Quinn

info | masterlist REQUESTS ARE CLOSED. angst queen.

[ilguna]

-> N A V I G A T I O N <-

REMINDER: this blog is sfw, i do not reblog nsfw works. i am an adult.

INTRODUCTION: hey, you can call me quinn. i go by she/her pronouns. this blog is lgbtq+ friendly. want to know more? visit the info link below.

-> masterlist / info <-

-> CURRENTLY WRITING <-

minatory :) chapter two

-> MINATORY WORD COUNT <-

45.7k

-> REQUESTS ARE CLOSED <-

any requests sent in right now will sit in the inbox and/or will be deleted.

[ilguna]

im so happy ur writing for finnick again ur blog is iconic & you're so talented so thank u for blessing us w ur fics 🩷🩷🩷ur doing us finnick girlies a solid fr 😭😭😭 anyways ok that's all have a good day bye

thank youuu!! 💛

[ilguna]

my drafts are a fucking mess

[ilguna]

i literally have drafts from 2020

[ilguna]

my drafts are a fucking mess

[ilguna]

-> fairy circle <-

as you spent more time in the magical world, it was becoming harder to justify going home. it’s a good thing a kind fairy led you to the library, otherwise you’d be tiny forever.

—

THIS CELEBRATION IS OVER.

—

❀ take me away (finnick odair) ❀

finnick is made to be your knight, leading up to your arranged marriage in a year. the more time you spent with him, the harder is became to commit to your parents wishes.

❀ decode pt1, pt2. (finnick odair) ❀

you and finnick used to agree on the way the hunger games was handled, until a beam of light from a reflective surface caught his eye.

❀ the blood of the dead (finnick odair) ❀

after getting caught in the blood rain with johanna, you're reminded of your past games.

❀ seven years later... (finnick odair) ❀

mags made a promise to finnick that she would get you out of the arena alive, but never said when he'd see you again.

❀ where's your head at? (finnick odair) ❀

you were told that finnick would be there to help you for your first year in the capitol, but he's been absent so far. it isn't until you're left alone to make a hard decision, does your patience for him, crack.

❀ bittersweet history (finnick odair) ❀

you've been a capitol stylist for district four for years now, so you've built quite the complicated relationship with finnick.

--

❀ HERE is a link to the original celebration post. this is mostly for me in the future and for those who are curious on what the post looked like. once again, the celebration is over, do not send in any prompts. ❀

[ilguna]

Personally I've always loved x readers where the character is given personality and backstory, without it they can be kinda boring, I don't wanna read about someone who doesn't have any more to them than being a love interest, I'd much rather imagine myself being a badass. Gallows is far better than any h/c, e/c, nameless stand in (no hate to people who write that way, just not my cup of tea). But I also don't love reading named OCs cause I do like inserting myself in the story. I guess all that to say, I love the way you write x reader, and people who complain about them having too much character can just read something else, your readers read your works cause they like how you write, don't change cause someone might not.

see, that's how i feel about it. i like a nice middle ground to everything when i do read ff. it's nice to hear from a couple of you that you like the way i put it. thank you for the support!!

[ilguna]

Hey girl! It’s been a while since you posted, hope everything’s going well and dandy with you! 🫶🏼

Missing my favourite Hunger Games writer heheheh take care 🥰

girl sometimes i show up, post and then disappear off the face of the planet lmao life is getting better!!

i hope you've been satisfied with the last couple imagines :)))

[ilguna]

Can i request Finnick Odair angst with a reader who was his Capitol Stylist before the rebellion?

☼ bittersweet history (Finnick Odair) ☼

warnings; swearing, death/murder, weapon use, prostitution.

wc; 2.9k

–

In the Capitol, almost everyone has a Victor they’d label as their favorite. Some of them are obvious, just by looking at someone, you’d be able to tell. Others come as a complete surprise, like you for the longest time. 

It starts with the Fiftieth Hunger Games—the second Quarter Quell. From the moment you learned about it, you’ve been obsessed. And it doesn’t help that you were born the year those Games were put on.

The colors in the arena were so deliciously vibrant. The amount of tributes were doubled, which meant for an array of personalities that clashed together. And the scenery was misleading but it didn’t stop the Gamemakers from making it picture perfect. 

They still sell memorabilia with the image of all forty-eight tributes surrounding the Cornucopia. You know because you have one pinned to the corkboard in your kitchen, it’s your whole inspiration. 

Haymitch Abernathy and the second Quarter Quell are the reasons why you became a stylist. You spent years mocking up costumes that would’ve been much better than the ones they had to wear. The coal miner jumpsuits and headlamps are boring and unoriginal. You can’t believe Magno was employed for as long as he was.

Each outfit you drew was carefully preserved and placed into a binder that you later used as your portfolio when you applied for a stylist position during the Sixty-Ninth Games. At best, you were hoping to be placed as an assistant to an existing stylist and work your way from there.

You can probably imagine how fast the blood ran from your face when President Snow immediately appointed you to be the Head Stylist for District Four. A title that would have any brand new apprentice shitting their pants. 

Four is one of the Capitol’s most favorite districts. You love seafood here, and without the citizens from Four, you wouldn’t have it. So, whatever you designed would have to be the best and eye-catching enough to make a statement. It was your debut year. 

It was also the year you met Finnick Odair. His boy tribute had been dropped off with your prep team, while the girl went with the other. Your stylist partner, who’d been working with Four for a few years, insisted on introducing you to the mentors you’d get very familiar with.

Finnick was only a year younger than you at the time, but he’d been mentoring since he was fifteen. He knew the right questions to ask, where to be suspicious of your experience. He only backed off when you gave him a grin and told him that the President had appointed you, himself. 

There were already high expectations, so it meant close to nothing to you when you promised Finnick that his tributes were about to blow the competition out of the water—figuratively and literally. You weren’t there to dip your toes in to see if it was cold, you were going to plunge in, no matter the temperature. 

“I look forward to your work, then.” Finnick said, holding out his hand to shake.

“You’ll be stuck with me for a long time, Odair.” You took his hand, gave it one firm shake, and left the conversation to finish your final touches.

Four hours later, his tributes were stepping off their chariot with armfuls of red roses, jewelry covering every inch of free skin, excitement lighting up their eyes. They had just experienced the thrill of being the Capitol’s favorite contenders. 

You’d walked up beside Finnick after, a smug look on your face, “I did my part, I hope you won’t let it go to waste.”

Finnick looked at you, “How did you get the position for Four as a first year stylist?”

“Hard work.” You smiled. “Years of designing and submitting. Did you know that the costume Seven wore two years ago was one of my designs?”

Finnick shook his head slightly.

“No one does.” You shrug, “It’s not my usual preferred style. I believe in modesty.” 

“You’re one in a million.” Finnick murmured.

“I’m aware.”

From then on, a friendship began to form between the two of you. When you weren’t dressing up his tributes, you were anywhere in the city. You’d go out to lunch, he’d run errands with you, you’d keep him company in the Betting Room. It didn’t matter when or where, you were constantly chatting away about your lives.

Somewhere in that time, you began telling people that Finnick Odair was the only victor you liked, and it wasn’t for the same reasons everyone else did. They saw him at the surface, while you got to hear what was really going on underneath. How he didn’t enjoy what he did here.

He was so relieved when you first told him that you believed in modesty, because he hoped it might start a change in the Capitol. If you dressed up the tributes in a way that didn’t make the citizens curious, then maybe there could be a chance he’d be let go. It hasn’t worked. And it won’t matter anyway, because chances are Finnick won’t make it out of the arena alive.

The announcement of the third Quarter Quell’s twist came in the winter. While some went to the President’s Mansion to sit in the cold to hear it from the balcony, you were bundled up beneath two blankets in your home. You cried when you realized what it meant after it finally settled in. 

You spent months trying to come up with the perfect outfit, one that could introduce the victor with dignity and respect. You sent in your references to the President, months before the drawing, and didn’t hear back from him until after the victors were reaped.

The Capitol declined the costume you submitted, and in return, they sent back their own ideas and told you to make it happen. Under no circumstances were you allowed to make adjustments.

You’ve been crying over the piece for hours.

“(Y/n), Finnick’s ready.” Velara pokes her head in, she’s a member of your prep team. 

“Has he eaten?” Your voice wavers, you clear your throat. “Did you do what I asked?”

“Yes.”

“Send him in.” You tell her, turning back to the mirror to wipe beneath your eyes.

You’ve completely ruined your makeup. There’s nothing left on your face, you keep having to wipe it off. Even your mascara got clumped together, so you went ahead and just got rid of it. You should have plenty of time to reapply before the Tribute Parade, but that’s assuming you won’t ruin it again.

