- as for rules about request, the only things I’m not comfortable with writing is: anything about rape/and age play and incest. As for angst fics I don’t have anything I’m uncomfortable with so go wild! <3
- I will not interact with you if you don’t have 18+ in your bio.
- I only write for hunger games . 𐦍༘⋆
WARNINGS!
Im Dislexic so there may be a few spelling errors in my writing! if you see one please ignore it 🦈 <3 ✧.*
All of my fanfics! 🌍
Click more for the list!
Petta: 🥖
- your his sister
- katniss x petta (katniss is sick)
——————
Gale: ⚒️
- comfort him after the war.
- gale spicy head cannons.
————-
Johanna: 🪓
- She takes her anger out on you.
———-
Annie cresta: 🐚
- you drew stars around my scars. (Wlw reader x Annie)
- reader x Annie headcannons!
———-
Finnick odair: 🔱
strange request but I had a dream about this and thought it was lowkey cool
DIFFERENT AU OBVVVV
Reader was experimented on by the capitol
Finnick x tribute reader?
Finnick x reader.
Sfw !
Cw// Reaping, mention of death, panic attacks, comfort, social anxiety.
As soon as you
finnick odair and reader when she encounters something that reminds her of her capture in the capitol (like a rat or a needle or something)
Cw: drinking, alcohol, hunger games, mention of death.
———————————————
Ps: someone said they didn’t like when I did the bold and italic writing, because it made it harder too read so I didn’t do it with this one! Lmk if you like it better or worse!
The train rattled along the tracks, a sleek silver snake cutting through the District 12 landscape, dragging the weight of its cargo—Haymitch Abernathy, a bottle of whiskey, and the most annoying Capitol escort in history. The air inside the train car was almost too clean, too bright. Haymitch hated it. The stiff, pristine furniture. The polished silverware. The damn fancy food. Everything screamed Capitol excess, and he just wanted to disappear into the bottle in his hand.
The tributes—mostly trembling teenagers—had been introduced in the dining car, but he hadn’t bothered to stick around. He could hardly stand the sight of them, fresh-faced and scared, pretending they had hope when they didn’t even know what was coming. So, as usual, he did the only thing that could dull the pain: he got drunk.
Now, slouched in his room with the door locked, he kept the bottle close, taking another long swig. The familiar burn in his throat was the only thing keeping the chaos of his mind at bay. The walls of the compartment were as sterile as the rest of the train, the cold, immaculate bed a reminder that this place wasn’t meant for someone like him. He didn’t belong here. Not with people like Effie Trinket, who couldn’t see past her perfectly pressed dress and those ridiculous heels.
Effie. He couldn’t shake her. He thought he’d be rid of her once they were back on the train, but no—she always found a way to worm her way back into his life. He cursed under his breath, his fingers tightening around the bottle. He was just about to take another drink when—
Knock. Knock.
“Go away,” he slurred, not even bothering to lift his head.
Effie’s voice came through, sharp and unmistakable. “Haymitch Abernathy, if you think you can hide in there forever, you’re sadly mistaken!”
He leaned his head back against the window, staring out at the blur of landscape. “I wasn’t planning on hiding, darling. Just thought I’d get a little peace before you show up to ruin my buzz.”
“Too bad. You’re stuck with me.” She didn’t even wait for him to respond before the door swung open.
Haymitch didn’t look up as Effie entered, but he could feel her presence—the click of her heels, the rustling of her absurdly fluffy dress. He took another swig, savoring the burn, but mostly hoping she’d just get the hint and leave.
She didn’t.
Instead, she stood there, arms crossed, looking down at him with a mixture of frustration and disbelief. “I cannot believe you’re doing this again. I told you before, you need to at least pretend to care about the tributes, or at least pretend to care about your job.”
“Ah, my job,” Haymitch scoffed, glancing up at her with a lazy smirk. “That’s rich coming from you. I don’t see you out there slaying any dragons. Just telling me how to pretend like I give a damn. Makes you sound so… noble.”
Effie’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a split second, Haymitch almost felt a flicker of guilt. Almost. “You’re impossible, Haymitch,” she muttered, stepping closer, her heels clicking with each deliberate step. “Do you even remember what it’s like to care about anything that’s not in a bottle?”
Haymitch let out a short laugh, the bitterness in his tone clear. “Well, let’s see. I care about not getting my face squished by your heels, if that helps.
Effie stopped just short of the chair opposite him, her arms still crossed, and for a moment, there was a tension in the air. It wasn’t the usual tension that came from her lecturing him or his obvious disdain for her. No, this was different. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t fake. She was… frustrated. And maybe—just maybe—he was too.
“Why do you do this?” she asked, her voice softer now, though it still held a trace of that Capitol-bred authority. “You don’t have to drink yourself into oblivion every time. You don’t have to shut down every time we get close to the Capitol. We could—”
“We could what, Effie?” Haymitch interrupted, his voice growing more forceful as he leaned forward. “What do you think is gonna happen? I get all sunshine and roses and suddenly I care about your little Capitol circus? No. I don’t care. I never will. The tributes come and go. The Games happen. And I—” He cut himself off with a long, frustrated sigh. “I’m just here to survive, like everyone else.”
Effie’s eyes softened for just a moment, but then that damn spark of defiance flared again. She straightened up, narrowing her eyes at him. “Well, you’re not going to survive much longer if you keep drinking yourself into a stupor every time something gets hard.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Haymitch drawled, his smirk returning. “Maybe I like the way it feels. Maybe I like not thinking about the crap you’re trying to shove down my throat.” He took another swig from the bottle, keeping his eyes locked on hers. “Or maybe I just like the idea of being the only one in this ridiculous train ride who isn’t pretending to be happy about anything.”
