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whillywisp · 7 months ago

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☼ between life and death pt2 (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; you’re supposed to be dead. you remember taking your last breath in that arena, but now you’re back, as if it never happened. and there's only one person to blame for it.

warnings; swearing, blood mention, death mention, someone gets hurt, there's some illusion (she's not totally sane), idealization of the capitol.

wc; 5k

notes: you might find the pov changes weird but embrace it.

part one.

District Thirteen’s hospital is in complete chaos.

Finnick comes to a sudden stop two steps in, eyes widening as he watches the scene in front of him. The shouting of orders from across the room by doctors, nurses running back and forth with armfuls full of equipment to tend to the volunteers. The loud beeping from machines getting to know their patients.

His lips part, face twisting, a question forming on his tongue, but he’s not even sure what he’s thinking to ask. Maybe, where is she? Is she okay? Did they hurt her? Is she still the same? Did his interview work? Did everyone make it out alive? He closes his mouth, swallowing, eyes searching for a reason to move.

Right as he thinks to take a step forward, both he and Katniss are cut off by a gurney being guided by a nurse who’s determined to get to her destination. He gets a quick glimpse of an unconscious woman with her head so sharply shaved, there is no hair on her scalp. From what he could see, on the skin that isn’t covered by the gown, she’s covered in fresh bruises and healing scabs.

It isn’t until she’s halfway down the hall, out of reach, does he realize who it is. It’s Johanna.

Finnick turns, as if he’s going to follow after her, because that’s what a good friend does, when a voice cuts through all the noise, clear as day. His heart jumps to his throat. He could be dead, six feet under, and her voice could bring him back to life.

“Finnick!” She shrieks, he whips around. He can feel the wave of tears coming before they've even reached his eyes. The tight pressure, the hot feeling in his face. The sight of her on the other side of the room sends him over the edge.

Annie’s here, her green eyes full of so much life—something he was afraid would be taken away from her in the Capitol. She hadn’t been back there in years, since she won and they shipped her away, uninterested due to her mental illness.

She comes running at home, only wearing a gown, but she doesn’t care, and neither does he. “Finnick!” She cries again. He’s instantly drawn to her like a magnet, he takes off away from the door to reach her sooner, arms open to embrace. As soon as she’s in arms reach, she jumps into him.

Finnick picks her up without an ounce of hesitation, a hand sliding into her dark, tangled hair. She’s alive, the thought is full of electricity. He leans too far forward, making him lose his balance, causing him to overcompensate. When he straightens, it sends him stumbling, back slamming into the wall. They slide down to the floor, where neither of them move, holding on to each other tight.

He was convinced he’d never see her again.

Katniss watches them jealously from the door she entered through with Finnick, feet firmly planted. It’s not that she’s specifically jealous of either partner, but the fact no one could ever doubt their love. Everyone knows how much they mean to each other. She’s still having to fight to get people to believe that’s how she feels with Peeta.

She presses her lips together, tearing her eyes away from the two on the floor to share a look with Haymitch. She manages to catch a glimpse of Gale through a doorway, he’s stripped down to his waist, skin glistening with sweat. A doctor stands over him with a pair of tweezers, removing something from under his shoulder blade.

“Gale!” Katniss is relieved, and she begins to go to him first, until a nurse pushes her back, and then shuts the door to his room.

Katniss goes back to standing next to Haymitch, waiting. Her attention is directed to Boggs next, who led the mission. He comes to a stop in front of them, hands on his hips. “We got them all out. Except Enobaria. But since she’s from Two, we doubt she’s being held anyway.”

“I heard you picked up someone extra?” Haymitch asks, curiosity getting the best of him.

Katniss’s eyebrows twitch. “There were no other tributes in the arena.” She says, and then backtracks a second later. “I guess Annie wasn’t there either…”

“They found a girl in the same hall as the victors. She was right next door to Peeta.” Boggs says, at the mention of Peeta’s name, butterflies swarm Katniss’s chest, reminding her that he’s here.

“Do you think she could be a victor?” Haymitch asks.

“Beetee and Plutarch are trying to figure it out right now.” Boggs shakes his head. “If she is, we don’t know the significance of her being there. She could be anymore.”

“What about Peeta?” Katniss asks. As curious as she is about the mystery girl, there’s only one person in this building she wants to see right now. She’s been waiting to see him for weeks.

“Peeta’s at the end of the hall. The effects of the gas are just wearing off. You should be there when he wakes.” Boggs nods to the nearest hall. “The nurse won’t let you in until she’s done with her work, there’s a chair outside of the door.”

“Thanks.” Katniss murmurs, breaking off.

Haymitch does not, staying with Boggs. If Peeta’s going to be unconscious for a little while longer, he might as well help them figure out who this girl is. Boggs motions for Haymitch to follow a few doors down, where Plutarch is standing with a walkie talkie in his hand. It has to be the fastest form of communication here.

Plutarch looks up from the floor when he senses their presence. “Oh, Haymitch.” He’s relieved. “Maybe you have an idea.”

“Where is she?”

“We have her isolated.” Boggs motions to the nearest window covered by blinds. “Until we figure it out.”

“Take a look.” Plutarch encourages.

Haymitch steps forward, prying the window shade open wide enough to give him a look inside. His eyes land on a girl sitting on a bed—most definitely older than Katniss—who looks to be in as good condition as Annie, maybe a little worse. Her head is turned to the side, seemingly taking in the room, observing it.

“How old is she supposed to be?”

At the sound of Haymitch’s voice, her head turns, eyes finding his through the shades. He’s able to get a good first look at her face before he lets go, disturbed by the intensity of the eye contact, and looks at Plutarch.

Boggs shakes his head. “No idea. We have no information on her.”

“We drew blood from her before she woke up.” Plutarch says, holding up the walkie. “Beetee’s cross-referencing it with residents from Four right now.”

“You think she’s from Four?” Haymitch raises his eyebrows, a little stunned by the assumption. “She doesn’t look like a Four resident.”

“Coin said to start there.” Plutarch shrugs, Haymitch thinks he catches an eye roll, but he’s not certain. “I would’ve gone for one of the outskirts districts, possibly Six or Eight, but she thinks that there might be some significance there.”

“For who? Finnick? They already took Annie.”

Plutarch raises his hands defensively, telling Haymitch that it’s out of his hands. He only does what Coin wants.

“Did you try asking Finnick?” Haymitch suggests.

“No, not yet. We’re letting him reunite with Annie before we drag him into it.” Boggs says. “You don’t recognize her at all?”

“I knew a lot of the victors in recent years, she doesn’t look like any of them.”

The sound of static fills the air before Beetee’s voice comes through, not entirely clear. “I can’t get any information on her. The DNA system in Thirteen is telling me her blood is outdated and doesn’t match any records. It wants a better sample.” There’s a pause. “Are you sure this system is up-to-date?”

Plutarch’s face twists, raising the walkie to his mouth. “Coin said it is. What do you mean her blood is outdated?”

“It doesn’t give me anything else. I’m going to need a bigger sample if you want me to begin to check the other districts she could be a part of.” Beetee answers. “Was she drugged in the Capitol? That might be messing with it.”

Plutarch sighs. “Just the gas to make an easy transfer. Unless the Capitol doctors were doing something to her. Give me some time, I’ll send someone to you.”

“Echo.” Beetee responds, and then the line goes quiet.

Plutarch turns to look at the door belonging to the mystery girl. He rubs his jaw, thinking, before calling on the nearest doctor to join him to draw more blood. The doctor agrees, pulling the gloves off her hands, telling Plutarch there’s already vials in the room she can use in the cabinet.

Plutarch opens the door, motioning for her to go first, before he follows. The door shuts behind them, the doctor prepares to draw more blood, using a key on her lanyard to unlock the cabinet to grab a bigger vial this time. Plutarch sticks by the door, not wanting to get closer.

“I’m just going to draw blood.” The doctor tells the girl, but she pays no mind to her.

Her attention is on Plutarch, eyes boring into his, an intense staring contest. No one in the room speaks, as the tension begins to rise between the three of them. And then she speaks first.

“You’re a traitor to the Capitol.” Her voice is hoarse, scratchy.

Plutarch blinks in surprise, the doctor briefly looking up, before directing her attention back on the blood. He stares at her for a second, before deciding to take the opportunity to question her. “What’s your name?”

“(Y/n) (L/n).” She answers.

His expression doesn’t change, he doesn’t recognize the name. “What district are you from?”

“Two.”

Plutarch’s face twists, not expecting a Career district to be the answer. Her eyes narrow in displeasure. The doctor interrupts them to announce she has what she needs, allowing the two of them to escape the room. Once the door closes, he feels like he can take a breath.

“What would you like me to do with the blood?” The doctor asks.

“Will you please run it down to Beetee Latier in Special Defense?” Plutarch asks, but he’s not looking at her, his eyes are on Boggs.

“Right away.”

There’s an uneasy feeling in his stomach. With the way she called him a Capitol traitor, there wasn’t an ounce of hesitation. She knows something. Maybe she’s a loyalist in District Two? But that doesn’t explain what she was doing in the Capitol, then. And in that case, why wouldn’t they just set up Enobaria to be taken to Thirteen?

Unless Snow knew Thirteen wouldn’t take the chance.

Plutarch holds the walkie to his mouth. “I have a doctor running the sample down to Special Defense right now. I got some information in the meantime.”

“I’m ready.” Beetee answers.

“Her name is (Y/n) (L/n). She said that she’s from District Two.”

Beetee doesn’t answer for a second. “A victor or a resident?”

“It could be either. I wasn’t in the room for long.”

“The Capitol system won’t let me check the resident history of District Two without the DNA sample.”

“What about victor history?” Plutarch asks.

There’s a couple moments of silence, where Haymitch shakes his head a little. It’s clear they’re grasping at straws. “There’s been no (Y/n) in the past ten years, that’s when she would’ve won, right?”

“Unless she’s older than she looks.” Boggs tells him. “Capitol modification?”

And right on cue, Beetee comes over the static. “No (Y/n) in Two.”

Plutarch’s face screws, stumped.

“Could she be lying?” Boggs asks.

“She looked angry when I made a face at her.” Plutarch murmurs. “We can’t check the Capitol database without her blood sample, either.”

“Plutarch.” Beetee’s voice comes over.

“One second.” Plutarch answers him.

“No, I can cross-reference her intake picture with the history of tributes in the Hunger Games.”