The door opens, you glance over to see Finnick wearing the silk robe. You force a smile, “Go ahead and take a seat.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve been crying too.” He muses, sitting in the chair.

Your face twists, heaviness building in your eyes. You take in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. You have to keep it together. “For a different reason.”

“What’s that?” He asks.

You pull his costume bag off the hanger, walking it to him. “I want you to know I had no choice.”

His eyebrows twitch.

As you unzip, you grit your teeth together. The way you feel about Finnick is complicated. On one hand, he’s simply your best friend when he’s here in the Capitol. You know that he knows you’re not like the rest of them. On the other hand, there have been times where Finnick’s almost crossed the line between being friends and being something more. Which is why you’re terrified of what he would’ve thought about you if he’d been under the impression that you made this willingly. 

You pull out the costume, which is hardly even that. It’s just rope, strategically placed to cover the most private part of his body. There’s nothing for him to hide under, he’s going to be exposed. 

Finnick stares at it for a long minute, the more the seconds tick on, the harder it is to hold back the tears flooding your eyes. You didn’t want this, but the letter was explicitly clear. If you fought back, you’d be punished.

“Snow?” Finnick guesses.

You hum, too afraid to speak. 

“Let’s get it over with, then.” He tells you.

You nod, placing the hanger on a wallhook nearby. The costume is always the last part of the process. You get the pleasure of staring at it the whole time while trying to perfect every curl on his head. 

For once in your life, it’s quiet between the two of you.

—

The Launch Room is your least favorite part as a stylist. There’s nothing harder than saying goodbye to a tribute you’ve spent a whole week trying to make shine. It’s even worse when you’ve known the person for six years.

Finnick steps out of the shower room, toweling his hair dry. He’s gotten dressed in the undergarments, which for him is a pair of black midway briefs. He drapes the towel over his shoulders, coming up beside you to look at the clothes he’ll be wearing in the arena.

“It could be worse.” He says. “It could be the parade outfit.”

You press your lips together and smack his arm. “Shush. Are you ready to get dressed now or do you want to eat first?”

“Does it make a difference either way?” 

“It doesn’t.” You shrug.

He decides on a small meal, which is all the Capitol offers at this point. Your eyes dart up at the camera in the corner of the room. There’s at least one Gamemaker in there watching your every move. You turn your back to it.

“Drink more water.” You push the glass towards him, “You never know how difficult it’ll be to find it in the arena.”

“Usually it’s pretty easy now, after you all watched the tributes die of dehydration a couple years back.” Finnick brushes you off.

You pick up the jumpsuit, pretending to straighten it out. Finnick glances at you long enough to catch the finger pressed to your lips. Plutarch worked hard to feed you a little bit of information in hopes you’d be able to prepare Finnick for the arena. He told you it was going to be hot and devastating. And judging by how thin this jumpsuit is, he isn’t lying. 

“Yeah, but you forget about the last Quarter Quell and how deceiving it was for Haymitch Abernathy.” You raise your eyebrows. “Drink up.”

He listens this time, finishing his glass of water and clearing his plate. After, you get him dressed in the black and grey suit, telling him how thin it is and that it’s not meant to preserve body heat. 

“If you had to guess the reason?” Finnick’s watching your face closely.

You pause, pretending to think about it. “It’ll be hot. That’s the only reason why I’ve used this material before.”

He nods, “Guess I’ll take another glass, just in case.”

You refill his drink, helping him get the nylon shoes on. You pass over his gold bracelet, watching him decide which wrist he preferred it on. Just as you think you might get a few minutes before he has to go, the voice comes over the speaker, telling you to prepare for launch.

You both stand, heading over to the metal plate. You straighten out the jumpsuit, reminding him that the sleeves are removable. Then, you zip up the neck and pinch one of his cheeks before your forefinger and thumb.

“You’re gonna kill it out there.”

“All thanks to you.” He says.

You laugh, letting go of his face as you take a step back. He turns away, staring at the tube that’ll take him to the surface. You got a glimpse of the arena during your conversation with Plutarch and Haymitch. You think Finnick will be excited when he realizes they’re in the middle of salt water.

“Fifteen seconds to launch.”

Finnick turns around to face you again.

“What are you doing? You’ll be late.” You tell him.

He takes a step forward, only enough so that he can grab your wrist, pulling you to him. Before you can say another word, his lips are on yours. They’re soft, warm, and inviting. He has a hand on your cheek to keep you from moving.

It feels like an eternity before he pulls away, backing into the tube. The doors are just shutting when he says, “Saying goodbye.”

—

District Thirteen as a whole are not fond of people from the Capitol. You’ve learned that much since arriving here. 

As soon you got through intake, you were given a pod with the only other Capitol woman they had. Which is Effie Trinket, the Capitol Escort for Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark—the rebels. You guess they assumed you and Effie knew each other, but you ran in completely different circles in the Capitol. Not to mention, there’s a twenty year age gap.

For your first day out of processing, you were given a tour and then your very first schedule. If you were going to be living in District Thirteen, you’d have to abide by their rules. Which you didn’t have an issue with, except for one minor detail.

You didn’t ask to be taken to Thirteen. The rebels took it upon themselves to incorporate you into their plan. They scared you half to death that day when they showed up in your apartment, insisting for you to get on the hovercraft they had set aside. You couldn’t even pack before you left.

Which wouldn’t have mattered anyway, considering there is no individuality. Everyone here wears a grey jumpsuit and black shoes. You wish you had the same confidence that Effie has, she’s repurposing the clothes she came in. But you can’t imagine President Coin would allow her to wear whatever she’s planning. 

You wish you could go home.

You tilt your head back, enjoying the warmth from the sun on your face. There’s an hour allotted every day for time outside. Since District Thirteen’s a bunker, you have to get special permission to leave. It’s a safety hazard otherwise.

You wander away from the door, heading over to a nearby flower bush. As you crouch down to pluck one, a butterfly appears, fluttering around the leaves. You hold a finger out, watching as it carefully lands, tickling your skin in the process.

If the rebels hadn’t taken you from the Capitol, then you’d be dead. Shortly after some of the victors had been saved out of the arena, prep teams and stylists were publicly executed for conspiracy. You would’ve been one of them, since Finnick Odair is a rebel, too.

You feel like an idiot. Looking back, it was so obvious that he was part of something more. He was always asking you to pass along messages that his mentor couldn’t. You did it without a second thought, mostly because it could’ve been his final goodbyes to people he cared about. 

You didn’t think he was using you as a way to flesh out their final plan for the arena.

“(Y/n).”

You jump at the sudden voice, the butterfly takes off. You watch it go higher and higher, getting away from the danger. You look over your shoulder to find Finnick, standing behind you in a matching jumpsuit.

“Hey, Finnick.” You get to your feet. “It’s nice to see you awake.”

You’ve been visiting him when you can, which is mostly during reflection time. A thirty minute window is very hard to work with. And if you do make it to him, he’s usually sleeping. 

“Haymitch told me you were here.” Finnick’s face is screwed.

“Oh, he did?” You tilt your head. You haven’t spoken to Haymitch at all. He’s been in the rehab center, they’ve been working hard to get him sober. Which is easier said than done. 

“How long have you been here?”

“We came in on the same hovercraft. They just didn’t let me see you while you were awake.” You place your hands in the pockets. “They thought the stress from the arena and the shock of seeing me would send you into a spiral, like it did with Katniss.”

“That was different, Katniss wasn’t aware of the plan.”

“Neither was I.” You shake your head. “I didn’t get any notice that I’d be coming here.”

“Is that why you haven’t come to see me?” 

You make a face at him, “Who told you that? I’ve been visiting you as much as the schedule allows, it’s not my fault you’re always sleeping.”

“You could’ve woken me.” He raises a hand and then drops it.

“I didn’t want to disturb you.” You tell him. “You all have been… adjusting slowly. I heard your fits in the middle of the night.”

“They were about you.” Finnick admits, “I was worried about what they’ve done to you.”

You mouth pops open, “Oh.”

He lets out a light laugh, “(Y/n), I didn’t kiss you before I left for nothing.”

“How am I supposed to know that?” You ask, lifting your shoulders before letting them drop. “It’s not the first time you’ve kissed me. And you said so yourself, you were saying goodbye.”

“I should’ve been more clear.” Finnick smiles. “I didn’t mean forever.”

“Well, it’s too late now. Thirteen’s got me lined up with a mechanic.” You tell him.

His face drops, “They do?”

“Nope.” You grin, “Now we’re even.”

Finnick rolls his eyes at you, “You and your theatrics.”

“You love it.”

--

this was part of my fairy circle celebration!!

