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[fclsebnnyodair]

Guess

f!reader x finnick odair

summary - You were never sure if you and Finnick were flirting or fighting, but deep down, you always knew the truth. Once in love, now torn apart by the Capitol, you’re forced back into each other’s orbit for the Quarter Quell. Every glance stings, every word burns, but the feelings never left.

warnings - mentions of finnick’s life in the capitol. nothing crazy.

authors notes - idk the word count i’m sorry ya’ll. it’s long. can you guys tell i love being cliche? PART TWO COMING SOO!! also i didn’t proofread very well so uhm. ALSO no use of y/n. sorry i just can’t.

You didn’t volunteer for glory.

You volunteered because in District 1, not volunteering was a scandal. Your older brother had won the Games five years before you. The Capitol loved him, his golden smile, his charm, his flawless victory. And your family never let you forget it. They didn’t raise you to be a person. They raised you to be next.

So when the name drawn wasn’t yours, you stepped forward before the crowd could even react. Chin high. Smile steady. You were already halfway to the stage by the time your mother exhaled.

The Capitol ate it up. A sibling legacy. A sister following in her brother’s footsteps. Deadly yet beautiful. You won, of course. You had no choice.

Now, months later, you stood at the edge of a Capitol ballroom, wrapped in silver silk and the kind of pressure that never washed off. Your dress sparkled like you were still trying to outshine your brother’s victory parade. Maybe you were. You lifted a champagne flute to your lips, trying not to choke on the sweetness.

“Figures,” a voice murmured behind you, laced with dry amusement. “District 1 sends a jewel, and she actually shines.” You turned slowly, already unamused.

Finnick Odair leaned against a column nearby, all loose limbs and too-perfect smiles. He had that look, the one all victors get eventually. Like he knew exactly how fake the room was, and exactly how long he’d have to survive it.

“You were staring,” you said coolly. It would’ve been hard to miss his piercing eyes that had been following your every move the entire night.

He didn’t flinch. “Blame the Capitol. You’re hard to miss with all those diamonds.”

You glanced down at your gown, then back at him. “Better than smelling like fish and fake flirtation.”

He laughed, low and easy. “Is this the famous District 1 charm? Can’t say I’m impressed.”

You raised a brow. “Good thing I’m not looking to make a good impression.”

“Pity,” he muttered with a grin.

The two of you settled into the tension like it was furniture, your snark sharp, his grin sharper. The crowd buzzed around you, hundreds of Capitol members that are drunk on blood and sequins.

You take another sip of your champagne, scanning the ballroom with mild disdain. “Capitol parties all start to blur together. Glitter, gossip, and half the room trying to impress people they secretly hate.”

Finnick hums, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Add a death threat or two, and it’s basically just another day at the beach.”

You snort. “You must have very violent beaches.”

“Only on Tuesdays.” He casts a glance at you, lips twitching. “You don’t actually enjoy this, do you? All the fawning, the fake smiles.”

You give him a sideways look. “Do I look like I’m enjoying it? Thought’d you would have better observation skills.”

Finnick eyes you for a second, then shakes his head. “No. You look like you’d rather be anywhere else. That’s rare here.”

You shrug, letting your eyes drift across the crowd. “Most people here are pretending to be someone they’re not. I’m just tired of acting like I care.”

He laughs under his breath. “Careful. You’ll ruin your Capitol darling image.”

You smile sweetly. “And you’ll ruin yours if you keep talking like someone with a soul.”

He smirks. “Is that what this is? A soul? I thought it was just years of pent-up sarcasm.”

You raise your glass slightly in mock salute. “Hard to tell the difference sometimes.”

He tilts his head, that mischievous glint in his eyes.

“So tell me… is this you flirting or fighting?”

You raise a brow, a slow, teasing smile curling your lips. “Maybe both.” Finnick chuckles, shaking his head.

“Both, huh? Well, if that’s your flirting, you might want to work on it.” You blink, mock offended.

“Oh? And what would you suggest, Odair? More charm? Less sass?” He leans in, voice low and teasing.

“Definitely more charm, and maybe dial down the sass before I start wondering if you’re flirting with me or planning my demise.”

You laugh, the sound low and genuine, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Careful, Odair. I might just be doing both.”

The music slowed, and the glittering ballroom began to thin, but around you, the crowd only grew heavier. Capitol elites and sponsors pressed in from all sides, their smiles too wide, their eyes too hungry. Like sharks circling prey, desperate for attention, favors, anything.

Finnick’s eyes met yours, a flicker of irritation beneath his usual charm.

“They’re closing in,” he murmured, voice low, meant only for you.

You gave a slight nod, the weight of the night settling in your shoulders.

“Looks like the fun’s over.”

A sponsor with gold-dusted lashes slipped between you, looping her arm around Finnick’s. “Finnick, darling, come, tell us the story about the trident again.”

Another, eyes glittering, grabbed for your hand.

“And you, sweetheart, I heard you nearly slit that boy’s throat in the final minute, just riveting!” You looked at Finnick one last time. A flicker of something real passed between you, recognition, maybe. Or regret.

He leaned in just enough for you to hear.

“Same time next nightmare?” You smiled faintly, already being pulled away.

“Only if you bring the charm this time.”

“Oh of course.” He smirks as he’s tugged on by the lady. And then the crowd separated you two. Effortlessly.

Like you were never standing side by side at all.

—

The next time you see him, it’s only been a week.

You’re back in the Capitol for yet another appearance, some branding meeting or sponsor dinner, the kind where they feed you sugared lies and call it loyalty. You’re walking through the grand atrium of the tribute tower, distracted by a Capitol assistant listing off your itinerary, when your eyes catch on something… someone.

There, across the marble floor, surrounded by a small crowd of admirers, stands Finnick.

His back is to you, but you’d know that posture anywhere, too casual, too practiced. He laughs at something a sponsor says, tipping his head just slightly, and then, like he feels you watching him, he glances over his shoulder.

Right at you.

That grin appears, slow and smug and unmistakably Finnick. He murmurs something to the sponsor, then excuses himself and starts toward you like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Well, well. District One,” he says, once he’s close enough. “I figured you’d be too busy being worshipped to show your face again so soon.”

You fold your arms, eyebrow raised. “I could say the same about you. Though I’m surprised, no golden leash around your neck today?”

He laughs, falling into step beside you. “I left it at home. Didn’t match my shoes.”

You glance sideways at him, barely suppressing a smirk. “So what is this now? Round two?”

“Of what?”

You shrug, playing coy. “Flirting? Fighting? I can never tell with you.”

Finnick leans in, voice low and warm with amusement.

“Guess.”

You open your mouth to respond, something sharp and clever already forming on your tongue, but you never get the chance.

“Finnick!” a shrill voice cuts in. A woman draped in feathers and diamonds rushes over, clutching a glass of neon-blue champagne and a gold-trimmed tablet. “You simply must approve this perfume campaign! It’s modeled after your scent profile!”

He blinks. “My what?”

You snort, and Finnick shoots you a look like save me, but the sponsor’s attention quickly shifts when her eyes land on you, the Capitol’s freshest victor, still buzzing with novelty and promise.

“Oh! And you must be the new darling of District One!” she gushes, practically bouncing. “Tell me everything! your routine, your favorite designer, what keeps you standing after all the cameras.”

You give her a cool smile, trying not to let the invasive glare get to you. “Just surviving,” you say dryly. Finnick chuckles softly, watching the exchange with amused eyes. The woman’s practically starstruck, but you stand your ground like you always do.

“Well, if surviving means looking like that,” she says, eyes still on you, “you’re already making waves.”

Finnick leans closer, voice low and teasing again. “See? Told you you’re a hit.”

You meet his gaze, biting back a grin.

“Flirting?”

“Keep guessing,” he whispers.

—

The first kiss you two share is so unbelievably on-brand for him. The Capitol’s noise hums around you both, but right now, it’s just background. You’re alone together in one of the quieter rooms, a rare breath between appearances and obligations.

Finnick leans against the window frame, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes glint with mischief and something else, something softer, almost vulnerable.

“Your charm has definitely changed for the better these past months,” he says, voice dripping with mock sincerity. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Is that your way of saying I’ve finally leveled up my flirting game?”

He shrugs, grin widening. “Maybe. Or maybe I just enjoy watching you try.”

You scoff. “Big words coming from the Capitol’s resident flirt.”

Finnick steps closer, voice dropping low and teasing. “Touché. But admit it, you’ve enjoyed every second of it.”

Your chest tightens in a way you can’t explain. You want to deny it, but all you manage is a smirk.

He reaches out, fingers brushing a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. “You know,” he murmurs, “this could go a lot better if you stopped pretending you hate me.”

You laugh softly, heart pounding. “Maybe I just like to keep you guessing.”

Before you can say more, he closes the distance, lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s both soft and demanding, like it’s been waiting beneath the surface all along.

When he pulls back, a slow smile spreads across his face.

“Flirting or fighting?” You meet his gaze, breathless. A look of shock crosses your face before you return his grin.

“Definitely flirting.” And all he can do is laugh, before connecting your lips together again.

—

In the Capitol, eyes are everywhere. Every smile, every glance is dissected and analyzed. That’s why what you and Finnick share exists in the shadows, hidden behind carefully rehearsed smiles and public facades.

You meet in quiet corners of grand ballrooms, in empty hallways lit only by flickering chandeliers, or behind heavy velvet curtains where no one dares to look.

His hand finds yours under the table, fingers lacing tight, grounding you in the madness.

“Keep your voice low,” Finnick murmurs, voice thick with both warning and something softer. You nod, heart pounding with the thrill of secrecy. Every stolen kiss, every whispered word, feels like rebellion. It’s dangerous, but it’s yours.

Sometimes it’s only the squeeze of his hand, but other times you’re lucky to get away for a small moment and steal a hidden kiss from him.

The Capitol’s latest banquet is winding down, the music softening into something slower, the room thinning out as sponsors and officials slip away in pairs of sequined extravagance and half-empty flutes. You slip away, quietly, unnoticed, heels clicking against the marble until you’re in one of the long, unused hallways that snake behind the grand ballroom.

And then he’s there.

Finnick appears like a shadow from behind a pillar, jaw set, eyes burning with something unreadable. “Took you long enough,” he says, voice low.

You cross your arms, lips twitching. “I had to pretend I was entertained by that slimeball from District 2. You should be grateful I didn’t throw my champagne in his face.”

He chuckles, stepping closer. “Capitol would’ve loved that. Very dramatic. Very marketable.”

“Shut up.”

But he’s already in front of you, hands slipping to your waist, eyes searching yours.

It’s not careful or tentative anymore. It’s built-up tension from hours of pretending not to look at each other. Of brushing shoulders in passing, of smirks across crowded rooms.

So when he kisses you, it’s desperate. Full of heat and relief. Your hands twist in the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer, your lips meeting his with a hunger that only secrets can feed.

For a second, it feels like time stops, like none of this is for cameras or manipulation. It’s just you. Him. Breathing in sync, hearts racing, tangled in something deeper than either of you can admit aloud.

He pulls back just enough to press his forehead against yours, breathless.

“Still pretending we’re not absolutely smitten by each other?”

You grin, lips still brushing his. “I think we’re doing a terrible job at it.” He gives a soft chuckle before moving away to place a light kiss on your forehead.

“Guess so.”

—

Its been a year since your games, but you find yourself back in the capitol at the tribute center, only this time, you’re a mentor. And so is he. You’re still together, in secret, of course. Late nights in Capitol suites, shared glances behind champagne glasses, whispered I-miss-you’s when no one else is listening.

But this time… something’s different. He’s different.

At first, you brush it off. The Capitol has that effect on people. The lights, the pressure, the weight of the Games. You know the mask he wears, the persona he slips into like a second skin. But lately, it feels like that mask is slipping into you too.

Because the Finnick you see behind closed doors is quiet. Distracted. His touches linger but lack the ease they used to. And you notice things now, how he flinches at sudden knocks on the door, how his eyes harden when a Capitol escort calls for him late at night.

The Games are nearing their end. Your tribute lies silent, fallen too soon, just like his. There’s a hollow space inside you that no amount of Capitol noise can fill.

Finnick moves like a ghost beside you, but the distance between you has never felt wider. You want to reach out, to break through whatever walls he’s built, but every question you ask is met with silence or a stare so cold it cuts.

The room crackles with a tension so thick it’s suffocating.

You glare at him, fists clenched at your sides, voice sharp as broken glass. “Why won’t you just tell me what’s going on? I’m not blind, Finnick. I see what’s happening, and you’re shutting me out.”

He glares back, jaw tight, eyes flashing with a fury that matches your own.

“Because you don’t get it! You keep pushing, but you don’t know what this is costing me.”

“Maybe I don’t,” you snap, stepping closer, “but you don’t get to keep shutting me out like I’m some stranger.”

He laughs bitterly, the sound cutting deep.

“You think I want this? You think I like pretending? Like living a lie?”

“Then stop acting like I’m the enemy!” you fire back, voice trembling with anger and hurt. “I’m trying! God, I’m trying!”

He turns away, voice low but laced with pain. “Trying isn’t enough. Not for this.” You shake your head, desperation breaking through your fury.

“So what? We just give up? Pretend none of this ever happened?” He doesn’t answer. The silence is a blow.

Finally, he looks back, eyes dark, resigned.

“Maybe we can’t do this. Maybe we never could.”

Your breath catches and you can feel your throat tighten. “What do you mean?” His voice drops, rough and bitter.

“All those secret moments, the stolen nights… it wasn’t just us. It put both of us in danger. I can’t keep risking everything for something that could destroy us.”

The words hit like ice. You swallow hard, heart twisting painfully.

“You think this was a mistake?”

He looks away, unable to meet your gaze.

“I don’t know. But right now, it feels like it.” This time, he doesn’t have to tell you to guess. You already know.

Fighting.

—

Back in District 1, the familiar glow of wealth and ease does little to fill the empty spaces inside you. The polished marble halls, the shimmer of luxury, they’re all just a cold reminder of what you lost. Or maybe what you gave up.

You tell yourself you hate him. You have to hate him.

Hate the way he shut you out without a word. Hate the way he left you stranded in a storm you never saw coming. Hate the way he carried secrets heavier than both your hearts combined.

You imagine the hatred like armor, a shield to keep the pain at bay. You replay his words, the bitter laugh, the cold distance. You focus on the sharp edges of anger because it hurts less than the truth.

Because the truth is, you don’t hate him. Not really. You hate how much you still want him. You hate the way your heart clenches every time his name crosses your lips in the quiet of night. You hate the ache that lingers long after the Capitol fades into the past.

Your days blur, training the new tributes, managing your family’s expectations, dodging questions about the past. The Capitol still calls you back for appearances, for deals, for reminders that you’re a victor, but it’s a role you play with less and less enthusiasm.

Each victory feels hollow, each smile forced. Then one day, everything shifts. You’re back in the Capitol for an event, surrounded by the same flashing cameras and glittering crowds.

And there, across the room, just beyond the sea of strangers, you see him.

Finnick.

His eyes find yours before the noise swallows the moment whole. For a breath, the world stills. The bitter taste in your mouth twists deeper. He looks different, harder, more guarded. But those same sharp eyes, that same damn smirk curling at the edge of his lips.

You want to hate him and maybe you should.

But as his gaze lingers, something unspoken passes between you. And just like that, everything you’ve been trying to forget crashes back, raw and impossible to ignore.

You don’t mean to cross the room, but your feet betray you. Or maybe your pride does. He’s halfway through a conversation with a garishly dressed Capitol woman when you stop a few feet away, arms crossed, gaze leveled.

Finnick turns, and his eyes drag over you like a slow exhale. There’s surprise there, but also something else. Something sharp.

“Well,” he drawls, tilting his head, “District One graces us with her presence. Haven’t seen you in a while. Thought maybe the diamonds swallowed you whole.”

You offer a tight smile. “Figured you were too busy swimming through Capitol perfume to notice.”

“Still fighting I see.” He mutters.

“Still deflecting,” you reply, voice light but your eyes locked on his. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The crowd hums around you like static, but his presence is deafening.

He leans in, his words soft enough for only you to hear. “You look good.”

You arch a brow. “Don’t. We’re not doing that.”

He shrugs, lips quirking into something like a smirk. “Just being honest.”

“You should try it more often.” The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them.

That makes his smile falter for just a second, but then he nods, slowly, like he expected the sting.

The tension stretches between you, loud and pulsing.

Then, with a breathless scoff, he mutters under his breath, “Fighting.”

You nod once. “Definitely fighting.” And with that, there’s nothing else to say. You turn and walk away

—

He watches you walk away, heels clicking against the marble, head held high like the Capitol never broke you. And maybe it didn’t. Maybe he did. Finnick lets out a slow breath, the smirk fading from his face the second you’re out of earshot. His jaw clenches, eyes locked on the spot where you stood, where your fire had lit something in him that he’s been trying to bury since the moment he walked away from you.

Fighting. That’s what it was. That’s what it always is now. But wow, he remembers when it wasn’t.

He remembers your laugh, real and unguarded, the way your hand found his under silk-covered tables, the way you used to bite back at him with a smile, not with a blade. He remembers the stolen nights and whispered things that made him feel human again, if only for a moment. And he remembers the moment it all cracked.

When you looked at him like he was a stranger. When you asked him for the truth, and he gave you silence. Not because he didn’t want to tell you, but because he couldn’t. Not with Snow watching. Not with the Capitol breathing down his neck, turning his body into a weapon and his charm into currency.

He thought pushing you away would keep you safe. That if he made you hate him, it would be easier for both of you. He sees now how wrong he was. Because seeing you again, angry and cold, hiding that hurt in your eyes, hurts more than anything Snow’s ever done to him.

Finnick turns back to the crowd, the Capitol woman beside him prattling on, oblivious. He forces the smirk back onto his face, another mask, another performance.

But the echo of your voice stays with him.

Definitely fighting.

He wonders if you knew, if you know, how badly he wishes it were still the other thing.

—

The Capitol sleeps in silk and champagne, its glittering lights dimmed to a low, romantic hum. The hallway is nearly empty, the only sounds a soft buzz of electricity and the muted hush of distant voices. Finnick leans against the wall just outside the room they all use for mandatory briefings, half-waiting, half-hoping.

He hears your footsteps before he sees you.

You round the corner, hair slightly messy, a deep crease between your brows like the weight of this whole place has dug its claws into your skin. You spot him immediately. You don’t stop walking.

But you do slow down.

“Leaving traps in Capitol hallways now?” you mutter, arms folded as you approach.

Finnick lets out a quiet laugh. “No traps. Just… waiting.”

You raise a brow, skeptical. “For what?”

He shrugs, pushing off the wall. “A conversation.”

“That’s a dangerous habit,” you reply, and for a split second, it sounds like old times, like the spark might still be there under the ash. But then silence stretches between you again.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says finally, the words low, weighted.

You don’t look away, but your expression hardens just slightly. “Then why did you?”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. “I can’t explain it. Not here.”

“Of course you can’t,” you say, voice calm but tight. “There’s always a reason, always a secret.”

He takes a step closer. “I just wanted to see you before we left.”

You study him, eyes scanning his face like you’re trying to memorize it, or erase it. You’re not sure which.

“Consider yourself seen.” You turn to leave.

But just before you’re fully gone, you glance over your shoulder.

“Still think this is flirting?” you ask, quietly. He gives the faintest smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“No,” he says. “Quite the opposite.” You nod once, like that’s the answer you expected. Like that’s the only answer left. And then you’re gone, your footsteps soft against the polished floor, fading like everything else he once thought he could hold onto.

—

The 3rd Quarter Quell.

What a joke.

You knew it was rigged the moment they announced the theme. “To remind the rebels that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of the Capitol…” right. You could practically hear Snow’s bitterness through the screen. This wasn’t about tradition. It was a vendetta dressed in ceremony. A power play disguised as justice.

You weren’t stupid. You knew exactly who this was about: Katniss Everdeen. Peeta Mellark. The star-crossed lovers who defied the Capitol and lived to be paraded for it. President Snow wore that practiced grin during the announcement, but you’d seen something else in his eyes. Hatred. Fear.

And when he revealed the twist, the reaping would be conducted from the existing pool of victors, your blood ran cold.

There were four living female victors in your district. Only two still young enough to be of Capitol interest. You were the youngest. The prettiest. The most palatable.

The girl who could hold her own in an interview but still knew how to wear a dress. The one who had killed efficiently but smiled like she meant it. The one who had kept her mouth shut for a year, despite the bitter taste she carried every time she saw Snow’s face.

Of course they chose you.

Your name barely had time to echo before your feet were moving. Chin high. Shoulders back. Everything about your posture screamed confidence, but inside, something coiled tight in your chest and wouldn’t let go.

The train ride to the Capitol felt colder this time. Harsher.

Your mentor talked strategy. You nodded when expected. But your mind was somewhere else, back in time, back in memories you’d spent months trying to lock away.

And then came the broadcast.

District 2. District 3. Each name called made the knot in your stomach pull tighter. And then—

“From District Four… Finnick Odair.”

Your world stopped. The sound vanished. The train could’ve derailed and you wouldn’t have noticed. All you could hear was the pounding in your ears. Finnick. His name carved through your chest like a knife.

You hadn’t seen him in months. Not since the hallway. Not since your last goodbye, that bitter, broken moment neither of you wanted to say but both of you knew had to happen. You thought time and distance would dull it, but you were wrong.

Now, as the train sped toward the Capitol and toward him, you stared at your reflection in the window, watched your expression carefully, trying to keep the emotion from cracking through.

Because the only thing more dangerous than loving Finnick Odair… was losing him again.

And in the arena, you didn’t know if you could afford either.

—

The screams of the Capitol are deafening.

It’s all lights, cameras, color, flames licking at your costume as you stand behind the steel gates, chariot reins in your hands, heart beating like a war drum. The Quarter Quell is a performance. One final show before the slaughter begins.

Your stylist flutters beside you, adjusting the angle of your shoulder, smoothing out a barely-there wrinkle. You barely register her voice. All you hear is the thunder of the crowd. But then, you feel him.

Before you see him, before you hear his name, you feel him. Like your body knew he was near before your eyes could confirm it.

You glance sideways, and there he is. Finnick Odair.

Draped in oceanic silks, all gold and storm. His jaw tight, his eyes scanning the crowd with bored detachment. He’s breathtaking, as always, Capitol-perfect, but you know better than anyone how much of him is costume.

He turns slightly. Sees you. And the years collapse in on themselves.

Your stomach twists painfully, but your face stays stone. He looks at you like he’s staring down a memory he doesn’t know how to carry anymore.

You manage a nod, curt, impersonal. Nothing like the heat you once exchanged in shadowed hallways and hidden rooms.

He raises an eyebrow, steps slightly closer. “District One,” he says smoothly, voice low enough to barely be heard over the roar of the crowd. “I was wondering if the Capitol would let you burn bright again.”

You don’t flinch. “Still playing the Capitol darling?” you reply, tone sharp enough to cut through his smile. “You always did love an audience.”

There’s a flicker, of pain, maybe, but it vanishes behind practiced charm. “I thought you liked it when I performed.” You glance around, searching for your district partner as they begin to yell at the tributes to take their places.

“I liked a lot of things,” you murmur. “Doesn’t mean they weren’t mistakes.” His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything at all.

You don’t look at him again. And when he murmurs, just loud enough for only you to hear,

“Still fighting?”

You whisper it back, no hesitation.

“Not flirting.”

But as you take your place and your chariots begin to move, his only 3 behind yours, you feel the weight of his gaze burning into your back, heavier than any flame your stylist could conjure. The crowd screams as you emerge into the Capitol square, all flash and frenzy. You smile for the cameras, because they want you to.

But your heart pounds for a different reason.

Because even now, burning, and bitter, you know this war between you two wasn’t anywhere close to being over.

—

The Training Center hums with low chatter and the clang of weapons. You’ve kept to yourself all morning, ducking behind sparring stations, feigning interest in various survival skills, anything to avoid him. But you should’ve known better.

You’re back at the rope-tying station, fingers working through a basic knot. It’s been a while since you’ve needed these skills, but with a Capitol arena, anything was fair game. Peeta had been training by your side all day, it was honestly surprising how well you two got along. He had just slipped away, something about checking out the camouflage station. You didn’t mind, he was sweet company, easy to talk to, and most importantly, safe.

Your eyes are narrowed at the rope in your hands when you feel it, arms sliding around your waist from behind. You tense immediately.

“Your knots are terrible,” Finnick’s voice murmurs in your ear, warm and infuriatingly amused. “Were you trying to make a noose or a necklace?”

You stiffen, fingers halting. “Don’t sneak up on me, Odair.”

He only laughs, his chin practically brushing your shoulder. “I wasn’t sneaking. Just observing. Offering help.”

He shifts slightly, his hand sliding over yours, adjusting the knot. It’s intimate, too intimate, and the heat of him behind you makes your blood boil in a very complicated way.

“You’ve been watching me?” you ask, voice sharp.

“You and Mellark? Hard not to,” he says smoothly. “Cute how you taught him to throw knives. Should I be worried?”

You yank your hands free, spinning to face him. “Jealousy’s not a good look on you.”

He smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m not jealous. Just… curious. You’ve never offered me private lessons.”

“Maybe I didn’t think you needed them.”

“Maybe I still wanted them anyway.” He replies, his eyes squinting slightly. You’re about to fire back when Peeta returns, halting mid-step. He glances between the two of you, eyebrow raised.

“Rope lessons getting intense?” He asks, his eyes continuing to dart between you and Finnick.

Finnick takes a graceful step back, flashing that Capitol-perfect smile. “Just offering some… constructive criticism.”

You roll your eyes. “More like unsolicited advice.”

You shoot Finnick one last glare before turning your back on him entirely, brushing past his shoulder just enough to be petty. Peeta’s already kneeling beside the pile of coiled rope again, and you crouch beside him, grabbing a fresh length.

“Not awkward at all,” Peeta mutters under his breath, looping a cord around his wrist.

