idk i just think horny fanfiction is cool bc it allows the writer (and readers) to explore their own relationship with sexuality. and especially in self-insert x reader spheres. yeah sometimes it really isn’t about the character it’s about how someone is processing their own experience with sex. so kinda. who gives a shit if you see it as out of character. why does this matter. scroll.
I can't stop thinking about a version of Finnick and reader who fall in love after meeting through the rebellion network and never getting the opportunity to actually be in love because they know how their story is going to end.
Any way.
In another life
District 13 is too bright and too dim at the same time.
The hallways glare with fluorescent lights that your eyes never adjust to, the air feels muted and stale. Everything is metal, concrete, and routine. Wake. Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. You’ve learned the rhythm, learned to fit in and follow the rules, but it never feels natural.
Finnick walks beside you after evening drills, both of you exhausted. His hair is damp from the showers, curling at the ends. He looks worn down, but he always looks worn down here.
You probably did too.
He bumps your shoulder lightly. “You’re quieter than usual.”
You give him an annoyed look. “I’m always quiet.”
That was true.
“Not with me.”
That was also true.
You don’t answer, because answering honestly about your thoughts felt like stepping into something too slippery. Something you know you couldn’t pull yourself out of once you’ve allowed yourself in.
He doesn’t push for more of an answer. He never pushes you.
You can’t help but feel he already knows the answer anyway.
When you reach your hallway, he slows. You expect him to say goodnight, but instead he nods toward your door. “You want company?”
You do. You always do, though you’re usually too proud to ask for it. “Yeah.”
You expect to find a knowing look as he follows you inside. Instead he only smiles.
Your room is small — a bed, a desk, a shelf, it’s almost too small even for one person, but it’s quiet. Dim. A space of your own. Finnick follows close behind and sits on the edge of your bed like he’s done it a hundred times. He hasn’t, not really, but the ease of it makes it feel like he has.
You sit beside him, close but not touching. It feels vulnerable to allow him in here.
He exhales. “Today felt endless.”
“They all do.” When everything is the same as the day before, does it ever really feel like a new day and not one never-ending nightmare.
He huffs a soft laugh. “You’re not wrong.”
Silence settles between you, warm and heavy but somehow comfortable. Just… safe. A place to set down the weight you’ve been carrying.
It always felt that way when you were with Finnick.
Finnick leans back against the wall, stretching his legs out, his thigh brushing your own as you mimick the action. “Do you ever think about before?” he asks.
You know what he means. Before the war. Before the rebellion. Before District 13.
“Sometimes.” All the time.
“What do you think about?”
“Small things. Sunlight. Real food. The woods on a summer day.” You missed the freedom, as much of an illusion as it was, that you had.
He nods. “I think about the ocean.”
You smile faintly. “Of course you do.”
“I miss Mags.”
You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. He looks at you, eyes softening.
“What about you?” he asks. “What do you miss most?”
You hesitate, then answer honestly. “Feeling like I had a future.”
His expression shifts to something like understanding, something bordering on grief. He reaches out, fingers brushing yours on the blanket. It’s barely a touch, but it’s enough.
You don’t pull away.
Neither does he.
A few minutes pass in silence save for the constant hum of the lights overhead. A constant reminder of where you are.
Finnick shifts slightly, turning toward you. “Can I ask you something?”
He feels so warm beside you, grounding. You nod.
“Do you ever think about… another world?”
“What kind of world?”
“A different one. One where none of this happened. No Capitol. No Games. No war.”
“Sometimes.” You often thought of who you could be. Someone free from the guilt of the blood on your hands. Free from the grief of people lost.
Someone happy.
He studies your face. “In that world… do you think we would’ve met?”
You look down at your hands, flexing them then allowing them to curl into the blanket beneath you. “Maybe? Who knows.”
“Maybe,” he repeats, softer but in a more sure tone than your own. “I like to think we would have.”
You don’t know what to do with the way he’s looking at you, open, vulnerable, like he’s letting you see a side he doesn’t show anyone else.
“Why?” Your eyes drift to the light over head just in time to see it flicker. Anywhere was better than his face, so open and obvious with what he was thinking.
He hesitates for just a moment before speaking again. “Because I can’t imagine a world where I don’t find you.”
The words hit you hard. You turn your head, meeting his eyes. They’re too honest, too gentle and entirely too much for you just like you knew they would be.
“Finnick…” You want to say more but the words stick in your throat, heavy and painful.
He shakes his head to let you know it’s ok, that he knows what you would have said. “I know. I know we can’t, whatever this is…whatever it could be… it’s our the time. It’s not the place.”
“Another world,” your voice is barely more than a whisper.
“Yeah,” he says. “Another world.”
You don’t know who’s idea it was, but suddenly he’s scooting closer, side pressing to your own and your head is leaning to rest on his shoulder.
He tenses, just for a moment, before he relaxes into it and allows his head to fall atop your own. His shoulder is warm, solid, familiar. His hand hovers for a moment before settling gently around your shoulders.
“In that other world,” he murmurs, words almost muffled against the crown of your hand, “I think we’d be happy.”
You close your eyes, wanting to keep the feeling of this moment without the reminder of where you truly are. “Yeah, I think so too.”
“And in this world?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. But you stay there, leaning into him, letting the weight of your body curling into his say everything your mouth can’t.
His fingers curl slightly against your arm, a silent acknowledgment that he understands. He always has.
You don’t know how long you stay like that. Minutes. Hours. Time feels different here, slower, like the world outside the door doesn’t exist.
You want more.
You want to take his face in your hands and tell him what you know you both feel.
You don’t. Not knowing that the end of this story is a casket at best, a body amongst some rubble at worst.
So instead, you rest your head back on his shoulder.
He lets out a breath that sounds like relief.
“Another world,” he repeats.
“Another world,” you echo.
Eventually, your eyes grow heavy and your mind starts to drift as sleep creeps in.
“I should go.”
You don’t move. “You don’t have to.”
He hesitates.
You lift your head, meet his eyes, and say it quietly,
“You could stay.”
You could have this moment.
His eyes soften in that way that makes your chest ache. It’s a look he only ever uses with you.
“I could.” His words are so heartbreakingly tender.
The words hang between you, tenuous and so very fragile.
He could.
He wants to.
You know he does.
But after a long moment, he shakes his head, barely, but enough that you both know his answer.
It would hurt too much to have something so precious knowing that it might not last. “I should go.” he repeats, softer this time.
“Okay.” A part of you feels dejected, though the rest of you, unsurprisingly, is relieved.
He stands slowly, like his body is reluctant to follow the decision his mind already made. He walks to the door, hand on the handle, then pauses before he looks back at you with that soft, tired, too honest expression.
His mouth opens, the words he wanted to say dying on his tongue before he settles on, “Good night.”
“Good night, Finnick.”
He slips out into the hallway, and the door closes softly behind him.
You're left sitting on the edge of your bed, heart aching with everything you wanted.
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