Immediately, Haymitch is skeptical, and even laughs a little bit. “What would that help with? The only tributes alive are victors or those who escaped the Quarter Quell arena.”

Plutarch, who knows too many Gamemaker projects for his own good, raises the walkie to his lips. “Go ahead.”

The static is gone.

Haymitch shakes his head, uninterested in the outcome of this search. It’s ridiculous. “I’m going to check on Katniss and Peeta.”

“Good luck.” Plutarch tells him.

Haymitch leaves, back down the hall to the front entrance of the hospital, before taking a right where Boggs had directed Katniss. A few moments of silence pass, as Beetee searches for their mystery girl in the hundreds of faces that have been submitted over seventy-five years.

Beetee is back. “I found (Y/n) (L/n), Plutarch.”

“In the tribute database?”

“Yes.” Beetee pauses. “She was a District Two tribute in the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games. She made it to the final five.”

“Which Games did you say?”

“Sixty-Fifth.”

—

“Remember.” A muffled voice tells you, possibly coming from the Capitol doctor in front of you. Or maybe not, there is no color to her, there is no accent. She’s dressed in a grey jumpsuit, a lab coat over top of it. She holds a device in her hand, illuminating her face in a questionable angle, causing bright, colorful prisms to cover her face. “Remember who you are.”

When she speaks, the shades of the rainbow break apart, first into shiny bubbles, which reflect the light too harshly. They transform into butterflies the higher they go, before popping, causing a rain of glitter.

She can’t be real.

I know who I am, you think. You’re (Y/n) (L/n). You are—were—a resident of District two. You were a tribute in the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games. You’re supposed to be dead. Instead you’re here, in this white room. Which is eerily similar to the one you were in a couple hours ago. Except, that one was bare. This one has a cabinet, a bed, a tray of medical utensils…

You told them who you are, already. More importantly, you told Plutarch Heavensbee who you are. As instructed by the colorful doctors, the ones with the sickly shaded skin and the odd shapes on their faces. Those people had to be from the Capitol, right?

This one stares at you for a long moment, only furthering your idea that she isn’t real. She takes your silence, turning to leave the room. You watch as she becomes transparent with each step she takes, becoming completely invisible before her hand touches the doorknob.

You’re finally getting a hang of this.

You slide to get off the bed, wandering over to the metal tray a few feet away. You come into contact with the cool metal of the table, touching over the several options that are available, confirming they’re real. You decide on the knife, the scalpel. Once you have it in your hand, you return to the hospital bed, hiding the scalpel beneath your right thigh.

Back home, they taught you to always be prepared in unfamiliar situations. Especially when you feel like you’re at a disadvantage. With what has been pumped into your system since you got here, you’re not at your best. You’re not safe.

It was different in the Capitol, they weren’t trying to hurt you there, only inform you. They were trying to help you before you got taken. They were telling you the truth of what happened in the arena. What was really going through Finnick’s head.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your reunion, but it’s important.” Plutarch’s voice is muted through the wall, but not completely silent. You can make out the words. “We have an issue.”

“Does it involve me?” The other voice asks, sending shivers down your spine.

Finnick Odair.

What a bitter name on your mind.

“Well, yes. It involves you, Finnick.” Plutarch pauses. “It’s about your Hunger Games, do you remember anything from it?”

“Practically all of it.” Finnick says, he sounds almost the same from the arena, just more grown up now. “I’d like to see someone who doesn’t. Why?”

“Who was your district partner?”

“Amaryllis.” Finnick says.

The name hits you hard, causing you to squeeze your eyes shut to avoid watching the room suddenly spin. Amaryllis, the one who stabbed you. Finnick set you up, he knew she’d be able to overpower you. It was their plan to join at the end, all along. They had to get you out of the way first.

He knew her younger sister, the thought forces its way through.

“I knew her younger sister.” Finnick says, as if he’s reading directly from your mind.

“Do you remember who killed her in your Games?”

There’s a beat of hesitation. It’s obvious that Plutarch is testing Finnick’s memory, seeing what he knows before he admits who’s in this room. You.

“Yes, it was a girl from District Two.” Finnick says slowly.

“What was her name?”

“She introduced herself as (Y/n).” Finnick says. “Why?”

“How old was she?”

“The same age as I was at the time. Why?” Finnick emphasizes.

“How did she die?”

There’s silence following the question, leading you to believe that it’s out of guilt, as if he’s going to admit it’s his fault. That he took on the One tributes because he knew Amaryllis would be more than happy to kill you. Neither of them planned on you barely making it out of that fight alive.

“Tell me why first.” Finnick then demands.

Plutarch sighs. “We believe we may have rescued her from the Tribute Center. Beetee’s research tells us she’s a tribute from your Games.”

“That can’t be possible, she bled to death.” Finnick shuts him down coldly. “She was stabbed by Amaryllis. She hid the wound from me. She died.”

“We—”

“I watched her die on a screen with the entirety of Panem during the three hour long recap.” Finnick cuts him off. “She died due to blood loss. She was my ally.”

Liar, you were never his ally. Just a stepping stone.

“Will you please calm down?” Plutarch asks. “We just want you to confirm that the girl in this room is her, that’s all.”

You think you can hear an annoyed sigh through the wall, then silence follows. Your eyes search the window, hungry to see if it’s actually him. A second later, the blinds rise up far enough to give you a whole look of his face.

Immediately, his tanned skin pales as if he’s seen a ghost, and you’re sure he has. Those familiar green eyes, his tanned skin. He’s grown into his face, that’s for sure. All those pictures the Capitol had been showing you are true. He looks exactly like he did in that interview, where he lied about Snow.

The blinds drop in the next second.

“How is that possible?” He demands, voice loud. “She died in the arena, I heard the canon. I saw her in the sky. I saw her during the recap. Mags told me she died because of the amount of blood she lost. How is she in there?”

“We—”

“Is she some clone?” Finnick asks. “A mutt?”

Mutt.

The room begins to spin violently, causing you to close your eyes again or else you’ll get sick from the intensity. Is that what he thinks of you? Just a mutt? You’re not even human to him anymore?

“The Capitol doesn’t have the technology to clone.” Plutarch clarifies. “Not yet, at least. They’ve been working on it. What they do is take samples of DNA and they splice it together with an existing mutt to give it the same qualities. Like the dogs in Katniss’s games.”

“Then how?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say they took her, revived her in the hovercraft, and kept her in a coma.”

“Why? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Will you—” Plutarch’s voice briefly gets quieter, causing you to strain to hear. “Can you get Beetee? He should know.” His voice comes back into focus. “She might have qualities they can use. If she’s smart, a good fighter, if she’s pretty. They can use her for a number of things. Even reintroduce her as a Capitol citizen.”

“That makes no sense.” Finnick’s voice is quiet. “Why?”

Silence, and then suddenly static. “Beetee, are you still there?”

“Yes, Plutarch. What can I do?”

“I’ve sent a doctor your way to bring you to the hospital, there’s a small lockdown to keep families out. You’ll need him to get inside.”

“Do you need me to bring anything to the hospital?”

“No, but can you do me a favor and bring up the file on (Y/n) in the Capitol database? Usually they have information there on why they have dead tributes.”

“She’s not the first one?” Finnick asks.

“One moment.” Beetee tells him.

“No, she’s not the first.” Plutarch tells him. “But usually they don’t survive for more than a couple of years. She’s been alive in their care for ten.”

“You knew they were doing this.” It’s not a question, it’s an accusation.

“I knew of their projects, I never actually got to see them personally.” Plutarch clarifies. “I had access to a lot of information, I made sure to read through almost all of it when I became the Head Gamemaker so I knew what to expect when the rebellion came into play.”

“Where would they keep her?”

“Probably in the basement, where the victors would be taken care of for the recuperation week. There’s many rooms down there, just hidden behind walls. There could be dozens of tributes.”

Static interrupts their conversation. “There’s no notes, they must’ve deleted them.”

“Does it say anything?”

“It says, ‘saved, 65th’.”

Neither of them speak, taking in this information, or the lack of it.

An ear-bleeding scream fills the air, silencing the background noise of the hospital as everyone stops to listen. A voice shouts for Plutarch, so you assume he leaves to see what all the commotion is about. You don’t move from where you sit on the bed, but you do keep your eyes on the window.

No one comes to see you for a long time, whatever happened outside of your room must’ve been a surprise. You don’t mind sitting here, though. The more time passes, the better grip you have on reality. There’s no abstract shapes with bright colors floating around the room, and the voices are becoming quieter as they realize that you’re not listening.

You’re beginning to feel normal, your thoughts becoming clearer.

Once the hospital staff gets their situation under control, you’re back to being their first priority to figure out. Plutarch is nowhere to be seen, or heard. Maybe he’s disinterested in why you’re here, satisfied with the half-answers he got with Beetee. Maybe he’s searching the Capitol database, himself.

Either way, the doctors treat you like it’s an interrogation, and they don’t believe any of the answers you give them as they go on. Their questions are repetitive and irritating, thankfully easy to answer. It’s the basic stuff that the Beetee guy figured out through his research.

Who you are, how old you are, where are you from, if you participated in the Hunger Games, how old you were at the time, who did you kill, who were your allies, did you get injured, did you die, how did you survive, where have you been, how has the Capitol treated you.

It’s harder to answer them as the questions get more specific. You don’t know how you survived, other than what you were told, of course. The Capitol saved you from the arena because they saw how unfair the alliance between Finnick and Amaryllis was. It wasn’t your fault it was planned behind your back. They said you deserved a second chance, because if it weren’t for them, you would’ve been the victor.

And where have you been? The Capitol, obviously, where else? Only, when they ask you where in the Capitol, you direct them to ask Plutarch. After all, he was the Head Gamemaker, he’s the one that was snooping in on Capitol projects. He said so himself that you were probably kept where all the victors wake up.

All you know is that you were gassed unfairly by the hospital’s troops. When you say this, they ignore you, brushing you off. Then they claim that they have someone who wants to see you, and they collectively leave the room at once.

Your eyes narrow, watching the door.

It opens after a couple of minutes, revealing the boy who set you up. Finnick takes a step in the room, gently pushing the door shut until it clicks. You can feel every muscle in your body begin to stiffen, the scalpel beneath your thigh is burning a hole through your skin, lip starting to curl.

You grit your teeth, refusing to take your eyes off of him, even though you have a feeling you’re being watched through one of the windows. They’re messing with you, gauging your reaction on how to press your buttons. That’s why they sent Finnick in here, because they know what he did to you.

