#finnick odair x oc

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

Hii! I love love love all of your finnick fics! Could I please request a fic where reader is also a victor from an earlier game and she is in an established relationship with Finnick. They both get reaped (not the same district) for the 75th games and reader gets critically hurt in the part where the cornucopia spins. Like she falls into the water after maybe being injured and she can’t swim, so Finnick has to risk everything to save her life.

I’m really looking for like a hurt/comfort with a seriously injured reader and Finnick going through hell to save her because he cannot imagine a life without her in it.

Thank you so much if you’re willing to write this or something like it, feel free of course to change anything to your liking!

two souls, one heart | f. odair

masterlist

summary: finnick refuses to lose the love of his life. your inability to swim complicates things, especially when the cornucopia begins spinning.

pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader

warnings: pre-established relationship, heavy angst, drowning, death, bone fracture

notes: thank you so much!!! i really enjoyed writing this, shed a few tears but still enjoyed it lmao. listen to 'beginning of the end movement v' by the newton brothers on repeat for the full experience <3

A quiet nursery rhyme was being sung by the water's edge.

The calm waves around the Cornucopia lapped at the rocks, the blistering sun causing the surface to sparkle. Wiress' voice interrupted Peeta as he mapped out the arena's clock-like wedges in the dirt. Everyone was focused on the map; you should have been too.

Dark blue ripples had your eyes captivated. So tranquil. So hauntingly beautiful. Loving the sea was in your blood, as your District Four was your home. You would think coming from a fishing district would mean your swimming abilities were mastered. In reality, they were practically non-existent. No matter how many times Finnick had attempted to give you lessons, they never stuck.

Neither of you seemed to care though, always too enraptured by simply being in each other's company—feeling Finnick's hands support your body as you floated on the surface...

"Don't you let go of me, Finnick Odair, or I swear to god I'll drown you."

"Will that be before or after you drown first?" he chuckled, though ultimately tightening his grip on your body in an attempt to reassure you.

....hysterically laughing when he got wiped out by a sudden wave...

"No way! I can't—" You broke into a fit of laughter— "I can't believe that just happened!"

"Are you laughing at me, sweetheart?" Finnick asked, trudging through the water towards you, his hair drenched and swept across his forehead.

"Yes!"

You doubled over, knees buckling as you struggled to contain your laughter. Despite trying to put up a serious front, Finnick too let a few chuckles slip at the hysterical sight of you.

"Oh really?"

Just like that, his arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you down into the cold water, earning him a squeal just before you crashed together below the surface.

...and washing up on the sandy shore in each other's arms, salty lips capturing one another.

"I'm covered in sand," you murmured against Finnick's lips.

He gave you another kiss before pulling away. "It's okay," he said, pecking your lips again. "I'll help you wash off in the shower when we get back." And then sent you a stomach-flipping grin.

Even though you wouldn't trade those memories for the world, if you had known your life would soon depend on the ability to swim, you would have paid much more attention to the lessons.

Finnick stood closely beside you, his trident digging into the dirt as he gripped it tightly in case of an attack. He had noticed your drifted attention, observing the way your eyes stared at the rippling water, like death was lurking just beneath the surface waiting to drag you down to the murky depths.

He could protect you from most things in the arena, but fear was something entirely different. A trident couldn't defeat the darkness in your mind.

A hand slid onto your lower back, rubbing gentle strokes to gain your attention. Your gaze tore from the blinding blue and settled onto Finnick's face beside you, watching his mouth curve into a light smile. You knew the silent words he was trying to convey: 'You're okay, sweetheart. I've got you.'

For a fleeting moment, the anxiety had disappeared. How could anything ever go wrong with Finnick by your side? The corners of your mouth quirked, preparing to send him a smile in response. But it never came. Something new had caught your attention. The woman by the water was no longer singing.

Wiress had been murdered.

The second Katniss let her arrow fly into Gloss' chest, everything around you seemed to explode into action. Anything that could go wrong would go wrong—Murphy's Law. And it did.

The Careers had initiated an attack.

Charging forward from the waterside was Cashmere, determined to avenge her brother's death. Instinct quickly kicked in and the spear in your hand was sent barrelling through the air and into her chest. As you watched her body slump to the ground, an enraged yell came from the side.

Finnick was fighting Brutus.

With your only weapon lodged within Cashmere's chest, aiding Finnick was impossible. Enobaria revealed herself beside Brutus, displaying her vicious fangs and throwing a dagger that sliced a small cut across Finnick's shoulder. Though the wound was minor, your heart lurched as he cried out in pain.

Before a single thought in your brain could form, your legs were moving. Not towards Finnick, but after Enobaria. Remember who the real enemy is—screw that. Finnick could have died. Your Finnick. He called out your name, his voice hoarse and frayed, but you continued on, hatred fuelling each step. It seemed Katniss and Johanna had the same idea, following behind you with their weapons bared.

Salt water sprayed onto your face, but you paid it no attention. Nor did you notice as the jungle surrounding the island began to blur into one overwhelming hue of green. Only when your body was thrown to the harsh rocky terrain did you realise what was happening.

The Cornucopia had started to spin.

Nothing could compare to the terror you felt as gravity's merciless force dragged your body toward the violent waves surging against the rocks. Just as your lower legs breached the edge, a hand grabbed onto your own. Katniss. She too was hanging onto Johanna whose only lifeline was an axe buried in the rocks.

A moment—that was all you were given to scan your surroundings. Supplies and sharp-edged weapons were flying everywhere. White water was spraying into the air. Finnick, who was thirty feet away, was gripping onto a rock ledge whilst keeping Beetee from sliding into the furious waves. His head turned to the side and even from a great distance, your eyes met.

It was at that moment you knew, you just knew the odds weren't going to be in your favour. God forbid you lived a simple happy life with the man you loved, days spent together on a calm beach. God forbid the Gamemakers gave you one last chance to be in his arms. God forbid you survived.

And with that sudden realisation, the universe, sick as it was, decided it was time.

Your hand began slipping from Katniss's; an unseen tear fell from your eye, and you smiled. A smile of goodbye sent to the love of your life. His face contorted into one of agony, lips moving but you couldn't hear his voice over the roaring waves. Still, you knew exactly what he was shouting.

"NO! NO!"

There was nothing he could do but watch your body disappear into the waves, repeating over and over "no, no, no," and praying his cruel eyes had deceived him. They hadn't.

Dark blue was in every direction you looked. The undertow tossed and rolled your body like a ragdoll in a washing machine and despite your attempts to swim, the surface only seemed to be slipping further and further out of your reach. Darkness engulfed you, so thick that you couldn't tell which way was up or down. That was when the panic set in.

Your arms and legs thrashed frantically, struggling against the water's force, desperate to reach safety or an air pocket. Cold water flooded your throat as you gasped uncontrollably. You screamed as every attempt at breathing felt like fire burning in your lungs. Finnick. Where was he? Where were you? What was happening? Why wouldn't it stop?

Thoughts submerged your mind in terror, and you were powerless to stop them. All you could do was feel. Pain. Fire. Burning

At some point, the Cornucopia had ceased its spinning and your body came to a rest in the water. An eerie calm suddenly washed over you; a sense of clarity stilled your wild movements. This was the end. There was no future. No hope. The world above wasn't yours to call home anymore. You now belonged to the sea.

Of course, your water-logged mind had forgotten that home was where the heart was, and your heart was still beating... above the surface, in the aching chest of another.

Tendrils of hair floated around your face like fronds of seaweed. Rays of sunlight penetrated the surface, turning the surroundings a vibrant sparkly blue. As you sank further down, the water, now a comfortable lukewarm, cradled you in its embrace. It felt safe, like being in Finnick's arms again. Like home.

You gazed at the sun's rays; they looked beautiful. You felt beautiful. But time was running out and the bright light soon began shrouding your entire vision, though not before you witnessed a dark figure dive beneath the waves.

**********

Finnick loved the ocean. He spent most days in District Four down by the beach, swimming, spearfishing, and watching the sun rise and set on the blue horizon. If he believed in reincarnation, he would have imagined himself to be a lionfish or dolphin in his past life, living in an underwater world, free from tyranny and oppression. He loved the ocean.

But that love was incomparable to what he felt for you. So, when he dove into the rocky waters to save you and felt the currents fighting against him, he determined there was nothing he hated more than the ocean. Not as he watched its strong grip drag your motionless body further down below him.

Your back had just touched the soft seabed when he swam far enough down to envelope you in his embrace. He should have swum you back to the surface immediately, but in his distressed state, he couldn't help but foolishly stare at your lifeless appearance. Your skin was blue. It's just the water's colour, he told himself. Your eyes were closed. She's just asleep. Your neck didn't pulse under his touch. She's... She's...

He had no justification for that. Feet planted firmly on the sandy floor, he propelled both himself and you back up to the surface. As Finnick paddled back to the Cornucopia, the others reached down and helped lift your limp body onto the rocks.

"Is she...?"

"Peeta," Katniss quietly reprimanded him.

Finnick paid them no attention. He said nothing but trauma screamed in his eyes. His breathing was ragged and his hands were trembling as he frantically checked your pulse again—in both your wrists and your neck; he even pressed his ear to your chest. All he heard was the waves lapping against the rocks.

"No," he whispered again.

It seemed to be all he could say anymore. No. No, this couldn't be happening. You were just standing beside him a few minutes ago; your eyes were just looking into his. However much he tried to deny reality, it didn't seem to make it any less true. You were gone.

He choked out a rough determined breath, interlocked his hands over your chest, and began pressing repeatedly over your heart. Wet strands of tangled hair were strewn across the rocks like dead seaweed. The usual soft pink accompanying your cheeks was nowhere to be seen, devoid of any life.

"Come on, sweetheart," he muttered before pulling down your chin to blow air into your lungs. The kiss of life. And when nothing happened as he pulled away, he restarted the chest compressions. "Oh, don't do this to me," he begged, voice breaking. "Don't do this. Breathe."

Any moment now. Any moment, your eyes would flutter open, the colour would return to your glowing skin, and your heart would beat with life beneath his hands. Your lips would whisper his name and he would pull you into his arms, where he would keep you safe until the end of time.

"Breathe."

Thirty compressions. Two breaths. Nothing. He did it again. Thirty compressions. Two breaths. Silence. Maybe he should've just ripped his heart out and replaced yours with his own. Death would come for him within seconds but hearing something beating inside your chest would've made the sacrifice worth it.

Life would flash before his eyes and your beaming smile would be the last thing he'd get to see. His last thought would be of relief that you were alive.

Johanna rested a tentative hand on Finnick's shoulder. "Finnick, she's—"

"No, she's not!" he exclaimed, continuing his movements. "She's fine. Aren't you, baby? You're fine." He cupped your jaw, his thumb stroking your soft skin before he pressed his lips to yours and blew twice. "You're fine."

The golden bangle around his wrist glimmered in the sunshine as he pressed on your ribcage. All he had to do was keep you alive until Plutarch rescued everyone. One simple task and he failed.

"Finnick, we have to go," someone said. Who? He didn't know nor care.

Leave me, he wanted to say. Leave me here to die. Let the Careers mutilate my body, take my life, my last breath, but let it be by her side.

Something cracked beneath his palms and he knew one of your ribs had fractured. His arms stilled, half-expecting you to cry out in pain but then he remembered. And with that sickening crack came a devastating realisation—you really were gone.

A sob erupted from his throat and his head fell to your chest, drenching your already-soaked wetsuit with hot tears. Everything else seemed to disappear. The arena, the Careers who could attack again at any moment, the spectators who were avidly watching. Everything.

It was just him and you. He didn't care that his screams and deafening sobs could bring unwanted attention or jeopardise the group's safety. Any tribute with half a mind would know crossing him in such a state would be a fatal flaw. Even if they did, it wouldn't matter. Nothing mattered. Life no longer had meaning.

Finnick pulled your lifeless body onto his lap and cradled you protectively in his arms, lightly rocking back and forth. His forehead rested against your own, cold and damp. You always were the cold one, needing his touch to light a fire beneath your skin. He loved having you rely on him for warmth, but not like this.

"Come back to me, baby, please," he begged almost inaudibly. Tears were running down his cheeks as he brushed pieces of hair away from your face. His lips were on yours once more, heartbroken and painfully delicate; not to fill your lungs with air, but to fill your heart with his love in the hopes it would be enough to bring it back to life. "Don't leave me."

Pleas, prayers, begs, and wishes flew past his lips, over and over. And then they stopped and Finnick simply stared. Silence fell across the entire arena. The birds didn't chirp, the other tributes remained quiet, and the trees stood still. Even the water had calmed, resembling a perfectly flat mirror.

Finnick only had three words left on his tongue. Three final words to give you, wherever it was that you were. He slowly leaned down, squeezed his stinging eyes shut, and pressed a long farewell kiss to your forehead. His eyes remained closed as he parted from your skin, unable to take another look as he whispered his final goodbye.

"I love you."

And then, for the first time since he had rescued you from the blue depths, he felt his heart beating again. Just like yours was.

**********

There was a voice, distant yet reassuring—a lifeline to consciousness. Black was all there was. Coldness was all that was felt. It was desolate. But that voice... that voice was so anguished yet so familiar and encouraging that it lit a fire inside your chest, warming you from the inside out.

In the distance of the dark void was a figure, their body made entirely out of a pulsating golden light. Each word the voice spoke enhanced the light's brightness. "Come... me, please..." Brighter. "Don't leave..." And brighter.

The light was warm and comforting, just like the voice attached to it. Whoever's voice it was that brought the light resonated deep in your mind, tugging at the strings within your heart.

Your heart.

The thumping in your chest was weak, almost non-existent, but it was still there. Though it seemed time was running out. Pitch-black darkness outweighed the golden light ten-to-one; you could feel its cold breath creeping onto your back. So, you started running towards the figure. Sprinting. Until all that surrounded you was golden.

"I love you."

Water. At first, it came trickling out in two fluid streams from the sides of your mouth. Then suddenly, it was spraying into the air as choked coughs forced the liquid from your burning lungs. Light flooded your vision—not golden and inviting, but vivid and overwhelming.

There was something warm beneath your legs, against your arm, rubbing at your back, holding you in an upright position. While you heaved, dry-retched, and gasped, that soothing warmth remained.

As your airways began to clear and the expulsion of water ceased, your half-lidded eyes rolled around the area. Still dazed and disoriented, you struggled to make out what surrounded you. There was immense rippling blue, vibrant hues of green in the distance, dark rough grey beneath you, and elongated blobs of colour that stood a few feet away.

"Just–just keep breathing, sweetheart." That voice. The one belonging to the figure of light that brought you back. It was madly repeating the same words over and over. "You're okay", "Deep breaths", and "You're alive."

Shaky fingers brushed the stray wet strands of hair from your face. So warm. With the little energy you had, your head turned to seek out the golden light again. And you found it.

The blinding sun shining down reflected off his bronze hair, turning it a divine golden hue. His brows were raised and scrunched together as though he couldn't possibly believe what he was seeing. Deep lines were etched into his tear-streaked skin, evidence of his previous turmoil. Those sea-green eyes stared at you, afraid that if he so much as blinked, you would fall lifeless in his arms once more.

"You're here," he whispered.

Finnick. YourFinnick. Your light.

When your eyes met, a splitting grin lit up his face, made up of an inconceivable amount of raw emotion. You weren't sure what to do—smile, laugh, cry, kiss him? Your mind was scrambled, overwhelmed with love for the beautiful golden-haired man in front of you.

Without warning, your face scrunched up and the tears began flowing. You weren't sure why you were crying. Maybe it was because you had just been brought back from the brink of death; maybe it was because you couldn't believe someone actually cared so deeply about you.

Finnick cradled your face in his hand. "It's okay," his voice trembled, tears now cascading down his cheeks. His smile, however, never disappeared. "You're okay. You're safe now. I'm not letting you go."

He took your face into two large hands, brought you to his lips, and pressed a tender kiss to each tear that rolled over your skin. One of your hands rested over his; the other was placed against his chest, feeling it rise and fall so you could synchronise your breaths.

His arms moved to pull you tightly against him, almost like he was trying to merge your body with his. Or perhaps, it was your soul. You didn't care about the pain aching in one of your ribs. You wanted to tell him that his soul was already intertwined with your own, but words couldn't describe the sentiment as profoundly as you felt it.

In the simplest of terms your water-logged brain could muster, you whispered, "You're my light, Finnick."

Brows scrunched together, he looked down at you, fighting back the urge to start sobbing in your arms. If he had been anywhere else, if there wasn't an entire country watching, he would've gone on for hours, explaining how stupidly, selfishly, and incredibly in love with you he was.

But he couldn't do that. Not now. So, he placed his hand over the one you had resting on his chest and readjusted its position. He could feel the thumping, even through your palm.

Your eyes were full of emotion as you stared up into his. You already knew what his next words were going to be and for the first time since you were thrown into the water from the Cornucopia, you smiled.

Rhythmically, your hand and his pulsed together. Finnick's gaze flickered across your face and he grinned. "You're my heart."

[mystargirl-interlude]

Finnick the type of guy to let you wrap a bow around is bicep and then fuck you with it still wrapped around his arm

[meshlasolus]

MASTERLIST

The Winner Takes It All (The Hunger Games)

Pairing: Finnick Odair x OC!reader

Series Rating: T

Summary: The 71st hunger games are the first to reap tributes without volunteers in district 4 since the 65th year... but Finnick Odair has already promised himself a victor before the reaping.

Series Warnings⚠️: Mentions of death and canonical violence. Mostly just messy hunger games scenarios. Fluff at some points, extreme angst in others. Reader actually has a great family life for once (bc i hate the trope where the shitty parent hopes their kid gets reaped lmaooo) mentions of drowning and past trauma. (Spoiler: reader can't swim and is scared of water to a degree)

Playlist Pinterest Main Masterlist

Season One:

Episode 1 Episode 6 Episode 11

Episode 2 Episode 7 Episode 12

Episode 3 Episode 8 Episode 13

Episode 4 Episode 9 Episode 14

Episode 5 Episode 10 Episode 15

Season 2:

Season 3:

[lvstcd]

no time to die ⟶ finnick odair & oc [part 1]

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 |

A/N: this is for my pookie ookie bear rese &lt;;3 happy birthday bbg

WARNINGS: swearing, mentions of death, mentions of torture, mentions of sex trafficking, weapons, trauma, smoking, pretty much all hunger games shit :)

SUMMARY: rhys marley was the youngest victor of hunger games, winning at the age of 12. 9 years later, she watches as her little cousin from district 12 tours around panem, a rebellion starting, and soon, chaos as the quarter quell comes to its beginning.

GENRE: angst, dystopian, fluff, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers

WORD COUNT: 1.1k

oc - original character(s)

EDITED BUT THERE COULD STILL BE MISTAKES :0

lower case intended

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RHYS marley. the youngest victor of the hunger games. she won at the ripe age of twelve years old. nine years later, at the age of twenty-one years old, she sat in the victor village of district four, watching her little cousin from district twleve, zephyr marley, tour around panem with her fellow victor and lover, peeta mellark. she chews on a granola bar, watching intently, her long platinum blonde here tangled and thrown into a low messy bun as she had her black boyfriend framed glasses resting gently on the bridge of her nose, sliding down every couple of minutes, causing her to push them back up. she watched her cousin plaster on a fake smile as she read the words from the card that was given to her, some of the people in the districts yelling in anger and confusion.

she turns the tv down as she hears giggling outside of her mansion, the voices of finnick odair and annie cresta being heard. she stands up, walking over to her window and peaks out from behind the curtain, watching the pair laugh as they're wrapped up in each others arms. she steps away from the window, shuffling off to her bedroom, laying on her bed and staring at the wall, the sounds of birds chirping and wind banging against her window.

flashback

"finnick!" rhys yells, tears brimming her eyes as she watches her best-friend get reaped for the hunger games, her heart dropping to her stomach. she watches the reaping from outside, as she was only eleven years old, and not old enough to be reaped. her mother brushes her hair, holding her against her body tightly, "rhys, please." her mother whispers, tearing up as finnicks mother sobs next to them, gripping onto his fathers arm. rhys watches him get dragged inside the building while watching the other kids of district four leave, hugging their family and friends, grateful it wasn't them.

rhys looks at finnicks mother, sobbing, "please tell him to be careful. tell him to survive. he needs to survive." tears are streaming down her cheeks uncontrollably, her heart breaking inside of her chest.

weeks later, finnick arrives home, winning the hunger games. rhys waits outside of her house, fiddling with the hem of her skirt as she waits for finnick to arrive home. she stares at the ground, waiting, when she hears her name being called. looking up, she sees her bestfriend, his eyes scared and tired as he jogs towards her, his arms wide open. rhys stands up, "finnick!" she cries, running towards him and wrapping her arms tightly around his waist, sobbing into his chest. "you did it." she whispers into him, hearing him sniffle above her. "i did." he whispers back, hugging her tightly.

rhys blinks, zoning back into reality as she realizes it's past dusk. standing up, she grabs her bathroom essentials and walks to the bathroom, turning on the water to scalding hot and climbing in, letting the water beat against her skin, turning her red. "rhys?" her mother calls from outside the door, "are you in the shower?" she asks, listening in. rhys hums, "yes, mother. i just got in. do you need something?" she asks softly, rubbing her hands over her face. her mother tells her no and walks away, her footsteps gradually getting quieter on the other side of the door.

rhys finishes her shower, stepping out and wrapping the towel around her body. she dries her hair and brushes it, the platinum blonde strands hanging down to her lower back. she wipes the mirror off with her arm, looking at her reflection in the mirror, her baby blue eyes staring right back at her as she tries to recognize herself, the old image of herself no where to be found. she changes into pajamas and walks out of the bathroom and into her room, climbing into her bed and staring at the ceiling. eventually, her eyes close as she drifts asleep, the sound of crickets buzzing outside of her window.

flashback

"the female tribute of district four.." silence, no one dares to speak. "rhys marley." rhys' eyes widen as she looks around her, her heart sinking to her stomach as everyones eyes turn to her, watching her slowly make her way up the stairs and stand in front of everyone. she watches finnick from afar, his eyes widened and scared as he shakes.

rhys waits in the room, looking out the window as her family walks in, rushing to hug her as they let out a few tears. "you can do this, baby. i believe in you. do whatever it takes to survive." her mother whispers, hugging her tightly and kissing the top of her head as she brushes a few strands of rhys' hair out of her face, her thumbs caressing her cheeks. "mom." she whispers softly, "i love you. if i don't make it out of there, please tell finnick he's the bestest friend i ever had. please. dont forget me." her mother nods, letting out a sob as she grips onto her tightly, brushing her hair.

a couple weeks later, rhys arrives back home, her eyes widened and tired, the images of peoples bodies, blood, and chaos forever burned and engraved into her mind. she slowly walks into victors village, her mother running to her, sobbing and immediately wrapping her arms around her daughter, grateful she's alive. finnick runs out of his mansion, "rhys!" he yells, running as fast as he can to her, instantly wrapping his arms around her as he sheds a tear. "thank god." he whispers into her hair, holding onto her tightly as she silently stands there, emotionless and exhausted, her innocence forever destroyed.

rhys sits up, sweating and out of breath as another nightmare fogged her brain. she gasps for air, her eyes wide as she panics and looks around her dark room, slowly becoming aware of her surroundings. her mother shuffles in, rubbing her eyes. "you okay, baby?" her mother asks her quietly, climbing into bed with her. "it's okay, mama. i'm okay. just another nightmare." rhys whispers, rubbing her eyes and wiping the couple tears off of her cheeks. her mother ignores her, lying down next to her under the covers, wrapping her arms around rhys' body and brushing her hair. "it's okay, baby. i'm here. get some sleep." her mother whispers into her hair, humming softly as rhys nods and lays down, feeling at ease with her mothers presence. "thank you." rhys whispers, her eyes closing as she listens to her mothers peaceful humming, falling back asleep.

a few days later, rhys sits in the living room, her legs crossed and her hair thrown into a pony tail as she watches the tv, waiting for the news about the quarter quell, her mother and her father sitting beside her, watching as well. she watches president snow come up on the screen, her eyebrows furrowing as she stares at him, her hands shaking in anger.

