finnickodaired

[finnickodaired]

its in the drafts😼 IM HAVINF SO MUCH FUN

[finnickodaired]

panem's independence day

in which panem celebrates the day that marks a year since the war ended. you don't feel very celebratory.

peeta mellark x fem!mockingjay!reader

word count: 0.9k

warnings: PTSD, reader has a sister who passed in the war, ,,,,,pretty much a Katniss insert sorry guys

category: flangst (because apparently thats all i write??), post mockingjay

it's crawling towards a year since the rebellion ended. you could say you were doing better, but you were sick of lying. the only thing that kept you going day to day was the reminder that snow was dead and buried.

and of course, peeta mellark.

your relationship isn't new, not really. you've been 'together' since the 74th. but for the past year, (or maybe ever since he gave you that bread) you've craved his closeness, not for the cameras, or for the capitol, but for yourself. you want peeta mellark selfishly to yourself. you weren't with him for survival, you're with him to live.

president paylor sends you two a letter. panem independence day... she wants the mockingjay to be there.

"no." you put the letter down, and it's as simple as that. "i'm not doing that."

peeta hums, unconvinced, taking the paper from the kitchen table and reading it over himself.

"she just asked you to be there, honey. you don't have to speak."

you're already in the living room, picking up buttercup and cuddling into the couch. It's decided, on your end. "you remember the last time i was in front of a camera?"

he sighs, following you, standing next the couch. you look up at him, and every will that he had to convince you to go to the capitol to speak was gone. "i remember."

"i don't really feel like going back to that.."

he wants you to, because there's nothing that would make the people of new panem more patriotic than seeing their mockingjay again. but this isn't the mockingjay anymore. it's just you. his sweetheart.

"okay. i'm not gonna make you go, honey."

----

when the actual anniversary of the day comes, you don't know how to feel.

deep in the meadow, where your house resides, the familiar warmth of late summer envelopes you, sitting on the porch. the familiar weather can't help but remind you that this is the last season your little sister experienced.

you slept in late, and peeta was gone when you rose. the note on the table said he was going into town to get something or another for dinner, so you wait.

you really don't want to be alone, but you would rather die than go into town, especially today. the presence of you and peeta always brought tourists to twelve. people who didn't get their hands dirty feel entitled to see the fallout of those who did, peeta told you once. panem independence day is sure to bring people with their everlasting capitol fashion to your reconstructed district.

so you wait on the porch for peeta.

when he comes back, you're greeting with that stupidly persistent boyish smile he's always had.

"hey, sweet girl," he says softly, putting the bag on the rocking chair behind you, "what are you doing?"

"waiting for you to come back. how was town?"

he shrugged, sitting next to you. "it could have been worse, i guess. i talked to a few capitol tourists. they were... nice."

you give him a look.

"peeta."

"well, they weren't mean!"

you actually smile, and peeta beams because of it. he reaches back to grab the bag and searches through it. "i sent a letter to paylor last month, asking very nicely to ban fireworks for today... but i don't know if i convinced her. i think i did, but i found these earplugs at the market. i thought you'd want them if we could still hear fireworks from here. i also bought... sparklers." he says the last part while holding out the box full of them.

his simple kindness never failed to shock you, so you just smile, leaning your head on his shoulder.

this is your life now. no looking behind you, no performing for others, just peeta mellark, haymitch, and his geese. the occasional visits from effie.

that's briefly who you thought was walking through the meadow, based on the blur of bright colors. but you didn't recognize this blur, and peeta didn't either. you both groaned.

"maybe if we just go inside, they'll go away."

"they're just curious."

"no, they're journalists. every word i say is going out to all of panem. can you make them leave?"

he smiles. "okay. go inside, sweetheart."

shuffling inside, you watch the interaction through a window and are certain they can see you stalk them. you think they look a little disheartened, but you can never really tell what capitol people feel under all that makeup. they turn around and finally decide to leave you and your baker alone.

"i told them the same thing i always tell them, that we want to be left alone." he says when he comes in, and you sit on top of the kitchen counter, watching him set up to bake.

"do you think i should just bite the bullet? i can't avoid everything forever."

"i think you should do whatever you want." he looks up at you and smiles, like you're the most precious thing known to man. "if that means never being on camera again, then do that, sweetheart. we both have been through so much. it's our turn to relax."

he looks at you with so much love. how could anyone love you like that? it baffles you, deeply and truly to your bones.

you grab the side of his face so gently, pushing him into a kiss. he kisses you like he has all the time in the world, like he always does. it's sweet and careful and yours.

when you pull back, you smile.

"thank you. do you wanna light up sparklers now?"

"of course i do."

omg first peeta fic!! i did warn you all that this was in my plans mwahahah....... he is so sweet i wanna die 🤕 anyways send me a request to feed the beast (me)

[finnickodaired]

Steady Hands

f!reader x finnick odair fluff

based off this request!! thank you lovely <3

summary - you’ve survived the Games, the Capitol, and everything in between. but one look at a needle, and your hands start to shake. in the quiet hum of District 13’s infirmary, it’s Finnick’s voice, steady and warm, that grounds you. he doesn’t laugh. he doesn’t flinch. he just offers his hand… and somehow, that’s enough.

warnings - needles

The light above you buzzes softly. Too white, too bright. The sterile scent of alcohol and antiseptic hangs heavy in the air, and the scratch of cotton against your arm feels louder than it should.

You’re sitting stiffly on the edge of the infirmary cot, your eyes fixed on the far wall. You’re fine. It’s just a scrape, nothing serious, nothing worth the way your pulse is starting to race. But when the nurse turns around and lifts the needle from the tray with a practiced hand, your stomach flips.

Your fingers curl around the edge of the cot. You don’t move. You don’t speak. You just try to breathe.

But it’s already happening—your throat tightens, your legs go cold, and you can’t look away from the glint of the needle as she steps closer.

You try to swallow, but your mouth’s gone dry. The nurse is saying something. Something gentle, trying to calm you—but her voice warps under the weight in your chest.

Then it hits. Not the needle. The memory.

You’re fifteen again. A prep team in glittering gold and obsidian black leans over your arm. They’re laughing. One holds you still while the other jabs a needle in, then another, and another. Pain doesn’t register. Not compared to the humiliation. Not compared to how small you felt, reduced to a body they could poke and polish. “Oh, stop squirming,” one of them had said brightly. “Do you want us to miss?”

You blink hard, dragging yourself back into the now, but your heart is thudding in your ears. You don’t know if you’re breathing anymore.

This is ridiculous, you find yourself thinking. Surely, at this age you should be able to handle it. You try to take deep breaths, try to calm the nerves that are rapidly shooting through your body. Nothing’s working. You can feel the panic rising rapidly.

“Hey.” A voice. Real. Soft. Familiar.

Finnick.

You don’t look at him at first. You can’t. Your eyes are locked on the nurse’s hand, the way she uncaps the syringe, the way the light catches the sharp, glinting edge. Your breath has gone shallow again.

But then his voice cuts through the fog.

“Hey. Look at me.” Gentle. No pressure. Just the weight of it, like an anchor dropping in a storm. You turn your head slowly. Finnick’s crouched beside the cot, eyes level with yours. His brows are drawn just slightly, not in worry exactly, more like understanding. Like he’s been here before.

“You okay?” he asks, but it’s not a question. It’s an invitation. One you don’t have to take.

Your throat feels tight when you whisper, “I hate needles.”

His gaze flickers just briefly to the nurse behind you, then back. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice soft as sea foam. “That’s okay.” He reaches up, palm open between you. “Squeeze my hand.”

“No—Finn, it’s okay, I just…” You blink back tears. Some from fear. Some from embarrassment. Most from the unbearable effort of trying to stay composed when you’re clearly not. Finnick doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t make a scene. He just rolls his eyes, but not in a mocking way. Somehow, it’s soft. Like he’s letting you know it’s fine. That you’re fine.