You move your hands to be on either side of your thighs, trying to seem casual. In actuality, this gives you an easier access to the scalpel when you go to stab Finnick. Who’s coming closer by the second, taking one step at a time, but not saying a single word. It makes it impossible to decide what to do next.

No, that’s wrong. You know what to do next. You were given instructions by the doctors in the Capitol. They said they could help you. All you have to do is kill him, or severely injure him for lying about Snow to Panem. If you do this, you can go home. You were told that you can see your family again if you go through with it.

Your heart pounds in your chest, hands gripping the metal bars of the bed frame, trying not to jump the gun. But as soon as he steps into arm’s length, you can’t sit still any longer. You launch off the hospital bed, hand swiping at the scalpel, slicing your hand in the process. A stinging sensation travels down your wrist, temporarily taking control of your mind.

It’s thrown away when you’re able to tackle Finnick to the ground, arm swinging to stab him in the throat. That will teach him not to tell lies. He’s just barely able to catch your wrist, arm trembling under your weight.

The doorknob to the room is being violently shaken, as the bystanders outside try to get the door open. There’s knocking at the window, several people shouting at you to stop what you’re doing. They don’t understand. They’ve all been manipulated by Finnick’s charm, if they knew the truth, they wouldn’t be trying to save him.

“You set me up!” You snarl, pressing down, wanting to finish the job.

Finnick stares back at you with an open mouth, like a fish out of water. The blood from your hand is being pulled by gravity, now. Little droplets on his grey jumpsuit, his tanned skin, his reddening face.

“You knew she was stronger than I was!” You snap. “That’s why you refused to kill her.”

“(Y/n).” He chokes out. “Wait.”

“You left me to die!” You shout, causing him to flinch. “And you almost got what you wanted, if it weren’t for the Capitol intervening. I bet it was a surprise seeing that your plan never worked.”

“You asked me to leave you there!” He argues, the room begins to spin, but you can’t take your eyes off of him. “I didn’t want to. I didn’t want you to leave.”

The hospital room slowly starts to change, and the doubt of how real this situation is beginning to set in. The tile turns to grass, the walls become tall trees, and the ceiling is now a dark sky. It’s the middle of the night.

“That’s not true.” You tell him, “You’re a traitor. You knew I wouldn’t survive on that hill, and you left anyway.”

His jumpsuit is darkening in color, right around his stomach. Your face twists, trying to remember if you stabbed him or not. You couldn’t have, right? You’re still trying to get him in the throat.

“You told me to go.” Finnick insists. “I wanted to stay. I wanted to carry you to our base, but you wouldn’t let me.”

“No.” You shake your head. “No, that’s not what the doctors told me.”

“The doctors lied.” Finnick emphasizes. “I can prove it.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“(Y/n), I promise. Just let me talk to them—”

The sky shatters, causing you to flinch, Finnick shoves you off of him. The white hospital room is coming back, the scalpel slides across the floor, leaving a smear of blood out of your reach. You try to sit up, but you’re slammed down by a hard boot to your chest, making it hard to breathe.

“Get him out of here!” A man barks, referring to Finnick.

“Stop.” Finnick says, waving his hand. “Stop, she’s fine.”

He’s pulled to his feet by his armpits, being directed to the door by Plutarch, who glares in your direction.

“Take her out, we need to get her chained down.” He says.

“No.” Finnick objects. “No, she’s just confused. That’ll only make it worse.”

“She’s not confused.” Plutarch says back.

The man above you raises his gun in the air, the butt aimed at your face. The last thing you’re able to register is Finnick being dragged out of the room, begging them not to, before the gun comes down.

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whillywisp · 7 months ago

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Finnick x sad reader!! Comfort!!

I will be honest, I went entirely off of the original plan I had for your request but I did come up with... whatever this is. I hope you like it regardless 😭 please let me know if you'd like something different and I'll try to write it for you.

#whillywispasks

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whillywisp · 7 months ago

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Hello :)

I hope everyone has been well. I know I've been gone for a while but I've been burnt out and miserable and unable to focus on writing. Things in my personal life aren't going well and the rest of the world being in shambles doesn't help. I've missed this space and everyone a lot and I hope you all are doing okay. I'm gonna try to be more active and wade through my requests. You can send more in if you want to. I love you all so so much and i hope I can stick around for longer this time.

#moonfm

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whillywisp · 7 months ago

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*places comeback fic written in fifteen minutes and fuelled by caffeine in front of you* yolo

moments in between. pt. 1

⚠︎ | moments of unrest between lovers who are afraid, who hestitate, and who see little sense in peace. proceed with caution.

Summary: Reader disappears suddenly during the funeral of her fallen District partner, who had died at her own hands, and comes back home to her lover's rage.

Timeline: set post 70th Hunger Games, one month after reader won.

Theme: destructive love; mild comfort towards the end

Warnings: implied canon typical violence, toxic relationship, toxic coping mechanisms, PTSD, implied suicide attempt, implied self harm, destructive behaviour.

Pairing: Finnick Odair X Reader

“Where were you?”

She didn't look at him, too focused on dragging the bag in her hands next to him. It looked heavy, he noted mildly, and he wondered what on earth was in it, why his girl—his victor—was carrying it around.

She looked up from the floor, strands of her wet hair sticking to the sides of her face, and his heart sank at the blank, unfocused gaze that met his.

“Out.”

He took a deep breath, trying to keep his temper in check, to calm his racing heart, that was still twisted into a knot of fear in his chest that refused to loosen as he slammed the receiver back in it's place.

"Out where?" He asked, his face twisting in bewilderment as she walked past him, carrying the strange bag, into the kitchen. He watched her as placed it on the counter and took plastic containers out, blinking when he saw them full of steaming, spicy crab stew. “Doll—”

“I went to the market,” she mumbled distractedly as she looked for bowls and a ladle. “Ate dinner with a friend. Brought back some stew for you. I'll make you some ric—”

“You left a funeral, Piers' funeral, went missing for nine hours and now you want me to believe you just went to eat dinner with a friend?” He asked, staring at the girl in front of him as if she was speaking in a completely different language.

“Mhmm.”

And he immediately knew something was wrong.

Finnick knew her better than anyone, anyone, and he knew that she would never do this. Piers Morgan had died by her hands in the arena. She wouldn't abandon his funeral for nothing. She wouldn't miss a chance to apologise to his parents for his sacrifice, despite the fact that it would get her into trouble.

She wouldn't. But she had.

And now, he couldn't even think beyond the sheer amount of anger suffocating him. He couldn't think beyond the worry etched in the lines of Mags' aging features or the hysteria that suffocated Annie. He couldn't think beyond the way he could feel his heart nearly give out from fear, of the way he nearly ripped his hair out in the last nine hours calling everyone under the sun to help him find her—

“Do you think this is some kind of joke?” He asked quietly, his eyes trained on her, on the soaked fabric of her black dress, clinging to her skin, on the way her fingertips had turned blue from the rain she had been walking around in. “Do you think it's funny? Scaring the shit out of everyone like this? Do you know what you have put me through for the past nine hours—”

“I needed some time alone—”

“And you couldn't wait to have that alone time for an hour?” He asked, letting out an incredulous laugh. “You couldn't tell me before you went off to God knows where—”

“That's the fucking point isn't it?” She asked, letting out a short, sardonic laugh, making the room go still, freezing him in his place. Part of him was glad, relieved at the sight of an emotion, even if it was anger, in her eyes. He couldn't stand the lifeless grief that stained her skin like indigo on ivory.

“I needed a few hours of feeling like a normal human being. One that doesn't have blood on her hands. One that doesn't have cash deposited into a bank account from the Capitol because she killed people. I needed a few hours of feeling like myself again and I can't do that with one of you constantly breathing down my fucking neck!"

“Well, guess what? You're not normal! You're a goddamn Victor and I'm your goddamn mentor and that means you don't go disappearing for nine hours!” Finnick shouted back, trying not to breathe too hard because God his heart, his heart hurt. He could feel the way shards of his ribs and glass of her words and his own stuck in the soft tissues and made it bleed.

But even that did little stop the venom flowing from his lips.

“You think I enjoy babysitting you?” He asked stepping up to her, staring down at the way his own, twisted features reflected in her empty eyes. “You think I enjoy having to watch your every move and keep my eyes on you all the time? You think I like waking up every morning with a knot in my stomach wondering if you'll still be breathing by the end of the day?”

Poison. He was poison.

“I never asked you to care!” She screamed back, making him flinch back a little his chest heaving. “I didn't ask you to care! I didn't ask you to do anything for me! It's not my fault that you can't be a normal mentor who can't give up after his job is done! Your job was done when my time in the arena ended and it's not my fault that you don't recognise that!”

“Well, that's fucking unfortunate because sadly, for both of us, I do care.” He snapped at her, breathless at the sight of her rage, stunned by the fact that despite her state, despite the unbound tempers, she still was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid his eyes on.

He leaned against the kitchen island, rubbing his shaking hands across his face as he tried to breathe, tried to see beyond the red and blue of their combined rage.

“You can't keep doing this, baby,” he whispered, looking at her through the thin film of moisture in his eyes, pleading, begging her to stop hurting him. “Y-You can't keep doing this. You can't disappear for hours like this and-and come back looking like you jumped into the fucking ocean—”

“Go home, Finnick.”

“I thought I lost you. I thought you tried again—”

“Please stop it and go home.”

“And-And then you walked in through the door, looking like t-that and not saying a word and I knew, I knew you did. I knew you tried to jump again—”

“Then go home! Then go home if I scare you so much! Go home if I'm such a monster!” She screamed, slapping her hands down on his chest and he gasped, his very breath lost at the way her went hair curled like tendrils of smoke.

“I am home!” He shouted back, grabbing her wrists before she could do it again. He tugged her as close as he could, leaning his forehead against hers, trying to ignore the way she flinched at his touch, at the way his fingertips pressed into the lines on her wrists.

“I am home,” he repeated firmly, ignoring the blood staining his fingertips, his lips trembling against the cold of her skin. “I am home. And so are you. And you need to stop this. You need to stop hurting yourself, baby— please just listen to me!”

Her blank eyes snapped up to meet his, and he pressed his lips to hers desparately, begging her to come back to him, to please come back from the world he had lost her to.

