#does capitolization matter or..

[sol-dial]

*Drops lazy art and scurries back into the void*

In my Marvel era I guess, I think they’re kinda neat ٩( ᐛ )و

[sapphicathenas]

anyone else thinking about effie spending 24 years watching haymitch completely fall apart. effie, who met haymitch by accident, who knows exactly what kind of person he is, who sees him every year on his birthday for 24 years and each year he’s drunker, each year he’s angrier, each year he’s faster to give up. and then they get katniss and peeta. peeta, who is kind and open and understanding, who refuses to give up on haymitch. and katniss, who is so much like haymitch at 16 that it hurts. and over the few days they’re together, effie watches haymitch come back to life. watches him try. watches him have hope. and then they get to keep not one but both of those kids. they get to come home. and then, less then a year later, effie pulls haymitch’s name at the reaping.

[waywardangel-wilds]

In your opinion would Katniss accept other people besides her insulting or disrespecting hijacked Peeta?

We see this in canon. Nope.

Katniss hears Gale as well as the other soldiers say things about hijacked Peeta. There's a limit to what she'll let slide. 'Oh, he's a capitol mutt /we can't trust him,' passes but it is still stretching it. 'Let's kill him!' Now, motherfucker, you back the fuck up. That kind of thing.

She's not going to be okay with anyone outright antagonizing him for no actual reason, regardless of what state Peeta's in. She thinks she 'owes' him that much, at the very least.

But then, she also doesn't seem to want people agitating him. If there are moments where Peeta starts to struggle with his own mind and someone makes it worse, she's not going to like that. Think about when they're in the star squad or even the cafeteria scene, Katniss hates seeing him like that because it hurts her. She might be misdirecting her emotions towards being unfair to him, but that doesn't mean she gets any joy out of watching him suffer. It's the opposite, it makes her feel awful, like it's her fault.

So in short no, there's no universe where Katniss is okay with anyone treating Peeta badly, especially in front of her. It will always affect her because he's rooted himself somewhere deep inside of her and she can't seem to get him out. That's for life baby!

[mitsuki91]

Saying that Lucy Gray never loved Coriolanus Snow and just "perform it" is buying into Billy Taupe narrative... Just saying.

[southsidewrites]

not me, writing frantically to finish my fic before the new Hunger Games book comes out an nukes it right out of canon compliance

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT prologue, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, blood, violence, murder, manipulation, grief, hallucinations, intense survival situations. HUNGER GAMES EEKEKEKEKEEK

main masterlist | tag list | next

you practically volunteer for death with a smile on your face.

the sky is too blue for bloodshed. but the flags flap like they know what’s coming. red, black, and concrete gray, colors that mean order. control. victory.

your boots hit the stone square in time with a hundred others. it smells like sweat, steel, and the stale echo of war. no one cries here. they only clench their jaws tighter.

the stage looms. peacekeepers gleam like statues. the man with the mic is already smiling with his perfect teeth, slick voice. the reaping bowl is silver and deep, shimmering like a trap.

they call a name. not yours. but you step forward anyway. you say it loud, “i volunteer as tribute.”

your voice cuts through the silence like a blade. cheers erupt, not for you, but for the performance. and you grin.

you take the girl’s place, step onto the stage. raise your chin like your mother told you to. and then they call the boy’s name. and that’s when the blood begins.

another boy shoves forward. bigger. older. louder. he doesn’t want to wait to die. he wants the glory, the blood, the roar of the crowd.

but the name already belongs to him. the quiet one, the one with the sharp collar and colder eyes, the one whose father whispered into the right ears.

he doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask permission, just moves. and when it’s over, the bigger boy is choking on the stage, teeth cracked like glass, blood puddling under his skull.

the real tribute stands above him, bruised, breathing like a machine, lip split open and dripping down his chin.

you watch it all. you don’t blink once. this is what you signed up for.

the man with the mic stammers something patriotic, something rehearsed, and then,

“rafe cameron and y/n y/l/n, this year’s tributes for district two!”

you reach for him. he wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist, smearing red across the curve of his hand. then he grips yours with that same hand, tight, unflinching.

you raise your arms together. blood paints the space between your fingers. the cameras catch it all.

the crowd goes fucking feral. you’re smiling like you’ve won already. he’s not smiling at all. and somehow, that’s worse.

you don’t look like heroes. you don’t look like victims. you look like monsters. and somewhere far away, on a train bound for the capitol, other tributes watch this moment play on a screen, and feel the first true pang of fear.

district two is coming. and it’s already soaked in red.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms

THIS SERIES will have literally teasing psycho rafe & silent killer reader probably. i wanna make it brutal, bloody, violent, but also raw and vulnerable eventually! theyre still humans at the end of the day. there are just a few things to know:

ONE theyre obviously from district 2. rafes dad is a peacekeeper, or something related to that. for the reader its undecided tbh but u guys can give me ideas if u want!! rafes family exists but i doubt we’ll hear much from them.

TWO reader is unfortunately one of the careers who are brainwashed into training to volunteer someday and represent their district. rafe has his own similar reason that we’ll get into in this series soon!!

THREE i might put up a poll for u guys to decide whether we pull the “lovers who die together”, “lovers where one dies and the other wins”, “lovers who win together because fuck katniss & peeta i guess” cards, so the ending is entirely up to u guys!!

LET ME KNOW if u would like to be part of this tag list, i’ll take a break from shameless to rewatch or reread thg idc. im having sm ideas now that SOTR came out LOL

[yeahyankee]

I think what the Target Pride fiasco proves is that it’s always been okay for the so called “Silent Majority” to riot and have their demands met. They don’t apparently even have to actually show up and do any damage—just threatening a literal company online is enough.

However, anyone outside that in-group, who isn’t on the January 6th Death Cult Committee —is of course, a criminal and a danger to society, even when we *peacefully protest*.

It’s always been this bullshit from the WWII Cosplay Fascists—and they’re counting on everyone else’s respect of politeness to get them over the policy finish line.

Oh but—remember when stores like Walmart, Target boarded up their stores during COVID because they were afraid that desperate people trapped inside a lockdown would rob them? Yeah.

[effieotto]

Sunrise on the reaping bellow, you know the drill

“I know that,” she says. “I’ve known who you are ever since you helped with my makeup box. And I know your position could not have been easy.”

It’s surprisingly touching. “Thanks, Effie.”

“But they really are for a greater good. The Hunger Games.” And now she’s lost me.

this scene really struck me, because…does she really think that? I find it funny how fast she recognized the anti-government edge of her speech, implying that “she knows his position could not have been easy, thus she felt sorry he had to go through it”, and how it went against the whole purpose of how it was all the great sacrifice she was supposed to believe, and just as fast made sure to reaffirm that it all was for a greater good. Even though it sounded out of place.

Stay with me —since the beginning, when she broke into the apartment with those outfits in hand, telling everyone they should work hard because “A lot of people lost their lives to guarantee peace and prosperity for their nation”, effie wasn’t giving her opinion on the matter, she was repeating the propaganda the government sold. Word for word.

which reminds me how she wasn’t clueless to the consequences of their acts during the first two books. How upset she was every time Katniss did something reckless, because she knew it was going to affect “all of them”. How she knew about Seneca’s not-quite-suicide, and was terrified to know that Katniss did know too…all of it doesn’t imply the sky-level of ignorance we usually associate with her.

the trinkets were somehow disgraced in society, hence effie had to do the double duty of clawing her way back into the high class to be respected in the field and still try to protect her sister’s reputation and, more likely than not, her safety. This was hard labor and it probably gave her some privileged knowledge of how it all really worked. She was the victim of a dictatorship, and i feel like she knew exactly what it meant…she did believe in the propaganda Snow sold, at some level,but she also knew she didn’t have a choice of supporting it or not

which brings us back to the scene— effie was in the bugged apartment of District Twelve with a dozen of peacekeepers standing right behind her, her little speech about her recognizing haymitch as a real person, and feeling sorry (or the closest thing of remorse she could afford) was risky (if you know how not-understanding a dictator is when it comes down to anti-government speeches, you know that she was in danger only for feeling sorry) and she knew that. she had a sister, she had a reputation, she had a family and friends, and years of life…is it really a surprise that she would jump right into her parrot-mood when she noticed she was that close to imply she didn’t really agreed with the whole ordeal?

Was Effie truly a loyalist who buys into the capitol propaganda, or is she just a person under a totalitarian regime who knows the boundaries of safety? She was terrified of the president, you can see that when she said “HE asked you to wear it”. she had people to lose, she had her own safety on the line, should she risk it all for a boy she barely knew?

I am not saying she didn’t have her controversial opinion, or that she didn’t believe in the idea that the games guaranteed her safety. What i am saying is that she saw it more like an unavoidable social dutty than a necessity, and she’s aware that she couldn’t speak against it if she wanted to see the sun rising the next day. She is a much more complex character than just “a selfish loyalist who truly buys the entire propaganda” or the “innocent daughter of Panem”

[lucilleslore]

coriolanus snow with a wife who’s just a little bit spoiled. who’s just a little bit of a brat. who likes to spend his newly acquired money just as much as he does. who can’t be told the word no ever. who always has the newest clothes, the prettiest jewels. who has whole rooms in the mansion dedicated to her pretty things. she’s got exquisite taste, a capitol jewel all in her own right with the way she sets trends, the way she commands attention.

and you’ve always got his. your coryo, your president. who comes home in the evening and happily watches you try on all your new things. who’s eyes glint with hunger when you show him your new lingerie or your new satin slips for bed. he practically starts drooling, shifting his hips uncomfortably until you drop down to your knees, crawling towards him on all fours because of course you have to thank your provider. have to take care of him for working so hard just so you can have pretty things :(

he’s riveted by you. by those doe eyes and pouty lips and the cute scrunch you get between your brows when you don’t get what you want right away. never did coriolanus think he’d be brought to his knees by love of all things or even if he did he thought he’d be with someone docile, pliant who lives to please him but with you it feels like it’s reversed. when you start palming him through his slacks, blinking prettily up at him; he has to admit that he’ll keep you forever, no matter what it takes.

‘i’m obsessed with you,’ he’d murmur under his breath. he thumbs at your bottom lip, over and over again as if under a spell. you’re only half paying attention; hands wandering over his zipper to get his cock out, mind wandering to how good you look in that shade of blue and what else you can get in that colour. you hum, leaning forward to press a wet kiss to the leaky head of his dick. you ignore the way coryos hips buck, the way his head tips back. ‘there’s this new bag i’m obsessed with. it’s so beautiful coryo, you have to see.’

‘you can have it baby.’ the words come out broken as you take him into your mouth and he can’t help but chuckle darkly after at the way your eyes light up, the way you moan around him and the way your thighs tense together. spoiled brat, getting off on getting her own way. coryo forgets about it all though when you take him deeper, saliva starting to drip down your chin and he likes it when you get like this. so appreciative and grateful, showing him what a good girl you really are.

‘there’s something else i want,’ you say sweetly, eyes flickering between coryos baby blues and the hot length of him in your hand, wet from your mouth. now it’s you who’s drooling, eyes practically begging him to fuck you. you’re sliding your underwear to the side needily, fingers already playing with your puffy clit.

‘you can have that too,’ coryo agrees, hands already there to grip you when you scramble onto his lap. you’re immediately lining yourself up over him, whining when his tip slips inside. ‘you can have all of it.’

[etherealily]

same page? // f.odair

My other Finnick fics, if you have the time.

This was from my poll .

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

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

Desc. : Panem's most publicized situationship.

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Make them speculate.

Make them wonder.

Distract them.

Entice them.

Convince them.

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

"He didn't say."

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

You took a sip of your champagne.

Listen, Finnick Odair was a fucking menace.

Seven years. Seven years of this shit.

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

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

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

"Which we won't."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snow thought Panem would like that.

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

"Off.", you replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait, what?

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

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

"Why are you always here?"