Effie opened her mouth, probably to deliver some scolding about his “self-destructive tendencies,” but Haymitch couldn’t help himself. His sarcasm bubbled out before she could get a word in.
“And hey,” he said, his voice lowering to a teasing tone, “if you’re really so determined to make me behave, you might want to try a different approach. I mean, I’m a sucker for a woman in power. But you? You might want to take that corset off before you start squeezing the life out of me.”
Effie froze, her face flushed with a mix of annoyance and something else—something Haymitch couldn’t quite place. He watched her for a long moment, enjoying the discomfort in her eyes.
“You’re insufferable,” she finally managed, her voice trembling, but she didn’t leave. And that, Haymitch thought, was the real kicker.
“Yeah, I know.” He took another drink and leaned back, looking her up and down. “But you keep coming back for more. Either you’re a glutton for punishment, or… you’ve got a soft spot for me. I knew it.”
Effie rolled her eyes, but there was a soft laugh in her voice that almost made him regret his next words. “Maybe I just pity you.”
“Ah, so you’re my knight in shining armor then?” Haymitch chuckled darkly, tilting his head toward her. “I could get used to that.”
She didn’t respond immediately, but something shifted in her gaze. A flicker of uncertainty, mixed with exasperation, passed through her eyes before she sighed dramatically, giving him a small, almost reluctant smile. “You know, you’re insufferable. But if I’m your knight, you’re a very difficult prince to rescue.”
Haymitch smirked, eyes glinting with mischief. “I like a challenge.”
Effie shook her head, but there was no real heat in it. She seemed almost… resigned. “You’re impossible,” she said, though the words weren’t as sharp as usual.
Haymitch raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
For a moment, the air between them was thick, not with tension, but with something else—something unsaid. He didn’t know what it was, but it was there, lingering like the whiskey on his tongue.
Just read that you are writing a Hayffie Long-fic that you will post on AO3. I was wondering if you have already posted it there
Hi thank you for asking <3
So update post:
I’ve been completely busy with school so I haven’t finished it, and I don’t wanna post a fanfic that’s half done.
But I’m working on it again!! and since I’ve taken so long I’m gonna make a head cannon and mini fic as a apology and post it here while we wait for me too get motivated too actually finish the main one.. 😔🫶🏻
AGAIN IM SO SORRY IVE BEEN STRESSED WITH COLLAGE <3 💗
OFCCC SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG TOO MAKE! I WAS ON BREAK!!
Annie cresta head cannons:
Sfw!
————————
1. Hair Play: Annie loves playing with your hair and will often match your hairstyle, whether it’s braids or cute ponytails.
2. Baking for You: She bakes cookies for you when you’re feeling down, always using it as a way to cheer you up.
3. Cat Lover: Annie is definitely a cat person. She has a bunch of cats and would probably name one after you to show how much you mean to her.
4. Handmade Jewelry: She enjoys making you little pieces of jewelry—seashell necklaces, cute rings, and those sweet string bracelets that carry sentimental value.
5. Art: Annie loves painting and finds it therapeutic, especially during tough times. She’ll paint things that remind her of you—like your favorite flower, your pets, or the sea.
6. Thoughtful Gifts: She’s the type to give you small, meaningful gifts that she made herself—like a piece of art or a carefully crafted bracelet.
7. Quiet Comfort: Annie enjoys calm, peaceful moments with you—whether that’s painting, baking, or just sitting quietly together.
For my mentor Finnick x tribute reader series would y’all rather me make a chapter about training then go into the games, or just go into the games? :3
finnick odair and reader when she encounters something that reminds her of her capture in the capitol (like a rat or a needle or something)
Finnick x hijacked reader.
Cw: PTSD,panic attack, loss of breath, hallucinations, flashbacks, hitting, screaming, nightmares, doctors, hospital ptsd, fear of doctors, anxiety, depression.
Summary: reader has a ptsd episode.
The night was still, the only sounds the soft breaths of the two bodies tangled together beneath the blankets. You had been drifting off to sleep in Finnick’s arms, his warmth a comfort, his heartbeat a steady rhythm you had learned to rely on. For a moment, the world felt safe, wrapped in the cocoon of his presence, the nightmares far behind you.
But then, everything shifted.
You didn’t know when it started, when the dream twisted into something darker, something that made your chest tighten and your breath catch in a way that wasn’t quite real. Your body jerked, a sharp inhale catching in your throat, and suddenly, you were back there—there, in the place you never wanted to be.
Your heart was racing, each beat like a drum, too, too loud. Your limbs felt too heavy, the air too thick. Your chest constricted, and the familiar feeling of panic spread, suffocating you. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. All you could feel was the terror, the overwhelming sense that you were trapped.
You gasped, struggling for air, and in the dark, you heard Finnick’s voice, soft but clear, pulling you from the nightmare just enough to recognize him.
“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” he whispered.
But it didn’t feel like you were okay. The panic clawed at you, rising faster than you could keep up with. You couldn’t see anything clearly; everything was a blur of shadows and memories, all mixing together in a blur of fear. You didn’t know where you were. You didn’t know who was holding you. The fear in your chest made it impossible to focus.
“Finnick!” you gasped, but it wasn’t your voice. It was thin, distorted, filled with terror, like you weren’t even in control of it.
Your body jerked away from him, your arms flailing out instinctively, trying to push him away, to escape, but you couldn’t. You were stuck in it, trapped inside the panic, your mind unable to separate reality from the nightmare. The air felt suffocating, and every movement sent a jolt of fear through you. You didn’t want to be touched. You didn’t want to be held.