[ilguna]

Hii!! I hope youre doing well, i just read through your fairy post and i think thats such a cool concept to write! So to request could we do 81 with finnick odair? Cant wait to read if you write it and thank you❤️❤️

☼ where's your head at? (Finnick Odair) ☼

warnings; swearing, death/murder, weapon use, mentions of prostitution and drug use.

wc; 1.7k

prompt; 81. "Why didn't you tell me?"

notes; angst with a happy ending :))

–

With the way Finnick’s talked about in District Four and the Capitol, you thought that mentoring with him would be a smooth experience. You’re always told that he’s the most knowledgeable when it comes to getting sponsors, and getting tributes to succeed in the arena.

“He’s a charmer.” Is what Mags told you before you left. “Let him handle the business.”

Mags has been the mentor for the girl tributes for as long as you can remember. It’s a position that not even Snow dares to interfere with, because she seems to balance out the chaos. However, this year, she decided there was no harm in allowing you to step in.

You’ve been taking notes the past year, listening to the advice she has to give. She’s one of the victors that’s been around since the beginning, she’s seen the way the Capitol evolves, how their opinions shift. 

She told you to not make much of a stand if the Capitol’s being combative, “And don’t let Finnick’s looks distract you.”

You couldn’t help the face you made at her. She knows how you feel about Finnick, despite trying to keep quiet about it. She picked up on it a little while ago, and told you that there was hope. Since then, she’s been trying to slowly push you two together. 

Which is why she offered to let you mentor this year.

It started out fine on the train, Finnick was talking to you like normal. He was telling you that he thought you might actually enjoy what the Capitol has to offer once you looked past how shallow they could be.

From there, he slowly stopped showing up. He went to the Tribute Parade, but was nowhere to be seen at the celebratory dinner after. The tributes have to be up early to go down for training, and he wouldn’t come out of his room until they were gone. And no one could get a hold of him the day you were preparing the tributes for interviews.

Once the Games kicked off, he vanished into thin air. 

You’re not entirely sure what the problem is. Mags told you that he’d be there for every step to guide you through your first year mentoring. And it’s not like you two are strangers—you’ve known each other for years. You won the year after he did, which means you’ve been squished together and promoted as a pair before. 

He’s polite to your face, so if he has an issue he’s really trying not to confront it. But at this point, you think you’d rather he come out and say it, because you’re getting tired of people asking where he is. As if you have a single clue, yourself.

You stare down at the city lights below. As time goes on, the colorful windows on nearby buildings go dark. The Capitol is known for their nightlife. If you let them, they’ll stay out until the sun rises again. With the Games going on, they try to have some modesty and go to bed before three in the morning. 

Which should be coming up in the next hour.

You glance over your shoulder, curious if Finnick’s come back from where he disappears off to. He usually leaves in the evening, just before supper’s served by the avoxes, and comes back late. He’s remarkably quiet when he enters the apartment, so it’s hard to catch him in the act.

You feel like your mother.

A soft orange glow emits from the gap under his door. You pick the book up off your lap, tossing it on the seat where you’d been sitting. You push open the sliding doors, stepping back in from the balcony.

If there was any day you needed Finnick, today was it. The Career pack—which your tributes are a part of—got attacked twice. They were the only ones targeted, and they got torn up pretty bad. Their allies tried to help them the best they could with the medicine they had, but they needed a sponsor gift.

You have people lined up around the block begging to help, so that’s not the problem. The issue lies in the fact that it’s so late in the Games that everything is so much more expensive than it is in the beginning. Two different tributes, vastly different injuries, only enough money to save one of them.

In that moment, you needed clarity from a mentor that had more experience with a situation like this. And instead of being able to turn to Finnick to ask for his insight, you approached Brutus, of all people, in tears to hear what he would do. If he wanted, he could’ve screwed you over, taken away your fair chance at getting a victor. You’re lucky he was feeling kind.

What was the point in coming here?

You knock on Finnick’s door twice as a courtesy, not waiting for an answer before you swing it wide open. “What in the hell is your problem?” 

Finnick is sitting on the corner of the bed, body turned away from you. He’s wearing a white dress shirt, black slacks. He was somewhere nice, while you were in the Betting Room humiliating yourself.

“Finnick.”

He turns his head slightly, ear now in your direction.

“You’re not even going to talk to me? Did you hear about what happened today?” You scoff, “I am never—”

Finnick finally shifts, eyes locking with yours. His pupils are dilated, iris almost unrecognizable. He’s squinting, eyebrows knit together as he looks over your face, where you’re standing in his room. 

There’s lipstick smeared at the corner of his mouth, wine stains on the front of his shirt. And a look in his eye that you can’t quite place. All you know is that the fire that’s been raging in your chest for the past couple of hours has now died out. 

He’s drunk or something. “Maybe we should talk tomorrow.” You mumble.

Finnick nods, “Okay.”

You back out of his room slowly, closing the door with a soft click. As you return to your room, all you can wonder is if this is how he comes back to the apartment every night. 

—

In the morning, he’s nowhere to be seen at the table. You wait for as long as you can, but when the clock starts creeping towards one, you have to leave. You leave a note with the avox, telling her to give it to Finnick as soon as he shows his face. All it says is that you’ll be in the Betting Room, and it’s urgent.

It’s almost three now, and he’s barely coming through the door. You watch the way he smiles, dimples appearing on his cheeks as he waves to a few of your sponsors. He stops by Brutus briefly, shares a laugh, and then makes his way to you.

Finnick looks more put together than he did last night. He offers you a half-smile, sitting in the chair beside you. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that last night. I’m sure it’s more jarring to see it in person.”

Your face twists slightly, “What, drunk?”

“No, after one of my jobs.” He says, looking over the betting board, your tributes have only dropped slightly after yesterday. 

“Jobs.” You repeat, shaking your head, “What jobs? You mean mentoring?”

Finnick stares at you for a moment, looking over your face. “No, the Capitol job. The one President Snow has me do.”

It’s your turn to stare as you try to pick your brain for a time this has ever been mentioned to you. You thought that mentoring was the job. Is there something you’ve been missing at night, so he’s had to do it for you?

“You don’t know.” Finnick says, it’s not a question. “Well, that makes more sense.”

“Know what?” You ask. “Is there an afterparty or something?”

Finnick lets out a laugh at your question, and then shakes his head. “No, (Y/n). The Capitol likes me for far more than just the way I won. I started mentoring when I turned sixteen, remember?”

You nod.

“It wasn’t to help Mags,” He says slowly. “It was because the people here found me attractive.”

“What?” Your face twists. “Stop, that’s not funny. If you don’t want to help me, that’s one thing, but lying about this—”

Finnick grabs your hands, you look down, and then up and into his eyes. “I’m not lying about this. I’m not the only one in this room that’s been forced to see them. Cashmere, Gloss, Johanna—it’s just what happens.”

Nausea begins to rise in your stomach, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you already knew.” Finnick lets go of you. “I’m sorry. You’ve always been a step ahead, I assumed you picked up on it a long time ago.”

You sit back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest. “When does it end?”

“When they don’t like me anymore.” He murmurs, “Which could be a very long time.”

“That’s sick.” You grit your teeth.

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, while you absorb the new information. It explains his behavior, why he has such a hard time being present. He has no choice but to start around dinner, and his night doesn’t end until they say so. He’s under their thumb.

“I’m sorry about yesterday. I wanted to be here, but I was at the mansion.” Finnick looks over at you. “You did the right thing, asking Brutus for help. I think he would’ve done it without the tears.”

You let out a laugh, “I was terrified of asking him for help.”

“He knows.” Finnick nods. There’s a beat between his next breath, “This doesn’t change your opinion about me, does it?”

You look at him, he swallows. “No, Finnick, of course not.”

“All of your opinions?” 

You stare at him for a second, “Like what?”

“Like the mission Mags has been on for the last year?” 

You can feel the warmth take over your face, you give him a shaky smile. “Oh, that.”

“Yes.” He’s smiling.

“No, Finnick.” You scoot your chair to angle it away from him. “It doesn’t.”

“Then why are you running?”

“Because this is not how I thought this conversation would go.” You laugh. 

--

this was part of my fairy circle celebration!!

[ilguna]

damn two month break and then i bust out three fics in the span of 24 hours.

[ilguna]

heyoo!! could we get finnick odair with 44? (the ring)

☼ seven years later... (Finnick Odair) ☼

warnings; swearing, death/murder, weapon use, plot that may make you question if its a crack fic. its not.

wc; 2.4k

prompt; 44. "I see that you've moved on."

notes; this one kinda hurt to write in the hurt/comfort way.

–

In District Thirteen, if you want time to yourself, you have to wait until nightfall. 