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

"I'm here for the same reason."

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

No way was he actually letting anyone lip read this.

"Caesar's not here, is he?"

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

"I will not have you judge me."

"Let me kiss you, Y/N."

"What?"

"Please."

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

"Same page?"

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

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

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

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

You acquiesced.

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

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

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

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

"Finnick, Finnick, wait—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like so much, and I—"

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

He frowned, making unintelligible noises against your hand.

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

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

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

"Finnick?"

"I'm... a failure."

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

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

Johanna motherfucking Mason.

"Johanna?"

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

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

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

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

"Katniss Everdeen, yes. The Mockingjay."

"Jesus, you guys are all fuckwits."

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

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

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

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

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

"You can't kill Snow."

"Watch me, sweetheart."

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

"We know."

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

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

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

"You're going back into the Arena!"

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

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

"What?"

"Snow wants - needs - Katniss dead."

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

"We have to."

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

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

Good lord, you were fucking surrounded by idiots.

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

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

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

"Beautiful, right?"

"Yes."

"Do you know it controls the tides?"

"What?"

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

"Tides change?"

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

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

"I want to go home."

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

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

You'd closed your eyes to do just that.

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

Sweetest boy on Earth, he was back then.

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

A knock.

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

"Can I come in?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Same page?"

"I'd say we are."

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

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

"I thought not."

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

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

"What? Finnick—"

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

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

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

"FINNICK!"

"What?!"

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

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

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

He had a habit of doing that.

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

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

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

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

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

He hadn't, though.

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

How lovely everything had seemed.

How excited you looked.

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

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

This, though? This argument had thrown him for a loop. You had a point. One he hadn't thought of.

"I'm—", you sighed once more, shaking your head. "Hey, I'm sorry, I... that was harsh."

He bit the inside of his bottom lip. "Mm."

"Finnick, I really am."

"Yeah, I know. I just... what if we don't fail, though?"

Wish(on the moon)ful thinking.

"Then great. But is that a chance you really want to take?"

"What if it is?" It's quiet in your room, and his response is almost engulfed in the silence, but you manage to catch it.

"Don't you think that's what the First Rebels thought?"

You were just dynamite today, weren't you? Finnick loved it when you were like this, but a tiny bit less when it was directed against him.

At least he knew he was an inch closer to receiving your amazing hugs.

"Yeah. Yeah, no, for sure."

You nodded softly, and then he kissed you.

And once more, corruption blossomed on your lips. "But you're deluded if you think when we're in that arena, I'm letting you kill Katniss."

"I won't have to if my theory is right."

"What theory?", he scoffed against your lips, pulling you closer as his hands crept up into your hair.

"That Snow will do things specifically to kill Katniss, and the only way anything will ever work is if you, I dunno, find a way to save Katniss and yourself and Peeta and Joha—"

"We're hacking into the arena."

He really hated kissing you when you didn't reciprocate, but he had to for the next few seconds when you froze, before pulling you away. "What?"

"We're... I can't tell you, but we've got District 3 in on it, they're going to get a wire and basically, like—"

"What, blow up the arena? Are you sure you're feeling okay? Are you still hungover?", you asked, placing your palm on his forehead.

He rolled his eyes, taking it in his and kissing it once. "I promise, I am perfectly fine. And yes, we have a solid plan—"

"Holy shit, this is what you meant by 'the Capitol Patrons give me information' ? I figured it was about the next Games, so you could help your tributes win, not... fuck, Finnick! This is treason!"

"I DON'T GIVE A SHIT!"

You glared at him as he stood in sheer fury. "I'm sorry for yelling."

Wow. Sweetest boy on earth and you'd made him miserable. How do you do it?

"It's alright."

"I don't care that it's treason, alright? But we need to end this bullshit. Okay? So I will ask you for the last ever time, Y/N, because you know that whatever you say next will affect whether we see each other again. Are you with us?"

You licked your lips, picking at the duvet. "Can I have some time?"

"Reaping Day."

"Reaping Day?"

"Reaping Day. I'm not even kidding."

Yeah, he almost never was.

Fuck.

"I'll tell you by Reaping Day."

"Okay."

He didn't leave. It was a long moment of either meeting or vehemently avoiding each others eyes.

"I'm sorry about the yelling.", he repeated.

"You're not volunteering."

"What?" He was halfway out the door when you said it, and he was this close to slamming it.

"If you're not reaped, you take it as the odds being in your favor and shut up. Alright?"

He turned to you, slamming the door and leaning on it with crossed arms. Incredulity painted his face. "Are you kidding me?"

"No."

"Who are you to order me around? Fucking Snow?"

"I'm—"

"Who?! My on-screen-propaganda-lover?!"

That stung more than you'd expected it to.

"Fine. Fuck you! Go ahead and volunteer. Like a fucking dumbass. Go get yourself killed because you can't handle the truth! This is how it is and how it'll always be!"

"It doesn't have to!"

"Yeah, tell that to District 13!"

"Oh, if only you fucking knew!"

"Knew what?! That your half-baked 'plan' is bound to fail?!"

"If you're such a fucking loyalist, go tell Snow the big 'half-baked' plan!"

"Maybe I will!"

"Yeah, go! Go right now, scurry off, become the fearless Savior of Panem, the title of the Most Loyal goes to you!"

You stood, attempting to shoulder past him, but honestly, you should've known better. He grabbed your arm. "If you're going, stay on your knees in front of him so we can shoot you in the back of your head when we storm the Capitol." Pretty picture he could paint, you'd give him that. He could paint a dazzling romance and a grisly murder all just with words.

"That's if you do it. You won't."

"Yeah? Watch us."

You mirrored his clenched jaw. "Let. Go."

"You don't like me holding you?", he asked, tilting his head in mock curiosity.

"No."

"In the Snow regime, in the Capitol, sweetheart, that word has no meaning.", he spat.

"Does treason? Does murder? Does anarchy?"

"Snow gave you a comprehensive list of his favourite vocabulary, how cute."

"Oh, fuck off, Finnick, alright? Let go."

"Are you with us?" He shook your arm.

"No!"

"Are you with us?" More desperation this time. But he knew you, and his eyes held a calm that suggested he knew exactly where your heart lay. With him. With the idea of a free Panem.

"I'm not!"

"ARE YOU WITH US?!", he snapped, finally yelling once more.

"YES!"

The silence had snuck back in unnannounced.

"This is why I love you. You're a fucking trip."

Great. You were not only having to play an innocent, his lover and now a rebel, but you were also, evidently, to play jester for him, since he thought you were so fucking amusing.

"Do the cameras love you as much as I do?"

Oh, my god, he was being funny now, was he?

"Don't die.", you scoffed.

"Not if you won't. Same page?"

You scrambled to come up with a plan. Rig District 4's reaping? Fucking how? Beg Heavensbee for a glimpse into the arena? You barely knew if he was actually on your side, no matter how much Finnick seemed to trust him. Tell Snow and not include Finnick or Johanna or Katniss or — okay, too many variables. Oh! Wait! When he was busy protecting Katniss in the arena, you'd be busy protecting him. Okay. Could work. Right, okay.

He kissed your temple, looking down at you expectantly. He had no idea what he'd do if you hated his gift. "Right.", he muttered, after a little while of watching you play with the hem of his shirt. "I gave you till Reaping Day."

You nodded, and he whistled lowly, looking out at the window, his eyes brightening. "But... you know it's Full Moon Day today.", he grinned.

So you two sat there watching the moon for... quite a while, actually.

Wishing that the other would just fucking listen for once.

Finnick Odair was a fucking menace.

But he was also the sweetest boy you knew.

So, if you had to be on the same page, you would be.

"Same page.", you affirmed, finally, when it got too late and his hands went slack around your shoulder, and your eyes started getting heavy. You were truly, in entire honesty, unable to fathom a future where the rebellion worked and Panem was free.

But your plan was at least still intact. No matter how this clearly poorly thought out rebellion went.

At least, with your plan, he'd be alright, either way.

At least he'd live.

[humaling]

Two Victors, One Closet II

pairings: finnick odair x reader

summary: it's the 70th hunger games victor party and somehow, finnick manage to convince you with his stupid deal.

warnings: finnick being a lil shit, usual hunger games, mentions of death and blood

word count: 4.5k

author's note: ask and u shall receive! i'm thinking of making this into a mini series but idk

part one

It’s another Capitol party—loud, garish, and painfully predictable. The air is thick with artificial scents, laughter that doesn’t quite reach the eyes, and the clinking of glasses filled with glittering drinks. The people here are draped in some twisted imitation of District 4 fashion—ocean-inspired, but exaggerated to the point of absurdity. Flowing fabrics mimic the movement of waves, bodices are studded with pearls and seashells, and someone even had the audacity to wear a shimmering shark tail. You caught a glimpse of it earlier, just as you were picking through some poor excuse for District 4 delicacies. The sight was ridiculous enough to make you pause, but you chalked it up to a trick of the light and moved on.

The newest victor is Annie Cresta—you think that’s her name. You didn’t bother to check again after your tributes were slaughtered at the hands of her partner. As soon as the cannon sounded, sealing their fate, you turned off the screen and went home. Their screams had already burrowed deep into your skull, breaking through walls you thought were impenetrable.

You were sure they would make it. You had done everything right this time, every lesson tailored to the arena’s secrets. You got wind of the dam that would break midway through the Games and planned accordingly. You pulled strings, demanded swimming training, and drilled them relentlessly until they could navigate a flood with their eyes closed. How do you know that skill so well? That’s a secret you don’t share.

Finnick caught on quickly. He always does. He didn’t ask outright, just gave you that knowing look before offering his help. On one condition—his tributes got the same training. You agreed, of course. You even went a step further, teaching Marcus, his male tribute, a few hand-to-hand combat tricks.

And then he used those very tricks against your tributes. Killed them with techniques you had burned into their bones. The betrayal of it gnawed at you, but what ate you alive was the way Marcus died. Drowned, unable to swim through the flood. The very skill that should have saved him—would have saved him if he'd actually listened—became his downfall.

You should have felt guilty. You should have mourned him, the way you mourned your own tributes. But when you heard how he died, you felt nothing but relief.

You click your tongue the moment you spot the familiar Capitol couple—Cecilia and Felix, striding toward you with their usual air of forced familiarity. No matter how many times you've brushed them off, ignored their greetings, or given them the coldest of stares, they always come back. Like flies to a corpse.

At this point, you’ve stopped trying. You’re too drained to care, too weighed down by exhaustion to put up a fight. The sleepless nights have piled onto your shoulders, pressing down until even standing upright feels like an effort.

“It’s a shame none of your tributes made it,” Cecilia chirps, voice light as if discussing the weather. She’s smiling. Smiling. You learned her name recently, when your escort wouldn’t shut up about some designer and their latest collection. Two of the featured models were—of course—this couple.

Felix, her husband, nods in agreement. “I heard you went out of your way this time. I am very sorry for your loss,” he says smoothly, reaching out to pat your shoulder. His gloved hand lands gently, but the touch burns. It’s mocking.

Your body tenses instantly, throat tightening. The phantom sounds of your tributes’ screams claw at the back of your mind, but you push them down. Your hands ball into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms.

You force yourself to swallow, then clear your throat. A small, polite smile stretches across your lips—perfect, practiced, empty. “Thanks.”

The word is flat, dry, hollow. It doesn’t match the sweetness of your expression, but you don’t care. Let them figure it out. Let them stand there, picking apart the mismatch, trying to decide whether or not to pry further. You’re done with this conversation before it even begins.

Everything feels artificial. The lights, the music, the laughter, the meaningless conversations. You just want to go home and hope the sun never shines on you again.

Felix’s hand finally lifts from your shoulder, but his presence lingers like a stain. He and Cecilia don’t move on, don’t take the hint. Instead, they exchange a glance before launching into whatever pressing Capitol affair has them so invested tonight.