“Stay away!” you shouted, your voice breaking as you struggled to pull yourself free.
Finnick’s hands were on you, gentle but firm, his grip trying to steady you, but it only made you feel more cornered, more panicked. You didn’t recognize him in that moment. His touch felt like it was part of the nightmare, and your body reacted on instinct, fighting to break free.
“Shh, it’s okay,” Finnick said, but his words only seemed to echo in the fog of your panic. You couldn’t make sense of them, not in the midst of your fear. You needed to escape.
“No! Let go!” you screamed, your hands swinging wildly as you tried to push him away, but you only hit him weakly, your body trembling with every failed attempt.
But Finnick wasn’t letting go. You could feel his strength holding you down, his arms pinning you in place, and it sent a new wave of panic through you. “Finnick, please! Get off me!” The words didn’t feel like yours, like they came from someone trapped deep inside.
He was holding you, but not to hurt you. Finnick knew better than anyone how your episodes could spiral, how your panic could turn violent. You’d hurt yourself before, hitting your head or clawing at your skin without meaning to, completely unaware of the harm you were causing. Finnick knew that in moments like this, he had to hold you down, just long enough to stop you from making things worse.
He wasn’t trying to restrain you. He wasn’t trying to control you. He was trying to keep you safe.
“Listen to me,” he said again, his voice softer, more insistent. His hands were still on your wrists, but it wasn’t a grip that hurt. He was careful, trying to keep you still, trying to keep you from hurting yourself. “You’re okay, I promise. You’re safe. I’m not going anywhere.”
You thrashed again, but this time, the fight was beginning to drain from you. The panic wasn’t as sharp anymore, not as violent. You could feel his hands on you, steadying you, holding you close. But your body still trembled uncontrollably, your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. Your fists clenched, but you weren’t swinging anymore. You weren’t fighting him.
“Please,” you whispered, still lost in the nightmare, but the sound of his voice, steady and familiar, was starting to break through. “I can’t… I can’t breathe…”
“I know, love,” Finnick said, his voice thick with emotion, his face inches from yours. “You’re safe. I’m here. You’re not alone.”
He didn’t let go. His arms stayed around you, holding you down gently, keeping you from thrashing, keeping you from hurting yourself. Slowly, the world began to return to focus, the nightmare pulling away just enough for you to realize where you were—with him, in your bed, in your apartment, in a place that should have felt safe.
“Finnick,” you whispered again, your voice shaky now, as your body started to quiet. You were still trembling, still struggling to catch your breath, but you were starting to come back. The nightmare had lost its grip, slowly, painfully, as Finnick kept his hold on you—firm, but never harsh.
“I’m here,” he whispered, his lips brushing your forehead as you finally began to calm. “I won’t let go.”
And even as you breathed in, still shaking from the remnants of the panic, you knew you weren’t alone. Finnick wasn’t going anywhere, not even when the fear tried to pull you back into the dark. He would stay, he would keep you safe, and for once, you didn’t have to face it alone.
Cw: panic attacks, marriage, mention of kids, alcohol, death.
——————
- First Date: Annie would be very nervous to ask you out, assuming you’ve both been friends for quite a while. But when she finally gets the nerve to ask you, it’s a beach date. She would bring all types of food, including mini sandwiches, fruit, water, and wine. (She secretly pours herself grape juice instead of alcohol so she can look cool, even though she hates alcohol.) On the date, she’d probably be shy at first, but once the two of you are comfortable, she’d open up with a quiet, warm smile and maybe even share stories of her childhood by the sea. The waves crashing in the background would help her relax, and you’d see a different side of her: vulnerable but full of hope.
- asking you too be her’s: Annie, a total hopeless romantic, plans the perfect moment to ask you to be hers at your special beach spot, the place that holds so many memories for both of you. She’s been thinking about it for days, crafting a necklace with a seashell she found on one of your walks, symbolizing the connection you share with the ocean and with each other. Along with the necklace, she writes you a heartfelt note, filled with the kind of soft, sincere words that she finds hard to say aloud—words like “I’ve never felt more at peace than when I’m with you, and I hope we can be something more.” To make the moment even more special, she secretly collects a few small things she knows you love—maybe your favorite candy, a book you mentioned, or something that reminds her of you—hoping it will show you just how much she listens and cares. As she hands you the necklace, her fingers tremble with both excitement and nervousness, and with a soft, almost shy voice, she asks, “Will you be mine?” The quiet sound of the waves in the background only adds to the moment, and though Annie is nervous and unsure of how you’ll respond, her heart is full of hope as she waits for your answer, knowing this moment is one she’ll never forget.
- physical touch: I personally think Annie is a bit shy. Especially after the games with physical touches. But once she warms up too you, she clings onto you from behind when your cooking, she loves too lay her head in your lap so you will play with her hair.
- comfort: If you have a nightmare, Annie, deeply understanding the fear and anxiety that comes with them, will quietly check in with you, softly asking if you’re okay with her touching you. If you say yes, she will gently wrap her arms around you, her touch calming as she traces up and down your arms, giving you the space to collect your thoughts until you’re ready to talk about it. If you say no, she completely respects your boundaries and will comfort you without physical touch, using soothing words and guiding you through the 5 senses method, helping you focus on what you can see, hear, smell, taste, and feel to ground you back to the present. Annie is patient, empathetic, and always there for you, in whatever way you need.
