🥀song of the day: goth girls are easy - lesbian bed death
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I feel so bad for Eris Vanserra; he keeps correctly reading the situation and then having people get mad at him for doing what they wanted him to do.
Mor sleeps with Cassian in the hopes of that ending her engagement with Eris. Eris hears about it and is like, she slept with Cassian? I am ending our engagement. For all we know he gave Mor a fucking wink and thumbs up from across the room as he said it; I doubt she would have noticed or cared regardless.
Mor gets dumped on the Autumn Court border by Keir (and it’s weird that all the blame and anger about this situation seems to be directed at Eris and not Keir, you know the one who actually tortured her). And Eris is like don’t touch her or she’s our responsibility. Hey Mor, checking in, you don’t want to become our responsibility and be forced to live in the Autumn Court, right? And Mor is like I’d rather die, asshole. And Eris is like, got it, roll out boys. And given that we know Eris sent an anonymous tip to Tamlin when Lucien went on the run, it does not seem crazy to assume that after the encounter with Mor, Eris might have secretly sent Azi a note like come get your girl.
And then we have the plan to have Nesta seduce Eris at the ball in order to strengthen his commitment to their alliance. And after he dances with her he goes to Rhysand and is like, hey, I noticed you had Nesta come seduce me and yes, I am in, let’s discuss marriage alliance.
And yet somehow he’s the asshole in these situations. Poor guy.
thg hot take. more pathetic finnick. make him loserish and whimpy. show how his maturity is notably stunted based on the abuse he's suffered! show the toll his mental health has on odesta and the fact that annie is actually more tethered down in terms of her emotions! finnick's annie??? what about annie's finnick?????
📢📢📢 FINNICK’S ANNIE??? WHAT ABOUT ANNIE’S FINNICK??? 📢📢📢
in all sincerity that’s the crux of it to me. that’s the fucking crux of it right there. everyone needs to move past Annie’s stated mental health issues and look at the canon evidence in front of you. one of them is so codependent on the other that the other person being out of reach means that they immediately threaten suicide. one of them is so fixated on the other that they are completely unable to function when the other person is in danger, to the point of spending most of the day sedated out of necessity. one of them is so clingy that they will not physically let go of the other person once they are back within reach. and guess who that’s not!!!!! It’s not Annie!!!
Annie is by Katniss’s own admission, “less mad than unstable” (mj, 225). Katniss, who has almost certainly never met anyone like Annie before, and who is operating entirely off of stereotypes, preconceived notions, and Capitol propaganda, realizes wait. Annie’s maybe not as crazy as everyone says she is. from one meeting with her. and then we see that newly widowed newly pregnant max 23 year old Annie is talking, coherent, and making incredibly difficult decisions by herself AND being as manipulative as she can while she does that, throwing Finnick’s name behind her decision to give it more weight and give herself credibility that she knows she otherwise doesn’t have.
I’m not saying that Finnick’s not smart or calculating, because even in his worst moments he is, but what he is not is functional when Annie’s not there. he could never in a million years take her place at the end of mj if their roles were reversed. he loves her and she’s important to him but additionally, because of all that trauma, he has wrapped up a good chunk of his sense of self and his entire feeling of safety in her. when she is not safe, his entire world fully and completely shatters. she has to be safe, because if she is not, then neither is he. his entire ability for emotional regulation rests on her continued presence. that is an incredibly heavy burden for him to put on her (even though he is not emotionally mature enough to control that) and there is absolutely no way that doesn’t wreak absolute havoc on their relationship.
and also he’s a loser. I’m not the only one who sees this I can’t be. give me a hand here people let’s all chip in and make him more of a loser
So I just read your fic, My Angel, and first off beautiful work, I loved it. Second, if you are taking requests and you want an angsty one, what about the same content but Finnick hates or at least doesn't like the reader because she killed Annie in her games and so reader takes on more clients because they feel guilty about it all. I don't know if that's a good idea or not but it's been in my head for a while.🌻
oh my gosh this is actually so interesting. (also thank you so much!!! im so happy you loved it!!!)
i wish i hated you.
content warnings: trafficking of victors, implied S/A, mentions of death, self hatred, angst
masterlist.
The air was thick with the scent of perfume and expensive wine, and the room buzzed with the Capitol’s elite, all eager to mingle with the Victors like they were rare jewels to be paraded around.
Finnick hated it. He always has.
He was leaning against a wall, glass of champagne in hand as he scanned the room.
Then his eyes landed on you.
You. The person he wished he hated.
He watched as you worked the room. You laughed at every joke, you batted your eyelashes, you smiled at the perfect times—a smile that was practiced and polite, you brushed hands with the people around you at percise moments.
Everyone in the Capitol loved you, they were all hooked on you since you won your games two years ago. The beautiful tribute that came from District 7, the one who won against all odds.
Finnick kept watching you. The pain of two years ago rushing back to him as he did.
He was in the Capitol at the time, at a viewing party. His eyes were fixated on the screen as the dam broke, water flooded the arena, and a spark of hope went through Finnick when he saw the cameras zoom in on Annie who was swimming.
"She's gonna win it all. That girl." he heard one of the party goers say.
