little red bodysuits. You know, the ones that zip open down the front?"

You reprimanded him by pushing his shoulder, wearing a betraying smile. "Very charming."

"I just think red's your colour, that's all," he laughed.

Your stomach fluttered. You knew he was teasing you; teasing was basically the foundation of your... friendship. Deep down, you knew there was also some truth behind his words. A truth that was as electrifying as it was upsetting—how long were you both going to keep up with this whole 'friends' charade? Could you handle it if the answer was forever?

Best not to think about it. For your sanity's sake.

Finnick finally settled into a comfortable position with his forearms locked around his bent knees, apparently having decided to continue his mat-weaving another time. He had been extending it bit by bit ever since he first made it for you. At this point, you were sure he was attempting to cover the entire beach. For now, it was only big enough for two people to lie down on.

Sounds pretty convenient, came an abrupt thought.

And then you fell down yet another rabbit hole of depraved daydreams... A pair of hands interlocking your own above your head. Hot lips pressing kisses to your neck. Tongue gliding up the sensitive skin of your jugular. Your fingers tugging at bronze curls between your thighs.

You were sick. Diseased with immorality. Finnick was your friend. If not your best friend. You're not supposed to fantasise about fucking your best friend.

"Thinking about anyone in particular?"

You almost choked on your saliva. "W—What?"

How did he keep doing that?

Finnick seemed to find joy in your perplexity. It was written all over his face. God, those fucking dimples. "You've been completely still for nearly five minutes and your legs are covered in goosebumps," he pointed out. "Hence the question: who are you thinking about?"

As you looked down, you found that your skin was in fact riddled with goosebumps. It didn't occur to you then that the only reason he could have noticed was if he was staring at your legs in the first place. It also didn't occur to you that Finnick obviously had the very same debauched thoughts running through his own mind.

Why did you have to wear such a revealing dress? He already struggled enough with resisting you at the best of times.

If you had been paying attention, a simple glance in his direction would have revealed how his ears were pink and his pupils were dilated. More importantly, you would have seen his legs constantly shifting to ease the discomfort tenting his pants. Fortunately, he had mastered the art of winding himself down in a short amount of time.

Unfortunately for you, that ability was not within your skill set.

You scoffed. "In case you haven't noticed, Finnick—it's autumn," you said, a quick snappy lilt in your tone. "I know you've got some weird internal space heater built into you, but normal people tend to have a reaction to the cold."

Well, it's a good thing you didn't sound defensive...

Finnick raised an eyebrow at you, displaying a puzzled half-smirk that spoke a thousand words.

You lowered your head in embarrassment, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry," you murmured. "I just, uh, don't really like the cold."

"Who could've guessed."

Despite serving as an excuse, it wasn't entirely untrue. You really did dislike the cold. And it was now that you seriously regretted your choice of sparse attire. The breeze kept blowing up the dress's skirt, threatening to expose your dignity to the world. Or more accurately, to Finnick. Thankfully, you had decided to wear a pair of delicate lace underwear that morning instead of old granny panties.

Nevertheless, now that it was on your mind, you couldn't think about anything but the cold gusts of wind blowing against you. Chills ran over your skin and you were shaking like a leaf.

Finnick, being the gentleman that he was, scanned the surrounding area for anything he could use to keep you warm. He would've given you his shirt had it not been crumpled in a ball of wet sand on the ground.

There was nothing else of use. Nothing except a single apprehensive idea sitting in the forefront of his mind. It was all he had. He bit the inside of his cheek as he contemplated the potentially disastrous idea.

Then, after taking a silent deep breath, he finally said, "Come here then." Your eyes snapped to his. You must've looked like you had seen a ghost because his brows knitted together in confusion. "What?" he breathed out a chuckle. "I'd prefer not having to carry you home as a block of ice."

You thought about it for a moment. Was it really such a good idea after the thoughts that were just swarming in your mind? Another gust of wind blew by and you instinctively wrapped your arms around yourself.

"I won't bite, sweetheart. Not unless you want me to," he added.

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, shut up."

With that, you slid across the mat, positioning your body, which was still facing the sunset, in front of his legs. There was a moment of hesitation. Anxiety. But before you could reconsider, Finnick wrapped a strong arm around your middle and pulled you back against his chest, situating your body between his legs.

The exhale that left your lips was instantaneous and you couldn't help but shudder at the warmth of his skin. "God," you sighed, overwhelmed by the sudden change in temperature. "How are you so warm all the time?"

"Oh, you know. Weird internal space heater."

You laughed softly, then felt Finnick's chest vibrate against your back as he joined you. His bare arms wound tighter around you, motivated by the affectionate atmosphere. Your body seemed to melt into the cocoon of warmth he provided, and a soft smile graced your lips.

"Better?" he asked.

You nodded, responding with a whisper, "Thank you."

"Anytime."