“I heard President Snow is hosting a private gathering next week,” Cecilia hums, taking a sip of her glittering drink. The liquid glows under the chandelier light, swirling like molten gold. “Very exclusive. Only the most influential guests are invited.”

Felix nods, feigning casual disinterest, but his chest is puffed slightly. “Naturally, we’ll be attending.”

Their voices blend into the background almost instantly. Muffled, meaningless, unimportant. The words reach your ears, but they don’t stick. They slide off, fading into the constant hum of Capitol chatter, the clinking of glasses, the laughter that isn’t real.

Because suddenly, everywhere you look, they’re there.

At the buffet table, a girl reaches for a platter of oysters, her sleeve sliding up to reveal a delicate wrist. Too thin. Too familiar. Your chest tightens. It’s the same kind of wrist your tribute had, small and bony, barely strong enough to hold a weapon but fast—so, so fast yet not fast enough to evade an attack from behind.

To your left, a young man throws his head back in laughter, his golden curls catching the light. The same golden curls that were matted with blood when the cannon fired.

Your breath hitches. Your grip tightens around your glass.

The marble floor beneath your feet tilts, just slightly, but enough to make you dizzy. It’s like the world is shifting, bending, pulling you somewhere you don’t want to go.

Cecilia keeps talking, oblivious. “And have you seen the latest trend? Surgical gills! The idea is simply revolutionary.”

A woman nearby brushes past, her perfume suffocating. The scent—saltwater and something sharp, metallic—copper?—hits you like a fist to the ribs. It drags you back, plunges you under.

You see your tribute’s face—eyes blown wide, mouth gasping for air that will never come. You remember the way she clawed at her throat, the way her hands, small and trembling, reached for help that wasn’t there.

You blink rapidly, forcing the image away. Your throat is too tight. Your vision is too blurry.

A gentle laugh flutters through the air. A girl passes by, no older than fifteen. The same age your tribute was. She smiles, bright and careless, utterly safe in the Capitol’s embrace. She will go home tonight, climb into bed, and wake up tomorrow alive.

Your tribute did not.

Something inside you cracks.

“—don’t you think?”

You snap back to reality. Cecilia is looking at you expectantly, waiting for a response. Felix raises an eyebrow, like he already knows you weren’t listening.

You swallow. Your drink sloshes in your glass from how hard you’re gripping it. “I… yeah.”

Whatever the question was, the answer doesn’t matter. Nothing does.

Cecilia beams, pleased. Felix chuckles, exchanging another glance with his wife before smoothly shifting the conversation forward. They don’t notice the way your hands tremble. The way your eyes dart around the room, bracing for the next ghost.

The party continues. The music plays. The Capitol sparkles. The world continues to rotate and you’re stuck in the middle of it, drowning.

“I’ve been looking for you, sweetheart.”

The words pull you out of your thoughts like a hook to the ribs. You don’t want to turn around. You already know who it is.

Slowly, you turn your head, and there he is. Finnick Odair.

Finnick stands just behind you, a glittering orange drink in hand, posture relaxed like he has all the time in the world. The party lights catch on his hair, styled in deliberate curls tonight, instead of its usual effortless mess. There’s a faint dusting of blue makeup on his eyelids, making his sea-green eyes stand out even more than they already do. He looks like something out of an old District 4 bedtime story—a prince of the sea, dressed in ocean treasures.

His outfit only adds to it. A white dress shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show his chest. Black sleek pants. Pearls and seashells strung across his wrists, around his throat. Designed to be looked at.

Your jaw tightens, fingers curling slightly at your sides. Out of all times to approach, he chooses now? Right here, in front of everyone?

Felix and Cecilia have already turned their attention to him, entertained by the sudden shift in the conversation. They’re Capitol-bred—meaning they thrive off tension, off the undercurrents of something unsaid. And there’s plenty of it between you and Finnick.

You haven’t spoken to him since that night in the common room. Since the Games ended. Since everything went to hell.

Finnick tried. He had stood there, hands on his hips, voice low and steady, trying to get through to you. He wanted to talk. Wanted to explain. As if there was anything to explain. As if any of it would bring your tributes back.

You didn’t want to hear it. Couldn’t.

So you walked away. And Finnick, for once, let you.

But now he’s here again, standing in front of you like the past few weeks haven’t stretched between you like an open wound. His gaze flickers over your face, searching, reading, picking apart the things you don’t say.

Cecilia lets out a soft laugh, tapping a manicured finger against her chin. “Oh, Finnick, what a sight you are tonight,” she purrs. “I do wonder, though—who exactly were you looking for?”

Finnick doesn’t blink. Doesn’t miss a beat when responding.

His gaze stays locked onto yours as he says, “You.”

“Now,” Finnick shifts his gaze to the couple, effortlessly slipping into the role they expect of him. He flashes a charming smile, the kind that makes Capitol hearts flutter, as his hand slides to the small of your back. His touch is light but firm, a silent warning.

“Mind if I sweep my sweetheart away tonight?”

Cecilia lets out a delighted laugh, waving a hand as if she’s granting permission. “Oh, of course! She's all yours!”

Felix nods beside her, grinning as if he’s in on some great secret. He gestures for you to go, ushering you away with Finnick, who wastes no time guiding you toward the dance floor. His hand stays steady against your back, his usual signature grin stretched across his face like this is all just a game to him.

Behind you, the couple is already whispering—giddy, thrilled, utterly convinced.

“Oh my god, did you see that?”

“They really are together!”

Finnick hears it too. You can tell by the way his grip tightens, just slightly, like he’s holding back a laugh.

“You really are trouble, Odair,” you hiss, tilting your head up to glare at him.

Finnick only grins, entirely unbothered as he spins you onto the dance floor, the motion forcing you closer. His hand stays firm at your waist, the other clasping yours with practiced ease, like he’s done this a thousand times before. And he probably has. The Capitol loves their golden boy. Their charming, untouchable Victor.

But you are not one of them and right now, you do not want to be in his arms.

“Trouble?” Finnick repeats, amused, swaying the both of you in time with the elegant Capitol music. “I just saved you from the worst conversation of the night. I’d say that makes me more of a hero, wouldn’t you?”

You scoff. “You are the last person I’d call a hero.”

He tsks, spinning you smoothly under his arm before pulling you back in, his voice dropping to something softer—something that feels too familiar. “That hurts, sweetheart. Really, I think I deserve at least a little gratitude.”

You want to snap at him. Want to pull away. But the room is watching, eyes glued to the spectacle of Finnick Odair and his supposed lover twirling across the dance floor. You can feel it—the weight of their attention, the whispers, the way the music almost seems to slow as if accommodating for you.

So you stay. You grit your teeth, keeping your steps in sync with Finnick’s, because the alternative—making a scene—is worse.

“Gratitude?” you echo bitterly, gripping his shoulder tighter than necessary. “For what, exactly? For making me the latest Capitol headline? For dragging me into whatever mess you’ve made this time?”

Finnick hums, tilting his head as if considering. His fingers press slightly against your back, guiding your next step. “Mm… no, I was thinking more along the lines of saving you from the couple of the year's horrible attempts at sympathy.”

Your jaw clenches. He’s not wrong, but that’s not the point.

His expression shifts slightly, the usual playfulness in his eyes dimming just enough for you to notice. “You looked like you needed an out,” he says, quieter this time. “So, I gave you one.”

You stiffen, and Finnick must feel it because he exhales softly, like he already knows what’s coming.

“You don’t get to act like you care,” you murmur, barely moving your lips as you step in time with him. “Not after what happened.”

Finnick’s grip tightens—not painfully, but enough to make his frustration clear. “You really think I don’t care?” His voice is still light, still laced with that ever-present charm, but there’s something else beneath it now. Something sharp. “Come on. You know me better than that.”

You shake your head. “Do I?”

Finnick exhales through his nose, a faint smirk ghosting across his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You really are determined to be mad at me forever, huh?”

You glare up at him. “My tributes are dead, Finnick. Killed by yours. And you think this is something I’ll just… get over?”

Something flickers across his face. Guilt, maybe. Regret. You can’t tell. But then he smiles, because of course he does.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” he says, twirling you again, his voice just as smooth as before, “mine didn’t make it either.”

You stumble slightly at his words, and Finnick, ever the performer, corrects it effortlessly, making it seem like nothing more than an intentional dip.

The music swells around you, but all you can hear is the memory of cannon fire. The screams. The sound of rushing water.

Finnick pulls you upright again, his hand still steady at your back. “See?” he murmurs. “Now we both have ghosts.”

Your brows furrow, his words throwing you off balance more than his stupid dance moves ever could. "What do you mean, 'yours didn’t make it either'?" You glance around the room pointedly. "Annie Cresta is right there, alive and… well."

Finnick laughs—not his usual, full-bodied, Capitol-winning laugh, but a quiet, disheartened chuckle, like he finds something deeply amusing and tragic all at once. "Oh, sweetheart," he muses, spinning you again just to keep up the illusion of a perfect dance. "You think Annie made it out of those Games?"

You frown, confused. "She won, didn’t she?"

Another dry chuckle. "Sure. She won." His voice is light, almost teasing, but there's something hollow underneath. "And when they pulled her out of that arena, they got… well. Something that looks like Annie. Something that breathes and blinks and smiles at the cameras when they tell her to. But the girl I mentored? She drowned in that flood just like yours did."

Your stomach twists uncomfortably. You've seen Annie since the Games ended—seen her standing beside Finnick, silent and distant, her expression always unreadable. But you'd assumed… well, you don't even know what you assumed.

Finnick must notice your expression, because he grins, the picture of effortless charm, even as his fingers tighten at your waist. "They really should’ve let her die, you know. Would’ve been a lot kinder."

"Finnick," you warn, heart pounding.

But he doesn’t stop. "Oh, don’t look at me like that," he says, tilting his head. "You think I don’t know what you were thinking when you saw Marcus' cannon? When you found out he couldn’t swim? I bet you were relieved."

You tense, throat tightening, but Finnick only smirks, dragging you effortlessly through another step. "Come on, you can admit it. Just between us."

"You're disgusting."

"I'm right."

You hate him. You hate how he always knows.

"Why are you telling me this?" you murmur, voice tight.

Finnick exhales, his smile dropping just a fraction. "Because you think I'm the villain here," he says, dipping you slightly, the movement forcing you closer to his face. "And I think it's only fair you know—I'm just another casualty, same as you."

His lips quirk, just slightly. "Only difference is, I make this look good.”

You grimace. "I don’t think of you as a villain, Finnick," you retort, your voice softer around the edges now.

"Then what?"

"I just…" You hesitate, eyes dropping to his exposed neck, the way his pulse flickers beneath his skin. "I welcomed you and your tributes in. My tributes didn’t deserve that."

Finnick lets out a small scoff, the sound barely audible over the music. "Honey, no one deserves any of this," he corrects, his grip firm as he sways you through the rhythm, leading with an effortless grace that makes the whole room believe this is nothing more than a dance. "Not even you. But we don’t really have a choice here, do we?"

The lump in your throat grows tighter. The burn behind your eyes intensifies, and you can feel a sob creeping up, threatening to spill past your quivering lips. You bite down on it, hard, forcing your expression into something blank, something indifferent—but Finnick sees through it.

He always does.

For a second, his mask slips, and there's no teasing smirk, no playful glint in his sea-green eyes. Just quiet understanding.

Without another word, he pulls you in.

Your body stiffens at first, caught off guard, but then your forehead presses against his chest, the warmth of him bleeding into your skin. The steady rise and fall of his breath grounds you, his arms solid around you as the music continues to play.

“Don’t cry. Not in front of everyone,” Finnick whispers, his lips barely moving as his eyes scan the room. A few pairs are watching, their gazes hungry, dissecting your every move. The Capitol lives for this—the spectacle of it all.

You nod against him, focusing on the steady rhythm of his breathing, matching it with your own. No way in hell are you going to let them see the cracks in your wall. The dam threatening to break.