He thought so too. That was til someone shouted, "Look there! In the water!"
That's when he saw you. You weren't much of a fighter, only having 3 kills, but still, you were lethal, especially with your axe.
He watched as you swam, something that shocked him because not many tributes outisde of four knew how to swim. He watched as you made your way towards a tree to get the higher ground. And once you had it. That was that.
He felt his heart break when he heard Annie cry out, but he couldn't show it, not in front of everyone.
That pain stayed in his heart whenever he saw you.
He wanted there to be more to hate about you. He wanted you to be cruel, shallow, or selfish—anything to justify the hatred he felt every time he looked at you. Anything to make it easier to stomach the fact that you had killed Annie.
But you weren’t any of those things. You were poised, charming, and maddeningly perfect at playing the Capitol’s game.
And on the rare occasions that you were forced to speak to eachother, you were always polite, always kind, always with a smile. You never said anything bad. And even if you were faking it, you were good at it.
And he just hated how good you were at it, how easily you commanded the room with a laugh or a perfectly timed smile. He hated how everyone loved you. How easily you fit into their world.
He knew that it was something all Victors had to do. To survive outside of the games. Especially those that Snow deemed desireble. He had to do the same, but recently things were more calm. he wondered why, but didn't dare question it out loud.
He kept his eyes on you, his hand tightening around his champagne glass as he watched one of Snow’s aides lean in close, whispering something in your ear. He saw the way your smile faltered for a split second before you forced it back into place, masking it with a laugh.
You slipped away from the group a moment later, heading toward the quieter halls of the mansion. Finnick didn’t think—he just moved, following you like a shadow.
When he found you, you were leaning against a wall at the end of the corridor, your head in your hands and your breathing uneven.
“Taking a breather from all your adoring fans?” Finnick asked, his voice laced with bitterness.
You flinched, straightening immediately at the sound of his voice. “Finnick,” you said, turning to face him. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” he echoed, a humorless laugh escaping him. “I could ask you the same thing. You looked like you were having the time of your life back there.”
You frowned. “I was doing what I had to do.”
“What you had to do?” he repeated mockingly. “Please. You were eating it up, just like you always do. I bet you love all this—all the attention, all the praise.”
Your expression darkened, and Finnick felt a flicker of satisfaction at having struck a nerve. “You don’t know anything about what I feel,” you said coldly.
“Oh, don’t I?” he shot back, stepping closer. “You’ve been parading yourself around the Capitol since the day you won your Games. You’re their perfect little doll, aren’t you? Always smiling, always charming. You make it so easy for them to love you.”
“Stop it,” you said, your voice trembling.
“Why should I?” Finnick pressed, his voice rising. “You don’t even care, do you? About what they take from us, about what they make us do—”
“I care!” you shouted, cutting him off. “You have no idea how much I care, Finnick! You don’t know anything!”
There was silence for a moment as he watched tears fall down your face.
“Do you think I want this?” you whispered, your voice raw and broken. “Do you think I enjoy it?" you add on as you turn away from him to collect yourself.
There was quiet again, Finnick was about to press further when you turned to face him.
"I don't. I don't enjoy any of it. But you know why I do it? Because I owe it to you. Because I owe it to her. To Annie."
“I killed her,” you continued, tears streaming down your face. “I killed the one person you loved, and now I’m paying for it."
Finnick froze, his anger faltering. “What are you talking about?”
You held back your words for a moment, but then started speaking again, "After my Games, I begged Snow. I begged him to let me protect you.”
“What?” Finnick said, his voice barely audible.
“I told him I’d do whatever he wanted to me,” you continued, your voice breaking. “As long as he left you alone.”
The words hit Finnick like a punch to the gut. Suddenly, the fact that things were calmer for him made so much sense.
"So now, every client, every touch, every moment I spend with them—it’s my punishment, it's my punishment for what I took from you."
“Y/N...” he began, his voice softer now as he approached you.
You shook your head, stepping back. “Don’t,” you said. “Don’t try to make me feel better. I don’t deserve it. Not from you.”
Finnick stared at you, his heart breaking as he realized the depth of your self-loathing. Without thinking, he closed the distance between you, pulling you into his arms.
You resisted at first, your fists weakly pushing against his chest. But eventually, you crumpled, sobbing into his shirt.
“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” you choked out. "I never wanted you to find out."
Finnick’s throat tightened as he held you, his hand gently stroking your hair, but he couldn't find himself to say anything.
And as you broke down in his arms, Finnick held you tighter, wishing that he hadn't spent all this time wishing that he hated you.
okay wow i made myself cry while writing this, i need someone to take care of me like this on my bad days:( i did some research on fibromyalgia and tried to make it as accurate as i could based off of what i learned, i apologize if it’s not.
pairing(s): Finnick Odair x Chronically ill!Reader - request was from someone with fibromyalgia and i based it off that but i think it can be read by anyone with chronic pain
warnings: Y/N experiencing intense pain, finnick and Y/N take a bath together, slight angst, tooth rotting fluff
word count: 1.37k
When the world narrows to pain, he becomes the place where it softens—where love steadies, and warmth waits between each crashing wave.