“You can't keep hurting yourself,” he whispered, gently pushing back strands of her hair, wiping away the tear teetering on her lower lashline with his thumb, leaving behind a streak of red in his wake. “You can't disappear like that again, ever. And you absolutely cannot go anywhere alone, not with the way you are acting these days. You can't—”

“I don't want to do this anymore,” she whispered, her lips trembling, breaking whatever was left of his heart. “I c-can't do this. I'm not meant to be a-a Victor. I'm not. I can't live like this anymore—”

“Yes, you can,” he whispered, shaking his head, pressing a kiss to her forehead, cheek, nose before finally on her lips, desparate for her to feel him, to know that he here, right here and that he would never leave. “You survived the Games, you'll survive this too. You'll be fine. We'll be fine.”

“I'm so sorry,” she choked out in a breathless sob, crumbling in his arms like fine snow. “I'm s-so sorry. I'm so sorry.”

I'm so sorry that I can't stop hurting you.

“It's okay,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her, tight and misplaced as if he was trying to hold too many pieces of her together at once. “You're okay, baby. I'm okay. We're okay. We're going to be okay.”

The lie burned his tongue like acid and his lungs like the cigarettes he smoked. But even if it did little to ease the fear and pain and grief and rage clawing at her skin like vultures asking for their share of her flesh. He pressed a kiss into her hair and prayed to whoever would listen, to accept his lie this once to give him truth in exchange This once.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ •─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

A/N: Written in the middle of a study break, on Tumblr before being unleashed into the world and so please be kind. English is not my first language so if it has some weird lines then that's why. Inspired by the song above but not a song fic. I have been burnt out and unable to write for a while but this has been on my mind for the last few days. Hope you enjoy.

All my love,

Moon.

#finnick odair x reader

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whillywisp · 7 months ago

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moments in between. pt. 1

⚠︎ | moments of rest and unrest between lovers who are afraid, who hestitate, and who see little sense in peace. proceed with caution.

Summary: reader disappears suddenly during the funeral of her fallen District partner, who had died at her own hands, and comes back home to her lover's grief.

Category: requested.

Timeline: set post 70th Hunger Games, one month after reader won.

Tags : angst, destructive love; mild comfort towards the end,

Warnings: implied canon typical violence, toxic relationship, toxic coping mechanisms, PTSD, implied suicide attempt, implied self harm, destructive behaviour.

Pairing: Finnick Odair X Reader

“Where were you?”

She looked up from the floor, strands of her wet hair sticking to the sides of her face, and his heart sank at the blank, unfocused gaze that met his.

“Out.”

“I went to the market,” she mumbled distractedly as she looked for bowls and a ladle. “Ate dinner with a friend. Brought back some stew for you. I'll make you some ric—”

“Mhmm.”

And he immediately knew something was wrong.

She wouldn't. But she had.

“I needed some time alone—”

“And you couldn't wait to have that alone time for an hour?” He asked, letting out an incredulous laugh. “You couldn't tell me before you went off to God knows where—”

“Well, guess what? You're not normal!” Finnick shouted back, trying not to breathe too hard because God his heart, his heart hurt. He could feel the way shards of his ribs and glass of her words and his own stuck in the soft tissues and making it bleed. “You're a fucking Victor and I'm your fucking mentor and that means you don't go disappearing on me for nine hours!”

But even that did little stop the venom flowing from his lips.

Poison. He was poison.

“Well, that's fucking unfortunate because sadly, for both of us, I do care. Beyond what my job description entails.” He snapped at her, breathless at the sight of her rage, stunned by the fact that despite her state, despite the unbound tempers, she still was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid his eyes on.

He leaned against the kitchen island, rubbing his shaking hands across his face as he tried to breathe, tried to see beyond the red and blue of their combined rage.

“Go home, Finnick.”

“I thought I lost you. I thought you tried again—”

“Please stop it and go home.”

“And-And then you walked in through the door, looking like t-that and not saying a word and I knew, I knew you did. I knew you tried to leave again—”

“Then go home! Then go home if I scare you so much! Go home if I'm so fucking terrifying!” She screamed, slapping her hands down on his chest and he gasped, his very breath lost at the way her wet hair curled like tendrils of smoke.

Her blank eyes snapped up to meet his, and he pressed his lips to hers desparately, begging her to come back to him, to please come back from the world he had lost her to.

“Yes, you can,” he whispered, shaking his head, pressing a kiss to her forehead, cheek, nose before finally on her lips, desparate for her to feel him, to know that he was here, right here and that he would never leave. “You survived the Games, you'll survive this too. You'll be fine. We'll be fine.”

“I'm so sorry,” she choked out in a breathless sob, crumbling in his arms like fine snow. “I'm s-so sorry. I'm so sorry.”

I'm so sorry that I can't stop hurting you.

The lie burned his tongue like acid and his lungs like the cigarettes he smoked. But even if it did little to ease the fear and pain and grief and rage clawing at her skin like vultures asking for their share of her flesh, he'd do it again. He pressed a kiss into her hair and prayed to whoever would listen, to accept his lie this once to give him a truth in exchange. This once.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ •─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

All my love,

Moon.

#finnick odair x reader #Spotify #fanfiction #writing #hunger games #finnick imagine #not a song fic but i included the song i listened to while writing this #finnick x reader #finnick odair #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair x you #what is wrong with me #we are so fucking back #moonfm

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whillywisp · 1 year ago

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Hello everyone <3 I'm sorry I'm ia rn but I have tests back to back this week that I have to attend to rn. I will be back soon, with three requested works + one odesta x reader which I'm working on right now. I hope this week treats you gently. See you soon 🌧️

#finnick odair x reader #hunger games #writing #annie cresta x reader

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whillywisp · 1 year ago

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thinking about finnick odair who rubs your back when you’re stressed and presses his lips to your temple, all too familiar with the feeling as he murmurs sweet words to you. he’ll listen to you whether or not you choose to tell him what’s wrong, staying by your side and wrapping his arms around you either way <3

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whillywisp · 1 year ago

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Thinking a LOT about childhood friends Finnick and Reader who've been friends since they lost their fathers to the same squid fishing expedition and long, long life story about them and they end up in a poly marriage with Annie. I'm not articulating my thoughts well but the story would be this in a nutshell.

#tbh i really want Finnick to have an existential crisis over the fact that reader is bi before realising he's bi too and losing his mind 😭#i also really want to write a finnick x reader x annie you can guess why ill #i need to stop rambling and start typing #i wish i didnt have to write the stories i think of and they would just randomly appear instead #finnick odair x reader #fanfiction #hunger games

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whillywisp · 1 year ago

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*pats back*

Ngl i don't think I have explained this before (or maybe I have I'm not sure) but I have the same feelings towards Finnick (and all thg characters) that I have towards a childhood companion I fell for as I picked apples in Papa's orchard (I have loved and confided in the guy since I was 11). There are no sexual desires, just too much love I don't know where to put and i mostly write x readers/imagines so I can go ham on the Finnick (and other thg characters) part and practice writing vague characters on the side so everyone wins. You get to have a fun time I get to have a fun time and get to keep writing and Finnick gets to live because this is me coping with the fact that he did not, infact, live 🌱

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whillywisp · 1 year ago

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the river (2) // finnick odair x f. reader

summary: the Capitol has taken you away from Finnick, the life you've been trying to build together and now he has to fight to get every part of you back

the end of a trilogy series

previous chapter

masterlist

6.1k words

warnings: angst, fluff, self-destructive behavior, finnick's bias now so you can see how they both view the other as the more broken one, mental health issues, allusions to suicide, allusions to trafficking and trauma surrounding it, the opposite of a slowburn it's giving their soulmates, mentions of death/torture/violence/brainwashing, unedited, no use of y/n

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Seeing your face again could have sent Finnick into another frenzy, he'd been scared he'd forget it even though he thought about it every second of every day. But he couldn't do that, he needed to listen, hear your voice again. You had that smile plastered on your face that everyone could easily believe in, and had for years, except him. There was a mournful, numb look that would settle in the back of your eyes whenever you put on a performance, one that usually leads to dissociation. On top of that, you looked tired, the way you looked when after you'd won your Games and hadn't been able to escape the nightmares.

Your voice was like music in his ears when you greeted Ceasar back, a tune that could soothe his soul if he wasn't so worried about you. It pained him to notice that in the midst of everything, of holding you captive, of the rebellion, they'd still managed to play dress up with you. Goosebumps covering your skin, the outfit barely covered any of you, you'd always run cold, and the Capitol seemed to know this. “So you're saying you knew nothing about the rebel plan?"

You shook your head emphatically, “No, I told you all how sure I was that I was never coming out of that arena. It was just as much of a shock to me." His clever, clever girl, trying so hard to play it safe.

“At the end you were screaming about forgetting something, what was that?" Caesar asked.

The tracker. The stupid tracker. "Finnick…" You trailed off, looking into the camera for a second like you were trying to reach out to him, “We had a special way of communicating with each other that comes with being together that long, I needed to find him, I still don't remember why.”

"So did he know about the rebel plan?”

Your foot was tapping slightly and Finnick prayed, for your sake, that no one else knew how anxious that indicated you were. “If he did, he didn't tell me." You looked at the camera again, addressing the citizens of the Capitol, "And I want everyone to know that if he did know anything, he would only do it if he thought it meant we could be together. He would never want this, the rebellion, the terror, both of us love all of you and Panem so much. His intentions would've been of love, not harm.”

Finnick was so proud that your years of charisma for the Capitol was pulling through now. He felt like he was going to cry, the way you were defending him in the off chance that everything went wayward and he also ended up in Capitol clutches somehow. Maybe, if Snow really thought you knew nothing, he'd consider you more than just bait, maybe there'd be quite a few of these interviews left to boost morale for Capitol citizens. To see one of their favorite victors spewing out propaganda, it would also keep you alive longer, so out of all things that's what Finnick would place his hopes on.

“Peeta called for a ceasefire, would you agree with this, that things should just be called off?” You glanced off camera, anxiously scratching at your arms.

"Yes, a ceasefire needs to be called.” Your smile reeked of discomfort and fear, and he was even more grateful that it was something only he knew how to sense from you. “The destruction being caused, the death, will get so much worse if this continues. No one wants that, this can all be sorted out. President Snow is merciful, but only if a ceasefire is called for.” It was sickening, the lies you were being forced to tout. Snow was anything but merciful, he'd probably throw the victors into the arena again, or just line them all up to be shot, or make death causing ‘accidents’ occur as soon as possible. Then you were crying and Finnick longed to hold you, to tell you it would be okay, to give any words of comfort he could. "I'm sorry, so much has happened recently.”