- purposing: Annie would carefully pick out a ring with a crystal that perfectly matches your eyes, a subtle, beautiful detail that shows how deeply she’s thought about this moment. When the time comes, she would choose the beach—of course—your special spot, where you’ve shared so many quiet, intimate moments. Annie would want the proposal to feel personal and private, just the two of you and the sound of the waves. She’d decorate it softly with small, meaningful touches—maybe a few candles or a simple blanket, but nothing too extravagant, as the natural beauty of the beach would be all the setting you need. Nervously, but with all the love she has for you, she’d ask, “Will you marry me?” in a way that feels both shy and full of hope, knowing this moment, just like your relationship, is something only the two of you truly understand.
- marriage: Annie’s wedding would be a reflection of simplicity, intimacy, and the deep connection you share, centered around both of your favorite colors. She’d want everything to feel personal and meaningful, not extravagant, but thoughtful. The ceremony would include seats marked “Reserved for Lost Loved Ones,” a tribute to those who didn’t make it through the war or the Games, honoring their memories in a way that felt peaceful and respectful. For the flowers, Annie would choose a beautiful blend of both of your favorite blooms, perhaps something calming and natural like soft lavender mixed with gentle white roses, reflecting both your personalities. When it comes to her makeup, she wouldn’t want to go overboard—just enough to feel herself, perhaps a soft glow and natural tones. The same goes for the decor, the cake, and the music—nothing too flashy or attention-grabbing—just a quiet, intimate celebration of your love. Above all, Annie’s only wish would be to marry you in a way that felt authentic, grounded, and full of the peaceful joy of being together, nothing more, nothing less.
- kids: Before the Games, Annie always dreamed of being a mother one day, imagining a future filled with the warmth and joy of raising children. But after everything she endured in the arena, she couldn’t bear the thought of bringing a child into a world so full of violence and uncertainty, knowing there was a chance they might one day be sent to the arena themselves. The idea of motherhood felt like a distant dream, something she had to bury deep down to protect her heart. However, after the war, as she slowly begins to heal and find a sense of peace again, she starts to warm up to the idea of children. She would want to live first—truly live—before thinking about bringing new life into the world. It would take time, and it wouldn’t be an easy decision, but in the end, she would want to give a child the safe, loving home she never had, a future where they wouldn’t have to face the horrors she did. If she did become a mother, it would be with a heart full of love and care, wanting to nurture and protect them from the world she once knew.
What if Coin banned Katniss from training for the battle of the capitol, she is stuck in 13 with hijacked Peeta, how do you see this scenario playing out
Based on the movies (since I haven’t finished the final book), I think at first Katniss would try to avoid Peeta as much as possible, not out of hatred, but out of fear. She would be terrified of what he might do because of the hijacking, and the emotional distance between them would only grow as she struggles to reconcile the Peeta she knew with the person who now seems so broken and unpredictable. At first, she might keep her distance, torn between wanting to protect herself and wanting to help him.
However, over time, I believe Katniss would begin to engage with him more. She might bring him food or find herself asking the nurses about his progress, even if she doesn’t fully understand what’s happening to him. She’d start looking for small, quiet moments to connect, sitting with him without saying much—just offering her presence, something familiar to him, even if she’s unsure whether it helps.
As she spends more time with him, I think her natural instinct to protect would kick in. She’d feel an overwhelming need to try to help him heal, even if it feels like an impossible task. She might even try talking to him, not expecting him to recognize her immediately, but hoping that somehow her voice, her touch, could reach him. Over time, her fear would start to give way to a deeper understanding of what Peeta is going through, and she would see the small signs of the Peeta she loves underneath the trauma.
Whether or not Katniss is allowed to go on missions, I think their relationship would slowly begin to rebuild. The trauma and distance would still be there, but so would the unspoken bond they’ve shared from the beginning. Their connection might start small—shared moments, fleeting glances, the quiet understanding that they’ve both endured so much—but slowly, they’d find their way back to each other, even if it’s not the same as before. The journey would be long and painful, but their relationship would heal, one small step at a time.
Cw: anxiety, comments about beauty and youth, mention of death and fighting.
———
Read part one and 2 here:
one’ and two’
The Capitol dressing room was alive with activity—stylists flitting around with last-minute touches, assistants holding mirrors, and the faint hum of voices echoing through the halls. You sat in front of the vanity, your reflection staring back at you, looking far more composed than you felt. The shimmering outfit you wore was tailored perfectly, another creation from your stylist that echoed the ocean theme of the parade.
But as you ran your fingers over the fabric, you felt that familiar weight in your chest, the same pressure you’d felt on the train and in the chariot. The Capitol might adore you right now, but you couldn’t shake the knowledge of what came next.
“You’re quiet,” Finnick’s voice broke through your thoughts, and you glanced at him through the mirror. He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed and an amused smirk on his face. “I’m not used to seeing you this serious. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “Just… trying to figure out how to survive another Capitol spectacle.”
Finnick chuckled, pushing off the doorframe and stepping closer. “It’s just an interview,” he said lightly. “If you survived the parade without tripping, you’ll survive this.”
You gave him a look. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”
He crouched down beside you, so you were at eye level. “You did more than survive the parade. The Capitol loves you. They’ll eat up whatever you give them tonight. All you have to do is flash that smile and pretend you’re not terrified.”
“I wasn’t smiling last night,” you muttered, your fingers tightening on the edge of the vanity. “I was just trying to breathe.”
“And they loved it,” he said, his tone softer now. “Trust me, you’re doing better than you think. Besides, you’ve got me in your corner. That has to count for something.”
It was hard to argue with the confidence in his voice. You glanced down at your lap, where your fingers brushed against the little carved fish he’d given you. It was smooth now from how often you’d held it, a small comfort against the chaos of the Capitol.