You could hear the smile in his voice and how intently he was trying to hide it. You wished you could have seen it. To see the sense of peace you shared. However, feeling it in the way he held you was enough.

Instead of blood, your heart now seemed to be pumping out rather odd alternatives—waves of sea-green salted ocean, iridescent seashells, smiles paired with heart-stopping dimples. How could he? How could Finnick condemn you to loving him like this? So unwaveringly; so without a hope of ever being able to return to life without him in it.

He made a mess of you. A ruin. And even with wholesome affection running through your veins, you still couldn't ignore the hazy images conjuring in your mind from the way his body was pressed firmly behind you.

How could he?

The sun had just touched the horizon, granting the sky a few more minutes of light, meaning it was almost time to head home—an upsetting reality. You weren't sure how much time had passed before your body started to ache from lack of movement.

You wiggled your toes which were buzzing like television static. The feeling started moving up your legs and you knew if you didn't stretch, you would later embarrass yourself trying to stand on dead legs. So that is what you did. You started moving.

First, you stretched out the muscles in your legs and then moved onto straightening your back against Finnick's chest, feeling the faint pops of your spine offer you relief. And then you started readjusting your position and wriggling your hips to fit more comfortably between Finnick's toned thighs. That was your first mistake.

"Stop moving."

You were taken aback by the rigid inflection in his tone. "What?" you asked, ignoring his warning and continuing your restless movements.

"Stop. Moving," Finnick repeated, sounding more strained.

His hold on you became stiff. Completely frozen.

You were confused. Everything was perfect a moment ago, and all you were doing was stretching—why was he being so weird and snappy?

In response, you exhaled sharply. "I'm just trying to get comf—"

"Fuck," he breathed out.

Your eyes widened and it was safe to say your stomach had flipped inside out.

That was the moment you finally realised your second mistake. The rigidness in his voice wasn't him being snappy with you at all. Not even close. He was just trying to prevent the pleasure he felt below from reaching his vocal cords.

But it was too late. It wouldn't have mattered if he managed to keep quiet because you could feel it now. The achingly hard length that was pressed against your backside, reaching all the way up to your tailbone.

"...Oh," you whispered.

"Yeah," Finnick said. "Oh."

Now it was your turn to freeze. Fear consumed you, similar to what you imagined having to remain motionless in front of tyrannosaurus rex to prevent from being eaten alive was like. Thanks to the damning wind, strands of your hair blew behind your shoulders, undoubtedly tickling the exposed skin of Finnick's chest. Even that minuscule movement had your heart threatening to explode with anxiety.

As per usual, panic wreaked havoc in your mind.

What do I do? Do I get up? How will we come back from this? Does he—

Finnick cleared his throat. "Uh, you still alive in there?" he chuckled nervously.

You felt minor relief enter your bloodstream upon hearing the normality in his voice. At least one of you was composed enough to act normally. Well, as normal as one could act after becoming hard due to their best friend sitting in their lap.

"Is it—" You swallowed the nerves rattling your voice "—is it because there's a girl sitting on your lap, or is it because it's me?"

That was the million-dollar question. Was his reaction simply biological? A natural response to stimulation? Or was it deeper than that? More personal.

Finnick was silent.

The rapid thumping in your chest moved to your ears, like a drumroll leading up to some grand reveal. You felt dizzy; both filled with dreadful anticipation and exhilaration. Your senses were so heightened, fuelled by an inane bout of adrenaline. You swore you could almost hear the gears turning in Finnick's mind, smell the smoke as they rotated over and over, trying to make sense of your question and form a suitable response.

Religion never played a factor in your life, but, oh, how you were zealously praying his answer would be the one you spent all your nights fantasising about. But still, he was silent.

And right when you believed he wasn't going to respond at all, his lips finally uttered that single life-changing word. "You."

Fireworks seemed to light up every nerve in your body. You.

You weren't sure what to make of your thoughts at first. The overwhelming abundance of emotion caused by a singular word was difficult to fathom. Only one sentiment stood out from the rest—and that was the fact that Finnick felt the same as you did for him.

It was no longer a speculation. It was a fact. A truth. An undeniable reality. You had both verbal and physicalproof, literally digging into your backside.

Finnick slowly, very slowly, unwound an arm from your torso, and you held your breath. His hand slid across your waist and then plastered itself over your hipbone, careful not to apply too much pressure to make you feel uncomfortable. When you felt the slight movement of his thumb gliding across your clothed skin, you exhaled the burning air in your lungs with a shaky sigh.

"Do you want me to get up?" you asked softly while staring at the sunset, although you were focused on anything but.

"Not a chance." And then he unwound the other arm, now cupping both sides of your hips with two large hands. The heat from his palm sank into your skin, sinking deeper layer by layer until it reached the rapid flow of your bloodstream. "Do you want to get up?"

You felt a pulsing sensation between your thighs that had your parted lips inhaling slow deep breaths, and you knew the only logical answer was no. So, you shook your head.