“Just squeeze it,” he says, voice low. “You won’t hurt me, I promise.”

You hesitate. You’ve known him for a long time. Fought beside him. Trusted him. Grown closer in the quiet corners of District 13. But this? This is different. You’ve never let him see you this vulnerable.

“I—” You start, but stop when you meet his eyes. There’s no judgment there. Just quiet insistence. The kind that says he’s not going to take no for an answer, not when it comes to you “…Okay.” It’s barely a whisper.

His smile is soft. Real. He shifts closer, hand steady and warm as he gently threads his fingers through yours.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs. “Just keep your eyes on me.”

Your fingers curl tighter around his. His palm is warm, calloused in places, steady in all the ways you’re not. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he squeezes your hand back. “You’re alright,” he says, barely louder than a whisper. “You’ve survived worse than this.”

It’s not the kind of thing people usually say to calm someone down. But coming from Finnick, it works. Because he’s not lying. He’s not minimizing the fear. He’s reminding you that even your fear is something you’ve carried. And still, you’re here.

“Just like the tide,” he says quietly, leaning in. “Comes in, rushes hard, and then it passes. Let it pass.”

You don’t feel the needle go in. Not really. Just the faintest pinch. Your whole world is narrowed down to the press of his fingers, the steadiness in his eyes.

“See?” he breathes when it’s done. “Still breathing. Still beautiful.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re not supposed to flirt with someone mid-breakdown.”

He smiles, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “Wasn’t flirting. Just telling the truth.”

Your heart gives a strange little tug.

It’s quiet for a beat. The nurse has stepped away, probably sensing the moment, and the fluorescent hum above fades behind the way he’s looking at you now—so steady. So real.

“You didn’t have to stay,” you whisper.

Finnick’s expression shifts, softens at the edges. “Didn’t even think about leaving.” Your throat catches again, but not from fear this time.

You glance down at your joined hands. “Sorry I freaked out.”

“Don’t,” he says instantly. “Not around me.”

Something about the way he says it. Low and certain. It makes your stomach flip. You’ve seen him smirk, charm, tease. But this softness? This quiet loyalty? It undoes you.

“Okay,” you whisper. And you mean it.

He squeezes your hand one last time before gently letting go. But not before his fingers linger, just barely, like he doesn’t really want to.

“Next time,” he says, standing slowly, “I’ll make sure they give me the shot instead.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s not how medicine works.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t try.” You laugh, and this time, it’s not shaky. It feels real.

“Come on, I’ll walk you to your room. Doctor’s orders.” Finnick offers his hand again, not in the same panicked way as before, but slower this time. Casual. Thoughtful. Like he’s offering more than just help off the cot.

You take it without thinking. “I didn’t hear her say anything about-”

“She said it with her eyes, trust me.” He says, a soft smirk appearing. Neither of you lets go once you’re standing.

The walk back through the hall is quiet. Your fingers stay tangled in his, your arms brushing now and then with each step. No one stops you. No one questions it. Maybe they know better by now.

“You really okay?” he asks, voice low as your footsteps echo down the corridor.

You nod. “I think so.”

“Good.” A pause. “’Cause next time I might make you hold my hand. Just to even the score.”

You glance at him, smirking. “That sounds suspiciously like flirting.”

Finnick tilts his head, feigning innocence. “No, no. That would be unprofessional.”

You roll your eyes, but your hand squeezes his just slightly.

Outside your door, you stop. For a second, neither of you moves. The hallway is quiet. His fingers are still wrapped around yours, thumb tracing idle, gentle shapes against your skin.

“Thanks again,” you murmur.

His gaze meets yours. Something flickers there, fond and warm and a little too much.

“Anytime,” he says. “You know where to find me.” It’s ironic really. He’s literally right down the hall. Probably no more than 20 feet away from you. But still, you nod. And neither of you lets go. Not yet.

Finally, you pull back with a breath. His hand lingers in the air half a second longer before it drops to his side.

“Goodnight, Finn.”

“Goodnight, beautiful.” He says softly. You shake your head as you turn, trying not to smile too hard.

Behind you, you swear you hear him whisper, “Still not flirting.”

[finnickodaired]

how would you guys feel about peeta and mockingjay!reader

[finnickodaired]

guys finnick died the same way he lived: with unwanted hands all over him

[finnickodaired]

I feel like finnick would encourage that kind of reader to paint out or write out how she’s feeling?? Idk he feels like one of those that thinks it would help whether it really does or not

THANK YOU FOR THE ASK LOVEY <3 <3 ౨ৎ꣑ৎfinnick encourages you to do art therapy౨ৎ꣑ৎ fem reader x finnick odair

Staring at the blank canvas in front of you, the only emotion you could pick out of the mess was confusion. It was almost overwhelming to have such a stretch of white in front of you, begging for some kind of action. You were the only one who could make it so, and for some reason it was terrifying.

Setting your thin paintbrush down, you clenched your jaw, embarrassingly biting back a sob. This was supposed to be relaxing. It was supposed to help. So why did you feel like your brain was going to melt out of your ears? You wanted to abandon it all, forget you’d ever been asked to do this. Maybe you could splash something over the canvas and say you’d done it so he wouldn’t feel bad.

“How’s it going?” You were engulfed in the scent of sea salt before you knew it, Finnick’s arms threading around your waist. You could just picture him bending his neck as he pressed a kiss to the side of your head. “You okay?”

Sniffling, you whipped around and buried your face in his chest. Finnick made a surprised sound, his arms tightening around you. “Sweetie, what happened?” One of his hands lifted to the crown of your head, thumb rubbing your hair. “What’s going on in here?”

Your lower lip trembled pathetically, and you sniffled into his shirt. “I don’t know how to do it.”

“It’s okay,” he muttered soothingly, kissing your head once more. “Hey, I promise it’s okay. There’s no right way to do it. If it’s not working we can try something else.”

“B-but you said it might make me feel better,” you mumbled, holding his wrist.

“Might, sweet girl,” he reminded you gently. “Remember what the doctor said? Some people do this. Some people write about it.”

You lifted your head from his chest. “What do you do?”

Finnick smiled softly, rubbing your cheekbone. “I swim. Take walks on the beach. Kiss my pretty girl.” When that coaxed a smile out of you, he pressed his lips to your forehead. “I’m not the same as you though, baby. You’ve had to be brave through a lot more than me.”

People don’t call you crazy, you mean, you thought bitterly, trying to squash it away. Still, he collected your reaction like it was a seashell, shaking his head just slightly and pulling you back into his arms. “You know how proud I am of you? You fight it every single day and you’re still the sweet girl I love.”

“I’m not the same as I was,” you observed mournfully, and he tilted your chin up so you were caught in his blue eyes like a net.

“No, but you’re still you.” He said it with such a firm foundation that nearly brought you to tears. “That won’t ever change.” You let out a tiny sigh, lips perking up when he thumbed away one of your tears. “If painting your feelings doesn’t work out, it’s okay. It’s not your fault and it doesn’t mean you’re not working. It just means you can try something else.”

“I want to do this,” you admitted pitifully, leaning your head back sideways onto his chest. The feel of his heartbeat was a special song that always seemed to help you calm. “It just feels scary.”

He considered for a moment. “It’s scary sometimes to put what’s inside of you on something outside.”

"Yeah," you muttered, clenching his shirt between your fingers. "I don't wanna keep it inside though."

Finnick took a moment to softly stroke your cheek. "You don't have to show it to anybody, sweetheart. Just do it for you. I can leave if you want and let you at it."

"No. Stay." You sniffled and he ran a hand over your hair. "I…I don't know how to do it."

"You don't have to draw what you're scared of, you know," he said quietly. "You can draw something that makes you happy." When you looked up at him he was grinning. "You can draw me if you want."