Finnick lets you have that moment, just long enough for you to collect yourself. And then—because he’s Finnick, and he can never let a moment sit without ruining it—he exhales dramatically, as if burdened by the weight of your existence.

"Well," he muses, voice tinged with amusement, "as much as I enjoy holding you like this, sweetheart, I have to admit—you're a terrible dance partner."

Your eyes snap open, brow furrowing as you pull back slightly to glare up at him. "Excuse me?"

Finnick grins, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. "Don’t get me wrong," he continues, voice dropping into that signature, lazy drawl. "I love a good dramatic moment. The tragic lovers, the tears, the emotional tension—very poetic. But you’re clinging to me like a barnacle, and it’s kind of killing my vibe."

Your face heats. Oh, you want to slap him.

"You absolute—"

"Ah, ah," Finnick interrupts, smoothly spinning you away before pulling you back in, his hand pressing lightly against the small of your back. "Careful, sweetheart. You wouldn’t want to ruin our perfect little romance in front of our adoring audience, would you?"

Your fingers dig into his shoulder hard enough to bruise. "I hate you."

Finnick's smirk deepens. "See, now that’s just hurtful."

You resist the urge to stomp on his foot. Barely.

"Oh, come on," he drawls, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Admit it. I’m making you feel something. Would you rather go back to being sad, or do you want to be mad at me instead? I know which one I’d pick."

You grit your teeth, but you don’t argue, because damn him, he’s right.*

Finnick Odair, with all his ridiculous antics and unbearable smugness, has successfully pissed you off just enough to push the grief aside, if only for now.

You know why Finnick is here. Dancing with you, holding you close, spinning you around like you’re both part of some grand performance. There’s an edge to the way people are watching—something sharper than usual. Their eyes track your every move, lips curving in whispers, anticipation practically humming in the air.

Something’s up. And Finnick knows exactly what it is.

Like he can read your mind, he leans in, voice dropping low enough that only you can hear. “Word got out about the closet.”

You shoot him a sharp look. “No, it didn’t.” The words come out flat, a firm rejection of the very idea. Because there’s no way.

Finnick grins, the picture of smug amusement. “You can keep denying it,” he says, as if he finds your resistance adorable. His arm stretches above him, effortlessly twirling you around before pulling you back in. His lips brush your ear as he speaks again, voice firm this time.

“But the second Snow asks you about it, you tell him it’s true.”

And then, before you can protest, he dips you.

Your breath catches, body tensing as Finnick pauses mid-movement, holding you suspended in the air, his grip steady at your back. Your arms instinctively tighten around his neck, anchoring yourself.

He doesn’t pull you back up. He just waits.

You narrow your eyes. “Absolutely not, Finnick.”

Finnick rolls his eyes like he was expecting that answer, like you’re being difficult on purpose. “Honey, it’s a do-or-die. So, you either date me—” His grin widens. “—or die.”

You deadpan. “Dying sounds better than dating you.”

Finnick sighs dramatically, as if you’ve just wounded him in the most tragic, irreversible way. "You really know how to hurt a man, don’t you, sweetheart?"

His voice is teasing, but you don’t miss the undercurrent beneath it—the way his fingers press just a little tighter against your back, the way his eyes flicker with something unreadable.

You swallow hard. “This is a terrible plan.”

Finnick tilts his head. “Yeah? Well, you got a better one?”

Your fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt, grip firm against his shoulders as he finally pulls you upright. You barely have time to regain your balance before Finnick is leading you through another slow turn, his hand pressing just a little too smugly against your back.

“You know,” he muses, voice low and smooth, “if you stopped fighting this so hard, we might actually be kind of convincing.”

You scoff, leveling him with a glare. “Convincing? Finnick, the only thing you’re convincing people of is that you have terrible taste.”

Finnick grins, unfazed. “That’s rich coming from the person who got caught in a closet with me. Sounds like you’re the one with terrible taste.”

Your nostrils flare. “That was an accident.”

“Sure it was.”

You swear you could kill him. He’s enjoying this way too much, the smug glint in his eyes practically daring you to lose your temper.

You step in a little closer, just enough to make it look intentional, enough to make it seem like you’re leaning into whatever ridiculous act he’s trying to sell to the Capitol. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he welcomes it, smirk deepening as he raises a brow.

“If we have to sell this, Odair, let’s make one thing clear,” you whisper, voice sharp despite the fake sweetness laced into it. “You’re the one chasing me, not the other way around.”

Finnick chuckles, tilting his head like he finds that adorable. “Sweetheart, if that helps you sleep at night, I’ll let you believe it.”

Your fingers twitch at his hold, itching to punch him, but you force yourself to keep up the act. You roll your shoulders back, composing yourself as you take a slow step back—just enough to put some distance between you.

Finnick watches you, amusement still dancing in his eyes, before leaning in one last time.

“Just remember,” he murmurs, lips dangerously close to your ear, “if Snow asks, you’ve been hopelessly in love with me for months.”

You don’t even hesitate. You stomp on his foot.

Finnick hisses, the grin finally slipping from his face as you yank yourself free from his hold. “I hate you.”

Finnick laughs through the pain, barely even phased as he takes a step back, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve like nothing happened. “Yeah, yeah. Keep saying that, sweetheart. It only makes the act more believable.”

You don’t just storm off. You march across the dance floor, teeth clenched, pulse hammering at your temples. The absolute audacity of Finnick Odair. You can still hear his laugh trailing behind you, light and amused, like he’s delighted that he’s gotten under your skin.

He’s insufferable.

You barely make it three steps before Finnick’s voice chases after you. “Come on, don’t walk away so soon. You didn’t even let me dip you dramatically a second time.”

You whip around so fast he nearly collides into you. “Finnick, I swear to—”

He raises his hands in mock surrender, expression gleaming with pure mischief. “Relax, sweetheart, you’re making this way too easy for them.” He tilts his head ever so slightly toward the crowd.

You don’t want to look. You really don’t, but you know exactly what he’s talking about. The Capitol’s eyes are still on you, their expressions ranging from intrigue to outright glee. Some of them are whispering to each other, exchanging looks like they’ve figured something out.

Finnick sees the realization flicker across your face and smirks.

He leans in, voice dropping to that annoyingly smooth, lazy drawl. “That’s right. We sell this, or we’re both dead.” His grin widens. “So, if you want me to stop annoying you, then act in love.”

You inhale sharply, resisting the urge to wring his neck. Instead, you plaster on the most sickeningly sweet smile you can muster.

“You’re right, Finnick.” Your voice is sugary and poisonous all at once, dripping with an exaggerated affection that makes his eyebrows twitch. “How could I possibly resist you? You’re just so—so—”

You grab his collar, yanking him forward, just enough for your lips to hover dangerously close to his. Finnick’s breath hitches for just half a second.

Then, in the smuggest voice imaginable, he says, “Speechless? Happens all the time.”

Your roll your eyes. “I was going to say infuriating.”

Finnick laughs. Loud, genuine, eyes gleaming with absolute delight. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, placing a hand over yours, effortlessly prying your fingers from his collar, “if you think this is infuriating, just wait until I start courting you properly.”

Your stomach drops. Not because you’re flustered, obviously. Just dread. Absolute dread.

“You wouldn’t,” you whisper, already regretting this entire night.

Finnick grins, the kind that sends a chill up your spine. “Try me.”

You might actually have to kill him.

part three

[ghostfacd]

I BET ON LOSING DOGS.

pairing: young!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

PART TWO

summary: you were the epitome of sunshine, and coriolanus? he was like the storm, the rain, and the everything in between.

warnings: SPOILERS from the movie & book, SMUT (protected cause we wrap it before we tap it! p in v), losing virginities to each other, snow (cause he himself needs a warning), toxic relationship, coriolanus is only in it for himself, mentions of losing virginity, you practically giving everything to snow and getting zero in return

author’s note: erm this is kinda long idek where tf i was going with this, first time writing smut on this account LOL so it might be bad. also this isn’t proofread so there might be mistakes, just ignore! as always, reblogs and comments are so greatly appreciated, enjoy reading + kisses 💓

You were the epitome of the sun itself, the sparkle, the light, and most importantly, the brightness. Despite being filthy rich, you were still that sweet sunshine Y/N everyone grown to love, the heir to the Cicero family.

Coriolanus Snow hated that about you. Not only were you everything he was not, but you lived such a lavish and easy lifestyle that it made him sick. Why was he stuck eating cabbage while you were off eating the finest thin slices of meat in the Capitol made by your chefs? It wasn’t fair, it just simply wasn’t.

“Well, Coryo!” Your sickeningly sweet voice fills his ears like a mantra.

He turns around, a smirk plays on his face. “My Y/N.”

Hearing him call you his made your heart flutter. You loop your arm through his, passing through the other academy students who were engrossed in their conversations

“Finally the star pupil.” Arachne Crane says, a glass of posca in her hand. “Lovely shirt you’ve got there. What are these cunning buttons? Tesserae?”

He looked at the shirt, shrugging. “Hm? Are they? Must’ve why they reminded me of the maid’s bathroom.”

You held his hands in yours. You knew of Coriolanus’s home life, how he wasn’t so lucky like you to have a gigantic home filled with lovable parents. His mom had died during childbirth, Coryo mentioning to you once how he was supposed to have a little sister. His father—died in the hands of rebels.

“Have you tried this lamb? It's scandalous.” Felix suddenly spoke up, taking a bite of the food that was currently on his plate.

“Didn’t daddy teach you table manners?.” Festus sneered, watching the other boy in disgust.

“Maybe he would have if he wasn’t so busy running the country.” Felix snapped back

Coriolanus took a deep breath in, already feeling overwhelmed by his classmates arguing.

After the announcement of the assigning of mentor to tributes, you could tell Coriolanus was upset. Although he wouldn’t let anyone see, he was visibly anxious and quite frankly, annoyed.

“I mean, cmon, how could it that I got the worst district?” Coriolanus says, head in his hands. “He hates me. He really does.”

“Who hates you Coryo?”

“Dean Highbottom! Isn’t it obvious?” He cries out, hands flinging into the air. You slightly flinch back, never seeing your boyfriend in such state. “He hates me Y/N. He adores you.”

“He doesn’t adore me,” you say, feeling like you were stepping around eggshells talking to Coriolanus.

“He does!” Coriolanus screams in anger, getting up in a hurry.

“Wait, no Coryo, I’m sorry.”

But your words aren’t enough, they’ll never be for Coriolanus Snow, so he walks out without a second thought.

- - -

The next day, Coriolanus apologizes. It’s a breathy, quick 5 second apology, but you being so you—accepted it without a second thought.

You loved Coriolanus, so it didn’t matter how much he hurt you.

“I’ll make it up to you tonight,” he says, placing a soft kiss on your lips.

You felt quite excited, you and your boyfriend hadn’t exactly gotten to that stage in your relationship, so thinking about sharing an intimate moment with him filled you with giddiness.

His tip had entered carefully through your folds, making you slightly wince as it bullied its way to your walls.

“Coryo..” you breathe out hazily, doe eyes coming to meet his. He sucked in his breath at the sight, never has he felt anything as good as this.

He tries so hard convincing himself he doesn’t love you. That this—it meant nothing to him. He was just here for your money, your possessions as the only daughter of Cryon and Hermione Cicero. But as he felt your nails claw its way into his back, he lets out a slip, a tiny whimper that makes your head foggy.

He spilled into the condom, pulling out with a hiss. Although you told him you were clean, and it was fine if he didn’t wear one, he simply couldn’t risk it. He wasn’t going to accidentally bring in a child into the world, having no intentions of taking care of anyone besides himself—maybe Tigris, and his Grandma’am.

“I love you,” you say quietly as you sat up, watching him discard the plastic into your trash bin.

“I’m hungry, aren’t you?” He says, putting his shirt on. It kinds of pains you at his total ignorance of the intimate words you just shared, but you nod your head.