Finnick reached up to skilfully tuck a lock of hair behind your ear before placing his hand back on your hip. He then leaned down beside your ear, voice a hot, velvety whisper, "What next then, sweetheart?"

A wave of chills ran down your entire body.

What next? Another question for the ages. You had dreamt of this moment a million times over. You had pictured the unholiest, most vivid of scenarios, and yet here you were, mind blank as an empty void.

Then it hit you. Rather than acting from a pre-planned script, wouldn't it be better to just let your body act on what it naturally desired? On instinct? You took in a deep, stabilising breath and gave yourself into moment.

You slowly began turning your head to the side until, for the first time since he pulled you into his arms, your eyes flickered up and found Finnick's. His lips quirked with the ghost of a smile at the exchange, but he held it back. His jaw clenched and unclenched, muscles ticking with tension.

He was looking at you in a way you had never seen before. Or perhaps, you were just never close enough to notice, and he had always looked at you this way. There was a blazing intensity in his eyes, dark and penetrative, a bridge between yearning and total reverence. It was so enticing that you could feel your hands itching to undress yourself in front of him.

Finnick murmured your name.

"Yes?" you managed to whisper.

"Do you have any idea how long I've waited for this?"

Those words—he had stolen them from the tip of your tongue.

You couldn't find the strength to muster any profound response. So instead, you found your head tilting back and the crook of your elbow winding up and around the nape of his neck. You didn't need to guide him down; he came willingly.

His lips caught yours in a soft, warm exchange. Singular yet prolonged. Then there was a brief pause of disconnection, a calm before the storm. And with Finnick, when it rained, it poured. Suddenly, a hand was cupping the area where your jaw and neck connected, and his lips were on yours again.

There was so much more heat in this kiss. A depth that kept growing with each connection of your lips. You could hear the fervour in the breathless exhales that exited his nose, the quiet groans that slipped into your mouth. Though the same could be said for you.

You couldn't subdue the moans and meek whimpers that leaked out. Especially when his tongue slipped into your mouth and took control over your own. At this point, you couldn't even be called putty in his arms; you were pure liquid, totally and completely submissive in his embrace.

It was impossible to tell who was throbbing beneath you anymore. All you were sure of was that the pretty lace panties you had put on that morning were now soaked. Though even if he never touched you, you wouldn't have cared. Having his lips on yours, his tongue on yours, was enough. And if he kept at it long enough, you were sure it would even be enough to get you off. That's how much power Finnick had over you.

Apparently, he felt the same too. Because when you leaned further back into him and your ass pushed against the length of his erection, his fist scrunched the fabric of your dress by your hip and his lips left yours to let out a shuddering breath.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he huffed, half chuckling.

Technically, it was a suppressed moan. Either way, you swear you almost came then and there.

With one last gentle kiss, you opened your eyes, pulling away to replenish your lungs with air. Finnick's eyes were already locked on yours in a drunken haze from the taste of your lips. Your arm unwound from his neck, grazing down his broad shoulders and bicep. During so, your eyes caught on the tiny bumps and raised hair scattered across his arm.

"You've got goosebumps," you smiled, trailing your fingertips across his skin.

His gaze moved to follow your hand, wearing a boyish grin. "Would you believe me if I said I was cold?"

Your throat buzzed with a suppressed giggle. Seeing the way his body reacted to yours was incredibly motivating. Someone telling you they lusted after you could easily be spoken with deception. But having visual confirmation, witnessing a reaction that couldn't possibly be forced, was a whole different story. Finnick's body craved you.

Given that incentive, the slight trepidation still holding you back now disappeared into the back of your mind. Your fingers curled around his wrist, dragging the hand beneath your jaw down to your neck, and then down to your chest. It didn't take him too long to figure out your intentions. He overtook your influence and autonomously moved his hand to cup your breast.

You were essentially caged in his embrace. Exactly how you wanted it.

You stared ahead with relaxed eyes, watching as the sun slipped into the dark water. Night had officially blanketed District Four and, now being shielded by darkness, the stars were your only witness. Strangely enough, you felt a new sense of shamelessness.

So as Finnick kneaded your breast in his warm hand and pinched the sensitive peak of your nipple between his thumb and forefinger through the lace of your bra, you allowed a soft moan to escape your lips.

It was almost as if you could actually feel the smirk growing across Finnick's lips behind you. One thing you actually could feel was the twitch of his achingly hard cock beneath you.

"You like that?" he asked, definitely smirking.

"Yes," you sighed almost immediately.

If only he knew how truly euphoric you felt. If only he knew how many times you had imagined being in this exact situation. Having him touching you like this. The guilt of imagining him in such a way used to eat you up. But now that you were past the guilt, there was no shame connected to the thought of Finnick eating you up.