You huff out a quiet laugh. “Please. He loves the awkwardness. He thrives off of chaos.”

Peeta gives you a look, something like concern wrapped in curiosity, but he doesn’t push it. Instead, he holds up his half-finished knot. “So, are you actually going to teach me how to do this again, or are we just going to invite Finnick back over to tie you up?”

You snort. “He’d love that, wouldn’t he?”

“I think he might kill me if I make you laugh again.” He murmurs with a soft laugh.

Your hands still for half a second before you glance over at him, half-smiling. “That obvious?”

Peeta shrugs, looping the cord again. “Let’s just say, It’s definitely not unnoticeable.”

You go quiet, but your mind spins with the interaction you just had. Your face is flushed. You can still feel the ghost of his arms around you, and that stupid familiar warmth in your stomach that you’d always get when you were around him.

—

The scores had come out the night before, a glittering distraction while the Capitol buzzed around you all. You sat alone in your tribute apartment, staring at the number blinking on the screen: 10. Solid. Strong. Not perfect, but nothing to scoff at.

You knew it wasn’t just about skill, though. Snow was playing his game, using these scores as weapons. Katniss and Peeta’s scores were a perfect 12 each, jaw-dropping, impossible to ignore. Everyone expected Katniss’s marksmanship to shine, and Peeta’s strength was legendary, but Snow’s message was clear: highlight their power to keep them under his thumb, to remind everyone they were threats, and to target them.

Finnick’s score was a 9, just below yours. He’d probably pretend it didn’t matter, but you could tell it stung the proud victor beneath that easy charm. You felt a flicker of pride in matching up to him.

Now, behind the heavy velvet curtain, the murmur of the Capitol and the distant flashes of cameras filled the air. Your heart beat in sync with the distant applause.

Then, a voice, low and teasing, slid into your ear. “Well, well… A perfect ten. Someone’s trying to steal my spotlight.” You didn’t turn, but you arched a brow.

“Flirting or fighting this time?”

Finnick’s grin was wicked. “You’ll have to guess. But you might want to sharpen your flirting skills before you retaliate, they’re a bit rusty.”

You scoffed, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, but the heat creeping up your cheeks betrayed you.

“Please. Says the guy who can’t even charm his way into a higher score.” You say, as if 9 isn’t a good enough score already.

You adjust the strap on your outfit, suddenly feeling uncomfortable under his gaze.

His eyes flickered to your neck, and his smile twisted. “Didn’t realize bruises were part of the Capitol wardrobe now.”

You blinked, fingers brushing the faint, purpling mark near your collarbone, a gift from an unfortunate run-in with a training dummy. “It’s from sparring,” you muttered.

He hummed. “Shame. For a second, I thought someone got possessive.”

You turned, glare sharp. “Not everything is about you, Odair.”

He stepped closer, slow and easy. But there was tension underneath that charm, coiled and tightly wound. “Really? Could’ve fooled me. Especially the way you’ve been cozying up to Peeta.”

You rolled your eyes. “He’s my ally. And my friend.”

“Right,” he drawled. “Just a friend. Who stares at you like he’s one sugarcube away from proposing.”

Your lips twitched. “Jealous?”

He didn’t blink. “Should I be?” You scoff. It’s almost ridiculous. Everyone knows Peeta is head over heels for Katniss, so no. There’s absolutely nothing to be jealous about.

The air between you grew thick, not quite close enough to touch, but close enough to feel. You hated how your pulse quickened, how your skin prickled under his gaze. He always did this, slipped under your armor like it was second nature.

“You’re deflecting,” you said, chin lifted. “Because you don’t like that I’m not throwing myself at you anymore.”

He leaned in, eyes glittering. “Oh, sweetheart. You were never very good at pretending.” You opened your mouth, a sharp retort on your tongue, but he beat you to it, voice low, dangerous, and maddeningly amused.

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. “You’ve still got that look, like you don’t know if you want to slap me or kiss me.”

You tilted your head. “I’m leaning toward the first one.”

He smirked. “So we’re still fighting, then.”

You held his gaze for a beat longer, something electric dancing behind your eyes. “Guess.” You grin.

You knew your time was getting closer. You had just heard the fake laugh from Caesar as your district partner presented an awful joke. A flash from the cameras caught your eye, and the booming voice of Caesar Flickerman filled the room. “And now, our dazzling female District One victor, you all know her and love her–“

Showtime.

The lights in the Capitol studio were blinding, but you wore your confidence like armor. Cameras circled, flashes popped, and Caesar Flickerman’s grin was impossibly wide as you took your place on the glittering stage.

“Well, well, well! Look who’s gracing us again with that unmistakable District 1 shine!” Caesar began, practically oozing admiration. “The Capitol’s been buzzing about you nonstop. Everyone’s dying to know, how do you keep us so utterly captivated? You’ve got charisma pouring out of you like it’s second nature!”

You smiled, a slow, knowing smile that drew a collective inhale from the crowd. “Caesar, it’s simple. The Capitol wants a show, and I’m here to deliver. I know exactly what to say, when to say it, and how to make sure they never forget me. It’s about playing the game, and making sure the game plays to you.”

Caesar nodded eagerly. “Ah yes, the perfect combination of charm and strategy. You’re not just a victor; you’re a master of spectacle. It’s like you were born for this.”

“Born and bred,” you quipped, eyes sparkling. “District 1 isn’t known for volunteers who don’t know how to put on a show. We like to keep things sharp, whether it’s our knives or our tongues.”

A ripple of laughter bubbled through the audience. Caesar’s eyes twinkled as he pressed on. “And yet, you’ve got that mysterious edge. The kind that keeps us guessing. Tell us, what can we expect next from you? Another dazzling performance? Or perhaps something a little more… dangerous?”

You leaned forward, voice just loud enough for the cameras to catch, but with a secretive tone meant for those who knew you best. “Let’s just say, the Capitol might think it knows me. But there are parts of me that only a few have ever seen.”

The crowd leaned in, sensing the intrigue. Caesar chuckled, clearly entertained. “Well, that’s the kind of excitement we live for! You’ve got the Capitol wrapped around your finger. I can’t wait to see what you pull off next.”

You glanced offstage for a moment, your mind flashing to a certain someone, someone who knows your every move, every secret. You bit back a grin and added smoothly, “Besides, I might just have to keep some tricks hidden… wouldn’t want someone stealing my spotlight with those fancy ropes of his.”

Caesar’s eyes widened as he caught the jab, then dramatically gasped, clutching his chest. “Ooooh! A little friendly fire on live television! The tension is palpable, folks! I do believe we just witnessed a subtle, and oh-so-delicious, dig at our own District 4 heartthrob, Finnick Odair! How scandalous! I’m living for this!”

The crowd erupted in surprised laughter and applause, shocked at the dig but loving the drama of it.

Caesar leaned in, grinning like he already knew your secrets. “Now, I have to ask, alliances. Is there anyone in the arena you’d feel safer around? Or maybe… someone you’ve got your eye on?” The audience practically purred at the implication.

You leaned back just slightly, chin tilted, smile sharp as ever. “Oh, Caesar,” you sighed, mock-scandalized. “You know I never reveal all my secrets on the first night.”

Laughter echoed across the room. Caesar wagged a finger at you, amused. “Come on now. With scores like we’ve seen this year, surely you’ve already made some decisions. Maybe one of our… perfect scorers?”

You tapped a finger to your lips, thoughtful. “Mmm, perfection can be very persuasive,” you drawled, eyes glittering. “But then again, I’ve always preferred a little edge. Something unpredictable.” A few gasps and laughs rippled through the crowd.

Caesar leaned back with a theatrical gasp, fanning himself. “Oh, I do love it when you’re vague and dangerous! Now I really don’t know who to bet on.”

You flashed a practiced, charming smile. “That’s the fun of it, isn’t it?”

—

“And now, the moment I’ve been waiting for,” Caesar said, eyes gleaming as he introduced Finnick Odair, the crowd buzzing with anticipation.

Finnick stepped forward, smooth and confident, his gaze locking briefly with yours, an unspoken challenge sparking between you.

Leaning into the microphone, Caesar smirked, “Earlier today, someone hinted you might have a few tricks left up your sleeve… something about keeping secrets. Care to elaborate, Finnick?”

A slow, knowing smile curved Finnick’s lips. “Secrets can be… intoxicating,” he said, voice low and teasing. “Especially when there’s someone worth impressing.” His glance flicked your way again, charged and electric.

The audience laughed, caught up in the show, unaware of the deeper meaning.

Caesar chuckled, “Well, mystery certainly suits you. But don’t keep us waiting too long.”

Finnick’s eyes darkened with a hint of something more. “Oh, I don’t intend to. Some marks,” he paused, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “are best left to be earned in private.” The subtle heat in his words made your heart skip, even as you fought to maintain your cool. The applause swelled, no doubt some of his buyers imagining he’s speaking of them, but between you two, the air crackled, unspoken tension, promises, and past wounds all tangled in the space between.

The applause still echoed in your ears as you watched Finnick take a seat on the couch they have for the victors who’s interviews are already over, but your thoughts were tangled in his words, the way he said mark, the way his eyes flickered with that old, dangerous heat you both knew too well.

The applause still echoed in your ears as you watched Finnick take a seat on the couch they have for the victors who’s interviews are already over, but your thoughts were tangled in his words, the way he said mark, the way his eyes flickered with that old, dangerous heat you both knew too well.

You told yourself to stay guarded. After everything, the years you spent tangled up with him, the promises and the fights, the heartbreak, you had to be. Snow was watching, always watching, and any sign of softness between you two could be twisted into a weapon.

Still, your stomach betrayed you, twisting in ways you hated. Flirting or fighting? you muttered under your breath, bitter but unable to hide the flicker of something else.

You remembered a night, not so long ago, when you were sharing hidden kisses far away from a Capitol party, under the faint glow of the stars. You’d been teasing each other as usual, the kind of banter that always hid something deeper. Finnick had smirked, that familiar cocky grin, and said, “You know, it’s been flirting all along. Admit it.”

You’d scoffed, eyes burning, “Not a chance. We’re too good at fighting.”

But those nights are far gone, and who knows? By tomorrow, both of you could he dead.

You turned the corner backstage, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone , especially him. The lights were dimmer here, the Capitol’s glitz fading just slightly behind the curtain. You thought you were in the clear. Until his voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

“Really? Fancy ropes?”

You froze mid-step. Slowly, you turned your head to find Finnick leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, that infuriating smirk plastered across his face, but his eyes were sharp. Too sharp.

“I was being generous,” you replied coolly, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t think I should mention how you spend more time posing with your ropes than using them.”

He clicked his tongue, stepping closer. “Right. Wouldn’t want the Capitol knowing what you really think.”

You scoffed, turning slightly. “Wouldn’t want them knowing anything, actually.”

His gaze flicked down, just for a second, and lingered on the faint bruise near the curve of your neck. Not from anything romantic, but the Capitol didn’t care about that. Neither did Finnick, apparently.

“Well,” he added, voice dipping with mock sympathy, “by the mark on your neck—”

You have to keep yourself from rolling your eyes. He knows what it’s from, but he won’t drop it. “Careful, Odair. You sound jealous again.”

He leaned in, the smirk returning with force. “Jealous? Of a bruise you got in training? Please. I’ve left prettier marks than that.”

The air between you snapped tight, heavy, magnetic, the kind of tension that never fully disappeared, just hid under layers of hurt. Then a voice cut through it like a knife. Johanna strolled past, eyeing you both with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

“God, just kiss or kill each other already.” She didn’t wait for a response, already halfway down the corridor and laughing to herself.

You glared after her, jaw tight. When you looked back at Finnick, he was still watching you, but now, the edge was gone. His expression had softened, just enough to make it worse.

You didn’t say a word. Just turned and walked off, heart pounding, throat tight. And he didn’t follow.

The games are tomorrow.

The realization hit you like a crashing wave once you reached the elevator. This was it. You wouldn’t see him again. Not like this. Not without a hundred cameras tracking your every breath. Not with the space to say— Well, anything.

You glanced over your shoulder just before the doors slid shut. He was still standing there at the far end of the hall, looking at you like he wanted to say something too.

But instead, his eyes dropped to the floor. His hand curled into a fist at his side.

And then the doors closed.

Tomorrow, you’d be enemies. Or allies. Or dead. But tonight, tonight, you both said nothing.

And it was somehow the loudest thing either of you had ever done.

It had been nearly an hour since you’d last seen him, since that tense, cold exchange in the hallway that left so much unsaid. Now, you sat alone in the too-soft chair by the window of your Capitol suite, the city’s glow muted behind the thick glass. Your interview makeup still clung to your skin, but inside, you felt raw and exposed.

Your chest ached with a sharp, bitter knot. You regretted every word you hadn’t said to Finnick. Every moment you’d held back, swallowed down, convinced you had to protect yourself from the pain. Tomorrow the Games would begin. Tomorrow you’d have to face him in that brutal arena, and you still had no idea how you’d manage it.

The silence was broken by a faint scuffle at the door.

You looked down and saw it, a folded piece of cream-colored paper slipped carefully beneath your door. No Capitol seal. No grand announcement. Just a quiet, intimate gesture meant only for you.

Your heart skipped painfully.

Before you could reach for it, your district partner, Marek, walked in from the small kitchenette, a mischievous grin teasing his lips. “Looks like someone’s got a secret admirer,” he joked, eyeing the letter.

You narrowed your eyes, but there was no malice in your gaze. Marek was one of the few people you trusted here. From your very first training days, he’d been a quiet anchor, always respectful, always understanding when you needed space. He’d known about Finnick, your complicated past, your shared history, because you’d confided in him in a moment of rare vulnerability. You trusted him to keep your secrets because Marek wasn’t interested in Capitol gossip; he wanted survival and loyalty, just like you.

“Give it,” you said quietly, voice steady but laced with exhaustion.

Marek held the letter just out of reach, his grin widening. “From him, huh? The one with the fancy ropes and… questionable charm?”

You shot him a sharp look, then stepped past him and closed the door with a soft but firm click. You needed to be alone with this, to face whatever words were waiting for you without anyone else’s eyes on you.

Sitting back down, you unfolded the paper with trembling hands. The handwriting was unmistakably his, bold, a little messy, but utterly Finnick.

I don’t know if this letter will find you. Or if I’ll even be alive when the sun sets tomorrow. The thought of losing you before the bloodbath starts twists something deep inside me. I’m terrified, terrified that this nightmare will take you from me forever.

I was a fool. Saying ‘maybe this was a mistake’ wasn’t just regret; it was my own pain screaming back at me. I thought I was protecting you. Protecting myself. But all I did was push away the one person I couldn’t live without.

I guess I was scared, scared of what we had, scared of how much it broke me to want you. And now, with everything on the line, I’m left holding the pieces of us, unsure if there’s any hope at all.

Tomorrow, they’ll force us to kill or be killed. And I don’t know how I’ll face you in that arena. How I’ll stand next to you, knowing one of us might not make it out. But I have to believe, I have to believe you’re fighting too, that somehow we’ll survive.

We always ask each other, “Flirting or fighting?” but beneath all the sarcasm and anger, I know we both feel the same thing, even if we pretend not to.

We wear our hatred like armor, but it’s fragile. I see past it, and I’m certain you do too. What lies underneath is something deeper, something real.

I cling to the desperate hope that maybe, somehow, it could happen again. But as we walk into this bloodbath, that hope feels like a whispered lie in the dark. The odds are merciless, and the world is against us.

If I could turn back time and fix everything, I would. Without a second thought. Because what we have, what we still have, is worth fighting for, even if the arena wants to tear us apart.

If you can, trust me. If not, know this: I’m yours, no matter what the Capitol wants, no matter what happens next.

— Finn

You sit on the edge of your bed, the flickering candle casting shaky shadows across the worn paper in your hands. The letter trembles slightly as you read his words, raw and more vulnerable than anything he’s ever shown.

The tears come quietly at first, then spill over, hot and uncontrollable. You blink them away, swallow the lump in your throat, and whisper, “Stupid… Finnick.”

You don’t mean it. You never have. Because deep down, you’ve always known. You’ve always felt it, the way your heart still flips when you hear his voice, the way the ache never truly left.

Now, one thing is crystal clear: you have to survive this. You have to. Not just for yourself, but for him. For the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, you’ll see each other again in that arena tomorrow, and this time, it won’t be about fighting or flirting. It’ll be about something real.

And so you wipe your tears, fold the letter carefully, and press it to your chest. You’re scared. You’re angry. But more than anything, you’re determined.

Because if there’s one thing you know for sure: neither of you is giving up without a fight.

pt. 2!!

[fclsebnnyodair]

hi! this is mar. welcome. 𓃹

a little get to know me: she/her. i love thg. teen wolf. my favorite artist is taylor swift <3

who i write for: finnick odair. isaac lahey.

fandoms i take reqs from: thg (any character) ➶ teen wolf (any character) ⟡ yellowjackets (any character) 🃜

⊱  ۫ ׅ ໒꒱ — master list / finnick odair. master list / isaac lahey.

𓍯 my inbox is open for reqs & chatter! be kind always, i love u!

[fclsebnnyodair]

౨ৎ finnick odair and his perfect siren!

౨ৎ finnick odair loves to see his gorgeous girl in sundresses!

© fclsebnnyodair. all work by me. plagiarism prohibited.

[fclsebnnyodair]

౨ৎ isaac lahey lahey secretly loves when his girl gets needy and clingy with him!

౨ৎ isaac lahey loves to admire his pretty girl while she’s getting ready!

ꨄ︎ isaac lahey and his gorgeous girl — mdni!

© fclsebnnyodair. all work by me. plagiarism prohibited.

[fclsebnnyodair]

she’s backkkkkkk <3

୨ৎ ࿐ mdni!

your living room had become your private sanctuary, a space where the heat of your shared desire with your boyfriend eclipsed everything else. 

you straddled Isaac on the couch, your thighs bracketing his hips, your body pressed so close to his that you could feel every shudder, every breath. your little game of secrecy had escalated, and now, with your older brother out of town, you were lost in each other, oblivious to anything but the fire between them.

your movements were fast, desperate, your hips grinding against Isaac with a rhythm that drove him wild. you were rubbing herself against him, the friction of your clothes creating a delicious, torturous heat that had him cursing under his breath. 

“fuck, baby,” he gasped, his voice low, strained, his hands gripping your hips tighter, trying to keep control but failing miserably. you were amazing at riding—he told made sure to remind you always—even through layers of fabric, your skill undeniable, your passion intoxicating.

your pajama shorts, thin and clinging, were soaked through, the dampness a testament to how wet you were, how much she wanted him. should’ve made you feel self conscious, but it was impossible when his blue eyes were almost rolling back as you kept going.

the fabric molded to your core, outlining every curve, every fold, and Isaac couldn’t tear his eyes away once he looked down. It was the hottest thing he’d ever seen, the sight of your arousal so evident, so raw, pushing him closer to the edge with every grind.

your soft whimpers filled the room, your moans needy, each one punctuated by his name, by breathy curses that sent shivers down his spine. “Isaac,” you gasped, your voice trembling, your head tilting back as you moved faster, your hips rocking with precision. “oh, fuck,” you breathed, the words slipping out in a rush, your eyes fluttering shut, lost in the pleasure.

Isaac was throbbing beneath you, his arousal painfully evident, trapped in his sweatpants, the fabric now wet from his own precum, from the friction of your bodies. he could feel himself leaking, the sensation maddening, the pressure building to a point where he knew he was going to lose it. 

he was going to come in his damn sweatpants, and it was all because of you—your heat, your movements, your sounds.

“holy shit,” he groaned, his voice a low growl, his hands sliding up your sides, under your shirt, feeling the heat of your skin, the tremble of your body. his thumbs brushed the underside of your bare tits, teasing, adding to the fire, but it was your grinding, your relentless rhythm, that had him on the edge.

your movements grew more frantic, your thighs trembling and burning, your breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. you were so close, your arousal seeping through your shorts, making them cling even tighter, the friction almost unbearable. fuck, he felt good.

Isaac’s hands guided you, helping you keep the pace, his own hips bucking up to meet yours, matching your rhythm, desperate for more.

“Isaac, please,” you whimpered, your voice breaking, not even sure what you were asking for, but being unable to stop yourself. 

your hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his skin through his shirt. the sound of his name on your lips, the way you begged, was too much, too perfect. he could feel your wetness, could imagine how you’d feel without the barriers, and it drove him wild.

he was pulsing, his boxers soaked, the fabric sticking to him, a mess. “you’re gonna make me come, princess,” he gasped, his voice raw, his eyes locked on yours, seeing the desperation, the need mirrored in your gaze. “fuck, ‘m so close.”

your moans grew louder, your body arching, your hips grinding harder, faster, chasing your own release. “Isaac, oh, fuck,” your voice a litany of pleasure, your movements erratic, driven by instinct, by need. you were so wet, so ready, that every grind sent a jolt through both of you, the friction a delicious torment.

Isaac’s hands tightened on your hips, his control slipping, his breaths ragged. “come with me, yeah?” he urged, his voice a desperate plea, his hips bucking up harder, matching your pace. he could feel it, the edge, the precipice, and he knew he was going to fall, knew he was going to come in his pants like a teenager, and he didn’t care, not when it was you, not when it felt this good.

the room was filled with your sounds, your moans, your curses, the quiet creak of the couch beneath you, the rustle of fabric, the wet slide of your bodies through layers. It was messy, it was hot, it was you, and as your moans peaked, your body tensing, Isaac felt himself tip over the edge, his release hitting him hard, a groan tearing from his throat as he came, soaking his sweatpants, his body shuddering beneath you.

you followed, your own climax crashing over you, your cries muffled against his shoulder, your body trembling, your thighs clamping around him as you rode out the waves. you clung to each other, breathless, panting, their bodies slick with sweat and arousal.

he sat there, you still straddling him, your breaths slowing, your hearts racing, the aftermath a beautiful mess. Isaac’s hands caressed your back, soothing you, grounding you, while your head rested against his chest, your body still trembling with the aftershocks. 

“are you okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse yet soft as his lips met the curve of your neck, pressing against your clammy skin in a lingering kiss.

you smiled, nuzzling his neck, earning a soft chuckle from your boyfriend. “super,” you breathed. “that was so fucking hot.” he laughed, a little louder this time, nipping at your earlobe, before kissing your temple.

[fclsebnnyodair]

୨ৎ ࿐ mdni!

your living room had become your private sanctuary, a space where the heat of your shared desire with your boyfriend eclipsed everything else. 

you straddled Isaac on the couch, your thighs bracketing his hips, your body pressed so close to his that you could feel every shudder, every breath. your little game of secrecy had escalated, and now, with your older brother out of town, you were lost in each other, oblivious to anything but the fire between you.

your movements were fast, desperate, your hips grinding against Isaac with a rhythm that drove him wild. you were rubbing herself against him, the friction of your clothes creating a delicious, torturous heat that had him cursing under his breath. 

“fuck, baby,” he gasped, his voice low, strained, his hands gripping your hips tighter, trying to keep control but failing miserably. you were amazing at riding—he made sure to remind you, always—even through layers of fabric, your skill undeniable, your passion intoxicating.

your pajama shorts, thin and clinging, were soaked through, the dampness a testament to how wet you were, how much you wanted him. should’ve made you feel self conscious, but it was impossible when his blue eyes were almost rolling back as you kept going.

the fabric molded to your core, outlining every curve, every fold, and Isaac couldn’t tear his eyes away once he looked down. It was the hottest thing he’d ever seen, the sight of your arousal so evident, so raw, pushing him closer to the edge with every grind.

your soft whimpers filled the room, your moans needy, each one punctuated by his name, by breathy curses that sent shivers down his spine. “Isaac,” you gasped, your voice trembling, your head tilting back as you moved faster, your hips rocking with precision. “oh, fuck,” you breathed, the words slipping out in a rush, your eyes fluttering shut, lost in the pleasure.

Isaac was throbbing beneath you, his arousal painfully evident, trapped in his sweatpants, the fabric now wet from his own precum, from the friction of your bodies. he could feel himself leaking, the sensation maddening, the pressure building to a point where he knew he was going to lose it. 

he was going to come in his damn sweatpants, and it was all because of you—your heat, your movements, your sounds.

“holy shit,” he groaned, his voice a low growl, his hands sliding up your sides, under your shirt, feeling the heat of your skin, the tremble of your body. his thumbs brushed the underside of your bare tits, teasing, adding to the fire, but it was your grinding, your relentless rhythm, that had him on the edge.

your movements grew more frantic, your thighs trembling and burning, your breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. you were so close, your arousal seeping through your shorts, making them cling even tighter, the friction almost unbearable. fuck, he felt good.

Isaac’s hands guided you, helping you keep the pace, his own hips bucking up to meet yours, matching your rhythm, desperate for more.

“Isaac, please,” you whimpered, your voice breaking, not even sure what you were asking for, but being unable to stop yourself. 

your hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his skin through his shirt. the sound of his name on your lips, the way you begged, was too much, too perfect. he could feel your wetness, could imagine how you’d feel without the barriers, and it drove him wild.

he was pulsing, his boxers soaked, the fabric sticking to him, a mess. “you’re gonna make me come, princess,” he gasped, his voice raw, his eyes locked on yours, seeing the desperation, the need mirrored in your gaze. “fuck, ‘m so close.”

your moans grew louder, your body arching, your hips grinding harder, faster, chasing your own release. “Isaac, oh, fuck,” your voice a litany of pleasure, your movements erratic, driven by instinct, by need. you were so wet, so ready, that every grind sent a jolt through both of you, the friction a delicious torment.