"the male and female tributes are to be reaped from the existing pool of victors in each district."

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[meikoo]

omfg omfg f.o fic idea inspired by @s1ater ‘s “the only thing that matters” oneshot

finn and reader were friends but fall in love in the quarter quell arena

reader doesn’t know about the rebellion plan

she’s probably a career which means haymitch didnt wanna involve her

at first she’s determined to win and get back to her quiet district life

then she stumbles onto the main group and fights alongside them

finn and reader realize they fell for each other (shit tries to be slowburn but also not cause it’s basically their last days with each other)

reader makes peace with dying in the arena (her thought process is either she dies finn lives or they die together but either way she’s already accepted the fact she’s gonna die there but she does prefer finn lives so she makes sure he gets every advantage in the arena and risks her life for him multiple times which leads into him getting upset at her for that and shit gets emotional)

very end of the world mentality where they’re just unapologetically in love w each other (but dont admit to it cause whats the point) cause the end is near so what else can they do.

i imagine them sitting on the beach while everyone else is further near the trees, their feet on the sand, telling each other about their favorite childhood memories, her tearing up realizing she wont be able to spend her life with finn and hating fate for making them fall in love in this situation and everything being too late. she tries to hide her watery eyes and buries her face into his neck, intoxicating herself with his scent, trying to remember every detail about him, how his arms wrapped around her, his hair between her fingers, and his lips on her temple because she knows this’ll be one of the few memories she’ll ever have with him.

and like they dont even establish a relationship its just pure affection and adoration and everyone just seems to accept when they start acting like that with one another.

two soulmates who met too late and barely had time to spend with the love of their life before they never see each other again. ow.

LIKE FUCK GIVE ME ANGST BUT ALSO FLUFF LIKE WHEN THEY GET RESCUED AND READER DOESNT AND ITS FUCKING OW CAUSE SHE FINALLY JUST SAW A GLIMPSE OF HOPE FOR THE FUTURE THEY COULD HAVE AND THEN FINN GOING INSANE IN DISTRICT THIRTEEN BLAMING HIMSELF THAT SHES NOT SAFE AND SOUND RIGHT BESIDE HIM AND THEN SHE GETS RESCUED AND THEY FINALLY TALK ABOUT WHAT THEY ACTUALLY ARE (but also needing therapy lmfao) (also finn negotiates her getting saved cause again shes a career but in the end she helped the rebellion without even knowing it so like duh she gets rescued but not before finnick has to beat up someone so coin would listen to him)

PLS FIC WRITERS I NEED U IM SO DESPERATE

[hangesophtalmologist]

Mind Games

finnick odair x original female character

tropes: rivals to lovers

synopsis: once the 75th Hunger Games are announced, Finnick only finds one solution to save his mentor and friend: barge into his long-life rival's house and find a way to convince this irritating, egoistic victor to volunteer. Only, he might be the one person she hates the most after the Capitol.

Part: 1 or a prologue of an anticipated story. Lowkey could be a stand-alone even though I have their entire love story planned out in my head. I just can't form it in words yet.

Warnings: swear words. Basically just insults. Mentions of Alzheimer.

Wordcount: 2,6k.

Finnick was practically running in the streets of District Four – more precisely, in the privileged area of the district known as the Victor’s Village. This was not the time to maintain his unbothered, cool persona. Blood was pumping in his veins, chest heaving in the effort of calming the deafening panic that was creeping up in him. This could not be happening, not again. After everything they had been through. He thought, foolishly, that he was safe. Relatively safe. That it was over since he won the Hunger Games – but they never really win. Becoming the shiny toys of the Capitol promised them wealth and comfort. But all the disgusting, overplayed luxury was only meant to hide the sad truth about victors - they remained toys, and at any time could the people of Panem realize they wanted to play with them again.

The announcement of the 75th Hunger Games came crashing down on him like a bomb, crushing his frail illusion of stability. For him, it didn’t matter. He was strong enough to survive at least for most days. No, the suffocating feeling of fear that had paralyzed each of his muscles, only letting his brain run the infinite possibilities of death, sorrow and suffering, had come from his concern for Mags and Annie. None of them would make it past the first day left alone, and even with his help the Hunger Game was a downright death sentence.

But there was a tiny, silly bit of hope that made him jump on his feet, storm out of his house with one name in mind. The one person he spent a lifetime despising, annoying and arguing with, the very person that hated his guts and made him know every day, was actually his last hope. This was the worst idea he ever had, but he had not choice. He’d go to her, do anything she could ask him for – he’d even recognize she was better than him, he’d beg her on his knees if that was what it took. But even with all that, Finnick couldn’t tame down the desperation that clawed at his heart when he pictured her violently telling him off - like he could swear she’d do.

“Naia!” he called, basically shoving the door of a rusty house open and frantically searching the rooms with his eyes. “Naia!”

His feet moved on their own accord, stomping in the home that felt completely empty. His eyes scanned the squeaky-clean floor and the few furniture there was. For a moment, he feared no one was here until he heard a faint voice coming from a closed room. Calming his breath, he approached and went to slightly open the door before he thought better and faintly knocked on the wood.

Hearing no response, his fingers glazed over the handle, but before he even twisted it, his hand was violently ripped away from the door, and he was met with a furious charcoal gaze.

“Where the fuck do you think you are, Odair?”

There stood Naia Calder in all her glory, in the middle of her living room, as tall as him, muscular arms crossed over her chest who was quickly rising and falling, sweaty skin that glistened under the yellowish light and hands wrapped around a blood-stained tissue that left no doubts on which sport she was practicing before Finnick stormed into her house. Hopefully, she would not be tempted to switch to a livelier punching-ball when he states why he came down here.

“Calder”, the man started, his eyes firmly locked on the challenging eyes of his nemesis. “I need to talk to you.”

With a snap, she undid her bands and threw them at his feet, chuckling humourlessly. Finnick clenched his jaw, refrained from rolling his eyes at the action. Instead, his gaze stayed firm on her face. Thick brows that furrowed automatically in his presence, straight nose on which fell during summer a constellation of freckles contrasting with her tan skin, big almond eyes that could set the world on fire with one glare, plump, soft lips that would form the dirtiest insults to throw in the air. It was the same face he has known all his life, and never once was it not painted with absolute disdain when they were face to face.

“Want a cup of tea? A few biscuits while we talk about the weather and tide, perhaps?” Naia mocked as she removed the tie holding her bronze-like hair, her biceps slightly flexing from the movement.

Finnick followed with his eyes the movement of her wavy hair falling graciously on her bulky shoulders. He swallowed thickly, focusing to not let his gaze linger on her bruised, muscular, sweaty body. He did not answer to her sarcasm. There could only be one subject the victor wanted to discuss right after the announcement. They both knew it.

“Please enlighten me on what’s your strategy to politely ask me to go die in their Hunger Games all-stars,” she insisted with a fake pleasant tone. “Almost destroying my front door was a dramatic first step, I’ll give you that. I can’t wait to see what you have in stock next.”

Irritation quickly grew inside Finnick, but he swallowed all the snarky answers his lips were about to let slip out of his mouth. Why was she playing dumb? She knew just like him that this was the right thing to do.

“I shouldn’t even have to ask you to volunteer, Naia. You know they can’t go through this again,” he said through gritted teeth, following her as she walked through her house, picking up clothes and objects he couldn’t care less about.

“Keep going. My life is less valuable than theirs blah blah. Maybe add in a few tears.”

“Fuck Naia! This is not funny,” he shouted angrily, desperate to knock some sense into her. “You’re young, you’re obviously stronger and for fuck’s sake you’re the goddamn golden victor of the Capitol. You know you have a thousand more chance to win than they have to survive the first few hours, so can you stop being selfish for once in your life? How can you send them off to their deaths?”

“Mmh, flattery. Not bad. Don’t like the guilt-trip that much, though. Try again. Maybe I’ll consider it if you get on your knees.”

The lack of interest in her voice made him want to rip his hair out of his head. It was like talking to a wall. It used to be her on the receiving end of his sarcasm, but now was not the time for their rivalry and she should know it. He knew Naia, he knew her bad attitude and her personality, he knew the trauma her Games brought her. But he knew her, and it seemed unbelievable that she would be so set on not volunteering. Was she doing it out of spite, just to annoy him? How could she seem so careless? How could she just fold so neatly each one of her clothes, stack them up on a shelf like she had no other problems in her life? how could she just calmly tidy up her room while he was asking her to-

Suddenly as realization hit him, the world seemed to quiet down and to reduce to the small room he had followed her in. His anger and frustration slowly melt, his frown relaxing and his mouth closing in a thin line. The curse he had thrown floated in the air, then was carried away by the wind. A veil of silence fell all over the little space they shared.

The adrenaline and stress disappeared, leaving him with the excruciating wish he could swallow back every word he just spat as he watched Naia clean her room, slowly, carefully tucking away her belongings in dusty boxes already aligned next to her bed. The man had been too blinded by his despair and frustration to take a real look at her house. It did not just feel empty – it was. She was packing away. She must have started tidying up the second she heard the announcement. God, she even started training the moment she heard it. Naia always intended to volunteer. She didn’t even consider staying back as an option.

“You know Odair, Mags was my mentor too. Annie is also my friend. You’re not the only one who’d sacrifice things to protect them,” she finally spoke after a long moment of deafening silence, dropping the sarcasm but radiating animosity. “Only you can have the audacity to assume I wouldn’t volunteer for them, but I would if you oh-so-rightfully order me to.”

When she turned around to meet his face, the vivacity of the anger and repulsion in her eyes froze him on his spot. Her fingers were tightly wrapped around the wooden frame of a picture. A family picture. Four silhouettes. Now that he could see all her personal belongings, even the torn, washed-out picture seemed to scream at him, especially the small, masculine silhouette he could almost see scolding him for coming here to ask her to leave them behind like he had any right to make that decision for her.

“I don’t know why it seems so unconceivable for you that I would be capable of a selfless act, but I’d advise you to stop thinking of yourself as the fucking hero of this district,” Naia seethed, her voice raising with each word that slipped out of her lips so quickly that it seemed her anger was forming sentences instead of her brain. “Stop getting drunk on every single praise the Capitol gives you, and maybe you will see you’re not that special. Breaking news, Finnick Odair isn’t the only goddamn man on Earth with morals! Will his ego shatter to pieces or will he be able to recover from the devastating realization that he is not thecenter of the world?”

Each sentence felt like a punch to his guts, but Finnick stayed quiet, lips sealed by shame, facing the storm his long-time rival had become. He was only starting to realize now how much the announcement affected her, because even if she had probably called him a thousand time worse names in the past, she would always hide any emotion behind a mask of cold indifference. However, now he could see it. He could see everything. The resentment and frustration dripping from her voice. He could almost see the pieces of her broken heart who had fallen in each box she had filled up. And even as she turned on her heels and slammed the door of her chamber in his face, his gaze caught the way her hands uncontrollably, yet unperceivably shook against the handle.

Guilt squeezed his guts. Finnick realized that he spent so much time seeing Naia as his competition that sometimes, he almost forgot she was human. She was not only his strong, arrogant and deceitful rival, the victor he was always compared to when it came to determining the best golden victor of District Four. She was not just the girl that challenged him, that claimed she was better than him and that showered him with mockeries on his skills and his Capitol-persona. She was not just the girl he spared with every once in a while, to settle who is better. She was not just the girl who had a witty come-back for each of this teasing remarks. She was also just a girl. His old friend's sister. The girl from his district whom he grew up with. And behind the arrogance, the indifference, the rivalry, there was the ghost of the person who went through the same horrors he did, and whose soul died a little in that cursed arena.

And if he could forget that so easily, that told him more about the influence the Capitol had on himself than what he wanted to admit.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, Finnick left the room, uncoherent thoughts trying to form words that would be a good enough apology without causing her to explode, but before any sound could come out of his open mouth, his voice died down in his throat as his eyes landed on Naia. The victor felt like a wave just hit him straight in the face – and maybe it did, only it was a wave of agony, radiating from the scene in front of him.

Sadness was painted all over the tiny room he tried to enter earlier, yet Naia smiled with the tenderness she reserved to only one person. Even his presence couldn’t disturb the peaceful expression on her face.

“Mom, do you recognize me? It’s Naia, remember? I’m your daughter.”

Finnick held his breath, waiting for the old lady sat on a rocking chair to answer. He knew her, of course. Naia’s mother’s house had been a safe haven for all the kids who once needed an escape from home, a hot meal or a wonderful story to let their mind wander in the amazing worlds the creative woman shared with them, all more peaceful than the world the Capitol ruled.

But the eloquent and lifeful discourses of the woman seemed long gone as Finnick watched her babble an unintelligible, uncoherent answer while her empty eyes stared in the void. He knew she had fallen sick, but he didn’t know about her condition. Any physical sickness seemed more merciful than forgetting everything and everyone until an entire lifetime is wiped out from a memory.

Naia caressed her cheek with delicacy. She was not expecting an answer. A moment passed. Finnick knew he should leave, that this was too intimate, but somehow, the memory of the warm and friendly woman who spared him tons of slices of cake when he was young kept his feet fixated on the ground.

When he finally moved, the movement caught the mother’s attention, and a flash of recognition illuminated her eyes. He froze, while Naia’s mouth dropped open in a hopeful gasp.

“Mom? He’s Finnick Odair, the fisherman’s son. Do you remember? He fought with Dan one day,” she said as she signed him to come crouching to her level. “You used to invite him over to eat even though I always asked you not to.”

Well, now he didn’t know if he should be more shocked to be recognized by someone who is losing their memory or to be introduced by Naia in such a gentle, harmless way. He’ll be damned if he ever hears Naia talk about him in such a sweet tone again.

“Hello Mrs Calder,” he hesitated a second, before confidently putting on his most charming smile, the one he knew could win him any mom over. “You fed me well when my dad was at sea. I hope I always thanked you for it because I remember your cooking as the best in the district.”

He held her emerald gaze as the old woman tried to speak, but her lips seemed to be moving too slowly, too harshly to actually mold the sound coming out of her mouth. The expectancy, the yearning himself felt made him realize how much more devastating that feeling must be for her daughter. Suddenly, Mrs Calder clapped her hands, startling him, before bursting into a quiet laugh.

“My daughter can’t stand the Odair kid!” she shouted in a joyful tone, punctuating it with another string of unintelligible sounds.

Even though the old lady quickly fell back into a state of incoherence, when the blond man looked at her daughter, her eyes glistened – he didn’t know if it was with tears or with joy. Naia had the biggest smile plastered on her face, holding her mother’s hands and planting a firm kiss on one of them.

“Damn right I do!” Naia exclaimed, laughing a true, relieved, liberating laugh.

Finnick stared at her, drinking in the sight and the sound. It was the first time in months, if not years, that he had seen her laugh so freely. Simply the improbability of the moment ripped a chuckle out of him too. For all she was annoying and irritating, his rival didn’t deserve the cruelty of this situation. So when she asked him to take care of her mother if he ever wins the games (which she still insisted would be highly improbable), the fisherman’s son did not hesitate. And somehow, he knew that behind all their rivalry and their mutual disliking, there was enough respect between them that they’d trust each other’s word.

But he also knew she probably will make him pay for coming to her house to guilt-trip her into sacrificing herself. Which she had already decided to do despite the unthinkable price she had to pay for it.

[snowangie]

snow on the beach.

a finnick odair x fem!oc series

summary : in the heart of the capitol's glittering deception, Giselle Snow, granddaughter of president coriolanus snow, conceals her true emotions while working to undermine the hunger games. sent to district 4 after the 74th Games, she grapples with forbidden love for district 4's Finnick Odair. Snow on the beach is weird but fucking beautiful – Giselle is the snow, Finnick is the beach, an unexpected yet perfect harmony in the delicate ballet of their existence. As the quarter quell unfolds, panem becomes a battleground for love and rebellion, and Giselle faces a choice that will alter destinies and unravel the threads of her past.

warnings: swearing, smut, violence, mentions of death, mentions of torture, mentions of sex trafficking, weapons, trauma, mental illnesses

genre: angst, romance, forbidden love, violence, hurt/comfort

chapters: 1-flecks of lights , 2-life is emotionally abusive , 3-time cant stop me quite like u did

author’s note: i alrdy have six other chapters abt to be published real soon. the timeline will start from post thg and pre catching fire to the catching fire and the mockingjay pt 1 & 2 ! the story will get more interesting in the coming chapters i promise and i hope u enjoy reading :)

chapter 1 : flecks of lights.

The grandiose chamber of President Snow's office in the heart of the Capitol was adorned with opulence that mirrored the power he held over Panem. Giselle Snow, granddaughter to the president, entered the room with a careful blend of poise and trepidation. The air was laden with an unspoken tension as she approached the imposing figure behind the intricately carved desk.

President Snow, seated in a high-backed chair, regarded her with a scrutinizing gaze. “My lovely... Giselle,” he said with an air of authority. “Sit.” His tone allowed no room for objection.

Giselle took a seat across from her grandfather, her posture straight and composed. “You summoned me, Grandfather,” she said, her eyes meeting his with a mixture of deference and curiosity.

He leaned back, fingers steepled. “The districts are proving to be more troublesome than anticipated, especially after that girl, Katniss Everdeen, became a symbol of rebellion. We need to ensure our control, and I have a task for you.”

Giselle inclined her head, a silent acknowledgment of her readiness to fulfill any duty bestowed upon her.

“You're to leave the Capitol,” President Snow continued, his gaze piercing. "Head to District 4. Keep an eye on the situation there. We need loyalty, not rebellion."

Understanding the gravity of the assignment, Giselle nodded. “Of course, Grandfather. I will ensure District 4 remains in line.”

His lips curled into a semblance of a smile, though his eyes remained cold. “You'll do more than that, Giselle. You'll show them who holds the power. Be a presence they can't ignore.”

Giselle's brow furrowed slightly. “I understand the need for authority, Grandfather, but isn't there a risk of inciting further unrest if I'm too forceful?”

President Snow's expression hardened. “You underestimate the importance of control, my dear. A firm hand is required to maintain order. You'll leave tomorrow. Ensure District 4 understands the price of disobedience.”

As Giselle left the president's office, the weight of her new assignment settled on her shoulders. Little did she know, this journey to District 4 would alter the course of her life in ways she never could have anticipated. The Capitol's gleaming façade hid secrets, and Giselle, bound by duty, embarked on a path that would challenge her allegiance and reshape her understanding of the world she was born into.

The nightfall brought a quiet stillness to the Capitol, but within the luxurious walls of the Snow's residence, the atmosphere was anything but tranquil. Giselle stood by the window, her gaze fixed on the neon-lit skyline, a stark contrast to the darkened Districts she was about to enter. A single thought echoed in her mind - her departure for District 4.

She turned around from the window to a big mirror across her bedroom. In the mirror's gaze, Giselle Snow emerges, a vision painted in the hues of winter’s embrace—like the quiet elegance of snow, her every movement a subtle cascade of crystalline grace. Her porcelain skin, as pale as freshly fallen snow, conceals a myriad of emotions beneath a facade of composure. Blue eyes, reminiscent of the frigid depths, mirror the legacy she inherits from President Snow. Raven tendrils cascade like delicate snowflakes, framing a countenance that masks both strength and vulnerability. Giselle, standing at a gentle petite height, embodies the quiet power of a snow-covered landscape, where the surface serenity belies the tumultuous currents beneath.

As dawn painted the sky with hues of rose and gold, Giselle prepared for her journey. The Capitol, a city of excess and indulgence, presented a facade of perpetual celebration. Yet, beneath it, Giselle felt a sense of isolation. The grand parties, the extravagant fashion, the Capitol's obsession with appearances – all seemed distant, detached from the reality she was about to confront.

Descending the grand staircase of the Presidential office, Giselle observed Capitol citizens engaged in their daily routines. Perfectly coiffed and adorned in extravagant attire, they moved with an air of detached elegance. She exchanged polite nods and practiced smiles, concealing the underlying tension that accompanied her impending departure.

In the bustling streets, hovercrafts glided overhead, carrying with them the distant echoes of Capitol chatter. “Love really is a wonderful thing, isn’t it ? Look at the District 12 victors.” Giselle caught fragments of conversations discussing the recent Hunger Games, a macabre spectacle ingrained in Capitol culture. Her gaze lingered on the lavish advertisements depicting this year’s victors and their glory.

As she made her way to the Capitol's central hub, Giselle couldn't escape the feeling of being a pawn in a grand, calculated game. The Capitol, with its towering architecture and ostentatious displays of wealth, seemed like a gilded cage, and Giselle, despite her privileged status, yearned for something more.

Amid the swirl of Capitol life, Giselle pondered the stark contrast between her existence and the struggles faced by those in the Districts. The Capitol's obliviousness to the suffering of its subjects weighed heavily on her conscience. She questioned the morality of her grandfather's orders, grappling with the realization that her actions would directly impact lives beyond the opulence of the Capitol.

As her hovercraft lifted off, carrying her towards District 4, Giselle cast a final gaze upon the Capitol skyline. The dichotomy between the sparkling facade and the dark reality beneath became a poignant metaphor for the life she was leaving behind. Little did she know that her journey into the heart of Panem would unravel secrets, challenge loyalties, and ignite a spark of compassion that could alter the course of the Hunger Games.