The pain doesn’t start sharp. Not at first.
It begins as a dull throb in your knees, the kind you can ignore if you just breathe through it. Then it spreads—slow and insistent like ink in water—seeping into your shoulders, your spine, your hands. The weight of your body becomes too much. Your skin starts to burn where your shirt touches it. Even your eyelashes feel heavy.
You curl onto your side, limbs trembling, every movement sending bolts of fire through muscles that feel like they’ve been crushed under invisible stones. You’ve had flare-ups before. Hundreds. But somehow it still surprises you how completely it can consume you.
How helpless it can make you feel.
You bite your lip hard to keep from crying out. The ceiling above you blurs as your eyes sting, but you don’t make a sound. You’ve learned how to be quiet. How to endure. How to exist inside the pain without letting it spill over.
But it’s not just you anymore.
The door creaks open, and soft footsteps cross the floor. You know the sound of his gait by heart—familiar, confident, always sure in its purpose. You don’t even have to look.
Finnick.
He kneels by the bed without saying anything. You feel the mattress dip slightly as he places one hand on the blanket near your waist—not touching you yet, just a silent offering.
“Talk to me, love,” he says gently. “How bad is it?”
You don’t want to answer. You hate this part. You hate the sound of your own voice when you’re like this—small, hoarse, not yours. But you know you don’t have to be strong with him.
You never do.
“Everything hurts,” you whisper. “It started in my knees this morning… now it’s everywhere.”
Finnick’s face softens, even though you can’t quite meet his eyes. His fingers move slowly, carefully, drawing a slow line along the edge of the blanket. “Bad flare, then.”
You nod, blinking back another wave of tears. You hate crying in front of him, not because you think he minds, but because you don’t want your body’s betrayal to become his weight too.
But he’s already moving.
“I’m gonna help you get in the bath, okay?” he says softly. “I’ve already drawn it. Lavender oil. Just like you like.”
You let out a small, broken sound. “You always know.”
He smiles, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Of course I do. I watch you. I love you.”
He says it so easily, like it’s not something you ever doubted, even when your body makes you feel unworthy of that kind of love. Like your pain doesn’t scare him.
Finnick shifts the blanket back and moves with a slow, practiced grace. He doesn’t rush you. He never does. He just helps—first with sitting up, one arm around your back and one under your knees. Then with the slow walk to the bathroom, his body curved protectively around yours.
You lean heavily on him, each step agonizing, but he steadies you like he’s done it a hundred times. Because he has.
And he’ll do it a hundred more.
The steam from the bath curls into the air like ghostly fingers. The scent of lavender hits you first—soft, soothing, familiar. He’s placed a small candle on the sink, and the flame flickers low, casting golden light across the tiles.
Finnick helps you sit on the edge of the tub and slowly begins to undress you, his fingers careful, never pulling or tugging. He treats your body like something sacred, even when it feels like it’s failing you.
When he slides your shirt off, you gasp—more from the pain than the chill. His eyes flicker to your face immediately.
“Too fast?” he asks.
You shake your head. “Just sore. Like I got dragged through coral.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
You scoff lightly, but the warmth in your chest flares stronger than the ache in your back. “You’re biased.”
“Completely,” he grins. “Hop in with me?”
You nod. “Please.”
He helps you into the bath first, lowering you in inch by inch. The warmth of the water soaks through your bones, easing the worst of the stiffness. You exhale shakily, and your head tips back against the edge of the tub.
When he slides in behind you, the bath ripples. His arms wrap around your middle, pulling you gently against his chest. You melt into him—into the warmth, into his steady breath, into the kind of quiet that isn’t lonely.
His chin rests atop your head.
You sit like that for what feels like forever. The water hums around you. His fingers trace slow, absent-minded circles on your stomach, sometimes drawing shapes, sometimes just resting flat against you.
“I hate when it gets this bad,” you murmur.
“I know,” he says.
“I feel like a burden.”
He leans down, kissing the shell of your ear. “You’re not.”
“I know you say that, but—”
“No,” he cuts in softly, not unkind. “You are not a burden. You are the love of my life. You are soft and brave and stronger than anyone I know. Your pain doesn’t make you less lovable. It makes me want to hold you closer.”
Your breath catches.
He doesn’t fill the silence with more words. He lets the truth of what he said settle around you like a second skin.
After the bath, he lifts you from the tub and wraps you in the softest towel he could find—one he bought from a traveling merchant after months of searching for something gentle enough for your flare days. You’d made fun of him at the time, called it ridiculous. But now, with the terry cloth cocooned around you, you feel your throat tighten with quiet gratitude.
He dries you slowly, carefully, then helps you into a loose nightshirt and carries you back to bed. He tucks a warm heat pack beneath your lower back, adjusts the pillows behind you, and presses a glass of water to your lips.
“Drink a little,” he says. “You always forget when it hurts.”
You sip, wincing, then settle back.
Finnick sits beside you on the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. “Massage?”
You nod once. “Please.”
He warms oil between his palms before sliding his hands under your shirt, palms gliding gently over your lower back. His thumbs move in slow, rhythmic circles, never applying too much pressure, just enough to coax the tension from your muscles.