"Well us in the Capitol are glad to still have you with us." Finnick hated that they had you, that Caesar could still force you to perform for all of Panem and act like you're fine.

"I'm glad to be here with all of you too!” You mutter through tears and your signature, fake smile.

"Before we go, is there anything you want to say if the rebels are watching out there, if Finnick, your husband is watching out there?”

“He's not a rebel." You say quickly, with as much urgency as you can. Your eyes shut for a second and you're muttering to yourself, “He's my husband, he's not a rebel, not a rebel."

"Right, he's not a rebel.” Caesar says with what's supposed to be a comforting smile.

Your eyes open and you nod, wiping away stray tears, “And I'm just reminding everyone how badly we need a ceasefire, to stop all of this. To stop the suffering and all that could come.” Your smiling again, so forced it looks like it hurts and you're rubbing your necks until it's red, "Ceasefire, ceasefire, ceasefire is important.” It's like you're chasing a thought you're being forced to remember.

“Yes, a ceasefire is important." Caesar nods, "Well a big thank you to the Capitol Princess for her message here today.” Your smile drops as you nod at the camera before it cuts and Finnick has been once again abandoned with his thoughts.

What are they doing to you to convince you to say things you would never believe? How sweet you are for insisting upon his innocence anyway you can, he misses you more than home, the ocean, the feeling of fresh air in his lungs, the sun shining down on his face, he would happily live without it all if you could just be here, with him. You'd looked so exhausted and he misses being able to hold you, keep you warm so you could rest and feel safe when you did. He longs to see your genuine smile, the way your eyes would soften and the way your nose crinkled when you laughed.

A fantasy he can drive himself into before the anger can fall back into place, how he needs to hijack something so he can rescue you. He'd rage to President Coin herself if he could force her to do it, but they barely even let him out of the hospital wing. He's sobbing again, calloused hands trying to clear his face of the tears. Maybe they think he hasn't seen it, so they aren't worried about his reaction, they probably assume he's sleeping or focused on tying his knots, but it's just the eye of the hurricane. He can only stain the plain, scratchy sheets with his tears for so long before the hysteria will return. But for now he can mourn. He can hate himself, wish the rope was long enough to let him leave, and wish you could've both just chosen to be together in death. It would've been better then torture he's going through now. How there's not a second he can't focus on you, what he misses, what he dreads could be happening to you, the dreams of your future.

Dreams where you could be at home, surrounded by friends and family having the traditional District 4 wedding, sea shanty's and all. Where there was no fear that Snow would manipulate the games to force your children to be spectacles so you'd had children, as many as you wanted. Who you'd take to the beach, teach them about the animals, teach them to swim, and be the family he knows deep down you'd both have wished for. There'd been a glimpse where that was possible and then there'd been the impending doom that it wasn't. That instead it would be the wish he had when they told him you were dead.

Death. You. The idea that death could creep up with its slender hands and drag you away into the cavernous pit, that would leave him forever alone. He'd gratefully dig the claws of death into himself to bring you back or lay with you in the lowest parts of the cliffs forever. Death. You. Him. Freedom. Chains broken, no more threats, no more needs, just the end with you.

Instead he needed to face the brazen winds to return you to his arms. You'd looked so cold and he missed being able to warm you, for you to cool him down. He had to get you back and the frenzy was back. Finnick was back on his feet, tearing himself from the bed, not giving a care to the things around him, if they fell to the floor it was something else out of his way. This commotion did alert the medics close by and Finnick was instantly trying to run by them.

“We have to save her, I need to save her!” He urged, but they were used to his antics. They'd long ago retrieved the manpower required to overpower him when he got like this. That didn't mean he still wouldn't fight, he still had the strength it took to shove most of them off, react violently when they got their hands on him, and struggle when eventually a larger group had their arms on him, ready to sedate once again. Maybe that was a good thing though, it allowed him to fully focus all of his thoughts on you and everything you two had.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

He was early, but he didn't care, well he kind of did when he paced by the cobblestones not far from your house wondering when he should knock. Wicker picnic basket being moved between each of his hands, careful not to hit the bouquet of flowers he was holding, as he anxiously counted down. Finnick knew he said noon, but did that mean five minutes before would be the right time to show up? 10 minutes? Exactly at noon? He wasn't used to feeling this anxious, he'd adopted a suave personality for Panem to gobble up that had become nearly effortless, but now he wanted desperately for you to ignore that and just be perfect.

The gift he had for you weighed heavy in the pocket of his shorts. He wanted to give it to you, he hoped you'd like it because he really wanted to see that smile that he'd daydreamed about again. He checked his watch, 13 minutes, and the worry was still there. Would you be scared off if you looked outside to see him waiting so early or would you find it sweet? What if you were inside anxiously waiting for him because you doubted it was real, because you wanted it to be genuine, and he reasoned from what he did know it was probably the correct assumption. You were too full of self-doubt, of an unspoken want to be seen, to be realized, and he wanted nothing more than to really comprehend each intricate detail that made you, you.

‘Fuck it,’ He told himself when he made his way up the cracked cement, the grass and weeds peeking through. All the way up the two steps on your crickety porch, light blue paint peeling away to reveal the rotting chunks of wood. Slowly he tapped his knuckles on the wooden door, hoping the knocks didn't seem aggressive, but were enough to gain attention. Since when had he worried about the way his knocks were perceived? Only to gain a chance to perceive you.

The door creaked open and there you were, glowing in another beautiful sundress. “Hi!” Your smile was enough to wash away most of his anxieties even if your own voice seemed riddled with them, he despised the fact you felt anything less than sure of yourself, then sure of his interest in you.

“Good morning, angel." Morning? Afternoon? Did he care which one was more accurate, did you? Finnick pulled on his dazzling smile, feeling like he was swept up by you.

He pulled the bouquet up, "Um, I got these for you.” You stared at them for what felt like an eternity and made him blush, scared he'd misread something,"I wasn't sure what you liked, so I just-”

"They’re for me?” Features so soft it made his heart want to melt already, even the smile was so sweet and fond.

“Yeah, they're for you. These ones just reminded me of you." He wasn't about to say he'd spent hours at Mags this morning trying to pick the perfect flowers from her garden that he thought you would not only adore, but that gave off your very essence.

“They're perfect." You said in a soft amazement,"Really perfect.” Your fingers brush through them before you're ever so gently taking them from him,"Thank you.”

Flowers were definitely a win, something that could rely on for you to adore. “Of course, sweet girl." You smiled as you smelled the flowers and he concluded that you didn't get many gifts, even one's as easy as that. He'd plant garden after garden to keep you smiling like that. You shut the door and it clicked behind you as you stepped towards him, porch creaking.

“Really, thank you, Finnick." To his surprise you hugged him and how cold you were was almost as shocking, you had such a warm, inviting aura that it was hard to imagine the icincess of your skin. Yet he melted into it, he'd always been so warm that it was nice to have something to contradict that, like when he went for his early morning swim. You smelled the peaches and the ocean, it was delightful and an aroma he'd always want to remember. He longed for your touch to return the moment you pulled away and suddenly he was just hot again. He must have stood there staring and longing for a while because your melodic voice stopped this, “So, are we planning on standing here all day?”

“No, no sorry!" He shook his head, breaking into a nervous chuckle as he tilted his head to the side. You laughed as you began walking down the rickety steps and he followed. “How was dinner?" Maybe he was jealous, he shouldn't be, there was really no good reason to be, but he was.

You looked at Finnick for a moment, confused, like it hadn't quite processed in your brain. “Oh, yes! It went well!"

“What'd his sisters have for you?" The fond look you gave him for remembering a small moment in a conversation made his heart swell and he swore he'd remember everything about you.

“We like to try and find the prettiest things in the sand, seashells, sea glass, things like that and we all have little collections from each other. They're sweet."

“You're sweet."

“How would you know that, you don't know me." You said, fingers playing the flowers and trying to keep watch on the ground. The cobblestone was uneven, broken, crumbling apart and very just a tripping hazard.

“As you keep reminding me, it doesn't change the fact that you're sweet. ” He shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. His free hand slides into his pocket, “Saw something else that reminded me of you." He pulls out a necklace, something a vendor had made of shining seashell fragments and the occasional pearl, but something about it just seemed so much like you.

“Finnick." Your steps halted and he did the same,"I don't need you to buy me things.”

"I know, I want to buy you things.” The necklace dangled from his fingers, glistening in the rays of sun.

"But I don't have anything for you, so it's not-”

"You don't have to get me anything, I'm just spending time with you and I want to do it. Not because I feel obligated too, but because I like you.” Finnick reassured, this didn't have to be transactional, he just wanted to show you he paid attention, he cared.

You closed your eyes and sighed before nodding, “Okay."

“Unless you don't like it, in which case you should tell me now for future reference.”

“No, no, that's not what I mean, I mean I do, I just-"

“Need to get better at accepting gifts?" He finished, raising an eyebrow.

You scoffed, “I'm good at accepting gifts!" There was a beat of silence where the two of you both stared at each other, him with his brow still arched quizzically, before the two of you burst into laughter. “Sorry, that's not true."

“I can tell!" When the laughter had somewhat subsided, he took another step towards you, lifting the necklace slightly, “Here, let me help you." He was thankful for another chance to let his fingers ‘accidentally’ brush against the skin of your neck and be cooled by it.

His nimble fingers secured the clasp, "This seems to keep happening to us.” You said, trying not to bristle when his warm hands did in fact make slight contact with yours.

"Maybe I'm just a mastermind.” His voice was so close to your ear as he gave himself an extra second of touch before forcing himself to step back.

"Or maybe you're full of yourself." You turned back around to face him before the two of you continued on the walk.

Finnick shrugged, “Two things can be true."

“Maybe not those two." He felt like a lost puppy dog who'd trail behind you, at your beck and call, every single time you spoke. It was terrifying, bone chilling, to think he'd become infatuated from afar and now it was like he'd been bewitched. As if your aura had its own siren song attached to allure his own in and he'd gladly crash his ship on the rocky shores for you. Yet the fear was combated with the fact that you, the core of you, was closer to the shine of the lighthouse, guiding him to safety. A thin line between destruction and refuge.

Banter has easily continued until he'd finally led you to the beach locked behind the gates of Victors Village, its view was truly breathtaking. He laid out the blanket on the warm sand, picnic basket on top, and you'd already been rid of your sandals. You stood, arms out as the breeze blew through your arms, inhaling the salty air and Finnick would've sworn you were some type of ethereal blessing gifted to the Earth from the ocean itself. Slowly he lifted the lid on the wicker basket, “Here." He said, holding up a peach.