Giggling, you patted his chest. "I don't think I'm quite good enough for that, baby."

"Sure you are." He kissed the top of your head. "But I'll let you decide when you want to put my nude modeling skills to work."

That ignited another giggle from you, and you kissed his collarbone, turning around and picking up your paintbrush again. He kissed your crown, inching away. When you turned he was settling on the couch and picking up a book.

His presence gave you bravery. You closed your eyes and let visions of colors unfold under your eyes.

[finnickodaired]

no because i will literally never get away from Spencer Reid. my entire for you page is Spencer fics. i think i just have to accept that

[finnickodaired]

🙂

[finnickodaired]

Could you do the letter I for the event from the sfw list with sej pleaseplesseplease?

I - i love you: who said it first? how often do they say it? do they show it without words?

i think that saying “i love you” comes really easily to sejanus bc he kinda grew up saying it. when he was super little, he grew up hearing his ma say it to him and his father and his aunt, his aunt would say it and pinch his cheeks whenever she’d pop by for a visit, and he’d say it back! sidebar: 3 y/o sejanus plinth like “i luv u too mama :3” ok sidebar over. the “i love you”s to his family quickly turned into “i love you” with everyone else as well. just a casual “i’ll see you tomorrow! love you!” to one of his friends when he gets picked up after school.

after moving to the capitol, the habit died fast because of the way the other capitol children would sneer at him after he says “love you!” without even thinking, so sejanus learns quickly. he still says it to his ma, of course, but keeps it between the two of them now. as he gets older, it becomes easier for him to fight the reflex to say it, because. well. it’s not hard to not love some of the academy students he’s had to spend most of his time with. 

occasionally, he has to refrain from saying a casual “love you” to coriolanus bc he’s found something of a friend in him and occasionally the reflex to say it just returns, but is ultimately too scared of coryo judging him and calling him weird so he holds back.

but then! he meets you! you’re another academy student that speaks a little less than others, but you’re friends with lysistrata and are one of the few that agree with him when he speaks out against the games. the two of you get to know each other and become quick friends once he realized your values align with his, and ofc, while you’re having lunch together at the academy at some point, a quick “you’re amazing, i love you” slips out.

you are. so very confused. bc. “what? did you just say?” and he’s quick to backtrack and specify “as a friend! i mean! sorry- it’s something i’m used to saying. it was normal for friends to say i love you back in two and everything and old habits die hard.” and you nod understandingly and say “oh, okay, i get it now!” and you’re left wondering why you’re ever so slightly disappointed his words were platonic. 

after a while, you become less-than-platonic but also not fully romantic? like you both definitely have feelings for each other but also both of you are so oblivious about it and everyone thinks you’re together basically even though you’re convinced you and sejanus are just friends. ofc, your families being rich capitolites and strabo plinth being desperate for his family to integrate more into the capitol, your parents basically agree that you and sej are going to get married eventually. so it’s a semi-arranged marriage but like not as bad bc you’ve fallen in love anyway?

when you get the news of this the two of you kinda just go on a walk one day to talk abt the plans that were entirely made without anyone asking either of you how you felt and you’re like. “you’re not? bothered abt this?” and he so easily goes “i love you, why would i be bothered?” and you’re just. “as a friend?”

he just fucking laughs and is like “it hasn’t been as a friend for a while now. i love you. and i’m not upset that we have to get married. if anything, i’m happy i get to marry you.” and you’re just so fucking happy actually and this is the first time you say “i love you too” and you kiss and yay. sorry sloppy ending i wrote this at 3am.

sejanus plinth masterlist — 100 followers event — taglist 🏷️ : @allisluv @loveution @joluvsfinnick @nozhdyved @echoesintheravyne @daisyjonesgf

[finnickodaired]

what if the girl who won the 66th Hunger Games, just a year after Finnick Odair, was also only 14?

what if she was from District 8, soft-spoken but strong, not cold and calculating like the Capitol tried to paint her, but warm. kind. sweet without being spineless.

and what if at her Capitol victory party, overwhelmed by the noise and the cameras and the strangers calling her “darling,” she snuck out into the hallway just to breathe, only to find him.

finnick odair. 15. flawless. charming.

crying in a corner.

and she doesn't treat him like a celebrity or a victor or a pretty thing to gawk at, she just asks “are you okay?”

and somehow… hat’s where it starts.

they talk. just for a little. but enough.

enough that they start writing letters. enough that they start finding each other at every Capitol event. enough that the Capitol starts calling them the “golden pair.” but it’s not about that. not to them.

it’s about whispered jokes behind dinner napkins. passing notes under the table during victor meetings. sitting in hotel bathtubs fully clothed because it’s the only quiet place they can talk without being overheard. it’s about safety. about home. because somehow, they become each other’s.

and slowly, achingly slowly, it turns into something else. something fragile and fierce and completely terrifying.

because how do you love someone in a place that ruins everything good?

but still. they try.

[finnickodaired]

hi queen😋😋🥰🥰🥰 i just found your page and i’m in LOVE. i was wondering if u could write an imagine about Finnick Odair and a female victor from district 11 meeting at a capitol party? maybe they are introduced or bump into each other after trying to escape the suffocating environment?

small background on the reader, she was not expected to win her games due to the district she originates from and her competition, but still emerged on top and surprised viewers with her fighting ability and critical thinking.

alsoo, if you’re comfortable with writing/including this, the people of district 11 are mainly represented as african-american, so if you could put a small emphasis on the reader being black with curly hair that’d be great! if not, don’t worry about it :))

ohmygosh im writing too much sorry thanks baddie

hiii tysm for requesting!! im sorry this request took so long but i started college recently and yeah... anyways i hope you enjoy!! also, i try not to describe the reader too much in the stuff i write js so anyone can read it, so i hope thats all right!! <3 

Daisies

|| ao3 || finnick masterlist || requests are open!! ||

summary: When a Capitol party becomes too suffocating, Finnick comes to your rescue, helping you to breathe a little easier. (wc: 1100)

Warnings: could be read as reader having a panic attack in the beginning

You hadn’t expected to win the Hunger Games. Most people didn’t expect you to, after all, District 11 never had too many victors. You only started getting more sponsors and gifts when there were five other remaining tributes, part of the reason you made it so far being that you were good at hiding, good at leaving no trace behind when the other tributes went looking for you. And now, you were the winner of the 68th Hunger Games, attending the Capitol party that was meant to honor you and your winning. Though, you thought of it more as surviving than anything. 

You hated everything about the party. The corset your stylist had put you in was too tight, too suffocating, the lights in the room were too bright, the people were too loud, the air was too stuffy, and you just wanted out. Out of the room, out of the mansion, out of Snow’s and all the Capitol citizen’s watchful stares. Your eyes were darting across the room, looking for an exit or balcony to escape to, even for a few minutes when a pair of blue eyes met yours, as they began moving closer to you. 

“Are you alright?” The man asked softly, his brows creased in the middle as he studied your appearance. You weren’t sure what it was, but something about those eyes seemed almost familiar, like you had seen him before. And you weren’t sure what it was, but part of you felt like trusting him, spilling the truth to him about how you would rather be anywhere than in this room, pretending that everything was okay and that you hadn’t been waking up with nightmares these past few nights. 

“I feel like I’m going to suffocate,” you reply with a whisper. 

The man only nods, gently taking your hand in his before leading you out a pair of doors you hadn’t seen before. Had they always been there, and the lights were just too blinding for you to see them? 

Once the both of you are outside, the man leads you to a bench, gesturing for you to sit. It’s once you are seated, breathing in the fresh air that you start to feel better. No more overly zealous party guests, no more intense perfumes and colognes invading your lungs, no more anything that simply felt too much.

“I still feel like I’m drowning when I’m these parties,” the man tells you, standing across from you as he rocks on the balls of his feet, a curl of blonde hair bouncing off his forehead with every movement. “I’m Finnick,” he says, introducing himself. 