“I could use some food,” is all you say, putting on your pajamas from earlier. “What’re hungry for Coryo? I’ll ask the chef.”

- - -

Dr. Gaul and Dean Highbottom had allowed all the mentors and their tributes roam the arena for about 15 minutes, letting them think of ways to win the game.

You were talking to Bobbin, a boy from District 7 whom you’ve had become closer with these past few days.

Suddenly, the loud scream of Felix catches your attention and before you knew it, loud bombs filled the air as tall lights fell to the ground near you.

“CORYO!” You scream, coughing loudly at the dust filling your lungs.

“Quick Y/N, we don’t have time!” Sejanus screams, grabbing ahold of your hand.

“But Coryo—”

Meanwhile, a tall pole had crushed Coriolanus’s arms.

Well, he thought, this was it.

This was how he was going to die. His girlfriend and best friend hand in hand as they ran out of the arena, the sickening feeling of betrayal filled his guts.

“What’re you doing?!” One of the tributes screamed at Lucy Gray, who was struggling to get the giant metal off Coriolanus’s arm. “Run while you can you idiot!”

But she doesn’t bother, only focusing on getting Coriolanus out. And she does, successfully, before all went black.

- - -

“Coryo? Oh Coryo!” You say, hugging him softly to ensure you weren’t hurting him.

You had felt so guilty after everything had happened. You should’ve never ran off with Sejanus, Coriolanus was your boyfriend, you should’ve saved him.

“Is Lucy Gray okay?” Is the first thing he croaks out, which makes your heart slightly crack.

“She’s—she’s okay Coryo.” You say, brushing a few blonde curls out of his eyes.

“And where were you?” He says, gaze slowly turning into anger. “I was going to die, Y/N.”

“I know! I was going to—”

He cut you off. “But you didn’t, now did you?”

His bitterness towards you makes you want to cry, tears already forming at your lash line.

“Oh now you’re crying?” It seemed like everything you did seemed of inconvenience to Coriolanus, but he opens his arms, letting you reside in them as you let out a few tears. “Always the crybaby, Y/N.” He says, hand holding your head as you buried your face into his chest.

- - -

Coriolanus Snow never believed in love. Not when he used to look at his mother and father when they were still alive, and not when he found himself a girlfriend, you.

Your relationship was merely another step stone towards success, Coriolanus viewed it. You were the heir of your family, you had countless amounts of money, and you were easily fooled by his advances. To Coriolanus, he had hit the jackpot, regardless of loving you or not.

So why did he feel so weird watching you interact with Sejanus? Sure, he considered the former district 2 boy his best friend, but it was only because Clemensia had been spending time at the hospital. The flu, Dr. Gaul described it; but Snow knew better. He was there when she had gotten bit by the snakes, and to be completely honest, if she hadn’t, he’d probably have dated her instead of you.

Clemensia Dovecote was way more smart, and he knew he wouldn’t fall inlove because they were both after the same thing. Power.

But with you, you were head over heels for Coriolanus. It almost made him sick, if it weren’t for your family name.

He clenched his jaw as he saw you throw your head back, hitting Sejanus’s shoulder as you hysterically laughed at something he had said.

What was so funny? Nothing was funny in the Capitol, not now. Maybe he was bitter, he should’ve never cheated in the games. It was stupid, and now he was getting the punishment of getting sent to 12 as a peacekeeper for 20 years.

Fuck, he really shouldn’t have cheated. And now he couldn’t even use his girlfriend’s family name as a way out.

He really should’ve known better. He knew you loved him, but he didn’t think you’d love him so much so that you begged your father to let you stay in 12 for a while to be with Coriolanus.

If there’s one thing about you—it’s that you’re a Daddy’s girl by heart, and of course, your father had once again served your request with a silver spoon. He hated that about you. He hated it. You got things too damn easily.

“Hi Coryo!” You say, making your way to him. Your beautiful sundress made him gulp, and he wanted nothing more but to snatch you away, pulling it off so he could get inside of you. But he couldn’t—he was in 12, much to his dismay.

“Y/N,” he says, placing his peacekeeper gun to the back. “Talking to the scums?”

“They’re just people from the district,” you say, frowning at his rudeness. “They’re nice, Coryo. Real nice, you’d like some of them.”

Coriolanus scoffs at that. How oblivious and stupid you were. Him, Coriolanus Snow, liking some of the district 12 citizens? What a fucking joke.

“Go along now Y/N, I’ll see you later.”

You nod, giving him a sloppy kiss on the cheek before you left, leaving the other peacekeepers to whistle at Coriolanus who only responds with an eye roll.

When later eventually comes, he was packing away the Jabberjays in their metal cages, Sejanus being right next to him.

“I saw you earlier,” Coriolanus says nonchalantly, “talking to that woman in the window. What are you playing at Sejanus?”

Sejanus scoffs, shaking his head. “They’re gonna escape Corio. Leave the districts. And I’ll be helping them.”

Coriolanus sucks in a breath, “is Y/N all in this too?”

God, he hoped Sejanus said no. But then again, it’d give him an advantage if he had said yes.

“She is,” Sejanus says, continuing to tell Coriolanus of the plan.

Without Sejanus knowing, Coriolanus had tuned the jabberjay so it could record back the whole conversation. When Sejanus finally leaves, Coriolanus sneaks to where the train bringing the birds back to the Capitol stood, placing the jabberjay in it to send it to Dr. Gaul.

If anything, Sejanus was a blocking point in Coriolanus’s way, and getting rid of him and you were like killing two birds with one stone.

- - -

The next day came and you were peacefully talking to one of the younger girls in the district when you’re suddenly pulled away along with Sejanus.

“Hey! What the hell!” You scream, thrashing in the unfamiliar peacekeeper’s hold. “Get off me!”

You and Sejanus struggle, and Coriolanus almost wants to step in and get you out of his fellow peacekeeper’s arms. Almost.

“Coryo! Tell them they’ve been mistaken!” You cry out, locking eyes with your so called lover.

“You two have been charged with treason towards the Capitol.” The peacekeeper says, his cold gaze and strong hold on you makes you let out a whimper.

“Treason?” You say, “there has to be a mistake! Call my father! Call my father!”

“I’m afraid your father can’t get you out of this one, Miss. Cicero.”

He drags you and Sejanus up the main stage of the district. “Everyone! Pay attention! This is what will happen if you are disloyal to the Capitol!”

Another peacekeeper points a gun behind Sejanus’s back as the peacekeeper who was holding you earlier pokes your back with the cold metal. You felt terrified gazes of the citizens of District 12, including Lucy Gray, stare at you.

“CORYO! TELL THEM!” You scream, begging with your eyes. “Coryo, please. Please.”

But Coriolanus Snow stands still in his spot, not budging a thing.

You thought he had loved you—or at least, cared for you. You gave him shelter when he was at his worst, you gave him your virginity, you held him when he cried about how unfair Dean Highbottom was, you let him into your home, and you always were there for him. You practically did everything for Coriolanus Snow. And what did you get? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“Your Coryo won’t save you.” The peacekeeper snarls, before firing the gun.

Two gunshots go off, and the body of yours and Sejanus fall to the ground in an instant.

Coriolanus Snow almost wants to barf, his eyes closed for a minute before reopening them again.

Had it really been worth it? Ratting you and Sejanus out so he could get home to the Capitol faster?

He thinks so when your family and the Plinths give him their fortune as a thank you for being such a good boyfriend and friend towards their son and daughter.

If only they knew, though. But Coriolanus would never let that happen, because no matter what, Snow lands on top.

And this? It was just the beginning.

[nebulablakemurphy]

Haymitch Abernathy & The Dead Donner Girl

Summary: Haymitch is forced to mentor the niece of his former ally, aka the prequel to all things Moves & Countermoves. (Warning: Sunrise on the Reaping spoilers.)

Ghosts are real, Haymitch knows this to be true the first time he catches a glimpse of the Mayor’s youngest daughter. Madge Undersee is a spitting image of her Aunt, Maysilee Donner. It ruins the rest of his day. His month really, or year, maybe even his life, but who’s counting.

The image of Y/N Undersee peeling off that same little girl’s desperate hands, after her name is called at the reaping, will haunt him now too.

“Madge pie, I have to go now.” Y/N tries to reason with her, but Madge only wails louder.

Eventually Mayor Undersee comes to collect her, giving his eldest daughter a pat on the cheek. “We’ll sort this out, don’t you worry.”

Y/N does not worry. Making her way to the stage with her head held high.

Just like Maysilee.

The male tribute Tyson, joins her there shortly after.

“This year’s tributes from District Twelve, Y/N Undersee and Tyson Carell.”

Fifteen and Seventeen, the mayor’s kid and a boy from the seam. What a pair they make.

————————————————————————

Haymitch is allowed half an hour of solace before those damn kids are pounding down his door. The gentle rocking of the train temps him with the promise of sleep. But they just keep knocking until he has no choice but to answer. “Are your hands bleeding yet?”

“You’re supposed to be our mentor,” Tyson reminds him.

“That I am.” Haymitch cocks his head to the side.

“Yeah, generally speaking that means you’re supposed to be with us.” The girl’s voice is grading, harsh against his ears.

“If you need to be mentored on how to sit on a train, you’re never going to last in the games.” Haymitch retorts, “come back and bother me tomorrow once we’re in the Capitol. Maybe I’ll have something useful for you then.”

The door slams in their faces as quickly as it opened.

“Alright,” Tyson laughs, “he’s an ass.”

“Mhm,” Y/N hums her agreement.

————————————————————————

They don’t bother with their would be mentor again, electing to band together instead. Between the two of them, Y/N and Tyson decide that he should ask most of the questions.

“Don’t take it personally.” Tyson says, chowing down on his plate of hastily arranged treats. “Not everyone is gonna like you.”

“You should try the purple pastries.” She tells her partner, “they’re the best.”

“I almost forgot,” he grumbles, around a mouthful of food. “You get to eat like this all the time.”

“Not all the time.” Y/N lifts a shoulder. “Only on special occasions.”

“If I win, I’m eating these every day.” Tyson decides after his first bite.

Y/N huffs a laugh.

“I’m taking you with me to the end, of course.”

“Because I recommend the pastry?”

Tyson nods, “proves you have good taste. Plus, you’re the Mayor’s kid, gives you some pull in the Capitol. Could get us sponsors.”

“It could.” Being the Mayor’s kid didn’t spare her from the reaping.

“We should make a list of our strengths and weaknesses.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Anything off the top of your head? Any secret talents? Things you’re afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Y/N replies. “But I can juggle. How about you?”

“I’m afraid of being eaten alive.” Tyson ticks a finger against his lips, “as for talents, I can do cartwheels.”

“Cool.”

“So if you die and I win this thing, who am I looking after back home for you?” He does not beat around the bush; never has. Even if it cost him a friend or two.

Y/N sinks further into her chair, “my sister. Her name’s Madge.”

“What about your folks?” Tyson arches a dark brow.

“My dad will be alright, it’s my mom I worry about.” She’s been through alot. ‘Family business’ which Y/N is forbidden to speak of. Not that it matters now.

“Why?”

“My mom had twin sisters. One died in the games, the other-” Aunt Merrilee couldn’t stand her own reflection after that. The grief got her. “She died of a broken heart.” That’s the polite way of saying it. “My mom started taking morphling after. The doctors said it would help, most days she can’t get out of bed.” If I die, the last of the Donner sisters may follow.

“Well if you win, I’ve got a long list of requests.” Tyson has twelve younger siblings.

Haymitch joins them sometime later, making for the toast and jam.

“Saved some for you.” Tyson jerks his chin toward the breakfast spread.

“How kind,” Haymitch grumbles.

————————————————————————

Y/N’s stylist takes a real liking to dressing her in one of a kind pieces.

“You’re my muse.” Unlike most, Vanity, with her skin painted gold and a pastel green wig, fusses over her tribute.