On a crisp morning, Giselle found herself in the heart of District 4, standing outside a weathered building that served as a makeshift shelter for the elderly. Inside, a sense of community prevailed, but the challenges of age and limited resources weighed heavily on the occupants. Giselle, armed with a basket of provisions, stepped forward to lend a helping hand.

“Good morning, Alice,” she greeted, her tone warm and genuine.

The elderly woman, initially wary of the Capitol emissary, now greeted Giselle with a genuine smile. “Good morning, dear. You've been a blessing to us.”

As Giselle distributed essentials and engaged in conversations with the elderly residents, she felt a profound connection forming. The Capitol's representative had become a familiar face, not as a symbol of oppression but as someone who genuinely cared.

Amidst the camaraderie, a flashback flickered in Giselle's mind – a scene from her arrival in District 4. The initial reception had been marked by hesitancy and fear. The residents had seen her as an extension of President Snow's authority, an unwelcome reminder of Capitol oppression. Their guarded glances and whispered conversations had painted her arrival with skepticism.

Now, as she moved among them with empathy and compassion, Giselle recalled the gradual shift in perception. The people of District 4 had witnessed her dedication to easing their burdens, and the once-fearful gazes had transformed into looks of gratitude.

In the flashback, a moment stood out – a conversation with an elderly fisherman named Mr. O'Brien. “We don't trust your kind,” he had grumbled at the outset.

Giselle had responded with a soft-spoken determination. “Give me a chance to prove that I'm not here to perpetuate the Capitol's cruelty.”

Back in the present, Mr. O'Brien, now seated in the shelter, smiled at Giselle as she handed him a blanket. The warmth in his eyes spoke of acceptance earned through actions, not mere words.

The contrast between Giselle's arrival and the present scene was palpable – a transformation of fear into trust, of skepticism into gratitude. As she continued her efforts to assist the elderly in District 4, Giselle found purpose in bridging the gap between the Capitol and its districts, one compassionate act at a time.

Upon her arrival in District 4 a month ago, Giselle was ushered into a modest gathering hall where the victors of the district had assembled. Their eyes, seasoned by hardship and the harsh realities of the Hunger Games, bore a mix of curiosity and wariness as she entered. Among them, Finnick Odair stood out, an enigmatic figure with an air of both charm and caution.

Finnick, a living embodiment of allure and strength, possesses a sculpted physique that seems chiseled by the ocean's waves. His sea-green eyes mirrors the depth of the waters he hails from, and his sun-kissed hair carries whispers of the sandy shores. The 65th Hunger Games victor reminded Giselle of the beach, its warmth and unpredictability. The sand yields beneath his every step, mirroring the enigmatic allure that draws others in. His presence drawing the tide of emotions in an unpredictable rhythm with his exuding charisma.

Giselle felt the weight of their collective gaze as she approached, her every step echoing in the hushed room. The victors, each carrying the visible and invisible scars of their past tribulations, eyed her with a mixture of skepticism and guarded interest.

Finnick, his sea-green eyes piercing, regarded her with a cool detachment. She sensed an unspoken challenge in his gaze, a silent invitation to prove herself beyond her Capitol lineage.

One of the older victors, Mags, stepped forward, her weathered face etched with both resilience and kindness. “Welcome to District 4,” she said, her voice, thick with an accent that can hardly be understood, but a comforting contrast to the tension in the room. “We've been through a lot, and we hope you understand our apprehension.”

Giselle nodded, acknowledging the validity of their wariness. “I'm here to understand, to learn, and to help in any way I can.”

Finnick, leaning against a pillar with an air of nonchalance, finally spoke, his words laced with skepticism. “You're here to help yeah? That's a first.”

Giselle met his gaze with a steady determination. “I didn't choose the circumstances of my birth, but I can choose how I navigate them. Let me prove that not everyone from the Capitol is your enemy.”

The other victors exchanged glances, the room filled with an uneasy silence. It was Annie Cresta, another victor with a haunted expression, who broke the tension. “We've heard promises before. Actions speak louder than words.”

Over the following days, Giselle worked tirelessly to fulfill those promises. She attended to the needs of the district, engaged in conversations with the victors, and gradually earned their trust through her genuine efforts to understand their struggles.

The low hum of conversation and the rhythmic clinking of utensils created a subdued ambiance during the communal dinner in District 4. Giselle, a newcomer to this close-knit community of victors, moved through the room with a measured grace, keenly aware of the mixed reactions to her presence. Finnick, surrounded by fellow victors, couldn't help but watch her, his initial hostility giving way to a guarded curiosity.

Giselle, though aware of the scrutiny, maintained her composed facade. Her poise unfaltering. Finnick's eyes followed her every move, the dim lighting casting shadows on his usually sharp features. There was a weariness about him that matched the weight of their shared experiences. Mags, ever perceptive, nudged Finnick with a subtle smile, as if to say, “Give her a chance.”

As Giselle took a seat at the table, the tension lingered. The conversations around them continued, a mixture of stories from past victories and the haunting memories of the arena. Finnick's initial hostility began to wane, replaced by a flicker of curiosity. Giselle, sensing the shift, decided to break the ice.

“Hello, everyone,” she said, her voice carrying a mix of confidence and vulnerability. “I know I'm not what you expected, but I'm here to navigate this journey with you. Let's make the most of it, shall we?”

As the dinner continued, the atmosphere shifted subtly. Finnick’s hostility waned, replaced by a flicker of curiosity that mirrored Giselle’s guarded demeanor. The room, filled with the stories of past victories and lingering traumas, bore witness to a quiet turning point.

Their eyes met across the room, an electric charge passing between them, almost like some flecks of lights. It was as if the air crackled with unspoken tension, a silent understanding passing between them. In that fleeting connection, Finnick glimpsed something beyond the Capitol walls Giselle wore—a vulnerability, perhaps, or a shared acknowledgment of the fact that they were bound together by the challenges of the Games. The road to trust might be uncertain, but that initial exchange marked the beginning of a connection that held the promise of unexpected alliances in the days to come.

The coastal air in District 4 carried a sense of tranquility, a stark contrast to the undercurrent of tension within the district. Giselle, engrossed in helping a group of children repair a makeshift shelter, looked up as the oppressive presence of a Peacemaker leader, Captain Rawlins, loomed over her.

Rawlins, his uniform adorned with Capitol insignias, exuded hostility as he approached. “Giselle Snow,” he sneered, emphasizing her last name with disdain. “I've been hearing reports about your... tenderness toward these people. You forget your purpose here.”

Giselle, undeterred, straightened but maintained her composure. “My purpose is to ensure order and cooperation, not to crush the spirit of those who have already endured so much.”

Rawlins, a symbol of Capitol authority, leaned in with a menacing glare. “Your grandfather didn't send you here to coddle them. They need to fear the Capitol, not embrace it.”

As the confrontation unfolded, Finnick, who had been observing from a distance, couldn't ignore the palpable tension. His piercing gaze remained fixed on Giselle, his expression unreadable.

Giselle met Rawlins' hostility with measured defiance. “I believe in understanding before control. Fear only begets rebellion.”

Rawlins, unrelenting, hissed, “You'll do well to remember your place, Snow. This is not the Capitol. This is District 4, and they are not your equals. Next time you might not just be getting a verbal reminder.”

The Peacemaker leader retreated with a parting glare, leaving Giselle surrounded by a heavy silence. The onlookers, District 4 residents and victors alike, exchanged uneasy glances, aware of the delicate balance between the Capitol's emissary and the authority they represented.

Finnick, having witnessed the confrontation, approached Giselle with a softened expression. His sea-green eyes, once filled with skepticism, now held a glimmer of understanding. “ I guess, even the President’s granddaughter isn’t free.”

Giselle, her resolve unbroken, met his gaze. “No, Finnick. I'm not here to perpetuate the Capitol's cruelty. I’m not just Snow’s granddaughter. What Snow is and what I am is two different things. I want to make a difference. A good one.”

In that moment, the unspoken connection between them deepened. Finnick, seeing beyond the Capitol's facade, recognized Giselle's genuine intentions. The hostility of Rawlins had not only exposed the oppressive nature of the Capitol but had also illuminated the stark contrast between Giselle's compassion and the brutality she represented. As the whispers of dissent lingered in the air, Giselle and Finnick share a subtle nod of mutual understanding.

The day was overcast in District 4, the sky reflecting the somber mood that often lingered in the coastal district. Giselle, having spent the morning assisting in a community project, found herself near the docks where Finnick was overseeing a fishing expedition. The rhythmic sound of the waves crashing against the boats provided a backdrop to their conversation.

Finnick, usually stoic, allowed a rare vulnerability to surface. “Victors are supposed to be living in luxury, but I feel like a prisoner. Funny how I thought I would be free from everything when I won the games.”

Giselle, leaning against a dock post, looked at him with understanding. “Luxury can be its own form of confinement. Expectations, demands... it's a different kind of Hunger Games.”

He sighed, the weight of his past victories evident in his eyes. “They think they own us because we won. They parade us like trophies.”

Giselle nodded, recognizing the shared burden of being a pawn in the Capitol's game. “I never asked for this life either. Born into a system that expects me to follow its rules.”

As the conversation continued, they found solace in each other's shared experiences. Finnick spoke of the exploitation he endured, the Capitol's twisted expectations, and the toll it took on his sense of self. Giselle, in turn, shared her struggles with the oppressive nature of her lineage and the conflict she felt between duty and compassion.

Amidst the backdrop of creaking boats and the distant calls of seagulls, Giselle placed a reassuring hand on Finnick's arm. “You're not alone, Finnick. We're both prisoners of a system that values power over humanity.”

He looked at her, a mixture of surprise and gratitude in his eyes.

She smiled at him, the connection between them deepening. “Maybe it's time we redefine what's expected. We can be more than the roles they assigned us.”

As the day unfolded, Giselle and Finnick found comfort in each other's presence. Their budding friendship serving as a source of emotional support in a world that sought to define them by their pasts. They became each other’s flecks of lights in their own darkness. In this shared vulnerability, they discover a connection that transcends the Capitol's expectations, laying the foundation for a bond that will evolve into something deeper.

The evening was draped in hues of orange and purple as Giselle stood by the edge of the district, gazing out at the sea. Finnick joined her, and in the quiet solitude, the weight of their shared experiences hung in the air.

Finnick, usually guarded, allowed a moment of vulnerability. "I've never talked about this with anyone. The Hunger Games, the Capitol's demands... it changes you."

Giselle nodded, understanding the depth of his pain. "They exploit your victories, but they don't see the scars they leave behind. Victors are expected to be symbols, not people."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow on the water, Giselle found herself sharing her own struggles. "I grew up in the Capitol, surrounded by extravagance. But the more I saw, the more I realized how empty it all is."

Finnick looked at her, his sea-green eyes reflecting a mix of empathy and shared pain. "I thought you were just another Capitol puppet, but you're different. I can't figure you out."

Giselle chuckled, a bittersweet expression on her face. "Maybe that's because I'm trying to figure myself out too. I don't want to be a pawn in their game. I want to change things, even if it's just a little."

In the quiet admission of their vulnerabilities, a subtle shift occurred. Their friendship evolved into a connection forged in shared pain and a mutual desire for change.

As the waves rhythmically caressed the shore, Giselle sought solace in the quiet companionship of Finnick. With a gentle touch, she rested her head on his strong shoulders, finding comfort in the shared silence that echoed the unspoken complexities of their lives. "Beyond these roles, Finnick, we are survivors. And perhaps, in that truth, we will find something that transcends it all."

Finnick, usually guarded, allowed a hint of gratitude to soften his features. "Maybe you're right, Giselle. Maybe we can be more than the Capitol's expectations."

In that moment, against the backdrop of the fading sunlight and the persistent sound of the sea, Giselle and Finnick found solace in the shared understanding that they were not defined solely by the Capitol's cruel narrative. The breakdown of walls, the admission of vulnerabilities, became the foundation for a connection that held the promise of mutual growth and perhaps, even love.

Days turned into weeks, and the connection between Giselle and Finnick deepened, unspoken emotions weaving through their shared moments. One evening, they found themselves on the same stretch of beach where they had first shared their vulnerabilities.

As they walked along the shoreline, the air thick with unspoken sentiments, Giselle broke the silence. "There's something about this place that feels different when you're here."

Finnick smiled, his gaze lingering on the horizon. "Maybe it's the freedom from the Capitol's expectations, even if just for a moment."

Giselle nodded, a subtle understanding passing between them. They had become each other's refuge in a world that demanded so much and gave so little.

Amidst the soft sounds of the waves, they sat on a weathered piece of driftwood, and Finnick's fingers traced absent patterns in the sand. “You know,” he began, his voice softer than usual, “I never expected to find... comfort in someone like you.”

Giselle looked at him, a mixture of curiosity and warmth in her eyes. “Comfort?”

Finnick hesitated, his sea-green eyes meeting hers. “Yeah. I mean, you get it. The struggle, the weight of it all. It's... comforting.”

She giggled, the sound carrying a tinge of vulnerability. “I never thought I'd find someone who understands this side of me. It's a relief, really.”

As the conversation flowed, the air seemed charged with an energy neither of them could fully comprehend. It was a dance of words, subtle glances, and shared silences, all painting a picture of something more profound than mere friendship.

In the days that followed, their connection grew more pronounced. Each shared glance and lingering touch weaving a tapestry of connection between Finnick Odair and Giselle Snow. In the quiet embrace of District 4's soft evening glow, their growing bond took center stage.

Under the subtle luminescence of district lights, Finnick's thoughtful eyes met Giselle's, and he spoke words that hung in the air like an unspoken promise. "You're changing me, Giselle Snow. And I'm not sure if I want it to stop."

Giselle, bathed in the gentle radiance of the night, met his gaze with a mixture of vulnerability and resolve. Her lips curved into a soft smile, a response that carried the weight of unspoken understanding.

"Maybe change is what we both need," she whispered, her words a delicate echo in the quiet night. The soft sounds of their shared laughter lingered, a melody that spoke of the intricacies of their evolving connection. In that moment, beneath the district lights, Finnick and Giselle found solace in the uncharted territories of change and the magnetic pull drawing them closer. The lines between friendship and something more blurred, evolving into a connection that surpassed the constraints of their predetermined roles.

One evening, Giselle and Finnick found themselves on the outskirts of District 4, away from the prying eyes of the Capitol and the curious gazes of the district's residents. The moon cast a gentle glow upon the landscape as they stood on a secluded stretch of beach.

The air was filled with a tangible tension, an unspoken understanding that their connection was evolving into something more profound. Giselle, looking out at the vast expanse of the sea, couldn't shake the feeling that they were standing at the edge of a precipice.

Finnick, usually composed, seemed to be wrestling with his own thoughts. As he looked at Giselle, a shared silence unfolded between them. In that unexpected moment of intimacy, their eyes met, and a connection deeper than words was forged.

Without a word, Finnick reached out, his fingers gently brushing against Giselle's hand. It was a subtle touch, a gesture laden with unspoken sentiments. In that brief contact, the weight of their shared experiences, struggles, and unexplored emotions seemed to converge.

Giselle, her heart echoing the rhythm of the waves, looked at him with a mixture of vulnerability and understanding. The touch lingered for a moment longer than necessary, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that was growing between them.

As they continued their quiet stroll along the shoreline, a shared secret hung in the air. Finnick, breaking the silence, spoke softly. "There's something about the sea at night. It makes everything feel... honest."

Giselle nodded, the moonlight casting a glow on her features. "Maybe that's why we find ourselves here, away from the facades and expectations."

In the midst of the tumultuous waters of Panem, Giselle and Finnick discovered that unexpected moments of intimacy held a transformative power. Whether it was a shared glance, a fleeting touch, or the exchange of unspoken truths, these moments deepened their connection, creating a bridge between two souls navigating the complexities of their world.

As they continued to walk along the beach, the sea whispering its secrets to the night, Giselle and Finnick found solace in the unexpected intimacies that wove their connection into a tapestry of shared moments and unexplored emotions. Neither both of them fully realized the depth of their emotions, but the unspoken understanding between them spoke volumes, paving the way for a love that was quietly blooming amidst the complexities of their world.

[laceswan]

The Smiling Princess

Finnick Odair x fem!dancer!OC

What if the equivalent of a Disney Princess was thrown into the Hunger Games? Sylke is optimistic and has an affinity for all that is gentle and sweet. What happens when she is placed in an arena and forced to kill or be killed?

fluff, angst, strangers to lovers, canon typical violence

part two is out!

The capitol wasn’t all that different from district one. It was more modern, more luxurious, but not by much. Sylke thought back to the reaping. This year was a strange one. For some reason, none of the training female career tributes volunteered, either too young or not ready. She was only fourteen, never once had she wanted the life of a career. And yet her name had been the one drawn. Standing on that stage next to a man much older who’s trained his whole life for this, she felt more out of place than ever before. The train ride was not long, less than a day, but Sylke found it hard to relax, and time seemed to pass at a snail's pace. She had decided the moment her name was called and no one volunteered, that this was the end of her life. It wasn't even a question in her mind. Normally she would try to maintain a certain amount of optimism, but as she pondered on the train it became evident that such hope was almost always applied to someone not herself. Undying optimism was reserved for everyone else, while a more calculating hope was held for herself. In this case, the odds were not in her favour. The best she could do was enjoy the little bit of life she has left. And she did. Regardless of its strange and bloody traditions, the capitol was beautiful. The gifts she had been offered, the world she got to see from the train window, so much of it was bright and wonderful. And with the little time she had left, she resolved to appreciate it.

The other tribute from 1, Cesare, didn’t seem to like her much. He was cold, offered only backhanded advice, and made a lousy excuse for her only companion. Their mentor, Victoria, was sweet, convinced that Sylke could survive with some allies and sponsors. Their escort, Misty, agreed, and was already assembling a list of rich possible benefactors she planned to meet with. When they arrived in the capitol, Sylke was desperate for a new face, a friendly one. There was one person around her age, the tribute from four. She saw him at the tribute parade, dressed glamourously in blue and green. When they met, she tried to be as friendly and genuine as possible. That was his first instinct as well, to simply be kind, to make a friend, but when the conversation was over, he was swiftly pulled aside and reminded that she wouldn’t make a good ally, that he should put energy into connections with other, more fit tributes. As he tried to talk to Cesare, a broad-shouldered athlete who clearly had an advantage at the game, Finnick couldn’t keep himself from looking in her direction, from thinking about her and what she must be feeling. There was a churning anxiety, an uncertainty, that raged like a storm in the high seas within his core, one deeply tied to being so young in a place full or intimidating older kids. She was probably in the same boat, and he was drawn to that. No one else was that young in this Game, and in a different world, perhaps they even would have been friends. That is what kept him lingering in her mind as well. That they could have been friends. Only to her, they still could be even if only for a short while. It was the only friend she might be able to find in this place.

There was a gala that night, a chance to meet people, network, get sponsors. Sylke’s stylist put her in a long, heavy gown, white and gold with little pearls and jewels, to appeal to sponsors from one as her stylist put it. Something about portraying luxury. As much as she disliked the performance of it all, it had been a while since she’d been in a gown like this, with the heavy silks that draped off her body like water flowing gently over time-smoothed rocks. Something about it felt authentic, the daintiness and femininity. If she looked in a mirror she looked like herself. There had been a few times like that in her life, all of them before or during dance performances. The mirror that hung on the wall backstage was where she would check her costume before going up. She was grateful each time that her character wouldn’t be be frowning. She wouldn’t have to act. It would make her smile like nothing else, to see the dress she was wearing, because the person looking back at her was the girl she would see in her dreams, the princess she always wanted to be. And she would smile, a real smile, and she would go on stage with that smile, and everyone watching would know it’s real. The gala was different. People were closer, meaner, there was a tension in the air that never truly went away. The other tributes were there, closer to her than she’d ever seen them before. They were all so strong, so ruthless, merciless. It became clear to her that she didn’t stand a chance. They all looked out of place in fragile evening wear, like they belonged in a suit of armor on the battlefield. They could kill her in an instant, rip her apart like silk. This was the way she was going to die. She had a week or so until then, a week that she wanted to enjoy. But how would she enjoy what was essentially her deathbed? She would need to look at the little things, just the details could perhaps keep her happy for a week. She would need to distract herself, take comfort in all the things around her that weren’t awful. Those details weren’t as rare as she had thought, not if she looked in the right places. The gala was certainly not the stage, but it wasn’t that different. Those similarities were what she took comfort in that night. The dress, the lights, the few faces in the crowds that were truly friendly. Her dress didn’t flutter like a tutu, it didn’t spin the same, but it still made her happy, she looked liked herself in every glass, every reflective surface, she would see the dress, the jewels, and in a matter of seconds, her smile. She met all sorts of sponsors that night, they loved her. After all, there was no point in trying to appeal to them, and thus she could just be herself. Perhaps they made plans to help her in the arena now that she’d met them, but it didn’t matter. All that she could do was enjoy her night. Bask in the luxury and make some friends. The sponsors weren’t really friends. They weren’t her equals, they weren’t fearing for their lives. Only twenty-three others were like her. One of them was standing alone, at the edge of the dance floor. The boy from four that she had yet to learn the name of. He wore bronze to match his hair and tanned skin, a fairly simple ensemble akin to any other tuxedo or suit. The part that caught attention was the brocade. Just like Sylke’s jewels, they glittered in the light, adorning his chest and shoulders. There was a heavy patterned fabric that was draped off his shoulder like an asymmetrical cape fit for a prince. It hung still as he leaned against the wall, but Sylke pictured it fluttering with every movement and step he took. He was alone, as though waiting for company of some kind. So she walked up to him, the fabric of her dress swaying with each step.

“Hey. I’m Sylke. ”

“Finnick. You’re from one?”

The question was awkward, like he didn’t know what else to say.

“Mhm. And you’re from four, right?”

“Yup.”

There was a silence. She wanted to ask how he was enjoying the night, if he liked galas like this, if he’d ever been to one before, in fact she was about to when-

“But you’re not a career?”

There it was.

“I’m not. Just a regular tribute, like you.”

“Actually I’m not. I trained for this.”

“But you’re fourteen, don’t you wait until eighteen?”

“Yeah, usually.”

His answer was short, clearly a sore subject. She wanted to ask why, but as she looked at his face it became obvious that he didn’t know. So she didn’t push.