Before you could respond, your stylist appeared, fussing over your hair and making sure everything was perfect. Finnick stepped back, giving you space but keeping his sharp eyes on you. As the stylist finished, she placed her hands on your shoulders and smiled at you in the mirror. “You’re ready,” she said, though the words felt more like a command than reassurance.
When they called your name to go onstage, you froze for a moment, the noise from the crowd hitting you like a wall. Finnick must have noticed the hesitation because he stepped close enough to whisper, “Remember what I said—confidence. Even if you have to fake it.”
You nodded, standing up and forcing your legs to move. As you walked toward the stage, Finnick’s voice followed, low and teasing. “Don’t be too dazzling up there. I’d hate to lose the spotlight.”
You rolled your eyes, but his words pulled a reluctant smile from you. Maybe, just maybe, you could do this.
When the bright lights of the stage hit you, the roar of the crowd almost swallowed you whole. Caesar Flickerman’s beaming face greeted you, and you felt your heart pound just as it had in the parade. But you straightened your shoulders, forcing the fear down, and stepped into the spotlight.
The Capitol might have owned the arena, but here—on this stage—you could own them. At least for a little while.
Caesar welcomed you with his usual flair, extending his arms as the crowd roared. “Ladies and gentlemen, from District 4, the tribute who’s been making waves—let’s give them another Capitol welcome!”
The applause was deafening, and you forced a smile as you made your way to the seat beside him. Caesar was a master at his job, his charm and energy a lifeline for anyone who stepped into the spotlight. Still, your heart raced as you sat down, the bright lights making it hard to see past the first row of Capitol citizens.
“So,” Caesar began, leaning forward with a gleam in his eye, “you’ve already captured the Capitol’s attention. The parade last night was one for the books—how did it feel to have all eyes on you?”
You hesitated, gripping the armrest for a moment before answering. “It was… surreal,” you said honestly. “I didn’t expect that kind of reaction. It’s overwhelming, but I’m trying to take it one step at a time.”
Caesar nodded as if he completely understood. “Overwhelming, but you handled it with such grace. And let’s not forget that stunning outfit—you practically stole the show! Tell me, does confidence come naturally to you, or is it something you’ve had to work on?”
A flicker of uncertainty passed through you, but you quickly remembered Finnick’s advice. Be bold. “I think confidence is like swimming,” you said, your tone steady. “Sometimes you dive in headfirst, and sometimes you’re just trying not to drown. Either way, you keep moving.”
The crowd laughed and cheered, clearly entertained, and Caesar’s grin widened. “Well said! You’re already a natural at this. Now, tell me—what’s the secret to standing out in a sea of tributes? How do you make sure you’re remembered?”
You hesitated for just a beat, your eyes scanning the crowd before landing on Finnick, who stood near the edge of the stage, watching. His posture was casual, but there was something in his expression—a hint of pride, maybe—that gave you the courage to push forward. “I think the key is to just… be yourself. People can see through an act, but if you’re genuine, they’ll remember you for that.”
Caesar clapped his hands together, delighted. “Ah, authenticity! A rare quality in the Capitol, wouldn’t you agree?” He gestured to the audience, earning more laughter and applause. “But speaking of authenticity, I’ve heard you’ve got a pretty interesting mentor. What’s it like working with the famous Finnick Odair?”
The crowd erupted in excited murmurs, clearly eager for gossip, and you felt your face heat up. Finnick raised an eyebrow at you from the sidelines, a smirk playing at his lips. You cleared your throat, trying to sound casual. “He’s… helpful,” you said, choosing your words carefully. “He’s given me a lot of advice, and, well, he’s definitely good at keeping things interesting.”
Caesar leaned in, clearly loving the tension. “Interesting, you say? Care to elaborate?”
You shook your head, trying not to laugh. “Let’s just say he’s got a way with words.”
The crowd roared with laughter, and Caesar nodded knowingly. “Oh, we all know that! Finnick’s charm is legendary, after all. But don’t let him hog all the attention—you’re holding your own just fine.”
The rest of the interview went by in a blur of laughter and applause. By the time it was over, you felt a strange mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. As you stepped off the stage, Finnick was waiting for you, arms crossed and that ever-present smirk on his face.
“‘A way with words,’ huh?” he teased, falling into step beside you.
You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. “Don’t get used to the compliments.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said smoothly, leaning in just enough that his voice was a low murmur meant only for you. “I’ve already gotten used to you.”
Your heart skipped a beat, but you refused to let him see the effect his words had on you. Instead, you quickened your pace, pretending not to notice the satisfied look on his face. The Capitol had their show, but it seemed Finnick had his own game—and whether you liked it or not, you were part of it now.
Repost and likes are very appreciated! Keep in mind that I read All comments and request on my page, so if anyone has ideas or requests for this series let me know.
I will say this series is planned too have at least 10 parts? I want it too end with the reader and finnick in district 13. 
It had been a day since you arrived in the Capitol, and they were already trying to show you off. Today was the tribute parade—second only to the Games themselves in terms of spectacle. It was the biggest event of the year, the first chance for sponsors to see the tributes up close and for the entire nation to start forming their favorites.
You sat in the dressing room, nerves twisting your stomach into knots. Finnick was leaning casually against the wall, trying to coach you through a few things, but you could barely focus on his words. All you could think about was your outfit.
“Relax,” Finnick said, giving you an amused glance. “You’ll look fine. Besides, no one’s going to be looking at the clothes. They’re going to be looking at you. That’s the point.”