You close your eyes and let yourself fall into it—the scent of lavender and the sound of his breath and the feel of his hands grounding you.
“You’re so good to me,” you whisper.
He kisses the corner of your mouth. “You deserve good.”
You laugh, a fragile sound. “I don’t always believe that.”
“Then I’ll keep telling you until you do.”
His hands move up your spine, slow and steady. You feel each breath of his against your back, every soft exhale a promise.
Eventually, the worst of the pain recedes into a quiet throb. Still there, still humming beneath your skin, but not screaming anymore. You sink into the mattress, boneless and heavy, the warmth of his body a balm.
He lies down beside you and pulls the blankets over both of you. You curl into him, your face pressed against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
He brushes his fingers through your hair. “Sleep, love.”
“I’m afraid it’ll hurt worse when I wake up.”
“Then I’ll be here when you do,” he says simply. “And we’ll fight it together.”
You let out a slow breath and nod, your hand finding his beneath the covers. He squeezes gently.
As your eyes drift closed, you think—not for the first time—how lucky you are to have found someone who doesn’t flinch from your pain. Who doesn’t run. Who doesn’t try to fix you, but instead chooses to stay.
Finnick kisses your forehead one last time. “I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you, too,” you murmur back, the words curling into the space between you like another blanket.
"what happened to the pretty little girl dresses?" finnick asks. and despite his casual, teasing demeanor, what he's really thinking is that it's happening again. another victor is being done up to look more mature than they really are for very specific reasons and that katniss volunteered for her sister without hesitation just like finnick's putting himself through hell for annie and mags and that unlike some victors, katniss clearly has people she cares so much about and would do anything to protect and that snow will have her in his pocket before she's even turned 18.
sometimes your character doesn't need a good orgasm they need a bad one. they need to jerk off when they don't really want to and still manage one and then feel empty and miserable and cry about it. thanks
Desc. : Couples that plot murder together stay together.
You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.
The package had been tiny, actually, and surprisingly unassuming. Just there. The purple box was a light purple, oddly muted for something that came from the Capitol, with an elegant silver ribbon tied onto it, under which was tucked a note : Finnick Odair. Writing, not print. He undid the ribbon, turning the note over in his hand. Nothing on the back.
Then, he'd uncovered the box.
Three tiny glass boxes, each with a single chocolate in them. Huh. Okay, weird that this came separate from all the other confectionery presents he'd received after his Games, but he'd not thought much of it.
The chocolates had been slightly enormous — at least, bigger than any he'd ever seen before — and each had a label stuck neatly to it. First : District, then Capitol, and finally, Avox.
He'd thought that was a little weird. He'd heard of chocolates being categorised by type — dark, milk, white — and by flavour — nougat, caramel, and his personal favourite, sea-salt — and hell, even District — don't tell his District, but he personally liked District 8's shit. But he'd never before heard of them being categorised by makers.
He'd decided he could get on board with that. Identifying the crafters would also humanize them. He figured that the people who are involved in making half the shit people in Panem eat on a daily basis aren't acknowledged nearly enough as they should be.
So, he decided he'd try these out.
He'd started with the Capitol one, to get that shit over with.
Only thing he remembers is that it had been disgustingly bitter, like someone had ground cigarette ash into hard liquor and then decided to add some juice in, because why the fuck not? He'd spluttered and gagged and spit half of it out. Still, the back of his tongue had tinged a bit, as though reaching desperately for more — for something magnetic within the chocolate that was buried deep under layers and layers of sugar and what he figured was sherry.
Then came the Avox-chocolate.
He'd only ever met an Avox once before this incident, and it had been to escort him onto the train for his Victory Tour. That had been it. He'd never seen another Avox again, and had been... guiltily glad. It made him uncomfortable, the sight of them, tongueless and permanently silenced. Briefly, he wondered if they could taste-test their own chocolates, without tongues. But he threw that thought away quick enough that he didn't need to picture it. The Avox chocolate was better than the Capitol one, that's for sure, but it still contained a sort of lingering note of darkness, some sort of melancholy, though he wasn't sure when he'd become such a chocolate connoisseur.
Finally, best for last? District. High hopes for this one.
And it didn't disappoint. The magnetic twang was there, as with the Capitol and the Avox chocolates, but it was much stronger, sweeter, more decadent, this one. Felt truer. More familiar. Like the classic chocolate he'd grown up with, not the Capitol's bullshit gourmet shit.
He reached his tongue back to his molars to pick at any lingering pieces of chocolate as he looked into the box once more — oh. A little card he'd missed.
He scraped it up, tilting his head to read its tiny script. "To filter out your tastes. Enjoy immortality."
Signed President Snow.
It had taken him a minute, however. This card did have something on the back. "In order to receive your desired type of blood, contact the following. They will arrive in vials, canisters, or bottles, depending on your preferences."
Blood?
Finnick had dropped the card and the box, and the half-eaten "District" chocolate onto the couch before sprinting his way across the house to the bathroom, sticking his fingers down his throat immediately. He'd retched and grunted and groaned, but nothing had come out, and he'd had a nasty feeling that that was also somehow made possible by Snow.