“Do you feel ready?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

His mentor, and kind woman named Mags, had told him not to show weakness, to portray confidence, never let the image slip, but it still did when he was talking to her. He let it slip, for some reason that he couldn’t yet identify. Something in him just wanted to tell her everything, every thought, every feeling, every doubt that floated through his head. Or rather he wanted to tell the world, but the world could not be trusted and so he looked to trustworthy individuals. Something told him she was most certainly one of them. Of course he didn’t say everything, but his performance was still weakened by her presence. Mostly by that smile. So genuine it made him want to smile too. They spent most of the night seated at a table in the corner of the room, occasionally beckoned by a mentor or escort, but always returning to the conversation. That conversation began with talks of the games, but it took little time to expand. Finnick told her about his life back home, and Sylke did the same. They talked about almost everything, from the birds that Sylke kept and trained in her garden to the rigorous dental hygiene Finnick was instructed to keep when he was a boy due to his sweet tooth. He was shocked to learn that she’d never eaten fish. On special occasion shellfish, but never proper fish. Soon after, Mags called him to meet a sponsor, and he returned a bit later with a plate of some of the fish being served that night.

“Here. I found some at the table, you should try it. It’s not like I catch at home, but it’s good.”

“Is there a certain way I’m supposed to eat it?”

He laughed, putting the plate on the table and sitting beside her.

“A fork and knife will do”

She laughed with undeniably genuine cadence before taking a bite. It was certainly new, but still familiar. Like a heightened version of the shrimp her family would get for celebrations, something meant only for the most celebratory of occasions. It was rich and just salty enough, and perfectly seasoned. Perhaps fitting for the celebration of one’s life, a good last meal. She made a decision to request this as her final meal before going into the arena.

“So… do you like it?”

She turned to him, swallowing before smiling, with the edges of her lips pulled high and making crescent moons of her eyes.

“It’s really good! If I had that as my last meal, I think I’d die happy.”

“Yeah? Wait until you try mine. No seasoning or capitol kitchen can make up for freshness--catching, cooking, and eating it right there on the sand.”

He spoke with confidence, almost arrogance dripping from his voice, with a pearly white grin to go with it.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

They continued to talk and to laugh, exchanging stories and jokes like old friends catching up after too long apart. At some point she had reveled in the dress she was wearing, how the luxury and flow reminded her of costumes she would wear, how she felt more like herself wearing these than any time before. She spoke with a beaming smile, eyes flitting from his to the fabric to the jewels to the glittering room and then back to him. He said little as she did this, simply watching the joy pour from her every word. It was that genuine joy the pulled him to her, that made his performance slip, that made him content to let it.

“You glow when you talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“About the things you like, the things that make you smile.”

She laughed.

A minute or two later, the music switched to a new song, and Sylke perked up.

“I know this song!” She stood up and took his hand. “Come on, get up!”

“Wait, to dance?”

“Yeah! What, they never taught you how to dance?”

“Only a little,”

She pulled him to the dance floor and took both his hands in hers. “It’s a waltz, do you know how to do that?”

He shook his head.

“That’s alright,”

She brought one of his hands to her waist with her own on his shoulder. It felt nice to have someone so close, someone to trust. They didn’t move.

“It’s slow, do you wanna look at my feet and I can teach you?”

He pulled her a little closer, practically speaking directly into her ear. It hadn't been long since he felt the warmth of another human, just a few days ago he was hugging his family goodbye. But the capitol was so cold, so glamourously sterile, that this closeness with Sylke felt like a moment of fresh air after a month of factory smog. The rest of the capitol felt sickly cold in comparison to this. This comforting, trusting warmth. Neither of them wanted to leave.

“Maybe later. Let’s just sway for now”

“Okay.”

They swayed in silence, trying to savor this moment of trust. Gold, ivory, and bronze melded together as they moved, these clothes must have been made to dance together. The music was soft, a subtle background for their movement. The night was coming to a close, the dance floor had few people left on it. It didn’t take long for Sylke and Finnick to be pulled away for final goodbyes, the last chance of the night to get sponsors before they went back to the apartments.

They spent the rest of the week training. Sylke spent most of that time learning about plants. The training centre offered plants from multiple different biomes, and Sylke did try to learn about all of them, but she couldn't help but favour the jungle plants. Something about the vibrant colours striking shapes was absolutely fascinating to her, especially because she grew up in an urban area that held only artificial, staged cactus and succulent terrariums. She learned quickly what was poison, what was edible, and what was medicinal. Often, she learned, something poisonous because helpful when delivered in the right dose. There was a tree near her home in district one, planted in a concrete box in a public square. From midsummer to the first cold breeze, the blossoms would hang from its branches like white handkerchiefs dipped in rosy dye at the bottom. The tree was lovely and admired by Sylke as well as many of her neighbors, but everyone who lived nearby to admire from a distance. Adults told her when she was very young that every part of that tree was dangerous, not to be touched, and deceptively beautiful. The man at the medicinal plants station told her however, that the leaves, once cooked, make for a powerful pain reliever. Still to be ingested with caution, as with any other narcotic, but helpful when taken prudently. Sylke was simply fascinated by such topics. She didn’t care much for violence, which most of the training room was dedicated to. She also learned how to use a friction bow, but that was mostly out of boredom. Her favourite part of the training was most certainly the medicinal plants. She took comfort in knowing that with this knowledge she could perhaps help someone stay alive, and that if she taught someone else they could as well. Perhaps if things were different, if she hadn't been reaped, if for whatever reason she couldn't pursue dancing, perhaps she would have become a healer. Sometimes she would catch a glance of Finnick, throwing his trident and hitting his mark each time. He was so assured in his ability, a security that would certainly serve him well in the arena. He trained for this after all, his confidence was justified. His kills would be swift and painless, and she had no doubt that was how he liked them to be. He never seemed the type to torture something like that, something about him, the kindness that he offered to many (though not all) was too great for such cruelty.

The evaluations came too quickly. The game was approaching too fast. Cesare was first, then she would be up. When she entered the room, a small pile of stalks and leaves sat on a table in the corner of the room. In her fifteen minutes, she separated them into three piles. One she burned, another she ate, and the last she sorted into their different uses. She gave a curtsy before walking out.

She was sitting on a couch in the apartment that night, all eyes staring intently at the screen. The man next to her had gotten ten out of twelve. She got a four. No one was surprised by that. Finnick got an eleven. She hoped he would win. A part of her was sure that he would.

After that was the final show with Caesar Flickerman. Everything was just like back home, just a little more glamorous. There was a mirror just before the entrance to the stage, and in it she fluffed up her skirt before looking at herself in full. She had a tiara too, adorned with little gilded doves. She had once mentioned to a sponsor that doves were her favourite bird, a symbol of peace. Not only that, but the tiara was made to look like branches, with green jewels like olives ready to be harvested. In fact, all of the jewels she was wearing were green, to match the olives and complement the dress as her stylist had put it. And the dress. They had her in a rosy pink ball gown this time. It spun better than a tutu, with even more layers or tulle. It was perfect, everything the little girl inside of her could ever dream of. They were really leaning into the princess thing, and it made her happy beyond belief. The smile on her face was genuine, and everyone in the crowd knew it. She walked out from the steel doors, stage lights beaming from every direction as she took a seat. Caesar introduced her to the crowd, but all she could think of was music. She could hear it in her head, like she was sitting upstage while the principals danced. Like clockwork, he’d back straightened and her hands folded in her lap. She only caught the last bit of Caesar’s words.

“You really do look like royalty, sitting so poised like that. Do you know what people have been calling you?”

“What have they been calling me?”

“The smiling princess.”

He looked out to the crowd.

“Now folks, can you think of anything more fitting? Here she is in her royal gown, with a crown on her head, and the prettiest smile in the world. I can’t think of a better name for such a lovely young girl.”

“Thank you Caesar. I really do feel so lucky to be here and to have been received so kindly. My heart is truly warmed by the kindness you show me.”

“And look at that, such impeccable manners!”

His galavanting smile and raucous laugh shifted quickly to something of a pout as the crowd quieted and he took a more serious tone.

“Now of course, manners and sweetness are all gone in the arena.”

“That’s true. I will be completely out of my element.”

The crowd went quiet as Sylke formed her next words. She wondered if she should tell the audience the certainty of her death, how little hope she had for herself. But she decided against it. Instead, she focused on what she knew, the morals that she upheld and took comfort in.

”You know, I’ve been taught that the way to live a good life is to be kind, to have mercy, and to offer grace. I know not how that will apply in the arena but I have no intention of abandoning my morals.”

“Such wisdom at such a young age.”

He took her hands in his and looked her in the eyes.

“We all know that the arena is deadly. Unfortunately, other tributes are not as kind as you are. But we wish you the best of luck. May the odds be ever in your favour.”

The skirt rippled with her as she stood, walking of the stage with cheers sounding behind her. Misty was by her side immediately.

“That was good, you did good. A lot of sponsors are really loving the princess image, and that kindness, mercy, and grace speech really turned some heads.”

Sylke watched the rest of the show from backstage. Tributes came and went, each leaning into distinct personalities crafted by mentors, escorts, and stylists. She wondered how many were real. How many were total fabrication? And how many were what she imagined most of them were, exaggerations and oversimplifications, initially based on truth, but dramatised and amplified to make a good show. That’s what Finnick’s was. When he came on the stage, he had a big plastic smile. He acted arrogant, confident, but in a peacock sort of way. He had confidence in his own ability and his odds in the arena, and in the interview he missed no opportunity to flaunt it. And that was mostly based in truth. He did carry himself with confidence, and he did come off as arrogant when she first met him at the parade. But he was also compassionate, and that same confidence and security in himself allowed him to be wonderful at helping others, caring for the people around him that he trusted. It meant that he wasn’t afraid to step up and protect someone. And Sylke was sorely disappointed when she didn’t see that on the screen in front of her. That wasn’t Finnick, not all of him. But the audience loved it. They had no idea who he really was, and they didn’t care. They cheered and screamed with every toothy grin he flashed. They loved him. If he won they’d love him even more. He’d be their golden boy.

“You know they love him almost as much as they love you.”

She looked up and back to see the speaker. It was Cesare.

“What?”

“You hear the cheering? It’s almost as loud as when you were up there. Looks like the capitol found their prince.”

He slinked away again, with a smirk, like all he came up to do was tease her. But he was right. She wondered what would become of it all. She would die, and hopefully he would live. The capitol would lose their smiling princess. Would they mourn? What about him? If he died would they mourn him too? Her thoughts were interrupted by footsteps coming backstage.

“Hey! They loved you out there!”

“They loved you too, princess.”

They began to walk together, with no defined direction, just aimless, something to do with their bodies as they chatted. Finnick noted how regal her dress was, prompting her to revel similarly to the night of the gala at the way she felt wearing the dress. And again, he watched. She spun, the skirt flying up and revealing layer upon layer of fluffy tulle, and he felt a pang of desire to be the one spinning her, the knight in shining armor to her princess. And then he wondered if it was an act. If even around him she was playing up the princess thing, like he would with his playboy image for the cameras and other tributes. But he didn’t do that with her. Did she?

“Are you really like this?”

“Hmm? Like what?”

“When you’re on stage you’re essentially no different than how you are now. Is this just who you are?”

“I-I guess. I never really thought about it.”

They walked without words for a moment. He began to wonder if he made her uncomfortable.

“I try to be honest with everyone. I know my team likes to have a certain image, but when I get to talk I like to just be me. I’d like to think I’m always like this.”

Always a princess he thought. That’s just who she is.

“You’re not like that though. You were acting different on stage, I could tell. Did they tell you to do that?”

“Yeah. Apparently I’m becoming a capitol heartthrob.”

He rolled his eyes, drawling though his words with palpable disgust.

“My escort said I’ll get more sponsors if I do all that flirty stuff.”

She nodded, waiting for him to say more. There was a question she hadn’t the courage to ask, but he knew it, and answered before she asked.

“It’s not totally fake. But it’s icky, like they’re whittling me down into… it’s not something I’m not, but…”

“It’s not all of you.”

“Yeah.”

Stylists and escorts were moving about, organising the tributes to go into the stage for the finale. As Sylke was summoned to line up, Finnick pulled her close just as he had at the gala and whispered in her ear.

“I wanna come to your room tonight. Will they be asleep by midnight?”

Victoria would likely pass out the moment they returned to the apartment, and Misty always took a sleeping pill at eleven. Cesare would be asleep too, getting a good nights rest before the game in the morning.

“Yes.”

She was pulled away, and soon after so was he.

That night, she asked for fish as her supper. It was similar to what was served at the gala, tender and perfectly seasoned with a certain luxurious richness that she adored. The meal was quiet. They were always awkward, but usually Victoria, or failing that Misty, would try to make conversation. The table was quiet this time. Cesare was eating with vigor, trying to get as much down as possible before the game. Sylke was eating slowly, simply trying to enjoy all of it. Victoria had said all there was to say, now it was just a waiting game. As the night progressed everyone but Sylke went to bed early. She didn’t enjoy silence. Much more pleasant was to have something to listen to. Sometimes that would be bird songs and wind making melodies in the rustling flora, other times it was an orchestra unpacking and tuning as the crowd settled in. Whatever it was, she always preferred noise over silence. And so when all was quiet and everyone was asleep, she closed her bedroom door and found music to play. It was on the vanity, a turntable next to a selection screen. She chose something soft, classical, to remind her of home. She closed her eyes and for a moment she was back home. All was well, all she needed to worry about was the crowd, the choreography, that was it. Music had a power over her, to bring her anywhere in the world so long as she could hear it. Her feet moved across the floor, gliding and stepping with the music she knew so well. The piece was short and coming to an end. Her eyes came open a long time ago, but they didn’t actually look anywhere until the final note, when she would smile and bow to the audience. But of course, the roaring applause wasn’t there, and she was back in reality, back in the cold and grey apartment room. But she had enjoyed her escape, short as it was. A quick glance at the clock showed the midnight was nearing. She made her way to the door and kept an eye peering out the peephole. Right on time, she saw him walking, turning to check behind nearly every step. She laughed to herself at his caution, knowing full well that if she were in his place, she likely wouldn’t look back once. He approached the door and gestured to knock before stopping. He stood pondering a quieter method for perhaps a second before she opened the door. They tried not to make noise until she had closed the bedroom door again.

“You're playing music?”

“Yeah.”

They didn’t say much for a moment. In the end it was Sylke that spoke first, voicing the question that had stayed at the front of her mind for hours.

“Why did you want to meet tonight?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to see you again before tomorrow.”

She nodded, understanding and reciprocating his sentiment entirely. Another song faded out, and a lively waltz took its place.

“I never actually got to teach you to dance.”

“I’m still interested.”

She stood up come her place seated on the edge of the bed and placed her hands behind her back.

“Watch my feet. You know how a waltz goes 1, 2, 3…”

He nodded and stood next to her, mimicking her every movement. She took two steps and he did the same. She brushed her leg forward and he followed. With each step she counted, one, brush, turn, two, step, three, step. It took him a moment to pick it up, but with time he was able to find the rhythm and it became easier with each turn.

“Great. Face me,”

They kept their hands behind their backs, not wanting to complicate with arms yet.

“Just waltz, and I’ll be going backwards to match you.”

He nodded again and hesitated before stepping forward. She stepped backwards. When he brushed his leg forward she moved hers back. When they turned it switched. Once again, it slowly began to make sense to him.

“That’s great! Do you want to try arms?”

“Sounds good.”

They assumed a familiar position, with his arm on her waist, and hers on his shoulder. Only this time there was significantly more distance between them. Finnick was too focused on his feet to notice, but to Sylke took note of it, how as much as she loved to waltz with him, she did miss being closer. As the moved clumsily about the floor, she smiled and giggled both when he struggled and when he succeeded, finding joy in anything and everything he did. He almost didn’t hear her laugh with his laser focus on taking the right steps. At some point it seemed to get easier for him, but he still kept his gaze fixed on the ground. Upon seeing this, she lifted her hand from his shoulder and gently took hold of his chin to turn his face to hers.

“Look at me. Or to the audience, but we don’t have one of those.”

Just as he was told, he didn’t take his eyes off her. His steps were a bit messier as a result, but they smoothed over in time. Looking into his eyes, she found herself smiling even more, something he mimicked with a grin of his own. It wasn’t the plastic one from the stage earlier, it was different. Genuine. They could hear the song getting closer to its end. Finnick took the hand that was clasped with hers and placed it on her waist as the final phrase played.

“Dip?”

She smiled again, and that was all they needed for a response. He lowered her, with one hand at her waist and the other moving to support her back, keeping his head by hers and his eyes never leaving. The music went quiet before transitioning into something softer, slower, clearly in 4/4 as well. Neither of them moved once again. Her smile had gone slightly, now just doe-eyed and looking at him.

“Can I kiss you?”

She nodded. Sweet and slow, they moved closer until their lips met. The kiss was tender, slow and yet fleeting as they pulled apart. With foreheads pressed together, both of them donned massive smiles, eyes thinner than crescent moons. Finnick brought them back upright but kept them close. He didn’t want to let her go, perhaps not ever. He didn't want to think either. The future was too dangerous to consider right now. They mostly stayed cuddled on the bed for the rest of the hours they spent together, talking softly because they were too afraid to fall asleep. The conversation was not nearly as lighthearted as other ones. The game was tomorrow, and it weighed heavily on both of their minds. They talked about what it meant to take a life. Sylke didn’t like to think about it, but with the game so near, she could not pluck the thoughts from her mind. To kill someone, to rob them of their life.

“Have you ever…”

“No. No, never. I don’t think I want to either. I can, I know I can, but… I don’t know. It’s that or die.”

She admired his drive to live. It was amazing, an extension of that security in himself she figured. She was choosing to die, but she couldn’t blame him for choosing to kill instead.

“I don’t think I could. It takes so much, so much that I don’t have. I envy you Finnick. You’re strong and capable and-“

“Hey. Don’t do that.”

“What, am I wrong?”

“I-no, but… don’t whittle it down like that. You’re not wrong, I have skills that serve me in the arena. And with those particular skills you’re not as strong. But that’s not the whole story. Sylke, I’ve only known you for a week or two but I’ve seen how incredible you are. I’ve seen your kindness and your optimism and your care for the world around you. Those are skills too, even if they don’t serve you in the arena.”

By the end or his little speech, there were tears making their way down her face. There was quiet between them once more, but not out of awkwardness or lack of things to say. She moved closer and rested her head on his chest. His hand almost automatically moved to her head to play with her hair, something of an unconscious attempt at comforting her. The flow of tears came to an end. He tilted her chin to look up at him. Her face was still wet, with doe eyes and little trace of a smile. He’d never seen her look so sad before, and he promised himself to do everything in his power to keep that beautiful smile of hers around.

“You’re wonderful.”

He pressed his lips to hers, this time quicker, more passionate. Time seemed to fall away, and for just a moment so did the music. When they pulled apart she nuzzled into his neck, taking comfort in his arms securely around her. She felt safe here, like the danger of tomorrow could never reach her here. Some amount of time that neither of them bothered to note passed, and the glare of the clock seemed increasingly present. They were tired but still too afraid to fall asleep. Not here, not like this.

“I should go.”

“You need to go.”

Nothing moved.

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to go.”

For a moment, all was still. Slowly, they rose, making their way to the apartment door. Before she could reach for the door, he took her hands in his and made a point to look square in her eyes.

“There’s gonna be a bloodbath at the cornucopia tomorrow. You should run, but don’t go far. I’ll find you once I get some weapons. Okay?”

“Okay.”

She didn’t need to ask anything more, all was understood. He knew her odds, he knew of her intention to die quickly, this was it. He would kill her in the morning, quickly, painlessly, end her suffering before things could get worse. She opened the door and gave him a melancholy smile. As he began to walk away she spoke quietly, just loud enough for him to hear.

“Better with you than anyone else.”

[allisluv]

COMING CLEAN

Chapter Three — knock on effect

word count: 5.3k

finnick odair x fem!oc

content warnings: finnick odair (yes he’s a warning in himself) flirting, dissociation, finnick likes his women a little mean, stylists freaking out, dahlia doesn’t like physical touch. lmk if there’s anything i missed!

previous chapter — next chapter

Dahlia had always been a light sleeper, which was why it came as no surprise that she stirred when her prep team burst their way into her hotel room the next morning.

She yanked the covers over her head and gripped the linen duvet, trying to block out the sunlight for as long as possible.

Bloom's unintelligible screeching, on the other hand, was harder to ignore.

With sleep still settled deep in her bones, she pushed herself onto her elbows and covered her eyes with her hands. Even through the drawn curtains, it was bright enough to make her head pound (but she suspected that had more to do with the glasses of white wine she had necked after her meeting with Finnick last night)

"Dahlia! Are you listening to me?" Bloom shrieked, throwing her arms helplessly in the air. "Is she even listening to me?" she hissed, spinning the question around to Malaki as if he could somehow crack open Dahlia's skull and peer in at her thoughts

Unfortunately, he wasn't a mind reader, which left him with the job of consoling her hysterics.

He took quick strides towards the stylist and put an abrupt end to her pacing by grabbing hold of her shoulders. "Relax, Bloom, the world isn't ending," he soothed. "Just sit down and have a gin."

He ushered her towards a leather armchair by the windowsill and grabbed a bottle of pink gin from the mini-fridge.

The clock had barely struck noon but no one seemed inclined to lecture Bloom for her drinking habits. Plus, she was a pretty nice drunk, so it wasn't as if she would push anyone off the balcony or anything.

Dahlia hugged her knees to her chest and scrunched up her eyes, trying to adjust to the lighting change. She didn't know what was sending her stylist into an alcohol-induced frenzy this early in the morning and quite frankly, she didn't plan on asking.

She had fallen prey to that old trick during the early days of her victory tour and, as a result, been forced to suffer through an hour spiel on why the district one stylist was a quote-on-quote "spineless hag who wouldn't know fashion if it slapped her in the face."

She mentally cursed herself for inheriting her mom's nosiness. "Are you gonna tell me what's got you this worked up or do I have to guess?" If she kept caving every time Bloom had something to complain about (which was more often than not ten times a day), she would never catch a break or learn her lesson.

Bloom huffed out something between a scoff and a sigh, pulling an old-fashioned newspaper from her knock-off handbag and chucking it across the room.

It nearly hit Dahlia in the head, which was probably what she was aiming for in the first place.

Malaki sprawled out on the double bed, the mattress dipping at the sudden shift in weight. He dug the pads of his fingers into his eyes.

Reluctantly, she picked the newspaper up from the foot of the bed and Bloom returned to nursing the bottle of gin. She flipped the newspaper around in her hands until the front page stared back at her.

A headline printed in bold letters. Two pictures; one of her heading back to her hotel room last night and one of Finnick doing the same.

"HEARTTHROBS OR HEARTACHE?

"Dahlia Holloway and Finnick O'Dair— both are known for their string of lovers in the Capitol, but things might just be heating up."

"According to an anonymous source, our darlings were seen getting up close and personal at last night's gala. We've been told that the victors were seen in a compromised position yesterday evening yet the details remain to be confirmed."