Fuck, he would look so perfect between your thighs—bronze curls all messed up from your pulling and tugging; sea green eyes squeezed shut as he dedicated his attention to dragging you down to the pits of hell with his tongue.

Your head fell back against his collarbone. He took this as a signal to move your hair aside and start planting hot kisses onto the curve of your shoulder. Then he trailed further across, brushing his lips across your skin until he reached the side of your neck and started sucking gently, though enough to leave behind pretty little red marks of possession.

"What about this?" he murmured against the delicate skin.

The faint taste of sea-salted air sat in the back of your throat as your breaths deepened. You felt his tongue glide partially up the length of your carotid artery, and your entire nervous system seemed to short-circuit.

"Yes,"you practically whined.

He must have found this amusing because you could feel the vibrations of his chuckle against your neck. But he wasn't finished yet. Hell, the finish line was a lifetime away regarding the things he planned on doing to you. They probably couldn't all be done in one night though, unfortunately.

You had completely forgotten about the hand still splayed on your hip. Why would you pay it any attention when it was sitting idle? Only it wasn't simply resting on your hip anymore. No. Now it was moving. Moving down.

His lips were still on your neck and he was still cupping your breast, but all you could focus on was the carnal descent of his hand. He found the hem of your dress, fingers toying with the flimsy material as one did when deciding whether or not to go through with something potentially consequential. Ultimately, he began to drag the fabric up your thighs, knuckles grazing over your soft skin until the skirt of your dress was ruched around your hips.

You sucked in a sharp breath. The vulnerability of suddenly being exposed in such a manner hit you like a tonne of bricks. This was really happening. Finnick, the Capitol's darling, District Four's golden boy, and more significant;y, your best friend, was touching you. He was kissing you. He was seeing and feeling parts of your body you had never let him see or feel before.

Naturally, this unfurling web of thoughts produced a surge of insecurity.

But, when his hand curled around your inner thigh and spread a wildfire of warmth across your skin, every thought that was previously passing through your mind disintegrated and was replaced with unadulterated yearning.

Finnick's mouth finally detached from your neck to hover beside your ear. "And this?"

He lightly kneaded your thigh to emphasise his question, dangerously close to the place that undoubtedly crossed the boundary between friend and lover.

You were speechless. The desire running through your veins was paralysing. All you could do was look, see, feel, and hope to god you didn't pass out from the shallowness of your breathing.

"Come on, sweetheart," he roused in that low, seductive purr. "Don't go quiet on me now. Use your words."

And how could you ever disobey a voice like that? It took every ounce of strength and concentration you had in you, but eventually, you managed to find your voice.

"I—" You cut yourself off with a gasp as his thumb purposefully wandered up to the edge of your underwear. Asshole. "I lie awake every night imagining us like this, Finn. You don't need permission to touch me. You've already had it for months."

Suddenly, a gentle finger was turning your chin, compelling you to meet Finnick's gaze. His eyes lacked the intensity from before and were now brimming with awe, brows knitted as if he was asking for confirmation if what you had said was truthful. And it was, painfully so.

To answer his wordless question, you leaned forward and connected your lips with his. He responded with ardency, and not long after, you could feel his hand wander up to the waistband of your panties.

He wasted not a second before dipping his hand beneath the lace material and finding that sensitive spot that had been begging for his attention.

Your lips separated from his to let out a breathy moan. "Finnick."

He simply smiled, two fingers rubbing circles around your clit. He pressed gentle coaxing kisses to your lips, and you really did try to respond, but you were never one for multitasking. Especially when the man you had fallen in love with was touching you so.

His other hand wandered across your torso, holding your waist, grazing over your stomach, tracing the length of your sternum. All very loving adorations compared to what his other hand was doing.

"I think I'm going to hell because of you," he murmured, millimetres away from your lips. Such a disconcerting thing for someone to admit, but all you could manage was a hum in response. "Every time I see you, I can feel myself getting closer and closer. You derange my thoughts, sweetheart. You corrupt them.

How am I supposed to be around you if I want to fuck you every time you say my name? And what makes it so much more impossible is that you don't even mean to make me feel this way; you just do. God, you're maddening. So sweet and maddening," he cooed, fingers picking up in pace which caused you to melt back into his chest and let out a pretty little moan. "Drives me crazy."

"And to think," you managed, "I thought you had your hands between my legs because you hated me."

Your hips were rolling lightly along with the rhythm of his fingers.

At the very same time Finnick's thighs tensed around your hips from the friction against his cock, he abruptly plunged two fingers inside you. Punishment.

The moan you let out was positively filthy.

"Such an attitude you have," he said. "Anyone would think you're completely innocent in a dress like this. But I know better than that." His fingers slid in and out, curling every time the base of his fingers bottomed out inside of you. "I know exactly why you wore it. Just like I know exactly why you wore those lace panties you pretend that I can't see whenever you bend over."