Isaac’s hands tightened on your hips, his control slipping, his breaths ragged. “come with me, yeah?” he urged, his voice a desperate plea, his hips bucking up harder, matching your pace. he could feel it, the edge, the precipice, and he knew he was going to fall, knew he was going to come in his pants like a teenager, and he didn’t care, not when it was you, not when it felt this good.

the room was filled with your sounds, your moans, your curses, the quiet creak of the couch beneath you, the rustle of fabric, the wet slide of your bodies through layers. It was messy, it was hot, it was you, and as your moans peaked, your body tensing, Isaac felt himself tip over the edge, his release hitting him hard, a groan tearing from his throat as he came, soaking his sweatpants, his body shuddering beneath you.

you followed, your own climax crashing over you, your cries muffled against his shoulder, your body trembling, your thighs clamping around him as you rode out the waves. you clung to each other, breathless, panting, their bodies slick with sweat and arousal.

he sat there, you still straddling him, your breaths slowing, your hearts racing, the aftermath a beautiful mess. Isaac’s hands caressed your back, soothing you, grounding you, while your head rested against his chest, your body still trembling with the aftershocks. 

“you okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse yet soft as his lips met the curve of your neck, pressing against your clammy skin in a lingering kiss.

you smiled, nuzzling his neck, earning a soft chuckle from your boyfriend. “super,” you breathed. “that was so fucking hot.” he laughed, a little louder this time, nipping at your earlobe, before kissing your temple.

[fclsebnnyodair]

can we talk about the fact that adult isaac gets super excited over the smallest of things, like going to the movies, amusement parks or comfort foods like a bowl of cereal or mac n cheese.

because he is a kid at heart! and the gut wrenching reason why is because even though those things used to bring him comfort when he was a kid, he never really got to enjoy his childhood fully so now as an adult it’s like he’s getting to do it all over again but this time really enjoying it and not as a form of forgetting the bad things :(

[fclsebnnyodair]

i love u guys, miss u all so much too, promise i’ll be back soon xoxo <3

[fclsebnnyodair]

The Good, The Bad, and The Dirty

If you wanna start a fight,

You better throw the first punch - make it a good one.

And if you wanna make it through the night,

You better say my name like:

The Good, The Bad, and The Dirty.

Sub!Isaac Lahey x Dom!Fem!Reader

Summary:

What you and Isaac had going on wasn't exactly public - and whatever it was didn't have a title. Sexual, friendship, two souls entwined and bound to each other in an utterly complicated way.

Whatever. It didn't have a label. The two of you didn't need one.

But Isaac definitely didn't expect to see you showing up to a lacrosse game wearing Scott's number with the name McCall boldly across your chest. All he knew from the moment he saw that stupid shirt on your chest was that the night was going to end with it shredded to pieces.

(He had no clue that was precisely your plan from the start, because you knew how to guide him exactly where you wanted him - every. Single. Time.)

Sub!Isaac Lahey x Dom!Fem!Reader. Best Friends with Benefits (Secret Relationship) to Lovers. Smut/PWP. Set during Season 3.

Word Count: 7,200

Teen Wolf Masterlist | AO3 Link

Full list of warnings and author's notes below.

Warnings: this is primarily a smut fic - there is some slight plot; this does take place in a high school setting, but just for the sake of clarity/for the sake of argument, the characters are eighteen or older; the reader uses she/her pronouns and has a vagina and breasts (but as with all my fics, the primary pronouns used are you/yours); mention of the reader wearing a skirt;there is some descriptions of the reader being curvy/plus sized (as with many of my fics - and I always just picture Isaac with a plus sized girl) (absolutely no bias there), and there is mentions of Isaac being taller than the reader, but that is based on the assumption that at 6.1, he would be taller than most people; there is also mentions of Isaac lifting the reader due to his supernatural strength, but her back is also supported by a wall so it’s not wholly unrealistic; mentions of background Scott x reader (mostly the reader using Scott to make Isaac jealous and Scott having feelings for the reader that she does not return), and this would have been when Scott and Allison were broken up because I would not do my girl wrong like that (you can even interpret this as Scott using the reader to help ‘get over’ Allison if you want); some non-detailed mentions of the abuse Isaac received from his father (which is pretty difficult not to mention in an Isaac fic); there is some dom/sub themes - Isaac is submissive and the reader is more dominant; Isaac is jealous and possessive - very slight angst because it discusses Isaac’s jealousy coming from a place of being hurt; this is not the first time that Isaac and the reader have had sex with each other; Isaac and the reader have been best friends since before his father’s death (and his werewolfism) and they recently started having sex, and they have a murky situationship; the reader clearly knows that Isaac is a werewolf; mention of Isaac ‘pinning the reader down’ and fucking her (in a memory) (and she loved it); Isaac calls the reader a ‘slut’ and a ‘whore’ - not in a kinky way, but over the fact that he is deeply offended that she was flirting with Scott and pretending to like him; in turn, the reader calls Isaac a slut in a kinky way; the reader also calls Isaac ‘puppy’ and ‘good boy’; hair pulling - Isaac receiving; something like subspace is described (regarding what Isaac is feeling) but the word ‘subspace’ is never used during the fic; the characters do not discuss having a safe word in place, but they trust each other due to their history and know how to nonverbally balance each other’s needs; Isaac using his claws to shred a shirt that the reader wears with Scott’s numbers on it, and in the process he accidentally scratches her chest slightly (but she likes she slight pain); very slight blood kink - Isaac licks up the blood from these small cuts; I feel like there should be a warning for the endless amounts of dog imagery because I cannot stop comparing Isaac to a kicked dog because it works to well; lacrosse pads being used for slut activities; oral sex - reader receiving; Isaac has an extreme scent kink (he loves the way the reader smells); praise kink - Isaac loves being praised by the reader; penis in vagina sex; unprotected sex; (surprisingly, there’s no breeding kink in this); I think that’s actually it for this - one stray joke about the reader getting Isaac a dog dollar.

A/N: I had so much fun writing this. As soon as the request hit my inbox, I knew I was going to write it at some point. Part of me kind of feels bad that I didn't write the expected jealousy = dominance - you may notice when you read the fic, I started out writing Isaac as dominant, but I cannot help writing him as submissive, and it turned into this interesting painting of 'his dominance is a performed act, and submissiveness is his true self' and 'his jealousy is possessiveness, not dominance' and possessiveness is a very submissive trait. (I could go more into depth about this in another post, and I probably will.) People often associate possessiveness with Doms, but I see Isaac as the most possessive Sub ever because he's a wolf. Anyway - I am really happy with how this turned out, and even if it's not what the original requester intended, I think the point of a request is that the author gets to interpret it and write it in their own style. And this is definitely how I would write it most true to my style. Also this has references to Season 3 - like Lydia dating Aiden and Isaac fighting the Alpha pack, but this is set after a lacrosse game, and in S3, they were in the off season of lacrosse. and I can guarantee you my autistic ass is the only one who cares about that and you didn't even notice until I pointed it out. So please - carry on.

...

The lacrosse field of Beacon Hills High School was absolutely buzzing. 

The night air was filled with cheers as the team and many fans were celebrating another win, while the opposing team sulked in disappointment as they packed onto their bus with their heads hung low, their coach screaming at them for the loss. Chatter and celebration filled the air - but you didn’t get a single moment to be a part of it as Isaac Lahey pulled you far away to somewhere secluded. Somewhere only he could get to have you.  

He currently had you pinned up against one of the lockers in the girls’ locker room. It was a place that nobody would think to look for the two of you - a place that wouldn’t be entered for the rest of the night, unlike the boys’, which would soon be filled with sweaty assholes shedding their kits and getting a shower before they went off to some party to celebrate their victory. Isaac had locked the door to make sure that the two of you would be left alone, and left the lights off so that nobody would be suspicious of any light coming from the crack beneath the door. 

But right now, none of those details mattered. 

All that mattered was that stupid number in the middle of your chest. That stupid block lettering sitting across your perfect round breasts. 

11. McCall. 

You could claim that you had worn it as a joke. But as Isaac locked his jaw stiffly, staring you down - you didn’t think that you would be getting away with that claim. 

“Take it off.” Isaac growled at you, his eyes flashing that glowing golden yellow, a visual that made your breath tight in your chest and made your cunt quiver. 

You remembered the first time you had seen that glow coming from his eyes - the first night he had found you after he received The Bite, when he was still high on adrenaline and warned by Derek not to do anything ‘stupid’. And the stupid thing he had done was climb up the side of your house, claw in through your bedroom window with the clumsy hands he barely knew how to use, and pin you down to your bed and fuck you senseless, feeling like an overeager dog with intensely swollen balls, feeling like he was too strong and going through puberty all over again. 

It had been one of the best nights of your life. 

“What?” You said, your voice even, calm, not even close to mocking dubious. “Take what off?” 

You were faking confusion - faking it poorly, easily signaling to him that you knew exactly what he was talking about. 

It was a dare. You were egging him on purposefully. The two of you always had the best sex when you did. That’s what the whole night was about, after all. 

Lydia had gotten the shirts made - she had gotten one for herself with Aiden’s name and lacrosse number on it, and she had told you that it was cheaper to ‘order multiple at a time’, and then she had pulled out one in your size. Your gut had shriveled up when you saw that it was one with Scott’s name and lacrosse number on it. 

A plain white tee shirt in a feminine, tight fit with burgundy vinyl lettering to match the school’s colours. Lydia had ordered them in white because she said it would be easier to make into an outfit, and she didn’t want to ‘wear that god awful colour’ with her nice coats. 

You had gone on one single date with Scott. He asked you out, you said yes. It had been a pleasant, average evening that ended with a bit of kissing. It was nice - Scott was a great guy. But it definitely hadn’t been anything special. It had only driven home in your mind that you definitely didn’t have those feelings for Scott. And you felt guilty for every single time you had flirted with him in Isaac’s presence just to make Isaac jealous, if it meant that you had been misleading him or leading him on. 

A while ago, Lydia had been talking about guys, and she said something about ‘you and Scott’ and not even fully paying attention, you agreed with her. And then she cheered, and you realized that she had been talking about romantic couplings among your friend group. She thought that your flirting with Scott and the one single date meant that the two of you were dating - so she took this as a greenlight to order you the shirt. She was excited that the two of you would look ‘coordinated’ cheering for your ‘boyfriends’ in the stands. 

But more than anything, you felt awkward correcting her because you couldn’t exactly tell her about the thing that you and Isaac had going on. 

Mostly because you had no clue what to call it. 

The two of you had been best friends for years, and you had been his rock and his confidant before anybody else knew what was going on with his father. And then, shortly after he had made the grand transformation from abused introvert to powerful (hot) werewolf, the two of you had started… this. 

Some might call it ‘friends with benefits’, some might call it a weird spiritual sexual codependency that had truly begun with you patching up his wounds from the beatings his father had given him. Either way, the slight flirting of your normal friendship ramped up tenfold, and now, every single time the two of you were behind closed doors together, the intense sexual tension in the air built until you were both partially unclothed and moaning. 

And in the outside world, the two of you were constantly at war. You were constantly in the throes of a game that nobody else knew was going on. You both refused to name each other as a romantic partner, but you were constantly in some kind of effort to get the other’s attention or make the other person jealous. He flirted with Allison and Erica, and… that stupid game was the only reason you had gone on a date with Scott. It had been a relatively nice date, but you hadn’t felt a single sense of the spark with Scott that you did with Isaac. 

And it was the only reason that you were wearing the stupid shirt that Lydia had given to you. It was the only reason you had sat in the stands beside Lydia with your jacket unzipped and even taken off all night in the cold, showing off that shirt, loudly cheering for Scott, putting on a show. 

All of it was to make Isaac jealous - to get some kind of a rise out of him. 

And it had worked so damn well. Seeing his clenched jaw, his flared nostrils… seeing the way his sharp fangs extended out over his lips as if he couldn’t control them while he looked at you with hellish lust in his eyes… you were almost terrified by how well you had succeeded. Almost. 

“Take. It. Off.” He growled, grinding on each word, his chest now heaving with the effort. 

“Make me.” You mumbled in reply, entirely confident, hoping that further teasing would only wind him up more. Hoping that it would only beautifully play into your game. 

He stepped closer to you and when you instinctively took a step back, your body hit the cold metal of the lockers, and you swallowed harshly as your body pumped with more lust. It was oddly thrilling to be so trapped - only because it was Isaac. And because you knew there was only one way this could end. 

Because your body was preparing for the sensations you knew came next - the ghost of his touch already lingering on you, your mind replaying those past events like grooves in a record. It caused you to become wetter and wetter just thinking about the feeling of his teeth digging into your neck, the feeling of his hands possessively gripping your hips, the feeling of his cock splitting you open. 

His breath ghosted over your forehead, his height towering over you somehow not intimidating at all as he pressed his hard body (disappointingly still clad in lacrosse pads, keeping you from feeling the true ridges of his muscles) up against you, truly ensuring that you could not escape. Not that you would want to escape from him. 

He took a thick sniff into the air, his nostrils flaring widely, and you knew he could smell it on you - the lust, the pure attraction you felt toward him, the adrenaline. Or maybe it was just the pure smell of your pussy pathetically leaking into your underwear that he was picking up on. Either way, he let out a whine, the first small indicator of his facade cracking, and you felt his hips jolt toward you, instinctively seeking friction. 

“Why the fuck are you doing this to me?” 

Isaac growled, still trying to sound tough, the words bordering on a pained howl. There was a unique agony in his voice as he stared down the length of your body and continued to fixate on those numbers on your chest, true haunting dancing in his pretty baby blues. 

Your gut twisted horribly as you realized it. This wasn’t just something he could brush off in the name of sex. You had really hurt him this time. Perhaps you had gone too far this time. Something that had started out as a well-meaning game of cat and mouse had turned into truly taunting a wolf - and unintentionally, you had wounded that wolf. 

That wolf that, even if it was never spoken, was supposed to be yours. Was supposed to be treasured as yours. 

You had gotten so caught up in playing the stupid game that you had made a terrible mistake. 

But you needed to see it through now. 

You reached up and grabbed both sides of his face, forcing him to look you in the eyes. 

“Make me.” You repeated the words, and Isaac let out another huff. “Make me take it off, Isaac.” He replied to this with a growl from deep in his chest, a sound that vibrated through your hands on his delicate, angelic face. “Make me yours.” 

He reached up with one hand in the middle of your chest and gently pushed you back, making sure your body was stiff and firm against the metal of the lockers, propping you there like hanging art on a wall. And then he took a small step to distance himself, his eyes flickering up and down your body sharply, drinking you in even though he had seen you thousands of times before. 

It had been torture - pure torture all night. From the moment he had seen you unzip your jacket, revealing that fucking shirt with Scott’s name on it (and the fact that you had paired it with a tiny little skirt and a pair of sheer tights… knowing that those tights emphasized your thick thighs, his favourite part of your body… just to torture him…) - he had been tempted to ditch off the field completely and run up into the stands just to tear it off you. Just to prove a fucking point. 

But that hadn’t even been the worst part of it. No. One of the words parts had been the fact that he was forced to stay on the field all night listening. Over-hearing you chatting it up with Lydia and Allison about your ‘date’ with Scott, talking about kissing him, theorizing about what having sex with him might be like. You had known he was listening the whole time. You knew his hearing was enhanced enough, and you knew that he had a special knack for picking up on your voice in a crowd. You had been doing it on purpose. 

And every time he glanced over between goals and saw Scott’s name stretched across your perfect tits… it killed him a little more inside. 

While thinking about all this, while thinking about the fact that he had been waiting to do this all night - 

Isaac raised up his hand, very intentionally flaring his claws, bold enough for you to see what his next move would be so that you could anticipate it and wouldn’t be afraid. And his cock began to throb almost painfully between his legs when he saw you push your chest out, arching your back against the lockers as you licked your lips, silently begging for it. 

Clearly, you didn’t wear Scott’s name proudly. You were aching him to tear the shirt off you, downright lustful at the thought - biting your lip, batting your eyelashes at him, the scent of your lust even more potent in the air down. 

Such a beautiful fucking tease. 

With delicate precision, he slashed his claws across your chest, shredding the fabric to pieces and feeling a cathartic vindication as the name and number of another guy fell apart and began to fall off you. 

A twinge of guilt nearly ruined the moment as he saw the slightest bit of blood glinting across your perfect skin, gathering in your cleavage along your gorgeous stretch marks, but you didn’t seem to care, and you didn’t seem to be in the slightest bit of pain. In fact, you let out a purely lustful moan and arched your back even more, pushing your chest toward him more - making you look like a perfect porno in your shredded clothing with your red lace bra now revealed underneath. 

Though in a moment, you reached up, pulling the scraps of the fabric away and shucking off the useless remains of the shirt, throwing it to the ground like the garbage that it now was. In the back of your mind, you guessed that now you would have to put on your jacket  - which you had been carrying in your hand and tossed off to the side earlier, and zip it up completely to cover yourself in order to leave. But that didn’t matter now. You didn’t care if you would have to leave here in just your bra if you meant you got to have what would likely come next. 

Isaac indulged in the sound of your pretty panting, the way you licked your lips, and the perfect, accelerated thumping of your heartbeat in his ears. 

“Better.” He sighed in relief, much preferring the sight of your chest heaving, nearly bare in front of him than the visual of Scott’s fucking name plastered across you like he owned you. He never did, he never would - 

You let out another hot moan in response, and Isaac found himself licking his lips. 

While he stood there, frozen with his lust, too busy visually admiring you, you were driven forward by your maddening need. You grabbed the front of his jersey and yanked him forward into a heated kiss. It was a mouth that you knew well from experience by now, and it was only a second before the two of you were exchanging moans and a clash of tongues. 

He craned down, his hands possessively grappled for your thighs, those claws making quick work of your tights, putting runs and even huge holes in the sheer material, quickly exposing your skin to the cool air of the room. It was something you would have been angrier about if not for the very pretty boy currently sucking on your face. 

One of his hands moved to claw at the seam of your tights, but you quickly clamped your legs shut, trapping his wrist from moving any further, much to his whiny disappointment. You used your hold on the front of his jersey to push him away, and you were met with the most sweetly crestfallen expression - wide, glossy, sad eyes staring you down while he curled his lip, clearly wondering what he had done wrong. Wondering what he had done to be denied. 

“Not so fast.” You scolded him gently. “You have to ‘take it off’ too.” You told him, running your fingers down the front of his chest, more than offended by all the padding he was wearing in addition to the clothing. Far too much coverage. 

“I’m not the one who was acting like a whore.” Isaac huffed, clearly still wounded from the fact that you had worn Scott’s numbers. The word sounded strangely good on his lips, but still, you rolled your eyes. From him, it wasn’t dominance or power. It was slowly turning into bratty defiance in your little game. “I wasn’t out there shaking my ass in front of the crowd while wearing some other guy’s fucking number, acting like a dumb slut-” 

“Oh, please.” You let out a dark laugh, and Isaac swallowed thickly, knowing that you had truly arrived. After all the winding up - the main event had finally started. “You act like a dumb slut all the time.” 

Isaac let out a sharp breath at your words, loving how easily you tossed the words back at him. Something inside of him was absolutely purring at the harsh title that was now freshly branded into his skin. This was the moment that his brain began to melt between his ears, and any sense of the ‘tough guy’ act that he put on for the rest of the world was completely gone. 

From this point on, he was dissolving into the sweet puppy that only you were allowed to know. 

“Like now, for example.” You continued on, more venom lacing through your lips. You put on your most threatening voice, hating to get firm with him, but knowing it was necessary. “So you can strip down, and fucking behave yourself, or I can get dressed and go find Scott and see what fucking him would be like instead.” 

Isaac glared at you, and you saw that horrible quiver come across his lip again. Before you could worry that you had gone too far, he reached up and began pulling off his gear, and you heard a few muffled complaints as his pads hit the floor. 

“You don’t have to be so mean,” He told you, nothing more than a petulant whine at this point. 

He was ready to be compliant with you - ready to do whatever you said because he needed it just as much as you did. 

When he was shirtless, you didn’t wait for him to ditch his bottoms before you leaped into action once again. You reached out and tucked your fingers into the waistband of his shorts, hauling him toward you - and much like a loyal dog tight on a leash, he let himself be so easily pulled, even though he was much stronger than you and he could have overpowered you if he wanted to. 

But that was the glory of it. He was a statue of might, standing over six feet tall, shredded with muscles that were enhanced with supernatural strength, and yet - he wouldn’t hurt a fly without your permission. He wouldn’t take a step in any direction if it wasn’t to stand in your shadow. 

He didn’t worship anywhere if it wasn’t at your altar. 

He had sought out guidance anywhere and everywhere since his father had died - Derek, Scott, Deaton, even Erica. But he had only found sanity and solace at the palace of your lips. 

Which was why he moaned into your mouth as you kissed him again, quickly shoving your tongue past his teeth to remind him of why he was here. He belonged to you, and he shouldn’t do anything without your sacred permission. 

You got a firm grip on his hair and caused a sting across his scalp with how possessively you were holding onto him, causing pleasant tingles through his whole body as he was reminded of that lovely feeling of being held by you, being owned by you. You used the hold to force him tighter into your mouth, angling his head just the way you needed to kiss him firmer, deeper, controlling every single aspect of it - causing a sweet whimper out of him as he was guided like a puppet on a string. 

He had been the one to drag you here with a demanding, tight grip on your wrist - he had been the one to practically throw you up against the lockers in anger. He thought this whole thing had been his idea. 

But this had never been his game. 

Any tough moves he made out on the lacrosse field, any intimidation he managed with people like Stiles or the Alphas he had battled during the summer - it was all a farce. You were the only person that knew deep down, he was a puppy, just looking for guidance. At the end of the day, after everything he had been through in life - he was just looking for somewhere soft to lay his pretty head. 

Isaac let out a whine as you pulled away from the kiss to take a breath. He instantly wanted to protest, instantly began chasing your mouth. He didn’t care if he drowned in your mouth, if he died due to lack of oxygen. 

But of course, he didn’t settle for a lack of contact. 

While you combed your fingers through his hair and used the other hand to start untying the knot of his shorts, he immediately dipped his head down, seeking more of your precious skin. His neck almost became pained from the awkward angle, having to lean so far down due to his height - but he didn’t care. He dipped his head between your breasts and immediately began laving his tongue over the small cuts he had unintentionally left there. From him, it was a wordless apology, hanging his head in shame at the fact that he could ever hurt you, no matter how small, no matter how meaningless the tiny scratches were to you. 

In your mind, it didn’t matter. Owning a pet meant that sometimes you came off with a few tiny wounds. You would end up loving the scars. You let out small hiss at the sting of saliva, and then began moaning, and he was quickly driven mad by the twang of your blood on his tongue. 

“Isaac-” You moaned out hotly. 

He believed that he was a beast being fed by you, bound to devour you disastrously sooner or later - but you knew not to be afraid. He could do you no real harm. You could never truly be afraid of someone with such delicate sadness in his eyes. 

Especially not when he humped your hip like a lost puppy and whined against your skin like he had been kicked in the gut. His cock throbbed painfully inside his athletic cup, far too fucking restricted, crying out for your touch. He was grateful when you pushed down his shorts and his thin athletic pants underneath, and then took care to strip off his underwear and cup without hurting his sensitive, now very hard cock. 

“Aww, puppy.” You cooed - it was a playful pet name that you had used with him many times before, but for some reason, it practically punched him in the gut, easily forcing the air out of his lungs when he heard it. 

His responsive moan crescendoed into a harsh growl between his teeth when you reached out and grabbed his cock with a cool hand - it was an immediate contrast, his skin boiling hot with blood thumping so hard underneath, making his cock so rigid that it practically vibrated under your touch. The tip of his dick leaked furiously into your hand as you began casually pumping him, no distinct rhythm or precision in your movements, purposefully teasing him. 

“You need this, don’t you?” You purred, voice purposefully honey-sweet as you lapped up his reactions. “You need me.” 

“I need you.” Isaac panted in return without hesitation. “I need you, please.” 

You ran your thumb over the leaking slit of his cock, indulging in just how wet he was, loving how it showed his desperation, plain and clear. You also couldn’t help but to love the beautiful little whimper he let out from the back of his throat, the way his breath puffed across the exposed skin of your breasts, cooling the salvia he had left there. Your skin becoming more exposed as he reached a hand up and yanked down your bra, putting strain on the straps where they sat on your shoulders. 

“You gonna earn it?” You posed, feeling the devil on your shoulder, unable to resist. Isaac only whined in response. “Get on your knees for me like a good dog.” 

Isaac’s breath caught in his throat. 

When he had first become a werewolf and you had found out about it, you had made a good many ‘dog’ jokes about him. And he used to hate them. But over time, he had come to love the comparison because he loved being your dog. (It’s why the nickname ‘puppy’ put a warm fondness in his gut rather than making him feel humiliated.)  

He knew, at the end of the day, that it was true. He needed to be owned by you, he needed a damn leash. He was intensely loyal, despite himself. And no matter what, at the end of the day, he would always return to you, head down, looking for praise, looking to be fed - whether that was a feeding of the soul, or stupidly literal, who knows. 

Any other time, the words would have been embarrassing - it would have been something he argued against. But this time - he practically let out a bark to demonstrate his pure loyalty to you, and he rushed to follow the simple order. Even though he hated your touch leaving his cock as he dropped to his knees on the cold tiled floor (thankful that he was still wearing his knee pads where his clothing was caught in a tangle just above them), he was more than eager to serve you. He used a careful, precise claw to reach up and shred a hole in the crotch of your tights, quick to destroy your underwear as well when he found them in his way. 

“Good boy.” You easily praised him, and he found his brain once again delightfully fuzzy at the simple words. 

Your fingers were in his hair again, but he didn’t even need your touch driving him forward. He was drawn to your exposed cunt like a madman, more than eager to shove his face into the folds of your perfect pussy. He used a hand to lift your perfect plump thigh and pull it up over his shoulder, inviting you to sit some of your weight on him so that he could be closer to you, ever closer, closer. He shoved his tongue deep into your hot, wet hole and shoved his nose between your folds, unintentionally bumping against your clit, just hungry to taste and smell as much of you as he possibly could. 

“Isaac!” You moaned out, using your hold on his hair to try and keep him in place while you humped against his face, causing him to moan enthusiastically into your pussy. “Oh fuck, puppy! You’re so good.” 