Sobbing on the floor, the fourteen-year old version of him had clung onto the rim of the toilet seat, taking heavy gasps in between his sobs. He'd consumed blood. Human blood. And what's worse? He'd liked it. Even the disgusting Capitol shit, he'd liked it, whatever magnetic allure that was.
Then, he sorrowfully walked back to the living room, shakily scraping the note off the floor so he could read it in its entirety.
And the situation made heaps of sense, now.
Apparently, he'd actually flatlined right after his Games — a little before his Victory Tour, and Snow couldn't have that. So, as a last resort, he was gifted life and homicidal tendencies.
It's been eight years.
He's been a bloodsucker for eight years.
He thought he'd found a way to cope.
Finnick's not proud of it, not by any means, but yes, he's found a way to cope with the bloodlust that his conscience won't make him regurgitate. Planning murders.
He didn't choose to become a bloodsucker, but it's got its pros and cons.
Con : Snow gets to tell him to get on his knees and thank him, instead of just the instruction.
Pro : He's found a new hobby.
It's not ideal, to need to feed off blood when you're the pacifist that Finnick (sort of) is. And when you've just come out of an arena where you'd had to murder — and run away from being murdered by — twenty-three other kids. And your fight-or-flight is already at a dangerous high.
In other words, Snow had planned this. Maybe not his flatline, but he'd definitely wanted to make Finnick remember who he actually fucking was — a Capitol charity case that's only alive because he deemed it alright. And so here he was. A freak who could never age (and wanted to grow old with someone), never die (who fights the urge every day) and had to drink innocents' blood to survive (and had his own innocence stripped from him at fourteen).
But he's found a way to cope. It's a hypothetical right now, more of a theory than anything, but he figures if he's given some time, he can do it.
"What are you thinking about?"
Shit. His head turns to you, at the other end of the same pillow. Your eyes are closed, but your hand's tracing circles on his chest.
"Why are you here?"
You frown, one eye opening as you stretch. "You called."
"No, I mean, are you here voluntarily? Do you wanna be here?"
You stiffen, your fingers stilling on his chest.
"I'm not asking as Finnick Odair, I'm... just asking."
You nod, rolling away from him onto your back. "Initially, no. But now... yeah."
He smiles. That's enough, for now. He sits up, one finger gently manoeuvring your jaw back to face him. Your eyes. Yes. Salvation. "Do you trust me?"
"Uh—"
"Right, right, sorry.", he mutters, quickly, pressing one kiss, and then one more onto your lips. "Less serious. Do you love me?"
"Finnick.", you warn, grinning despite yourself.
"Fine, god forbid a man's lovesick.", he mumbles, his kisses pressing up and down your cheek, now. "Do you at least like me?"
He watches a slow smile spread on your face, and he almost gasps. You pinch two fingers together, save for a little gap. "A bit."
Finnick kisses you properly, then, his fingers behind your head bringing you to sit up, too. When you do, he pretends he isn't distracted by how the sheets fall off you.
But the truth is... he's always been distracted by you.
Finnick had long decided that he didn't want a single District person to die just because he was now stuck with this disgusting proclivity. And he also didn't really want an Avox to be drained as well as already having gone through the trauma of their tongue being cut out.
So, he'd told Snow — and the company that had been written on the back of the card — that he preferred Capitol blood.
Snow's response had been sending him a list of Capitol children in the orphanages that wouldn't be missed.
Finnick explained that he didn't want anyone dead.
So, Snow had sent you.
Finnick hadn't needed a card to detail anything this time. It was clear. Bloodbag. He couldn't recall what you had thought you were supposed to be, so he decides he'll ask you now.
"What did Snow send you to me for?"
"Company."
"Prostitution?"
"No, just company. Said you were lonely and I was to give my blood, sweat and tears to make you happy. Comfort you, because living in the Capitol was new."
Right. Blood, sweat and tears.
"So that's why you don't trust me. You don't know exactly what it is you're supposed to be doing here."
"I mean... I've kinda figured it out."
"You are not a prostitute.", he replies, trying his best to keep the conversation light, but his voice cracks at the last word. He clears his throat.
"Yeah, no, but I mean, I'm doing that part voluntarily.", you assure, thumbing at his jaw. He turns his face over to kiss your palm.
"You like sleeping with me?"
"Yes."
"You don't feel like we did it just because we've been stuck together for 3/4s of this year?"
You shake your head. "I mean, maybe that contributed, but... no coercion."
"So, whenever I sleep with you, you want it? You enjoy it?"
"You're making this sound like you're talking about offering me fresh fruit."
"No, I—", he cuts off, laughing. Leave it to you to unravel him. "I just mean, like, you like it, right?"
"I do." And then you kiss him to prove it, as if you're finally remembering that you're currently naked. He has to muster up all his willpower to pull away from you while you're in his lap.
"Hey, I need to, um, come clean about a couple things."
"Mhm?"
You're so expectant, like you know he's not going to say anything that might ruin the good thing you've got going. Like he's going to admit to shoplifting once at nine years old, not being a murderous, bloodsucking monster.
