#finnick

[kunehobnuy]

Adapting and making the best of a situation

[itsajollyjester]

The ending they deserved (again)

[ssweeterthanfiction]

A Little Accident

finnick odair x district 13 nurse/medic!reader content warnings: none! summary: finnick crushing on the "cute" nurse. wc: 871

masterlist.

Pain wasn’t new to Finnick Odair.

He’d known it intimately, learned how to turn it off and on like a switch. In the arena, pain kept you alive. In the Capitol, it was dressed in silk and perfume. It was silent and smiling. It never left a mark that could be seen.

So when the hot steam from the kettle kissed the side of his hand that morning in the District 13 kitchen, he barely flinched. It wasn’t even a real injury, just a little red, a little stinging, a little accident. Nothing worth bothering about. But when one of the kitchen workers glanced over and said, “You might want to get that looked at. They’ve got medics down the hall,” he didn’t say no.

Because you were down the hall.

Finnick had seen you earlier, across the dining hall.

You moved differently than the others. Everyone else in 13 moved with urgency, with duty, with weight.

But you? You moved with purpose and softness. Like someone who hadn’t let the darkness here swallow you whole. You smiled when you spoke. Laughed when something was funny. Touched people with the kind of gentleness that made his chest ache.

He didn’t even know your name.

But he knew your face. And the way you made the world feel quieter just by existing in it.

So, yeah. He walked into the medical ward with a mild burn and an embarrassingly hopeful heart.

The air inside was sterile, still, and lined with white. But then there you were, standing at the supply shelf, quietly humming some tune he didn’t recognize, your fingers moving over rows of bandages and medicine bottles with ease.

His breath caught. Ridiculous, really. He’d once stood face to face with a man about to drive a spear through his chest and didn’t even blink. But now, walking toward a girl in a medic’s uniform that made his heart burst? That was terrifying.

You turned when you heard the door.

“Oh-” you said softly, surprised, and then your eyes widened just slightly. “You’re Finnick Odair, aren’t you?”

He gave a crooked smile. “Guilty.”

Your gaze dropped to the faint red mark blooming on his hand. You immediately stepped closer, concern knitting between your brows.

“What happened?”

He lifted the hand a little. “A fight with a kettle. The kettle won.”

That got the smallest smile from you, and he held onto it like it was something precious.

“Well, let’s get that cleaned up before it gets worse.” you motioned gently to one of the cots. “Sit. I’ll take care of it.”

Finnick obeyed like it was an order from the Capitol itself.

As you moved around the room gathering supplies, he watched you, not in the way he used to watch people when he needed something from them. No games, no performance. Just awe, and a strange warmth pooling in his chest. He didn’t even want anything from you. Just…this. Just you voice. You hands. Your kindness.

You sat beside him, the tray balanced neatly on your lap. Your fingers brushed his as you took his hand in your hand, and the sting of the burn was nothing compared to the softness of your skin. You worked with practiced care, gently cleaning the area, your brow furrowed in concentration.

“You’ve got a light touch,” he murmured.

Your eyes flicked up, amused. “I’d hope so. People don’t tend to come back to medics who poke and prod too hard.”

“I’d come back either way,” he said without thinking.

You blinked. Then gave a shy little laugh, cheeks warming. “Well…let’s try to avoid that. Fewer injuries means you’re doing something right.”

Finnick wanted to tell you that avoiding injury had never really been an option for him. That in his world, pain was currency. Survival was bruises and burns and smiles that cost more than they were worth.

But he didn’t. He just looked at you, really looked at you. Your eyes were kind. Not the kind that looked through people, but into them. Like you actually wanted to know who someone was underneath the blood and bone.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Finnick found himself wanting to be known.

“All done,” you said after a moment, gently wrapping the gauze around his hand. “It’s a mild burn, you’ll be fine. Just try not to pick a fight with boiling water again, alright?”

“I’ll do my best,” he said, and it was probably the first true thing he’d said all day.

You smiled at him again, soft, sincere, unguarded. And he swore it did something to his heart that he couldn’t name.

He left the infirmary with a neatly bandaged hand, and a problem. Because now that he’d felt what it was like to be seen by someone good, truly good, he wasn’t sure he could go back to pretending he didn’t crave it.

He left the infirmary that day with his hand wrapped in gauze and his mind spinning in a thousand directions.

Finnick Odair had survived the Games, the Capitol, Snow’s strings.

He’d been adored by the world. Feared by enemies. Desired by strangers.

He’d never been seen like this.

And he’d do anything.

Anything to feel it again.