The combination of the praise and the nickname was absolutely dizzying, and along with your wetness on his tongue, your smell so potent and perfect surrounding him - he felt as though he didn’t deserve something this good. But he didn’t care. He quickly became obsessed with drowning himself in you - with one hand possessively gripping your thigh beside his head and the other gripping the edge of your skirt, moaning frantically into you while he fucked his tongue in and out of you, lapping up as much of your taste as he could. 

“Oh fuck - such a sweet puppy, so good for me.” 

There was no skill to it. 

He was growing dumb between the ears, becoming more and more of the dog that you accused him of being - nothing but animal instincts and the loyal need to please you. He humped his hips into the air and his cock began leaking openly onto the floor, leaving a pathetic puddle of precum there that neither of you would notice, something that would have the janitor questioning later. 

Currently, all Isaac cared about was the taste of your pussy on his tongue, the wonderful essence of you that reminded him he was home. All he cared about was being good for you while getting a reward that he barely deserved; all he cared about was the wonderful heat of your pulsing cunt under his lips with your vibrating little button bouncing on his nose, getting to smother himself in your perfect scent. 

“Yes baby, so fucking good-” 

All of his moaning and insistent tongue-fucking meant that you were drawing close to your orgasm very quickly. 

Your thighs began to shake, your muscles jolting beside his head and he continued to lap it right up. He moaned even harder, angling his head to drive his tongue deeper into you as you became wetter, and he only basked as there was more for him to consume. You panted in harsh gasps as beautiful jolts of pleasure rang through your cunt while his tongue pierced you again, and again, and again, fucking you in the most perfectly thoughtless way. 

Your fingers dug into his scalp and he didn’t even care that you used the touch to drive him further to smothering while you rubbed your pussy across his face, smearing your wetness all over his cheeks and his chin, coating him so perfectly in your smell. He could only enjoy it as you came all over him and tipped your head back against the lockers behind you, your moans echoing against the walls like a perfect concert while the boys in the locker room across the hall were none the wiser. (The chatter of their conversations and the sound of their showers completely muting out the sound of your moans from reaching their ears.) 

“Fuck, Isaac! Oh, puppy! Such a good boy!” 

Isaac moaned at your words and his cock was downright throbbing now. 

But even though, in the back of his mind, his dick was cold in the air of the room and he wanted nothing more than to sink into your perfect pussy, he still felt a deep pang of disappointment when you used your grip on his hair to pull him away from your perfect, wet cunt. He let out a whine showing that disappointment, and fought to keep your leg on his shoulder as you moved to pull away. But still, he ultimately conceded to you when you patted his hand off your thigh and scolded him with a glare and a quiet warning of: 

“Behave.” 

“I wasn’t done.” He complained, his voice small. 

But still, he settled for licking your taste off his lips, looking up at you through his lashes from down on his knees. You combed your finger through his hair again, unable to stop yourself from admiring him, even if he was being a bit of a selfish brat. 

He was just so damn pretty. 

Porcelain skin stretched over perfect muscles, big pretty blue eyes staring up at you, his cock out and still leaking, bright red now due to being neglected by you. You couldn’t have imagined a more perfect sight. You couldn’t help but to reach down and drag your thumb through some of the lingering wetness on his chin and feed it to him - and of course, he ate it right up, sucking the digit eagerly into his mouth and moaning around it. 

“Oh? So you don’t want to fuck me then?” You posed, playing off his words with a teasing statement that easily drove him mad. 

These words quickly sparked him to action. 

He jumped up off his knees, rising to his tall height once again, somehow so unintimidating. Such a sweet little wolf. 

With your back pinned up against the lockers for support, he grabbed your legs and pulled you up off the ground, his beyond human strength helping him to easily lift you so that you could wrap your legs around his waist - and just a moment later, as his cock perfectly lined up with your soaked entrance, you easily fell onto that perfect, stiff shaft. 

He didn’t hesitate to fuck up into you. He knew you didn’t need soft and you definitely weren’t expecting it, and any sense of patience he might have had was long gone. There was no sweetness, no slowness - all that was left was his pure possessive need to be close to you and your guiding hand driving him on, encouraging him as you dug your nails into his shoulders, leaving marks that would never last with his werewolf healing. 

“Good boy.” You told him, your breath slipping away for a moment as you were reminded of just how perfectly his cock could split you open. “Fuck, Isaac.” 

He kept one hand tight on your hip and the other went above your head, hanging onto the top of the lockers, desperate to hold on to something as he felt your perfect, hot wetness gripping his cock. Following his instincts, he fucked forward, slamming his hips into you, needing to feel more, needing to be closer to your warmth - needing more of you. 

“Need you.” He panted, his head falling to press his forehead close to yours, something that felt sweetly intimate for the situation, his eyes squinted tightly as he became overwhelmed by the sensations. “Fuck - need you, need you so much.” 

“Come on, puppy.” You encouraged him. “Come on, take what you need.” 

You tightened your legs around his waist, his movements nearly threatening to buck you off as he moved his hips so wildly - sheer need absolutely tight in every muscle as thick whines poured from his lips. You were eager to soothe him, your hands running up and down his sweaty back - some of it lingering from the hard work he had done during the game and some of new from how hard he was fucking you now, lighting up all the nerve endings inside your pussy, making you feel so perfect. 

“Such a good boy.” You moaned, your breath brushing against his lips - his mouth open as he struggled for air and continued to whimper sweetly for you. “Such a sweet little puppy. Good fucking dog.” 

Isaac let out a growl, fucking into you harder, his brain pure static at this point. 

Yes - he was a good dog. He was your good dog. 

He couldn’t help it when the pleasure surged through him, the pure energy, and his grip on the lockers above your head tightened so much that the metal started to crumble beneath his fist as if it was nothing more than a piece of paper. You heard the terrible shrieking groan of the metal, but you didn’t even bother to look up - you couldn’t have taken your eyes off Isaac in those moments. You were far too enraptured by your puppy in front of you, by the nearly pained look on his face, by the feeling of his perfect cock splitting you open as he faithfully fucked up into your pussy, not stopping for even a moment. 

You brought a hand to his face, grasping his jaw between your thumb and forefinger, digging the touch in - just a twinge of pain to get his attention, a firm grip to remind him that he was yours. 

“Look at me.” You demanded, your breath hot, your voice shaking slightly as the pleasure shook your body. “Come on, puppy - look at me.” 

He forced his eyes open, eager to be good for you, eager to do as you said. He gulped air in as he continued to grip onto your hip, the locker crumbling even more into a mess as the tension in his muscles was wrought into it, forced there rather than ever be taken out on you - even unconsciously, he could never use too much force on you. 

The silken blue that looked at you was a sight so beautiful that you couldn’t bear to look away, a mess of lust and ravenous madness, a prayer of devotion to you that was far too complex for words. You gave him a small, sweet kiss on the lips that he moaned so deeply at, his hips stuttering terribly as his balls downright ached - 

“Cum for me.” You demanded, the words a firm smack against his mouth, a punch to his gut that made him cry out. “Cum for me, puppy, be a good boy, come on-” 

He let out a strangled moan that dissolved into a downright filthy whimper from the back of his throat as his hips sped up, his skin practically blurring as he was now given precious permission from you. Your cunt became utterly sore with the speed and pressure his pelvis kept hitting you with, continually pounding into you with that impossible strength, the sound resonating harshly through the room, nearly threatening to break you. 

But it was only a few breathless moments later that a moan punched through his gut and you heard something that resembled your name choked through his throat - and then he fucked into you one last time, his hips then becoming glued to yours, almost entirely still in contrast to moments before. He ground against you sharply, overstimulating your swollen clit with the stiffness of his pelvis as he seemingly tried to merge with you through persistent will alone as he pumped his cum inside of you in warm spurts. 

“Good puppy,” You hummed, continuing to run your hands up and down his back and through his hair. You kissed down his cheek and his neck and along his shoulder, praising him, soothing him, worshipping him just like he deserved while his cock throbbed inside of you. “Good boy. So fucking good for me.” 

He moaned in return, words lost to the stupidly thick tongue inside of his mouth - one that was only capable of licking up and down your neck while he humped his cock inside of you for a few more moments, enjoying your soothing words and the warmth of your pussy around him as his orgasm ebbed away. 

Unfortunately, it couldn’t last forever like that. 

You pulled him in for one last kiss - one that the two of you savoured with a moan and a dip of tongues into each other’s mouths as he pulled his cock out of you. 

(Distantly, you had a thought about how you would have to walk out of here with no underwear - because you definitely weren’t going to keep on the scraps that he had left you, gaping with remnants of his cum inside of you. And you did feel a strange sense of satisfaction in that. Especially knowing that he would be able to smell that cum on you for hours with his werewolf nose, even if you went home and changed your clothes before Lydia’s mandatory ‘Lacrosse Team Win’ celebration party - and that was enough of a reason not to take a shower and scrub the scent off.) 

He let you down and you were unsteady on your legs, much like a baby deer, still having to lean on the lockers for support while he moved to grab some toilet paper from one of the stalls to help clean you both up. 

A heavy silence fell over the two of you, unlike any other time that you had sex with Isaac. 

While you righted your clothes (prying what was left of your underwear out from underneath your tights and throwing them away, along with the scraps of the shirt that had started this all, fixing your skirt, and putting your jacket on over your bra for some coverage) - and Isaac got dressed, you wondered what would happen next. Your eyes landed on the huge dent that was now in the top of the row of lockers, and you genuinely weren’t sure if you should ask him to try and fix it, or if it would just be better to leave it like that and let people wonder. 

“Please…” 

Isaac mumbled out, his voice so quiet, raspy around the edges due to the moaning he had just done. When you whipped your head toward him, he worked up the courage to finish the sentence. 

“Please… don’t talk about Scott anymore.” 

You stared at him, puzzled, as he put on his jersey (his pads still left on the floor, seeing as he didn’t need them anymore). Clearly, his mind had been on a completely different track. He was staring you down with those sad, glassy eyes once again, and you felt a terrible twinge of guilt tighten in your gut. 

You knew that he was the jealous type. That was why you had done all this. But you couldn’t go on being his secret fling, his secret fuck. His perfect confidant with no public title. 

So you prodded that wound one last time. 

“Why not?” You asked, risking it all. 

You would either leave this losing your best friend, the best sex of your life, and the person you loved most in the whole world - or you would leave this as a whole, better person. 

Isaac swallowed, and bowed his head, unable to look you in the eyes. Somehow, at six-foot-one, he looked so terribly small. He might not be able to do this. He might be too broken to live up to it. But you hoped, you prayed that he would - 

“Because I-” He shuddered, verging on tears. And somehow, he was able to get the words out. “Because I’m in love with you.” 

Everything inside of you lit up. More perfect than any orgasm, better than the feeling of his cock inside of you - this was what you had been missing the whole time. 

“And look, I understand that you might have just been playing around,” He continued, his words having a terrible meaning - acknowledging your game in wearing Scott’s numbers, and voicing his insecurities in your relationship, believing that you had been unserious with him because you had never loved him at all. “But it kills me to see you with other guys. I can’t-” 

You stepped forward, using a hand on the side of his jaw to pull him into another kiss. In a moment, he understood the passion, the warmth - something that went far beyond sexual needs. The way you guided him because you knew exactly what he needed. The unspoken connection the two of you always had that now needed those words. 

“Isaac, you should know I love you too.” You told him. “That I’ve been in love with you - since forever.” 

He let out a tense breath of relief. 

“I won’t talk about anyone else like that, or flirt with anyone, or anything along those lines, if that’s what you want.” You assured him. “You are mine, and I’m yours. Okay, pup?” 

He flushed at the nickname, and nodded, and you smiled brightly. 

“I’ll even get you a dog collar with my name on it so that everyone can know you’re mine.” You said - your tone was distinctly joking, but you didn’t miss the way he bit his lip, and the lustful light that grew in his eyes. 

“Shut up.” He laughed, shaking his head. 

(He definitely wouldn’t end up masturbating to thoughts of that later. Definitely not.)

...

Please keep in mind, there will not be a continuation or a 'part 2'. This is a oneshot, meaning that it is a complete story on its own and I do not feel the need to continue it. If you comment asking for a Part 2 or asking for a continuation after I have written this ending message, I consider that to be extremely rude and unkind.

If you are going to comment, please comment about the content of the fic that has been written. I love discussing the characters that I write about with other people in the comments and connecting with fellow fans. I work very hard on my fics and I always appreciate comments, but I do not appreciate when people only comment asking for more rather than wanting to discuss what I have already worked hard on.

Even if you don't comment, I hope you enjoyed, and if you want more from me because you enjoyed this fanfic a lot, you should definitely check out my Teen Wolf Masterlist, which has a lot of similar fics!

Happy Reading,

Sunny ☀️

[fclsebnnyodair]

finnick o’dair x fem!reader

warnings: just pure smut, oral m!receiving (at a beach) MDNI !!!

a/n: little idea popped into my head since it’s so sunny outsideee

word count: 332

finnick o’dair who brought you to a beach date at the early afternoon and couldn’t stop starring ever since.

in your tiny cute and skimpy bikiny, finnick watched you sunbathe, swim with him, even attempted to teach you how to surf. it was impossible for him not to get rock hard when your breast bounced in your top when you laughed at something he said or did, when you just laid there on the sand, your skin shining like a diamond whenever the sun’s rays caressed your skin and your hair curled slightly at the ends from the salty sea water.

“fuck, angel. yea y’feel s’ fuckin’ good, sweet girl.” finnick breather out, his big hand was cupping your jawline, guiding your head up and down on his cock, that your soft glossy lips were wrapped around.

you were looking up at him, with your big doe eyes, focusing on his tip, kissing it lovingly, swirling your tongue around his sensitive pink flesh, feeling his cock twitch in your mouth as he was closer to coming.

“god, my prettiest girl.” finnick sighed his head rolling back as he was sitting on the sand, his arms holding him up, while you laid between his knees on your tummy.

with your hand stroking the root of his cock, with your lips working on his tip and with that look in your eyes, finnick, even tho his stamina was pretty good, came pretty fast, the white warm, sticky semen spread in your mouth combing with your saliva as you pull away, swallowing and still holding eye contact.

“fuck.” finnick murmured under his unsteady breath, closing his eyes after seeing you swallow to hold himself back from cumming just from by that sight, again.

it didn’t take him long before he pulled you up from your laying position, ready to return the favour right away.

“you did so good, sugar. ‘m so proud of you.”

finnick mumbled before placing kisses on your neck and then making his way lower.

[fclsebnnyodair]

I MISS WRITING SO MUCH.

i’ll be back, trust.

[fclsebnnyodair]

when my wife posts about our husband

finnick odair steps through the door after a long day of fishing, and he’s welcomed by the sight of you curled up on the loveseat, reading calmly as you were clearly waiting for him to return. 

you look up the moment he enters, your eyes lighting up. “finn,” you call out excitedly, abandoning your book on the old coffee table to go straight to his arms. 

as soon as you reach your lover, he engulfs you in his arms and squeezes you tightly without hesitation. his warm, sweaty body relaxes under your touch with a quiet sigh, and his chin comes to rest comfortably on top of your head. 

“i missed you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice slightly muffled as he turns to press a  tender kiss to your hair. “wish you’d come with me to the port. everything feels brighter when you’re near.”

you suppress a small groan. you have never enjoyed spending hours under the scorching sun, just waiting for some fish to finally take finnick’s bait. still, a flutter of excitement always stirs in your chest at the thought of spending an entire day with him. just picturing the gentle way he patiently would explain to you how to use the bait, the playful teasing, and the almost childlike competition you'd inevitably have over who catches the bigger fish, is enough to make you look forward to it.

life is short and fragile, especially alongside finnick. you never know when some tribute might push too far, giving president snow the perfect excuse to retaliate against all the victors, including your finnick. the two of you share an unspoken understanding. that snow was probably just waiting for the right moment to get rid of him without sparking a riot in his name. if anything ever happened to him, what you'd remember about that day would be the way finnick smiled enormously with pride after catching a big fish, not the mosquito bites or the sunburnt skin.

“i’ll join you next time, i promise,” you say softly, with no traces of dishonesty. you can’t help but cup his cheeks, gently admiring his adorable, sun-kissed face. his cheeks squishing in your hands are pink from hours spent outside. he probably skipped sunscreen again. later, he'll no doubt ask you to soothe his skin with ointment. his nose, just as pink as his cheeks, looks like it's silently asking to be kissed by you. his freckles adorning his face make you want to forget everything else and spend the rest of your days pressing soft kisses on every single one of them.

but it is his eyes that draw you in more than anything else. he has trained himself to maintain a facade, hiding any true feelings, because even the slightest flicker of disgust in the capitol could land him in serious trouble. but here, at home, not just in district four, but in your arms, is where he feels safe enough to let his emotions show openly. so when you look straight into his eyes, you see the pure adoration and deep devotion he holds for you. the way his eyes crinkle at the corners and his pupils dilate makes you feel giddy, leaving you to wonder if you look just as enamored as he does right now. 

finally, you press a soft kiss to finnick’s lips for the first time since he walked through the door, and he melts in your hands. you don’t care about the strong smell of the fish he brought home, nor are you bothered by the sweatiness of his body. all you notice is the way his entire body relaxes, how his hands travel to your hips and pull you impossibly closer. his lips taste like comfort, like the peace you find in the ever-moving sea waves. his hand travels up and caresses your back soothingly, and it feels better than any sweet treat the capitol could ever offer. and his breath on your face leaves you dizzy in the best way.

when he finally pulls away, he lets out a quiet chuckle at the lovesick look on your face, teasing you playfully even though his own expression mirrors yours. “i love you,” he murmurs, his voice low. he then picks up the cooler he brought in and heads toward the kitchen, but not before you say it back. 

in the kitchen, you take charge of seasoning the fish while finnick gets the grill going. the conversation is endless, drifting from his complaints about being the tastiest meal for mosquitoes at the port to lighthearted bickering over what'd you name your imaginary family restaurant. that's when mags shows up for dinner like she always does, and finnick immediately ropes her into settling the debate. with a giggly smile, she disapproves of both names before pointing to the grill, where the fish are starting to burn. as the three of you sit down to devour the ones that didn't get burnt, you hum in satisfaction, savoring the precious moment as you quietly bury the unease growing in your chest about the approaching third quarter quell announcement.

[fclsebnnyodair]

We Kissed Like Drowning Things.

pairings: finnick odair x reader

summary: they were each other's first love—soft, sacred, sun-warmed. then the capitol took him, and you learned that sometimes, survival means letting go of everything gentle. years later, bruised by the capitol and silence, they're trying again. but the sea doesn't always return what it takes.

warnings: the usual hunger games (death, violence, prostitutions, etc.), annie is traumatized, reader is depressed, finnick is traumatized and depressed, slowburn

word count: 14.5k

author's note: not proofread! i accidentally hit post instead of schedule🥲🥲🥲

When you were six, you met a boy with bronze curls and sea-green eyes. You were crouched by the shore, trying and failing to build a castle out of sand, only to have every small wave undo your work with careless indifference. Frustration simmered in your chest until the boy appeared beside you, his shadow cutting into the sunlight. He asked if he could help, promised that together you could build something bigger, something the tide wouldn’t dare destroy. You said yes. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, your mother’s voice was calling your name, and just before you turned to leave, the boy offered his name—Finnick Odair—and asked if you’d like to be friends. You said yes again. And somehow, that moment, all sun-warmed skin and saltwater air, set you both on a path that carried you fifteen years forward.

At eight, the two of you ran wild through the town square, sticky fingers swiping sweets from distracted vendors, mouths stained with chocolate as laughter rang through cobblestone alleys. You always ended up back at the beach, sand clinging to your skin as you talked about everything and nothing until the sky turned lavender. Sometimes it was your mother who’d call you home, and other times Finnick’s father would arrive, stern and tired from his son’s market ruckus again, dragging his son by the wrist. But he never included you in his scoldings. No—Finnick’s father looked at you like he might’ve looked at a daughter, gentle and kind. Finnick would sulk afterward, grumbling that you were definitely his dad’s favorite. You’d blow raspberries at him in response, which only made him roll his eyes harder.

When you were ten, Finnick showed up on your doorstep with a trembling smile, a box of chocolates in one hand and a single rose in the other. He was flushed and awkward and so very nervous when he stammered out the words—"Will you be my girlfriend?" Your father nearly had a heart attack, clutching his chest while your mother just laughed, amused and endlessly supportive, even though she said, "They’re children. It’ll pass." It took three nights to calm your dad down, reassure him that no, you and Finnick weren’t eloping anytime soon. Annie, your little sister, teased the both of you mercilessly. Whenever Finnick came by, she’d grin and say, “Dad’s gonna kill you if you ever make her cry.” Finnick always rolled his eyes and promised, “I could never.”

But that promise didn’t last long. You were twelve when you came home in tears over a ridiculous argument—something about sea animals and which one was the best. You lost, and your pride was bruised, and your father, loyal to a fault, nearly turned the entire district inside out looking for Finnick, who was hiding behind a fruit stall with his heart in his throat. That night, Finnick snuck through your window with your favorite lilies clutched in one hand and your favorite chocolates in the other. You forgave him before he even spoke. Giving him a kiss on the cheek as you hugged him.

By fourteen, the two of you had settled into something that felt eternal. Your relationship was soft and strong in the way only young love can be—full of promise and warmth and long walks along the beach with no need for words. He’d sleep over some nights, and you’d eat with his family just as often as he’d eat with yours. You had your own lives too, your own interests, your own spaces. You weren’t tied at the hip, but always tied at the heart. Arguments happened, sure. But they never lasted long. A few hours later, you'd be barefoot and breathless, laughing as he chased you across the shore like nothing had gone wrong at all.

But then came the 65th Hunger Games Reaping and it altered everything you once knew.

You heard his name called, and the world tilted. Time stopped. You watched him walk up to that stage, pale and shaking, and you felt your own heart fall from your chest and crack somewhere on the Justice Building’s stone steps. You wished you could scream. You wished you could run to him. You wished you could hide him away from the world. When the Peacekeepers finally let you in, led you through dim corridors to the room where Finnick waited, it felt like a dream unraveling into a nightmare. 

Because he was going, and you were staying, and neither of you knew how to live without the other.

Finnick made you promise not to wait for him—his voice thick with tears that tasted like the sea. One of his hands cupped your cheek gently, the other resting on your shoulder like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. You shook your head, burying your face in his chest, your arms wrapped around him like letting go would make everything real.

“Please,” Finnick whispered, his voice barely holding together. “When you leave this building… just forget it. Forget what we were. Everything we said we’d do, everything we thought we’d have—just let it go.”

A single tear slipped down his cheek. He tilted your chin up, gently, like he couldn’t stand not seeing your face one last time, even if it was streaked with tears.

Your breath hitched as you looked up at him, his face already starting to blur through the tears in your eyes. You wanted to tell him no—that you wouldn’t forget, that you couldn’t. But your throat tightened too much to speak, so you just nodded, slowly, even though your heart was breaking with every second.

Finnick leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes closed like he was trying to freeze time. “You’re gonna be okay,” he whispered, more like a hope than a promise. “You always were braver than me.”

You let out a shaky laugh, barely there. “That’s a lie,” you said quietly. “You were never scared of anything.”

“I’m scared now,” he admitted.

He kissed your forehead—soft, lingering, like a secret he didn’t know how to say out loud—and when he pulled back, his hands slid from your cheeks like he didn’t want to leave but knew he had to.

A knock on the door came too soon. A Peacekeeper's voice told you time was up.

You stepped back, arms falling to your sides, feeling colder already. Your fingers itched to grab him again, to hold on just one second longer, but you didn’t move.

“I’ll see you again,” you said, even though you didn’t know if you believed it.

Finnick gave you the smallest smile, eyes shining. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe somewhere without the Games. Just us.”

And then you turned, because if you waited another second, you’d never leave. The door closed behind you with a final, hollow sound. And just like that, the boy who had built sandcastles with you, who brought you chocolate and lilies, was gone.

~

For the rest of the month, you moved through your house like a ghost, pacing from room to room with nerves crackling just beneath your skin. The television was always on, no matter where you were—living room, kitchen, even the bathroom while you showered. You couldn’t bear to miss a moment. Even when you tried to sleep, the static hum and flicker of the screen followed you, casting shadows on your walls. You watched as the boy you loved, the boy who once helped you build sandcastles and brought you lilies, was slowly carved into something unrecognizable. The Games stripped him bare, piece by piece, and you watched it all happen in real time.

Your father tried to pull the plug—told you that no child should be watching something so violent, so vile. You screamed, and you ran, and you ended up at a friend’s house just to sit in front of their screen instead. Every night, you whispered prayers into your pillow, begged whatever gods might be listening to bring him home. Just bring him home.

And they did.

But God, how you wished they hadn’t.

Because the boy who returned wasn’t your Finnick. He looked the same—same bronze curls, same sea eyes—but his smile was gone, and the warmth in him had been buried somewhere you couldn’t reach. The boy who used to pull you into rib-cracking hugs now stood at a distance, a stranger wrapped in skin that used to feel like home. His eyes didn’t shine anymore. They just stared, empty and far away, like he was still in the arena, still trying to survive.

At first, you tried to understand. Of course he was different. Of course the Games had done something to him. How could they not? You told yourself he just needed time. You tried to talk to him, to remind him who he was, who you were together. You begged him to come outside, to walk with you down to the beach like old times. But all you got in return was silence, or worse—polite indifference, as if you were nothing more than another face in the crowd.

And then, one day, he broke your heart clean in two. No warning. No kindness. Just words as sharp as a blade and twice as cruel. He said it was over. That it had always been over. That you needed to forget.

You didn’t understand. You couldn’t. The Games were over. That nightmare—bloody and cruel and distant—should’ve ended the moment Finnick stepped back onto District 4 soil. So why was he still breaking your heart? Why was he pushing you away like your love had been part of the price he paid to win?