Heat crept up into your cheeks from hearing his words. You wanted to provoke him by saying 'And look where it got me'but who knew how his fingers would respond to your attitude.

"You can't do that to a man," he continued. "It's criminal."

"It's only fair, Finn," you breathed out, struggling to keep your voice level. "You ruined me."

A deep moan rumbled in his chest, though it never escaped. He couldn't break that easily. He needed to remain in control. This moment, to him, seemed like an eternity forthcoming. He needed to make the most of this moment with you, needed to show you what it was like to receive earth-shattering pleasure so that you only ever wanted to receive it from him. No one else.

Despite his obvious attempts at keeping himself in check, you could still feel his thick impatient cock twitch beneath your ass. Even through the layers of clothing between you, you could tell that he was incredibly big. So much so that it worried you a little. Only, when his fingers curled again, you forgot all about it.

The pads of his fingertips buried into your inner walls with every curl. The heel of his palm struck your clit with every thrust of his fingers and you could feel your stomach start tightening. Fuck, he was amazing at this.

It had been so long since someone had touched you like this. Well, someone that was actually good at it. Just a few minutes and Finnick was already about to make you come.

"Feels so good, so—ah—good!" you moaned, eyes fluttering shut.

He reached a free hand up to your breast, lightly pinching your nipple between his fingers until you let out a gasp. At least one of you was good at multitasking.

"You gonna come?" he asked, not that he even needed an answer. He could feel the way your walls were contracting around his fingers, feel the sticky warmth of your slick leaking onto his knuckles.

You nodded fervently.

"Say please first."

"Finn," you whined in frustration.

You could hear him chuckle self-satisfyingly behind you. "Come on, baby. Sweet girls are supposed to have manners, aren't they?"

His low, husky voice almost threw you over the edge. Oh, how you would love to listen to the sound of him talking you through your orgasm. That is if he ever even let you get to that point.

Never had you ever thought you would be pleading with a man for anything, yet here you were. Though, Finnick Odair could hardly be called a man. He was so much more than that; he was bordering on divinity. And you weren't going to miss the chance of being unravelled at the hands of a divine being.

"Please, Finnick," you begged, your body literally buzzing with desperation. "Please make me come."

He pressed a kiss below your earlobe. "Since you asked so nicely."

His fingers picked up in pace. They weren't even plunging in and out anymore but were rather curling, over and over again in that electrifying spot inside you. He went hard and fast, working to bring you to your high as quickly as possible. Your moans were so unrestrained, so breathless and shallow that you started to feel the world spin around you.

Your hand flew back to hold onto his arm, nails digging into the hard muscles of his bicep. Your hips were writhing in Finnick's lap and you could hear him groan out a string of curses. He held you down by the hip to try and keep you still, then moved across to the bottom of your abdomen where he pressed down.

That is what did it for you.

You cried out as tightness spread down your stomach and pure ecstasy took control. Finnick murmured words of praise and reassurance as you rode through your high, though a lot of it didn't register in your mind. You heard only a few bits and pieces which were enough to prolong the feeling that was overwhelming your entire body.

"Taking it so well."

"That's it, sweetheart. That's it."

"Such a good girl."

As the waves of pleasure slowly began to subside, you returned to reality. The heat that had been building up inside you started melting away, leaving you in a state of relaxation. Your fingers, which previously clung onto Finnick's arm, now grazed absentmindedly across his skin. It felt like you had been sucked into a dream—a little hazy and surreal, but incredibly tranquil.

"You okay?" Finnick asked softly.

You hadn't even noticed that his fingers had left your body. He had pulled down the hem of your dress— not that your dignity really needed saving anymore—and was holding your melted figure in his arms.

"Mm," you hummed contently, eyes fixed on the view in front of you. "Warmed up."

If only you were able to see his face, his smile. Those dimples. A powerful longing to be able to see every expression known to man morph his facial features washed over you. It was a little ridiculous how attracted to him you were. Nonetheless, you indulged the desire.

You pushed yourself from his lap and pivoted to face him

You were straddling his lap before any ounce of hesitation could hold you back. Finnick circled his arms around your waist, pulling you closer into his chest. He was smiling. He was smiling and it was even more beautiful than any sunset you had ever witnessed. You concluded that you had definitely made the right choice in deciding to face him.

"Hi," you whispered.

He smiled. "Hey, stranger."

He brushed back a few pieces of hair from your face, observing the blown size of your pupils and the sultry colour of your lips. He did that—he could not get over the fact that he did that to you. Finally.

You shrunk away from his gaze, a timid smile on your lips.

Finnick tilted his head slightly. "Shy thing."

You buried your face into the side of his neck, groaning quietly in embarrassment. You could hear the perfect sound of him laughing above you. He stroked the length of your spine, somehow managing to ease the nerves from your body with a simple touch. You left a quick kiss on the warm skin of his neck and rose back up to meet his gaze.

"Feeling better?"