“That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” you muttered. You’d seen the parade broadcasts in past years—tributes dressed in ridiculous outfits meant to represent their districts, some of them so outlandish they looked more like jokes than competitors. The thought of being humiliated like that made your skin crawl.
Finnick stepped closer, crouching slightly to meet your eye level. “Listen to me,” he said, his tone suddenly serious. “Your stylist isn’t going to make you look stupid. District 4 always delivers. Trust them. And more importantly, trust yourself.”
You hesitated, biting your lip. “What if… what if they don’t like me? What if I mess this up?”
Finnick tilted his head, studying you. “You won’t,” he said simply. “But here’s the thing—this parade isn’t about getting them to like you. It’s about making them remember you. Be bold. Be confident. Even if you have to fake it, act like you’re the best thing to come out of District 4 since fishing nets.”
You snorted despite yourself, and Finnick grinned. “See? There’s the attitude we need.”
Before you could respond, the door opened, and your stylist walked in, a wide smile plastered across her face. She was a Capitol native, her hair dyed a shimmering seafoam green to match District 4’s aquatic theme. “Ready to make waves?” she asked, clapping her hands together.
You swallowed hard and nodded, though you didn’t feel ready at all.
The outfit, to your relief, wasn’t as ridiculous as you feared. Your stylist had gone for elegance, dressing you in a flowing, iridescent fabric that shimmered like the surface of the ocean. It hugged your frame in all the right places, giving you an otherworldly, almost ethereal look. Small details, like coral accents and a delicate netting draped over your shoulders, tied the whole ensemble together.
“You look stunning,” the stylist said, stepping back to admire her work. “Trust me, the Capitol is going to eat this up.”
Finnick whistled low as you turned to face him. “See? Told you. No one’s laughing now.”
You couldn’t help but glance at yourself in the mirror again. For the first time, you felt… powerful. The outfit didn’t make you feel like a spectacle—it made you feel like you belonged here, like you could hold your own against the others.
“Now,” Finnick said, pushing off the wall and straightening his jacket, “it’s showtime. Walk tall, keep your head high, and don’t let them see a single ounce of fear. They love confidence. You give them that, and you’re already winning.”
The sound of cheers echoed through the halls as the tributes before you began their procession. The reality of what you were about to do hit you all over again, and your palms started to sweat.
Finnick leaned in close, his voice steady and reassuring. “You’ve got this. Remember, they don’t own you. Not yet.”
You nodded, gripping the edge of your chariot for support as the doors opened, and the bright Capitol lights flooded in The doors slid open, and the roar of the Capitol crowd hit you like a tidal wave. The sound was deafening, a chaotic mix of cheers, gasps, and applause. The light was blinding, reflecting off the sleek metal of the chariots lined up in front of you. You clenched your hands tighter around the edge of the chariot as it began to roll forward, the movement smooth but somehow unsteady beneath your feet.
Finnick had been right. Your outfit shimmered under the bright lights, catching the eyes of the spectators. Heads turned, and you could hear the excited murmurs ripple through the crowd. You forced yourself to stand tall, lifting your chin as the chariot carried you closer to the heart of the parade route.
Your district partner stood beside you, decked out in an outfit that mirrored yours, though his had a more rugged, commanding look. He nodded at you, a silent gesture of solidarity, but neither of you spoke. Words weren’t necessary—not here, not now. All that mattered was the image you projected.
The Capitol citizens leaned over the railings, waving and throwing flowers as your chariot passed. Their faces were painted with garish colors, their hair styled in ways that seemed impossible. Their expressions were a mix of awe and delight, as though you were some kind of rare, exotic creature. It was unsettling, but Finnick’s advice echoed in your mind: walk tall, keep your head high, and don’t let them see a single ounce of fear.
You glanced up at the massive screens that lined the route, catching sight of yourself for the first time. The cameras zoomed in on your face, capturing every detail—the determined set of your jaw, the glint of your outfit, the way the lights seemed to reflect in your eyes. For a moment, you barely recognized yourself. You didn’t look scared. You looked… strong.
As the chariots approached the grand balcony where the Capitol’s leaders stood, the energy of the crowd seemed to reach its peak. President Snow was there, his cold, calculating smile fixed in place as he watched the tributes with an air of detached authority. His gaze swept over the procession, and for a brief moment, it felt as though his eyes locked onto yours.
A chill ran down your spine, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you raised a hand and waved to the crowd, just as Finnick had instructed. The response was immediate—a surge of cheers and applause so loud it made your chest vibrate. You caught Finnick’s smirk from the sidelines as you passed by, his expression one of approval.
The parade continued for what felt like an eternity, but you held your composure, forcing yourself to stay present. By the time the chariots came to a stop at the Capitol’s central square, your legs felt like jelly, and your hands were trembling from holding on so tightly.
As the anthem of Panem played and the tributes were officially introduced, you let yourself steal one last glance at the crowd. This was the Capitol—the place that would either make or break you. And for the first time, you felt a flicker of something unexpected. It wasn’t quite hope, but it was close. You could do this. You had to.
When it was finally over, Finnick was waiting for you backstage, his arms crossed and a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Not bad,” he said as you stepped off the chariot, your legs still unsteady. “Told you they’d love you.”
You didn’t reply, too drained to form words, but the look you gave him said enough. You hadn’t just survived the parade—you’d owned it. For now, that was enough..
Likes and repost are very appreciated!
Read part 3 here!
Finnick x tribute reader.
Cw: anxiety, comments about beauty and youth, mention of death and fighting.
———
Read part one and 2 here:
one
Cw// Reaping, mention of death, panic attacks, comfort, social anxiety.