He thumbs a tuft of your hair from your eyes, gazing at your lips. "Don't freak out."
"Okay...?"
"I've got a plan that hurts some people, but at the end of the day, is best for the greater good."
He supposes he could've worded it better, because you look extremely confused.
"I mean... I've got a plan to get rid of the Games, altogether."
"The Hunger Games? You're going to stop the Hunger Games? How will you manage to do that, may I ask?"
He sits up at that, handing you the blanket for you to cover yourself up, much to his own despair. It's not a pretty conversation to be having, so he doesn't deserve to look at pretty things like you.
"I'm going to kill the Gamemakers."
"They change every year." You don't miss a beat. No "you're going to kill someone?", no "murder is wrong, Finnick!", not even a "what the fuck?". Just a "nah, you're missing an important caveat there, buddy boy".
"Good thing I know on what basis they change."
You raise a brow. "Okay. Fine. Good. So, how will you do that? How will you kill them?"
"I'll drain them."
"Sorry?"
"I'm a vampire."
This is... not how he expected his big reveal to go. He'd expected to be across the room from you, wearing your favourite of his shirts, right after a candlelit dinner where he confessed that he loved you, and then slowly moved to the opposite side of the room so he didn't spook you with his revelation.
"What?"
You're laughing. You think it's a metaphor.
"A vampire."
"Yeah, I heard you the first time."
"I'm a vampire."
"Okay."
"You don't believe me."
"Can you blame me?"
He shakes his head, before moving a safe distance away from you — in case you uppercut him on reflex — and then sprouting his fangs.
Finnick grimaces at your scream, at the way you scramble away from him, nearly falling off the bed. He knows that it's not what you want, but he sprints over to catch you before you do. "What the fuck?! What the fuck?!"
"I'm sorry— I— I'm really sorry—"
"That you hid this, or that you are this?"
Whoa. That question cuts right into his heart that had stopped before being pumped full of reserve vampire blood.
"Both?"
"How long?"
"Eight years."
"Have you ever thought of hurting me?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever killed anyone innocent?"
"No."
"Have you ever wanted to?"
"Yes. But only certain people. Not you."
"How have you been getting your blood?"
"I have a supplier."
"What was my true purpose here?"
"Bloodbag."
"Why didn't you feed off me?"
"I fell in love with you."
You pause the rapid-fire interrogation questions at that, letting him gently and safely deposit you back onto the bed before moving back the respectful distance that he'd been in before.
"Do you fight the urge to feed off me?"
"Yes. When you have strong feelings for someone, their blood becomes more appealing."
"Do you want to?"
"Are you offering?"
A pause. He loves how you take it all in stride. You're gonna murder some Gamemakers? Here's a potential aspect you might've missed. You're a vampire? Okay, but prove it. "I'm curious. Will it hurt?"
"A bit. But I can be gentle."
A silence, that he decides he's not going to fill with words, but rather, by gently moving closer to you and pushing some hair off your neck. "You can always back out."
"I know."
"So, you're not going to?"
"Not unless it hurts like a bitch."
He smiles, with a short, breathy laugh at that. "I'll make sure it doesn't."
Finnick rests his thumb on the artery in your neck — your carotid — to feel the pulse he's spent so many nights trying to drown out. It's faster now. "Last chance."
"Do I need to take a breath?"
"It's probably helpful. I mean, I wouldn't know, I'm not really a live-feeder."
Finnick's never felt as euphoric as when his fangs sink into your neck, clicking into place like a fucking puzzle piece, because he's never actually felt anything this perfect before.
The first drop of your blood hits his tongue — beautiful, delectable, mind-boggling — and he yanks himself back, thumb over his lip in sheer horror. He's still aware of the fact that you might faint if he spits your blood or dribbles it out of his mouth, so he swallows it. Every enchanting drop.
"Whoa, you okay?", you ask, after a slightly pained sharp suck of breath.
"You're not Capitol."
"Yeah, no shit.", you retort, still pressing two fingers at your neck.
"No, I mean you're District."
"Yeah, I'm aware.", you snort. "That's why I was sent to you as company."
"No, no, I specifically asked for a Capitol bloodbag."
"I don't follow."
"I told Snow I prefer Capitol blood so less District people got hurt. Do you— where were you from?"
"District Four? Like you?"
Oh, he's gonna fucking cry. He shoots up, hurriedly shoving his pants on and buttoning them before yanking his drawer open, foraging through it for his vials. "Do you know this person?", he asks, throwing the vial at the bed, before tossing three more. "And them, and them, and them?"
"Viona Welling. Yeah, she's from District 9. We were in the same training program, to be like, service-animal type people to homesick Victors like you.", you mumble, rolling the first vial in your hand before you drop it like it burned you. That's her fucking blood.
Your eyes slowly move to the other three on the bed. "Franz Hortic, District 11.", you say, your nails pushing one vial away. "Uh... Briar Port. District 6." One more vial is gently rolled over to him. "Bronwyn Silk. District 8."
Finnick breathes slow and long through his nose, but he can't stop the eruption. He throws the stand on which each of the vials were placed across the room, causing it to shatter across the wall. You flinch, eyes closed. "I TOLD HIM CAPITOL BLOOD!"