"Much," you replied, sheepishly. Your eyes flickered across Finnick's, hesitated, and then gestured downwards. "But... you're not." His head tilted as though he were confused as to what you were suggesting, so you leaned in closer until your lips ghosted over his. "Still need to take care of you."

A breath of warm air fanned across your face as he chuckled. He shook his head. "It's alright. I can hold off for another time."

And although the prospect of doing this again another time was downright exhilarating, you couldn't ignore the palpable heat still lingering in your lower stomach, throbbing between your thighs. You could only imagine how he must have been feeling—cock throbbing with a need for relief, though ready to deny himself the same amount of pleasure he just gave you.

You suddenly curled a hand around the back of his neck and brought him into a slow kiss. To show him he was allowed to indulge himself. That you wanted him to. You ground your hips down on his lap and felt his lips falter against yours.

You pulled back and echoed your previous words, "It's only fair, Finn."

Time seemed to pause for a moment. Your breath and his mixed with one another in a sort of hot whirlwind of anticipation. Your bodies were still. Finnick's eyes were half-lidded staring at your mouth.

Then came the explosion.

His hands were hastily tugging your sundress over your head; his lips were on yours as he reached down between your bodies to unbutton his pants. It felt like a race against time. Like if you didn't do this now, the chance would never come by again. Hell, his pants hadn't even made it off his legs before he was holding himself in his hand and you were rising to your knees, positioning yourself directly above his length.

Your lips never left his, strenuous as it was, meaning the only gauge you got of how big he was wasn't from seeing it, but from feeling it as you pulled your panties aside, guided his cock to your entrance with one hand, and felt the entire veiny length of him fill you completely as you lowered yourself onto him.

A quiet, synchronised gasp left both your lips as you enveloped him completely in wet velvety warmth. His pelvis was connected with yours and his cock was pressed right up against your cervix. So incredibly deep, you could almost feel him in your stomach.

You stayed like this for a few seconds.

"So big," you gasped against his lips.

His hands were on your back, dragging up and down. "Want to stop?"

"Never."

This was so not what friends did.

He trailed kisses from your mouth, to your jaw, and down to your neck. You were grinding sinuously back and forth, Finnick's hands now on your hips as a guide, feeling his tip bury into the sensitive walls inside you. Your head fell back with a gratified moan as he nipped your neck unforgivingly, only to soothe the spots he marked with the glide of his tongue.

At that moment, the past and future were of no significance. The idea that doing this might ruin your relationship with him afterwards didn't concern you. You didn't bother recollecting a time when you and Finnick were merely friends, nor did you ponder how you even managed to reach this point.

All you could focus on was how fucking perfect his cock felt inside of you.

The cold, which was previously a nuisance, now served as a stimulant to your nipples which were only covered by the thin unpadded material of your lace bra. They were bouncing with every movement you made, the hard peaks rubbing against Finnick's chest and creating a triangle of pleasure between them and the depravity that was happening further below.

He was so hungry in the way he kissed you. His lips were soft, but they moved with heat and determination. His tongue was supple as it pushed against yours, moving masterfully in a way you could only compare to how he swam in the ocean. A conqueror—able to bring you into submission with ease.

You pushed yourself upwards, the muscles in your thighs slightly burning as you did so, and felt his cock glide through you. He inhaled harshly through his nose when his tip almost left your wet heat, and then groaned into your mouth when your hips sunk back down, engulfing him once again.

"Shit," he almost whined as your walls clenched around him. "I fuckinglove you."

You pulled away to look him in the eyes. It was incredibly difficult for you to contemplate his words—his confession—when he was, what, eight or so inches deep inside you?

He didn't look like he regretted saying it. He was simply staring at you with raised brows pinched together in pleasure, awaiting your response as you continued your sequence of rising and sinking to fill yourself up with his cock.

"You love me?" you asked in a laboured breath. He only nodded in response. You sank fully down onto his lap, discontinuing your movements, willing him to prove his so-declared devotion. "Then show me."

He was breathing heavily and watching you through strands of sea-salted hair messily splayed across his forehead. He was so beautiful it actually kind of hurt to look at him. His eyes fell to your mouth during this brief amnesty, a decision prominent in his mind. Then he was rushing forward, crushing his lips to yours and forcing your body to lay back on the mat beneath you.

Finnick somehow managed to remain inside you as he switched your positions—him now above you as your legs were wrapped around his waist. His body pinned you down with a comfortable weight, skin warm and flush against yours.

He was overpowering and dominating, and his thrusts were laced with a sense of appropriation like he was making you his. The slow grinds of his hips were hard yet measured and so breathtakingly deep, and the gentle upwards curve of his cock made sure his tip was prodding against that swollen pleasure-inducing spot every single time.

His kisses were sensual and slow; his tongue slipping languidly into your mouth, swirling and massaging your tongue like it was made of pure silk.