She welcomes the girl’s suggestions, putting a new spin on tired Capitol fashion.

Haymitch drinks, occasionally chiming in to correct Y/N and Tyson in their planning, but for the most part they are left largely alone. Scoring seven and eight respectively, admirable numbers for twelve.

It’s not until the night before their interviews that the girl finally snaps at him.

“Relax, Y/N.” Tyson rolls his eyes, “he’s just being an ass again.”

Haymitch, as usual, does not spare a glance in her direction.

“Stop acting like a child and look at me!” Her words echo through their floor of the tribute center.

“I don’t want to look at you!” Haymitch scoffs, “I look at you and all I see is another dead Donner girl. I don’t want any more of your blood on my hands.” From Maysilee in the arena, to Merrilee who took her own life a few years later. Maybe if he hadn’t called her Maysilee that day while he was losing his mind… Now Y/N will join them, in a sea of crimson he will never be free of.

“I-” the girl’s cheeks heat up, from anguish or rage, she herself is not sure. “I’m not a Donner girl. I’m an Undersee.”

Haymitch grunts, still averting his eyes.

“And if I really am gonna be dead in a few days, that was a shitty thing to say.”

“What do you want from me, girl?”

“I want you to help us!”

“Help you?” Haymitch downs his glass, “I can’t help you.” He already is, as much as he can. Not for the girl standing before him, but for the girl who isn’t. The girl he’s reminded of each time he sees the locket around her niece’s neck. He’s pulling sponsors as best he can for Maysilee. In her honor. That’s all he can do.

“You’re the only one outside the arena who can.” Y/N challenges, “it’d do you well to remember that.”

Haymitch doesn’t want to remember, he drinks to forget.

————————————————————————

As the lights of the hovercraft transporting his tributes to the arena disappear from view, Haymitch is finally able to breathe again. To think and compose himself now that he is no longer face to face with the dead Donner girl.

She exists only on the giant screen of the viewing room, somehow she is easier to stomach this way. No chance she might reach out and drag him back to his own personal hell.

But time proves him wrong, this is hell. Waiting to watch the Donner girl die. There is no way she’ll live, even with sponsors lining up, money in hand. If money could buy her freedom, she’d never have set foot in the arena.

The bloodbath is over. Tyson takes Y/N and runs, in search of water and high ground. Maybe if they’re lucky, some shelter from the boiling sun.

The landscape is full of sandy dunes and rock, no visible water source and absolutely no shade. The arena’s ceiling is visible to the naked eye, which hasn’t happened in years. Meaning the border must be significant, though Haymitch can’t yet say why.

That is until the next day, when the arena flips on its head, funneling the remaining tributes through a narrow opening to the other side. It’s an hourglass, one that is slowly filling with sand.

————————————————————————

Like clockwork, the hourglass flips. Several tributes are lost in the transition, suffocating beneath the sand. As they regain their bearings, Y/N and Tyson find themselves beside a pile of sand towering high enough to block most of the artificial sun.

“What’d you think? Should we climb it?” Tyson asks his district partner, teasingly.

She is two years his junior, still not an idiot. This is no hiking expedition. “No, we should save our strength, like Haymitch said.”

“Did you know the tallest mountain in the world was called Mount Everest? Before the founding of our great nation?” He presses on, largely ignoring Y/N’s sage advice.

“What do they call it now?” She wonders.

“Trick question; tallest mountain in the world was actually Mauna Kea.”

“Now’s a bad time for trivia.” Y/N decides, a hand at her brow.

“It’s the only time we’ve got.”

————————————————————————

Parachutes provide most food and water. With only a small desert lake resembling a mirage to drink from, and passing seagulls for sustenance.

Seven tributes remain when the mutts are released. Long, fat worms with horrible teeth, designed to blend in with the sand. Burrowing beneath the skin and leaching blood from their hosts.

The cannon sounds four times in quick succession, only three tributes left as the hourglass turns. Dumping them onto a thin layer of sand, it continues raining down over them. They’ve run out of time.

The shift twists Tyson’s leg at an unnatural angle, snapping the bones.

“Ahhh!”

Y/N carefully assess the damage.

“It’s bad,” Tyson says, through gritted teeth. “I can’t walk.”

“No,” Y/N shakes her head. “I’ll find something and make a splint. You’re fine.”

“Y/N, there’s nothing here.” He pants out, fighting the urge to faint.

In some sick way it is for the best, fate has decided for them. He would never be able to kill this girl, anymore than she could kill him. Not after days spent halving their food to keep two bellies half full. No, he could not harm a hair on her head.

“Then I’ll-”

Rex must be out there, searching for them. They need to act fast.

“You have to keep going.”

“No,” Y/N argues. “I can’t.”

“Yes you can, you’re not afraid of anything, remember?” The boy smiles, despite his agony.

“I lied,” Y/N confesses. “I’m scared of being alone.”

“You won’t be alone, I’m right here and everyone back home is with you, Everyone is here, chanting your name. You won’t be alone.”

“Ok,” Y/N whispers, starting up the dune on shaky legs.

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N.” It is silly, but somehow it helps.

The worms are closing in but the compact sand pile seems to derail them. Y/N is thankfully spared the higher she climbs.

Tyson is chopping at the creatures with his axe, keeping them from latching onto his leg despite their best efforts. Perhaps they smell all the blood.

Rex uses the distraction to make a run for the top. He doesn’t bother with the boy from twelve, he won’t last long in this condition. At present, the girl is his biggest threat, and Rex will damned if he spent the better part of his life training only to be bested by a girl from the poorest district in Panem.

“Y/N, look out!” Tyson calls.

She hears the sickening squelch of his axe land in Rex’s back before she has a chance to look at all. “Tyson!” She knows full well it was his last line of defense against the mutts.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Her partner remarks, hauling his mangled leg up the grainy hill.

The boy from one is not willing to wait, he’s out for blood. His chest rattles with each breath, and droplets of red begin to leak from the corners of his mouth. Still he draws his dagger, pointed at Y/N. “Ladies first.”

Her first instinct is to run, but with the arena nearly full and the worms below, she is out of good options. She draws her weapon.

Rex lunges for Y/N, knocking her backwards and landing on top. A cloud of dust blooms out, blinding them both, his dagger lost in the tussle.

She continues swinging at him with her knife until it finally connects with his right hand; slicing off his index, middle and ring fingers, in one clean stroke.

The severed digits land against her chest, weighing her down as the boy looks to his mangled hand in horror.

Y/N’s eyes widen, “I’m sorry.”

Tyson yells. “Don’t stop!” Despite his injuries, he’s clawing his way up to avoid the mutts below.

“Please, I’m sorry.” Y/N sobs. For whatever she’s done to deserve this. Sorry to Rex, and the other tributes, to her family and her district. Sorry to Tyson most of all. “I’m sorry.”

Rex wraps his good hand around her throat.

“Y/N, fight! Do it now.”

Her broken body screams in protest. Sheer adrenaline drives the knife into the side of his neck. His blood burns her sun blistered skin. “I’m sorry.”

Rex grabs for his injury, tumbling down the pile of sand. His cannon sounds before he hits the ground.

Any way you spin it, District Twelve just won the games.

Tyson has finally made his way up to collapse beside her. He’s bleeding a lot more than she is. “We showed him, huh?” The boys chokes out. “Haymitch will have to eat his words.”

Y/N is not a Donner girl, said so herself.

“Tributes, please reclaim your weapons.” A disembodied voice, from the sky, demands.

“That’s alright. Can’t feel my hands.” He can’t feel the mutt latched onto him anymore either. He can’t feel anything at all. “But check out the view from up here.”

Y/N is in no position to heed either command. The too bright sun is going dark, her vision tunneling.

Tyson murmurs, “just like being at the top of Mount-”

Boom.

Everest.

The viewing room erupts into chaos as the winner of the sixtieth Hunger Games is announced. And the dead Donner girl lives to haunt him another day.

For you, sis. I saved her for you.

Part 2

[wh0reforcoriolanussnow]

All in your head || Young President!Coriolanus Snow x reader

A/n: love this request!

Warnings: r is implied to be young, manipulative, controlling Coryo, if there’s anything else lmk

Wc: 564

Divider by @firefly-graphics

The grand hall was adorned with opulent decorations, an extravagant celebration befitting the fifth wedding anniversary of you and Coriolanus Snow. The air was filled with the scent of delicate flowers, and the soft murmur of the Capitol's elite mingled with the distant hum of the city beyond.

It was a spectacle of extravagance, but behind the façade of smiles and enchanting music, your marriage to Coriolanus was nothing more than a carefully constructed arrangement.

"This is ridiculous," you mutter to yourself, hands toying with your necklace as you hear a deep sigh beside you.

"Yeah well, you have no choice," he mumbled, adjusting his cuffs, preparing to step out onto the balcony for an interview broadcasted to all of Panem.

"Let's get this over and done with then," you huffed, smoothing down your dress with practiced grace before the doors opened, and you summoned a well-trained fake smile. Coriolanus, in keeping with the façade of a blissful marriage, rested his hand on your waist, his smile equally forced.

As the camera lights focused on the two of you, the citizens of the Capitol eagerly tuned in to the live interview. Caesar Flickerman, the charismatic host, beamed as he addressed the couple. “Ladies and gentlemen of Panem, we are honored to have Mr. and Mrs. Snow with us tonight!”

Applause erupted as you and Coriolanus exchanged a glance, a look perceived by others as one of love, though the reality was starkly different.

"Y/n, it felt like only yesterday we saw you graduating from the Academy, and now here you are, as gorgeous and powerful as ever as First Lady," Caesar complimented, leaving you slightly off-kilter-a reminder of the day you learned of your impending marriage to Coriolanus.

"Time flies, doesn't it?" You gracefully replied with a polite smile as Caesar chuckled. "Five years of marital bliss, how does it feel?" He directed his question to both of you this time.

You and Coriolanus exchanged a fleeting glance, a practiced smile plastered on both of your faces. "It's been an incredible journey," you replied, your voice measured.

"We've grown together and learned a lot about each other."

Caesar leaned in with a glint in his eye. "Speaking of growth, the citizens of Panem are curious— are there any plans for a little Snow on the horizon? Perhaps an heir to the Snow legacy?"

The questions about children were not new, but the pressure had been mounting over the years. Your father, a powerful figure in Panem, had orchestrated this union to solidify his influence, disregarding any consideration for your personal desires or compatibility.

The marriage had left you with an ache in your heart, and the absence of genuine connection with Coriolanus was palpable. Behind closed doors, conversations between the two of you were few and far between.

tense silence filled the spacious chambers, with occasional glances that spoke volumes but went unaddressed. The thought of children had become a looming cloud, casting shadows over your fragile union.

A polite chuckle escaped Coriolanus's lips, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of discomfort. "Ah, well, we're enjoying our time together for now. The future is unpredictable, but we're taking things one step at a time."

As the interviews continued, the speculation about Coriolanus's fertility surfaced. The whispers in the Capitol's high-society gatherings grew louder, comparing the size of your family to the apparent lack of progeny from the Snow lineage. It became a matter of public curiosity, and the pressure to produce an heir was now a heavy burden on Coriolanus.

Lounging out on one of the day beds, sunglasses perched on your nose, and a book in hand, you felt a figure towering over you. Your eyes move from the words on your page to the figure.

"We need to talk," he declared, his voice firm, as he offers you your robe to which your gratefully take and slip it on your body. The air hung heavy with anticipation as you reluctantly nodded. "Alright." You follow Coriolanus to his study where he closes, and locks the door behind you.

Raising an eyebrow at his odd behaviour he sits down with a loud sigh. You silently sit at one of the seats in front of his desk. Coriolanus took a deep breath, his gaze intense.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, waiting for him to clarify. “How do you propose we do that?” His eyes bore into yours as he spoke, his words carrying an unusual urgency. “Let’s have a child.”