Oh, so that’s where you knew him from. Everyone knew of Finnick Odair. He was one of the youngest to ever win the Hunger Games, and now at the age of seventeen, he was thought of as a “heartthrob.” 

“I know who you are,” you reply quietly with a nod. “You look different than you do on camera.” 

He smiles at that. “How so?”

Your eyes aren’t as blue for one, you think, it doesn’t feel like they’re staring into my soul, daring me to pour out all my secrets and fears to you, daring me to get lost and drown in them. 

“I didn’t think you’d be so tall,” is all you reply. 

He laughs at that, moving to sit across from you on the grassy floor as he looks up at you with a warm smile, a smile that makes you understand all the heartthrob comments thrown around about him. “How are you feeling?” He softly asks, plucking a few blades of grass off the ground as he speaks. 

You shrug, knowing it was a loaded question. You couldn’t sleep in fear of nightmares, you couldn’t stand being in parties like these, knowing all the attendees eagerly watched the games, possibly hoping for yours and the other tribute’s downfall. “I can breathe a little easier,” is all you say; at least you don’t feel like you’re going to suffocate from being in such an exhausting environment. 

Finnick only nods, now plucking a daisy off the grass and handing it to you with a smile. You smile back as you take it from his hand. 

“Whenever things become too much for me at these parties, I always come out here. Fresh air does wonders for the mind. Always helps me feel a little better.” He plucks another daisy off the grass, handing it to you as well. 

“Do these parties often become too much?” You ask, making a small bouquet out of the daisies he continues to hand you. 

He hesitates before quietly answering, “Almost all the time.”

The two of you stay in a comfortable silence after that, him handing you daisies and you adding them to your mini bouquet. It’s peaceful out there, far more peaceful than it ever could be inside the mansion’s party room. Your mind doesn’t feel as if it’s running 50 miles an hour, no, instead it’s as if there’s a peaceful calm to the atmosphere, one you found thanks to Finnick. 

“Can I… ask you something?” You ask, daring to break the silence between you two. 

He nods his head yes, silently gesturing you to continue, and so, you do. 

“Did anyone think I was going to win?” You ask. 

Finnick furrows his eyebrows at that, mulling over the question in his head. You can practically see the gears turning in his head as he decides how to answer. “Some people, sure, but that’s because most people always spend their money on the careers.”

“So it was a surprise that I won?” You question.

He slowly nods his head yes, “to some, yeah,” he looks at you with a soft smile, “I’m glad you did though. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to talk to such a pretty girl.”

And despite yourself, you feel something like butterflies fluttering in your stomach at his response. “Does that line usually work?” You softly ask with a smile.

Finnick shrugs, standing up as he hands you one final daisy plucked from the ground. “Did it work on you?” He asks, fingers brushing against yours as you take the flower from him. 

When you don’t respond, he only smiles with a small shake of his head before turning around, back to the party that was meant for you. “I hope to see you around again, sweetheart,” he says as a goodbye, his figure becoming smaller and smaller as he walks into the distance. And you find yourself hoping that you will get to see him again too. 

[finnickodaired]

with Johnny Sinclair

your boyfriend, Johnny Sinclair, who was mad he fell for you because it ruined all his playboy plans

your boyfriend, Johnny Sinclair, who was persistent about a date. He was nervous at first, which was new for him. He was hot, he was rich, what did he have to be nervous about? and was completely shocked when you turned down the offer. Also new for him. It's not that you didn't like him, it's that you didn't think it was sincere. So he did everything to prove it was

your boyfriend, Johnny Sinclair, who always went all out on dates. Best restaurant, best seats in the house, best everything. "Don't worry about it" was his go to when you inquired about the cost

your boyfriend, Johnny Sinclair, who avoided introducing you to his family. Not from a lack of commitment, but just, it made it feel too real and too serious and that scared him. He told them all about you, after Ed picked up on his more 'in love gaze'. but would often quickly bring you to his room to keep you from interacting from them

your boyfriend, Johnny Sinclair, whose family loved you. God, Carrie wouldn't stop with the gushing, and Ed found you perfectly respectable and funny. Will basically adopted you as an older sister the moment you met.

your boyfriend, Johnny Sinclair, who was the typical Golden retriever boyfriend through and through. clinginess and all included.

your boyfriend, Johnny Sinclair, who mentioned casually that his family has a private island like it was recounting the boring weather

your boyfriend, Johnny Sinclair, who invited you to Beechwood and gave you the run down of everyone before you got there. he already had it planned in his mind how you'd share his room in Red Gate, or you'd stay in the room next to his, but Harris was strict on you staying with the girls at Cuddledown or Windemere if you were to be staying at all.

your boyfriend, Johnny Sinclair, who always interrupted you and the girls' chats, tanning on the beach, by shaking his wet hair, splattering droplets all over you all

your boyfriend, Johnny Sinclair, who snuck you into his room more than a few times at night and made Mirren and Gat promise to cover his ass if needed

your boyfriend, Johnny Sinclair, who the other Liars wouldn't stop teasing for how whipped he was

your boyfriend, Johnny Sinclair, who taught you how to play tennis, just so you could play against him and he could spend even more time with you

your boyfriend, Johnny Sinclair, who was terrified it was all going to blow up in his face. That you'd leave, that'd he'd mess it up, that'd you'd find something that made you not like him anymore.

your boyfriend, Johnny Sinclair, who texts you every minor update just so you don't stop thinking about him

your boyfriend, Johnny Sinclair, who hates to be the downer. He opened up about his father or his fears that his mother was using again and how he always felt particularly responsible for Will, and quickly tried to change the subject, apologising for being such a buzz kill and trying to shift into something else to distract you

your boyfriend, Johnny Sinclair, who is constantly fidgeting. his own hands, your hands, hair, a pen, jewelery, bouncing his leg, anything, he's never still

your boyfriend, Johnny Sinclair, whose mother sent you updates whenever she knew Johnny didn't. always sending you photos of them out as a family so you felt included, always checking in on Johnny through you if needed

your boyfriend, Johnny Sinclair, who you have to keep in check from making too many lewd comments because he thinks it's the funniest thing in the world and "I'm a teenage boy, what else do you expect of me?"

your boyfriend, Johnny Sinclair, whose little brother, Will, wouldn't shut up about you guys getting married or having a kid one day and how he'd be an uncle then, he'd be the best uncle, and you always wondered where it came from. like 3 months into dating you, Johnny had told Will he knew he was going to marry this girl. but Johnny would never confess that

[finnickodaired]

BrushStrokes

f!reader x dad!peeta mellark

major fluff

summary - dad!peeta tries to teach his daughter how to paint, but ends up becoming her canvas as you watch.

wc - 720

The afternoon sun filtered through the windows in warm, golden shafts, casting a gentle glow over the scattered paints and brushes that lay across the hardwood floor like little promises of creativity. Peeta sat on the floor, knees bent and arms patiently guiding your daughter’s tiny hand as she clumsily maneuvered a paintbrush across a small canvas perched on the easel.

She was utterly absorbed, her brow furrowed in concentration, lips slightly parted, and in that quiet focus, Peeta saw the purest form of joy, the kind that comes from discovery, from learning something new with fearless enthusiasm.

“Hold the brush like this,” Peeta whispered softly, his voice steady and calm, “slow and gentle strokes.”

Her eyes locked onto his, bright and sparkling with determination. Then, unexpectedly, she looked up and tilted her head with that mischievous smile that always made Peeta’s heart skip. “Can I paint your face?”

Peeta blinked, caught off guard by the sudden request. There was a pause, a flicker of hesitation. Paint on his face meant mess, and maybe a little discomfort. But looking into those trusting eyes, filled with innocence and excitement, hesitation melted away like watercolor on canvas.