You had told him what to do—now he was showing you. Finnick Odair wasn't fucking you. He was making love to you.

Your hands were on his back, fingertips leaving red marks on the curves of his shoulder blades. You moved up to his hair, scratching your nails softly into his scalp, which earned you a soft moan in your mouth. Even you could feel yourself pulsing around his cock. Everything he did, every sound and action he made, had your body yielding to him.

His hand pulled you up into him by the waist, arching your back off the palm-leaf mat so that he was thrusting more profoundly into that blissful spot inside you. He never sped up his pace. He didn't need to. He was savouring the moment as much as he could, memorising each warm ripple of your walls his cock glided over inside you, every intoxicating moan your soft lips released, the pressure of your warm supple thighs hugging his waist.

He was committing every aspect of you to memory. Inside and out.

Having that knowledge only made the moment so much more pleasurable. Knowing that he wasn't just thinking about you with his cock, but was thinking about you with his heart too.

That feeling started creeping up inside you—the blissful burn of heat pooling in your lower stomach. It made your walls flutter around him. Made you whine and moan uncontrollably into his mouth until you couldn't focus on kissing him anymore and had to pull away.

Your head fell back onto the mat, hair strewn out around you. The sounds coming out of you were pure sin. Desperate, greedy sin.

Finnick chuckled adoringly above you. "Too fucked out, sweetheart?"

He couldn't exactly talk. The second you clenched around him again, he groaned out a curse and you—the parts of your mind that were still relatively comprehensible—were sure you could feel the warmth of pre-cum ooze inside you.

"Finnick," you mewled, and he caressed the baby hairs framing your face. "Feels so good. Should—should've done this sooner."

Through your half-lidded eyes, you watched as he nodded and then descended to your forehead, pressing his lips tenderly against your skin. I know, the gesture said. You felt a rush of affection flood through your body, ultimately accelerating the build-up happening inside you.

You could feel yourself teetering so impossibly close to the brink of your orgasm. The tightness inside you was so hot and overwhelming; it was a struggle for you to keep your eyes from fluttering shut and rolling back, though you willed yourself to keep them open. You had to.

Watching Finnick's face contort with pleasure as he's thrown into his own high from feeling your walls contract around him would probably be the highlight of your entire life.

"So beautiful," he cooed as he thrusted into you. "My sweet girl's gonna come, isn't she? Can feel it."

The words flew out of your mouth. "Come inside me."

"Come inside you?"

You were pretty sure he was mocking you from the devilish curve of his lips and furrow of his brows. But your lust-drunk brain didn't really care.

"Please. Wanna feel you—" Your chest heaved with each breath "—everywhere."

Finnick was so obviously trying to keep himself from giving in before you. But you could see how delirious his eyes were as they stared down at you and you heard how every low, gratified—frustratingly sexy—sound he made betrayed him. He was so close.

"Anything for you, sweetheart," he said, finally.

He managed to unhook your hands from around his back and guided them upwards, holding your wrists together above your head with one hand before he brought his other back to your waist. It was oddly romantic how he held you, given that he was fucking you like life after that night wasn't guaranteed.

And then, without warning, he was pounding into you, bottoming out completely with each thrust.

It was almost animalistic now—how you were both unable to control yourselves anymore. You were writhing beneath him, impulsively fighting against the grip he had on your wrists. And Finnick, well, he was fucking you so hard, you weren't sure if walking home that night would be a possibility.

He was a disaster of pleasured vocals, deep moans, and heavy breaths. You thanked the absolute heavens he was because it was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard in your entire life.

When your own moans started to rise in pitch, you knew you were done for. You felt so full. Stretched out to the max. Blinded by the heat that was drowning you. But your eyes managed to remain clear and locked on Finnick's the entire time, just as his were on yours.

With a fleeting glance downward, he once again placed a large hand over your abdomen and pushed down, and your back arched off the ground.

You were gone.

"Oh fuck!"

The heat, white and fiery, had consumed you. Your thighs tensed uncontrollably around Finnick, your body shaking beneath him as your insides pulsed all the way down to your stuffed entrance. White, sticky sweetness covered Finnick's cock as he continued to thrust into you, the wet sounds overpowering the waves cresting on the sands. It felt like fucking heaven.

He let out a moan, broken and breathless, and released the grip he had on your hands. In that short moment, you instantly gripped onto him, feeling his body shudder beneath your hands as his throbbing cock spurted out ropes of warmth deep inside you, the essence of both of you mixing inside your body, making you one.

You pulled him down and crushed your lips to his with a sudden intense urge to be as close to him as you could, if it were even possible to be any closer to him at that point. It felt a little spiritual, the way you practically wanted to merge your body with his. That's what having sex with someone you truly loved was like, you supposed.

The kiss was sloppy and messy, but it never lacked heat or affection. Lacking heat was impossible between you and Finnick.