Their system here is structured to be the most efficient at keeping every aspect of life fair. They found out the best way to do this is to have everyone’s schedules figured out for them, everyday. 

From seven o’clock in the morning, until ten-thirty at night, your day is planned. This includes breakfast, lunch, dinner and time outside of the bunker to feel the sunshine on your face. It seems controlling, and felt like it, for the first couple of years after you arrived.

Then reality settled on you. You’d never have to worry about your next meal, since there’s a strict routine with the crops and hunters. And who’s going to take your friend standing next to you, when there’s no Reaping to be a part of. 

The only downside is that you’re forced to be a spectator to what’s happening with the rest of Panem. The tributes picked every year, the victors that come out traumatized, the want for change.

All it took was a spark, and now they’re here—he’s here.

For the past couple of weeks, in the quiet hours of the night—with the permission of the nurses—you’ll stand outside of Finnick Odair’s hospital room and watch him sleep through the window.

It’s never peaceful, he’s usually disturbed by nightmares. If you could comfort him, you would, but the medical staff of Thirteen don’t think it’s the right time yet. The poor man can barely keep his eyes open for five minutes, you might shock him into a heart attack if you show him your face.

It’s been seven years since he’s seen you alive. 

“Back again?” The lady at the desk asks, beckoning you forward. “President Coin’s going to have to chain you to your room.”

You step toward her, watching as she places a guest magnet on your grey jumpsuit. “If I can’t talk to him while he’s awake, then I want to be able to see him at night.”

“Why don’t you come during the day?” She asks, sitting back in the chair.

“The schedule.” You show her the inside of your forearm. 

The schedule is printed in the same place every morning. It’s impossible to take off before you’re supposed to. It’s meant to last the whole day, and to Thirteen’s credit, it does. 

“I’m sure they’ll let you talk to him soon.” She waves her hand. “Return the magnet when you’re done.”

“I will.” You nod, continuing down the hall.

Finnick’s room is fairly hidden in the hospital, tucked away from where the madness occurs. They told you that on the occasions where he does wake up, it’s better if he doesn’t hear the shouting. He gets stressed out and starts asking questions, which is when they sedate him. 

His room accommodates him fairly well, regardless. There’s a whiteboard that’s been installed, with his name written and where he is. You’ve heard the first thing he does when he wakes up is confirm he’s in Thirteen. 

Then they framed the only picture of Annie Cresta they had. She’s a victor from District Four, the Seventieth Games, if you remember right. He made his relationship with her public for the first time during the Quarter Quell interviews. He must mean a lot to her, because he asks about her wellbeing often. She’s stuck in the Capitol, alongside a few of the victors that tried to escape from the arena.

Anyway, he shattered the frame by accident, so now he just holds onto the loose picture. There’s fingerprints all over the sides, the corners are bent. He likes to hold it close to his chest when he sleeps.

You come to a stop outside of Finnick’s room. The nurse has left the blinds open just enough to allow you to look inside. A few times they’ve even given you a stool to sit on, but they got in trouble for encouraging your behavior. The reason why the schedule on your arm stops at ten-thirty is because it’s lights out. You’re not allowed to wander unless you have special permission.

That’ll never stop you.

Finnick is completely passed out in the bed tonight, wearing a gown. There’s a band around his wrist, declaring him a hospital patient. His curls are hardly that, more like a frizz on the top of his head. And his precious picture is tucked between his arm and his ribs. 

He used to hold you the same way.

Finnick asked you to be his girlfriend about a year after he won his Games. He told you that he didn’t have the courage before he got reaped to ask you to be his, but if he could win the Hunger Games, then he could approach you. You said yes, of course, and quickly got swept up in the Capitol tornado.

It was bad in the Capitol, you heard every story there was to tell. Between him and the other victors—what they did to Mags alone. You started telling the other people in District Four, you couldn’t all stand by idly while the winners of Snow’s Games suffered even after the arena.

What you were doing worked, by the Sixty-Eighth Games, everyone was wound up and on edge. There was going to be a protest at the next Reaping, they were ready for it, but then your name got drawn. President Snow wanted to silence you, so he did it in the only way he knows how.

Finnick was devastated, of course. He would be one of your mentors, Mags being the other. She advised you to lay low and keep your mouth shut. The less trouble you caused in the Capitol, the better. In fact, she wanted you to fade into the background, to become one of those tributes that crumble and cry.

Before she sent you into the arena, she told you that she’d made a promise to Finnick to get you out of the arena alive. Either you would become a victor or die trying. 

At the time, you thought she meant you’d actually die, not that she would send an avox in your place back to District Four. While that happened, you were smuggled out of the Capitol and sent to District Thirteen, where you’d be safe and sound. And most importantly—out of Snow’s reach.

The hardest part was coming to realize that also meant no more contact with Mags, Finnick, your family. As you said earlier, you became a spectator to Panem, trying to get close to President Coin in the meantime.

You held on tighter and tighter every year, hoping they would stage another rebellion before it got too late. You wanted Finnick to get the chance you did, to live a life without fear. 

They kept telling you it was too soon. Their options were limited, they needed a tribute that stood out against the others. They can’t just go in half-cocked, they did that with Haymitch.

That’s when the one they’d been waiting for, fell into their laps. Katniss Everdeen, a volunteer from District Twelve. She became the Girl on Fire, with the help of her stylist. She’d been training her whole life with a bow, which is why she’d scored an eleven. And she outsmarted the Head Gamemaker, resulting in his death and the first time two tributes have ever won together.

The ball started to roll, faster than you expected. District Thirteen as a whole was still, but each time you poked your head into Command, it was chaos. Plutarch Heavensbee would be elected as the new Head Gamemaker. He’s a rebel, he helped over twenty years ago with Haymitch’s Games. 

It was announced that victors were going back into the arena, and rumors began to swirl immediately. What a perfect opportunity to scoop up as many of those victors as possible and bring them back for the cause?

You just about died when you heard that Finnick was going back in. You cried when he arrived in Thirteen on the hovercraft. You fought with Boggs and Haymitch about seeing him. You’ve been at his window every night, trying to reconnect.

You press your lips together, swallowing the tightness in your throat. You knew there was a possibility he’d move on. There was no reason for him not to, he thought you were dead. You saw the avox they used, she looked almost identical to you, but you thought he’d notice the different features in her face. He used to trace your nose, lips, eyes and tell you how perfect they were. Couldn’t he see hers weren’t?

As you turn to leave, having enough of him for the night, you catch him stirring in the bed. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, he shifts to fluff his pillow often, or pulls up the blanket halfway down his body. 

This time, he rocks his head from side to side, as if trying to shake away a bad memory. His eyes pop open when he doesn’t succeed, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. He reaches into his armpit to pull out the picture of Annie. 

His eyes are open halfway, he should be going back to sleep soon.

You glance over your shoulder, curious if there’s a nurse around. This part of the unit is usually empty, the only desk is the one you passed on the way in. And she’s not allowed to leave unless there’s an emergency.

You look back at Finnick. All you want to do is talk to him, even if it’s only for a couple of minutes. You lift your hand, hovering it over the doorknob. Worst case scenario is that he freaks out and you get your special permission revoked, right?

You push down on the knob gently, sliding the door open halfway. You wait for him to look up at you, but he doesn’t. He rubs a finger against, presumably, Annie’s face.

“I see that you’ve moved on.” You murmur.

Finnick doesn’t seem surprised at the sound of your voice, so he must’ve seen you watching him through the window. He slowly pulls his eyes away from the picture to glance at you, sucking in a breath of air to speak. 

He doesn’t say anything, though, only exhales. His lips are parted, eyebrows slowly knitting together. He looks older in person, they must edit him on the Capitol programs. He’s grown into his face, and he’s definitely gotten taller since the last time you saw him. 

All these years you’ve seen him through the Capitol lens, the way they idolize him. He’s their favorite there, yet they can’t see the amount of hurt in his eyes each time he’s photographed and plastered on their shitty magazines. 

You’ll never forget the interview he had to do after you were declared dead in the arena. The way Mags had a tight hold on his hand, while he fought back tears. She couldn’t tell him you were alive, it’d put their entire operation at risk. It would get her killed.

It did get her killed.

“What?” You ask, a smile hinting at the corners of your lips. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Finnick squints at you, “You’re not real.”

“I’m real.” 

He shakes his head, “How are you here?”

“The same way you got here.” You cross your arms, passing through the doorway. “I arrived during my Games.”

Finnick looks you over. “You’re not a clone?”

“Finnick.” You make a face at him briefly, before letting out a laugh. “You think District Thirteen has cloning technology that Snow doesn’t?”