“Alright,” he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “But only if you promise I won’t look like a monster when you’re done.” With a soft laugh, he gently laid back on the floor, arms stretched wide like a living palette, surrendering himself to the moment.

At that exact second, you walked in, and the sight that greeted you was impossible not to laugh at. Peeta, lying flat on the floor, and your daughter perched above him, paintbrush in hand, a wild palette of purple, yellow, and orange ready for action.

Her giggle rang through the room as she dipped the brush in thick purple paint, tracing a bold streak across Peeta’s cheek.

“Purple first!” she declared, her voice bubbling with pride, before adding dabs of yellow and orange with a kind of messy, chaotic joy only children possess. Peeta’s face was quickly becoming a riot of color, abstract and playful, but his expression was one of mock solemnity, perfectly still as he offered himself as the canvas for her masterpiece.

You crouched beside them, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Really going for it, huh?”

Peeta shrugged, smearing a little paint on his own nose in solidarity. “A father’s duty, right? To endure and embrace the chaos.”

Your daughter burst into laughter, the sound so pure it filled the room like a bright melody. You and Peeta exchanged a glance, and your smiles broke into soft laughter, the kind that rises naturally in moments of pure love and gentle absurdity.

But then, the laughter from the little artist softened, and a shadow crossed her face. “Are you laughing at my painting?” she asked quietly, eyes wide and uncertain.

Peeta was instantly at her side, wiping a small streak of paint from her cheek with a gentle thumb. “No, sweetheart,” he said firmly, “we’re laughing because your painting is so wonderfully wild and full of life.”

You wrapped an arm around her tiny shoulders, pulling her close. “You’re the best artist I know.” Her lips curled into a tentative smile, but the doubt lingered, so Peeta decided to shift the mood in the way only a father could, with a little magic and mischief.

He leaned in toward you, eyes sparkling. “I think it’s only fair if I transfer some of this paint onto Mommy.”

Before you could protest, his lips brushed yours, soft and warm, the faint scent of paint mixing with the sweetness of his breath. When he pulled back, he gently smeared a streak of purple across your cheek, grinning like a kid caught in the best kind of trouble. Your daughter squealed with delight, clapping her hands and bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“That’s not fair!” she giggled, “I want to paint you too!”

You leaned into Peeta’s side, brushing your nose against his. “I think we’ve got a little artist on our hands, and two very colorful parents.”

Peeta’s hand found yours, fingers curling softly. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The three of you sat there, tangled in paint and laughter, the afternoon stretching out like an unspoken promise of more moments just like this, messy, imperfect, but perfect in every way. Because in this small living room, amidst the chaos of bright colors and tiny hands, you found the quiet truth of family: love painted in brushstrokes, laughter, and the softest, most tender kisses.

[finnickodaired]

Capitol Charades

Faking a relationship for the cameras was easy. Faking that it wasn’t love? Not so much.

In a city where secrets shimmer as brightly as sequins, you—an ambitious Capitol-born PR manager—find yourself entangled in a publicity stunt pairing you with none other than Finnick Odair, the Capitol's beloved golden heartthrob from District 4. It’s supposed to be fake. Just for the headlines. A little charm, a flirtatious comment here, another one there, and a lot of pretending.

But between extravagant galas, stolen laughs behind curtains, and rebellion simmering just beneath the surface, your staged romance starts to feel... real. And maybe, just maybe, the boy with sea-salt eyes and a crooked smile isn’t acting either.

🦢 previous part | next part

Chapter Two: Sparks and Sabotage

The Capitol sends you both to a fabricated countryside estate. A gilded prison designed to look like a honeymoon retreat. “Let the romance blossom,” they say, like this is a summer drama and not survival theater.

The gates close behind your hovercar with a soft thud. This is it.

Finnick helps you out like a gentleman. There’s a flash of mischief in his eyes, but something else too—something quieter. Like he’s memorizing the way your fingers curl around the door frame, the way your brow furrows just slightly at the sight of the pristine estate.

“Welcome to our romantic exile.”

“Do I get a refund if I don’t fall in love?” you mutter.

“No refunds,” he says, eyes gleaming. “But I offer in-house customer service. Five stars, most days.”

You groan. But your lips twitch, just slightly. He notices. Of course he does.

The staff bows. Cameras whir. There are white roses everywhere. You’re given matching robes and a bed big enough to stage a love story. You drag your suitcase to the farthest room.

He lets you. Watches you go, and tells himself it’s just part of the act. But that part of him—the one that wonders if you sleep curled up or sprawled out, if your dreams come quiet or loud—shuts up for now.

The next day, a knock interrupts your quiet morning routine. You open your door to a tray: tea with honey, sugared bread, and a folded card that reads, Truce? You stare at it for a long moment before returning the tray with your own note: Terms pending.

He laughs when he gets it. You don’t see it, but you hear it. A low, startled sound that catches even him off guard.

The days blur into something dreamlike and ridiculous. Garden walks with hidden microphones. Fireplace photo ops that feel like stage plays. Slow-dance sessions choreographed to string quartets. You bicker through most of them.

He teases. You snap. He pouts. You roll your eyes.

But something shifts.

He starts getting your tea right—lemon, never honey. Starts timing his jokes after your caffeine kicks in. Slips you peppermints when you’re anxious before a shoot. Doesn’t touch you unless you touch him first.

And when Finnick notices everything, he notices everything.

The way your hands twitch when you’re nervous. How your laugh comes easier when no one's filming. The way your shoulders relax for just a heartbeat when you forget to pretend. It’s maddening really, how much he notices. How much he starts to care.

Once, when fireworks go off unexpectedly during a 'spontaneous' lakeside dinner shoot, you flinch. He wraps an arm around your shoulders carefully, like asking a question without words and whispers something stupid to distract you. Something about how you’re the only thing in this estate more explosive than pyrotechnics, more likely to ignite a frenzy with a single glance than a whole display of Capitol firecraft.

"You blink and half the nation combusts," he adds, murmuring into your hair. "I’m honestly just trying not to burst into flames myself."

You snort, despite yourself, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. But you don’t pull away. If anything, you lean just slightly into the warmth of him, as if your body made a choice your mind isn’t ready to admit.

He doesn’t say anything. But later, he’ll think about that moment for hours. Replay it like a scene he can’t quite believe happened. Like he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he thinks too hard about it. He tells himself it was just instinct. But when he lies in bed that night, he finds himself wondering what your hair smelled like. Whether you noticed how tightly he held you. He tries not to think about it. Tries to brush it off as muscle memory, reflex, performance.

But then he’s kicking himself under the covers, groaning softly into his pillow because really? Smelling hair? What next, doodling your name in the margins of a Capitol briefing sheet?

He flips over, restless, heart beating far too fast for someone lying completely still. His thoughts spiral in circles, embarrassingly ridiculous ones. He wonders if you’d laugh at him for this. If you’d roll your eyes or say something cutting and clever like you always do—something that would somehow make him want to hear it again.

What the hell is wrong with me? he thinks, staring at the ceiling like it might have answers. You’ve survived the Games. You’ve flirted with monsters in diamond cufflinks. You’ve lied to crowds and kissed strangers for sponsorships. And now you’re losing your mind because someone sat next to you a little too close?

He exhales, frustrated. But under the sarcasm, there’s a nervous sort of flutter in his chest he doesn’t recognize. Not butterflies. No these are definitely not butterflies, he tells himself. You give butterflies, Finnick. You don’t get them, he reminds himself.

But there it is. The tightening in his stomach when you glance his way. The quiet thrill of earning your laughter. 

Get it together, Odair, he scolds himself. This isn’t a schoolyard crush. This is a Capitol illusion. A script.

Still, the script never made room for how soft your voice sounds when you say his name like it’s just his, and not a commodity. It didn’t warn him that your laugh could crawl under his skin and stay there.

And worst of all? He kind of likes it.