As soon as you heard your name called at the reaping, everything started to blur. Your old life—your parents, your friends—faded into the background. The second your name was spoken, it no longer felt like it belonged to you.
On the train, you stared out the window, barely registering the scenery rushing by. You didn’t bother talking to the other tribute; the idea of forming any connection only added to the already unbearable weight in your chest.
You didn’t even notice your mentor enter the room until he sat down in front of you. “Hello there,” he said with a smile, as if this was all completely normal—as if, in just a few weeks, you wouldn’t be fighting for your life in an arena designed to kill you.
You were too nervous to respond. Your throat felt tight, and a heavy pressure pressed against your chest. It was like you were teetering on the edge of a panic attack. The walls of the train car felt closer with every passing second, and you couldn’t stop fidgeting or catch your breath.
“Breathe.” His voice cut through the haze, steady and calm. He placed a hand on your shoulder, grounding you. It was clear he’d seen this before—panic, fear, helplessness. “You’re safe right now. I promise you, by the time I’m done training you, you won’t have a single doubt in your mind that you can win.”
His words were soothing, but it wasn’t until you forced yourself to meet his gaze that something clicked. This was Finnick Odair. The man whose name was whispered like legend in District 4, the youngest victor in history.
Your stomach tightened, and your nerves surged again. What could you possibly say to someone like him?
“I-I don’t think I can do this,” you finally managed to whisper, your voice barely audible over the hum of the train. “I’m not like you. I’m not… strong.”
Finnick leaned back, crossing his arms, his expression softening as he studied you. “Nobody thinks they’re strong when they start this. I didn’t either.” His voice lowered, almost conspiratorial, as though sharing a secret. “But strength isn’t just about muscles or weapons. It’s up here.” He tapped his temple. “Survival is about your mind, your instincts. And trust me, you’ve got more of that than you think.”
You wanted to believe him, but the lump in your throat remained. “How do you know?” you asked, your voice shaking.
“Because I’ve been where you are,” he said simply. “And I came out the other side.”
For a moment, the weight of his words silenced the storm in your mind. Finnick Odair had been you once—terrified, uncertain, thrown into a nightmare. And yet, he had survived.
“Here,” he said, pulling a small wooden trinket from his pocket. It looked like a tiny carved fish, smooth from years of handling. “This was given to me when I was in your shoes. It doesn’t have any magic powers, but it reminded me that someone believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.” He handed it to you, his smile soft but earnest. “Keep it. You’ll need reminders of home.”
You took it hesitantly, running your thumb over its smooth surface. It wasn’t much, but somehow, it made the panic ebb just a little. For the first time since the reaping, you felt the smallest glimmer of something you hadn’t dared to hope for—hope. You turned the small carved fish over in your hand, feeling its smooth edges, the tiny grooves where someone had painstakingly etched out its details. It felt warm, like it carried a little bit of home with it. The thought stirred something deep in your chest, and you swallowed hard to keep the tears at bay.
“Thank you,” you said quietly, your voice still shaky but sincere. It was the first thing you’d said with any certainty since the reaping. Finnick smiled, not his earlier casual grin, but something softer, like he understood the weight of the moment.
“Don’t mention it,” he said, leaning back in his seat and stretching out his legs. He looked so calm, so unbothered, like he wasn’t sitting across from a tribute destined for the slaughter. “You’re stronger than you think,” he added after a moment, his tone lighter. “Besides, I have a feeling about you.”
You looked up at him, surprised. “A feeling?”
He shrugged. “Call it a mentor’s intuition.”
Before you could ask what that meant, the train slowed, and the intercom crackled to life. “Approaching Capitol Station,” a mechanical voice announced, cheerful and detached.
Your stomach twisted. The Capitol. It had always been this distant, almost mythical place—bright lights, extravagant people, larger-than-life screens showing the Games. But now, it was real, and you were being brought there like an offering.
Finnick must have noticed the shift in your expression because he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Look, I know it’s overwhelming. The Capitol is… a lot. The people, the cameras, the way they’ll treat you like you’re some shiny new toy. But you can’t let it break you.”
“How?” you asked, the word coming out sharper than you intended. “How am I supposed to pretend I’m okay with all this?”
“You don’t have to be okay with it,” Finnick said, his tone firm but not unkind. “You just have to play their game long enough to survive. They want a show, so give them one. Be memorable. Make them love you.”
The thought of standing in front of the Capitol’s citizens, smiling and pretending, made your skin crawl. But you knew he was right. If you wanted a chance—any chance—you’d have to play along.
The train came to a stop, and the doors hissed open. Finnick stood, smoothing out his shirt before glancing down at you. “Come on,” he said, offering his hand. “Time to meet your audience.”
You hesitated for only a moment before taking it. His grip was steady, grounding. As he helped you to your feet, you realized just how much taller he was, his presence both intimidating and reassuring.
The station was blinding, a whirlwind of lights, colors, and noise. Capitol citizens were gathered, their outlandish outfits glittering under the fluorescent lights as they clapped and cheered. Camera flashes erupted in quick bursts, and you instinctively shrank back.
“Stand tall,” Finnick murmured, his hand briefly brushing your shoulder. “They’ll smell fear if you let them.”
Drawing in a shaky breath, you straightened your spine, forcing yourself to lift your chin. You felt the weight of a hundred eyes on you, but Finnick’s steady presence at your side kept you from completely unraveling.
As you stepped off the train, you realized this was only the beginning. The Capitol, the Games, the fight for survival—it was all ahead of you. But for now, you focused on putting one foot in front of the other, the carved fish still clutched tightly in your hand.
reblogs and likes are greatly appreciated!