You opened your eyes to look over and he could see the instant surprise on them as you sat down, “Finnick!" You didn't take it from him, just put your hands around it to draw it closer as you smelled it like you weren't sure it was real. “Oh my god!" You exclaimed when you caught a glimpse of the bag of peaches within the basket.

“Thought it might convince you to not barter the necklace." He chuckled as if he hadn't been certain he'd buy the whole array of peaches to see you smile and hear your laugh, to see the spark in your eyes.

You paused to touch the necklace, suddenly serious, “I wouldn't do that." Your eyes were so gorgeous, so addictive, so kind. The type of eyes he wanted to gaze into until everything else had faded away. Every piece of art, every sunset, every sunrise, every star’s beauty lessened in comparison. “Finnick Odair, you can't be real." That shining smile had returned and he couldn't help but follow in your footsteps to give one back. “Seriously, you have to tell me what's wrong with you before I become too attached."

Finally you took the peach from his hand to bite into it, “Afraid I can't tell you yet, angel, scared you'd run away on me.” His tone was light enough to be a joke, but deep down he knew he'd never be able to tell you about the things that he felt the most self-loathing for, how self-destructive he could be would be something he'd try to keep you away from.

"Well you've already got me; hook, line, and sinker.” When you smiled and spoke, your nose would scrunch up in what he imagined was the most adorable thing possible. You stopped taking bites and quietly sat on the bed, observing him.

"No need to stare, I'm staying right here.”

"Oh my god, I could kiss you.” He wasn't even sure if you'd processed the words as you stared at him longer before your brain finally seemed to register what you'd said. The look of shock had barely begun to pass your face when he decided he'd just kiss you instead. Perhaps it was all too fast, a day for him to be tasting the peach on your lips, for his fingers to be on your cold face besides the slight warmth on your cheeks. Whirlwind romances were either tragedy's or a fairytale, so time would have to tell, but maybe it should've been a sign. The ending could be uncertain as it liked, but he was sure your souls were yoked in the first ocean tides to bless the world.

His nostrils filled with the scent of peaches and the salt air you had meshed with how you tasted like the peaches, once again, and vanilla. So calming, like he was being softly rocked in the waters, nothing less than perfect. When he finally pulled away from you all he wanted to do was be enveloped by the taste once again. You looked so flustered and taken aback, it was so precious to him. “I beat you to it, this time." Cocky smirk even if he was slightly breathless.

You nodded at him slowly with your eyes wide, like all thoughts had been taken from your head. Finnick would've said something else if it weren't for the refreshing chill of your hands grabbing his face to pull him in for another kiss. He'd never get sick of peaches when they reminded him so much of you, if he was ever to be away he'd spend his time learning endlessly about them just to feel near. Although it couldn't compare with the way your lips molded to his so easily. Then there were your hands in his hair, something he usually couldn't stand, but when it was your gentle hands he couldn't find it anything but endearing. Eventually you'd pulled away as well, chest heaving, yet it was like you couldn't say a thing. Faces and bodies mere inches from each other as you stared at each other, listening to each other breathe.

Suddenly you were quickly removing yourself from him, running forward in the sand. “Where are you going?" Finnick called after you, somewhat terrified he'd scared you off. But you turned back to him smiling like you hadn't a care in the world.

“Swimming!" You shed yourself of the sundress to be just left in the swimsuit you wore underneath, “Are you coming?" Now it was Finnick's to scramble up, chasing you towards the water.

You must have spent hours swimming, like there was no other world except the now. He'd swim under the water, scaring you when he'd pull at your ankle and you'd fight back by trying to dunk him under the moment he bobbed to the top. This was usually unsuccessful as he'd simply drag you down with him, except when he wanted you to feel like you had succeeded. He'd randomly lift you from the waters and you'd screech for him to put you down and once or twice he'd used it as an excuse to kiss you again. After hours of similar actions the sound of the waves hitting the shore was the only thing that could be heard as you both waded to stay afloat.

Finnick stared out at the horizon, “I want to take you sailing when I get back."

“When you get back from what?" You asked, looking at him. Suddenly he was flooded with guilt, here he was dragging you along when he couldn't even be fully yours or honest about it. But he wanted to be with you so bad and for now that was all he had to cling onto.

It didn't mean he could look at you when he tried to explain it, so he looked down into the waters, “I'm supposed to leave for the Capitol tomorrow, just Victor related things.” He mumbled, shrugging off the mention.

"Oh, okay.” You didn't sound actually upset, "When will you be back?”

"A week at the most.” He peeked up at you through his eyelashes surprised to see you didn't look upset either, at most a little dejected that you wouldn't see him for so long.

"Well, we better have a killer party then to end all of this off, make sure you don't forget me.” You teased, raising your eyebrows.

"I could never forget about you… but you're not upset?"

You shot him a quizzical look, “Why would I be upset, we all have responsibilities, even if they come with different territory.” You shrugged and nearly fell backwards when he pressed his lips to yours again, steadying your back when you began to fall backwards. You had to be an angel who'd been sent to keep him sane and grace him, but a darker side of him urged him to realize he didn't deserve someone as understanding as you.

“You're so perfect." His arms held you and he looked at you with nothing less than amazement.

“I'm definitely not."

‘You’re perfect for me, we're perfect together,’ Finnick thought as he looked at you, water droplets running down your skin, breathing hard from all the excursions, eyes sparked with their usual twinkle and so many hidden thoughts he wanted to dive into. He accepted the conclusion that the only reason he would be feeling all this so fast would be because you were destined to be, all the stars had aligned for this moment, and the oceans had moved mountains to ensure this lifetime was no different. If you were Eurydice he had been your Orpheus, the Dante to your Beatrice, you would have been the Penelope to his Odysseus, regardless of any fate he knew there was never a life where you'd not been irrevocably bound together.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You were going to be rescued, saved from the Capitol's grasps, and what had brought elation at first was quickly ruined when he learned that he couldn't help rescue you. He wasn't quite yet considered mentally stable enough for it, even if slowly he'd been able to mask it all better. Instead he had to stay in District 13 and do nothing but beg the universe to return you to him. Hadn't there been enough tragedy in your short lives? Hadn't there been enough tragedy in every other ending, in every other life? They should've let him brave death to bring you back, it would've settled him more then the torture of not knowing. Especially since he'd caught every airing you'd had from the Capitol which made him grateful that Katniss had wagered for your immunity. Snow had you begging for ceasefire, showing off outfits to parade, as if there wasn't a textile shortage, and it broke him when you seemed to be getting less sure of questions regarding him, regarding you. Then had been when Peeta announced the planned attack on District 13 and seeing you scream when he was violently attacked for the warning. A scream that would have forced Finnick to be sedated if it weren't for the more impending doom of the bombs.

Katniss was filming a distraction propo about Peeta, how he'd saved her, loved her from the beginning. It was intimate, but apparently not enough for Plutarch who was calling Finnick over. Or maybe he's thought of something when Katniss mentions Snow's own admission of the Capitol's fragility.

“The Capitol is fragile, Snow is fragile, if we can manage to make a major blow to that, it could take their focus off of the prisoners. Force them to focus on damage control instead." Plutarch explains.

“And you want me to say something that could do that?” Finnick looks down at his rope, you'd never been able to master the butterfly knot, and he can imagine himself going over it again to try and teach you.

“If you have anything worth sharing." Of course everyone knows he does, among the elite, the powerful, the other victors it's just an open secret. “It could help us save her."

"But you don't have to open that up, there's no guarantee it'll do anything.” Haymitch argues, he's been forced into sobriety and has maintained his aggression.

“I have something, more than one." Finnick finally says once he's completed his knot and Plutarch can't hide how pleased he is with this outcome. Finnick swears he can hear the blood draining from his face and the nausea rising in his stomach as each second passes, but he persists to stand in front of the cameras.

"You don't have to do this.” Haymitch reiterates.

"Yes I do, if it'll help her.” There's no other option, if the only thing that stopped you from being safely brought to District 13 was the lack of a good distraction, he'd find a way to get a longer rope. He undid the knot before balling it tightly in his hand, “I'm ready." Finnick says to the camera crew and he thinks of you. He turns off any physical sign of emotions he may have because he knows if he doesn't it would lead to another damaging spiral.

The cameras click on and he's given the all clear to begin, “President Snow used to… sell me… my body, that is. I wasn't the only one.” Far from it, and Finnick wanted revenge for all of them, for him, for you, for Cashmere, for everyone Snow had forced into his scheme. "If a Victor is considered desirable, the President gives them as a reward or allows people to buy them for an exorbitant amount of money. If you refuse, he kills someone you love.” What had happened to Johanna, what he'd been terrified would happen to you when you'd first been together. “I wasn't the only one." He repeats and this time it really is for you, for how much he had to watch it break you. The nightmares, how long it took for you to accept any form of physical contact, how even years after it still affected your own intimacy with each other. They stole it all, your girlhood, most of your spark, whatever they could they ravaged from you like vultures on a corpse. Wasn't the prize of winning supposed to be life? “But I was the most popular. And perhaps the most defenseless because the people I loved were so defenseless." Finnick would never have mentioned this to you, but he'd begged Snow to give him more rather than give you any. The President had said you were too popular for none, but had given you less than what you could've had in exchange for even more of Finnick's time, his so-called uses. “To make themselves feel better my patrons would make presents of money or jewelry, but I found a much more valuable form of payment. Secrets.”

That's why he was such a threat to Snow, he knew too much, he needed to be silenced, but he hadn't and now he could tell all of Panem each one. “And this is where you're going to want to stay tuned, President Snow because so very many of them were about you. But let's begin with some of the others.” And prominent name after name spewed off of his tongue. It felt like he was dropping chains off of his body to reveal them to the nation. Each one more heinous than the next, “And now, on to our good President Coriolanus Snow. Such a young man when he rose to power. Such a clever one to keep it. How, you must ask yourself, did he do it? One word. That's all you really need to know. Poison." More names, victims of Snow's climb to power, the elite he trampled so he could trample the weak. Suddenly he's on fire, Finnick can't stop thinking about all the pain it caused you, about how it ruined his own childhood and life, how Johanna lost everyone she loved, how Cashmere worked so hard to protect her brother only for them both to be dead and he's so very detailed. Ensuring that it can't be swept under the rug and it's so harrowing that no one cuts the camera even when he's stopped speaking. There's too much shock, too much intensity, "Cut.” Finnick eventually intervenes.