"Can't you tell the difference?"
"I— I thought I could, but... he must've exaggerated the taste the first time, when he put it into chocolate. Maybe he knew Capitol blood would taste like shit and the District blood would taste better, or... or something."
"Chocolate?"
He shakes his head, waving your question away. "Long story. Point is : Snow FUCKING outsmarted me!"
"Okay, hey — he's the President, I wouldn't expect anything less."
"The SHIT I have on him! I could RUIN him!"
"So do it."
He stands there, still gasping, chest rising and falling as he narrows his eyes. "What?"
You shrug, like you don't need to repeat yourself. You were heard loud and clear, and you know it. He swallows for a moment, in sheer mesmerisation, before clearing his throat. "I had a plan — would you want to hear it?"
You nod, earnestly. He bends one knee to sit on the bed as he watches you. Watching you. All he ever wants to do.
"I'm going to drain more of them. One by one. I have a list. They're gonna die one by fucking one." You pull him to you so he can slot his lips against yours.
"More of them? You already started? Is that where you go every other week?"
He grins, nodding. "I can stomach Capitol blood just fine, you see? Acquired taste."
"What if Snow catches on?"
"He'll assume I really do hate District blood.", he responds, thumb rubbing right under your eye.
"But you don't."
"No. It's fucking delicious."
You frown for a moment, before removing hair from your neck and your fingers from the puncture wound.
He doesn't hesitate anymore.
"I'll heal."
"You're hurt."
"Yeah, like, check back in half an hour, it'll be gone."
"I don't care. A human did that to you?", you ask, yanking him closer to you by tugging at his arm, gesturing for him to unbutton his shirt. He does, begrudgingly, giant laceration sticking out, angry, scarlet and vivid. You suck a breath in sharply and he's not sure if he should cover up and leave, or compel you to leave. He chooses to stay frozen as you dab gingerly around it.
"Yeah, he saw me coming. Apparently I'm some sort of urban legend in the highest circles of the Capitol."
"Only Snow knows about vampires. You're the only one.", you murmur, another dip of the cotton into antiseptic before you sting it onto his wound. He doesn't respond, so you look up at him, immediately. "...Right?"
"Johanna Mason might be one."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"She hinted at it when she was talking about how technically her entire District's profession could kill her. Kinda pieced it together."
"Why's she not in the Capitol?"
"She refused Snow."
"What?"
"In exchange for immortality, he wanted some... favours now and then." He doesn't want to go in detail, so he's mildly glad you're distracted by marvelling at how his wound's like... ten times smaller than thirty seconds ago. "Yeah, cool, huh?"
"Uh huh."
"...So, Johanna. She didn't want to do these favours."
Your eyes glance back up at him, hand still hovering over the heat of his injury.
"So, unlike me, she doesn't get supplied. She has to hunt for herself. In her own District. She has to actively hurt people she loves. Fight the bloodlust."
Your hands fall to the tops of your thighs as you kneel on the floor before him. "Oh."
"Yeah.", he says, sniffing. "But hey. Hey, it's okay."
"You're framing her. They hate her, they love you."
"No, she won't be—"
"Finnick."
Yes, he'd thought of this. How is he supposed to tell you it's kinda a term Johanna herself agreed to? How can he tell you there's a pivotal Gamemaker not on the list — Heavensbee? How can he tell you he's been doing a fuckton more than crossing names off a list? He can't. He's just got you in on the whole vampirism concept, he's just got you okay with accepting that he's in love with you — he knows you won't say it back, but he also knows you feel it — but he knows it'll take a hell of a lot more time for him to get you in on a rebellion. Mainly because he knows you haven't been to the Districts in a long while and blowing them up for the greater good is probably not something you'd be down for.
"I know."
"Even Snow's death won't—"
"Justify that? Yeah, I know.", he sighs, rubbing his eyes. God.
His abdomen no longer hurts, and his skin twitches lightly under your touch when you graze your fingertips across where the gash had been. "How do you deal with it?"
"What?"
"The guilt?"
"I convert it into love and pour it into you."
He's not sure why he said that.
It's bullshit because it's true and severely mistimed.
"Finnick."
"Sorry."
"Are you?"
For basically making you an accomplice? No? Yes?
"No.", he says, leaning down to be nose-to-nose as he reaches into his back pocket. "You scared?"
"Of?"
"The homicidal vampire currently trying to sneak a necklace onto your neck right now.", he murmurs, clasping the shell pendant chain onto you.
"Kinda."
"You trust me?"
"No."
"You love me?"
A pause. "No."
"I'm taking the hesitation as a win."
"I figured you would."
"You still like me?"
You nod. "Why do you suppose Snow hasn't stopped you yet?"
"Probably hasn't put two-and-two together yet. You're still alive, so he probably thinks I'm tame and no longer plagued by bloodlust.", he mutters, shrugging.
"How does one turn into a vampire?"
Finnick shakes his head, standing up immediately, hand dropping from the chain on your clavicle. "No."
"Finnick—"
"Uh-uh, forget it. I love you too much for that shit, alright?", he cries, shouldering past you so aggressively that he needs to battle the compulsion to turn back and apologise for nearly knocking you over.