The weight of his statement hung in the air, and you couldn’t hide the surprise etched across your face. “What?” you stammered.

Coriolanus’s jaw tensed, his resolve unyielding. “I said, let’s have a—” “I heard you,” you interrupted with a snap, frustration bubbling to the surface. “But you can’t just decide that on a whim. It’s not that simple.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I understand that, but the longer we wait, the more the rumors will grow. I can’t bear the scrutiny any longer. We need to put an end to this speculation, for both our sakes.”

The cold reality of the situation hit you—the marriage, the façade, and now the pressure to bear a child for the sake of appearances. You couldn’t deny the logic in his words, but the emotional chasm between you and Coriolanus seemed insurmountable.

“I can’t just bring a child into this world for the sake of quelling rumors,” you protested, your voice trembling with emotion. Coriolanus scoffed, “You can, and you will.” His harsh comment made you gulp, your mother’s words ringing in the back of your mind. “Obey your husband,” “Do what pleases him,” and so you did.

It didn’t take long for you to get pregnant. On your sixth wedding anniversary, this time, you held your nearly one-year-old son in your lap, about to announce that you were expecting again.

[giuliettagaltieri]

Claim the Heritage

Pairing: President!Coriolanus Snow x First Lady!Reader

Chapter Synopsis: The Wife

Warning: casual dominance, marital quarrels, tension, vulnerability, explicit smut, cunnilingus, p in v, unprotected sex, body worship, brat taming, self destructive tendencies

Word Count: 4364

6 of 6

Coriolanus Snow has a knack of pushing himself too far.

He expects too much from himself and does everything in his power to meet those expectations.

As a student and a starting politician, he has done great things, contributing fresh insights to Panem.  And now that he is the President, he has the power to do things with his own hands.  No longer having to need the approval of people of higher status, not when he’s the President, nobody has power greater than his.

You worry that he might be forgetting his other responsibilities.

He is after all, not just Mister President but also your husband.

You see him often in the corridors and you exchange nothing more than sultry glances.  It was fun the first time you have done it but you are left wanting now.

At night, the two of you come home late, too tired to get some action going.

You have needs that long to be fulfilled.

And your unfed desires manifested in your temper.

The men in the room are discussing the recent power outage that paralyzed Panem for a day.  A malfunction caused by severe water temperatures in the hydroelectric dam in District 5 caused a cascading error in the system.  The Capitol and a portion of District 1 and 2 were able to continue their operation due to generators but the other Districts suffered from it.  And the one day pause of labor caused a slight drop to Panem’s stock charts.

All eight of your husband’s subordinates are trying to raise their opinions about the matter, how they will conduct another investigation as they are quite convinced it was human error, and how they will punish the one responsible for it too.

Their voices are starting to irritate you, making you tap your foot under the desk.  Coriolanus seems to be ignoring them as he reads through the report.  How he can manage to focus, you have absolutely no idea.

You try to regain your composure by taking a sip of water but it does not help, not one bit.  Deep intakes of breath also seem to be not working.

Coriolanus is still reading the report, his back against his chair as one of his hands toy with his pen.  His fingers are looking rather breathtaking today.

You look away before anyone could notice your desperation.

“Frankly, you are all arguing about matters that have been resolved already.”  He murmurs and you are thankful for it as the room quiets down.

“What do you mean sir?”

You bite your cheek to stop yourself from berating the man.  But Coriolanus can see that arch in your brow any day.  You are pissed.

“You have something to say, wife?”  He smiles knowingly at you and you look at him sharply but his smile only widens more.

“Well, all of you are being foolish!”  You finally burst.  Coriolanus leans back in his chair as if he is watching a rather interesting show.  “There is a report given, and a very good one at that.  Do you all have poor reading comprehension that you cannot understand that this is not a human error!”

The room falls silent as the men stare at you with their cheeks pinking in embarrassment.

Coriolanus clears his throat and leans closer to his desk.  “I believe what the Missus wants to say is that we must be coming up with solutions to prevent this from happening again rather than point fingers.”

You glare at him again but Coriolanus is not looking at you but the men who are nodding in agreement.  You hear a chorus of apologies from the men and you can’t help your bottom lip from jutting out in irritation.

“We can strengthen the system.  A collaboration with District 3, perhaps?”  A man says nervously, eyes flitting to you for approval but you don’t acknowledge him.

The other men raise their support.  They have to stay in your good graces.  All eight of them are dispensable.  If you talk to your husband to eliminate them, there will be nothing they can do.

They are proud men, but they too are necessary associates, albeit shortsighted at times.

You lean on your chair and swivel it so you are partially facing your husband.  “Another source of power.”

He nods at you to continue.

“A solar plant.”  You say.  “It is a good back up.”

Coriolanus rubs his chin and considers it for a moment.  “Indeed.  May I ask you to write a proposal, my love?”

“Of course.”  You say and you begin tidying up your stuff.  Coriolanus picks it up and addresses the men in general.

“I appreciate your…enthusiasm in helping our great nation.  Good day, gentlemen.”

They all file out of the room, thanking the President and you.  They all seem to sweat when you dismiss them with nothing but a brief nod.

Coriolanus leaves his chair and he eyes the pout in your lips. 

“Have a great day.”  You say as you stand.

“Leaving so soon?”  He raises a brow.

You stop in your tracks to look at him weirdly.  “You asked me to write a proposal?”

He hums at this and presses a chaste kiss on your lips.  “I will be seeing you at lunch, then.”  He guides you to the door and you both exit the meeting room to go to your separate offices.

His behavior is really really starting to irk you.

You are lying if you were not hoping that he would stop you and at least help out with the tension in your body.

But you guess not, he is a busy guy after all.

Coriolanus buries himself more and more with work.

You worry that he might be close to self-destruction.

The crops in District 9 suffered from a locust infestation and it kept him up very late for a few weeks.

You started to miss him very much.  Try as you might to stay awake in your room, it is not until nearly sunrise when he joins you.

It hurts and you hate yourself for being selfish.

One morning as you share your breakfast, you notice that he is barely touching his food as he reads the report about the red tide poisoning in District 4.

“Corio, eat.”  You say before your lips wrap around a strawberry.

He only hums in response as he flips to the next page of the report.

You glance at him and see the dark circles under his eyes, his skin looking dehydrated, and it is evidenced by the cracks in his lips.

“You will die before you turn thirty if you keep that up.”  You say lowly before you suck on your finger absentmindedly, your eyes now scanning your bowl for the next strawberry you’ll eat.

This caught his attention.

“What did you just say?”  There was a challenge in his voice and you hesitate for a moment, heart wanting to submit and apologize but the Swansworth blood courses through your veins and you fear you will shame the strong women before you if you fold so easily.

You look at him dead in the eye.  “You will die before you turn thirty if you keep that up.”  You smile at him sweetly.  “Was that clear enough for you, or do I have to repeat myself again?”

His jaw tightens, his eyes sharp.  He does not take mentions of his death lightly.  Had you been anyone else, you would have your tongue cut off and live as an Avox.

“You really are your father’s daughter.”  He sighs, trying his best to hide the amused smile you put on his face.

You wanted to retort but your words die in your tongue.  Coriolanus glances up at you when you don’t speak.  Usually, you would have bitten another comment at him.  But you were only looking at your strawberries sadly, finger tracing the bowl that held them.

The sound of paper crinkling had you looking up.  He folded the report away, he had the necessary information he needed anyway.  Coriolanus knows you are watching him and he scoops a mouthful of truffle scrambled eggs.  You gave him the sweetest smile he had seen on your face for weeks, and it was motivation enough for him to eat the breakfast that was served to him.  Yet, he still finishes first.

You pout unknowingly when he wipes his lips with the napkin and walks over to kiss your forehead.

“I will be seeing you later for your report.”

“See you.”  You reply with less enthusiasm.

He watches how sadness swam in your eyes and he leans closer to peck your lips and he is off.

You did not have much energy for work afterwards.

The meeting was at 10 in the morning and you arrived in the meeting room at 10:02.  Coriolanus was not pleased.

He did not back you up when the other men in the room asked questions about your presentation.  It was their job to pick apart your proposal and you only show them how flawless it is.  They are finally satisfied with it after a while, your throat burning from how many questions they asked.

You are infuriated with your husband.  You feel like he is throwing you to the wolves.  Not that you can’t tame the said wolves but it made your blood boil.

“I have decided to call this solar plant, Coriolanus 9.”  You attempt a smile and they actually bite.  “In honor of our President, and us.”  You purposefully let yourself blend in with the men in this proposal.  You need to boost their morale from time to time.

All eight of them murmur their agreement, smiles wide as they feel honored just by being included in the project.

After a few more questions from them, your husband finally adjourns the meeting.

His lack of support was not appreciated and you are determined to get out of this stuffy meeting room.

“Gentlemen, that would be all.”  

What about you?

Your lips part in protest but Coriolanus raises a finger at you, making you close your mouth as you narrow your eyes at him.

After the men filed out, you got up briskly, your chair wheeling back in a great speed.

“Careful.”

“Oh, so you’re talking now?”  You snap, your hand placed on your hip.

Coriolanus only leans on his chair as he looks you in the eye, his chin tilted upwards.

“I am…”  he pauses as he scratches his chin.  “upset with you.”

You scoff.  “You are upset with me? I am upset with you!”  You point at him harshly.  “You were the one who asked me to make a proposal and present it afterwards!  But what did you do?  You did not support me or give me assurance!”

“I was confident in your proposal.”  Coriolanus stands up calmly, his hands in his pockets, his thumb jutting out.

You give him one final glare and you huff, turning your nose up as you look away.  “I am done talking to you today.”

Coriolanus grips your arm before you can walk away.

His hand is warmer than usual and you frown.

“Do you need me to put you in your place?”  

The threatening growl in his voice washed away all the fight in you.

You bite your lip nervously, the entire bottom lip disappearing behind a row of teeth.  You shake your head and you tear up from how pathetic you have become for this man.

He smooths your hair and places a warm kiss against your temple.  “Be good.”  He murmurs.

You watch him collect his things and he throws you one final warning glance and he exits the meeting room.  Your hands grip the hardwood table to steady yourself.

How dare he!

You are his wife, not some District whore that needs to be reprimanded, you will not allow such disrespect again!

Coriolanus is not surprised to see you miss lunch.  His assistant tells him that you are having luncheon with Mrs. Plinth.  And that…you canceled all your plans for the day.  And the rest of the week.

He taps a finger on his desk and wonders if he pushed you too far earlier. 

Coriolanus glances at your photo in his desk.  Your smile was brighter then.  

A slight pounding in his head makes him grimace and he groans.

There were two more bills he needed to get through before he could relax.  Coriolanus inhales sharply, forcing his eyes to read through the files.

It was night time when he came home.  He missed dinner again.

Coriolanus had an unsettling feeling in his stomach when he entered your home.  It was dark and cold.

There was enough security outside but no signs of life inside.

Your servants usually retire after dinner and come back only in the mornings to serve you your breakfast.

But where are you?

Coriolanus doubles his steps to check your bedroom, you are not there.

His heart starts pounding, cold sweat dripping from his temple as he runs around his mansion in his tight suit.  He wanted to ask the peacekeepers stationed outside if you are even in your mansion when he catches a glimpse of your sheer robe in your sunroom.  He steps closer and sees you there, asleep in your plush chair, curled up around a book.

For a moment, he just stares at you, calming himself down.  No one has taken you and you did not leave.  Coriolanus seats himself to the identical chair across you and just looks at the rise and fall of your chest.

You must have fallen asleep as you were having your afternoon read.  It appears you might have missed dinner, as none of the lights are on.  The servants must have left it off so as to not disturb your sleep.

The night deepens and he just sits there, still convincing himself that you are still with him.

Coriolanus believes he will be there until morning comes but fate has other plans and your book slips from your hold, the hardcover making a loud slamming noise against the otherwise silent evening.