[wonderlanderings]

The Promises We Cling To

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐭𝐡𝐠 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬t / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: finnick odair x fem!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.6k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: this is basically just me starting with the "people are watching / then lets give them something to look at" prompt and maybe getting a little lost in the process 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: angst, fluff, violence, blood, injury that whole shebang, I actually proofread this one but that doesn't mean I spotted everything sorry in advance

𝐚/𝐧: apparently the only time I'm capable of writing is when im less than a day away from my constitutional law final and delusional because i've been awake for 38 hours so hopefully this will give me enough dopamine to actually get a passing grade

Finnick knows how this works; he’s known it since he was fourteen years old and first stepped foot in an arena. Since the moment he lost sight of you, since the bloodbath separated you, Snow’s words haunt him with every cannon he hears: "She is just another thing I can take from you."

And yet—

He still dares to believe you’re alive.

Not because the Capitol hasn’t tried. Not because the odds are kind. But because you promised. You swore you’d fight. And Finnick clings to that vow like a prayer, even as the arena’s cannons rattle his bones. Last night, he’d counted the fallen—your name absent from the sky’s grim ledger. But three more cannons have split the air since dawn, and now—

Now he’s not sure what to believe. The rational part of him—the part carved into survival by years of Capitol cruelty—knows the truth: They’re playing with him. But the other part, the raw and bleeding thing behind his ribs, doesn’t care. The rebels’ plan echoe in his head, "Stay put. Wait for extraction." But he’s itching to move, to act, to do something besides sit here and wait. Every muscle in his body is filled with restless energy, his fingers tapping a precise rhythm against his trident. The inaction is worse than any challenge the arena could give him. He wants to run back into the jungle, to tear through the branches until he finds you, but he knows you. That's the cruellest part.

He knows how you think, the way you map escape routes before you even enter a room, the way you always have a back-up plan for your back-up plan. And right now, this beach is your plan. It’s the rendezvous point you had all agreed on before the Games even began, a secret strategy the rebels had managed to lay out. If he leaves, he risks missing you. If he stays, he risks leaving you to die alone. The dilemma claws at his ribs, and around him he can hear the others strategise, but their words blur into static. All he can hear is the phantom echoe of your voice in his head as you tell him it will be okay. Johanna catches his eye from across the beach, her glare sharp enough to cut. “Stop pacing. You’re making me twitchy.” He forces himself to let out a deep breath, focusing on the movement of the water in front of him. He needs to put himself back together; he needs to stay here.

But then—your scream. It tears through the jungle, a sound so visceral his body moves before his mind catches up. He’s already sprinting, the grip on his trident tight as his instincts kick in.

"Finnick, stop—!" Johanna’s voice is lost to him over the rushing of blood in his ears. The trees blur as he runs; he doesn't think about the careers that could be close by, the traps that he could trigger or the fact that he’s doing the exact opposite of what he’s supposed to. The flicker of movement to his right catches his attention, and he’s about to change directions when the jabberjays descend. They’re a swarm of wings and needle-sharp cries as they surround him, their voices stitching together into an illusion of you: your gasps, your sobs, the way you’d whispered his name before being forced apart. He stops moving and staggers to his knees. It’s not real. He knows it’s not real. Knows that Snow’s fingerprints are all over this new form of torture. But logic means nothing when his hands are shaking, when his lungs refuse to work, when every instinct screams to run, find, save—

Johanna grabs his shoulder, her nails biting through his skin. "Breathe, Odair."

The jabberjays' cries fade into the jungle's chorus, leaving Finnick hollowed out and raw. Johanna's grip on his shoulder remains, her fingers digging into muscle like she's the only thing keeping him from splintering apart.

"Get up," she hisses, voice low and urgent. "We need to move before those things lure anyone else here." Finnick's hands still tremble as he pushes himself to his feet. The phantom echoes of your voice cling to him, sticky as blood. He wants to argue, to plunge back into the green hell after you, but Johanna's right—the sound of the jabberjays could be a beacon for every tribute left in the arena.

The walk back to the beach is a blur of snapping branches and Johanna's muttered curses. When they break through the treeline, Beetee's head jerks up from the makeshift radio he's been tinkering with, his glasses flashing in the sunlight. "Did you find—?"

"No," Johanna cuts him off, shoving Finnick toward the water. "Go clean up before I toss you in the water myself.” Finnick's gaze drifts to the treeline, his fingers twitching at his sides. You promised you'd fight. He just needs to believe you're still fighting.