He doesn't know when this started. But it's there now. Stubborn. Persistent. The part of him that wants to remember the exact curve of your smile when you think no one’s looking. The part that hopes stupidly and hopelessly that maybe you felt something too.

And what gets him most is how humbling it all is. He used to be so sure of himself—of the way people looked at him, wanted him, melted under the weight of a single well-placed grin. He always thought he'd be the one giving butterflies, not the poor idiot sitting there wide-eyed and heartsick, wondering if he imagined the way your shoulder leaned just slightly into his.

It sneaks up on him like a fever. No crash, no warning—just a slow burn, curling beneath his skin, turning his confidence into something softer. He’s not used to yearning. Not like this. Not the kind that’s quiet and hopeful and has nothing to do with strategy. Not the kind that leaves him breathless after a glance and doubting whether he's reading too much into the way you said his name.

Now, every little thing you do feels like a personal ambush. The way you tuck your hair behind your ear, or hum under your breath when you think no one’s listening. It’s unfair, really. Unfair how much space you've taken up in his thoughts without even trying.

And gods, he wishes he could play it cool. Wishes he could smirk and shrug and go back to the easy rhythm of teasing and pretending. But he catches himself pausing in doorways, just to watch you squeeze lemon into your tea, scrunching your nose ever so slightly as you carefully spoon the tiny seeds out that dropped their way into your cup. He remembers things he shouldn't be paying attention to and definitely wouldn't bat an eye on if it were any person like how many spoons you use, which sleeve you always push up first, the exact moment your smile turns real.

He catches himself daydreaming in the most idiotic ways. Imagining what your laugh would sound like in the morning. What your hand would feel like in his without an audience. Whether you'd let him tuck your hair behind your ear or let his fingers trail across your knuckles when no one’s watching.

He swears he’s regressing into some Capitol-sponsored teenage cliché, complete with nervous glances and private smiles he doesn’t mean to make.

And it would almost be funny how flustered, how foolish he feels if it didn’t ache so much. If it didn’t feel so painfully, impossibly real.

And that maybe, just maybe, he isn’t completely alone in this madness. And maybe that hope is the slowest burn of all.

At night, he finds excuses to hover nearby—pretending to search for a snack in the kitchen you’re already in, lingering too long near the armrest where your hand rests, offering unnecessary help setting the table with only two plates. You used to roll your eyes, cut him down with quips, remind him you value personal space. But lately, you’ve stopped pointing it out.

Instead, you find yourself meeting him halfway. You ask if he’s eaten. You pass him the remote. You let the silence between you stretch, not tense, but comfortable.

He notices. Of course he does.

He notices the way your voice softens when you’re tired. How your robe sleeves keep slipping down your wrists. How you always tap the rim of your glass three times before drinking. These aren’t just details to him. They’re lifelines. Clues. Anchors.

He begins doing things without thinking—brushing snow off the garden bench before you sit, pressing his hand lightly to the small of your back when you're trying to navigate slippery stairs. Once, he slips a warm water bottle beneath your blanket before bed because he noticed your fingers were cold earlier. He doesn’t say anything about it. He just leaves it there, tucked beneath the sheets like a quiet offering.

You’re not sure when the pretending began to blur.

One morning, your robe’s gone missing. You accuse him.

“I’d never steal a robe,” he says. “Now your heart, maybe.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I prefer ‘limited edition.’”

You roll your eyes but your voice is softer than before.

Later that same night, he tosses a blanket over your legs when you fall asleep on the couch. You never asked. He just… noticed.

Then, after a day of forced couple’s yoga—too many awkward stretches, too many Capitol photographers—you’re both slumped on the patio, sore and half-laughing into glasses of Capitol wine.

He turns, gaze gentler. “What’s your escape plan?”

You raise a brow. “What makes you think I have one?”

“You’re too clever not to.”

You swirl your glass. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me what haunts you when the cameras stop.”

He doesn’t answer right away. The quiet stretches. Not heavy, but fragile, like a held breath between truths. His gaze stays on you, steady, but something flickers behind it.

Because he’s weighing it. Not your question—he’s heard worse, answered worse—but what it means that you asked. That you’d meet his shadow with your own. That for the first time in a long time, someone’s offering him more than escape lines and applause.

He wants to believe you. He almost does.

But trust is a language he’s forgotten how to speak.

Still, he doesn’t look away.

And when he finally does reach for your hand, it isn’t for show. His fingers brush yours like a question.

You don’t pull back. And in return, he feels his heart do a foreign flip flop, just begging to leap out of his chest.

His hand lingers.

Longer this time.

He tells himself it’s because the cameras might be watching. But the way his thumb barely, barely brushes your knuckle? That’s not for the Capitol.

That’s just for you.

[finnickodaired]

what a privilege it is to have these problems

in which finnick odair loses a fight with a plug-in fan

finnick odair x fem!victor!reader

category: flangst, post mockingjay

warnings: not really much, just a bit of sadness and anxiety from reader, cursing

note: feel free to send me a request !! (as I've said like eight times. im sorry. I am trying to make it clear) finnick has a dog as he should

word count: 0.9k

tick. tick. tick.

finnick was currently questioning the morals of destroying his and your entire home because of this noise.

the soft hum of the fan has always been present when he slept, and he doesnt really get good sleep without it. but this noise is different. maybe a picture frame bumping into the wall, maybe his dog is suddenly very interested in the idea of repeatedly clawing the wall. what ever it is, finnick would rather walk on lava than deal with it the whole night.

but you're sleeping, curled up on his side so angelically. its a miracle you're sleeping and he's not—its almost always the other way around. you'll stay up and watch him sleep after he has a nightmare almost every single night.

you always say you had it easy as a victor; the capitol saw you as an innocent little girl that made it out of the games by the grace of god, who was crushing on the capitol darling, finnick odair, like everyone else. but they've always been more than that. they've always been something real, something the capitol didnt make up.

he was so distracted by his beautiful girl he almost forgot about the noise.

almost. the stupid clicking still rang in his ears, making him want to commit a severe act of violence.

okay. he has to fix it. he, a little shakily because he just does not want to awake this perfect sleeping angel, removes your limbs from his body, slipping out of bed and coming face to face with his dog, (who of course was sleeping on the bed, you always insisted) who tilts her head at finnick. he would probably laugh and tell her 'yeah, i don't want to be awake either, girl, or something along the lines, but he would wake you. he just quietly listens for the noise.

silence. more silence.... tick. tick.

finnicks head snapped to the left, and is sure he finds the verdict: a framed photo of his girl holding katniss and peeta's first child with an innocent whimsy and excitement on your face that finnick was so certain he lost the moment his name was first called in the reaping. its moving with the circulation of the fan, he's sure of it. he puts the frame on the nightstand with an internal ill figure it out tomorrow, and retreats back into your shared bed.

and then the fucking noise comes back. conveniently right after you rewrap yourself over him like he's your personal body pillow.

he's well aware he's balancing your unconsciousness like a tight-rope.

once again escaping the living confines of your hold, he discovers the real culprit: the plug-in fan. he thought, maybe, it was the ceiling fan, (you liked to sleep with two fans on at the same time. it simultaneously horrified finnick and made him fall in love with you even more) but he sees a string stuck in the fan that has been singing up a storm for him. easy fix. a quiet fix.

well, it would have been a quiet fix, but he immediately knocks over the fan, creating a peace shattering sound, followed by the absence of the fans whirling that you so desperately need to sleep.

god just hates him tonight, huh?

his dog barks at the sound, and looking up at the bed, he can see you inelegantly slap his side of the bed, instinctually searching the safety blanket known as finnick odair.

you didnt find him.

shooting up like a meerkat, your eyes scan the room for finnick, ready to soar out of bed, before a voice breaks you out of your panic.

"im right here, angel. the fan was making a noise... sorry."