"Could it be possible that our golden boy and angel could be ready to settle down? Or is this another of their flings destined to end in heartache?"

Kissing Finnick at a Capitol party was bound to stir up rumours— that was the whole point! She and Finnick understood what they were getting themselves into. They had to throw Snow off their trail.

Still, it didnt make it any less humiliating.

"Well?" Bloom threw her hands in the air, clutching the gin bottle between her hot pink nails as the tips of her ears burned red. "Do you have anything to say for yourself, young lady?"

Dahlia blinked down at the newspaper in her lap, stifling down a laugh that threatened to bubble out of her chest.

The situation was far from funny but it was hard to keep a straight face. Bloom was akin to a baby deer and she simply wasn't cut out for acting like the big bad wolf.

"We left you alone for an hour!" she took another swig of gin and wiped the dregs from around her mouth. "An hour!" she cried out, jabbing the bottle in her direction.

Malaki sat up wearily and took the newspaper from Dahlia's hands. If given the chance, she'd launch it at the woman. He had spent years getting to know her, which was enough time to pick up signs of when she was getting stressed.

She was like a violent dog, for lack of a better term. When she felt threatened, she lashed out. It was a go-to, a reflex, an impulse. If she felt cornered, like she had nowhere to run, she snapped.

He wondered if it was a safety thing— push people away before they could leave. He had never endured the horrors of the games, though, so he didn't think he had the right to say whether that was where it stemmed from or not.

"Look, why don't we all take a breather and calm down," he reasoned, trying to keep two tempers in check at once.

Bloom leaned forward in the armchair, eyes almost popping out of their sockets. "Calm down? Calm down?" she hissed, slamming the gin bottle onto the table.

"What do you think will happen when people start asking questions, Malaki? What's he gonna do to us when he realises that people don't buy another star-crossed lovers tale?" she seethed, gesturing wildly at the front cover of the newspaper. "If any of us put so much as a toe out of line, we're all dead and buried."

She hadn't thought her heart could sink any further yet time and time again, she was proven wrong. Dread was wrapping its way around her lungs and squeezing tight.

It would have been easier if Snow had found out the truth and hung them for treason. At least then they wouldn't have been dragging anyone else down with them.

"I spoke to President Snow this morning," Malaki kept his voice steady, doing a far better job than his counterpart at maintaining his composure.

"He wants us to play into it, doesn't he?" There was an unevenness in her tone and she wished it would go away.

A pair of frantic blue eyes bore into his soul, and it was almost as if she was trying to predict what was going to come out of his mouth next.

"He thinks this might be a good thing," he explained gently, running a hand through his dark hair. "He thinks some good news may be a valuable thing for people to have in such a stressful time."

She could read between the lines without missing a beat; Snow was doing this purely for his own gain.

Having two of his most influential victors standing by his side would not only serve as a distraction but also shine a positive light on the victors as a whole community.

If the districts saw her and Finnick, who were referred to as Capitol sweethearts, together, it would be a perfect piece of propaganda. What better way to extinguish the spark of a rebellion than to showcase their loving relationship to the whole of Panem?

Presenting the districts with another star-crossed lovers tale would work in the president's favour if he could control these two. And he could— they still had people they cared about.

Perhaps the rebellious Girl on Fire and the charming Baker's Boy would be forgotten. Maybe Finnick and Dahlia could show how grateful they were for all the opportunities that winning the games had given them.

He wanted them to stomp out the rebel's spirit before it had a chance to spread any further.

Talk about killing two birds with one stone.

"Fine. We'll sneak around, pull each other into hotel rooms, whatever he wants us to do. Finnick and I are far better actors than Peeta and Katniss, anyway," she nodded earnestly, trying to convince herself that they could pull this off.

"I spoke with district four's escort this morning and she agreed that we need to be on the same page. We can't afford any mistakes, darling," he murmured, trying to explain the severity of the situation without sending her into another episode.

He vividly remembered the knock-on effect after her games. She was in and out of catatonic states for months and when she did come to, a trigger, no matter how small, sent her into full-blown hysterics.

Despite frequent episodes in which she couldn't tell what was real, it hadn't gotten that bad in months.

The last thing anyone needed was Dahlia spiralling, so if he could somehow shoulder part of that burden, he would do it in a heartbeat.

"You and Finnick have a date tonight," he saw the flash of panic on her face and quickly backtracked.

"All the details are sorted, it's okay. You'll be going to a quiet restaurant. All you have to do is show up. The paparazzi have been given an anonymous tip-off and they'll snap a few shots of you both coming back to the hotel. You can go to your separate rooms, for tonight at least."

Dahlia opened her mouth to protest but a choked sound escaped instead. She wondered if this was how avoxes felt; strangled and suffocated, paralyzed, as if someone had cut open their windpipe and left them to choke on their blood.

"How long do we have to keep this up for?" Her voice cracked and she willed herself to pull it together. "Because I can tell you this much for free, I am not being glued to Finnick O'Dair's hip for the rest of my life," she retorted, digging her blunt nails into the skin at the back of her neck.

Maybe she was being impetuous, but she had never been one to mince her words. Besides, she didn't think Finnick would be thrilled with his life being turned upside down, either.

Bloom hiccuped and managed to pull herself away from the gin bottle long enough to supply her with an answer. "Unfortunately, you love birds are stuck feeding the vultures until the next big thing comes along, darling."

As if someone had flipped a switch, she guzzled the dregs at the bottom of the bottle and tossed it to the side, kicking into autopilot mode.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she pulled up the thin spaghetti straps of her top. "I know this is a lot but what's done is done. Dwelling on it isn't going to do us any good, is it?" she pulled a sketchbook from her bag and wobbled onto her high heels.

The gin had taken the edge off her anger and seeing how shaken up Dahlia was was enough to make the rest ebb off naturally. "Everything's going to be fine, darling. You could've done worse—he's a looker," she shrugged halfheartedly in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Don't fret, darling. You've got the best stylist in the business. If Finnick isn't in love with you now, he will be by the time I'm finished with you."

˚＊✿❀༓❀✿＊˚

Nausea rolled over Dahlia in waves as she fiddled with the hem of her dress in the backseat of a taxi. The motion wasn't helping but Malaki had assured her that they were nearly there.

Bloom had spent forty minutes whipping up an outfit this morning and it had only confirmed Dahlia's theory that she had left the womb with a sewing kit.

It was well into the early hours of the evening before she was declared camera-ready and ushered into a private car.

After five failed attempts to keep the conversation alive, Malaki had taken the hint and allowed them to lapse into silence.

The taxi was unventilated and cracking open a window wasn't an option; they were blacked out for a reason, to stop the paparazzi tracking her every move.

She wondered if Snow had given up on the game plan and had simply resorted to suffocating her. Not likely. He would want to watch the life drain from her eyes, she reckoned.

As the car rolled to a stop in front of a restaurant, she started to really consider the fact that she might be sick. Malaki opened her door and the gust of wind fanned the side of her face.

"I don't think I can do this," she declared, clutching the fabric of her dress between her fingers. Real.

He leaned against the car door, not bothered about his jacket getting wet in the rain. "Yes, you can. I know you can because you've faced ten times worse than a date with Finnick, " he retorted. "Come on, I'll walk you in."

Dahlia closed her eyes, trying to trick herself into thinking that she was safe, even if that was far from the truth.

This wasn't about her. This was about June and Wyatt, Ivy and River, Malaki and Bloom, all the people she had dragged into this mess.

Wobbling unsteadily onto her feet, she repeated the list of names in her head like a mantra, a reminder that too many people's lives hung in the balance for her to screw this up.

She let Malaki lead the way into the restaurant and deal with the hostess while she tried to soak in the atmosphere and keep herself from drifting into the hazy other world. From the looks of things, it was pretty vacant.

It must be one of the places that Snow sent his favourable friends to. Toned-down colours and classy booths offered a bit of privacy from the rest of the diners. On the bright side, she didnt have to worry about hidden devices watching or listening. This was definitely a place that specialized in under-the-table deals —— no matter how stupid Snow was, he wouldn't risk secrets getting spilt to the public.

Once the last-minute details were finalized, Malaki pulled her to the side for a quick word. "I have to go. Just remember to breathe, it's going to be fine," he tried his best to instil some confidence in her but the truth is that it would have been easier to jump off a height and expect to grow wings.

She tried to tell him how sorry she was for getting him involved in this but the roof of her mouth had been superglued shut. She settled for a smile, hoping he wouldn't see through her. By the time she found her voice, he was almost out the door. "Thanks," she croaked, running her fingers through the ends of her hair.

He grinned reassuringly before stepping outside and being swallowed up by the fog.

"I can show you to your table if you're ready."

Dahlia nodded politely at the hostess, following her into the back of the restaurant where the lights began to dim, only to be replaced with candlesticks.

The walls were coated with ruby red paint and specks of gold were decorated around the outskirts of the booths. The place was practically empty apart from the occasional straggling couples picking away at dishes or gulping down glasses of wine. Everybody thankfully seemed to be too absorbed in their own conversations to pay attention to anything else.

Finnick quickly jumped to his feet as the two women approached the booth in the far corner of the restaurant. "Hi," he kissed Dahlia's cheek and gestured for her to sit down.

She gnawed on her bottom lip, wary of tearing a hole through the skin and having to endure a lecture from her stylist. She slid into the opposite side of the booth and folded her hands neatly in her lap, trying not to let herself slip away.

"Can I get you anything to drink? Some cocktails perhaps?"

"I'll have a pina colada and whatever the lady would like," he grinned lopsidedly, switching on the charm like a faucet.

It took an unbelievable amount of restraint not to kick him under the table. He hadn't done anything but being in his presence was more than enough to piss her off. In less than a day, he had managed to get under her skin like a fucking splinter. There was no way she was getting through tonight without something alcoholic. "Strawberry daiquiri please."

Once the hostess was out of earshot, Finnick wasted no time in voicing his amusement. "You realize we're meant to be head over heels in love, right? Glaring daggers at me isn't helping our case, honey."

Admitting that he was right was a tough pill to swallow and it left a sour taste in her mouth. "I never took you for a cocktail drinker," she easily redirected his attention elsewhere. Finnick raised a challenging brow, silently telling her to go on.

"Well, on first impressions, I had you down as a whiskey or margarita kinda guy — drinks with that bitter, kinda sharp taste, you know?"

The words were tumbling from her lips and she wished he would just reach across the table and slap a hand over her mouth before she made a fool of herself.

"I mean, it kinda makes sense, I guess. District four is mostly ocean, so it's understandable that people would want something sweet and light rather than something heavy.”

As she ran out of things to say, she made a mental note to spend more time with Ivy. It was obvious that Juniper's rambling was starting to rub off on her. If a sinkhole suddenly opened up beneath her feet, she would welcome it with open arms.

Finnick toyed with the collar of his black button-up and pretended not to notice the rosy blush dusting across her cheeks. "I can't stand that tangy taste of whiskey. Makes me feel sick. 'S why I prefer sweeter drinks."

Dahlia pulled her gaze away from her blunt nails to look at him. She had been so sure he was going to laugh in her face. She scanned his features, trying to find a cruel glint in his eyes or a condescending smirk, but came up empty-handed.

He lifted his shoulder into a shrug and swallowed down a laugh. "Can't say I was surprised by your order, though. Daiquiri drinkers are headstrong, adventurous, bold," he paused and sucked his teeth. "As far as first impressions go, you tick all three boxes."

She bit down on her tongue and ducked her head, trying to stop herself from smiling. He still caught sight of the twitch at the corners of her mouth. "You look beautiful, by the way, honey." His smile was cheeky, almost boyish, and she couldn't help but notice how young he genuinely was.

Absentmindedly smoothing out the creases in her emerald green dress, she teasingly tilted her head to the side. Finnick rested his chin in his palm, eyes twinkling with mischief, which could hardly indicate anything positive.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Finnick," she mocked sweetly, subconsciously mirroring his body language.

Their drinks arrived moments later and once they placed their orders for food, the hostess left them in peace again.

She reached across the table for her cocktail, fingers just barely closing around the cold glass before her hands started trembling. The liquid sloshed about and she could see him watching her out of the corner of his eye.

He had a feeling that she didn't often depend on people and the last thing he wanted to do was overstep, but after watching her struggle with the glass for longer than necessary, he couldn't sit still.

He skillfully snatched it from her grasp, knowing damn well that she wouldn't have passed it over even if he had asked her to, and set it carefully in front of her.

She folded her arms over her chest and clenched her hands into fists to stop them from shaking. He bit back a remark on how she looked like a stroppy toddler— all she needed was the pout and nobody would be able to tell the difference.

"I didn't need your help, you know."

"'You're welcome," he scoffed at her stubbornness and sipped his pina colada through a straw. He supposed that was the closest he would get to a thank you. "So, tell me about yourself."

A laugh burst out of Dahlia's mouth before she had a chance to stop it. "You know, your pickup lines could do with some work," she snorted, twisting her mother's wedding ring around on her index finger. It eased her nerves knowing that a piece of her mom was with her.

"You wound me," he shook his head and clutched at his heart teasingly. "Seriously though, I have a feeling we're going to be quizzed about each other; at the very least we should know the basics," he pointed out. He was acting as if it was totally normal to fake being in a relationship with someone you first talked to less than twenty-four hours ago.

Admitting defeat twice in one night was bruising her ego but she would agree to disagree if it meant a quiet life. "Fine. What do you wanna know?" she asked, chipping away at her nail polish without realizing.

Finnick cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his head as he thought. "Alright, I've got one. What are you made of?" he straightened up in his seat and she could practically see the excitement preventing him from sitting still. Anticipating her sarcastic response, he kept talking. "And don't say water or some other bull," he warned teasingly.

The waitress returned to the table with two steaming dishes before she had a chance to ask him what he meant.

She set down a bowl of pasta in front of Dahlia and slid a plate of salmon across to Finnick.

"Are you gonna tell me what you're made of or not?" she picked at her food once the waitress returned to the front of house. Hopefully the distraction would help her tremors subside. "Cause you'll have to go first —— I haven't got a clue what you're talking about," she admitted.

He chuckled under his breath and began sawing his knife through the fish as he thought. "It's basically a question that allows you to say what you are. Not what people say or think. Just you," he shrugged. "Like, I'm sunsets and footprints in the sand and... sea glass. I'm late-night swims and ginger cats. I'm Mags and knitted cardigans, lemonade and scribbled notes at one in the morning."

Dahlia smiled softly, mostly to herself than anyone else. It was sweet, she thought — the way he viewed himself. It seemed more accurate than the Capitol's persona of him, anyway.

"Alright. I'm.." she paused to think and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. "...hardback novels. I'm black coffee, knitting needles and complex female characters." He hummed in agreement. "I'm black boots and my mother's anger. I'm Alara," she smiled sadly and pushed through the ache in her chest. He didn't say anything. He knew it hurt. "I'm Juniper and I'm Ivy and I'm poetry."

She reached out with trembling hands and sipped her drink through a straw (which was a lot easier than holding the glass).

"Complex female characters. I like that," he broke off into a laugh and she buried her face in her hands, shoulders shuddering as she laughed. "What about your family?" he asked warily, approaching the topic with tact.

She nodded and offered a half-hearted shrug, dragging a piece of pasta through the sauce. "I have a sister and a brother. Ivy and River — well, and June. She isn't actually my sister but I count her as one, do you know what I mean?" she explained, covering her mouth with her hand as she chewed.

"Ivy's seventeen," she spooned pasta into her mouth between sentences. "She's the baby of the family. She keeps to herself a lot of the time but she's a good kid, you know? Moody and quiet but I don't think that's unusual for teenagers."

"River's the eldest. He works long hours harvesting, so between looking after the girls and visiting the Capitol, I don't see him all that much either," she brushed a few fly-away strands of hair behind her shoulders and hesitated before deciding that she didn't want to talk about her parents.

"What about you?" she asked, voice losing its usual bluntness. "Tell me about Mags."

Dahlia vaguely knew that Mags was a victor from district four, but she figured it would be easier for him to open up if she gave him a lifeline to latch onto. He had already brought up Mags, so she figured it was a safe topic, too.

She tucked her legs underneath her as he started to talk about his family.

"Mags was my mentor for the Hunger Games," he explained, taking a particularly large bite of salmon. "She's more like a mother," he ran his hands through his golden-blonde locks and tugged, something she had noticed he did when he was anxious or unable to sit still. A way of getting rid of nervous energy, she supposed.

"I don't think I remember a time when she wasn't there for me," he admitted. "She used to knit me a wardrobe of cardigans when I was younger — she still does," he rolled his eyes fondly. "I don't know where I'd be without her. She saved my life."

Dahlia ran the fabric of her dress between her thumb and forefinger. "She sounds like a lovely lady," she answered honestly, ignoring the way her heart ached for her own mother.

She had never been the best at small talk so she was grateful that Finnick knew how to keep a conversation flowing at a steady pace —— even his horrendous attempts at flirting were a lifesaver.

It helped the remainder of the evening go smoothly and before she knew it, they were out in the rain and throwing themselves into a taxi before it had fully stopped.

The chit-chat started to die out as exhaustion crept in and it was almost impossible not to fall asleep with the motion of the taxi speeding along the roads.

Dahlia focused on the sound of rain pattering against the tinted windows. She could feel her mind starting to slip as all the leftover sparks of energy fizzled out. Leaning her head against the side of the car, she feebly traced patterns into the condensation, drawing things to keep her tied to the real world.

Finnick watched her curiously out of the corner of his eye, head tilted to the side like a dog that didn't understand what was happening. He kept quiet as he tried to work out what was going on in her head. By the time they pulled up outside of the hotel, he was no closer to finding out.

The engine went flat and she finally looked up, peering through the window at the paparazzi spying on them through the overgrown bushes. In all seriousness, they might as well have been stood right outside of the car, because their attempts at hiding were pathetic.

"You ready?" Finnick asked gently, angling his head until she met his eye. She nodded and dug her nails into her palms to keep herself from slipping away. "I'm gonna hold your hand when we get out, alright? They're looking for a show," he said, failing to mask his distaste for the camera crews lying in wait.

Dahlia scrunched her toes in her heels and rolled her shoulders back, willing herself to at the very least appear confident, even if she didn't feel it. "Well, let's give them exactly what they're looking for," she smiled weakly and clambered out of the taxi, bunching the skirt of her dress into her hands and hoping the hem wouldn't get soaked.

Finnick shoved a wad of cash into the driver's hands before making his way to the opposite side of the taxi.

"Here," he pulled his jacket off, draping it over her shoulders. "Let's go."

Before she had time to second guess herself, she took his hand in her own, intertwining their fingers. His touch still burnt away at her nerve endings but it was easier to cope with when she was the one initiating contact.

"Thanks," she choked out. "For the jacket," she clarified. Their shoulders knocked together as they bustled towards the hotel across the street. It took every ounce of self-control she possessed not to squirm away from him.

"Don't worry, honey, the jacket was an added bonus — my company was the real prize," he smirked and she scrunched her nose and rolled her eyes.

Squeezing her hand as a pre-warning, he kissed her cheek as they stepped under the patio. They could hear the cameras clicking as they pushed into the hotel reception.

Security guards locked the doors when they were inside and once she was sure they were out of view, she quickly untangled their hands. He didn't take it personally.

"C'mon, I'll walk you to your room," he leant against the wall as they waited on the elevator. Panic flashed across her face and he felt his heart constrict as he realized the deeper meaning his words probably had. "Don't worry, that wasn't an invitation. Just don't want the paparazzi climbing up the drainpipes to see you," he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

She chuckled under her breath as the elevator arrived on the ground floor.

Once the elevator stopped, she kicked off her heels and looped the straps around her wrists. Bloom needed to find an alternative because breaking her ankles every night was not going to work.

She slid the jacket off her shoulders as her hotel room came into sight. She pulled her key from her purse and held the jacket out for him to take it. "Thanks again. I had fun tonight," she admitted, a small smile pulling at the corners of her lips.

"Me too," he grinned and it lit up his face. "Keep the jacket, I wouldn't want you getting withdrawal symptoms from me," he backed up down the hallway towards his room, his grin infectious. "Night!"

Dahlia tongued the inside of her cheek and shook her head fondly. "Goodnight."

[flowersforjude]

𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 ≈ 𝐢. 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫

❛ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦❜

﹙finnick odair x oc!fem reader﹚

﹙next chapter ➵ masterlist﹚┈﹙read on ao3 ➵ read on wattpad﹚

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | canon typical violence, slight self-injury, mentions of death, etc.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 2.8 k

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | I've been working on this for little over a year now. I've posted all current chapters on Wattpad and AO3. I thought I might as well post it here too. This chapter was really just for scene setting and character introduction. The juicer stuff is in upcoming chapters. Hope you enjoy!!

The crunching of gravel beneath hundreds of feet echoed through district four in a sorrowful song. Each pair of feet belonged to a different person with their own story. Each pair was distinct from the one beside them, in front of them, or behind them. But today they were all moving in the same direction, for the same reason. Today they all had one thing in common. They were all reluctantly marching towards the Justice Building because today was the reaping for the annual Hunger Games. They were hesitant, and yet everyone walked steadily on their path without complaint, as if resigned to their fate.

I walked with my mother Camilla, my father Lyle, and my little sister Shae. We are silent as we make our way to the growing crowd of people in front of the Justice Building. Today was not the day for idle conversation. Today was the day for fear or for hope. Fear that your name would be called. Hope that it wouldn't, or that some other unlucky child would be forced to go to their deaths.

This morning, as I got ready, I found myself sitting in the bath longer than necessary. I watched with blank eyes as I dipped my hand down into the cooling water and lifted it back out. Droplets of water raced down the back of my hand until they faded out like one of the many lives taken by the games every year.

The longer I sat in the cold tub of water, the harder it became to keep my mind focused on the small things. Like how shivers ran races down my spine or how my damp hair rested limply on my shoulders. No matter how hard I tried, my thoughts wouldn't stay simple for long. Soon they morphed into debilitating notions of blood and death. My mind ran rampant with scenes of tributes dying in brutal and messy ways.

Now as my feet crunched gravel under my soles, my brain created new ideas of torment. Shae turned twelve this year, and that meant it was her first Reaping Day where her name was in the drawing. It was only once, I kept telling myself. She wouldn't be picked. But the odds never favored ones in our position.

"This is where we go our separate ways." My mother said when we reached the point where we had to split up. I could see unshed tears making her brown eyes glossy as she pulled me and Shae into a hug. She kissed both our cheeks before stepping aside for our father.

"Be brave, girls." He told us and then bent down to hug Shae. When he straightened up, he pulled me in and squeezed. He gave me a kiss on the cheek before he stepped away completely.