He lowers the picture he has of Annie to the bed, flipping it over so you can’t see what it is. It’s too bad you’ve already memorized what she looks like. She’s laughing in that picture, her long brown hair is tangled in curls, green eyes looking at something out of frame. 

“You were dead.” Finnick shakes his head.

“An avox was sent to District Four in my place.” You tilt your head. “I thought you’d notice, but judging by the look in your eyes, you never did.”

“How did you get here?”

“Mags got me out. I got switched out with the avox after the fourteenth day, it was during the night.” You give him a shrug. “They announced that I died during my sleep, when really they snuck me out and sent me away on the first hovercraft available. I was in Thirteen by the time they greyed out my face on the board.”

Finnick’s staring at the whiteboard now, turning this information over in his head. “And you’ve just been here the whole time?”

“Where else was I supposed to go? District Four’s on the other side of Panem.” 

“You couldn’t have sent me a sign?” He asks, looking at you now.

You shake your head slightly. “Finnick, I haven’t talked to anyone since I got here. I haven’t talked to Mags or my family. The only outside connection I’ve ever gotten to witness is when Plutarch got in contact with President Coin. That’s it.”

“My life is different now.” Finnick’s voice is quiet.

“I know.” You tell him. “So is mine.”

“I have a girlfriend.” 

“Annie Cresta.” You nod, “She seems lovely. It’s hard to keep track of her, though. They don’t like to talk about her Games.”

Finnick’s face contorts, tears welling up in his eyes. “You waited for me, didn’t you?”

“Oh, Finnick.” You go to him, sitting on his bed. You pull him into a hug, letting him cry into your shoulder.

“Snow rubbed it in my face, you know.” His voice wavers. “After you died, he told me you had it coming. He’d planned it.”

“I’m not surprised.” You tell him, rubbing his back. “He didn’t win, that’s all that matters.”

“There’s still a fight. They’re still in the Capitol—”

“They won’t be there for much longer.” You pull away from him, using your sleeve to wipe the tears from his face. “Katniss has agreed to be the Mockingjay, it’s only a matter of time before they start talking about a rescue mission. I’ve already volunteered to help.”

His face twists, “You’d go there?”

“For you, I would.”

--

this was part of my fairy circle celebration!!

[ilguna]

OMG YOURE ALIVE AHHHHHHHHHH I LOVE YOUR FICS SM!!1 I HAVE A REQUEST!!!!!! CAN YOU PLS DO A FINNICK X FEM!READER DURING THE 75TH GAMES WHERE SHE GOES WITH JOHANNA AND GETS STUCK IN THE BLOOD RAIN?? IDRC WHAT YOU DO BUT SOMETHING LIKE THAT !! <3

☼ the blood of the dead (Finnick Odair) ☼

warnings; swearing, death/murder, weapon use, lots and lots of blood, and vomit mention.

wc; 3.2k.

notes; i didn't know how to end it, so i left it open lol.

–

“Johanna, I think it’s time for us to take a break.” You pant, wiping the glob of sweat from your face. 

The jungle is a sauna, and that’s putting it lightly. Every inch of your skin is wet beneath the suit. You would think the canopy of leaves overhead would cool the air, but all it does is trap the heat. 

If you weren’t afraid of being eaten alive by bugs, you’d strip down to your underwear. 

“No, we keep going.” She says, not leaving it up for discussion.

She’s been leading the way since you left the Cornucopia, five feet ahead of the rest of you. She hasn’t said a word in close to an hour, and judging by the way she stomps when she walks—she’s pissed.

You look over your shoulder, glancing back at Blight, who got the unfortunate task of carrying Beetee. Behind him is Wiress, who stares off into the greenery, swinging the damned coil of golden wire at her side. The one Beetee risked his life going into the Cornucopia for. 

None of this was part of the plan.

You and everyone else in this alliance knows that The Hunger Games is not an event you attempt to map out. From the moment you’re reaped to the second you’re killed, it’s a dice game.

This didn’t stop Haymitch from trying. After the Tribute Parade, you received message after message from him through your mentor. They wanted you in the alliance, since Finnick requested for you to be part of it. You then made your own deals, regarding your family back home in Eight. In exchange, you were given the details of what they thought would be the best way to handle the arena. 

The night of the interviews, the final plan had been hammered out and whispered to you in the elevator. You were to split off with Finnick, Mags, Katniss and Peeta and get them to safety. The more people watching the pair from Twelve, the better.

Haymitch warned you that Katniss would already be suspicious about the circumstances of the alliance once she’d see Finnick’s bracelet. She’s not the biggest fan of Finnick, which is why you’d be there to smooth it over. If anyone could convince her that sticking together would be the safest way to get everyone to the end, it’s you.

In the meantime, the rebels on the other side of the wall would be figuring out when they actually wanted to get you out of the arena. As soon as they’d figure it out, they’d send you a sign.

It was going to work, there was no reason why it wouldn’t have. 

As you were fleeing the Cornucopia with your group completely intact, Johanna’s scream made you stop cold where you were on the black spoke. When you turned around, you found out that the Careers had attacked Beetee, who’d been stupid enough to dive headfirst into the horn for a spool of wire.

She needed an extra hand.

Haymitch had stressed to you how important it was that Katniss and Peeta—at the bare minimum—make it out of the arena alive. While he talked, he didn’t hide his concern about the pair from Three, which is why he trusted them in the care of Johanna and Blight. 

If Wiress and Beetee could survive the arena, too, then they’d be a much bigger help on the outside. The rebellion’s chance of lifting off the ground would become a guarantee. 

So, you backtracked and ran straight back into the bloodbath.

It’s not that Blight can’t fight as well as you, they needed to split up so he could go find Wiress. Johanna couldn’t be left alone with Beetee, when the Careers were a second away from breathing down her neck.

You swung your sword at Brutus with enough force to nearly make you trip over your own feet. He was able to block your attack, the sound of metal on metal clashing filled the air. It allowed Blight enough time to duck out of the way and help Johanna pull Beetee up. He’d already been injured.

Brutus shoved you back, forcing you to fall over a rock. In the split second she had, Johanna made a wide swing at his face with her ax. “Come on, (Y/n)!”

The four of you started to leave the center island, where Wiress finally appeared from where she’d been hiding. You grabbed the back of her wetsuit, dragging her along as you went for the beach. 

By the time you made it to the treeline, the group—your group—was gone.

Blight’s been carrying Beetee the whole way, which has been uphill so far. It’s been an hour, maybe two, since the bloodbath. You haven’t stopped once. She’s going to wear you out before you make it to water. 

“Johanna, please.” You stop walking, stabbing the sword into the dirt to keep yourself upright. “Let’s just stop for a minute.”

Johanna turns, looking down at you, face screwed tightly together. “We have to keep going. They could be anywhere out here.”

“We’re not finding them today.” 

Blight lets out a sigh, “He’s heavy.”

Johanna looks between the two of you, shaking her head. “Fine. I’m going to look around.”

You watch her take a sharp left into the trees, which are just thick enough that you lose sight of her in a few seconds. When you turn to look at Blight, he’s already lowered Beetee to the ground.

“Will you look at the cut?” Blight asks, crouching down to hold Beetee forward.

You join his side, reaching over to carefully pull the wetsuit away from the wound on Beetee’s back. It doesn’t look too bad right now, but you’re sure it’s only a matter of time before it gets infected.

Enobaria has good aim, any closer to his spine and he’d be paralyzed. He’s lucky all she did was stab him, you’ve seen her do more for less threatening people. 

“How bad is it?” Beetee mumbles.

“Fixable.” You tell him, standing up. “Maybe some water to flush it out, I’m sure the Cornucopia has first aid if we make our way back down there.”

“Not happening.” Johanna’s voice comes from your right. You turn to see she’s coming back down the hill, “Not today. I climbed as high as I could, the bloodbath is going to be over soon.”

“Water?” Blight asks.

She shakes her head, “Either it doesn’t exist, or it’s hidden by the branches. There’s no point in walking in circles to look for any..”

—

As the last strike of lightning hits the nearby tree, the familiar gentle patter of rain on leaves begins to take over. A collective sigh of relief seems to exit the five of you at the thought of water.

“I’ll find something to catch it in.” Wiress offers, getting up from where she sat beside Beetee. 

You didn’t move much further after this afternoon’s discovery, maybe a mile more up the slope. Beetee immediately passed out, exhausted from having to swim to the Cornucopia and being carried. While Blight, on the other hand, volunteered to go out and hunt.

You offered to go with him, but Johanna beat you to it. She didn’t want to be left alone with Wiress and Beetee, they have a tendency to drive her up the wall. You’re not entirely sure why, you mainly sat in silence the whole time they were gone. 

“I’m going to lay here with my mouth open.” Johanna muses, “Maybe I’ll make a funnel.”