"d'you break the fan?" you murmured, rubbing your sleep-coated eyes. he didn't even turn any lights on, how in gods name can he even see anything? your hands anxiously tense and untense on the bed

he laughs, setting the fan back up and plugging it in, "no, just knocked it over. fixed the sound though."

you nod even though he isn't looking, the anxiety from his absence still surging through your body.

"finnick?"

"mhm?"

"come here, please."

so, of course, he does. he stands at the edge of the bed where you reside, waiting for you to say something more.

your still shaky hand grabs his, holding it to your face.

"you freaked me out. i didn't know where you were."

now he feels like the most evil person in the entire world. "i'm sorry, honey. you were so tired today, i didn't want to wake you.."

your hand tightens on his, frowning with big, wet eyes.

"its okay. you scared me really bad."

he immediately frowned, getting back in bed and holding the back of your head gently, bringing you back to him. your head rests on the side of his chest as you always do, his hand rubbing down to your back.

"oh, baby, im sorry. we've been through too much. i should've woken you up."

you hum, hands gripping onto his shirt faintly. "we've just had days where i wake up and you really are gone."

whether it be a client that he was to take, or your time in the capitol during the rebellion, you've woken up screaming and didn't have him to wash the nightmares away.

finnick holds you like you're glass, and rests his head on the top of yours. "yeah, we have. but we never will again, yeah? nothings getting in our way."

ugh. that capitol darling charm wasn't all conjured. he always could say the sweetest things. you smiled against his chest, and nodded.

"goodnight. i love you."

"i love you too."

the ticking stopped.

hii i guess this is a part two to my first fic but they can exist apart from each other so woo!! also soosososo happy with the positive reception on my first fic i was very nervous!! also omg writing finnick fics is making me SO tired of the blue theme i have to write for someone else

[finnickodaired]

Capitol Charades

Faking a relationship for the cameras was easy. Faking that it wasn’t love? Not so much.

In a city where secrets shimmer as brightly as sequins, you—an ambitious Capitol-born PR manager—find yourself entangled in a publicity stunt pairing you with none other than Finnick Odair, the Capitol's beloved golden heartthrob from District 4. It’s supposed to be fake. Just for the headlines. A little charm, a flirtatious comment here, another one there, and a lot of pretending.

But between extravagant galas, stolen laughs behind curtains, and rebellion simmering just beneath the surface, your staged romance starts to feel... real. And maybe, just maybe, the boy with sea-salt eyes and a crooked smile isn’t acting either.

🦢 previous part | next part

Chapter One: The Proposal

You’ve never been fond of elevators—they reek of sterilized roses and metal, too clean and too still, like the Capitol's version of suspense.

The elevator glides upward with a quiet hum, but your nerves are anything but quiet. 

You smooth down the folds of your dress, not because you care what the Capitol officials think, but because you need your hands to do something other than tremble. 

Your tablet glows in your grip, filled with PR timelines, gossip-control schedules, and one bold, blinking headline: FAKE RELATIONSHIP INITIATIVE: ODYSSEY EDITION.

The Capitol has come up with another stunt—this time to soften Finnick Odair’s “public volatility.” In other words, his growing refusal to play puppet.

Your job? Be his charming, chic, effortlessly compelling fake lover. The Capitol’s sweetheart. His red carpet arm-candy. Your stylist title may remain intact on paper, but this isn’t fashion work. This is survival theatre.

The elevator dings. You step into the Capitol’s PR Ministry’s top floor—where perfumes are stronger than principles.

A panel of advisors greets you in a glass room. Snow isn’t here, but his presence might as well be, carved into the cold.

“You’ll be introduced to Finnick today,” one of them says briskly. “Your relationship will debut publicly next week. You’ll begin rehearsals immediately—timeline, story, first scandal leak, the usual.”

You nod. Not because you agree, but because resistance gets people vanished.

Finnick Odair is late.

You’re halfway through reviewing a dossier on fabricated love story points: how you met—an accidental collision at a charity event, the first kiss—a spontaneous spark under the city lights, and the first official outing—a polished appearance at a Capitol charity gala—when the doors swing open.

And there he is.

Everything about him is exactly, if not more than what you've heard from people. A literal Greek god—tousled bronze hair, sun-kissed skin, sea-green eyes, unbuttoned shirt that somehow passes as formal. He moves like someone used to being watched.

He offers a smile that could make ministers blush and interns faint.

“They said you’d be punctual,” he says, sliding into the seat beside you with the ease of someone slipping into a velvet chaise. “And stunning. They were only wrong about the first part.”

You blink. “They said you’d be charming. They forgot to mention the ego. Or the inability to read a clock.”

His grin widens, borderline criminal. “Ego’s just confidence with better lighting. And I find arriving late makes an entrance more cinematic. You looked like you were about to die of boredom anyway.”

“I was enjoying the peace. You’ve interrupted it.”

“Interrupting’s one of my better talents. That and synchronized swimming, in case you were wondering.”

You give him a look. “I wasn’t.”

“Shame. It’s quite the visual.”

You sigh. You’d expected flirtation, but not so soon. Still, the press is already watching—even from behind one-way glass. You offer a stiff, PR-grade smile.

“Shall we begin?”

He leans in, voice low. “Already feels like the honeymoon phase.”

Hours pass. You’re both debriefed on the fake relationship. Capitol media will run a special titled A Love Written in Waves. There will be a countryside retreat, cohabitation, slow-burn tension. “Natural chemistry,” they say. “Audience payoff.”

You’ll have to play along: staged kisses, rehearsed affection, carefully curated moments of vulnerability.

Finnick doesn't object once.

Neither do you. But under the table, your fingers curl into a fist.

Later, while waiting for the hovercar to take you both to your “love nest,” he turns to you.

“I know what this is,” he says, softer now. “It’s all an illusion. But you’re not.”

You glance over.

“I’ll play my part,” he adds. “But I won’t make it harder than it has to be.”

For the first time all day, you believe him.

“Thank you,” you say.

He smiles again—but gentler this time. “You don’t have to like me, you know.”

You exhale. “Good. I don’t.”

He chuckles. “But you might.”

You glance away. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

And just like that, the charade begins—not with fireworks or kisses, but with two strangers agreeing to lie beautifully, in a world that rewards the most convincing masks.

[finnickodaired]

( ☆ ) . * before he feels alone one final time and marries the sea . . . imagine being loved by me !!

f!victor!reader x finnick odair — finnick odair masterlist

starry’s sweets — order #012

ask : “hey loveeee, can i have a medium strawberry tiramisu with oreo crumbles and chocolate chips?” — anon

summary : visits to the capitols for parties and events as a victor is something you’re used to. having to share your hotel room with the capitol’s golden boy is something you never thought you would have to do. you know finnick odair’s reputation as a man who takes many lovers. you never realized how none of his lovers ever really loved him.

warnings : suggestive content! they have sex but i dont actually write that part, really sweet though, but also a little sad, mentions of beauty standards/slight body shaming to conform to beauty standards, mentions of forced prostitution

word count : 1.8k

You hate the Capitol. At least, you hate most things about the Capitol. You hate what it all stands for, you hate the Hunger Games, you hate your stupid fucking president. You hate the parties and events that you’re made to go to, to be the face for as one of the “prettier” victors. Your stylist dresses you up in silks and chiffon, bedazzle you with jewels and glitter until you’re indistinguishable from a sparkling mirror ball. 

Sometimes you drink your sorrows away. Other times you take as many treats and hor d’oeuvres as you can without getting caught and reprimanded by your Capitol escort to eat away your frustrations, because as much as you despise the Capitol, the food is amazing. You have to stay in the Capitol for days at a time for some events. You’re given an apartment for your longer stays, the ones that last weeks, up to a month. On shorter ones, like this, you get a hotel room. A nice hotel room, but still one of glass and too many cameras for your comfort.