You jolt awake from the noise and when you reach for it, you catch a glimpse of him and you jolt for the second time.

“Heavens!”  You clutch your chest tightly, your eyes glaring accusingly at him.  “Do not scare me like that!”

He laughs hollowly.

“Apologies.”  He mutters.

You lean back in your chair, holding your book in your lap.

“Have you eaten your dinner?”  You ask just to break the silence.

“Not yet and neither did you.”  He uncuffs his sleeves and loosens his tie.

You purse your lips.  “I had tea and cakes this afternoon.”

“When did tea and cakes pass as dinner?”  He drapes his waistcoat on the armrest together with his tie.

You choose not to answer as you have a feeling the question was rhetorical.

Coriolanus rests his arms on his thighs and clasps his hands as the silence lengthens.  Moonlight was emitting a pale glow, it reflected on your faces and everything else was still.

“My father casts a very large shadow.”  He tells you.

You nod.  You both have that in common.  But you do not want to tell him as his case was different.  You are aware of his struggle while growing up, the things he has done that could have tarnished his name, and now, he has become the President, a leader of Panem, and the footsteps that his father left for him to follow might be too large for him.

“I wanted to do everything right.  To do things how he would have done it.  Maybe even more.”

You play with the edges of your book as you listen, afraid that if you’ll talk, his walls will come building itself up again.

“He was not the best father.  Nor husband.”  He chuckles bitterly.  “I was sure, I would be just like him too.”

You bite your lip as you will yourself not to cry in front of him.

“But I enjoy your company, wife.”  Coriolanus tells you truthfully.  “I love you.”  He confesses, making your chest tighten.  “I do not wish for this marriage to fail.”

You cannot help how a tear rolls down your cheek.

“Come here.”  He commands and you throw yourself to him, sobbing to his chest.  “I am terribly sorry for being a lousy husband.”

Your tears soak his dress shirt as Coriolanus peppers kisses on your head.

“Been neglecting my wife, how awful of me.”  His hand grips on your bum possessively.  “When she should have been worshiped day by day.”  His tone changes ever so slightly into something you hear only inside your bedroom walls.

You do not protest when he lays you on the chaise lounge.  Your sobs turn to sniffles when Coriolanus parts your thighs and bunches your dress until it shows your abdomen.

“Corio.”  You whisper his name like a prayer and he mumbles yours against your skin.  You watch as he plants his lips on your scar.  A scar that you got from taking a bullet for him.

It was not the last time you whispered his name in the dead of the night.

“Your petals always have the sweetest nectar.”  He groans and you feel yourself shy away, hips hiking up and away from him but his arms tighten their hold around your thighs and he looks at you from there, his eyes giving you a silent warning.

“S-sorry-ah!”  You gasp as his tongue darts out to lick the juices off your slit.  His tongue pokes at your pearl and you break eye contact with him when he wraps his lips on your tiny nub.

Coriolanus looks at you with his eyes now lazy but his tongue, the opposite!

He kisses you and in an act of total impulsiveness, starts tracing his name on your clit.  Coriolanus Snow was owning you in every way possible.

He had you reduced to your most carnal self.  Your hands were on his platinum hair, gripping them tightly in your hold, selfishly pulling him in.  Your thighs are resting on his broad shoulders.  And your cunt, it was making a mess on your chaise lounge and on your husband’s face.

Coriolanus groans as he parts your lips so he could kiss your opening.  His thick finger, that you have been craving, sliding on your juices before he plunges it knuckle-deep.  It might have been a mistake on his part given your sensitivity after having to be forced to join him in his self-induced celibacy.  Your lewd mewl brought rouge to his cheeks.

You bring your hands to your mouth to hush yourself and Coriolanus took that as a challenge.  He sits up, sitting on his ankles to press your thigh to your chest as his finger prods at you from the inside.

You are writhing underneath him.  Telling him how good he is making you feel.  Oh, and he reveled in it.  Every sound that comes from your lips, it fueled his desire more and more.

A second finger was added and you shriek from the stretch, it has been a while, he needs to be more gentle!  But Coriolanus cannot help himself when you look so pretty.  Your cheeks wet with tears, eyelashes clumping up, as your hands formed tiny fists.  Any form of his self control has disappeared when you are gushing and pulsating around his fingers.

He knows you’re nearly there, so close!

You pant, closing your eyes as his fingers massaged your walls, coaxing you to climb higher and higher and-

“Coriolanus!”  You yell furiously when he pulls his fingers out.

Your husband grins at you as he wipes his face from your slick.

“I seem to recall that someone was not a very good girl this morning?”  His hands trailed at your hips and you almost tear up from frustration.

He was supposed to be making it up to you!  He had no reason to bring up the events this morning.

In an act of defiance, you huff and you reach your own sex to flick at your clit.  Your fingers are more delicate, making you gasp at the gentle pleasure.

Coriolanus grins as he watches you play with yourself.  Enjoying how you grow more and more frustrated as you cannot give yourself the same pleasure.  You shriek angrily as you pull your fingers away, you slam your tiny feet on the chaise and Coriolanus laughs. 

“Are you done being a brat?”

You are too stubborn to answer but you do not stop him when he maneuvers you until you are on your stomach, you groan softly in discomfort when he pulls your hips so your cunt is presented to him beautifully.

His fingers are prodding your entrance again and you mewl when he pops his tip in.   Coriolanus stays there for a moment as his hands, rough from his time as a peacekeeper, grips on your waist firmly.

“There’ll be no stopping, alright?”  He reminds you.  “We’re done when I say we’re done.”

You lift your head from the plush of the chaise lounge and you give him a nod. 

“Put your head back down, my love.”

You do as he tells you and you brace yourself.

Coriolanus enters you with a sharp thrust, and your whimper is muffled by the cushions.  Your husband thrusts at a steady speed, his eyes watching the impact ripple on your body.

Your breath hitches with every kiss his tip makes on your cervix.  Every slap of his hips against you makes the crudest sound, sending a jolt of arousal through you.  President Snow is a man of the most refined of tastes, the pinnacle of order.  But when he beds you, he is just as raw, just as unrestrained.

“Don’t know why I deprived myself of your wet cunt for so long.”  And his mouth spewing the most vulgar of things.

He uses his weight to push you further in the mattress so he can fuck you deeper.  Your cunt spasms and you moan shakily, almost sobbing.

“Chase it, my love.”  He groans deeply.

And you unravel, lewd sobs spilling from your polished tongue as your back arches, cunt creaming around his cock.

Coriolanus watches you sob, your shoulders shaking as his thrusts do not relent.  His eyes flicker to where your bodies meet, your warm juices are dripping on his taut sack.

“Corio…Corio please!  I don’t think I can anymore….”

“Hm?”  He reaches to grab your chin.  “Thought I told you that we’re only done when I say so?”

You look at him with tears sliding down your cheeks.  You can’t even focus on him, body shuddering when your tummy feels another tight coil.

Coriolanus inhales sharply when he feels the familiar pulsation of your warm softness.

His tip twitches as it bumps your plump cervix.  And when you call his name with your broken voice as you cum, he shoots his seed in you.

“Hah…hah.”  

He is panting from on top of you, his hand placed against your bottom to keep himself up.

Coriolanus gently pulls himself out, watching the gossamer webbing of your arousal on his cock.  He smacks your bum and you tighten your cunt to keep his seed from spilling.  He scoots closer so he is holding you, your back against his chest as your legs tangled together.

The two of you gaze at the moon from the enormous windows of your sunroom.  It was calm again.  Nothing but your heartbeats and the gentle breathing lulling each of you closer to sleep.

“Corio.”  You call his name softly.

He hums in response as he pulls you closer, just needing to feel you against him.

“The people of Panem are not your fucking masters.”

His brows meet and he glances at you, wondering where all of this is coming from.

“They cannot have you always cleaning up their mess like you are some District servant.”

He shifts you so you are facing him now.  His stern brows meet to let you know you are on thin ice.

“You govern your people.  You don’t coddle them.  Let the District officials do their job.  They must learn to solve their own problems and the Capitol Bureaucrats must see to it that they are doing it in ways that align with your judgment.  And you lead them from the top.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

You yawn like the adorable thing you are.  “So Snow lands on top.”

He clicks his tongue smoothly.  “You are only attracted to power.”

“My love.”  You say rather darkly.  “You are power.”

Coriolanus falls silent, contemplating your words, letting himself process it.

He sighs as he looks at you in endearing defeat.  “You just want a vacation, don’t you?”

You fight back a smile as you smack his chest.

“I am being serious, Coriolanus Snow.”

He pulls you closer, teeth glinting as he snickers.  “I understand that, Y/N Snow.”

“Y/N Swansworth-Snow.”  You remind him and he laughs.

“Of course, of course.”

You lean your head on his chest and your cheek soaks his warmth.

“You know, you are not your father, Corio.”

He winces.  “I know…I’m just-”

“You are better.”

That sinks deep in him.

He now understands why there was something in you that pulled him in.  No one in Panem, or in this world, could understand his soul in its most naked form.  You are his stability.  Someone whom he cannot scare away when he is darkest.

Because it seems like you might be exactly just like him.  Just as cruel, just as evil, with no regards to anyone but each other.

And he is fine with that, even if the world is burned to ash around you.

“My love for you is catastrophic.”  Coriolanus murmurs against your skin and you smile as you close your eyes.

You run your finger on his chest.  “And my love for you is all-consuming.”

Coriolanus and you are obsessive, ablazed with reckless passion, villainous in nature, but it is easy to justify when you are both equally drunk with dangerous devotion.

The people of Panem be damned.  

The odds will forever be in your favor.

Hunt for Glory

[jinmindeulle]

tributes | lee jihoon

“You’re sleepy,” Jihoon whispered, his voice muffled against your hair “We need to rest”

“I don’t want to” you mumbled, and you kept on fighting with your burning, dry eyes to stay awake — to stay conscious of how Jihoon’s warmth embraced you, how his fingers danced on the skin of your back, how he pressed sweet kisses to your forehead from time to time. 

“We’ll make it” 

You nodded, but the way in which your eyes watered told you you really didn’t feel the same as he did. You weren’t sure about making it, much less of making it together. Not many had done it before in your District.

“People in the Capitol love us already. We have them on our side.”

“Why does that matter? I can barely manage with a crossbow, Jihoon. How am I gonna protect us from this shitshow?”

“You just have to survive,” he released you from his grip, bringing his already calloused hands to your cheeks, pressing your forehead against his “I’ll take care of us. The only thing that’ll kill me is losing you”

When both of your names were called that dry morning, you prayed whatever was above that someone offered himself as tribute in your boyfriend’s place. Of course, that would never happen. Who in his right mind would do that? 

It had to be a joke, a very sick joke — but it felt so very real when Jihoon stood next to you, facing the crowd of young boys and girls whose fate had been by their side, and both of your overwhelmed families who yelled your names as if that would bring you back to them.  

“Johanna trusts us. That’s a lot coming from her.” Jihoon tried to reassure you, placing hope in your mentor, who was the bravest woman you had ever met. 

“Promise me,” you began, but you saw how Jihoon shook his head before even continuing.

“I won’t promise anything that involves me saving myself and not you. Or leaving you behind.”

“But-”

“Would you do that to me?”

When you shook your head, hot tears went down your cheeks, and Jihoon made sure to wash them away with his fingers. “We win together. We lose together.” 

“I love you.” You cried, and you let out days and days of accumulated grief, of self-doubt, of guilt. 

“I love you,” Jihoon embraced you again, whispering those three words until your breath felt calmer, easier. “I can’t promise many things now. But if we get out of this, our life will be full of joy and love. I’ll marry you and give you a proper home. We’ll make love every night and eat warm food every day. Just hang on to that, honey.”

   So when you finally closed your eyes, you could only dream of the only possible scenario that would make Jihoon’s words a reality— winning the 73th Hunger Games together.