"Finnick! I love you as well, so please—"
"You can't say that to get what you want, that's cruel!"
"I'm not! I just need you to listen to me!"
"It's not gonna help you! You're not gonna be more powerful, or more in control!"
"Yes, I will! It'll make sure I'm safe!"
He groans, running his hands across his face. "I'm not turning you into a fucking bloodsucker, okay? I didn't struggle desperately to get your blood out of my head for 3/4s of this entire fucking year just to end up killing you and resigning you to the same fate! You're safer as a human!"
"What about in the rebellion? When I fight?"
He pauses in his desperate circling around the room. No fucking way. "The what?"
"The rebellion.", you repeat, now suddenly tense and gently backing up as he stalks closer to you, one click of his heel after the other.
"How do you know about that?"
"I heard whispers of the Katniss girl being the Mockingj—"
"Bullshit. You've been cooped up with me in here for almost ten months."
"I read your journal."
"No, I have no paper trail."
"You're killing specific Gamemakers. Uh, one Mr. Beetee's, then Mags', and then Ms. Wiress. And you've saved yours for last."
"That tells you nothing.", hisses Finnick. He's not sure why he's so angry. Maybe because he's never checked if you've been wired this entire time. Maybe because he may have fucked up the whole plan by falling for a fucking Capitol spy.
"I followed you one of those days you disappeared."
That... makes sense.
"You met up with Plutarch Heavensbee. Then, I read your list and he wasn't on it. He's the next Gamemaker. I kinda... built from there."
Okay, so not a Capitol spy. But dangerous in your own, sexy little right.
He nods, before he grasps your jaw. Not rough or unkind, just... there. Like "hey, it's Finnick, who you just admitted to loving, albeit for a life-altering favour".
"Are you angry?"
Your attempt at looking vulnerable is kinda cute and moot. You don't need to look the part, you are vulnerable. But humans don't acknowledge that shit, ever. He lets out a little snort.
Using his grip on your jaw, he pulls you closer so he can lean down to stay eye-to-eye with you. "How can someone this smart simultaneously want to be a fucking vampire?"
"Duality of man?", you suggest.
He grins, all teeth. "Do you actually love me? 'Cause that was so funny I can't even pretend I don't want that shit to have come out of the mouth of the girl I love — that loves me back."
"I do."
"I'm not turning you."
"I still do."
Finnick smiles. "I can't turn you. But you know what I can do?"
"Introduce me to Plutarch? Make me part of the rebellion?"
He laughs out loud at that, flicking gently at your forehead. "Fat fucking chance. You're gonna be cooped up in this insanely reinforced suite until the last bomb drops. Can't let you die." He's kidding, but he needs you to know that he'd rather get trapped in a loop of a wooden stake up and down his heart but never piercing in some sort of vampire Prometheus situation than let you die in the fucking rebellion he was only participating in to protect you.
"What, then?"
"I'm gonna bring you along to kill Johanna's Gamemaker."
"Yeah? Why him?"
"Her. And I think you'll enjoy this one.", he tells you, pulling the list out from his pocket, smoothing it down flat on the table. He clicks his pen open before scribbling a name on.
"Antia Routhful?"
Finnick watches your face carefully as your eyes move from the letter A to the letter L, and then back across the length of her name, again and again and again. "She took me from my District to be 'company' for rich Capitol patrons. And people like you."
Hey, man, c'mere. Listen. Get in real close, this is important.
You're gonna make stuff again. You're gonna make stuff you're proud of. You're gonna make stuff you're excited to share. You're going to feel that overwhelming drive to create, not just the frantic I want to want to you're stuck in now. You're going to have awesome ideas, and you're going to make them into reality. You're going to create again. You're still an artist. You're still a writer. You're still home to the same passion you had before. You'll find it again. It's not gone. It's just resting. Let it rest. You're going to make stuff again. I promise.
if i write really stupid comfort self indulgent selfship hunger games fanfiction instead of touching my 5000000 requests in my inbox would u guys hurt me ple ase say no
saw th is inag e on pinterest and currently bawling my eyes oit bc i can not have him ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️ why is he $1500000000 dolla rs on the intern et what the Fuck
Some of ya'll still think Peeta was never himself again because Mockingjay Katniss said he would never return to her but Mockingjay Katniss is wrong.
Katniss is ROMEO
They are the star crossed lovers of fair Verona and when Romeo finds Juliet, who has taken a potion to appear in a deathlike sleep, he believes she's dead so much so that he decides to kill himself in his grief. Katniss sees Peeta, poisoned to appear forever lost and believes he is dead. So much so that she decides to kill herself in her grief. But Suzanne is kinder than Shakespeare and Peeta is luckier than Juliet because he wakes up from his death like sleep in time to stop his lover from ending her life. He blocks her mouth from taking the nightlock pill.
Katniss being wrong about the "old Peeta" being gone forever is part of the parallel. She's WRONG. He's traumatized more than he was before the hijacking but so is she. She doesn't come back to life at the end for mutt Peeta, or have two children with mutt Peeta. That's her boy with the bread. Same man he always was