“I don’t understand...” you whispered, your voice trembling as your vision blurred with tears. “You’re alive. You’re here. So why won’t you come back to me?”

You cried. You begged. And if it would’ve changed anything, you would’ve dropped to your knees right then and there. But before you could, Finnick’s father gently pulled you back, his arms steady and warm in a way that almost made you crumble all over again. He told you Finnick just needed time. That trauma like his doesn’t fade, not quickly. Not easily.

You nodded, brushing the tears from your cheeks, trying to convince yourself it made sense. But when you turned back toward Finnick, he didn’t move. He stood completely still, his face a blank page. Nothing there. No flicker of the boy you loved.

But you caught it.

The twitch of his fingers, like he was holding himself back from reaching for you. The storm caught behind his eyes, screaming silently. The slight, almost invisible twitch at the corner of his mouth, like some part of him was dying to speak.

And so you waited. Days, then weeks. Months. Two years. You were patient. Gentle. You told yourself this was what love meant—loving someone through the dark, even if they couldn’t meet you halfway. You were there when he needed help after the fire that stole his parents, when the only thing left was a hollowed house and smoke. You stayed by his side as he moved into the empty victor’s mansion, a “gift” from President Snow that felt more like a cage than a home.

Sometimes, you’d find a window left open or a door that hadn’t been locked all the way, and you’d slip inside quietly, just to leave behind a flower, or a plate of food, or a note you didn’t sign. Sometimes, you just stood outside, staring at the doorknob, wondering if today would be the day he opened it for you.

Sometimes, Mags would catch you waiting. She never raised her voice. She just looked at you with soft, tired eyes and said, “Don’t come back.”

But she always let you in anyway.

You kept coming, and she kept letting you.

Until your sixteenth birthday.

Your house was full of people, of laughter and light and plates scraped clean—but none of it felt like yours. Your smile sat too neatly on your face. The laughter felt too hollow in your chest. Your father noticed. He watched you all evening like you were glass, just waiting for the moment you’d slip out the door.

And you did—right under his nose, with Annie’s help, while the dishes clattered and your friends cleaned up. You stepped out into the night barefoot, the hem of your dress brushing your calves, your heart pounding loud enough to drown out the world. There was only one place you wanted to be.

And maybe—just maybe—you hoped tonight would be different.

The walk to his house felt endless. The streets of District 4 were quiet, hushed under the weight of nightfall, the only sound the soft thud of your footsteps and the ocean sighing somewhere in the distance. When you reached his door, you didn’t hesitate. You didn’t even knock. The back window was cracked open like always, and your fingers pushed it up with ease, slipping through like you’d done so many times before.

But this time, Finnick was waiting for you.

He stood in the middle of the dimly lit living room, arms crossed, as if he’d heard your steps coming from a mile away. His face was unreadable, his eyes shadowed by something heavy and cold.

You froze from your spot. You weren’t expecting him to be there at all. “I-I just wanted to see you. It’s my birthday.”

“I know,” he said flatly.

Something in his voice made your stomach turn. Still, you stepped closer, like you had a hundred times before. “I thought maybe tonight we could just talk. Or sit. Like we used to—”

“We’re not anything anymore.”

The words landed sharp, like ice water poured over your chest. “Finnick, don’t—”

“I’m tired,” he said, voice sharp now, clipped and distant. “Tired of you sneaking in. Tired of you acting like this is still something it’s not. You need to stop.”

You stood still, your fingers curling into your palms. “I’ve been there for you—after everything. I never stopped caring. You can’t just throw that away.”

His laugh was hollow. “You think this is some story where love fixes everything? That you showing up like a stray dog will make me come running back? Grow up.”

You blinked at him, stunned. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“I don’t want you here,” he said, voice like stone. “I don’t want you waiting for me. I don’t want you loving me.”

You stared at him, at this cold-eyed stranger wearing your first love’s face. The silence between you stretched taut and unbearable.

Then you nodded. Just once. It felt like your chest cracked in half.

“Fine,” you whispered, barely able to speak. “You win.”

And with that, you turned. You didn’t look back. You didn’t cry, not until you were past the gates of Victor’s Village and halfway down the empty road. 

You dropped to your knees, the cold mud soaking through your dress, clinging to your skin like grief itself. Your father found you there, his arms lifting you gently as if you might shatter. He carried you home without a word. You wailed into your mother’s chest, her hands cradling your head while your sister sat on the staircase above, silent, listening.

That night, something in you snapped clean.

No more waiting. No more hoping.

He killed it with his own hands.

And what took its place was colder. Not the kind of anger that burns fast and wild—but the kind that settles deep, simmering low and steady. The kind that lets you walk away without looking back, even when your heart is still bleeding.

~

The final year of eligibility came and went with a tension that clung to your lungs like smoke. Each reaping before had felt like a tightrope walk—every breath held, every step tentative. But this year, something shifted. Maybe it was acceptance. Maybe it was the exhaustion of bracing for something that never came. Either way, when they called two names that weren’t yours, the air returned to your lungs like a flood.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t cheer. You just stood there, heart pounding in your ears, staring at the stage until your friends tugged you back to reality. The weight you’d been carrying for years finally loosened, if only slightly.

Later that evening, you all gathered in the clearing just outside town—a quiet spot near the cliffs where the ocean breeze carried away the noise. There was music from a nearby radio, low and grainy, and someone had brought pastries from the market to celebrate. You laughed. You danced barefoot in the grass. You tilted your head back and screamed into the open sky just to hear yourself alive.

It felt like the first time in a long while that you were breathing without flinching.

But as the sun dipped lower, turning the ocean orange, something tugged at you. A ripple across your skin. A sixth sense you never could shake.

You turned toward the path that led back to town—and there he was.

Finnick stood at a distance, half-shadowed beneath the trees. His posture still, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He didn’t move. Just watched. The fading sunlight carved a line across his face, and for a moment, everything around you fell away—the music, the chatter, even the wind.

It was just him and you.

You couldn’t read his expression. Maybe he didn’t expect to be seen. Maybe he hoped you would. But your eyes met, and the moment hung heavy between you, suspended in that slow-burn ache you thought you'd long buried.

You blinked, and the world resumed its spin.

“I’ll be right back,” you told your friends, forcing a smile that didn’t quite fit. They nodded, distracted, too wrapped up in the freedom of not being chosen.

You slipped away from the crowd and into the cover of trees, your heart unsettled, like a drumbeat without rhythm. The ocean roared somewhere behind you, wild and alive, and you let the wind press against your skin, let it remind you that you were still here. Still untouched. Still standing yet still not free.

You leaned your weight against the trunk of the mango tree, pressing your temple to the rough bark. The rustling of leaves overhead mingled with the distant laughter of your friends, soft and far away, like a memory you were already starting to lose. A quiet ache bloomed in your chest, and before you could stop yourself, your mind wandered to Finnick—because that could’ve been him. That should’ve been him, standing beside you, laughing with the rest of them. But pride had built walls between you both—his heavy with guilt, yours laced with bitterness. And neither of you had the nerve to climb over.

Even after everything he’d done. Even after he broke your heart. You still yearned for him.

The crunch of boots on grass cut through the stillness, pulling you from your thoughts. You didn’t move at first—just let your eyes flutter open, fingers curling into the fabric of your skirt as your heart kicked up its pace. The footsteps were slow, hesitant. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could recognize him by his scent alone. More than that, you could feel him—like a change in the air, the way memory sometimes brushes too close to your skin.

Finnick stood a few feet behind you, and the silence between you thickened into something almost physical. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved.

You kept your eyes on the horizon, pretending you hadn’t noticed. But your body betrayed you. Your skin flushed with heat, your breath caught short, your jaw locked tight. Every part of you was aware of him—his presence like gravity, impossible to ignore.

Eventually, you couldn’t help it. You turned.

It had been years since you’d looked at him—really looked—and time had etched itself into his features. He wasn’t the boy who used to press wildflowers into your hands or kiss your forehead when no one was looking. His face was sharper now, his jaw more defined, his shoulders broader. He carried himself differently, like someone who had survived things he couldn’t speak of.

But it was his eyes that hit you hardest—those sea-green eyes, dulled now, as if salt and sorrow had washed the shine from them. You didn’t know what haunted him, but you knew something did. Maybe it was the Capitol. Maybe it was the cost of survival. Or maybe it was everything he never let himself say.

He looked older. Tired. Worn thin by something invisible but heavy.

You knew, deep down, that the version of him the Capitol adored—the flirt, the heartthrob, the enigma—wasn’t real. It was armor. A mask. Finnick had always been good at making people see what he wanted them to see. But underneath all of it, he was still just a boy trying to survive a world that never played fair.

And part of you—despite the ache, despite the bitterness—still believed that when he let you go all those years ago, it wasn’t out of cruelty. It was to protect you.

From what, you weren’t sure. But you had your suspicions. And that involved the Capitol.

Even now, with dark circles under his eyes, the slight sag at the corner of his mouth, the lines forming between his brows—he was still devastatingly, achingly beautiful. And that, too, made you angry.

The silence stretched, suspended by rustling leaves and the steady roar of waves in the distance. Finnick squinted at you, like he wasn’t quite sure where he was or why he’d come. There was something in his eyes when he looked at you—a flicker of recognition, but deeper than that. Not joy. Not even regret. It was as if his body remembered you before his mind did.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he might reach for you—or like he was stopping himself.

And you stood there, arms crossed over your chest, heart thudding against your ribs. Not angry. Not forgiving. Just exposed.

You didn’t know what to say. And he didn’t either.

So you both stood there in the shadow of what used to be, staring across a distance that time, pain, and silence had carved too wide to cross. Not now. Maybe not ever.

The wind picked up again, carrying the sharp scent of salt and something older—something lost. Memories. Promises. The ghosts of what could’ve been.

“It’s just us,” you said, the words scraping from your throat like they'd been dragged through sand. “You don’t need to look like you’re about to throw yourself in front of me to kill somebody.”

It wasn’t a great joke—barely a joke at all—but something in it eased the tension in his face. Finnick let out a breath he’d clearly been holding, like he wasn’t sure he’d be allowed to exhale in your presence.

Then, slowly, he tucked his hands into the pockets of his shorts. You noticed the hesitation, the way his fingers twitched before they disappeared.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he said, barely louder than the wind.

The words hung in the space between you, light and fragile. If you hadn’t been watching his face so closely—if you hadn’t been trying to memorize every line of him like this was the last time—you might’ve missed them entirely.

You blinked. Brows furrowing. Your shoulders drew inward before you could stop them, like your body was trying to shield something. That wasn’t what you expected. You thought he’d come armed with that Capitol grin, or that same cold indifference he wore the last time you spoke. Not this. Not the look in his eyes now—like he was unraveling in front of you, thread by thread, and didn’t care who saw.

He looked like he’d carved his heart out and held it in his hands, raw and bleeding, asking you to take it again. Asking you to break it all over if you needed to.

You took a small step back, instinctively. Your eyes narrowed, scanning his face as if you could spot a lie hiding behind the softness. And he saw it—that flicker of suspicion, of hurt, still sharp-edged and buried deep.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t defend himself. Just stood there, letting the silence wrap around both of you again.

You shook your head slightly, glancing away, grounding yourself in the crashing waves and the tree bark under your fingers.

“Why now?” you asked quietly. “After all this time?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you the way someone looks at something they lost and never expected to find again. And then, voice low and unsteady, he said, “Because it’s the first time I’ve seen you at peace in years.”

That silenced whatever you were going to say next. Your breath caught in your throat, a familiar burn rising behind your eyes—but you blinked it back.

You looked at him and for a moment, the years between you flickered. The memories. The pain. The boy who loved you. The boy who left. The man standing here now, trying too late to be brave.

You didn’t forgive him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But in that moment, you saw the wound behind the armor, and it mirrored your own.

So you nodded once. Quiet. Detached. And said, “I need to get back.”

You turned before he could reply, walking back toward the sound of laughter and life, where your friends waited and your future hadn’t yet been tangled up in his shadow again.

~

The 70th Hunger Games reaping arrived like a thundercloud—heavy, ominous, and buzzing with unspoken dread.

You stood at the edge of the square with your parents, your hands clasped tightly in front of you as you scanned the crowd. Your eyes searched the eighteen-year-old girls’ section until they landed on a familiar head of auburn hair. Annie. It was her last year of eligibility, and your stomach hadn’t stopped twisting since you woke up.

You’d noticed the pattern over the years—how the girl tributes were often eighteen, how the Capitol liked the illusion of a coming-of-age tragedy. Annie had barely lived her life. The thought made your heart lurch. She caught your gaze from across the square and gave you a small, nervous smile—brave in the way only Annie could manage.

From the corner of your eye, you caught a flicker of movement. Tousled blond hair. A strong jawline. Finnick. He stood on the stage near the other victors, his eyes trained on the crowd. You could feel his gaze grazing your skin, but you refused to meet it. Last year had already broken through walls you’d spent years building. You weren’t about to let him ruin your footing again—not now.

The escort began her rehearsed speech, cheerful and detached. Her voice blurred around the edges as your heartbeat thundered in your ears. You were nineteen. Safe. Annie wasn’t. This was her final year. One last time to tempt the odds.

And this year, the odds are not in your favor.

“Annie Cresta.”

The name cracked across the square like a whip.

The air stilled. Conversations stopped mid-word. Heads turned. Your breath caught, and the world seemed to tilt beneath you. All eyes were on you—because they remembered. They remembered the last time someone you loved was taken.

And just like that, you were fourteen again. Watching the boy you once dreamed of forever with get ripped from your life. Only now, it wasn’t love on the line. It was blood.

At first, you didn’t understand. Your brain scrambled, lips parting, but no sound came out. You felt the air leave your lungs and your knees nearly buckled. You turned to Annie, whose face had gone pale, eyes wide, mouth trembling.

The silence stretched unbearably long before a Peacekeeper gave a subtle nudge. That broke her paralysis. Annie stepped forward slowly, her legs wooden, like every step was a decision she didn’t want to make.

“No,” you whispered, a soundless protest as your heart slammed against your ribs. “No!” You cried out as you reached for her, but someone was already holding you back.

Your father wrapped his arms around your waist and shoulder. Your mother cupping your face and pressing you into her shoulder. You kicked, thrashed, sobbed against their hold as the reality of your situation dawned on you fully.

Annie was probably crying too now, trying not to fall apart in front of the whole district.

You didn’t have to look to know Finnick was watching.

But eventually, you twisted enough to catch a glimpse of her. Annie stood on the stage like a leaf in the wind. Her sea-green dress clung to her in the summer heat, hair stuck to her temples with sweat. She looked impossibly young. Fragile in a way that made your chest hurt.

You barely remember who the male tribute was. He didn’t matter.

Everything in your world zeroed in on the girl standing alone on the stage, blinking fast as she tried not to cry.

Then your gaze flickered to Finnick. He was standing by the Victor’s section, hands clenched into fists, jaw so tight you swore it might shatter. His eyes didn’t leave Annie. Not once. Not even when she was escorted away toward the Justice Building.

The crowd began to dissolve, families murmuring soft prayers and farewells, but you stood frozen. Your hands still trembled at your sides, and your sister’s name kept echoing in your mind like a wound that wouldn’t close.

That was the moment the Games became real in a new way. Not as a far-off threat. Not as something that might happen.

But as something that had taken someone you loved.

Your father said something about being allowed to visit her before she left. A short goodbye. A few minutes. But your legs moved before your mind could catch up, pulling yourself free from their weakened grip.

Because you weren’t heading for the Justice Building.

You were heading for Finnick.

You ran to the docks. You didn’t have to think. Your feet just knew. That’s where he always went after a reaping—where the sea could swallow the things he couldn’t say. You’d found him there before, year after year, always standing just past the last post, where the saltwater licked the edge of the wood and the wind carried the cries of gulls overhead.

Finnick stood with his back to you, shoulders drawn tight, head bowed slightly. The sea mist caught in his hair, and for a second, he didn’t look like the boy you once loved. He looked like a myth. A shipwreck still standing.

You slowed, breath catching as your gaze traced the outline of him. He was broader now, stronger, wearier. Time had carved him into something harsher—like a statue softened by storms, not age. He hadn’t heard you yet.

“Finnick?” you called, voice fragile as driftwood.

He turned. And in the space of a heartbeat, he was in front of you—arms wrapping around your waist, breath hitting your cheek, lips crashing against yours like a wave that had waited years to break.

There was no hesitation. No words. Just the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for permission, because it already knows the answer. A kiss made of everything you’d both tried to drown—grief, longing, rage, hope. His mouth tasted like salt and sorrow, and your tears slipped down between you, catching in the corners of the kiss, but neither of you stopped.

His arms wrapped around you so tightly it almost hurt. But you didn’t pull away. You clung to him like he was a wound and you’d forgotten how to stop bleeding.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was teeth and tears and years of silence crumbling between you. It was desperate, broken, angry. It was everything you never got to say, poured out in gasps and shudders.

You kissed him like you hated him. Like you still loved him. Like you wished it didn’t still feel like this.

And when you finally pulled away, breathless and aching, it wasn’t relief that followed. It was the kind of silence that settled between people who knew they had no future—only history. Only ruin.

Finnick didn’t say anything. Neither did you. You just stared at each other, chest heaving, salt from the sea and your tears sticking to your lips.

This wasn’t forgiveness.

This was grief wearing love’s face.

“Promise me you’ll bring her back,” you whispered, the words trembling but edged with steel.

Finnick’s gaze flickered, sorrow rising like a tide behind his eyes. His grip on your waist faltered, and that alone was enough to send panic lurching in your chest. You reached up and cupped his face firmly, grounding him. Forcing him to look at you.

“Finnick,” you said louder, voice hoarse. “Swear to me you’ll bring my sister back.”

His lips parted, but nothing came out. Then soft and pained,“You know I can’t—”

“I’ll spend the rest of this life hating you,” you cut in, voice cracking like ice under pressure, “and the next one, too, if you don’t. I can’t lose her. Not after everything.”

He closed his eyes like it hurt to look at you, lashes brushing his cheeks as he pressed his forehead to yours, breath warm and shaky.

“That’s not fair,” he whispered, broken open.

A hollow, bitter laugh escaped you. “You stopped playing fair the day you told me to forget you. The day they took you away.” Your thumb ghosted across his jaw. “This is me returning the favor.”

Finnick’s hands curled around your waist again, tighter now. “I don’t control the Games, sweetheart.”

“But you can influence them.” You met his eyes without flinching. “You have power in that hell, even if you pretend you don’t. Use it. Use whatever the Capitol gave you—your smile, your secrets, your body, I don’t care.”

Your voice wavered, a thread unraveling. “Just bring her back to me.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek, and Finnick caught it with the pad of his thumb—slow, reverent. His eyes searched yours like you were asking him to walk through fire. And you were.

He nodded once—slowly, solemnly—as if sealing something ancient and sacred. His thumb lingered against your cheek, then trailed down to your jaw, gentle as a prayer.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he murmured.

And then he kissed you again.

But this one was different—less fire, more ache. Like he was memorizing your mouth. Like he was afraid this would be the last time he’d taste something that reminded him what it meant to be alive. It was a promise, a confession, and a goodbye, all tangled in the same breath.

He pulled you closer, crushing you to him as though he could will the world to stop. As though this kiss could delay the storm waiting on the other side of the sunrise.

~

The rest of the month was a slow, merciless bleed. You paced the floors until the wood creaked in protest. Sleep became a stranger. Your meals went cold on untouched plates. Every second was haunted by the thought of Annie—of her dying alone in an arena designed to chew innocence to pieces.

You couldn’t bring yourself to watch the broadcasts. Every TV in the house remained dark, silent like a grave. You didn’t go outside. You didn’t speak to anyone who tried to console you. Because if you were going to lose her, if the Capitol was going to steal her the way it stole Finnick, then you wanted to be the last to know. You wanted to keep the illusion of hope alive for just a little longer.

You weren’t ready to grieve her yet.

The thought alone was unbearable—it felt like the same knife, twisted again, deeper. Losing Finnick once had shattered you. Losing Annie would be the final blow. You couldn’t come back from that.

So you prayed. Harder than you ever had. Not to any god you truly believed in, but to anything listening. You whispered promises to the sea, lit candles at dawn, begged the stars overhead.

Bring her back. Please, just bring her back.

It didn’t matter if she came home broken or silenced or strange. You’d take her in any form she returned. You’d rebuild her piece by piece, hold her hand through every nightmare. You’d trade your sanity, your soul, your future—anything. Just to see her again.

Because you knew her heart. You’d watched her grow from a bright-eyed child into a girl who still believed in kindness, even in a world that tried to kill it. You knew the sound of her laugh in a crowded room. The way she curled up in her sleep. The softness in her that didn’t belong anywhere near blood-soaked soil.

If you could’ve taken her place, you would’ve. Gladly. Because this time, unlike with Finnick, you had a choice to save her.

The announcement came on a quiet evening, when the clouds hung low like they, too, were bracing for something. You hadn’t planned to be near the screen. In fact, you’d been doing everything not to be.

But your father called your name with a voice that shook. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t have to be.

You walked into the room like someone heading toward a noose. Each step dragged with the weight of too many memories, too many hopes stitched together by desperation.

The Capitol seal spun. The anthem played. You didn’t breathe.

And then, there she was. Her face is plastered on the screen as the gamemaker announces her win. But unlike a close-up shot of the victor they usually do, it’s a poster of her face.

You staggered back like you’d been hit. The world blurred as tears rushed forward with no warning, and all at once, the ache you’d been trying to smother cracked wide open. You fell to your knees in the middle of the room, sobbing so hard it tore something loose in you. She was alive. She’s alive. Not untouched—but breathing, standing. Still here.

You pressed your face to your hands, overcome by a grief that had been paused for weeks and was now finally allowed to finish its scream. Annie. Annie.

The sea carried her back to you days later.

You waited at the docks long before the train arrived. The sky was the same soft gray it had been the day Finnick kissed you goodbye. The waves lapped against the shore in a quiet rhythm. The gulls circled overhead like guardians, watchful and wide-winged.

You saw her before she saw you—standing in the doorway of the train car, framed by glass and metal and too much sorrow. She stepped out slowly, eyes scanning the crowd with a blankness that punched the breath right out of you.

She was thinner. Her lips pale. Her eyes—those green eyes—were distant, darting like she expected someone to leap at her from the shadows.

But she was here.

You didn’t call her name. You didn’t need to. Somehow, she found you.

Her eyes landed on yours like they were remembering how to be hers again. And that was it. You broke into a run and she did too, stumbling at first, then faster, until the two of you collided.

You wrapped your arms around her with a strength you didn’t know you had left, clutching her like she’d slip through your fingers if you let go for even a second. Annie buried her face in your shoulder and sobbed—not like the girl who’d survived, but like the one who finally knew she was safe.

“I’m here,” you whispered over and over, your voice cracking, your tears soaking her hair. “I’m here. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

And behind the two of you, standing by the tracks, was Finnick.

He didn’t say a word nor did he try to interrupt, but his eyes met yours—and they said everything.

He kept his promise.

The outside of the train station was packed, a wall of faces blurring into one another—cheering, gawking, reaching for a glimpse of the girl who survived. Annie clutched your hand so tightly your knuckles turned white, her small fingers digging into your palm like she was afraid the moment she let go, she’d vanish back into that arena. You leaned down, whispering comfort against her temple, but your voice was lost in the roar of the crowd. The Capitol had announced her return, spun her survival into a tale of quiet victory, and now the whole of District 4 wanted to witness the aftermath of a miracle.

You should have seen it coming. The way her shoulders tensed, the way her breath started to hitch. Her gaze flitted wildly, like she was searching for a way out. The noise, the crush of people—it was too much. She stumbled, her body trembling. You turned to her, trying to anchor her, to bring her back into the safety of your voice, but it was already too late.

Annie screamed. A raw, guttural sound that split the air like a struck bell. Her hands lashed out—not in anger but in sheer terror. And one of them caught your face. You didn’t register the pain right away. All you knew was the copper taste of shock and the wet warmth blooming from your cheek. Then the crowd recoiled. Peacekeepers surged forward. You tried to shield her, to stop them, but a pair of arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you back.

Finnick.

He caught you just as your legs gave out, holding you against his chest while Annie was wrestled from the platform. Her cries echoed, high and frantic, as the Peacekeepers restrained her and led her toward a waiting black car. She thrashed like a wild thing, like a child in a nightmare that no one could shake her from. Your heart cracked wide open watching her disappear behind the metal doors.

The medical wing of District 4’s Justice Building smelled like antiseptic and ocean salt. A doctor patched up the gash on your cheek while your parents sat silent, pale and stiff, across the room. No one spoke until a Capitol official—your district’s escort, dressed in muted tones for once—arrived with a folder clutched tightly in her manicured hands. She didn’t sit. Just read off the facts like they were weather reports. Annie was experiencing acute post-traumatic psychosis. She’d had several episodes on the train ride back. Screaming in her sleep. Refusing to eat. Moments of complete dissociation. The Capitol had deemed her unstable, unfit for interviews or appearances. She would not be presented to the public. She would not have a victory tour. Her Games were to be erased, quietly shelved. She was to be kept out of sight—"for her own good," the escort added, eyes glossed with practiced sympathy.

You thanked her, numb and hollowed out.

It was strange, the way grief and relief could exist inside you at the same time. Annie was safe. She would never have to play the Capitol’s game the way Finnick had. She wouldn’t be dolled up in sequins, forced to smile while being showed off to people with power. She wouldn’t have to go through the same things Finnick did when he’s in the Capitol to survive. You should have felt victorious.

But you didn’t.

Because you’d lost her anyway. Not to a blade or a cannon, but to something slower, quieter. Annie had come back breathing, but not whole. The girl who whispered sea shanties in her sleep and laughed like sunlight on waves was gone. And in her place was someone the Capitol couldn’t use—so they discarded her, tucked her away like something broken.

You pressed your face into your hands, sitting in a sterile room that reeked of tragedy, and for the second time in your life, you felt the Games take someone you loved and twist them into something unrecognizable.