"After the reaping, we met back here, and we'll go home." My mom said firmly, as if cementing the idea that both of her daughters would be returning to her. She wiped away a few tears that managed to sneak their way down her cheeks. "We love you both."

"We love you too," I replied.

My parents went off to the area where the adults watched. Watched as two kids were chosen to fight to the death. Shae and I walked on together, our breaths shallow with fear and anticipation. As we approached the spot where our paths diverged, I turned to say goodbye. Her eyes flickered over to me as if to plead for escape. She switched her gaze to her line, staring at it like a slithering viper ready to strike if she dared take even one step closer.

"Shae?" I dropped down to her height.

She started shaking her head, and her pink lips began to wobble. "I can't, Lyssa. I'm scared."

I gave her a sympathetic look and smoothed down her hair with my hands. "I know you're scared, but your name is only in there once. The odds of you being chosen are slim."

She inhaled deeply, her chestnut eyes still wide and fearful. I pulled her close and breathed into her hair the words of reassurance that she needed. I cupped her face in my hands, gave her a gentle nod of encouragement, and watched as she tentatively stepped away from me and towards the other children. It took everything in me not to grab the back off her dress and run.

I took my place in line with the other seventeen-year-olds and watched as the people in front of me got their fingers pricked by an intimidating looking woman.

As the seconds ticked by like the timer on a bomb, it grew harder to breathe. The nerves I chained down all this morning fighting their way up. An anchor pressed down on my chest, weighing my whole form down as it rested in the sand of the sea. I couldn't look scared. I knew it made no difference whether or not my fear was visible. If my name was called, then that was that. But I didn't want anyone to view me as weak. Even if that's what I was in reality.

My feet shuffled forward as the line flowed. The girl in front of me gasped loudly as her blood was drawn. In seconds, she was moving out of the line, and it was my turn.

"Next!" The woman called. "Name?"

"Lyssa Monroe."

She looked down the list till she landed on my name. She silently held out her hand, and I held my pointer finger out to her. She pricked it, but I barely registered the small pain; I was too focused on staying calm. She smeared my blood on multiple sheets of paper; in a way, she just sighed my possible death certificate. Those slips of paper will be sent to the big glass bowl, whose only purpose was to hand out death sentences. And I stood a chance of being called. I wonder if that bothers her. That by doing this job, she's sending kids to their deaths. I wonder how she feels or if she feels anything at all. Maybe she didn't; maybe you have to be void of emotion to do this job.

When she called for the next person, I stepped out of the way and went to stand with my age group. I pressed my still bleeding finger into the fabric of my dress. It was the nicest clothing item I owned, and I hated it. I wore it on reaping day and reaping day only. The atrocious piece of material served as a reminder of the worst days of my life. Days filled with fear and dread. The only thing I felt when I looked at it was anguish.

I didn't know any of the girls I was standing with, so I searched the crowd for Shae. I found her standing between two girls her age, but she was so small compared to them.

I caught her eyes and sent her a smile and a wink. I tried to look carefree for her even if my stomach was twisting in rough knots. Something was off; I could feel it in the pit of my stomach, swirling around like unruly waves in a storm. No matter how much I attempted to convince myself otherwise, today was not going to have a good outcome. But Shae needed me to reassure her so she wouldn't break down. I knew she was scared. This was her first year in the drawing; her name was only in once, but it was that one chance that kept her up all last night.

I dug my nails into the palm of my hand. The sharp pain of them digging into my skin was enough to ground me for now.

Sabine Glass, our district escort, strutted out from the Justice Building, and we all focused our attention on her. She had the usual bold and careless air about her as clicked her way to center stage. With each step, her dress glistened in the sun, its green sequins catching the light like tiny mirrors. Around her neck hung a necklace of bronzy-white seashells that matched her earrings, bracelets. The same shells were intricately woven into her updo. Her shoes were the same color as her dress and had heels so long that I wondered how on earth she even managed to walk on stage without falling.

She cleared her throat into the microphone, getting the attention of the crowd. "Welcome! People of District four, to the reaping of the 70th Hunger Games! I know we're all very excited to see who our tributes will be this year, but before that, we have a presentation from the esteemed President Snow!"

The crowd clapped with a small fraction of Sabine's enthusiasm. four was a career district, but only half the population fell into that category. So some of the citizens had pride for this whole charade, but the hatred and fear of the other half far outweighed that misguided respect for the games.

Two huge black screens were set up on either side of the building, and with Sabine's cue, they started to play the origin video of The Hunger Games. We were made to watch this video every reaping day, year after year. It was to remind us of the horror before the games so we wouldn't want to rebel again. When the video was over, Sabine began clapping, and slowly, the crowd reluctantly joined in.

"That was spectacular!" Sabine cheered into the microphone. "Let's begin, shall we? As per usual, ladies first!"

She walked over to the glass bowl and swirled her hand around in it, meticulously searching for the right slip of paper. The tension of the crowd was palpable. Everyone was still and the quietness was suffocating. My heart raced in my chest, like I had just gotten done for a swim and was laying on the warm sand of the beach, soaking up the sun's rays. Though even after all the time I spent out there, my skin stayed its same pale shade.

Sabine plucked out a slip of paper and pranced back over to the microphone. As she neatly unfolded it, my nails racked deeper into my palm, digging into my skin until I felt a slight trickle of blood flow down my palm. My ears clouded with the sound of adrenaline, and only Sabine's shrill voice brought my senses back to me.

"Lyssa Monroe!"

My heart stopped along with everything else as the blaring silence rang in my ears. Chills ran down my body, and the blood froze in my veins. I didn't move; I couldn't move. The girls around me murmured amongst themselves and stared at my unmoving body with sympathy and selfish relief.

"Lyssa Monroe?" Sabine spoke again, this time as a question.

The girls parted like a great wave, creating an aisle for me to walk through. The first step I took was unintentional, but it was like my body had switched to autopilot. My legs numbly carried me all the way to the stage. I didn't raise my head until I walked up the steps and was in front of the crowd.

As I lifted my eyes, the sun seemed brighter than before, momentarily blinding me. When they adjusted, my eyes met the crowd of my fellow District four members.

I found my parents in the cluster of adults. My mother had her face buried in my father's chest. Even from here, I could see her shoulders shaking with uncontrollable sobs. My father's face was set hard, but I knew he was trying to keep his tears reigned in.

I turned my attention to Shae, who had pushed her way to the front of her section. Her tiny hands held the barricade in a death grip. Her cheeks were red and stained with tears.

Sabine shoved the microphone at my face, and only then did I realize she had asked me something.

"What?" I muttered dumbly.

"I asked how old you were, dear."

"I'm seventeen," I mumbled.

Sabine took the microphone back and placed her hand on her heart. "And how lovely you are, my dear."

She turned back to the audience, clapping her hands. "Now for the gentleman." She glided over to the bowl that held the boys' names. She repeated the same swirling hand movements around the glass until she snatched up a slip of paper.

She cleared her throat before reading the name. "Hector May!"

A gasp rang out among the crowd, and even me in my numbed state lifted my eyes in surprise. Hector May was Mayor Walim May's son. Of course, being the child of the mayor didn't exclude you from the reaping, but they were rarely chosen. That's why everyone had started to murmur amongst themselves as Hector slowly made his way up to the stage.

He looked behind him at his father. The mayor tried not to show any emotion at his son being reaped, but I saw how his jaw clenched and his hands began to subtly shake in his lap.

"What an interesting turn of events!" Sabine exclaimed. "How old are you, dearie?"

"Eighteen." Hector answered in a deep monotone voice.

"And you're the mayor's son, correct?"

"Yes."

Sabine laughed almost giddily. "What a wonderful pair we have here." She motioned for us to shake hands. We both moved forward and grasped the other's hand as Sabine addressed the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, I have the pleasure of presenting to you your District four tributes for the 70th annual Hunger Games!"

━

We were marched in silence down a long hallway, escorted by a couple of stern-faced peacekeepers. Hector and I were taken to separate rooms, mine with harsh fluorescent lights that cast everything in a painful brightness. The stark and sterile air felt suffocating as I helplessly waited for what was next. I shifted nervously on the hardwood chair, tracing small circles onto its smooth surface while my leg anxiously bounced up and down. Even pinching myself couldn't make this nightmare go away. My throat tightened in despair while tears stung my eyes.

A creak of the door handle made me jump, and I scrambled to my feet. My parents and Shae entered the room, their faces blurry with emotion. We raced towards each other, a tangle of limbs that collapsed into a heap on the floor. Someone was sniffling, and it took me a moment to realize it was me.

My father wiped the tears off my face and placed his hands on my shoulders. "Everything will be alright." He stated calmly like there was nothing to worry about.

I looked at him in disbelief. "Dad, how can you say that?"

He sighed. "I know you're scared, sweetie. But you can't let your fear control you. You're going to be fine because you're going to win."

"How? I can't–" I couldn't even finish my sentence. How could my father be so sure, so calm?

"Lyssa." My mother said, clearing the tears from her eyes. "Your father is right. I know you're scared, but you can't think about that right now."

"What do I do?" I asked helplessly.

My father was the one to answer. "Find a weapon that fits you. One that's easy for you to use but effective. Try throwing knives. You were always good with those."

"Okay." I nodded along with him.

"You have to come back, Lyssa." Shae blurted out.

I looked down at her small frame and immediately drew her to me. "I promise I will try my hardest." I said into her hair. My lips connected with the top of her head as her arms tightened around me.

The door opened again, and the peacekeepers came in. "Time's up." One of them said.

We hugged each other one last time before one of the peacekeepers escorted them out. They all called their last farewells as they were moved out of my view.

"Be brave, Lyssa! Remember what I said!"

"Win, so you come back home!"

"We love you, sweetheart!"

There was one peacekeeper left in the room with me. "It's time to board the train, Miss Monroe," he said.

I nodded and hesitantly followed him out into the hallway, where Sabine and Hector stood waiting.

"Now then, you're both very excited, I'm sure, so let's hurry along. The Capitol awaits!" Sabine sang, genuinely excited, with a smile plastered on her face. I tried to tell myself it was just because she was from the Capitol and didn't really know any better. Though, as she led a silent Hector and I away, I couldn't help but feel disgust towards her. She was voluntarily escorting us to our deaths.

My face remained blank as we boarded the train. The odds were never on my side, and they never would be. 

Let me know in the comments if you'd like to be added to the tag list for this story! <3

[bluemidnightmelody]

lover/fighter - my favorite moments

[Little snippets from my Finnick/OC longfic that are stuck in my head]

From Chapter 34 - Salty but sweet

"You know, after more than 10 seconds, it counts as cuddling," he says, quiet as the gentle sea breeze. That's all the power his voice has left. It's not even as though he's counted the seconds, it could have been three, thirty or three hundred, because he's just experienced something like a moment of timelessness. The statement comes out of some women's magazine. He can't even remember the title, but some female customer of his spent an entire evening chatting him up about where the line between hugging and cuddling supposedly is. And that's what breaks the spell, at least for him. The queasy feeling that now mixes with the comforting warmth of standing here and holding her in his arms while he thinks of a client. "Shut up," Rhea murmurs into his shoulder. She's thankful that at least he can't see her face in this position, because she can feel it getting hot. Her heart is about to gallop away, because by the time she was lucid enough to realize what was happening, it had been too late to back down. Now she's trapped, between a firm chest and equally firm arms from which she neither can nor wants to break free. "I'm obviously not good at comforting people, this is an act of desperation so don't ruin it," she grumbles bashfully. She doesn't really know whether she is more embarrassed that she is suddenly capable of such thoughtless actions or rather that she enjoys it more than she probably should. " This is weird, isn't it?" she asks anxiously, chewing on her lower lip, unsure if she even wants to hear the answer. "No. Not really," he replies and laughs a little. "Actually, I think it's rather sweet. You're not as bad at this as you think you are." He means it, after all, he's had enough pitying words and they've never made him feel the slightest bit better about himself. It may be a little awkward and a little messed up, but just having someone to hold onto is perhaps exactly what he needs right now.

Links to all the chapters: lover/fighter - Chapter Index

fanfiction on ao3 and wattpad

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

lionfish, seahorses, and dolphins, oh my! | f. odair

masterlist

anon's request: noo bc i've been thinking about this for a while (all the time) imagine the reader from district 8 who's with finnick always sewing random fish patterns into his clothes or any cloth-related items bc of his district!!!

warnings: just some cutesy fluff, very very mild suggestive themes

notes: i couldn't not write this request it's so cute. very rushed because i've got another fic in the works ;) stay tuned my beautiful readers <3

word count: 800

Finnick would always invite girlfriend!reader to District Four because this man has major attachment issues, so you practically live at his house and are both attached to the hip. And one day he would find this little lionfish embroidered onto the cuff of his favourite sweater, which oddly resembles the colour of his hair.

His first instinct would be to call out to you. "Sweetheart?"

And you would respond with a "Hm?" from another room in the house, sneakily sewing something onto another item of his clothing. He would be curiously inspecting the little creature that had taken up residence on his shirt as he padded through the house to your whereabouts.

Just as he entered the room you were in, he would begin, "Why is there a—"

He'd cut himself short as he looked up and saw you sitting comfortably in a lounge chair, legs tucked beneath your body, a soft, knitted blanket draped over your lap, and a sewing kit lying on the side table. In your hands were a pair of his pants.

One of his eyebrows raised. "You've got my pants."

You looked up to find him standing in the doorway. "I do," you replied.

He took a step closer. "And you're sewing them."

"I am."

Another step. "And there's a fish sewed onto my sweater..."

You simply smiled at him—an adorable proud little smile. God, you looked so cute he genuinely felt to urge to lean down and pinch your cheeks between his fingers, but then he remembered he was your boyfriend, not your grandmother.

"Not that I'm not in absolute awe of your sewing abilities but—" He chuckled, shaking his head— "why?"

You shrugged, piercing a sewing needle through the waistband of the pants in your lap. "You're from District Four; fishes are kind of your thing, are they not? Plus, it's pretty," you said, then your voice lowered to a soft murmur. "Like you."

His stomach fluttered and he almost giggled like a little girl at your words. Once he got close enough, he kneeled beside the chair you were sitting in, watching as your delicate fingers manoeuvred the needle and yarn into the outline of a seahorse. He smiled to himself.

"Do you think I should start weaving clothes for you? Considering your district's all about making clothes and stuff," he said with a smirk.

"Like a dress made out of netting? It wouldn't leave much to the imagination."

"You won't hear this mouth complaining," Finnick said, the image of you walking around the house clad in a black net dress overcoming his mind.

Your cheeks warmed with a horrible blush and you decided to focus your attention entirely on the seahorse in the effort to overcome the sudden lewd thoughts involving his mouth.

Finnick continued watching in amazement as you managed to turn a few colours of yarn into a beautiful seahorse on the waistband of his pants. He wondered how many other pieces of clothing of his you had managed to infiltrate with various sea creatures. When his eyes caught on a bright blob of colour on the underside of the shirt sleeve he was wearing, he smiled, knowing he had gotten his answer.

His gaze flickered back to you, observing the look of concentration on your face as you sewed—the gentle crinkle of your furrowed brows, the subtle curl of your lips, and every now and then, the small twitch of your nose like that of a bunny, the pink of your blush adding to the image.

He couldn't help but prop his folded arms on the arm of the chair, chin resting on his forearms as he shamelessly and blatantly admired the changes in your facial expressions. He noticed as your eyes began to occasionally flicker toward him, your attention increasingly beginning to drift.

A few minutes later, you exhaled a heavy sigh. "You're so distracting."

"You're so adorable," he replied almost dreamily.

There it was again. The humiliating pink flush of your cheeks.

He grinned, humming a quiet laugh as he rose to his feet to plant a kiss on the top of your head.

"Can I make one request?" he asked.

"Perhaps."

His eyes fell to the lionfish on the shirt in his hands, eyes sparkling with child-like joy. "Sew some of these onto your own clothes so we can match."

A wide smile stretched across your lips.

Within the next week, you and Finnick were a giggling mess, sporting matching sweatshirts embroidered with big blue dolphins, each one's blowhole featuring a small red heart just above.

[mystargirl-interlude]

𝑩𝑶𝑹𝑵 𝑻𝑶 𝑫𝑰𝑬

chapter 1 in the 𝑩𝑰𝑹𝑫𝑺 𝑶𝑭 𝑨 𝑭𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹 book

When you are born in one of the districts in panem you are born to die, wether or not you are reaped or not.

if you aren't reaped you live in poverty and starve to death unless you're in a capitol district and if you are reaped and some how win the games the suffering never ends.

13 year old persephone sat one of the multiple rows at her second reaping, somehow making it through her first despite her name being in the bowl eight times due to her being caught multiple times trespassing, but now at 13 and her name being doubled in the bowl now at 16 pieces of paper.

"Hello! Hello! welcome to the 66th annual hunger games!" Says the district four escort who's name persephone couldn't care to remember

tuning out the screeching of her voice and deciding to take a look at her surroundings and everyone around her, she makes eye contact with last years winner, Finnick odair. She wouldn't deny that he was unbelievably attractive, but then she remembered she was being sent to get killed while he watched.

I hope i at least look good while being brutally murdered since the whole country was going to be watching she thought.

when she snapped out of her thoughts she saw that finnick and her were most definitely still in deep eye contact, he gave her a challenging look almost expecting her to look away first but she sent that look back 10 times harder, making him furrow his brows and quickly look away just in time as the movie about the history of the games ended

"well! let's get started with this years tributes, as always ladies first" she said as she dug her hand into the bowl

persephone wouldn't be surprised if the half the bowl was just her name

"and this years tribute representing district four is" she says unraveling the paper

"Persephone Levito!" it almost felt as the whole room went quite as the young girl was well known throughout the district for singing by the beach and her outfits, but before persephone it was her grandmother, she was well known and well loved and when she passed it took a toll on everyone in 4

Not surprised she rolls her eyes before remembering her act she needed to put on

eyes watering she slowly walks up to the stage wrapping her arms around ber self slightly shaking

she imagines she looks like one of those gross old chihuahuas her neighbor has

"hello dear, and how old might you be?"

"thirteen" she shakily exhales

"Lovely! and now on to our male tribute!" she smiles like she didn't just send a child off to her death

"and the male tribute representing district four is.. Christopher Monroe!"

if it was possible the day just got twenty times worse.

persephone knew christopher and she fucking hated his guts, they went to school together and he was the most annoying, obnoxious, disgusting specimen she's ever had to be around.

"These are our 66th Hunger games district four tributes! you may now shake hands!" she says

as they grasp hands she grip as hard as she can without breaking his hand while still maintaining her good girl façade

he pulls away as soon as possible and then they are pulled into the back to head to the train, all tributes are allowed five minutes to say goodbye to loved ones but persephone couldn't give two shits about her family as they never cared for her.

immediately heading to the train she walks inside and sees multiple blue velvet couches and a rectangle dinner table, deciding to pass time she looks around being nosy, as it was what she was best at.

about 6 minutes later everyone starts coming in including what she assumes are going to be her mentors and the escort who's name she learned was Anya

"Well hello, lovely's, please meet your mentors for your games, Mags flanagan and Finnick Odair"

persephone felt a switch flip in her, it was almost like a different person, the persona she had to put on to even attempt to make it past the bloodbath.

looking up from her empty plate she gives them both a small smile

"Please introduce yourselves guys" anya says smiling with a slight aggressive tone almost like they are embarrassing her when persephone never even met her let alone know her name until 2 minutes ago

"Christopher Monroe, Big fan of yours finnick" the boy spoke with a sickening tone of confidence

finnick gave him a awkward smile almost like he was embarrassed for him and he then looks to persephone

"Persephone Levito" she says with a shaky voice

"Yeah i know who you are, i would see you at the beach when i was younger" finnick says in the softest tone trying to comfort the clearly scared young girl but at the same time he feels as if there's something off about her

christopher looks over at them rolling his eyes in annoyance at the girl.

finnick and christopher make small talk while persephone puts an awkwardly small portion of food on her plate sampling each thing on the table and then sections them off into perfectly even sections

finnick can see what she's doing out of the corner of his eye and he furrows his brows taking a glance at the girl before cutting christopher off of his ramble that he was barley listening to

"Let's talk strength and weakness, chris would you like to go first?" finnick asked

smiling cockily he starts listing off his strengths while persephone struggles to not roll her eyes at the boy.

tucking her legs under her oversized white button up she listens to every word chris says despite hating his guts she had to know what she was going up against.

and him being the fucking dumbass he is he starts listing off every weakness he has but something that did make her start thinking was when he said that he had to get surgery on a tendon he had in his knee as he tore it when he was younger and immediately after he said that he said it was hard to use his dominate hand so he wanted to get better using his left because he broke a bone in his right and it was harder to use now

"what about you persephone?" finnick asked her

"yeah what about you" chris says smirking like he didn't just make the biggest mistake ever by him practically telling his whole fucking life story when all finnick asked for was strength and weaknesses

but who is she to talk, for all she knows chris could kill her the moment the game starts

"Um - i don't know, i guess i'm good with tying knots" she says with an embarrassed smile resting her chin on her knees forcing herself to not stab chris in the eye when she hears him scoff at her

"it's okay, that's what me and mags are here for, we are going to try our best to help you survive"

he says placing his hand on mags' shoulder

to be honest persephone forgot mags was even there with how quiet she was but she was cut off from her thoughts by the voice of anya

"I think it's best we all get some rest so that we are ready for tomorrows parade!" she says

persephone is the first to get up and leave the table.

walking to the room that anya had showed her earlier she looks in from the door way and then looks over her shoulder to see finnick looking at her, the look she gives him before waking into her room has him in deep thought, like she knew something he didn't. he's never been more confused by anyone in his whole life let alone and girl who was a year younger than him.

★ ✰ ★ ✰ ★ ✰ ★ ✰ ★ ✰ ★ ✰ ★ ✰ ★

The day after the parade was the first day of training.

walking into the training room with a few of the other tributes by her side she looks around at all the the different stations.

deciding to walk over to the knife throwing station she already knows she's going to have to embarrass her self in order to not seem like a threat.

persephone does a bit of each station before looking at what the other tributes are doing, of course she sees chris with the careers at the archery station.

keeping an eye on each one to see what skills their best at.

when she was younger, her grandmother would train her every day until the day she died to make sure if she ever got reaped she would be prepared, she's learned her way around the different weapons.

Day two goes by smoothly besides the fact that the careers and their groupie which unfortunately was her district partner were making fun of her the entire time.