Finally the stupor is over and people rush to air the footage, Plutarch is making endless comments that Finnick can't comprehend when he's so lost in his own head. Auto-pilot took control for most of the day, he tied knots until his fingers bled. You would've scolded him and bandaged them up, insisting it's why you didn't care for them even if you loved pouting for him to help you just so he could be so close by. Then he's got his arms wrapped around his knees, the day has been too slow, what if you were dead and he'd have no idea until they arrived and he would be at peak hope.

“Did you love her right away, Finnick?" Katniss' voice finally pulls him away from the endless myriad of thoughts.

“Not for the years when I knew of her and then I don't know what changed. She was just so herself in every way and I knew I wanted to just speak with her at least, but once I had a taste of it, yes. Like I'd been knocked over by a wave with it. For a while she didn't understand, but I didn't either, I just knew that there was no else for me." He feels like he's tearing up again when Haymitch rushes into the room.

“They're back. We’re wanted in the hospital. That's all I know." But Finnick feels like he can't move, he realizes he's scared of what you'll be like now. The Capitol had taken the you with her free-spirit and love of being in the moment and made her hate that she was able to breathe oxygen, which he'd so diligently worked to prove you were worthy of. Now they'd had you again, a version that was already hurt, untrusting, and self-destructive, and he couldn't imagine what they could have done to you now. Katniss is softly grabbing his hand to guide him upwards and he feels robotic. She guides him through the winding, gray hallways to the hospital wing. It's not until he can hear your screams that his brain clicks back into action. He has a responsibility to you, one of care, of love, of support in your weakest moments.

He's screaming your name as he runs from Katniss, searching for you desperately. Then he spots you on a hospital bed, pushing off the doctors trying to take care of you. Finnick needs to just be there with his soft words, let you know they're trying to help, so you'll stop. But that's not what happens when you hear his voice or see him. “Angel!" Your panicked screams become more shrill when you see him and in his confusion he steps closer, “It's just me." His voice is more broken then he wanted it to sound, more dejected.

“Get him away from me!" You're frenzied, scrambling to get out of the hospital bed or as far away in it as you can. The doctors are trying to reassure you as you scratch, and kick, and hit, and scream, begging for them to keep you safe from him. He feels the doctors trying to lead him away, hears Johanna laughing harshly in the background noise, but he's frozen. Your head is banging on the metal back of the bed which rattles. “Please, please.” You're sobbing and they're staying to sedate you, "He wants me dead, you don't get it, he's gonna kill me.”

And Finnick is once again determined to get hands on a much longer rope.

thank you so, so much for reading I am so sorry this took me so long! I hope you enjoyed it and as always feedback, comments, likes, reblogs are all much appreciated. my ask box is always open and currently so are requests which I'm working through! love you all and thank you again 💋

taglist: @coriolanussnowswife @avoxrising @artsyaquarium @jennaaaaaaaaaaaa @secretsicanthideanymore @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @thatonegayloser616 @libertyybellls @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @ravensinthedaylight @innercreationflower @uhnanix @aesthetic0cherryblossom @yourdailymemedelivery @ang3lflor @maxinehufflepuffprincess @prettybiching @miserablebl00d @wowzabowza69 @nomorespahgetti @problematicpastries @abaker74 @nj01 @whens-naptime @sarcasticbooknerd12 @cakes-hq @honethatty12 @s1lngwns @alliex-o

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whillywisp · 1 year ago

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THE BEAST HAS BEEN RELEASED this had no business being so long but eh. Whatever. Hope you all like it hehe

Part 2 of Finnick being the most amazing dad/doting husband because I'm sure this is just therapy for my darlings with daddy issues and, well, issues🌱

Warnings: a little long, a little angstier today, implied mention of what happened to finnick. But still as fluffy as yesterday.

Part 1 ☁︎

If Finnick was caring and terrified during the pregnancy, multiply that by ten thousand and that's him postpartum. This man was convinced the very air his family breathed was out to get them. He refused to sleep because he was scared something would happen if he dared to get some rest but after you very gently (you yelled) explained to him that he cannot stay up for three nights straight because no Finnick the baby doesn't need to be held twenty five-eight please for the love of god get some damn sleep, he finally got some rest.

Recovering from pregnancy is a whole other nightmare but he made it bearable. Finnick's favourite thing in the entire world, as previously stated, was taking care of you. So you know he was at your beck and call round the clock. He helped you shower, helped you move around, stayed up with you during night time feedings so you wouldn't feel alone. He cooked every meal and made sure you had everything needed within an arm's reach. Sometimes you were so overcome with love for him that you would tug him close and pepper his face with kisses because where on earth would you find someone as gentle and caring and loving in this miserable world as this angel right here? Nowhere thank you.

But it was seeing him with her that had you convinced you saved a country in your last life (well, in this life and while it was group effort—) to be able to witness something so pure and gentle.

Finnick held his little girl like he she was made of the finest glass and would disappear if he so much as breathed too loud as her. Watching his wide eyes trace every movement, every twitch of a muscle, every breath your baby took. If her little hand curling around his made his pretty eyes gloss over, you absolutely saw it and you made sure to tease him about, for which you were met with embarassed smiles but no denials. He wasn't ashamed of loving his family and least of all his baby girl.

But every spring came stained grey from winter's shadow, still lingering around the corner as if seeking spring's warmth too. And Finnick's past, to him, felt a bit like that.

What happened to Finnick was not a secret he carried in his pocket folded up with a list of names who still bragged of their contribution to his survival or hidden behind forced smiles anymore. What happened to Finnick was public and while he is as not at all at fault for it, humiliation and self-hatred didn't have a mind of its own and regardless of the circumstances and the people that were at fault for everything, he still blamed himself, he still dreaded the day his baby, his entire world, found out what happened. And he told you about it of course.

"What if...what if she hates me?"

You looked up from the book you had been reading, glancing at him where he lay on his back. Your daughter, now nine months old, fast asleep on his chest and your voice a little incredulous as you whisper back. "I'm not sure if you noticed but she worships the ground you walk on."

The smile he gives you is forlorn and pressed into the top of your daughter's head. He blinked, looking away from you and in the blink of an eye you had dropped your book, uncaring where it landed and gently craddled his face in your hands, wiping away tears that stained his emrald green eyes.

"Angel—"

"I don't want her to find out," he sniffed, tightening his arms around your daughter, taking a shuddering breath before continuing. "I do-don't want her to find out. She'll hate me. She'll think I'm so weak. I was so weak."

You sighed, gently pressing a kiss to his forehead before wiping away tears that escaped his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. Rage and grief burned in your heart with vengeance and you wished, not for the first time, the need to rip those wealthy capitolites to shreds with your bare hands, to make these vile people disappear, praying they'd take the pain they inflicted on him away with them.

But instead you used the same hands and pulled him close, letting him cry into your chest as you wrapped your arms around him and your daughter, whispering quietly but firmly to him. "Finnick Odair, those years of you life were bleak. Those years of your life were harsh. And you were a lot of things during them: broken, hurt, abused. But you weren't weak. You survived, you made sure to survive because you knew you needed to survive to be free. That was your way of winning. And if we raise this baby right, she'll love you regardless, hell even more, when she finds out. I love you and I agree with you on just about everything. But this, this I refuse to because the man i married, the boy I fell in love for, is a survivor."

He peered at you through wet lashes, sniffling softly as he pressed a kiss to your chest and then the top of your daughter's head: his quiet way of saying 'I love you. Thank you for being my light.' You let out a deep breath you didn't know you were holding, tightening your arms around your family.

You weren't lying when you said your daughter worshipped the ground he walked on. He was her hero. She followed him around the house since the minute she started crawling, screamed for him every morning and only calmed down when he picked her up and out of crib and in the most Finnick fashion, loved you in her gentle ways. She got that from me, he would say smugly as you had to eat another fistful of mushed baby food because of course your daughter picked that her way to show her love for you after having seen Finnick feed you fruit earlier. You would glare at him over her little sprout hair, identical to the one his hair was tied into on her highness' orders, your heart threatening to explode in your chest from the sheer amount of love it was filled with.

Your daughter was not only growing up to be the most precious child in the world, but she was also terrifyingly bright and understanding, even at such an young age. On days she noticed Finnick's need to be quiet or when he was too overwhelmed by everything, you noticed her making a conscious effort to stay quiet and keep her noises to a minimum. If Finnick needed time alone, she wouldn't bother him but spent her time with you, telling you about how daddy needs his quiet time and you had to hold onto the cushion behind you on the couch to hold back from crying, completely baffled at and extremely grateful that you both were raising an angel like her. But you weren't all that surprised when you thought about it a little more deeply. She was, after all, her daddy's little girl.

The day she starts kindergarten feels like the most emotional episode of the worst soap opera possible because you woke up to them...crying. And saying their goodbyes as he tearfully packed her lunch and did her hair, as if she was off to war. And it took quite a while to coax them both out of the house because I love you both but we cannot be late on the first day you guys please. But on the walk to kindergarten it was peaceful and full of laughs, because they could both pretend this was just their morning walk.

But of course, the tears were back when the gates closed with the promise of keeping them separated for three hours.

"What if she gets hungry and can't open the lunch box?"

You frowned looking up at him, shaking your head. You both were standing outside the gates to the school along with other worried parents, some taking a break from said worrying to side eye you both, something you had learned to tune out years ago.

"Finnick, she showed us she can open the lunch box just fine before we left home."

"But what if she can't here?" He insisted, looking down at you like you were the insane one for not considering that scenario. You sighed, grabbing his hand and tugging him away from the gates, trying to ease his worries.

"I promise you if she needs help with that, she will ask her teacher," you smiled at him, pecking his lips gently. "She'll be fine. She's our kid, she'll be perfectly fine."

He cracked a small smile, wrapping his arm around your shoulder as you both start walking back, giving in with a small chuckle. "Yeah, okay. Maybe we should get a puppy to keep us entertained now since she wants to do all grown up things go to scho..."

You look up at him as he suddenly trails off, confused as you catch him staring at something thoughtfully in the distance and follow his gaze to freeze against him slightly. In the distance, still as grey and imposing as ever, was the abandoned building which once held District 4's career academy. Strange feelings that always came with seeing it, both good and bad and nostalgic, make you tighten your grip on his hand and his around your shoulders.