A lot of time passed before either of you even contemplated pulling away from one another. Finnick was inside you for what must have been a good half hour after you had both finished. It felt close. Deeply intimate. He held you in his arms, his hands mapping out various parts of your body with unhurried measure as you lay beneath him, lazily yet affectionately making out with warm, reddened lips.

There were quiet giggles and heated words whispered between you that would have prompted another session had either of you been graced with the energy.

But it was late. The remnants of the sun had long since disappeared beneath the horizon, dimming the sky to a deep dark blue, the world's only source of illumination being the stars casting their sparkling light on the rippling water.

It was a new moon.

Eventually, you ended up laying over his chest, legs strewn across his as you both faced the ocean. Your head rose and fell with each breath Finnick took and it felt unreal.

You were momentarily worried your infatuation with him had grown too out of hand and you had imagined the whole day, or perhaps, the entire time you had known him. That it was all a figment of your vivid imagination.

Then, his warm hand slid into your own, which was draped across his stomach, and you knew that this, the newfound relationship between you and Finnick, was undeniably and rapturously real.

He slowly lifted them together above your bodies, palms flat against one another. There was a notable size difference between them—his palm was large and calloused with long fingers that squared off at the tips, meanwhile, your own fist could probably fit into his palm.

Your fingers danced delicately together as you both watched from below. He traced the length of your fingers with his fingertips; followed the etches in your palm, and turned your hand to explore the protrusions of your knuckles. There was a certain gentle curiosity in his touch, similar to that of someone who was discovering the act of human connection for the first time.

"I don't know if I can walk home," you whispered.

Finnick lowered your interlocked hands to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to your knuckles before placing them back on his stomach. "I'll carry you."

"For an entire hour?"

"I'll manage," he said, "I've got muscles."

You scoffed quietly to yourself, smiling. "Ok, big strong man."

"Says the girl who needs to be carried home."

"Well, you are kind of the one to blame for that."

You tilted your head to glance up at him and found exactly what you were expecting to see. He was wearing a proud grin, all apple cheeks and crinkled eyes. It was something you had come to adore, even though sometimes it was out of arrogance.

Your head turned to rest back on his chest. You watched as his thumb caressed slow circles over your knuckle.

"What you said before," you began, "is it true? Do you really... love me?"

The heart beating beneath your ear genuinely sounded like it skipped a beat. You imagined that was a good sign, though your nerves were still a little frayed. What if he had only said it because of the heat of the moment?

A beat went by. "I've been trying to tell you ever since I first wove the mat for you," he confessed, his voice quiet yet holding the weight of the history that made up your friendship.

There it was—the truth laid bare. Despite hearing the words, it didn't really change anything. You suspected deep down you knew the entire time; you were just too self-doubting to accept it. To accept that Finnick Odair, the crown jewel of Panem, had fallen in love with you, an ordinary girl from District Four who just so happened to meet him at a secret beach.

Although, there was a sensation you remember upon first meeting him. That instinct that had told you to stay instead of running away, as any logical human being would do upon being approached by a stranger in the middle of nowhere. That instinct, despite sounding utterly ridiculous, caused you to believe that perhaps it was fate.

Maybe you were destined to meet. Maybe it didn't matter that he was a nationwide celebrity, nor you a simple town girl. Maybe your souls were entwined from the start and, one way or another, you would have met anyway.

Maybe.

"That's a long time," you said.

He laughed. "Yeah, well, I thought you would've gotten the hint by now."

And you couldn't help but join him. You thought you were the one who was deranged out of their mind. Here Finnick was telling you he had spent an entire year trying to confess his love without you even realising.

"I'm sorry it took me so long."

"It's alright," he said, earnestly. "I'd say it worked out pretty well. I mean, look where your obliviousness got us."

You smiled. Your legs were tangled with Finnick's; his arm was holding you tightly against his bare upper body, and his fingers were lovingly tracing over yours. Yeah, you were pretty grateful for your obliviousness sometimes. A new pair of underwear might have been something to consider, though.

A silence settled between you, comfortable, peaceful. Being in Finnick's embrace almost made you forget entirely about the reality of your existence—the Games, the dominion over Panem, the chaotic environment back home. It was the reason you had set off last year in search of a place away from society.

You had now found that the escape you were looking for wasn't a place or a hidden paradise, but a person. It was Finnick.

"Finn?"

"Yeah?"

The trees and palm leaves danced in the light breeze. Waves lapped on the shore.

You angled your head back to look at Finnick and felt him pull you closer. His expression was a picture of relaxation and contentment. His eyes gazed down at you, glimmering with the reflection of scattered stars in the night sky, just like the sea in front of you.

He seemed to already know what you were going to say. Always the mind reader.

"Say it, sweetheart." The corners of his lips twitched expectantly.

Sweetheart. Oh, how could you have ever felt for him in any other way?

"I love you too."

His face broke into one of the happiest smiles you had ever seen.

...roll credits

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