You took care of your sister. You quit your job at the front of your family’s fishery, turned your back on the small sliver of normalcy you'd managed to hold onto, and redirected everything into Annie. Because no one else could. Not in the way she needed. Your parents tried—your mother cooked more than she ever had, your father offered quiet gestures of comfort—but it was you Annie reached for when the nights grew long and the memories returned screaming. It was you who held her through every fractured moment, every disoriented stare, every time she forgot where she was.

You moved into the mansion President Snow generously allotted in the Victor’s Village. The place was too big, too white, too hollow. Your mother did what she could to make it feel like home—curtains with warm colors, potted herbs in the kitchen, family photos tucked into glass frames—but no matter how much she softened the corners, it never stopped feeling like a cage. Everything about the house was a monument to survival, but none of it felt alive. You tried to ignore the way the walls pressed in. You tried to ignore the silence. You tried, but it never left.

This wasn’t the life you imagined for yourself. You should’ve been outside right now, maybe stringing fish with the village girls, maybe letting some hopeful boy walk you home, someone who resembled Finnick in all the worst ways—pretty, careless, distant. You should’ve been pretending that heartbreak wasn’t a part of your story. That promises never made don’t hurt when they’re never kept. That the boy you built your world around hadn't become a stranger dressed in silk and scars.

But instead, you were here. In a mansion that echoed with old grief and new fear, in hallways where your parents’ voices ricocheted like sharp stones. Your mother shouting numbers. Your father sighing in exhaustion. Their arguments wove into the background like music, and you watched Annie flinch at each crescendo, her body curling in on itself as if trying to vanish into air. Then it would be you again—kneeling, soothing, holding her as her breathing turned erratic and her eyes lost focus.

You were tired. Tired of the weight. Tired of the pain. Tired of pretending that if you worked hard enough, loved hard enough, you could undo what had already been done.

Sometimes, when the house finally quieted and your bones ached with fatigue, you’d lie flat on the cold floor of your room, staring up at the ceiling like it held answers. You’d imagine other versions of your life—one where Finnick was never reaped, where his smile never carried secrets, where you were both just two kids in love, dreaming of something small and safe. Or maybe a life where he didn’t exist at all. Maybe then your heart wouldn’t feel like it was still waiting for him. Waiting for something that was never coming back.

Your gaze drifted to the form curled up on the bed across the room. Annie’s breathing had slowed. Her face, so soft in sleep, looked like it belonged to a child again. But even peace looked haunted on her. The Capitol hadn’t just taken her sanity—it had taken her time, her youth, her quietness. You swallowed hard and looked away.

And then you remembered that day. The first time Finnick stepped off the train after his Games. You remembered the way your lungs had locked up, the way you recognized him instantly and yet not at all. He looked older, like someone had drained the color from him. There was a shine in his eyes that had nothing to do with light and everything to do with damage. He had been gilded in gold and clothed in silk, but all you saw was the wreckage.

You rose carefully, checking Annie one last time, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek before slipping from the room. A quick, hot shower to wash off the stillness clinging to your skin, and then you dressed in something simple and clean. There was an hour left—maybe less—before Annie would wake from the nightmares again. You moved quickly. Slipped through the front door, past the silent garden your mother kept trying to coax to life, past the white fences that looked like bones.

The path to the beach wasn’t long. It never was. The sea had always been near, calling to you like a lullaby too old to forget.

You didn’t stop until your feet met the sand, until you stood before the great stretch of gray-blue water and let the salt sting your lungs. The ocean didn’t ask for anything. It didn’t explain itself. It just kept going—crashing, shifting, changing, surviving.

You closed your eyes and let it drown out everything else. For a moment, just a moment, you could breathe again.

You sank down into the sand, drawing your knees to your chest as the tide whispered its hush. The sky was heavy above you, smeared with clouds that looked like they’d forgotten how to rain. The wind was colder than it should’ve been, brushing your skin like a ghost you didn’t want to name. But you stayed, arms wrapped around your legs, head bowed like prayer, as the waves pushed and pulled at the shore like they were looking for something too.

It was always the quiet that made you think of him the most.

Finnick Odair.

Even now, the thought of his name hurt in a place words couldn’t reach. It throbbed somewhere beneath your ribs, like your heart had been split open and stitched back wrong. You remembered everything too vividly—how his laughter once wrapped around you like a safety net, how his eyes found yours in a crowd like magnets. You remembered the first time he kissed you by these very shores, sand in your hair and salt on your lips, his hands trembling just enough to tell you he was scared too.

You remembered the promises. Not the grand, theatrical kind—but the small ones, whispered under breath in the shadows between curfews and the seas. He’d promised to teach you how to dive deeper, to build you a little house on stilts by the rocks where no one could find you, to grow old with you in a place where the Capitol couldn’t reach.

None of those promises were kept.

It wasn’t his fault. You told yourself that more times than you could count. But it didn’t stop you from aching anyway.

Because the truth was, Finnick didn’t come back the same. The Games took the boy you loved and sent back someone who wore his face but none of his softness. The Capitol dressed him up like a prize and passed him around like he didn’t bleed the same way everyone else did. And you had to watch—helpless—as the light in him died out piece by piece, each interview, each appearance, each year that passed.

And what hurt the most—what broke something inside you—was that he let it happen. He let the Capitol turn him into something you barely recognized. He never fought to hold onto you. He just let go.

You tried to hate him for it.

You tried to bury every tender thing you ever felt and replace it with anger, but no matter how hard you tried, it never stuck. Because you knew. Deep down, you always knew.

He did it to protect you.

He gave you up like a gift, a final desperate offering to a world that only knew how to take. He loved you in silence because that was the only way he knew how to keep you safe. And in doing so, he shattered you.

So you sat there on the sand, choking on the memories, wishing you could hold him one last time. Not the version the Capitol claimed, not the Victor they paraded on screens. Just him. Just Finnick. Barefoot, sea-soaked, thirteen. Telling you he’d love you forever with a smile that didn’t know yet what it would cost.

You pressed your forehead to your knees and let the tide sing you something soft. There were no answers in the waves, only ache. And you carried enough of that to last a lifetime.

You didn’t hear the footsteps behind you. You were too lost in your thoughts to recognize the soft thud of feet meeting sand, too wrapped in the ache of what could’ve been to notice the shift in the air beside you. The tide kept humming, but something about it changed—like it suddenly had company. You only realized someone had sat next to you when the warmth of their presence brushed against your side, quiet and steady like a second heartbeat you forgot you missed.

You didn’t turn right away.

You couldn’t.

Because some part of you already knew who it was. The weight of him settled into the earth like it belonged there, like he had always been drawn to your orbit, and you to his. And you weren’t ready—not to see him, not to unravel beneath that face again. But then came his voice, quiet, unsteady, like he hadn’t spoken all day.

“I figured I’d find you here.”

You closed your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to keep the emotion at bay, to swallow the thousand things you wanted to scream and instead let silence stretch between you. You opened them only when you were sure you wouldn’t cry at the sound of him.

“Don’t tell me you’re here to apologize,” you said. Your voice didn’t sound like yours. It sounded older. Tired.

Finnick didn’t answer right away. Instead, he brought his knees up, forearms resting on them, head tilted slightly toward the sea. He looked like someone trying to memorize the horizon, maybe because the present was too hard to look at.

“I don’t think I have the right words to say sorry,” he admitted. “Not after everything.”

You studied him from the side. The light caught his face differently now. The angles were sharper, the shadows deeper. His beauty hadn’t faded, but there was something hollow behind it now, something bruised. It was the kind of face you ached to touch but knew it might burn you.

It had been months since you last saw him. The last time was when Annie broke down at the station, when the Peacekeepers tried to restrain her and you lunged forward like instinct. Finnick had caught you then, his grip strong and desperate, as if loosening it meant losing you too. He’d held you like you were the only steady thing left in the world. He accompanied you to the Justice Building, stood at the far end of the hallway with watchful eyes, quiet and protective. He helped your mother when her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, helped your father when he stumbled trying to sit down, and when the doctors told you Annie could finally come home, he was still there—lingering, waiting. But after that day, you never really crossed paths again. Not truly.

Even though he lived just across the street in the Victor’s Village. Even though you caught glimpses of him now and then through curtained windows or the rustle of grocery bags left at your door. He visited sometimes, brought fruit, helped your father with the porch railings and fixed the roof when the wind tore shingles off. But you were too buried in Annie’s care—watching her every breath, terrified she'd be taken from you again. And so you both existed in proximity, orbiting the same grief but never touching. Busy in lives that revolved around a shared ruin.

You turned back toward the ocean, the sand shifting beneath your fingers.

“I used to think I’d never stop loving you,” you whispered, not meaning to say it out loud. “That no matter what happened, you’d always be the one.”

His breath caught, and that silence that stretched between you before now felt like a scream.

“I never stopped,” he said.

And god, how you hated him for saying it. Because he meant it. You could hear it in the way his voice cracked on the last word, how his knuckles whitened against his knees.

“But you left,” you said, still staring straight ahead. “You let them turn you into something I didn’t recognize. You didn’t fight for me. For us.”

“I was trying to keep you safe,” he murmured. “If they knew how much you meant to me... they would’ve used you. Like they used everything else.”

A bitter laugh slipped from your lips, tired and sharp. “And what difference did it make? I still lost everything.”

You felt his gaze on you then—heavy, full of everything he couldn’t say. Your breath hitched when his hand brushed against yours, hesitant, like asking for permission to hold something sacred.

“I miss you,” he said, the words so soft they barely reached over the waves.

You turned toward him, finally letting yourself look.

There he was. Not the Capitol’s toy. Not the Victor. Just Finnick. The boy you loved. The boy you still loved in all the ways that mattered.

“I miss who we were,” you whispered back.

The space between you closed before you could stop it. His hand slid into yours and you didn’t pull away. Not this time. His forehead came to rest against yours, and the moment held still—delicate, aching, reverent.

No kiss followed this time. Just breathing.

Just two broken people trying to remember how to hold on without shattering further.

Finnick slowly pulls away from you, as if that he had lingered any longer, he would have broken down. He plants his hands behind him and leans back on them, staring blankly at the dark horizon as the waves continue their endless crashing against the shore. You examine him in silence, drinking in the way his hair catches the breeze, how his features have sharpened with time—his jaw more prominent, his cheeks leaner, eyes more sunken, heavier. He looks like someone who’s been carried too far out to sea and barely crawled his way back.

Your eyes catch on something at the base of his neck. A bruise. Fading, but unmistakable. The sight of it knocks something loose in your chest.

You shift closer, your voice tentative as your fingers hover just near the discolored skin. “Where did you get that?”

Finnick doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t even flinch. He keeps staring out at the horizon like he’s searching for a way to disappear.

You draw back a little, heart beating faster, already fearing the answer but needing to hear it anyway. “Was it… from someone in the Capitol?” The words taste bitter in your mouth. You hate yourself for how jealous you sound. You expect him to confirm it, maybe shrug it off like he always used to when the topic came up—half a smile, a deflection, some comment about admirers with too many teeth.

But this time, he doesn’t lie.

“No,” he says quietly. “Not someone. Everyone.”

His voice is too hollow to be casual. Too cracked to be teasing. He finally turns to look at you, and what you see in his eyes isn’t embarrassment. It’s resignation.

Your stomach sinks. “Finnick…” you breathe, dread coiling in your throat.

“When you win,” he begins, slowly, like the words are costing him pieces of himself, “they let you think you’re free. You get your parade, your crown, the cheers. And then you find out that your real life—the one after the arena—is just another performance. Another prison.”

You don’t interrupt. You can’t. You’re barely breathing.

“Snow didn’t just want me to be a victor,” he continues. “He wanted me to be… presentable. Marketable. There’s a certain kind of entertainment the Capitol values more than blood. And they paid him well for me.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest. You look away, eyes stinging, your breath caught in your throat. “He sold you,” you whisper.

Finnick nods. “Over and over again. To anyone who had enough money or enough power. Old men. Women. Senators. Sponsors. Some of them just wanted to say they had me. Some wanted more.”

You shake your head slowly, unable to stop the tears now falling freely down your cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Because I couldn’t,” he says, his voice strained. “Because if I so much as hinted at it, they would’ve come after you. After your family. After anyone I cared about. I did everything I could to keep them from seeing how much you meant to me.”

You choke on a sob, your hand rising to cover your mouth. “God, I was so stupid. I thought you were just… sleeping around. I hated you for it. I thought you changed.”

“I wanted you to hate me,” he says quietly. “I needed you to. It was the only way I could keep you safe. If you thought I’d become just another Capitol puppet, maybe they’d think I saw you as nothing. Maybe they’d leave you alone.”

“She warned me,” he continued, eyes still locked on the sea. “Mags. The night I won. The Capitol hadn’t even let me sleep yet. They were already lining up people for me to meet. She pulled me into this quiet room, held my face like she used to when I was a kid, and said, ‘If you want her to live, you let her go.’ Just like that. No explanation. But I knew what she meant.”

Something cold twisted deep in your stomach. Mags—gentle, warm Mags—saying something so dire, so absolute. It made the back of your throat ache.

“They’d seen me with you,” Finnick said, his voice low and bitter. “Back home. Before the Games. They knew everything. They always know everything. And when a Victor becomes someone worth watching, the people around them do too. I thought maybe if I was careful… maybe if I kept just enough distance. But they made it very clear. You were a string they could pull if I ever misbehaved. So I cut it first.”

Your body trembles with the weight of it all. The months you spent hating him, envying his admirers, grieving the boy he used to be—all while he was being broken piece by piece behind closed doors. And you hadn’t seen it. You hadn’t wanted to see it. Because believing he’d become cruel was easier than imagining he was being hurt.

You wrap your arms around yourself, the night air suddenly colder, heavier, pressing down on your ribs. “You should’ve let me choose, Finnick,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I would’ve stayed. I would’ve fought.”

He shakes his head, a small, sad smile on his lips. “That’s what scared me. You would’ve followed me into hell if I asked. And they would’ve made you suffer for it.”

The silence that follows is thick with things unsaid, with the ache of love long buried beneath fear and sacrifice. The waves keep rolling in, the only constant sound between the two of you.

You feel the tremor in his words more than you hear it. Something inside you cracks again, like glass under too much pressure. You press your palm over his heart, feeling how fast it’s racing, as if the truth itself is clawing to escape from where he buried it for too long. You try to memorize the moment, etch it into your mind the way you did back then—his scent, the soft tremble in his breath, the way he says your name like it’s the only word that ever meant anything.

“I wrote to you,” he says, and your eyes snap up to his, wide with confusion. “After that night. Letters. Every week.”

You blink at him, stunned. “You… you did?”

Finnick nods slowly, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “At first, I thought maybe they weren’t getting through. But then I stopped getting anything back, and I started wondering if you just… couldn’t forgive me. And then your father came to see me.”

A cold chill spreads down your spine, dread pooling at the base of your stomach. “My father?”

Finnick leans back again, looking up at the stars like he’s searching for an answer he already knows won’t come. “He said I needed to stop. That it wasn’t right for me to keep reaching out. That you were better off not being tangled in something the Capitol was obsessed with. He told me I’d ruin you if I kept holding on. And he wasn’t wrong. So I stopped.”

You’re frozen for a moment. A long, bitter moment where your mind races to piece together all the holes in your memory—after your sixteenth birthday, the way Finnick kept looking at you like he’s expecting something from you, the silence that followed. You remember asking your father once, asking if Finnick had written or visited, and how he shook his head without meeting your eyes.

Your jaw tightens as heat stings behind your eyes. “He never told me,” you whisper, voice shaking. “He never told me anything.”

“I figured,” Finnick says quietly. “He was trying to protect you. I can’t even hate him for it.”

But you can. And you do, just a little.

The betrayal cuts sharper than you expected. Because while your father kept you safe, he also kept you in the dark. He let you believe you weren’t wanted. He let you think Finnick had changed into someone else—someone cold, someone selfish. And you let that belief root itself deep in your chest, never knowing it had all been a carefully constructed lie meant to keep you apart.

Tears prick at your eyes again, but this time they’re different. This time they burn. “I hated you,” you admit, voice trembling. “For so long, I hated you. I thought you threw me away.”

Finnick looks at you then, really looks at you, and you see all of it written in his face—regret, guilt, sorrow. But not once does he try to defend himself. “That was the point,” he says softly.

You can’t stop the sob that escapes you. You turn away, burying your face in your hands as your shoulders shake. All this time, you thought he’d chosen the Capitol. You thought he’d abandoned you, turned into someone else. But he had been breaking in silence, alone, while you grieved a version of him that never really died.

You feel him move beside you, the warmth of his hand ghosting over your back, not pushing, not pulling—just there. Just steady.

“I would’ve waited forever,” you whisper. “If I had known.”

The tears on your cheeks have dried, but your skin still feels tight with salt and grief. You sit beside him in the hush that follows, your fingers curled into the sand, knuckles white. The air is thick with everything—everything he said, everything he didn't, everything you finally understand. It presses down on you like the weight of the ocean, vast and cold and merciless.

“You don’t get to do that,” you whisper. Your voice is low, sharp-edged and unsteady, trembling with everything you’re trying not to say. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

Finnick’s head turns slowly, brows drawing together, confusion flickering in his eyes.

“You don’t get to rip me apart for years, make me think I was never enough, and then tell me it was all for my protection,” you say. “You don’t get to martyr yourself and leave me in the dark. That wasn’t fair.”

He looks away again, jaw clenching. “I—”

“No, you don’t,” you snap, voice rising despite the quiver in it. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t have let me believe I was forgettable. Replaceable. You wouldn’t have looked me in the eyes and made me feel like nothing.”

Finnick’s hands are fists in the sand now, knuckles scraped raw. “You think I wanted to do that to you?” he says, his voice breaking. “You think I wanted to see you cry every time I passed your house and didn’t look up? You think I didn’t die every time Annie tells me about you?”

“Then why didn’t you fight?” you ask, hating how wrecked your voice sounds. “Why didn’t you trust me? We could’ve figured it out. Together.”

He finally turns to you fully, and the look on his face guts you. It’s not anger. It’s not defensiveness. It’s devastation. “Because I wasn’t strong enough. Because they used me up, over and over, until I didn’t know who I was anymore. And I couldn’t ask you to love what was left.”

You suck in a breath, and it feels like broken glass in your throat.

Finnick’s voice softens, like he’s afraid the truth might shatter you now that it’s out. “You were the only thing that felt real, and I thought if I held on to you, they’d destroy you just to prove they could. So I let them destroy me instead.”

The sob that escapes you is ugly and jagged. “I spent years hating you, Finnick. Years thinking you never cared. And now I don’t even know where to put all of this—this guilt, this love, this hurt.”

He reaches for you then, carefully, like you’re a wounded bird. His fingers curl around yours, gentle and trembling. “Put it here,” he whispers, bringing your joined hands to his chest. “Put it where I kept you all this time.”

You stare at him, tears blurring your vision, your heart aching in every direction at once. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

“I don’t think we can fix it,” he says, quiet and steady. “But maybe we can carry it. Together, this time.”

You don’t respond. Not yet. The tide has gone still for now, but everything inside you is still churning. The world hasn’t shifted into clarity. If anything, it feels more uncertain than ever.

You draw your hand back slowly, fingertips brushing over the place where your palm had pressed to his chest. His heart still races beneath his ribs.

“I don’t know what to do, Finnick,” you admit. Your voice is soft, raw. “I don’t even know what to feel. It’s like I’ve been walking in the wrong direction for so long, and now I finally turned around, but everything behind me is on fire.”

Finnick doesn’t rush to comfort you. He doesn’t offer you promises he can’t keep. He just nods, eyes glassy, understanding exactly what that kind of lost feels like.

“Then we take it slow,” he says after a moment. “We wait. We try. One step at a time. That’s all we can do.”

You sit in silence after that, both of you listening to the waves breathing in and out. There’s nothing dramatic about how the night ends—no kiss, no dramatic embrace—just a quiet understanding, a fragile thread of something mending. When you finally stand, Finnick walks you home, his presence at your side solid and grounding. He doesn’t ask to come inside. He just watches you reach the porch, and when you glance back, he gives you a faint nod. No smile, no sadness. He’s just there.

Inside, the house is dark and still. But as you step into the kitchen, the lamp flicks on.

Your father sits at the table, a half-empty cup of tea cooling by his hand. He looks like he hasn’t slept all night, and judging by the silence, your mother must’ve taken care of Annie upstairs. The look on his face is hard to read—something between guilt and resolve.

You say nothing at first. You only walk past him, open the small drawer where loose keys and mail are sometimes left, and reach into the very back. You don’t even know what makes you check there. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s desperation. But your fingers brush something papery and old, bound by a fraying string.

You pull the bundle out slowly. Letters. Dozens of them. All addressed to you in Finnick’s handwriting.

Your hands tremble as you turn back to your father. “You kept them.”

He doesn’t deny it. He just exhales heavily, running a hand down his tired face. “I did.”

“Why?” The word is barely a whisper.

“Because he was already marked,” your father says. “We didn’t know how deep it went, but we knew enough. The Capitol had its eyes on him. And boys like that? They don’t get happy endings. They become warnings. Tools. Examples. I wasn’t going to let that destroy you too.”

Tears sting your eyes, but you refuse to blink them away. “You didn’t even let me decide.”

“It was for your own good,” he says. “I was trying to protect you. And if I had to do it all over again, I would.”

You clutch the letters tighter to your chest. There’s nothing more to say, not right now. The ache in your chest is too wide, too heavy. You turn and walk away, up the stairs, your father’s silence trailing behind you.

Later, in the quiet of your room, you sit on the edge of your bed, still holding the letters. You don’t open them—not yet. You’re not ready for that. But you press them against your heart, as if their weight alone can tell you everything you missed.

You lie back slowly, eyes unfocused as they settle on the ceiling. The wind outside shifts, brushing against your windowpane. You glance to the side.

Across the road, the light in Finnick’s bedroom is still on.

You don’t know what tomorrow will look like. You don’t know how much can be repaired. But tonight, you hold the truth against your chest and stare at the soft glow of his window, knowing—finally, fully—that you were never forgotten.

~

The year passes like the tide—slow in some places, quick in others, always shifting. At first, everything feels fragile. Annie flinches at the clink of cutlery, cries in her sleep, and stares blankly for hours. But you stay by her side through it all, arms always ready to catch her when she stumbles. You hold her through long nights, fill the silence with stories laced in childhood memories, and when words become too heavy, you sit with her quietly, just breathing beside her. You never ask for more than she can give. You’ve learned not to. You move at her pace, steady and gentle, letting her know with every small gesture: I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. And sometimes, as you lie beside her in bed, she’ll squeeze your hand before drifting off, and that squeeze says more than words ever could. It’s her way of thanking you—for staying. For drowning with her and never letting go.

You don’t mind if you’re going under too. As long as Annie’s with you, the rest doesn’t matter. You braid each other’s hair now, sit out on the porch with cold lemon iced tea, peeling fruit in the hush of late afternoons. It isn’t perfect. She still has days where she won’t speak, won’t move, where she wakes up screaming and thrashing. But she bathes herself now. She eats. She hums those ridiculous sea shanties she used to belt out as a kid.

Your father is another slow burn. At first, you barely speak. You leave the room when he enters, avoid his eyes, build a quiet wall between you made of resentment and pain. You hate him for hiding those letters, but deep down, you understand why he did it—he just didn’t want to see you hurt more than you already were. Still, understanding doesn’t make forgiveness easy. But time, as always, does its work. One quiet Thursday afternoon, you find yourself sitting with him on the porch, sharing coffee. You talk—not as father and daughter, not at first—but as two people who missed each other terribly and didn’t know how to begin again. You cry in his arms. He cries, too. It doesn’t fix everything, but it opens a door.

And through all this, Finnick is there—quietly, steadily, always showing up. He never asks for your forgiveness, never expects anything in return. He just helps. You wake up some mornings to find him in your mother’s garden, drawing water from the well or sweeping the steps clean. He shares easy laughter with your father as they work together in the yard. He reads to Annie with a voice that’s soft and careful. He never arrives empty-handed—sometimes it’s strawberries, ripe and sun-warmed, or slices of lemon cheesecake from the market. Sometimes it’s little seashell bracelets or small bundles of daisies tied with twine. Once, he brought you three lily buds—because he remembered how you like to watch them bloom.

There’s something between you. Not quite love—not yet—but the shape of it. The quiet promise of it.

When Mags' birthday comes, Finnick invites your whole family to her cottage. The house smells like salt and rosemary, the air thick with laughter and seafood boil. Mags glows with gentle pride, surrounded by the people she loves. There’s music playing from a battered old radio, someone’s whistling along out of tune. Even Annie sways to the beat, her fingers curled loosely around yours before she lets go, nudging you toward Finnick with the smallest smile.

He takes your hand gently, as if asking, Is this okay? And you nod, letting him lead you into the open space where the others have been dancing. The music is lazy and slow, something old and familiar. His palm is warm against your back. You haven’t danced in a long time—not like this. Not with someone who looks at you like you’re something soft and not already broken.

For a while, you just move, guided more by his steadiness than the music. And then, you look up.

Maybe it’s the glow of the hanging lights or the way his mouth twitches when he tries not to smile too wide. But something shifts.

You see him—not the Capitol’s golden boy, not the heartthrob everyone whispered about, not the Finnick who broke your heart by vanishing into a storm of war and secrets. You see the boy who never stopped coming back. Who brings you mangoes in the heat of summer and lilies just about to bloom. The boy who reads to your sister and laughs with your father and doesn’t try to fix you—only stand beside you.

You realize, with a jolt so quiet it feels like a breath, that you don’t hate him anymore. You hadn’t even noticed when the hatred left, only that now, in its place, there’s something else. Something tender. Curious.

Finnick says your name like a question, maybe because you’ve been staring too long, and your hand tightens just slightly in his.

“I’m okay,” you murmur, and this time, it’s true.