Read part 2 here; https://www.tumblr.com/mscresta/770879367841759232/tribute-parade
Finnick x tribute reader.
Cw! anxiety, public crowds.
This is part 2! Read part one here: !!!!
It had been a day since you arrived in the
[post-war] johanna w an s/o that became attached to a stray cat that's absolutely disgusting, like matted fur, fleas and ticks, starving, sick, and smelly.
johanna won't let her girlfriend bring it inside so her girlfriend is outside during the cold winter feeding and trying to nuture this cat back to health.
one day, reader goes out to check on the cat and can't find it. she gets super worked up and runs back inside to find jo, to tell her the sad news, but she finds jo leaning over the bathtub, her front half soaked with bath water, as she's trying to wash this cat..
roscoe.
pairing: johanna mason x fem!reader
content warnings: pre-established relationship, set post war, jo hates animals cause of a bad experience, use of petnames (doll, babe, baby), chiwawa slander (sorry!), strong language but that's not new, a bit of grumpy x sunshine because i love that trope!!
word count: 0.9k
Johanna has never been an animal person. Well, no, that is a bit of a lie. Correction; she has never been an animal person since she was attacked by a bastard of a chiwawa at the tender age of six. Rocky has since given her a very personal vendetta against animals big and small.
So, in the early days after the war, when you come home with a stray cat that you have christened Roscoe, she has a big problem with it. It’s obvious to anyone with a brain that Johanna loves you. In fact, she would even go as far as to say she loves you more than life itself. But when it comes to animals, especially evil things like cats, that is where she draws the line.
She puts a good three feet between the two of you when she sees the cat in your arms. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she tries to keep her temper in check. “Doll, that… thing is not staying in the house.”
You frown and immediately start protesting. “But I’ve given him a name and all!”
Johanna huffs out a sigh. “Babe, I don’t care if you’ve bought the thing a birth certificate, it is not staying in the house.”
“Why the hell not?”
She arches a brow, giving you a disapproving look as if the answer is clear. “Well, for starters, his fur is matted beyond belief. It’s all skin and bones, too. I bet it’ll die in a week.”
“Jo! Don’t be mean.” You scold, holding the cat close to your chest. “Don’t listen to your mom, Roscoe. Shes just being cranky.”
Johanna rolls her eyes. “I am not that cat’s mom. And you know I’m telling the truth, babe.”
You shoot her a glare. “Poor thing was left here all on its own after the bombings. He must have been scared by all of the noise.” You smooth underneath Roscoe’s chin and he purrs in response. “Look, he likes me!”
She groans. “Babe, you know I’d give you the world if you asked me to, but that thing is not gonna last a week. You shouldn’t get attached to it.”
You wave a dismissive hand. “He’ll be fine. Remind me to pick up some milk for him in the markets. Dyou think he’ll eat tuna?”
“Doll-, Remi—”
“Roscoe.”
“Remi, Roscoe, Riley, whatever you’ve called him, is going right back outside.”
“But—”
“Now, baby.”
You sigh. Maybe Johanna has a pint in some ways, but you can’t help but feel awful as you put Roscoe back out the front door and watch him bound away down the half- repaired street.
Johanna walks up behind you and wraps her arms around your waist, resting her chin on the top of your head. “Do you know cats can fend for themselves?”
“Its still not fair. He’s only a baby, Jo.” You sigh, melting into her touch when she presses a kiss to your head. “‘M mad at you now.”
Johanna resists the urge to laugh. You’re far too kind for your own good. “Would you feel better if we made some of those cookies I know you like?”
You try to stay mad at her, but the offer is too appealing to pass up. “Fine. But only if you do all the work. And I am still buying him fish and milk.”
“Whatever you want, angel. But he’s not coming back in to the house. He could have fleas or something.”
“You have fleas,” You murmur.
Johanna laughs. “Oi. Watch it or you won’t get any cookies.”
✩──────────✩─────────✩
As the months pass by, Roscoe comes to your front door at seven o’clock in the morning and evening every day for his dinner. Despite Johanna’s insistence that he’s not allowed in the house, she doesnt try to stop you from taking care of him, so long as you’re outside.
It begins to get colder and one day, you come home from the marketplace with a carton of milk and a metal can of tuna in your hands. You pour both of them into the bowls by your front door and wait, rocking on the balls of your feet.
It’s not unusual for Roscoe to come and go as he pleases, but when you’ve been outside for an hour and he doesn’t make an appearance, worry starts to gnaw at your gut.
You slip back into the house and do the only thing you can think of. “Jo?!”
You can hear Johanna hiss in pain and curse underneath her breath from inside the bathroom. Your brows furrow and you follow the noise, noticing the high-pitched mewl that comes from behind the door. You breathe out a sigh of relief and push open the door, only to become even more puzzled,
Johanna’s hunched over the bath, holding Roscoe with one hand and using a jug to pour water over him with the other.
“Are you drowning him?” You squeal, rushing to her side.
Johanna laughs at that. “What do you take me for, babe? I’m not drowning him, I’m giving him a bath,” she rolls her eyes.
You frown. “You’re… giving him a bath?”
“Yeah. He’s smelly,” Johanna shrugs.
“But you hate him.”
“Well, by the looks of things, he is not going anywhere anytime soon, so we might as well make him presentable or something.”
You grin. “You like him, don’t you?”
Johanna’s lips twitch. “I don’t hate him.”
You kneel down beside her and pet Roscoe’s wet coat of black fur. A giggle slips past your lips before you have a chance to stop it. “Well, I reckon he’ll hate you after this bath.”