Blight lets out a laugh, “No different than usual.”

Johanna scoffs, “You’ve never seen me sleep before.”

He gives her a half-shrug, you hide your smile. Wiress comes over with a couple large leaves, handing them out for you to use as a cup. You fold it the best you can, tilting your head back to look above. 

The lightning storm made it sound like dark clouds were swirling overhead, but all you’re getting is a gentle sprinkle. If it doesn’t pick up, these cups will be useless, and you’ll really be stuck waiting until tomorrow for water.

A drop manages to make it through the trees, landing on your cheek. It’s warm, the same temperature as the saltwater surrounding the Cornucopia. You swipe your finger across it, curious if it’ll taste like it came from the lake. Before you can get a taste, you’re pelted again, and again, and again.

“It’s not water.” Wiress tells you, slightly panicked.

For a moment, you’re confused. It has to be water, why wouldn’t it be? But then the smell hits you, and you’re choking back the rising vomit in your throat. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as Johanna stands up, hand raised toward the sky to catch some of it in her hand.

“It’s—” You heave, slapping a hand over your mouth.

It’s metallic and earthy. It’s slick like oil and contaminates everything. It’s a feeling you’ll never be able to scrub from your hands, a smell you won’t forget, a person you can’t put back together.

It’s blood and it’s coming down thick.

In a matter of a minute, it goes from a light drizzle to a heavy downpour. You can feel it weighing down your wetsuit, drenching your hair, dripping into your eyes. It’s almost impossible to keep track of Johanna and Blight, as they disappear into the red downpour.

You pull yourself to your feet, “We—!” 

The blood forces its way into your mouth, making you gag. You sputter out a mixture of spit and metal, trying to keep yourself from throwing up. You know that if you start, you won’t stop. And you can hardly breathe enough as it is.

You need to get out of here.

You turn away from where Johanna and Blight were, dragging your feet along the gore-covered leaves to try to make your way down to the beach. If your companions are smart, they’ll follow your lead. You can regroup in the open air.

“(Y/n)!” Johanna’s shout interrupts the rain, making you stop where you are.

You glance over your shoulder, but she’s not there. Neither is Wiress or Beetee, who should be in this general area. You suck in a breath, using your hands to make a mask over your mouth, “Beach!”

“No!” She yells back. “Higher—”

A flash of light cuts through the darkness, sparks flying until they’re extinguished in the air. The area where you’d chosen to camp becomes clear, just briefly, to allow you to see Blight get thrown back. Your sword, which was previously in his hand, now glows as orange as an iron fireplace poker. And it’s coming right at you.

You hit the ground, narrowly missing it by a couple inches. The force field builds itself back together, stealing the only light you have. Before it goes, all you can think is how rich the shade of red is, now burned into your memory. 

—

When you were sixteen, you got reaped for the Hunger Games with a boy that you called your best friend. He was your next door neighbor, a year older than you, the most considerate boy you ever knew.

He comforted you on the way to the Capitol, trained with you in the gymnasium, and angled his interview to lock the two of you together. If anyone in the Capitol was thinking about him, then they were thinking about you, too. 

He protected you from the other tributes in the arena, and in exchange, you kept him fed and informed. While he would go looking for stray tributes, you would watch the Career pack move from one patch of trees to the next, hunting the two of you. 

It wasn’t until the Capitol orchestrated a second bloodbath, did you realize how close you were to the final count. Your partner needed medicine, he’d gotten a nasty infection in his leg from the last run-in with the Careers. You offered to go to the Cornucopia, but he turned you down. He wanted to go by himself.

There was a look in his eye when he left, one that made you shudder when you thought about it too hard. It was more than just willing himself to survive, it was a determination to be the only one to walk away from the fight.

You listened to the cannons, one after the other. On your fingers, you counted down the remaining tributes, and were left with two. When you looked up, he’d returned, and you realized what it meant for you.

And you fought back.

Your next door neighbor, your friend, a boy you loved in a world not so twisted, was more vicious than he seemed. He attacked, every swipe at you was intentional. Your arms, your legs, your throat.

With the way he jerked back in surprise—even years later—you still don’t think he meant to aim there. It gave you an opening, a clear shot at his chest. You took the only chance you had, stabbing him and yanking out the blade. The blood from the artery came spraying back at you.

He fell back in the grass, pawing at his chest, trying to keep it all from escaping his body. You sat against a tree, your shirt pressed to the open wound on your throat. You were choking on your own blood, warmth spreading down your shoulders, stars lighting up the clear blue sky.

The blood began to puddle together, your fingers playing in it subconsciously, mixing it with the dirt and grass. Then finally, finally a cannon sounded, and you weren’t sure if it was for you or him.

He was the only person you had to kill.

“It was a punishment.” Your voice is low, hands shaking so bad you can barely keep a hold of Beetee’s arm over your shoulder. “Payback.”

“(Y/n), please.” Johanna begs.

“Tick tock.” Wiress murmurs, leading the way down to the beach. “Tick, tock.”

“We’re covered in it.” You suck in a breath through your teeth. “How many tributes’ blood did we just shower in?”

“Hundreds.” Johanna snaps. “Wiress, quit it!”

She stops for a moment, turns to look back at Johanna. “Tick, tock.”

Johanna clenches her teeth, you can see a clear outline of her jaw. “I don’t know what that means.”

You open your mouth, going to theorize, when you catch a glimpse of the glittering sand between the leaves. You start moving faster, pulling Johanna and Beetee behind you.

“(Y/n), slow down!”

“We’re almost there.” You tell her.

“We don’t even know if it’s safe.” She reaches over with her free hand to slap your stomach. “I’m serious!”

It doesn’t matter, the moment your feet hit the beach, she gives up. You walk maybe five steps before you lower Beetee to the ground. Johanna lets out an irritated sigh, but you don’t care what she thinks, anymore.

The blood from the rain last night has dried and congealed against your skin. You trip over a mound of sand and settle for crawling toward the water. You need to be clean.

“Tick, tock.”

“Shut up!” Johanna tells her. “Stop moving!”

You can hear the wind leave Wiress. You stop long enough to glance over your shoulder to see that she’s pushed Wiress onto the sand. 

“Johanna!” A voice shouts.

Your head darts up, looking in the direction it came from. Three bodies stand on the wet beach, staring at you.

“Who is that?” You ask, squinting.

“It’s Finnick.” Johanna lets out a laugh, “Finnick!”

He starts jogging over to join you, leaving the two others behind. It must be Katniss and Peeta, but where’s Mags?

You get to your feet, holding your arms out for Finnick, who comes to you first. He hugs you tightly, cupping the back of your head with his hand. When he pulls away, he rubs his finger against your cheek.

“What happened?” He touches your face, looking at Johanna.

She shakes her head, throwing a hand up in the direction of the jungle. “We thought it was rain, you know, because of the lightning, and we were all so thirsty. But when it started coming down, it turned out to be blood.” 

Wiress has gotten back to her feet, circling again.

“Thick, hot blood.” Johanna continues. “You couldn’t see, you couldn’t speak without getting a mouthful. We just staggered around, trying to get out of it. That’s when Blight hit the force field.”

You close your eyes for a moment.

“I’m sorry, Johanna.” Finnick murmurs.

“Yeah, well, he wasn’t much, but he was from home.” She sighs. “And he left me with these two.” She nudges Beetee with the tip of her shoe, “He got a knife in the back at the Cornucopia.”

“Is that why you left?” Finnick asks, you nod.

“And her—” Johanna looks at Wiress.

She’s still wandering, murmuring, “Tick, tock. Tick, tock.”

“Yeah, we know. Tick, tock. Nuts is in shock.” Johanna shakes her head. At the mention of her nickname, Wiress heads for Johanna, grabbing onto her. This sets off Johanna, shoving Wiress down. “Just stay down, will you?”

“Lay off her.” Katniss snaps.

Johanna’s eyes narrow, “Lay off her?” She steps forward, slapping Katniss so hard that she leaves a bloody handmark on her cheek. “Who do you think got them out of that bleeding jungle for you? You—”

Finnick lets go of you, throwing Johanna over his shoulder as he wades into the water. You watch them for a second, and when you look back at Katniss and Peeta, their eyes are on your trembling hands.

“It’s been a long night.” You whisper. “Give her some grace.”

You go off to follow your boyfriend into the sea. He’s dunking Johanna repeatedly, turning the saltwater a gentle shade of pink. As you join them, it gets darker.

“Are you okay?” Finnick asks, letting Johanna get a breath.

“A little shaken.” You admit, rubbing the blood from your skin with your fingers. “The smell is the worst part.”