Finnick doesn’t say anything right away. His eyes stay on yours, searching for something—not doubt, not disbelief. Just making sure. Like he’s afraid the moment will slip if he breathes too hard.

Then, almost in a whisper, he says, “I’ve been hoping you'd be. Not rushing you—just... hoping.”

His voice is low, almost lost beneath the music. There’s no expectation in it, no pressure. Just that quiet kind of honesty that always catches you off guard with him.

You feel his thumb brush against your knuckles where your hands are still joined. It’s a small touch, one he could’ve made a hundred times before, but tonight it feels different. More grounded. Earned.

“I missed you,” he says, and though you’ve heard those words before—from him, in letters, in memories—tonight they feel new. Not the kind of missing that aches, but the kind that holds room for hope. The kind that says, I’m still here.

Your throat tightens a little. You want to say something back—something real—but the words catch on the edges of everything you’ve carried. So instead, you step a little closer, rest your cheek lightly against his shoulder. You let the music carry you both for a while, and listen to the quiet thrum of your heartbeat and the way Finnick holds you like you’re something sacred.

When the party winds down, people begin to drift out one by one, laughter fading into the night air. Your family lingers the longest. Just as your dad starts to gather his coat, Annie suddenly turns to you with an impish glint in her eyes.

“You said you’ll help clean up with Finnick, right?” she announces brightly, grabbing your parents by their sleeves and tugging them out the door before either of them can protest.

You’re left blinking at the doorway, stunned, as the door swings shut behind them. Beside you, Mags lets out a low chuckle, patting your arm before hobbling off toward her bedroom. “Don’t forget the pie tins,” she calls over her shoulder with amusement. And then it’s just you and Finnick.

You follow him back into the kitchen. He’s already at the sink, sleeves rolled up, methodically scrubbing at plates while the warm glow of the cottage lights frames him in soft gold. You grab a rag and start wiping down the counters, trying to keep yourself busy—anything to avoid standing there and letting the silence press down between you again.

It’s not awkward, exactly. The air between you feels like it’s waiting for something.

Finnick breaks it first.

“Sweetheart.”

Your head snaps toward him. His voice was soft, but it still catches you off guard.

He smirks gently, biting his inner cheek to hide a laugh. “Sorry,” he says, setting a plate in the drying rack. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I wasn’t scared,” you mutter, grabbing a towel to dry the next plate.

“Mm, sure you weren’t,” he teases lightly.

You fall into a rhythm—he washes, you dry. Occasionally your hands brush, and each time, it makes your heart stutter in a way that’s both maddening and familiar. You glance at him once, just a glance, and catch him already looking at you. He doesn’t look away.

“I’ve missed this,” Finnick says suddenly, his voice low.

You pause, the plate in your hands halfway to the shelf. “What?”

“This,” he says again, softer this time. “You. Talking to you. Just being in the same room without feeling like I’ve already lost you.”

You set the plate down. You don’t say anything right away because there’s too much in your chest and not enough breath to say it.

“I didn’t know how to be around you anymore,” you admit. “It felt like… if I let myself be close to you again, I’d fall apart.”

Finnick’s hands are wet, and the dish rag is still hanging from his fingers, but he turns toward you anyway. “Then let me be the one you fall apart with,” he says, quiet and steady.

You’re not sure who moves first—maybe it’s you, maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s both of you at once, pulled forward by the weight of everything that’s gone unsaid between you, by the gravity of a love that never really left, only went quiet.

The space between you collapses all at once. Your hands reach for his shirt, fingers curling in the fabric like you’ve done in your dreams, like you did in another lifetime. His hands find your waist with a kind of desperation, like he’s afraid that if he touches too gently, you’ll disappear.

The first brush of his lips against yours is hesitant—testing the waters, asking a silent question. But you answer with your whole body. You rise on your toes, close the last inch of space, and press yourself to him fully, a quiet gasp slipping out as the kiss deepens.

It’s not gentle anymore.

It’s years of longing. Of silence. Of pretending. It’s the ache of missing someone who was standing right in front of you, and now you finally have him again. He tastes like sea salt and lemon and something so heartbreakingly familiar that it makes your knees weak.

You kiss him like you’re trying to memorize him all over again. Like you’re angry at yourself for waiting this long. Like you’ve just remembered what it feels like to be alive in someone else’s arms.

His hands slide up your back, anchor you to him, pull you even closer until there’s not an inch of space left. One hand cups the back of your neck, his thumb brushing just behind your ear in a way that makes you shiver. And when he pulls back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel him trembling a little.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers, voice ragged.

“You didn’t,” you breathe back. “You never did.”

The air around you is thick with everything unspoken, humming like a live wire. His breath brushes over your lips again—barely there, teasing. And then he's kissing you once more, deeper this time, like he’s finally allowed to want you and he’s starved for it.

Your fingers slide up, over the line of his chest, curling behind his neck as if anchoring yourself to something solid. He sighs into your mouth, low and shaky, and you can feel the tension unraveling from his shoulders as he melts into you. Like he’s been holding himself together for too long and now, finally, he gets to fall apart in your arms.

His hands move restlessly—over your waist, your back, like he’s trying to map out every piece of you again, relearn what it means to hold you without guilt, without fear. There’s nothing rushed in the way he touches you. It’s reverent. Intentional. Like he’s afraid this moment might break if he moves too quickly.

You pull back, just slightly, just enough to look at him. His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide like he’s drunk on this, on you. His chest rises and falls with each unsteady breath and he’s staring at you like you hung the stars and he’s only now remembering how bright they shine.

“Tell me this is real,” he says, voice hoarse, almost pleading.

You nod, eyes never leaving his. “It’s real,” you whisper, and your voice trembles because suddenly you feel everything at once—years of grief and guilt and hope crashing together in your chest.

His lips part like he’s about to say something else, but no words come. Instead, he kisses you again—and this time it’s rougher. Not angry, but urgent. Needy. You respond with the same hunger, your hands fisting into his shirt as he walks you backwards until your hips bump the kitchen counter. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the feel of him, the warmth of his body pressed against yours like he’s trying to make up for all the time lost between you.

His hands cradle your jaw, tilting your face up as he kisses you slow and deep, like a vow. You feel dizzy with it—like you’ve waited your whole life to be kissed like this, to be wanted like this. And for the first time in what feels like forever, your heart isn’t heavy.

You’re here. With him. And he’s here with you.

You break apart again, just barely, breathing each other in. His fingers slide down to your sides, squeezing lightly like he can’t believe you’re really in front of him.

“I love you.” He breathes out. “I never stopped,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours. “Not once.”

And there it is again—that ache, that softness, that overwhelming truth between you. A beginning born from everything broken.

This time, when he kisses you, it’s with no hesitation. Just certainty.

Just him. Just you.

[fclsebnnyodair]

Love and War

Finnick Odair x reader

TW: Reader and Finnick are both villains in this, Finnick cheats on Annie with reader, terrible timing, idiots in love, angsty, this one’s kinda heavy with the infidelity so read at your own risk.

︶︶︶︶༉‧₊˚. ︶︶︶︶༉‧₊˚. ︶︶︶︶༉‧₊˚. ︶︶︶︶

No one ever honestly talks about the cruel heartbreak love creates. It’s portrayed as this life-altering, amazing feeling, but for Y/N, that could not have been further from the truth. Everyday since the fateful morning she realized she was in love with him, all that love brought to her was agonizing pain.

She would never let it show, of course. That would ruin the image. The image of her being Finnick Odair’s best friend.

Friend.

How that word vexes her very being. In the beginning, she truly thought it was some silly school girl crush she developed on the Prince of Panem. Something that she would easily get over. Unfortunately for her, that was not the case.

With each passing day, her feelings for him grew. And it only worsened with the silly side glances, the inside jokes, the way he would always know when something was wrong by the simplest quirk of her lip. Or even the way he would pull her aside for a dance as a way to cheer her up, to celebrate, or even just to cure a simple bored spell. He knew Y/N better than she knew herself, and she knew him.

That’s why she’s kept every single feeling besides friendship bottled up within herself. Because she knew he would never be hers.

Tears brim at the corner of her eyes as she watches Annie Cresta walk down the aisle to the altar where her future husband awaits. Where Finnick awaits.

President Coin was kind enough in all her strict glory to permit Annie and Finnick’s wedding as a way to show the people in District Thirteen thriving. When Y/N had heard, she could physically feel her heart falling out of her chest. It only shattered further when he asked her to stand beside him as his Best Woman.

And how could she ever say no to him?

That’s why she’s here now, choking back the sob that threatens to escape her lips as Finnick stares at Annie in the way Y/N has always desired. Perhaps if she had been honest about her feelings. Only she knows the amount of opportunities she could have told him. They’re countless, but she could never seem to decide when the perfect moment would be.

But that’s her fault for thinking that there never would be that special moment. If only her naive mind would have known at that time that the thing that makes moments special is the people, then maybe she would have found a way to tell him.

However, as she watches one singular tear fall from his eyes as Annie says her vows, she realizes that there’s no use of dwelling on the past. This is happening. She missed her chance and Finnick found his happy ending with someone else. Someone better. Who would never wait to tell him how now she loves him. Who wouldn’t hesitate in confessing her true feelings because that’s what he deserves. A life full of love.

Y/N is happy for him. She always will be. All she has ever wanted was for Finnick to have a future with someone that he cherishes and who admires him just as much… even if it’s not her.

But despite her joy for him, she can’t help but look away as the officiant pronounces them husband and wife. The way Finnick plants his lips on hers, with an undying flame of passion, it makes Y/N’s stomach twist and turn in ways that would send anyone to the infirmary.

When she finally finds the courage to look back, she notices him already staring at her. The bright smile on his face drops slightly when he analyzes her expression. He knows her fake smile anywhere. It’s accompanied by yet to be shed tears and a crease between her eyebrows. He’s mastered the art of reading the closed off book that is Y/N L/N.

He wants to reach out to her, pull her into his arms and ask what terrible thing could be plaguing her thoughts. But the feel of his newly wedded wife pulling on his arm distracts him. Annie pulls him down the aisle of cheering people as they clap and cheer for them. It’s not like they’re going far, just over to the clear area where the reception is. But his eyes never leave Y/N’s form as he’s rushed away. He watches as Johanna and Katniss walk up to his best friend before Y/N quickly brushes them off, walking in the opposite direction.

There’s something very wrong.

It’s only confirmed when five songs have already passed and Y/N still hasn’t shown up. He and Annie have been mingling as much as she’s comfortable with, dancing, and talking quietly to their close friends. His eyes constantly search the floor in hopes of seeing her. He doesn’t even realize how checked out he’s been until Johanna walks up to him, a glass of water in her hands since no one feels morally ambiguous enough to give her champagne.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to escape your own wedding,” she chimes sarcastically, sipping from her glass as she pretends there’s some kind of alcohol in it.

“What?” Finnick glances at her, his eyebrows furrowed. Annie is off talking to Haymitch and Beetee, two of the very few people she’s comfortable with. Hence why Finnick is now standing on his own at Johanna Mason’s mercy.

“Don’t try to play dumb, Odair,” she scoffs. “I’ve been watching you all night. You look like you’re trying to find a way to bust out of here without being caught. Constantly looking around, kind of shady if you ask me.” Her scrawny finger points over to Annie who has a happy smile on her face, “Especially when your betrothed is over there.”

“I’m not trying to find a way to bust out of here,” he shrugs off her accusation. “Just… keeping my head on a swivel is all.”

“Yeah, right.” Johanna nods mockingly. “You sure it’s not because you’re looking for a certain (h/c) haired girl with big (e/c) eyes who hasn’t been seen since you tied the knot?”

Finnick tenses, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he looks away from Johanna. She doesn’t need much more of a reaction to know she’s right. An obnoxious chuckle leaves her lips, “I knew it.” She shakes her head, “You’re unbelievable you know that? Both of you are, actually. I mean, the fact she ran off in the first place, and you’ve spent more than half of your wedding night looking for her… it’s pathetic, really.”

Finnick pauses as he takes in her words. Ran off sticks out in his mind because it implicates she’s choosing not to be here. “Do you know why she hasn’t showed up?” He asks quietly, a part of him pained that he hasn’t gotten to share a dance with her.

Johanna has never wanted to smack someone more. But instead of giving into her physical impulses, she settles for a verbal one instead. “Why don’t you go ask her yourself?” She quirks an eyebrow. “She went back up to her room, said she was feeling sick. Probably cooped up with one of the books she’s already read a million times.”

He feels himself become internally torn. His wife, the woman he just swore to love for the rest of his life, through sickness and in health is standing just a mere few feet away. He could forget all about this conversation and enjoy his night with his wife. He could dance his worries away and live one night in joy before this rebellion really hits the ground running.

But the tug on his heart is pulling him in the exact opposite direction.

And that’s how he ends up running through the emptied out corridors of District Thirteen, most of the residents downstairs at the party. His footsteps echo loudly in the silence, a hand running through his already messy hair. His once out together tie is now completely undone, the black cloth just dangling loosely around his neck. He feels his breath hitch when he reaches Y/N’s door. He raises a fist up to knock, but hesitates. What if she doesn’t want to see him? Or slams the door in his face once she sees it’s him. He doesn’t quite understand what he did to make her leave his wedding, but he can’t bear the thought of the woman he’s become so dependent on these last few years being mad at him.

Knock, knock.

Y/N brings her head out from in between her knees. Her eyes are red and puffy, the tears she shed long since dried. Her eyebrows furrow, not knowing who would be knocking at her door. She was positive that no one saw her leave besides Johanna and Katniss. A small part of her hopes it’s just a soldier doing rounds, checking in on residents, but something inside of her tells her it can’t be that simple.

She stands up from her rickety bed, her Best Woman dress now a wrinkled mess. She cringes at her appearance, not having seen the whole thing, but she knows she must look like a total wreck. She runs a hand over her face in hopes of making the swelling go down.

Y/N opens the door just a crack so no one could see the disaster she’s made herself. Her eyes widen when she sees a disheveled Finnick Odair standing on the other side. Alarm bells go off in her head, her cheeks flushing from pure embarrassment. The very person she’s been breaking down over for the past hour is standing outside her door.

“Can I come in?”

Her lips part slightly, looking more and more like a warm invitation than Finnick would like to admit. He gazes at her face and immediately knows she’s just got done crying. Her cheeks are puffy, eyes bloodshot, lips are a bright pink, and yet she still looks absolutely beautiful.

Y/N doesn’t realize how long they’ve been standing like that before answering. She blinks slowly, still processing his presence, “Yeah…” She winces at the weak sound of her voice. It’s rubbed completely raw, cracking at just one simple word.

She steps to the side, allowing Finnick to walk into her sanctuary. He nervously runs a hand through his blonde waves again as she closes the door behind them with a sniffle. He takes in her full appearance, noting she hadn’t even taken off her dress. Her bedsheets are in complete disarray, showing it must have been an emotional hour for her.

“What are you doing here, Finnick?” She manages to croak out, folding her arms over her chest. Not in a defensive manner, but almost as a way of protecting herself. Protecting herself from him. It makes his heart ache at the thought.

His mouth runs dry as he tries to find the right words. His tongue darts out over his lips in an attempt to come up with something, anything. “Um, I… I saw you leave earlier,” he admits breathily, the slight dent in his cheek from his dimple still there. How she loves his dimples. “I knew there was something wrong. You had your crying eyes, and not the fake ones you used in the Capitol, or the ones you would use to manipulate someone, but your real ones.” Her breath hitches as he takes a step towards her, concern the only expression on his face. “The ones that have only been reserved for me,” the last sentence comes out as a whisper. He towers over her, neck craning downwards just so he can look at her face. Not that she’s making any effort to make eye contact. In fact, she’s making it a point to stare anywhere else but at him.

He places his finger under her chin to force her to look at him, but she flinches. A part of him dies inside at the sight of her deliberately trying to get away from him. Like he had hurt her in some unimaginable way. He couldn’t. He could never hurt her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she mumbles, tears brimming at her waterline once more as she takes a step back from him. Y/N curses herself in her mind for letting her vulnerability show. She’s never been a crier, and what makes it worse is that he’s right. He’s the only one who’s ever seen her real cry.

Finnick’s face falls, his own eyes glossing over. He takes another small step forward. He reaches out, lightly grabbing her hand. He can see she wants to pull away, but he silently pleads with her not to pull away. And once again, how could she say no to him?

So she lets him take her palms in his. “Yes, you do,” he insists. “Y/N, I know you. I know when you’re sad, angry, happy, passionate,” he lists off. “I don’t know what I did to make you so upset, but please talk to me.” Y/N squeezes her eyes shut tightly as the tears begin to fall again. He thinks it’s his fault that she’s like this. He sounds so desperate, so broken. “I’ve been waiting all night to see you, to dance with you, to just be with you–”

“Stop,” her voice cracks as a son wracks her body. “Please, stop,” she begs him.

Finnick’s entire world stops spinning as he realizes something. She’s not crying to him. She’s crying because of him. A surge of panic rises in his chest, confusion taking over his body. “Stop what?” He asks quietly, his shoulder visibly deflating.

“You can’t say things like that,” she whimpers softly, shaking her head. “You can’t do that.”

“Do what?” He asks her desperately, not understanding what’s going on. He tries to wrap his head around what she could mean. “Y/N, tell me what’s going on, please,” he pleads. “I just want to help you. I want to make you happy.”

“You can’t!” She finally exclaims, the floodgates opening as she pulls away from him. Her hands are clenched tightly into fists as she internally beats herself up. “You can’t help me. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn’t be telling me that you’ve been looking for me all night when your wife is downstairs. You shouldn’t be wanting to dance with me or to just be with me. And you shouldn’t be wanting to make me happy,” she rants out breathlessly.

Finnick’s at a loss for words, “Y/N, I–”

“No, Finnick!” She stops him, moving past him as she begins gathering all the stuff he’s given to her over the years from her bedside table. She’s kept every single little seashell he’s brought to her from the beaches of District Four, every little pebble, bracelet, photo, drawing, all of it. They’re some of her most prized possessions. But she can’t keep them anymore. Not when they simply serve as a reminder of her failed attempt at love. “You can’t do this. I can’t do this,” she sobs, putting all of the keepsakes in a small box before walking over to him and shoving them into his chest.

“You need to leave,” she commands. “Now.”

Finnick looks down at the box, every memory they’ve shared together playing in his head. He remembers everything in this box. Every reason why he picked a certain shell, why he thought a certain drawing reminded him of her, even the matching bracelet he still wears to this day. If only she knew it was hidden delicately under the cuff link of his suit.

“You need to go back downstairs,” Y/N continues. “Go enjoy your party. It’s your wedding night. Go be with your wife and the people who are there for the right reasons. Go be with Annie and just leave me alone, please.” She begs desperately. “Live your life with her and just please leave me out of it.”

His eyes snap upward, “What?”

“Leave me out of your life,” she repeats as if it was nothing. Like it wasn’t a serrated knife she just plunged deeply into his chest.

“What the hell do you mean ‘leave you out of my life?’” Finnick raises his voice. It’s not in an angry way, but in an emotional one. He’s normally levelheaded, but hearing that makes it feel like his entire heart is being torn to shreds. “What does that even mean Y/N?”

“It means I can’t keep doing this, Finnick!” She responds with just as much vulnerability. “I can’t live the rest of my life watching you be happy with her. I can’t do it!”

“You can’t watch me be happy?” He scoffs. “Really?” He deliberately walks forward, the box still in his hands, knuckles turning white from how hard he’s gripping it.

Y/N looks for an escape route, but it seems he’s managed to trap her between her bedside table, the wall, and her bed. The only way out would be to jump over one of the furniture pieces and there is no way she can do that in this dress.

“I–I– that’s–” she groans loudly, trying to keep herself from screaming out of pure frustration. “That’s not what I meant!”

“Then what do you mean?!” He shouts, practically tossing the box onto her table with a loud thud. “Because I don’t understand! You’re not making any sense. You’re running away from my wedding, giving me back all the things that make me think of you, and now telling me you don’t want to be a part of my life anymore?” He shakes his head exasperatedly. “I don’t know what’s going on with you Y/N, but you need to tell me.”

“I want you to be happy, Finnick!” She screams. “I do, okay? I really do! But I can’t keep pretending that it doesn’t kill me inside whenever I see you two together,” she cries and all he wants to do is pull her in his arms and tell her it’s all going to be okay. “I’ve tried for so long to swallow my selfishness, but it’s becoming too hard. But I can’t ruin your wedding. I can’t stand the thought of getting in the way of your happiness, so the only way we both can move on from this unscathed is if I remove myself from your life,” she explains, wiping the snot from underneath her nose. “It’ll be better that way.”

“No offense, but that is the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard you say,” he snaps, his face turning red. Y/N’s eyebrows shoot up into her hairline out of shock. “How dense do you have to be to think that my life will be better without you in it?” He lets out a laugh but there is absolutely no humor behind it. “Y/N I would be an absolute mess if I didn’t have you around. The only way you would be standing in the way of my happiness is if you left me.”

“Finnick…” her bottom lip quivers as she shakes her head. “I just can’t anymore. It’s too hard. You’ll get over missing me eventually. You’ll have Annie to help you.”

“I don’t want you out of my life!” Finnick practically rips his own hair out. How is she not understanding how much she means to him? “What do you not get about the fact that I would fall apart without you, huh?!” He has to pull back slightly to try and calm himself. “I don’t want to get over missing you. I want to have you. I want to be able to see you, to hug you, to tell you about my day, to go to you for anything and everything.”

“That’s why you have Annie!” Y/N points towards the door, not caring if any people passing by hear them.

“I DON’T WANT ANNIE!”

Just like that it’s like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Finnick’s chest heaves up and down with every heavy breath he takes. Y/N’s brain buffers as she tries to register what he just confessed. It doesn’t even look like he realizes what he said. He exhales shakily, “I– I don’t… I don’t want her,” he says almost like it’s a realization.

“Finn…” Y/N says sympathetically, “You don’t know what you’re saying.” She tries to find a logical explanation. “You’re upset and–”

“Yeah, yeah, I am,” he scoffs with a definite nod. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m saying.” He moves in closer to the point where Y/N can feel his breath fanning her face. Her mind is screaming at her to move away, but the rest of her forces her to remain in her place. In fact, her face draws nearer, getting lost in his seafoam eyes. “She’s not you, Y/N…”

Y/N nods slowly, “You’re right, she’s not.” Her throat bobs notably as she swallows. “But she is your wife,” she reminds him, her voice becoming softer as he continues leaning in. “Your wife who is patiently waiting for you to go back to her. To your wedding reception.”

“I’m busy,” he justifies like Annie is nothing but an afterthought. “I have more important things to take care of right now…”

“I don’t need to be taken care of,” she says against his lips.

He reaches up, gently caressing her cheek with his thumb as he wipes away her tears. “When will you realize Y/N/N? I’m always gonna feel the need to take care of you.”

“You shouldn’t,” she counters. “You can’t feel that way about me… Not when she’s waiting downstairs for you.”

“Do you always have to be this stubborn?” His eyes bore into hers, making a shiver run down her spine. His voice is dangerously low, it manages to scare and excite her at the same time. “Don’t you think I would be with Annie right now if that was my priority?”

Y/N can feel the air between them sizzling. If anyone were to walk in they’d be found in a very compromising position. Y/N tries to force herself to think of Annie, to think of how she would feel finding her husband here with his best friend like this. But the way Finnick’s scent fills her nose completely clouds her judgement. Or her will to care about anything else other than how badly she wants to completely close the distance between them.

“Finnick, you can’t throw away what you’ve built with her this soon,” Y/N still tries to maintain the moral high ground. “I’ve watched the way you look at her for years. She’s your entire world,” her eyes fall to the floor as she recalls the painful memories.

“Is that the truth? Or is that what you’ve convinced yourself so that you didn’t have to tell me what you actually felt?”

Y/N’s heart stutters in her chest, her pulse quickening as the walls she’s built around herself begin to crack. He can’t be serious, can he? She can’t—she won’t—let herself believe it. But the way he’s looking at her, the way his words settle in the space between them… it’s undeniable.

"Finnick, you’re married," she protests weakly, though it sounds more like a plea than an argument. “I can’t—”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he interrupts, his voice steady and firm. “Waiting for you to admit that you feel the same way. I know you do.”

Y/N feels the air between them thicken. Her thoughts race, but they can’t keep up with what’s happening right in front of her. Finnick, this man she’s loved for so long, is standing here, his eyes filled with something she can’t quite name—but it’s the same thing that’s always been there.

“I’ve waited for you to tell me you love me,” he adds, his voice rougher now, the teasing tone fading into something deeper, more intense. “I’ve been waiting for you to say it.”

Y/N’s stomach twists. She wants to run. She wants to tell him how wrong this is, how much she’s tried to bury her feelings for him because she knows she can’t have him. But as she looks up at him, she sees it—the same longing she’s felt, the same unspoken desire. And it’s too much. Too strong.

"I..." She doesn’t know what to say. How to explain the years of silence, of holding back. She swallows hard, struggling to find the right words.

“Say it,” his eyes darken as he commands her to do as he asks, yet there’s still a sense of pleading. Like he’s begging to hear it. “Enough excuses. There is no right time. I wanna hear you say it.”

“Finnick–” She tries to protest.

“Don’t make me force it out of you,” he says with a bit of playfulness. She knows he would never do anything to force her, but with the mischievous glint in his eyes, she’s not sure what his plan would be.

She opens her mouth, but no words come out. The room feels impossibly small, the space between them closing in with every breath. Finnick watches her, his dazzling smile never fading, but there’s something else in his gaze now—something raw and primal.

“You know, I could be wrong,” he says, his voice soft, as if coaxing her, trying to break that last string of restraint she’s holding onto. “Maybe you don’t feel that way. Maybe I’m just... imagining things.”