Less than a decade ago, only a few metres and a small canal away from the kindergarten that your daughter now went to, children like her were being trained to kill, you and Finnick being a part of them. The thought of that still makes your blood run cold but the relief that rushed in right after, knowing your baby would never have to do that, is enough to let go of another hour of the countless you had spent in there, training to survive a system bigger than the arena could ever be.

You took a deep breath, forcing to maintain a light tone as you forced both of you to continue moving. "Heard they're building another school there, to keep the spirits of learning still alive and all that."

He smiled, kissing the top of your head fondly. "And I assume you want to help out in that?" The cheeky smile you had given him was answer enough but for him, it was like a sigh of relief, of brighter days no longer stained with gloom of his past.

People and places had changed to accomodate this new change, this everlasting spring, maybe he was looking forward to letting his soul do the same too.

A/N: i agree this might've gone slightly offtopic in certain places but bare with me. I can't decide if want this to be the end or write more. But I hope you enjoyed this regardless of these things. All my love 🌱

#finnick odair x reader #hunger games

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whillywisp · 1 year ago

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Part 2 of Finnick being the most amazing dad/doting husband because I'm sure this is just therapy for my darlings with daddy issues and, well, issues🌱

Warnings: a little long, a little angstier today, implied mention of what happened to finnick. But still as fluffy as yesterday.

Part 1 ☁︎

But it was seeing him with her that had you convinced you saved a country in your last life (well, in this life and while it was group effort—) to be able to witness something so pure and gentle.

Finnick held his little girl like he she was made of the finest glass and would disappear if he so much as breathed too loud near her. His wide eyes traced every movement, every twitch of a muscle, every breath your baby took. If her little hand curling around his made his pretty eyes gloss over, you absolutely saw it and you made sure to tease him about, for which you were met with embarassed smiles but no denials. He wasn't ashamed of loving his family and least of all his baby girl.

But every spring came stained grey from winter's shadow, still lingering around the corner as if seeking spring's warmth too. And Finnick's past, to him, felt a bit like that.

"What if...what if she hates me?"

"Angel—"

The day she starts kindergarten feels like the most emotional episode of the worst soap opera possible because you woke up to them...crying. And saying their goodbyes as he tearfully packed her lunch and did her hair, as if she was off to war. And it took quite a while to coax them both out of the house because I love you both but we cannot be late on the first day you guys please. But on the walk to kindergarten it was peaceful and full of laughter, because they could both pretend this was just their morning walk.

But of course, the tears were back when the gates closed with the promise of keeping them separated for three hours.

"What if she gets hungry and can't open the lunch box?"

"Finnick, she showed us she can open the lunch box just fine before we left home."

"I promise you if she needs help with that, she will ask her teacher," you smiled at him, pecking his lips gently to stop him when he opens his mouth to voice another bizarre worry. "She'll be fine. She's our kid, she'll be perfectly fine."

He cracked a small smile, wrapping his arm around your shoulder as you both start walking back, giving in with a small chuckle. "Yeah, okay. Maybe we should get a puppy to keep us busy now since she wants to do all grown up things go to scho..."

Less than a decade ago, only a few metres and a small canal away from the kindergarten that your daughter now attended, children like her were being trained to kill, you and Finnick being a part of them. The thought of that still makes your blood run cold but the relief that rushed in right after, knowing your baby would never have to do that, is enough to let go of another hour of the countless you had spent in there, training to survive a system bigger than the arena could ever be.

You took a deep breath, forcing to maintain your light tone as you forced both of you to continue moving. "Heard they're building another school there, to keep the spirits of learning still alive and all that."

People and places had changed to accomodate this new change, this everlasting spring, and maybe he was looking forward to letting his soul do the same too.

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x gn!reader #writing #fanfiction #hunger games #finnick imagine #finnick odair #moonfm #finnick odair x male reader #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair aesthetic #finnick odair x you

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whillywisp · 1 year ago

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Thank you so much 🥺

Stardust. Hard not to love what you know.

Summary: You hadn't lived a single day of your life without the sea or Finnick, even after he was reaped, even after he was turned into a ruthless killer and then the Capitol's most prized possession, trapped behind it's gilded bars like a songbird. Only instead of a song crying for help, he just spoke the words that came to him the easiest and you took them and caged them in your skin, turned yourself into a gallery for his art.

Or.

Writer Finnick who's love language is writing on his lover's skin, the only place he allows himself to be free.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

'I see a little bit of me in everyone. Stardust. hard not to love what you know. we are all the universe in drag.'

On the surface, everyone knew Finnick Odair as he presented himself, like his life is a theatre performance and he only really took the most perfect, untainted, beautifully crafted parts of himself out into the spotlight but left the more ugly, broken and vulnerable parts of him behind the velvet red curtains before show time.

But most people didn't know that he didn't just leave the parts of himself most beautiful just floating mid air when they weren't needed but rather imprinted on your skin in the form of words and ink. Because that was only meant for you to see.

For your whole life, it had always been you, the sea and Finnick, from the day you had grabbed the small golden haired boy's little finger at the beach and asked him to be your friend over the sound of the waves, your hair covered in sand and cold pebbles as winter air made you both shiver. You hadn't lived a single day of your life without the other two, even after he was reaped, even after he was turned into a ruthless killer and then the Capitol's most prized possession, trapped behind it's gilded bars like a songbird. Only instead of a song crying for help, he just spoke the words that came to him the easiest and you took them and caged them in your skin, turned yourself into a gallery for his art.

The world will never see him in peaceful moments like this, his head in your lap, no responsibilities or unwanted touches making his shoulders slump under the weight of them as he scribbles words into the delicate, scarred skin of your forearm, words that you know you'll take to Delilah, the only tattoo artist in District 4 and make them yours forever. The world will never see his concentrated frown as he thinks slowly and makes sure the words express exactly how he feels in that moment, caging the moment in them forever.

You stroke his hair gently with your free hand, your own whipping around in the cool night breeze, watching his pen glide against your skin and the way the ink smudges on the uneven surface, broken by old scars that told a story of their own. He looked too adorable like this, entirely engrossed in his work that you can't help but press a gentle kiss to the frown between his eyebrows, making green eyes the colour of the sea lapping against the shores in front of you look up at you in surprise and barely concealed adoration.

"What?" His voice is gentle above the sound of the waves and you smile, shaking your head, your hair fall forward to make a protective curtain around the two of you.

"Nothing, you just look precious like this. All concentrated and lost in thought." You lean down again, this time pressing a kiss to his lips. You feel his lips stretch into a smile against your own and his green eyes just seem brighter than the full moon shining overhead.

"Adorable huh? I have a reputation to maintain, darling. Don't go around ruining it," he teased, his eyes crinkled at the corners as he grins up at you. You laugh, pulling your hand away from his grip and the tip of his pen, to gently stroke his cheek with your finger tips.

"No one could touch your reputation even if they tried." You say with a chuckle and it's true. No one could destroy the reputation he had crafted so perfectly over the years as the Capitol's darling and in some ways, you wished you could burn them down to ashes and let the world see your beautiful boy but you knew you were too selfish, too greedy for him to be yours and yours alone to ever let that happen. Almost as if he heard your thoughts, he smiles up at you, and shook his head.

"You could. You could if you wanted to, and I'd let you, happily. If my downfall does have to come someday, I hope you bring it upon me." Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest at that and you shake your head, pressing another kiss to his lips. This was devotion and you always wondered what it was you did that made you worthy of it. "I could never hurt you, in any way. You are my everything."

His eyes flutter close at that and he smiles, his voice soft as if he didn't even want the sea to listen in on his confession. "And you are mine."

A peaceful silence falls over you both and you can't help but remember the words he was scribbling onto your arm earlier and you look down at him again, a small smile on your face. "Can I see what you wrote today?" Finnick never wanted you to read incomplete words, and you never tried to. He always clapped his hand down on your skin or closed his notebook when you asked him and he told you they weren't ready to be seen. Even when they were in plain sight, like now, you averted your gaze, because you'd never break his trust. Not like this.

He smiles up at you sheepishly and looks away, his hands fidgeting with his pen. "They're not mine today, not originally anyways. But everytime i think of them, they remind me of you."

You raise an eyebrow, your fingers gently turn his face to look back at you. "Oh? Just a poem then, from another writer?" He nods slowly, his hand coming up to cradle yours against his cheek. "Something like that. You can read it."

You smile and raise your forearm to your eyelevel, squinting through the now smudged ink and trying to look at it with the full moon light.

'What I feel for you cannot be conveyed in phrasal combinations, it either screams out loud or it stays painfully silent but I promise you — it beats words. It beats worlds.'

You blink before looking down at him, his green eyes wide as he looks up at you and you lean down to kiss his lips again, properly now. He responds in kind, his hand coming up to cradle your face like you're something precious and you fall a few feet deeper into him. "That's so beautiful."

He smiles against your lips, looking up at you with his boyish grin. "Isn't it? Everytime i think of it, all i can think of in relation is you." Every bit of grief in your body melts away at that, and you can't help the intense wave of emotions for the precious boy in your lap that washes over you.

"I love you," the words tumble from your lips like a prayer. "I love you. More than the years you or i live, more than the beats our combined hearts beat, i love you."

He smiles, moving away to sit up and then tug you into his lap, his eyes soft as he peers at your glossy eyes. He gently leans his forehead against yours and closes his eyes, his arms tight around you.

"I love you too, more than any amount of words I write. Thank you for taking these...parts of me and making them yours. Even the parts the rest of the world would resent."

You shake your head and smile, kissing him again. "Every part of you is mine, just like everything that makes me is yours. Hard not to love what you know. And the truest thing you can know is yourself."

A sigh of content escapes him and his arms just tighten around, "I love me then? The me in you? The me that melds with you?" His voice soft, as if slowly coming to accept these parts of him as something to love, to cherish like he loved and cherished you.

The smile you give him is blinding, just like the one you had given him all those years ago with missing teeth and wild hair, marking the start of the most beautiful moment in your life. "Yes. Yes you do."

And in that moment you forget there's a world outside this beautiful boy you've made home in.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

A/N: I've always wanted to explore writter Finnick because i think we all moved on from that way, way too quickly. written literally right now, as fresh as Peeta's bread out of the oven. With words of Nizar Qubbani and other little bits that make me scattered in along with this one quote that i can't get out of my head, i give you 'Stardust. Hard not to love what you know'. (I threw the sad one shot into my wips list and decided this was more important. I barely ever write for the public and this is actually my first full length one shot so please be gentle and dont break my poor heart xo. And i promise I'm working on young god hehe.)

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