Waiting for her name to be called for individual sessions she starts thinking about stories her grandma would tell her before bed and the disappearance of the 10th hunger games victor

"Persephone Levito"

snapping out of her thoughts she walks into the room taking a look at the different supplies laid out, making her way to the spears she grabs three and stands a few feet away from the targets.

she lazily throws each of the spears cringing as she misses each each target, she finishes her session as soon as possible due to the unbearable embarrassment she was feeling despite the fact that she was doing it on purpose.

sitting in a large room with chris, finnick and mags in front of a large TV awaiting their scores.

Ceaser begins listing off the tributes and their scores and then gets to district 4 "District four! Christopher Monroe with a score of, 8!" finnick and mags both congratulate him as he cockily smirks

"Persephone Levito with a score of 3!" with a thin lipped smile she looks over at finnick who gives her a look of pity.

The last of the days have been a blur especially with the interviews.

her last day at the capital has been pretty shitty and even more with the fact that everyone is treating her like a toddler, she's had a few more conversations with finnick but just briefly, and mostly just him telling her how to survive out there.

standing in a small metal room with her stylist who she's grown quite fond of

"what can you tell me about the arena?"

"it seems like it's going to be a constant change, you may be looking at forest mountains based on the shoes, weather may go from cold to humid because you have removable layers."

60 seconds

"good luck persephone, i know what you're doing i strongly believe i'll see you after the games"

her stylist stella tells her in a shaky whisper

"i'll see you later" persephone smirks before walking into the clear tube

Being lifted up into the arena she can already feel the cold breeze, looking around she sees fog, thicker in certain areas thinner in others, not bothering to see the other tributes next to her, her eyes narrow to the cornucopia, eyes landing on a belt with multiple daggers and knives and a back pack.

She realized she probably made the biggest mistake of her life by not making any allies

fuck

ladies and gentlemen let the 66th hunger games begin.

as soon as she heard the gong go off she ran as fast as she possibly could, her legs practically going numb she runs into the cornucopia grabbing the belt and then going for the back pack but a force pulling her back  has her heart skip a beat, not even bothering to see who it is she grabs a small dagger stabbing it into their pulse point, blood spraying all over her, her eyes dart around landing on a career coming straight for her.

Grabbing a another knife she throws it landing directly in between his eyebrows knocking him down but she then feels her airways being cutoff by someone putting her in a head lock, kicking her legs up and pushing off from the metal wall they both fall down, having to think quickly she grabs a longer knife from her belt she stabs it in the tributes gut she drags it up all the way to just below the sternum of the girl who she recognized was from district two, hearing ber ear piercing screams felt like she was about to go deaf but they soon stopped once her eyes rolled back in her head.

Looking up persephone sees that everyone has left the cornucopia and she sees chris and the tributes from 1 and the boy from 2 running into the forest.

collecting her knives and grabbing anything else she finds to be helpful she makes her way towards the foggy woods opposite of the way the others went.

after what felt like a few hours of walking she comes across the end of a rocky hill which leads to a water stream. her blonde locks look like they have been dyed red and brown.

walking down the hill she goes straight for the water immediately dipping her hands in the wash off all the caked on blood and then collects some of the water in a water bottle she found in a back pack she stole from one of the tributes.

mentor viewing room

finnick has been in staring off into space ever since the bloodbath ended

the once scared blonde that barley spoke two words was now covered head to toe in blood that wasn't hers

he didn't know how to feel, proud? scared?

he settled on proud for now and just decided to see where it would go.

arena

a  day has passed and so have four more people at the hands of persephone, she's washed her skin off a few times in the river but some sections were still stained red.

the day was pretty boring as nothing had happened but she was woken up in the middle of the night to harsh whispers and leaves rustling.

"she's asleep we can just kill her now, it's easier if she doesn't put up a fight" she heard a feminine voice say

"okay fine, do you wanna do the honors?" she heard a male voice say, she can practically hear the smirk in it

tightening her grip on her knife she shoots up immediately stabbing the male in the esophagus hearing the canon go off she then hears his partner scream, persephone slaps her hand over the girls mouth and then proceeds to stab her straight it the tit where she knows it hurts and then continues once she's on the floor. when she's done the girl at least has 7 stab wounds on her.

gathering her stuff the starts making her way in the opposite direction as the scream most likely drew attention.

Another day goes by and many more dead, sometimes done by others, most of the time done by persephone.

With almost everyone dead all that's left is chris and the one of the careers.

after waking around for a few hours she hears two people arguing. Climbing up the nearest tree as fast as she can she gets as high as possible and looks down at the last two standing. Fucking dumbasses, they aren't even aware of their surroundings.

Deciding to have some fun messing with them as it was once again night time and they couldn't see her. Throwing a stick on the floor next to them and them being the dogs they are they run straight to it giving her enough time to climb down the tree as quietly as possible.

"HELLO? YOU CAN COME OUT WE DONT BITE" chris yelled as they both laughed and for once in the games the whole arena got quiet, no birds, no crickets, just the sound of heavy breathing

"psst!" the girl from one turned around frantically ready to fight but that was soon ended as a gut wrenching scream was let out.

persephone stabbed her repeatedly in her torso, the clouds now moving past the moon letting the moonlight shine through which let her see a lot better.

Chris jumped on top of persephone pulling her off of the girl she just murdered, putting his hands on her neck once again having her airways cut off for like the fifth time, having to react quick she knees him as hard as she can between his legs which knocks him off of her.

she swears they have been having a wrestling match for what feels like forever. frantically looking around

to see if she can find anything that would kill him her eyes land on a sword that the other girl had persephone tried to reach for it but unfortunately for her chris also had his eyes on it and immediately pulled her back which led to her literally face planting on the dirt, he begins choking her again

"jesus- fuck why does everyone go for the- neck" she says in between wheezes. she remembers when he was talking to finnick how he said his weak spot was his right arm, despite the fact that both her arms had multiple gashes and stab wounds she builds up as much strength and punched her hand into his elbow dislocating it which makes the most disgusting pop noise that makes her gag

"you dumb fucking bitch, you broke my arm!" chris says practically spitting him her face. rolling him off of her she grabs knife that was still lodged in the girl from 1 she stabs him on his side but he didn't go down without a fight, he threw persephone off him him and stood up, now fighting standing up she continues to stab him wherever she can get her knife through but he still has a tight grip on her, at this point she doesn't even know how he's alive, there's blood pouring out of his mouth and she's sure she hit every major organ

"why.... won't- you.. die. FUCKING HELL ARE YOU IMMORTAL OR SOMETHING?" she says between gasps with one swift slit to the neck the cannon finally goes off.

there's a moment of silence before the announcer comes on

"ladies in gentlemen, your victor from the sixty sixth hunger games! persephone levito!!!" she hears the voice say

"FUCK" where the last words she remembers saying before passing out.. face planting the dirt.. again.

hi queens so this was like the introduction to my new child persephone and how she became a victor, there wasn't much finnick but there is definitely going to be a lot more in the next chapter, the next one is going to be briefly of the 74th games but just for her mentoring purposes but it's mainly just gonna be other stuff, anyway!

WC: 3168

© mystargirl-interlude

[meshlasolus]

The Winner Takes It All

Episode 2

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Tribute(OC)!Reader

Chapter Warnings: Angst, but the good kind. The Hunger Games are a bitch. Finnick should be a warning tbh... mild bullying but nothing wild.

Chapter Summary: After saying goodbye to your family, you and your tribute counterpart will board the train, meeting two mentors who may help you survive the bloodbath of the arena. Of course, one of them is Finnick Odair, so maybe the bloodbath will start before you even reach the capitol.

Word Count: 3.5k

It's only gonna get worse from here, guys... (and by that I mean it gets so much better as far as drama goes)

Lukas looked to you with concern, but couldn’t see your reaction as your features were hidden from him by your downward stare. Your hands were trembling, that was enough of an indication.  “Wait a minute,” Finnick furrowed his brows and leaned forward, examining the face of the boy, which he could see quite clearly. Worry resided there, but not for himself. You felt his eyes shift to you as soon as it happened, and they practically burned holes into the top of your head until you straightened your neck and met his eyeline. “You can’t be serious…”

He was the last winner from district four. A fourteen year old boy reaped during a year without career volunteers. A determined young man, hardened by the sting of the Capitol’s arena. Whispers through four were that it would be the same this year. No career tributes, only what has been reaped. 

Finnick does not think badly of this, quite the opposite, actually. Careers, though mostly prepared for what the games will hold, are almost always the most arrogant tributes. They think the training they have received is enough to prepare them for what it's like to be hunted, and to hunt down and kill others just like them. No amount of sparring rounds, or hours of weapons training can prepare you for that. Not mentally, at least.

He’s made up his mind about this year. He’s tired of watching kids go into that arena and not come out of it. He’s tired of seeing new faces every year, trying to help them only to realize they were never going to win in the first place. He knows it sounds twisted, and he knows what it will cost, but he’s promised himself a victor this year. Whoever is pulled from those bowls today, he knows that he won’t rest until one of them has a house across from his and Mags. He knows that no matter the age, gender, or lack of skills, one of them is going to win. 

He is so determined not to lose two more tributes. He’s so focused on making it his reality, he doesn’t even think about what he might have to do. He just knows that he’s willing to do it, when the time comes. 

Standing in the victor’s circle at the reaping is far better than standing amongst the gender separated crowds, but it still isn’t comforting. His hands are sweaty as he fiddles with them behind his back, waiting on the Capitol escort, Arbin, to finish his practiced lines. 

The first boy is a volunteer. Non career, but built just the same as one. Already, Finnick breathes a sigh of relief when he realizes the initial first pick would not have to go. This boy looked eighteen, seventeen at least, and was strong and handsome. A perfect tribute in all aspects. 

As Arbin made another unhumorous joke, teetering on his toes towards the girl’s bowl, Finnick somehow felt guilty. He’d already assumed the boy would be his victor, and he hadn’t even given the unpicked girl a chance. He hoped, now, that perhaps it was someone less than capable. The thought in and of itself was awful, but he didn’t want to be the one feeling guilty when one tribute left the arena and the other stayed as a permanent addition.

“Mercedes Blythe.”

An unknown name, like most of the others. The face that matched it was sullen… but damn, she was as good a tribute in any comparison to her counterpart. Eighteen, tall, strong looking, and beautiful. The sadness in her eyes reflected that of those she knew, but he couldn’t think about that. All he could think about was that his promise to himself would come at a great cost, whichever way it went. 

-

Arbin was kind, as you’d learned immediately after leaving the stage. He seemed to understand the weight of this event, despite seeming so joyful about it only minutes ago. He’d explained that you were on your way to the district’s processing center, where you would meet with your families one more time before getting on a train to the Capitol. You hadn’t spoken since the reaping. You knew that anything that came out of your mouth would only be unpleasant to hear anyway, and so far, Lukas had done a good enough job of asking all the questions you had on your mind. 

The room you met your family in was small, but it felt too large as soon as you stepped into it. The high ceiling must have played tricks on you. 

Your mother was hysterical, as you felt she must have been since the calling of your name. 

“M-mama, I’m sor-ry,” you sputtered out, reaching for her as she did. Once she had you in her arms she clung as tightly as she possibly could. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for, baby. It’s not your fault,” she shook her head, backing away only to look at your face. She had hoped this day would never come, but here you stood, tears on your cheeks and only a minute between now and a long train ride. She didn’t want to even think about what would happen to you once you left her sight. She just wanted to hold you for as long as she could. 

You saw your father standing behind her, holding the baby tightly as if trying to console himself apart from being able to hug you as well. He wouldn’t dare tell his wife to let go, not when he knows she may never see you again, but he wants to give you one last thing that he’s sorry he didn’t give you sooner. 

His gratitude. 

For putting your name in the bowl to eat, instead of taking the rations he needed in order to heal when he’d been so sick. That was the reason you were in this mess. He got sick, and his bones became so frail he broke his arm in a rigging accident… and you paid the price of his healing. If anyone should apologize it's him, but he knows you’ll just struggle to tell him not to. Still, as you leave the arms of your mother and look to him, he has to try. 

“I’m so sorry, little bear,” he tried not to show how much the emotion built up within him, but it boiled over without him even realizing it had. You leaned into him, an arm around your baby brother who may never remember you even existed. In three weeks there would be a victor, and you were almost certain it would not be you.

“I-it’s alright, papa. Y-you take c-care of mama for m-me, okay?” you asked, the nod of his head the best response he could muster and he leaned into you the best he could while holding the baby. He kissed the top of your head, inhaling the scent and trying to commit it to memory, that his daughter’s hair had smelled like fresh spring water from the center of the district. 

“I know I haven’t said it much, but you gotta know we’ve always been so proud of you. And it doesn’t matter what you do in that arena, if you have to do some bad things in order to come home, we will still be proud of you.”

You couldn’t have cried any harder after that, and feeling the arms of your mother once again coming around you, locking you together with your father and brother, you felt the last bit of peace you thought you would ever know. 

The peacekeepers were the ones to break apart the family moment, ushering you away to meet Lukas in the hall. 

-

Arbin pushed you both onto the train hurriedly, knowing that ‘wanting to see the shoreline from here, one last time,’ was only a way that Lukas could stall leaving the district. No one ever leaves their districts, so being made to not only leave, but basically being forced to go and die, made you both nervous to step aboard the transport that would take you there.

“Allow me to introduce your mentors,” Arbin stood by them, kind smiles on both their faces when they first saw you up close. “Mags Flanagan, 11th victor… and Finnick Odair, 65th victor.”

Mags didn’t say anything, but gave a warm handshake to you both, her opposite hand coming overtop of yours when she did each time. Finnick nodded to you both, a bit colder of a greeting, but probably to keep a necessary distance. His games were six years ago, they’re probably still fresh, and he doesn’t like getting close to the tributes. You can understand that. 

“I’m Lukas, this is Merce-” 

“We know. We were at the reaping,” Finnick stopped him short of his sentence, and you couldn’t help but be a bit annoyed at it. Surely, he was not so cold that he would forgo a simple introduction?

“Alright.” Lukas dropped his smile, which he’d forced onto his face originally, and replaced it with a look of irritation. He had his opinion on all of this, obviously, and wanted to know more than just these mentor’s names. “So, what now?”

Arbin seemed shocked at the seemingly polite boy’s lack of decorum for proper conversation. 

“Do we just sit here and wait until they shove us in that arena? Or are you meant to help us?” 

He wasn’t playing around, and his tone along with his words made Finnick smile. 

“Excellent question. See, I’m not much one for pleasantries, but this I can work with,” he turned around when he finished talking, waving his hand for you both to follow him. 

The car on the train you’d been led to was glorious. All the food you could possibly eat, the softest seats you’d ever imagined could be on a transport, and oh, the view was something to take in. The crested and sun topped mountains were unlike anything you’d ever seen before. You weren’t even out of district four, technically, but you’d never been away from the water a day in your life… ironic as it sounds. 

“First things first. Tell me something about yourselves that you think is captivating.”

Captivating? What did that have anything to do with fighting to the death in the hunger games? You hadn’t barely watched them before, too afraid of what it might have meant if you were reaped, but you were certain it wasn’t that kind of show. 

“I can swim a mile in twenty minutes,” Lukas answered first, something easy off the top of his head. 

“That’s not gonna work. You’re from four, half the boys your age or under can do the same. It has to be something personal, intimate. Something that gives insight to you as a tribute.”

“I c-collect rare cockle sh-shells,” you piped up. Finnick turned to you with raised brows, unexpecting the answer you gave, but not because of the words.

He had to blink a few times, and shake his head to get out of his thoughts in order to respond. 

“Yeah, that’s uh-” he cleared his throat, finally able to get it out. “That’s good.”

There’s the catch. Two perfect tributes, except one has a severe stutter.

The conversation continued, but after his reaction, you spoke only when you thought it was absolutely necessary. 

It was sad, the way he looked at you, nearly shocked at first before his eyes fell with a feeling unknown, something akin to pity, but worse. Something that not only felt sorry for you, but wanted to not have to deal with it. Pity, mixed with a kind of annoyance, that was not only evident but outstanding. 

Later in the evening, you were both shown to your rooms, exact copies of one another, separated by a train car in between, where the victor's rooms were. 

The victors, Mags and Finnick, but only one of them seemed really keen on giving his input. The other was just too kind and too gentle, willing herself more to give over her sympathies and compassion. You understood her. She wasn’t violent by nature, and you felt that even though his exterior was cocky and arrogant, Finnick had more beneath his rough and tumble outer layers as well. 

Mags spoke through sign language, and though you weren’t fluent, you could well figure out what she was saying to you. You were not quick to reply each time, but you much preferred the slow movements of your hands to a stuttering word. 

She’d been the one to lead you into the car one over, opening your door for you and allowing you to settle in. It had been a hard day, and she knew that there was nothing worse than having to be thrust into these circumstances. Even in her old age, she remembers it well, remembers her arena and the people who died beside her. She remembers their faces, frozen faces stuck with horror that would forever remain in their lifeless eyes. She remembers her victory tour, and how big of a deal it was. She was the first to experience a new era of the hunger games, something more vile and twisted than before. It was not just a symbol anymore, it was a show, complete pageantry being put on before the eyes of the Capitol, where the children taken must pretend like they are happy about their fate. Where they must smile and wave and endorse the ways of the Capitol before being pushed into an arena to die. 

She sees herself in you. Strong, brave hearted, but still afraid to die. She’s seen herself in many female tributes over the years, having not raised a victor in any thus far. It saddens her to think you will be just another one of the many, with an end just the same. Cold and dead eyes looking to the sky of the arena, stuck to the ground by another tribute you’ll encounter. She hates to think of it, but having lost every one of them, it plagues her. 

You thanked her for helping you, not just for leading you to your room, but for looking out for you. You knew there was only so much she would be able to do, but you appreciated the way she willingly did it, even when Finnick insisted on taking the lead with the preparations this year.

She nodded with a smile before leaving you to rest. The day ahead would be much more intimidating, and she knew how vital it was to be prepared for the culture shock of entering the Capitol.

-

Abrin droned on, listing the great commodities that you were going to have accessible. Coming from a wealthier district, it wasn’t terribly different, but being in the lower class of four, you would take the time to appreciate some things. The promise of constantly hot running water sounds phenomenal. 

All the while he’d been speaking, you opted to simply listen and not join in under any circumstances. It was now your greatest mission to avoid speaking in front of Finnick Odair at any cost. It just so happened that sitting in the main car of the train, there was a dessert cart set up before you, so you didn’t really need to bite your tongue all that much.

“Will we have access to training facilities that mimic the arena?” Lukas’ voice broke the long ramble of the excited Capitol member, and leaned forward in wait for the answer. He felt that it was far more important to have something practical in his favor. What good were any of the other commodities if you didn’t live long enough to use them?

“Not quite anything that mimics the arena. The games are all about the entertainment factor, that’s why everything is kept a secret until they call showtime,” Finnick interjected, a less than favorable look on his face when he mentions a few specific words. “Training facilities are provided but won’t give you any hints, trust me. They will open it to the tributes a day before evaluation, so you’ll have to be wise with the time spent.”

“If we’re unsure of what the arena contains, how will we know what to focus on?” 

You were so grateful for Lukas at this moment. He voiced all of the things you knew you would have a hard time trying to say, and did it in half the time. A swift and simple conversation, and by observing it, you would learn everything you needed to know, 

“Most of the careers will stick with what they’re best at. They test their limits and see how far their strengths can go… it always impresses the game-makers, and often is the deciding factor in what weapons will be available in the cornucopia.”

There was something strange about the way he phrased it. He said it was what most careers did, but you weren’t technically a career, and neither was Lukas, though he volunteered like one.

“W-what do you s-suggest?” You felt embarrassed at the way he looked at you when you asked the question. He was so full of pity. Though you often felt bad for yourself and the way you sounded to others, you didn’t like being looked at like an injured animal. You were just trying to ask a question.

Still he looked intrigued. You didn’t seem very keen on surviving, and yet here you were, inquiring about his personal advice.

“I suggest working on your weaknesses. The arena is completely unpredictable, but it becomes easier when you’ve covered your bases,” he paused, tilting his head around. “Still spend time on testing your strengths. Like I said, this is a show, and people aren’t watching to see you learn a new skill.”

You looked to Lukas, and he almost read your mind. You didn’t want to ask about it, but knew he could bring it up easier, without the hassle of forming the wrong words and them sounded uncertain altogether. 

“There’s always sources of water in the arena... Are there any pools to practice in?” 

Finnick laughed and nodded, looking at Lukas with a face of confusion. 

“There are some… but I hardly think either of you would need to spend time there.”

You lowered your head, continuing to pick at the small foods on the little rolling cart before you. You had been pretty silent this whole time, surely he wouldn’t read it as strange right now. 

Lukas looked to you with concern, but couldn’t see your reaction as your features were hidden from him by your downward stare. Your hands were trembling, that was enough of an indication. 

“Wait a minute,” Finnick furrowed his brows and leaned forward, examining the face of the boy, which he could see quite clearly. Worry resided there, but not for himself. You felt his eyes shift to you as soon as it happened, and they practically burned holes into the top of your head until you straightened your neck and met his eyeline. “You can’t be serious…”

He shook his head laughing, hoping - no, praying - that this was a joke. That you both were messing with him to see how he would react. Perhaps it was even a strange attempt at trying to bond with a mentor through humor, but the longer he stared at you, eyes flicking from yours to Lukas every few seconds, it made clear the dilemma he had in front of him. 

“I can’t believe it…” he scoffed, his earlier laughter now turning into irritation and disgust. He’d promised himself a victor this year, but here stood an incapable pair. 

He sat back into his seat and raked a hand over his face, the heat of the moment making him feel completely and utterly helpless. What could he even do about it?

“I’m a strong swimmer, I can help her if it comes down to it-”

“And what if you’re dead? The second that countdown reaches zero, and you start running, there’s a good chance someone’s gonna beat you to the weapon of their choice. If you die, and she’s depending on you, what then?” 

“I c-can learn,” you tried to interject, but it only made his anger worse. 

“No, sweetheart, you can’t. The only hope you’ll have is in convincing the other tributes you’re as good in the water as anyone else in four.” 

His sarcasm wasn’t helping anything, but this was purely unheard of. 

“She’s stronger than she looks, I can teach her the basics,” Lukas again intervenes, trying his best to defend your honor, which if you’re being honest, there isn’t much to defend anymore. You’re a fraud. They called the women of four mermaids, and you couldn’t even step past the shoreline’s sand.

“I don’t need you telling me what can and can’t be done. She’s a tribute from four who can’t swim… it’s bad enough I have to sell a stutter to the Capitol without adding to my plate,” he spoke too hastily and irrationally, his stress overtaking what he would normally even think to say. 

Lukas looked to him in shock, then immediately to you. There were tears welling in your eyes. How could someone who has gone through the games sit here and say things like that? He knows firsthand that nobody even wants to be here, but to make matters worse, he’s pulling the cards from everyone who has ever made you feel inferior from the time you could talk. 