Y/N looks at him, her chest tightening as she fights the truth she’s kept hidden for so long. “You know you’re not imagining things…," she says, almost choking on the words. “But this is wrong, Finn. We can’t just—”

“I don’t care,” he interrupts, his voice fierce, his hands gripping her hips as he pulls her closer. “I’ve been waiting for you, Y/N. You think I don’t care about Annie? Of course I do. But I told you, she’s never going to be you.” He leans in, his breath hot against her lips. “I’m not asking you to fix this for me. I just need you to admit what we both already know.”

Her pulse is racing, her head spinning. She’s so close to losing herself, to giving in to everything she’s been holding back. And then something magical happens, “I… I love you,” if Finnick wasn’t so close to her lips, he never would’ve heard the sacred sentence he’s been longing for. Her words echo in his mind like a mantra he wants to keep on repeat for the rest of his life. It pushes him closer to the precipice and when she opens her mouth to say something, Finnick stops her, his lips crashing down on hers before she can get a single syllable out.

It’s not gentle. It’s raw and desperate, a release of everything they’ve both been holding inside. Y/N’s hands fist in the fabric of his shirt as she kisses him back, all the years of unspoken feelings flooding to the surface. She doesn’t care about the guilt anymore. Doesn’t care about what’s right or wrong. She only cares about the way his mouth moves against hers, the way his touch makes her feel like she’s finally home.

When they pull apart, breathless, both of them are lost in the realization of what just happened. Y/N’s head is spinning, her heart racing in her chest, but Finnick doesn’t let go. He’s looking at her with a softness she’s never seen before.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” he whispers, his forehead resting against hers. “I’ve been waiting for you to admit it. I just... I just needed to hear you say it.”

“I... Oh my gosh,” her mind floods with guilt once again. “What did we just do?” She goes to hide her face but Finnick’s grip on her arms stops her. “We can’t do this,” Y/N admits, her voice barely a whisper. “You’re married, Finnick. I can’t—”

“Don’t. Care,” he repeats, his hands sliding to the bottom of her thighs as he wraps her legs around his waist. He can’t help but smirk cockily as she doesn’t fight it. It’s finally his time to show her what they’ve been missing playing this little game of cat and mouse. “I don’t care about that right now. All I care about is this.” His lips find hers again, more gentle this time, as if they’re both trying to savor this moment, this long-awaited release.

The kiss deepens, slow and steady, as if the weight of everything they’ve both been holding in is finally being released. It’s messy and complicated and full of years of longing.

And then, with a soft moan, Finnick pulls away just enough to catch his breath. “I’ve wanted to show you how much I love you for so long” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. Without waiting for an answer, he scoops her up, carrying her to the bed.

Y/N’s heart is still pounding, the reality of the moment not quite sinking in yet. She’s still processing everything—his kiss, his words, the weight of what they’ve just done. But none of it matters right now. Not when he’s here, with her.

He lays her down gently, his hands caressing her face as he looks down at her, eyes filled with an emotion that almost feels too much for this moment. “You’re my everything,” he whispers, his voice breaking with the weight of his admission.

She reaches up, cupping his face with her hands, her fingers tracing the lines of his jaw. “And you’re mine.”

And with that, they kiss again—more tender this time, but no less intense. The world outside doesn’t exist anymore. There’s only the two of them, finally letting go of everything that’s held them apart.

The night stretches on as they lose themselves in each other, every touch, every kiss, a promise that no matter what happens next, they’ve finally found what they were both waiting for.

[fclsebnnyodair]

Love and War

Finnick Odair x reader

TW: Reader and Finnick are both villains in this, Finnick cheats on Annie with reader, terrible timing, idiots in love, angsty, this one’s kinda heavy with the infidelity so read at your own risk.

︶︶︶︶༉‧₊˚. ︶︶︶︶༉‧₊˚. ︶︶︶︶༉‧₊˚. ︶︶︶︶

No one ever honestly talks about the cruel heartbreak love creates. It’s portrayed as this life-altering, amazing feeling, but for Y/N, that could not have been further from the truth. Everyday since the fateful morning she realized she was in love with him, all that love brought to her was agonizing pain.

She would never let it show, of course. That would ruin the image. The image of her being Finnick Odair’s best friend.

Friend.

How that word vexes her very being. In the beginning, she truly thought it was some silly school girl crush she developed on the Prince of Panem. Something that she would easily get over. Unfortunately for her, that was not the case.

With each passing day, her feelings for him grew. And it only worsened with the silly side glances, the inside jokes, the way he would always know when something was wrong by the simplest quirk of her lip. Or even the way he would pull her aside for a dance as a way to cheer her up, to celebrate, or even just to cure a simple bored spell. He knew Y/N better than she knew herself, and she knew him.

That’s why she’s kept every single feeling besides friendship bottled up within herself. Because she knew he would never be hers.

Tears brim at the corner of her eyes as she watches Annie Cresta walk down the aisle to the altar where her future husband awaits. Where Finnick awaits.

President Coin was kind enough in all her strict glory to permit Annie and Finnick’s wedding as a way to show the people in District Thirteen thriving. When Y/N had heard, she could physically feel her heart falling out of her chest. It only shattered further when he asked her to stand beside him as his Best Woman.

And how could she ever say no to him?

That’s why she’s here now, choking back the sob that threatens to escape her lips as Finnick stares at Annie in the way Y/N has always desired. Perhaps if she had been honest about her feelings. Only she knows the amount of opportunities she could have told him. They’re countless, but she could never seem to decide when the perfect moment would be.

But that’s her fault for thinking that there never would be that special moment. If only her naive mind would have known at that time that the thing that makes moments special is the people, then maybe she would have found a way to tell him.

However, as she watches one singular tear fall from his eyes as Annie says her vows, she realizes that there’s no use of dwelling on the past. This is happening. She missed her chance and Finnick found his happy ending with someone else. Someone better. Who would never wait to tell him how now she loves him. Who wouldn’t hesitate in confessing her true feelings because that’s what he deserves. A life full of love.

Y/N is happy for him. She always will be. All she has ever wanted was for Finnick to have a future with someone that he cherishes and who admires him just as much… even if it’s not her.

But despite her joy for him, she can’t help but look away as the officiant pronounces them husband and wife. The way Finnick plants his lips on hers, with an undying flame of passion, it makes Y/N’s stomach twist and turn in ways that would send anyone to the infirmary.

When she finally finds the courage to look back, she notices him already staring at her. The bright smile on his face drops slightly when he analyzes her expression. He knows her fake smile anywhere. It’s accompanied by yet to be shed tears and a crease between her eyebrows. He’s mastered the art of reading the closed off book that is Y/N L/N.

He wants to reach out to her, pull her into his arms and ask what terrible thing could be plaguing her thoughts. But the feel of his newly wedded wife pulling on his arm distracts him. Annie pulls him down the aisle of cheering people as they clap and cheer for them. It’s not like they’re going far, just over to the clear area where the reception is. But his eyes never leave Y/N’s form as he’s rushed away. He watches as Johanna and Katniss walk up to his best friend before Y/N quickly brushes them off, walking in the opposite direction.

There’s something very wrong.

It’s only confirmed when five songs have already passed and Y/N still hasn’t shown up. He and Annie have been mingling as much as she’s comfortable with, dancing, and talking quietly to their close friends. His eyes constantly search the floor in hopes of seeing her. He doesn’t even realize how checked out he’s been until Johanna walks up to him, a glass of water in her hands since no one feels morally ambiguous enough to give her champagne.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to escape your own wedding,” she chimes sarcastically, sipping from her glass as she pretends there’s some kind of alcohol in it.

“What?” Finnick glances at her, his eyebrows furrowed. Annie is off talking to Haymitch and Beetee, two of the very few people she’s comfortable with. Hence why Finnick is now standing on his own at Johanna Mason’s mercy.

“Don’t try to play dumb, Odair,” she scoffs. “I’ve been watching you all night. You look like you’re trying to find a way to bust out of here without being caught. Constantly looking around, kind of shady if you ask me.” Her scrawny finger points over to Annie who has a happy smile on her face, “Especially when your betrothed is over there.”

“I’m not trying to find a way to bust out of here,” he shrugs off her accusation. “Just… keeping my head on a swivel is all.”

“Yeah, right.” Johanna nods mockingly. “You sure it’s not because you’re looking for a certain (h/c) haired girl with big (e/c) eyes who hasn’t been seen since you tied the knot?”

Finnick tenses, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he looks away from Johanna. She doesn’t need much more of a reaction to know she’s right. An obnoxious chuckle leaves her lips, “I knew it.” She shakes her head, “You’re unbelievable you know that? Both of you are, actually. I mean, the fact she ran off in the first place, and you’ve spent more than half of your wedding night looking for her… it’s pathetic, really.”

Finnick pauses as he takes in her words. Ran off sticks out in his mind because it implicates she’s choosing not to be here. “Do you know why she hasn’t showed up?” He asks quietly, a part of him pained that he hasn’t gotten to share a dance with her.

Johanna has never wanted to smack someone more. But instead of giving into her physical impulses, she settles for a verbal one instead. “Why don’t you go ask her yourself?” She quirks an eyebrow. “She went back up to her room, said she was feeling sick. Probably cooped up with one of the books she’s already read a million times.”

He feels himself become internally torn. His wife, the woman he just swore to love for the rest of his life, through sickness and in health is standing just a mere few feet away. He could forget all about this conversation and enjoy his night with his wife. He could dance his worries away and live one night in joy before this rebellion really hits the ground running.

But the tug on his heart is pulling him in the exact opposite direction.

And that’s how he ends up running through the emptied out corridors of District Thirteen, most of the residents downstairs at the party. His footsteps echo loudly in the silence, a hand running through his already messy hair. His once out together tie is now completely undone, the black cloth just dangling loosely around his neck. He feels his breath hitch when he reaches Y/N’s door. He raises a fist up to knock, but hesitates. What if she doesn’t want to see him? Or slams the door in his face once she sees it’s him. He doesn’t quite understand what he did to make her leave his wedding, but he can’t bear the thought of the woman he’s become so dependent on these last few years being mad at him.

Knock, knock.

Y/N brings her head out from in between her knees. Her eyes are red and puffy, the tears she shed long since dried. Her eyebrows furrow, not knowing who would be knocking at her door. She was positive that no one saw her leave besides Johanna and Katniss. A small part of her hopes it’s just a soldier doing rounds, checking in on residents, but something inside of her tells her it can’t be that simple.

She stands up from her rickety bed, her Best Woman dress now a wrinkled mess. She cringes at her appearance, not having seen the whole thing, but she knows she must look like a total wreck. She runs a hand over her face in hopes of making the swelling go down.

Y/N opens the door just a crack so no one could see the disaster she’s made herself. Her eyes widen when she sees a disheveled Finnick Odair standing on the other side. Alarm bells go off in her head, her cheeks flushing from pure embarrassment. The very person she’s been breaking down over for the past hour is standing outside her door.

“Can I come in?”

Her lips part slightly, looking more and more like a warm invitation than Finnick would like to admit. He gazes at her face and immediately knows she’s just got done crying. Her cheeks are puffy, eyes bloodshot, lips are a bright pink, and yet she still looks absolutely beautiful.

Y/N doesn’t realize how long they’ve been standing like that before answering. She blinks slowly, still processing his presence, “Yeah…” She winces at the weak sound of her voice. It’s rubbed completely raw, cracking at just one simple word.

She steps to the side, allowing Finnick to walk into her sanctuary. He nervously runs a hand through his blonde waves again as she closes the door behind them with a sniffle. He takes in her full appearance, noting she hadn’t even taken off her dress. Her bedsheets are in complete disarray, showing it must have been an emotional hour for her.

“What are you doing here, Finnick?” She manages to croak out, folding her arms over her chest. Not in a defensive manner, but almost as a way of protecting herself. Protecting herself from him. It makes his heart ache at the thought.

His mouth runs dry as he tries to find the right words. His tongue darts out over his lips in an attempt to come up with something, anything. “Um, I… I saw you leave earlier,” he admits breathily, the slight dent in his cheek from his dimple still there. How she loves his dimples. “I knew there was something wrong. You had your crying eyes, and not the fake ones you used in the Capitol, or the ones you would use to manipulate someone, but your real ones.” Her breath hitches as he takes a step towards her, concern the only expression on his face. “The ones that have only been reserved for me,” the last sentence comes out as a whisper. He towers over her, neck craning downwards just so he can look at her face. Not that she’s making any effort to make eye contact. In fact, she’s making it a point to stare anywhere else but at him.

He places his finger under her chin to force her to look at him, but she flinches. A part of him dies inside at the sight of her deliberately trying to get away from him. Like he had hurt her in some unimaginable way. He couldn’t. He could never hurt her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she mumbles, tears brimming at her waterline once more as she takes a step back from him. Y/N curses herself in her mind for letting her vulnerability show. She’s never been a crier, and what makes it worse is that he’s right. He’s the only one who’s ever seen her real cry.

Finnick’s face falls, his own eyes glossing over. He takes another small step forward. He reaches out, lightly grabbing her hand. He can see she wants to pull away, but he silently pleads with her not to pull away. And once again, how could she say no to him?

So she lets him take her palms in his. “Yes, you do,” he insists. “Y/N, I know you. I know when you’re sad, angry, happy, passionate,” he lists off. “I don’t know what I did to make you so upset, but please talk to me.” Y/N squeezes her eyes shut tightly as the tears begin to fall again. He thinks it’s his fault that she’s like this. He sounds so desperate, so broken. “I’ve been waiting all night to see you, to dance with you, to just be with you–”

“Stop,” her voice cracks as a son wracks her body. “Please, stop,” she begs him.

Finnick’s entire world stops spinning as he realizes something. She’s not crying to him. She’s crying because of him. A surge of panic rises in his chest, confusion taking over his body. “Stop what?” He asks quietly, his shoulder visibly deflating.

“You can’t say things like that,” she whimpers softly, shaking her head. “You can’t do that.”

“Do what?” He asks her desperately, not understanding what’s going on. He tries to wrap his head around what she could mean. “Y/N, tell me what’s going on, please,” he pleads. “I just want to help you. I want to make you happy.”

“You can’t!” She finally exclaims, the floodgates opening as she pulls away from him. Her hands are clenched tightly into fists as she internally beats herself up. “You can’t help me. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn’t be telling me that you’ve been looking for me all night when your wife is downstairs. You shouldn’t be wanting to dance with me or to just be with me. And you shouldn’t be wanting to make me happy,” she rants out breathlessly.

Finnick’s at a loss for words, “Y/N, I–”

“No, Finnick!” She stops him, moving past him as she begins gathering all the stuff he’s given to her over the years from her bedside table. She’s kept every single little seashell he’s brought to her from the beaches of District Four, every little pebble, bracelet, photo, drawing, all of it. They’re some of her most prized possessions. But she can’t keep them anymore. Not when they simply serve as a reminder of her failed attempt at love. “You can’t do this. I can’t do this,” she sobs, putting all of the keepsakes in a small box before walking over to him and shoving them into his chest.

“You need to leave,” she commands. “Now.”

Finnick looks down at the box, every memory they’ve shared together playing in his head. He remembers everything in this box. Every reason why he picked a certain shell, why he thought a certain drawing reminded him of her, even the matching bracelet he still wears to this day. If only she knew it was hidden delicately under the cuff link of his suit.

“You need to go back downstairs,” Y/N continues. “Go enjoy your party. It’s your wedding night. Go be with your wife and the people who are there for the right reasons. Go be with Annie and just leave me alone, please.” She begs desperately. “Live your life with her and just please leave me out of it.”

His eyes snap upward, “What?”

“Leave me out of your life,” she repeats as if it was nothing. Like it wasn’t a serrated knife she just plunged deeply into his chest.

“What the hell do you mean ‘leave you out of my life?’” Finnick raises his voice. It’s not in an angry way, but in an emotional one. He’s normally levelheaded, but hearing that makes it feel like his entire heart is being torn to shreds. “What does that even mean Y/N?”

“It means I can’t keep doing this, Finnick!” She responds with just as much vulnerability. “I can’t live the rest of my life watching you be happy with her. I can’t do it!”

“You can’t watch me be happy?” He scoffs. “Really?” He deliberately walks forward, the box still in his hands, knuckles turning white from how hard he’s gripping it.

Y/N looks for an escape route, but it seems he’s managed to trap her between her bedside table, the wall, and her bed. The only way out would be to jump over one of the furniture pieces and there is no way she can do that in this dress.

“I–I– that’s–” she groans loudly, trying to keep herself from screaming out of pure frustration. “That’s not what I meant!”

“Then what do you mean?!” He shouts, practically tossing the box onto her table with a loud thud. “Because I don’t understand! You’re not making any sense. You’re running away from my wedding, giving me back all the things that make me think of you, and now telling me you don’t want to be a part of my life anymore?” He shakes his head exasperatedly. “I don’t know what’s going on with you Y/N, but you need to tell me.”

“I want you to be happy, Finnick!” She screams. “I do, okay? I really do! But I can’t keep pretending that it doesn’t kill me inside whenever I see you two together,” she cries and all he wants to do is pull her in his arms and tell her it’s all going to be okay. “I’ve tried for so long to swallow my selfishness, but it’s becoming too hard. But I can’t ruin your wedding. I can’t stand the thought of getting in the way of your happiness, so the only way we both can move on from this unscathed is if I remove myself from your life,” she explains, wiping the snot from underneath her nose. “It’ll be better that way.”

“No offense, but that is the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard you say,” he snaps, his face turning red. Y/N’s eyebrows shoot up into her hairline out of shock. “How dense do you have to be to think that my life will be better without you in it?” He lets out a laugh but there is absolutely no humor behind it. “Y/N I would be an absolute mess if I didn’t have you around. The only way you would be standing in the way of my happiness is if you left me.”

“Finnick…” her bottom lip quivers as she shakes her head. “I just can’t anymore. It’s too hard. You’ll get over missing me eventually. You’ll have Annie to help you.”

“I don’t want you out of my life!” Finnick practically rips his own hair out. How is she not understanding how much she means to him? “What do you not get about the fact that I would fall apart without you, huh?!” He has to pull back slightly to try and calm himself. “I don’t want to get over missing you. I want to have you. I want to be able to see you, to hug you, to tell you about my day, to go to you for anything and everything.”

“That’s why you have Annie!” Y/N points towards the door, not caring if any people passing by hear them.

“I DON’T WANT ANNIE!”

Just like that it’s like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Finnick’s chest heaves up and down with every heavy breath he takes. Y/N’s brain buffers as she tries to register what he just confessed. It doesn’t even look like he realizes what he said. He exhales shakily, “I– I don’t… I don’t want her,” he says almost like it’s a realization.

“Finn…” Y/N says sympathetically, “You don’t know what you’re saying.” She tries to find a logical explanation. “You’re upset and–”

“Yeah, yeah, I am,” he scoffs with a definite nod. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m saying.” He moves in closer to the point where Y/N can feel his breath fanning her face. Her mind is screaming at her to move away, but the rest of her forces her to remain in her place. In fact, her face draws nearer, getting lost in his seafoam eyes. “She’s not you, Y/N…”

Y/N nods slowly, “You’re right, she’s not.” Her throat bobs notably as she swallows. “But she is your wife,” she reminds him, her voice becoming softer as he continues leaning in. “Your wife who is patiently waiting for you to go back to her. To your wedding reception.”

“I’m busy,” he justifies like Annie is nothing but an afterthought. “I have more important things to take care of right now…”

“I don’t need to be taken care of,” she says against his lips.

He reaches up, gently caressing her cheek with his thumb as he wipes away her tears. “When will you realize Y/N/N? I’m always gonna feel the need to take care of you.”

“You shouldn’t,” she counters. “You can’t feel that way about me… Not when she’s waiting downstairs for you.”

“Do you always have to be this stubborn?” His eyes bore into hers, making a shiver run down her spine. His voice is dangerously low, it manages to scare and excite her at the same time. “Don’t you think I would be with Annie right now if that was my priority?”

Y/N can feel the air between them sizzling. If anyone were to walk in they’d be found in a very compromising position. Y/N tries to force herself to think of Annie, to think of how she would feel finding her husband here with his best friend like this. But the way Finnick’s scent fills her nose completely clouds her judgement. Or her will to care about anything else other than how badly she wants to completely close the distance between them.

“Finnick, you can’t throw away what you’ve built with her this soon,” Y/N still tries to maintain the moral high ground. “I’ve watched the way you look at her for years. She’s your entire world,” her eyes fall to the floor as she recalls the painful memories.

“Is that the truth? Or is that what you’ve convinced yourself so that you didn’t have to tell me what you actually felt?”

Y/N’s heart stutters in her chest, her pulse quickening as the walls she’s built around herself begin to crack. He can’t be serious, can he? She can’t—she won’t—let herself believe it. But the way he’s looking at her, the way his words settle in the space between them… it’s undeniable.

"Finnick, you’re married," she protests weakly, though it sounds more like a plea than an argument. “I can’t—”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he interrupts, his voice steady and firm. “Waiting for you to admit that you feel the same way. I know you do.”

Y/N feels the air between them thicken. Her thoughts race, but they can’t keep up with what’s happening right in front of her. Finnick, this man she’s loved for so long, is standing here, his eyes filled with something she can’t quite name—but it’s the same thing that’s always been there.

“I’ve waited for you to tell me you love me,” he adds, his voice rougher now, the teasing tone fading into something deeper, more intense. “I’ve been waiting for you to say it.”

Y/N’s stomach twists. She wants to run. She wants to tell him how wrong this is, how much she’s tried to bury her feelings for him because she knows she can’t have him. But as she looks up at him, she sees it—the same longing she’s felt, the same unspoken desire. And it’s too much. Too strong.

"I..." She doesn’t know what to say. How to explain the years of silence, of holding back. She swallows hard, struggling to find the right words.

“Say it,” his eyes darken as he commands her to do as he asks, yet there’s still a sense of pleading. Like he’s begging to hear it. “Enough excuses. There is no right time. I wanna hear you say it.”

“Finnick–” She tries to protest.

“Don’t make me force it out of you,” he says with a bit of playfulness. She knows he would never do anything to force her, but with the mischievous glint in his eyes, she’s not sure what his plan would be.

She opens her mouth, but no words come out. The room feels impossibly small, the space between them closing in with every breath. Finnick watches her, his dazzling smile never fading, but there’s something else in his gaze now—something raw and primal.

“You know, I could be wrong,” he says, his voice soft, as if coaxing her, trying to break that last string of restraint she’s holding onto. “Maybe you don’t feel that way. Maybe I’m just... imagining things.”

Y/N looks at him, her chest tightening as she fights the truth she’s kept hidden for so long. “You know you’re not imagining things…," she says, almost choking on the words. “But this is wrong, Finn. We can’t just—”

“I don’t care,” he interrupts, his voice fierce, his hands gripping her hips as he pulls her closer. “I’ve been waiting for you, Y/N. You think I don’t care about Annie? Of course I do. But I told you, she’s never going to be you.” He leans in, his breath hot against her lips. “I’m not asking you to fix this for me. I just need you to admit what we both already know.”

Her pulse is racing, her head spinning. She’s so close to losing herself, to giving in to everything she’s been holding back. And then something magical happens, “I… I love you,” if Finnick wasn’t so close to her lips, he never would’ve heard the sacred sentence he’s been longing for. Her words echo in his mind like a mantra he wants to keep on repeat for the rest of his life. It pushes him closer to the precipice and when she opens her mouth to say something, Finnick stops her, his lips crashing down on hers before she can get a single syllable out.

It’s not gentle. It’s raw and desperate, a release of everything they’ve both been holding inside. Y/N’s hands fist in the fabric of his shirt as she kisses him back, all the years of unspoken feelings flooding to the surface. She doesn’t care about the guilt anymore. Doesn’t care about what’s right or wrong. She only cares about the way his mouth moves against hers, the way his touch makes her feel like she’s finally home.

When they pull apart, breathless, both of them are lost in the realization of what just happened. Y/N’s head is spinning, her heart racing in her chest, but Finnick doesn’t let go. He’s looking at her with a softness she’s never seen before.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” he whispers, his forehead resting against hers. “I’ve been waiting for you to admit it. I just... I just needed to hear you say it.”

“I... Oh my gosh,” her mind floods with guilt once again. “What did we just do?” She goes to hide her face but Finnick’s grip on her arms stops her. “We can’t do this,” Y/N admits, her voice barely a whisper. “You’re married, Finnick. I can’t—”

“Don’t. Care,” he repeats, his hands sliding to the bottom of her thighs as he wraps her legs around his waist. He can’t help but smirk cockily as she doesn’t fight it. It’s finally his time to show her what they’ve been missing playing this little game of cat and mouse. “I don’t care about that right now. All I care about is this.” His lips find hers again, more gentle this time, as if they’re both trying to savor this moment, this long-awaited release.

The kiss deepens, slow and steady, as if the weight of everything they’ve both been holding in is finally being released. It’s messy and complicated and full of years of longing.

And then, with a soft moan, Finnick pulls away just enough to catch his breath. “I’ve wanted to show you how much I love you for so long” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. Without waiting for an answer, he scoops her up, carrying her to the bed.

Y/N’s heart is still pounding, the reality of the moment not quite sinking in yet. She’s still processing everything—his kiss, his words, the weight of what they’ve just done. But none of it matters right now. Not when he’s here, with her.

He lays her down gently, his hands caressing her face as he looks down at her, eyes filled with an emotion that almost feels too much for this moment. “You’re my everything,” he whispers, his voice breaking with the weight of his admission.

She reaches up, cupping his face with her hands, her fingers tracing the lines of his jaw. “And you’re mine.”

And with that, they kiss again—more tender this time, but no less intense. The world outside doesn’t exist anymore. There’s only the two of them, finally letting go of everything that’s held them apart.

The night stretches on as they lose themselves in each other, every touch, every kiss, a promise that no matter what happens next, they’ve finally found what they were both waiting for.

[fclsebnnyodair]

I like how Beetee is very considerate of Mags's height and age and then there's Finnick

[fclsebnnyodair]

i am so happy with the casting for sunrise on the reaping omg 😭😭😭