“I know.” He cups his hands, gently pouring water over your hair. “It’s a good thing you went with them. Johanna might’ve killed Wiress and left Beetee behind.”

Johanna scoffs, “She’s the one that was trying to run away last night.”

“Can you blame me?” You ask. “I just wanted to get out of there.”

“We’ve been down here all morning, why didn’t you make your way down sooner?” Finnick asks.

“Beetee, mostly.” You tell him. “We lost our weapons in the rain, we were only able to find Johanna’s. And then we came as fast as we could.”

“He probably just needs water. Her too.” Johanna jerks her head in their direction. 

Katniss and Peeta have taken it upon themselves to help clean up the pair from Three. 

You grab Finnick’s hand, making him look at you. You open your mouth to ask where Mags is, if she’s somewhere safe in the jungle, but the look in his eyes gives it away.

“I’m sorry, Finnick.” You press a kiss to the back of his hand, holding it against your cheek.

“We knew it was going to happen.” His voice is quiet. “It was her choice.”

--

this was part of my fairy circle celebration!!

[ilguna]

im so fucking irritated rn

anyway im trying to finish this fic today. hopefully done in the next hour.

[ilguna]

hey since when did we start naming some of the 75th hunger games victors??

[ilguna]

im ngl i dedicated a whole three weeks to outlining a walking dead fic from season 1 to season 11. and i fully plan on writing it. the issue is that i can't decide to make it an oc fic or turn it into an x reader type thing

because there's so much discourse around what's considered an oc fic now. like halcyon for example, giving the reader a last name as gallows, giving them siblings like reed, mox and alyssum. the backstory of her parents. all of that would be considered oc stuff i guess?

but i never minded having all of that figured out for me in a fanfic. like i hate having to pick out a name for y/n to begin with. because i am never actually using my name. and don't get me started on typing out h/c, e/c, etc. it feels like a waste of time to use descriptors like that when its not really needed.

it personally puts me off having to read "you flip your h/c over your shoulder, staring into the mirror at your e/c eyes filled with rage" or whatever. you know??? who cares about what color your hair is when you're doing something. unless it's set in the third person, but i don't write in that pov

obviously people will read a fic even if it has an oc as a main character, it's basically like reading a book. i guess im just afraid of the fic not reaching the audience i want it to

anyway, im working on requests lol

[midniqhtt]

PEETA MELLARK RECS .ᐟ

꒰ MASTERLIST I HUNGER GAMES I 06/29/26 ꒱

a collection of fics i’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed all in one spot! read each warning before diving in and please give writers some appreciation for all their hard work by reblogging and/or commenting! ꨄ

A: angst F: fluff S: smut C: comfort H/C: hurt comfort

here in the garden I @futureman I A I the capitol was supposed to let you live in peace after you played and won their brutal game, and for nearly a decade, they did—until you're chosen as district 11's tribute once again for a special quarter quell. yet somehow, peace finds you anyway in an unlikely form: a golden-haired baker's boy from district 12 who makes you feel alive even in the familiar face of death.

acurrucar I @orangepeetals I A I You n’ Peeta have been best friends since you were kids, you win the Hunger games once n’ you’re a mentor now.

sweet nothing I @waitimcomingtoo I H/C I you and Peeta have an honest conversation after he defends Gale at the whipping post

he’ll have to get in line I @/waitimcomingtoo I F I Peeta amps up the star crossed lovers act when Finnick takes a liking to you.

all those shadows almost killed your light I @/waitimcomingtoo I H/C I you leave the cave to go get supplies and get lost, leaving Peeta to panic while you’re gone.

one for us I @/waitimcomingtoo I C I Peeta gets upset when you suggest getting married to appease the Capitol

sugar and spice I @/waitimcomingtoo I F I Peeta gets jealous when a guy keeps coming into the bakery to flirt with you

strawberry blond I @bayjaruchel I H/C + S I late one night, you get a call

please I @quiet-out-there I S I When Finnick notices how the reader’s drink has been spiked with sex pollen at one of President Snows Balls, he and Peeta make a plan to save her from the special services the victors sometimes provide for the capitol. Finnick causes a distraction, while Peeta makes sure to take the reader away to safety, only the plan doesn’t go accordingly, and ends up with a sex crazed reader stuck on a closet.

one true love I @ilguna I H/C I to everyone else, you're nothing but a rebound to Peeta. to Peeta, you are his one true love.

all i ask I @gogogodzilla I S

[ilguna]

☼ decode pt2 (Finnick Odair) ☼

warnings; swearing, mention of the berry situation, death/murder, weapon use, mentions of betrayal.

wc; 2.8k

prompt; 23. lovers to enemies au

part one.

–

The announcement of the Quarter Quell in the winter came as a surprise.

It was surreal, sitting on your couch, watching as the President of Panem opened the box and unsealed the envelope that held this year's twist. You knew the possibilities of what could be said—any cruel thing under the sun—but it was worse than you ever could’ve predicted it to be.

As Snow read himself, “On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of victors.”

You could hear a pin drop on the other side of the country, it was so quiet. 

The heaviness of his words sat on the shoulders of the people from District One for the next seven months. And the victors? You could see the dread on their faces, the hesitation to train. There were only a few who didn’t mind the idea of getting a chance to go back in, and you were among them.

It’s an odd feeling to be on the tribute side of the Hunger Games again. It’s supposed to be against the rules to send a victor back into an arena, but all it took was a Quarter Quell to supersede it. 

It’s a shame almost all of the victors from your generation got the short end of the stick.

“Finnick!” You call, holding up the bottom of your parade outfit as you head toward him.

This year, your stylist wanted you to be seen in a gown, one that would remind the Capitol people of royalty. She thought it would be a perfect play on District One, since it’s known for luxury. There’s sparkling diamonds hanging off of you in every way imaginable. 

Your boyfriend turns, dressed the exact opposite of you. He’s basically naked, if it weren’t for the bunch of frayed ropes at his hips. You’re sure the thinking behind his costume—or lackthereof—is the more skin he shows, the better. As if he even needs help getting sponsors. 

You wait for the signature smile he gives you each year, the one that sends a swarm of butterflies up your chest, but it doesn’t come.

“They might as well just let you go out naked.” You laugh lightly. “Did you get any of my letters?”

Finnick’s face twists. “I can’t believe you volunteered.”

It’s your turn to scrunch your face, “Why? What else was I supposed to do?”

“You shouldn’t have come here, (Y/n).” Finnick shakes his head. “This is not what you think it is.”

You stare at him for a long moment, eyebrow twitching. “What is it?”

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” His tone is impatient.

With a slow turn, you look around the base of the Remake Center. It’s a giant stable. A few of the other victors have made it down here already, dressed in various outfits fitting their age and district. Most of them were not volunteers, they were picked unwillingly and brought here, but that’s how it happens every year. 

There’s a few who chose to volunteer, like you, Enobaria and Brutus. Which is typical, and you have your own nefarious reasons on why you decided to come back. The only difference between now and any other Games is that you’ve all won once already.

This is not his line of thinking, though, and you can tell by the way his expression continues to harden the longer you take to answer. Is there something you’re missing?

“I don’t know, the Hunger Games?” You guess.

Finnick lets out a sigh, “Go back to your chariot.”

He tries to leave, but you don’t let him. “We need to talk.” You reach out to touch his arm, he pulls away before you can. Your hand drops back to your side. “Listen, I’m sorry about last year. I didn’t mean—”

“That doesn’t matter anymore, (Y/n).” He cuts you off. “Go.”

At the sound of his tone, your mouth goes dry, a heavy feeling setting in your jaw. He never talks to you like this, even when he’s frustrated with you. He’ll stop and take the time to explain. 

You press your lips together, swallowing the lump in your throat. If he doesn’t want to talk about your relationship, then fine. He can’t say you didn’t try to talk it out first. 

You grab the bottom of the dress, lifting it as you turn on your heel. Gloss is standing next to your chariot, dressed in a shimmering outfit similar to yours. As you walk back, you force a smile, tilting your head. 

“Hey, why’d it take you so long to get down here?” You ask, “All they have to do is put you in a suit.”

Gloss pinches a piece of fabric. “They have to perfect every wrinkle.”

You let out a laugh, “Right.”

For the seventh year in a row, you’re stuck with Gloss in the Capitol, just in a different role this time. Although, if he had a choice, he’d be mentoring with Cashmere right now. If it weren’t for you, she’d be a tribute with him. 

The way fate works is cruel, and yet, you’ve always had a tendency to ruin her plans.

“How’d the talk with Finnick go?”

Your smile falters, “He didn’t seem interested.”

Gloss’s eyes narrow, “In talking about your relationship?”

You half-shrug, “He said it doesn’t matter anymore.”