You wake to the taste of copper and dirt. The world swims into focus slowly—first the ache in your ribs, then the sticky warmth of blood matting your hair to your scalp. Somewhere in the chaos of the bloodbath, a blow to the head had sent you sprawling into the undergrowth, separating you from the others. The jungle hums around you, deceptive in its tranquillity. Every rustle of leaves could be a mutation, every snapped twig a Career hunting for stragglers. The beach is your only chance—you know Finnick will be waiting there, even if it kills him. You press your back against a tree, lungs burning, and your ribs scream where a Career’s boot found its mark yesterday, but you know you need to keep moving; too much time has passed already. You know the way his voice cracks when he’s trying not to beg, the way his hands shake after nightmares, you know he’s counting cannons, just like you are—each one a fresh wound. So you bite down on the pain and move.

The arena doesn’t kill you quietly; it creeps in through the cracks—the stench of rotting foliage, the too-sweet tang of tracker jacker venom lingering in the air, the way your own sweat stings the cuts on your palms. So you move in bursts, pausing to listen between steps. The arena's traps are everywhere.

When the jabberjays come, their shrieks weaving together your name in Finnick's voice, you almost believe it's real. Your chest cracks open with want, but you bite your tongue until you taste blood. The jabberjays' voices fade, but their poison lingers in your bones. You press a trembling hand against the rough bark of a tree, counting breaths until the phantom sound of Finnick's screams stops echoing in your skull. Every rustle of leaves sends your pulse skittering. The wound on your ribs throbs in time with your footsteps, a fresh bloom of pain with each misstep. You try to focus on the memory of Finnick's hands steadying you after nightmares – his thumbs brushing your wrists in slow circles. Breathe. Just breathe.

The first hint of salt air cuts through the jungle's rot. Your knees nearly buckle at the scent – it smells like Finnick's skin after swimming, like promises whispered against damp hair. The ground begins to slope downward. Somewhere beyond the trees, waves crash in a rhythm you'd know blind. You're close now. So close. A twig snaps; you freeze, muscles coiled.

Then—a sound. Not a cannon. Not a mutation. A rhythmic tap, too precise to be accidental. You know that sound, like you know the hitch in Finnick’s breath when he wakes from nightmares. Like you know the way his fingers drum against your hip when he’s impatient, when he’s afraid, when he’s trying to pretend he isn’t either. The beach is close. You know that rhythm, the way his hands move when his mind is racing, when the nerves he’d never admit to are fraying his control. And just like that, you’re running; you’re reckless. You can smell the sand now; you can almost hear their hushed voices. But the arena has one last cruelty in store.

You feel it before you see it, that split-second prickle at the back of your neck, the sudden hush of the jungle like the arena itself is holding its breath, and you know the fatal mistake you’ve just made. Memories crash over you like a riptide. The bouncing of his knee under the kitchen table on the morning of the reaping, the way he’d flinched when your fingers brushed his wrist, then clung to you like you were the only anchor in a storm. You remember the Tuesday he’d shattered a teacup at 3 a.m., his breathing coming out in jagged bursts. You hadn't asked him why; it didn't matter why. You had just slid down beside him, pressing your forehead to his temple until his lungs remembered how to work.

And that damned peach pie, the memory of flour dusting his lashes as he’d laughed at your frantic perfectionism, only to turn pale as a ghost when you’d yelped at the oven’s burn. His hands, so careful, always so careful, cradling your blistered palms while his voice stayed as steady as the tide. “Breathe, sweetheart. It’s just pie.” It had been his mother’s recipe, the first thing he trusted you with that hurt to share, and you were more upset over messing it up than the burn on your hands. And that night on the beach, salt air clinging to his lips as he whispered “Promise me” with a desperation that carved itself into your bones. The version of Finnick the Capitol moulded was gone; there was only the raw, trembling truth of him.

It had reminded you of the first time you met. The way Finnick’s laugh had faltered when your eyes locked across the room years ago—like he’d been sucker-punched by his own heartbeat. The Capitol’s golden boy unravelled in an instant. The sun was starting to rise over the water, the soft light showcasing the tension in his shoulders.

You’ve seen Finnick Odair wear a hundred masks, but this—this restless hesitation, his fingers worrying the edge of his sleeve—is new. You open your mouth to ask him, but he speaks first. “I know you like to tease me about the clichés I tell you.” His voice is rough, like he’s been screaming into the tide. “But I need you to know I mean every fucking word.” When he turns, the look on his face steals your breath. This isn’t the polished charmer from your early days or even the fractured man who once sobbed into your collarbone after a Capitol party. This is something rawer. Something terrified.