You’re returning to your hotel room one night after some sort of fete or ball, wobbling in your stilettos. The only thing on your mind is your goal of taking a shower as soon as possible, to wash off the body glitter and the feeling of the creeping hands of the older men at the lavish parties. 

You open the door into your room, only having been there earlier in the day to drop off your scarce luggage, expecting to find an empty room and your suitcase. Instead, you see a man you recognize: Finnick Odair. You knew he won his Games only a few years before yours. You’ve seen each other at parties, each year when you had to mentor new tributes. You never talked, hardly acknowledged each other. You were never sure why, but you didn’t ever really like Finnick that much. He seemed cocky, too self-assured, as if he knew everything, and, if he didn’t, that he would know everything soon enough by flashing a smile at the right time or winking at the right person.

“Why the fuck are you in my room?” you ask, having no more care for decorum. 

You’re exhausted, your feet hurt, and the dress your stylist and prep team stuck you in is too small, as they wanted to suck you in a bit to make you look prettier. You wanted to slap them. You did slap one of them. You lost the fight, unfortunately, as clawed fingers seemed to be the growing trend in Capitol citizens, and you earned various scratches not unlike the ones you gained from the alley cat you found once as a child.

You don’t give Finnick any time to answer, just continuing to interrogate him. “Are you here to sleep with me or something? Because that’s a new fucking low for you, Odair,” you say. “I expect this shit from creepy Capitol guys, the ones with the fucking— clunky rings and caviar-breath that think they can buy me or something, maybe even from the women, but a fellow victor? I mean, why me, even? Why not one of those pretty girls that keep throwing themselves at you? That one girl that has the big hot pink beehive for a wig is pretty, isn’t she? I’m sure she’d be willing to fuck you.”

Finnick doesn’t seem angry or upset with you as you go off on him, instead looking amused, still just sat on the edge of the bed. “Are you done?” he asks, giving you a tired smile, nothing like the ones you’ve seen him give to Capitol ladies or Caesar Flickerman. 

“No,” you lie, arms crossing across your chest.

“Then, please,” he gestures for you to keep going, “be my guest.”

You stare at him for a moment, a pissed off expression on your face. You don’t have anymore actual words for him, but you’re hoping the death-stare you’re giving him can convey what the English language can’t.

Finnick presses his lips together, clearly holding back a laugh, before saying “I’m not here to have sex with you.”

“Then why the fuck are you here?” 

“Well— I mean, I’m here because I’m supposed to have sex with you. But I don’t want to,” he starts, then backtracks. “Not because I don’t want to, I mean, you’re pretty, extremely pretty. But that’s not my intention. Even though it’s the reason I’m here in the first place—”

“For Panem’s sweetheart you’re a lot worse with girls than I thought you’d be,” you scoff, still glaring at him.

Finnick laughs at your jab before starting again. “Right. Okay. I’m supposed to ‘have sex’ with you,” he says, miming air-quotes around ‘have sex.’ “Apparently, Snow wants it to look like we’re having this whole secret affair and it’s all dramatic because we’re from different Districts and I’m supposed to never be committed and all of that. But technically, no one will know if we have sex or not, so if you don’t want to, we don’t need to do anything. I can sleep on the settee. I just need to be ‘caught’ leaving your hotel room in the morning and we can fake it.”

“And I should believe you why?”

“You could always ask Snow,” he says. “I honestly thought he told you and you were also in on this whole ridiculous scheme.”

“I guess he didn’t think I should know the own details of my fake love life,” you huff, finally walking further into the room and sitting down on the bed next to him, the mattress making a flumph sound. 

“I’m sorry,” Finnick offers.

“Why are you apologizing?” you ask. “It’s not your fault.”

“Someone should apologize. It’s not my fault but I am involved.”

You only shrug. The two of you sit in silence for a few moments, you fiddling with one of the gaudy bangles on your wrist before you speak up. “Do you want to have sex?” you ask.

“Do you want to?” he asks back.

“I asked first. You answer first.”

“I want whatever you want,” he says simply.

“You know you don’t have to lie,” you say, looking into his eyes. You expected his trademark cockiness, maybe some sort of lust in them. All you got was an underlying sense of fear, worry. 

“Who says I’m lying?”

“I do,” you say, reaching out to grasp his hand in yours. It’s shaking, ever so slightly. “You know you can’t just agree to sex because the other person wants it.”

“I know that,” he argues. “It doesn’t mean that’s how it goes, though.”

You don’t respond verbally, but you nod in understanding.

“Do you want to?” he asks softly.

“You haven’t answered my question yet,” you say. 

“I did.”

“No. You lied, it doesn’t count,” you argue. 

“I didn’t lie. I meant it. It’s whatever you want. You’re attractive and I’m not ashamed to admit that. We’re supposed to be having sex anyway, so no consequences. And if you want, I’ll take care of you. But only if you want it.”

“I don’t need to be taken care of,” you start, and continue before he can butt in, “but I think you do.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, looking genuinely confused.

“I see you during the Games each year,” you say. “Always taking care of your tributes. Taking care of Mags as she gets older each year. Always serving the Capitol ladies who you keep flirting with. You’re always giving. And I know that because I have to give too. I’m not another Capitol citizen, Finnick. I’m like you.”

“So?”

“So let someone else take care of you for once,” you say softly, hand leaving his and instead moving to cup his face, your thumb tracing over his cheekbone. 

Finnick looks at you for a moment, his eyes softening as he shakes his head. “I don’t know how,” he admits.

“Can I kiss you?” you ask him. He’s taken aback at your question, as if no one had ever asked before. Finnick nods but it’s not good enough. “Words,” you prompt further.

“Yes,” he breathes out, eyes closing.

You tilt your head up and kiss him, it’s slow and gentle and nothing like what he’s used to. Your fingers tangle in his hair but you don’t tug. You kiss down his neck but you never bite. You grip tightly onto his shoulders but you’re careful to not let your nails dig in. You let him lead, let him tell you what he wants, but you do most of the work as you trail your lips down his throat, down his body. You listen to him. Even if he doesn’t outright tell you to stop or slow down, you manage to determine it from his body language, reminding him that it’s okay to say no, that it’s okay to ask to stop. For once in his life, Finnick Odair lets someone take care of him.

“Are you alright?” you ask him afterwards, as you’re tangled up next to each other in the sheets.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly.

“It’s okay to not know,” you say. “It’s okay to not be okay.”

“I don’t think I’ve been okay since I was 14,” he says bitterly.

“I know,” you say, sighing. 

“But I feel like I can pretend everything is okay right now,” he admits. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Here, in this room, with you. Closed off from the world for a few hours. Everything feels okay.”

“Will it be?” you ask.

“I hope so. One day, in the future.”

“What are we doing, Finnick?” you ask. “What is this going to be.”

“What do you want it to be?”

“What do you want it to be?”

“I asked first,” he says, repeating your words from earlier that night. “You answer first.”

“I want it to be us. I want it to be real and not something made up by Snow to stir up drama for the Capitol assholes to eat up like some sort of movie or romance book.”

“I want that too.”

“Do you really?” you asks, slightly doubtful.

“Yeah. I don’t know how much I really want it yet, since we’ve just properly met maybe an hour ago. But I’ve seen you every year since you’ve won your Games. I see you at the parties, how you are with your tributes, especially the younger ones,” he says, pulling you closer. “I see you. But I want to know you.”

You smile, eyes closing, melting into his touch. “I want you to know me. And I want to know you.”

“Then I’ll let you.”

“The real you,” you say. 

“I know,” he murmurs. “You will.”

“You promise?” you mumble, starting to fall asleep now.

“I swear it,” he says, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “On everything I have. On everything that I am.”

a/n: lmao sorry if this is lowkey unhinged and also bad i wrote this in like 2 hours i started at 2:16am according to google docs version history and stopped at 4:26am so like yeah.

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