He gives a slow nod, looking over your shoulder, presumably at Finnick. You resist the urge to follow his gaze, not wanting to upset yourself further. The longer he stares, the more the curiosity begins to eat at your neck.

You settle for a quick glance, and find that Finnick is standing with Katniss Everdeen by her chariot. That is what he was looking at so intensely. It must be a heated conversation, judging by how close Finnick’s leaning in to talk to her. As if you’re not in the same room. 

You wish you could be naive and say he’s grilling her about her actions in the arena last year, maybe scorching her about the consequences. Except, he didn’t seem to mind the trouble she caused at the time.

You’re almost certain she and Peeta Mellark are the reason why there are victors in the role of tributes. If she’d just died in the arena with Peeta like she wanted to, then there wouldn’t be a mess for the Gamemakers to clean up. 

Not that you really mind, because now you get the chance to kill the Girl on Fire and take the title of two-timing victor. By the time you’re done with the Quarter Quell, their names will be a whisper in the wind.

—

The turnout in the gym today is far worse than it was yesterday. Which would usually be a cause for concern for the Capitol, but they’ve been on a streak when it comes to bending the rules lately. 

Besides, you think they got sick of sending people out to clean up the vomit that made it onto the concrete. 

You lower the spear in your hand, resting the pole on the ground. Gloss takes this as a cue to throw his, you watch as it goes right through the chest of a blank dummy. A panel slides in front of the range, protecting the trainer while he goes to retrieve the weapon and change out the target. 

You wonder how effective the panel actually is.

While you wait, you shift your body, peeking out at the other tributes and what they’re doing. Katniss and Peeta have been consistently moving around the gym, trying new stations, making friends. After the stunt she pulled yesterday with the bow, you heard that everyone put in a request to Haymitch to have her as an ally. 

Johanna’s been irritating as usual, so you’ve been keeping a distance from her. Oil and water don’t mix, and that’s exactly what you are to each other. Finnick was the only reason why you would tolerate her, and you haven’t talked to him in two days. 

Brutus and Enobaria are taking turns at the sword station. They’ve agreed to ally with you and Gloss, but you didn’t miss the way they looked at Finnick. They want more people in the pack, since there’s a bigger threat of getting taken down early this year. 

Speaking of Finnick, he and Mags have been sticking particularly close together. If she goes to make hooks, he’s not far behind. You’ve been waiting for them to separate, so you can have a moment to formally invite him to the alliance. Mags is a given, of course, he’s not going to join if she’s not welcome. 

“(Y/n), it’s your turn.” Gloss says.

You lift the spear, drawing your arm back and turning in one fluid motion. You whip your arm forward, the spear slices through the forehead of the dummy. It splits straight down the middle, revealing the cushioning on the inside. The panel slides out.

“I’m going to talk to Finnick.” You tell Gloss.

“I thought you wanted to wait until he was alone?” He asks.

You lift a hand, “Obviously, that’s never going to happen.”

Gloss nods, “Well, I’m going to group up with Brutus and Enobaria before lunch.”

“Sounds good.” You begin to walk backward, “I have a feeling this won’t take long.”

Gloss gives you a sympathetic smile, before turning away. You twist around, heading directly across the gym floor to the corner Finnick’s standing in.

You’ve been thinking about what he said—what he asked—at the Tribute Parade. It’s easy for you to forget he doesn’t completely agree with the way you won, how you spoke in your interviews after. As if the lives of those you took didn’t matter before the Games and they wouldn’t matter now that they’re gone.

The people you’re surrounded by aren’t strangers. They’re acquaintances, mentors, friends and much more. It should hurt to be here, and you think your enthusiasm might have thrown him. You owe him an apology.

Finnick has briefly paused on the hook he’s putting together, looking up at you. “(Y/n).”

“Finnick.” You stop a few feet away, watching his fingers go back to work. “I’m sorry.”

He hesitates on the next wire twist, “What for?”

“I was insensitive.” You admit. “I don’t want it to come between us.”

His face twitches, hardening after.

When he doesn’t say anything, you clear your throat. “Well, anyway, you and Mags are more than welcome to join us.” You point over to Enobaria, Brutus and Gloss. They’re gathered by a concrete beam.

“I have my own allies.” His voice is monotone.

“Oh,” You chew on the inside of your cheek. This isn’t going how you hoped. “Like who? Johanna?”

“Her, Katniss, Peeta,” He glances up at you. “Wiress, Beetee.”

You make a face at him. “That’s an easy way to get yourself killed, I’ll give you that.”

Finnick sighs through his nose, irritated. He stands up to his full height, “And they’re any better?” He motions at your group.

“I know they can protect me.” You lift a shoulder. “I mean, we’re all going to have a target on our backs, anyway. I just wouldn’t purposely put myself in the path of the Gamemakers if I didn’t have to.”

“You’re so shallow, and you can’t even see it.” Finnick shakes his head. “I don’t need to know how you feel about my alliance, because you’re not invited into it, either way.”

“Am I?” Your hands ball into fists at your sides.

There’s a long moment of silence that passes between the two of you. The sound of laughter on the other side of the gym echoes through the barely-occupied room. You watch the way his expression changes, the way he swallows.

He’s hiding something.

“Well, if I’m shallow, then you’re a coward.” You finally tell him. “This is the hand you’ve been dealt, you’re a fool not to fight for your life, all that it’s worth.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” He asks, moving around the fishhook podium. “You can’t see past the fact that you might have to kill someone in the arena, so you have to optimize your allies. I’m seeing a bigger picture, (Y/n).”

“You always see a bigger picture, but you’re forgetting the smaller details.” You step in close. “I will have to kill in the arena.” You poke his chest. “And while you’re in there taking the safer steps, trying to avoid the inevitable, there will come a time where you’re all at each other’s throats. You won’t know whether to save the alliance or get rid of it, because you’re looking at the bigger picture. And Katniss?” 

You move out of the way to give him a clear look at his ally. She’s currently hovering over Peeta, the way she has been since you arrived in the Capitol. “Katniss will be watching the way you look at Peeta, because she’s not going to hesitate if it means to save his life.”

Finnick looks down at you.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Judging me is a lot like looking at yourself in the mirror. I know the kind of person you are, Finnick. You won’t hesitate either, as much as you like to think you would. Once that cannon sounds tomorrow, whatever camaraderie you feel with these people will be gone.”

—

The sword feels heavy in your hand, it’s a different material than the one they had you train with in the gym. Those were lighter. You’d bet the weight is done on purpose to throw off the bloodbath. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve messed with expectations.

It’s too bad there won’t be much of one. 

Katniss and Finnick got to the Cornucopia, one after the other. They were smart enough to fend off the golden horn long enough to figure out where their allies were. Peeta was seconds away from being drowned by another tribute. Finnick had to jump back into the water to save him.

You suck in air, feeling it pass between your lips. You want to get a hold of your breathing before the rest begin to make it out of the water. It doesn’t matter how deadly the Career pack is, there will always be a few who think they’ll be lucky enough to make it out alive.

You watch as Finnick tows Peeta back to the nearest spoke. It makes sense that he can’t swim, District Twelve doesn’t have any bodies of water inside of the walls. Which raises questions on how Katniss managed to make it to the Cornucopia as fast as a tribute from District Four. 

Peeta and Finnick pull themselves out of the water, a glance is barely spared in your direction. Finnick has to lean down to scoop Mags out of the water, since she lacks the upper body strength to pull herself out. He’s going to get her killed, she’d be safer with you.

You watch as Finnick throws a net over his shoulder, pulling Mags onto his back. He ushers Katniss and Peeta to go before him. They take off down the spoke, being careful to watch for the rocks that jut out.

As they get a headstart on him, he turns to look at you, making direct eye contact.

You know, once upon a time, you and Finncik were the couple in the Capitol. The two of you were advertised everywhere together. If you could make love work living in two different districts, then surely nothing could come between you.

It was a relationship so beloved by the people, that Snow even permitted for you and Finnick to write to each other during the off-months. He promised they’d be delivered, as long as he’d get to keep a clipping to put in the Capitol’s magazine. That way he could show them just how generous he could be.

You’re not blind, or stupid. You know Finnick didn’t receive any of your letters this year, and it’s because of those stupid tributes from Twelve. They brought the problem of the Games to light last year, which forced Snow to stop his leniency. No training in the districts, no letters between lovers, and surely no more smart ideas from tributes that aren’t supposed to know better than the Head Gamemaker.

Finnick used to agree with you, he did for the longest time. Then he got distracted by a beam of light from a reflective surface. The hope they have isn’t real, and all it’s going to do is get them killed.

You stab the sword into the sand. “Go.”

And he does.

--

this was part of my fairy circle celebration!!