You stood up in a rush, thighs accidentally hitting the edge of the food cart, before walking away quickly towards the room quarters of the train. 

-

Tags (open)

[lvstcd]

no time to die ⟶ finnick odair & oc [part 2]

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 |

A/N: this is for my pookie ookie bear rese <3 happy birthday bbg

WARNINGS: swearing, mentions of death, mentions of torture, mentions of sex trafficking, weapons, trauma, smoking, pretty much all hunger games shit :)

SUMMARY: rhys marley was the youngest victor of hunger games, winning at the age of 12. 9 years later, she watches as president snow makes the announcement about the quarter quell, causing chaos for all victors in each district.

GENRE: angst, dystopian, fluff, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

oc - original character(s)

EDITED BUT THERE COULD STILL MISTAKES THAT I MISSED :0 LINKS FOR OUTFITS AND HAIRSTYLES ARE IN THERE IF YOURE INTERESTED.

lower case intended

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆

"THE male and female tributes are to be reaped from the existing pool of victors in each district."

rhys freezes, her heart sinking to her stomach as her mother cries out in heartbreak, gripping onto rhys' father, "no! no, this isn't fair. my baby." rhys ignores her parents and stands up, running out of the victors mansion and through victors village, running until she cant anymore, stopping and dropping to the ground, tears streaming down her cheeks as she lets out ragged sobs, struggling to breathe properly as she starts to panic, gripping at the grass on the ground to try to surround herself.

an hour or so later, rhys finally calms down and is able to catch her breath. she stands up shakily, walking back home, her cheeks red and tear stained. she hears finnick yelling from inside his home as she walks up her stairs, stepping inside her house. her mother immediately rushes to her and embraces her, brushing her hair. she hugs her mom tightly, too tired to cry anymore. she pulls away, walking away from her mom and climbing up the stairs to go to her room. she crawls on top of her bed and lays in a ball, her tired eyes staring at the wall. she closes her eyes, falling asleep.

she awakes the next morning, climbing out of bed and taking a hot bath. she shuts the water off, sitting there, before slowly sliding under the water, submerging herself. her mother knocks on the door, reminding her that she needs to get ready. rhys sits up, wiping the water off of her face and washing herself before climbing out of the water and drying off.

she throws on a denim jumpsuit with a heart shape cut out on the back, her pale skin showing. she throws her hair in a loose ponytail and slides on her boots, walking out of the house and towards the centre hall with the peace keepers, mags, finnick, and annie behind her. she stands beside annie, looking down at the ground as the announcer smiles and announces the quarter quell with an over enthusiastic voice.

"the female tribute is..." theres a long pause as the announcer grabs a peice of paper, opening it and smiling, "annie cresta." rhys looks up, looking at finnick. she watches his eyes widen and can physically see his heart break as annie lets out a strangled sob.

rhys looks between the both of them, "i volunteer as tribute." she states loud enough for everyone to hear her. she can feel finnick's eyes on her while she looks at annie, nodding at her. annie looks at rhys with wide and surprised eyes. rhys takes her place, standing there, while the announcer grabs a piece of paper for the male tributes.

"and now for the male tributes. the male tribute for the the third quarter quell is.." rhys stares at the ground, her fingers fiddling with the rings that she is wearing.

"finnick odair." rhys doesn't look up, but she can hear annie's sobs from beside her. they turn around and walk into the building, leaving the outside world. they're immediately brought to the train to head to the capitol. rhys sits down at the table, watching the world moving in a fast pace as they speed towards the capitol. suddenly, rhys feels a presence behind her.

"why'd you do it?" she looks up, seeing finnick standing there, "we haven't spoken in years. why did you volunteer for annie?" rhys lets out a breath, looking down at her pant leg, fiddling with it.

"because," she starts, "i see the way you look at her. if she dies, you wouldn't be able to live without her." she looks up at him, standing up, "if i die, you'll be perfectly fine." she walks away, leaving finnick standing speechless as she walks to her room, laying on her bed in a ball, drowning in her thoughts.

the next morning, they arrive to the capitol. rhys walks off of the train, finnick following behind her as he watches her every move, scared to say something. they walk in and are lead to their districts room. mags smiles at rhys, giving her a small kiss on the forehead. rhys smiles, "hi, mags," and hugs mags tightly, staring at the ground as she does so. she sits on the couch, finnick awkwardly sitting a few spots away from her.

"you don't wear your necklace anymore." he points out in a whisper. rhys looks at him and looks down at her chest, nodding. she hasn't worn the necklace in years. finnick had gifted it to her after they both won the games, inside was a picture of them as kids. after finnick had mentored annie and fell in love with her, rhys stopped wearing it. there was no point in wearing something that had no meaning anymore. not after he brushed her to the back burner and stopped thinking of her existence entirely.

they start immediately talking about rhys and finnick making allies out there in the arena. they go through every victor, when zephyr marley and peeta mellark pop up on the screen. rhys gasps, tears in her eyes, "no." finnick looks at her, confused.

"what?" he asks quietly, watching her. "s-she.. she can't be in the quarter quell she just won last year." finnick looks at her confused, "is that zephyr? your cousin that used to visit when we were kids?" rhys stares at the screen with tears in her eyes, nodding.

flashback

"i'm going to miss you so much, zeph." rhys says softly, looking at her little cousin. zephyr smiles sadly, wrapping her arms around rhys, "i'm going to miss you, too." rhys pulls away, wiping a tear, "i got something for you to think of me when you go back to district twelve." rhys smiles, pulling a pin out of her back pocket and pinning it to zephyrs shirt.

"what is it?" zephyr asks, looking up at her. "a mockingjay," rhys smiles at her, "i saw it at the market and immediately thought of you." rhys brushes a strand of zephyrs long black hair out of her face. zephyr hugs rhys tightly again, "i'll see you soon." rhys giggles, "see you soon, zeph."

zephyrs and rhys' mother watch them, smiling, "look at them. our yin and yang."

rhys watches zephyr on the screen, the mockingjay pin pinned into her shirt, a fake smile plastered on her lips.

the next day, rhys and finnick are being styles for the grand entrance for all the victors. rhys is dressed in a blue wrangled dress with her hair in a braided half updo. she stands outside of her buggy, ignoring finnick's presence as he spots zephyr, walking over to her.

"zephyr marley. rhys' little cousin, right?" he smiles at her, flaunting his charm. zephyr glances at him, her face emotionless as she looks at him, "you must be finnick odair. the infamous capitol playboy. how do i pay for the pleasure of your company?" finnick stares at her, his eyebrows furrowing at the distaste on zephyrs tongue.

rhys turns around, seeing zephyr, "zeph!" she yells, jogging towards zephyr and attacking her in a hug, her arms tightly wrapped around zephyrs body. she pulls away, a smile on her lips. zephyr smiles at her, "hi, yang." she smiles brightly, completely ignoring finnick's presence behind him. "you look beautiful." rhys gasps, looking at her dress and hair.

zephyr's wearing a beautiful black dress with her hair in a braided half updo with metal accents. zephyr gasps as she looks at rhys' dress, her eyes widening, "rhys, you look stunning." rhys goes to speak but haymitch comes over, "ah, there's the capitols sweetheart." he smiles at rhys, hugging her softly.

"you two know eachother?" zephyr asks, looking between the two of them. haymitch laughs, "oh yes, miss girl on fire, we do. during your hunger games last year, this girl right here became a sponsor to help you throughout your games. she ultimately saved you and peeta with all the gifts she sent to you." rhys looks at zephyr as zephyrs jaw slightly drops.

"rhys.. that was you? it wasn't haymitch this entire time?" rhys shakes her head no, "no, zeph. it was me. i knew what you were getting into. and i knew that i needed to do my best to help you." zephyr sends her a sad smile, wrapping her arms around rhys tightly,

"thank you." she whispers into rhys' hair, kissing her cheek softly. rhys smiles as zephyr pulls away and sees peeta mellark walking over. "you must be peeta." rhys smiles, holding out her hand for him to shake, "im rhys. rhys marley."

peeta smiles, "zephyr's big cousin right? the youngest victor ever?" rhys nods, shaking his hand, "that's me." all of the sudden, all of the stylists start to urge everyone to their buggies, the grand entrance about to begin. "i'll see you after." rhys whispers, sending a nod to zephyr and peeta before walking over to her buggy, finnick climbing on, offering to lend a hand to rhys to climb on. ignoring him, rhys climbs in.

"why are you acting like this?" finnick asks her softly, a hurt expression on his face, "i am still the finnick you know and grew up with." rhys doesn't look at him, her eyes focused on the buggy infront of them, "you're different. i don't recognize you." she says in a soft voice, ignoring finnick's eyes on her. he lets out a soft scoff, looking away from her as the buggies start to move.

"i don't recognize you either, rhys."

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[trashbag-baby666]

Between Tridents and Knives-Finnick Odair

Chapter Three

Chapter Summary: As training starts they bicker over who they want as ally’s and earning Katniss and Peetas trust.

WC: 2,944

C/W: Mentions of Snow selling their bodies and implied smut.

Series Masterlist!

Fawn sat at the table eating breakfast, accompanied by Librae, Nava, and Finnick. She slowly took bites of the District Four bread that sat in a basket on the table.

They tasted of home to her, to look over and see Finnicks green eyes.

It made her imagine sitting in Finnicks kitchen, well now theirs. Fawn had her own house in the victors village but they had both lived in Finnicks. He had lived there for a few years prior. The house was lived in and had more personality than Fawns.

Sitting in the light blue painted kitchen with big windows looking over the beach and ocean next to their house. The sound of the water crashing into the rocks and sand. The salty water air floats through the house from the open windows.

The taste of the bread Finnick had made in the morning.

But that was far from the truth. They sat in the apartment floors only used once a year to hold two teenagers for a few weeks before they got slaughtered.

"Should we take any guidance going in today?" Finnick broke the silence looking over at the other male victor from 4 acting as the mentor.

"Figure out your guy's pick for allies. I believe Haymitch Abernathy wanted to speak with you two?" Librae wouldn't look at them. Fawna and Finnick weren't close with him but it was still a reminder of home for them.

"Great advice," Fawn rolled her eyes as she finished off her piece of bread.

"Do you two really need my help with combat training and advice?" Librae picked up his head and looked at her. She had a scowl on her face, her golden brown bangs hanging in her face.

"No we don't, right Fawn?" Finnick looked over at his lover.

"We don't, but ally suggestions would help." Fawn hummed looking over at Finnick.

"Here, let's get ready for training." Finick took a swig of his water glass standing up, taking Fawns hand and leading her back to the bedroom.

On the bed the training uniforms sat folded with the black shoes resting on top for them.

Fawn picked hers up holding the black tank top with the silver straps then the black capri pants with the metallic at the bottom.

"Could be worse," Fawn sighed, changing from her sleep wear. Finnick watched but stepped over touching Fawns bare waist as she clipped the black bra on that the tank covered.

"Maybe we have time for something quick?" Finnick whispered in her ear pressing his body against hers.

"No, not right now." Fawn sighed, stepping away from his grip to finish sliding on her capri pants. The both had an odd relationship when it came to intimacy and sometimes physical touch.

After Snow began selling Fawns body after she won and the victory tour things became harder.

She would pretty much have no choice but to just shut up and have sex with the men and women who paid Snow.

She would try to avoid Finnicks touches sometimes when she couldn't handle the touches.

It would send her back to some dimmed over the top capitol house bedroom. A soft yellow glow on her body as she faked her orgasms and pretended she gave two shits about the people.

So when Finnick and Fawn had their occasional scheduled sexual intimacy night it wasn't the same. Fawn began ignoring the feelings attached to it. Kind of just leaving it to part of the going through the motions part of her day.

It took Finnick about a month to notice that Fawn was just stiff. The way she would lay back on the bed, her eyes clamped shut. She didn't even moan as Finnick thrusted his pelvis in and out.

That's when her tears began, she couldn't feel anything but sad and humiliated. Finnick stopped immediately pulling out of her. He laid next to her and began hushing her, brushing her hair from her face.

"I'm sorry," Fawn sobbed, not even opening her eyes and just rubbing away the tears. She cuddled into his bare chest as he held her.

"There's no reason to be sorry, Fawn." Finnicks voice was quiet as he held her small, muscular body. She was shaking as she curled in on herself, relaxing more into him as her tears tired her out, "I'm here love."

Fawn stayed quiet, her eyes shut as she fell asleep, her head on Finnick's chest. She looked peaceful, her chest rising and falling, her eyelashes delicately resting on her cheeks, her soft pink lips pulled into a straight line.

Fawn stood in the elevator heading down to the training center. They weren't completely sure why but maybe it was about the unspoken elephant in the room.

The rebellion.

There had been uprisings in four ever since the victory tour for Katniss and Peeta.

The door opened to the elevator and Haymitch stood against the wall facing the elevator looking at the pair.

He motioned for them to follow him, Finnick took Fawns hand and they followed him down a long hallway. Going somewhere secluded, something needed to be said to the two. They rounded a corner and into a dark room, Haymitch shut the door and stood in front of it.

"So why're we here? Are we just going to be killed now?" Fawn copped an attitude losing a bit of patience.

"No, we actually need you two alive." Haymitch stood close his voice barely a whisper, "District 13 is still a place. Plutarch is behind it all. We've had a plan working for years and this quell was set up to get the victors out of the arena and take you to 13. But we need Katniss, she's what sparked the rebellion, she's the symbol of hope." Haymitch explained, "We need to keep her alive but I also made a deal with her that I'd keep Peeta alive. So now the mentors are setting up an alliance. You two, Wiress and Beetee, and Johanna and Blight. Others know of it but you guys are the main key to it. To keep Katniss from turning on you guys you need to protect Peeta."

"This sounds like a terrible plan." Fawn began.

"Fawn, just listen, this is plausible." Finnick squeezed her hand.

After they made their deal with Haymitch they walked into the training center. Not even all the tributes were here. The morphlings sat at the painting station painting pink swirls on each other's faces, Beetee and Wiress were trying to start a fire, Katniss and Peeta at the knot tying station, and Johanna was on a training platform working with an axe. Fawn swallowed hard. Was she really going to let Finnick die for Katniss? She knew she had to protect Finnick coming into this game, she didn't trust Katniss there was just something about her.

"Where do we wanna start," Finnick asked, putting his arm around the small of her back.

"I'm going to freshen up on my knife skills." Fawn stepped away from Finnick and walked over to the table of throwing knives. She picked one up tossing it around in her hand. She walked over to the small screen selecting hologram targets. She stood on the sensor grabbing a handful of knives in her left hand.

The first orange hologram ran towards her and Fawn sent a knife barreling into the chest. The next one appeared moving behind other hologram targets, Fawn watched for a moment before picking the right time and sent a knife into the head of the hologram.

She threw a few more before two holograms came running. Fawn watched as they intersected and sent one knife going through both of them.

She sighed, setting the rest of the knives on the table and walking over to where Finnick was at the knot tying station.

"Wanting to show off already, hun?" Finnick didn't miss a beat as he tied a few knots that could create a net.

"I said I'm just freshening up on my skills." Fawn rolled her eyes.

"Let me show you the best knot to know in the arena." Finnick smirked, grabbing another rope off the wall. Fawn didn't work with ropes much at home really that was more Finnicks job.

Fawn crossed her arms watching him as he began tying a noose.

"For once don't look at me, look at the knot." Finnick chuckled, wrapping the rope around itself.

"Fin," Fawn went to grab his wrist but he slipped it around his neck and tightened it.

"You know, then just." He pretended to hang himself.

"Wow, you're so funny I'm laughing so hard." Fawn stood there with a straight face shifting her weight.

"Do you wanna take me for a walk?" Finnick held the rope out to Fawn. She smirked and grabbed it as she began prancing around the training area. A shit eating grin ran across her face as the other victors looked at her as she dragged around Finnick. He also had a smile across his face. Cashmere and Gloss stood in a corner by the spears glaring at them.

"Can I pet your dog?" Johanna walked over to the two of them as Fawn walked in front of where all the game makers watched them.

"He bites," Fawn giggled.

"Only bites you," Finnick took the noose off his neck and leaned into Fawn.

"Shut up," Fawn shoved Finnick.

Later on Fawn sat with Wiress and Beetee as they talked about the force field in front of the game makers.

"Katniss shot an arrow at them last year," Fawn looked at the two. But everyone came over to watch Katniss shoot as she was in one of the interactive areas.

"Damn," Johanna walked over to where Finnick and Fawn stood.

"Didn't know she was that good," Fawn breathed out.

"She did manage to pull an 11 last year for a training score," Finnick looked down at her. As she finished, Wiress began clapping and Katniss turned to see everyone watching her.

"So, Fawn and Finnick, who do you guys want as allies?"Lysis asked. Of course Nava, Atala, and Lysis were oblivious to what was really going on.

"Beetee, Wiress, and Johanna." Fawn didn't miss a beat as she took another bite of the rice and gravy that they served for dinner.

"What about Katniss and Peeta?" Nava asked.

"I want them but Fawn isn't sure yet," Finnick smiled at the two stylists. Fawn sometimes got impatient with them and their pure ignorance and almost capitol stupidity. But she also valued them as people too her were just looking out for her best self interest.

"I think it would be wonderful, the capital's star crossed couples allied together." Atala smiled, taking some fruit from a plate in the center of the table.

"Yeah something like that," Fawn huffed. Finnick gently squeezed her thigh, in the end once the gong would go off to start the games. It didn't matter because they were going to protect Katniss and Peeta and get out of the damned arena and this damned country.

The second day of training they'd decided would be for talking with others to build a foundation for their plan.

Finnick put an arm around Fawns waist as they rode down the elevator to go to the training center. The doors opened and they stepped out walking down the hall to the training center.

"Let's play nice today," Finnick smirked looking down at Fawn as they came in the doors to the training center.

"Shut up," she shoved him gently around everyone that was there yesterday.

"Why don't you go talk to Katniss?" Finnick smirked looking at Fawn.

"Why? Can't you go talk to her and I'll talk to Peeta?" Fawn crossed her arms tilting her head slightly looking at him. She wasn't really good at girl talk. She tried her best, being surrounded by capitol people made it easier for her.

"Because you can do girl talk, I can't." Finnick turned on his heels and walked over to Peeta at the painting station leaving Fawn standing alone in the middle of the training area.

She rolled her eyes as she reluctantly walked over to where Katniss was shooting targets with her bow. To Fawn she hadn't yet realized if she couldn't get Katniss to trust her before the games she could turn around and kill Fawn and Finnick.

"Girl on fire," Fawn came up behind her, Fawns voice riddled with enthusiasm.

"Mrs. Odair," Katniss set her bow down and turned looking at Fawn. The nickname Katniss just used, of course to taunt her. Made butterflies flap through Fawns stomach, they wanted to marry so badly. They were getting around to finally getting engaged and doing it in District Four. Then the Quarter Quell was announced, Fawn was hoping if they made it to District 13 they could marry there.

"Can I offer you some tips with a knife? Knowing your way around one can do you some good? Maybe you can show me how to set a snare, I saw the ones you set in the last games." Fawn crossed her arms looking up at the taller girl.

"Sure," Katniss grabbed a few knives from the wrack of weapons. Fawn grabbed a few and Katniss stepped out of the way. Fawn positioned herself in the middle, as she decided to use the targets like they were others coming at her. She threw about five knives before stepping away. Katniss knew how successful Clove had been with throwing knives last year, now this was Fawns speciality.

"Here it's your turn," Fawn stepped away and let Katniss step up, "Square your shoulders to your target, there's a few ways you can hold your knife, the way I hold it is like this." Fawn stood next to Katniss and grabbed a knife grabbing it by the handle and like you would a hammer. She then sent it flying into a target's chest.

"Why don't you give it a shot?" Fawn tried to offer a smile to Katniss but it faltered. Katniss stood like how Fawn did and gripped the knife and threw it, sending it into a target's leg.

"Well that's a good start you'd at least injure them?" Fawn shrugged as she continued helping Katniss. After about half an hour Katniss was showing her how to set snares.

"Fawn come here," Finnick waved Fawn over as she practiced starting a fire with two sticks. Fawn rolled her eyes, she got up and walked over to Finnick. He grabbed a trident off a wrack and handed another to Fawn.

"I know my way around one of these," Fawn looked at the glorified spear. She had worked with these at home spearing fish and Finnick had shown her some things with one.

"Oh do you now?" Finnick smirked, moving impossibly closer to her, his breath running over her cheek and he winked kissing her cheek, "Fine then show me."

"Fuck you Finnick." Fawn rolled her eyes as he got off the small platform in the training area. Fawn readied herself with one and stabbed into the air spinning herself around; she couldn't imagine how silly she may be looked stabbing things that aren't there.

"So you know your way down but your form was wrong honey." Finnick got up onto the platform.

"I'll kill you right here," Fawn chuckled dryly as she set the trident back on the rack, "I can use one if I need Finnick, I'm not an expert like you."

Fawn walked over back to the fire starting area where Beetee and Wiress sat trying to start a fire.

"Hello my dear," Beetee smiled at her. Beetee was always more than happy to talk with Fawn at victor events. He was somewhat a father figure t0 her, she was a younger victor and he took it upon himself to be there for her.

"Hey," Fawn sat down by them, Wiress ran a gentle hand over her honey brown hair, "Yeah I needed a bit of a length change." Last victor event Fawn had longer hair that she would wear in low space buns usually.

"I like it," Wiress nodded.

"Thank you," Fawn smiled, "Here Beetee if you move your hands down more and faster you should have more luck starting a fire."

"A little brute forth," Wiress smiled.

"Is always helpful," Beetee chuckled, "Thank you darling."

"By the corner of the table." Wiress looked up at where the game makers sat. Fawn had learned how Wiress functioned, after her games she had gone a little mentally unstable. But she was so smart and always found a way to get her point across.

"Plutarch?" Fawn looked over at the two. Beetee lifted his glasses up looking at what Wiress was saying.

"No next to him," Wiress pointed.

"Force field," Beetee smirked. It stunned Fawn how smart they were. How smart most people from district three were. She remembers how shocked she was last year when the boy from district three was able to wire the tribute platforms back into bombs.

"How can you tell?" Fawn furrowed her eyebrows.

"It's shimmering on the top left hand side." Beetee gently moved Fawns head to where she could better see it.

"Do you see it now?" Fawn nodded looking at it.

"It's like glass." She observed.

"A barrier between us and them." Wiress hummed.

"Katniss shot an arrow at them last year during her training." Fawn bit her lip re telling the story she had heard multiple times.

"It's electro magnetic." Beetee said, setting his glasses back on after staring it down, "There's always a flaw in the system."