Your fingers find the nape of his neck on instinct, threading through sweat-damp curls. He shudders, leaning into your touch like a dying man offered water. “I know,” you whisper. “No.” His hand clamps over yours, pressing your palm flat to his pulse. It’s racing. “When I say I’d die for you, I mean it. Let me mean it.” The words are a blade between your ribs. “Finn—”

“We’ve both known what will happen at the reaping, even if we pretend we don’t.” His thumb traces your knuckles—so gentle, so at odds with the fire in his eyes. “You’d walk into that arena alone just to spare a stranger. That stubbornness is why I—" He chokes. “But you have to let me be selfish too.” A tear slips down your cheek, but he catches it before it can fall from your face. “Promise me.” His voice cracks.“Promise you’ll survive, even if I don’t.”

You want to argue. To shake him until his teeth rattle. But the plea in his gaze is a mirror of your own soul. “I promise.” His exhale is a seismic thing, like he’s been drowning for years. You seize his wrist before he can pull away. “Promise me too. That you’ll fight, no matter what.” There’s a flicker of agony in his eyes, but just like you had known, he knows you need to hear him say it. “I promise I’ll try.” There are so many unspoken words as he looks at you. So many more clichés you know he wants to give to you, so many reassurances you wish you could give him, but the one promise you have always shared is louder than ever: you won’t let them have the satisfaction of knowing they can break you.

So maybe this is how it was always meant to be. The thought comes to you with eerie clarity as Brutus enters your line of vision and his fingers crush your windpipe. You’ve kept your promises, you’ve fought like hell, and now—now you’ve made it back to him, even if only for a final heartbeat. Your vision tunnels, and every gasp is like a knife being dragged through your lungs, but you don’t stop moving. Your fingers reach for the blade embedded in your palm — the one you’d taken from another tribute hours ago, the one still slick with your own blood. Brutus snarls as you drive it into his wrist, and for one glorious second, his grip loosens. You suck in a fractured breath, but then his other hand slams you against a tree. “Is that all you’ve got?” His breath is rancid, and stars burst behind your eyes, the world around you fracturing into fragments as he lifts you off the ground, once again stealing your breath from you.

You think of Finnick, the real him, the one who kissed you like he was starving as he trailed a path all over your body, who whispered against your thighs like he was reciting a prayer. Just as you’re about to give in to the memories, throught the static in your ears, you hear it, and Brutus’ head snaps toward the sound.

"Get your fucking hands off her."

The voice is raw with fury, edged with something worse—terror. Brutus actually flinches. It’s a voice you’d recognise anywhere; you’d know it underwater. In a hurricane. At the end of the world. Finnick.

You hit the ground hard, your lungs screaming as they try to reclaim the air you’ve been gifted once more, but all you can process is him. The unmistakably feral look twisting on his face as he slams into Brutus like a tidal wave, the sickening crunch of his fist meeting jawbone—once, twice—each blow precise and vicious, the way his trident lies abandoned behind him; he didn’t even bother using it. This isn’t combat; this is butchery. Your vision swims as you stagger upright, only to collapse again. Every gasp feels like swallowing broken glass, but you have to get to him—

Crack.

The sound isn’t just heard. You feel it in your bones. Brutus’ head snaps sideways, his knees buckling as Finnick drives an elbow into his temple. There’s no finesse, just a boy who’s spent too many years sharpening himself into a weapon, finally cutting loose.

A wet cough wrenches from your throat, and Finnick’s head whips toward you so fast it’s a miracle his neck doesn’t break. For one fractured second, his rage falters. You’ll remember that look forever. How his eyes went wild, how his breath hitched—like he’d just watched you die. The sound of your wheezing seems to snap him out of his trance. Though he’s covered from head to toe in blood spatter—none of it his—he has never looked more fragile to you. He rushes to your side, dropping to his knees as one hand cradles your face while the other takes yours, pressing your palm against his ribcage to help you steady your racing breaths. His thumb strokes your cheek in slow, uneven sweeps—a nervous habit. The blood smearing your skin is thick, still warm, but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when Finnick is looking at you like this, like you’re dawn breaking over the ocean after the longest night of his life.

Despite the ache in your arms, you lift your free hand and catch his—the one that had been tracing restless patterns against your skin—and press his palm to your chest. You know the steadying rhythm of your heartbeat is one of the few things that can anchor him now. A spark flickers to life in his eyes as they roam your face, as if he’s memorising the proof that you’re here, alive.

“I’ve missed you.” The words are too small for the weight in your chest, but they’re the only truth you can grasp. His chuckle is rough, warmth bleeding into the sound, and it reignites the dull ache in your heart—then fans it into a wildfire when he murmurs, “I missed you more.” You can feel the want boiling inside him—the way his adrenaline sings for him to crush you against his ribs, to kiss you like he’s pouring every unsaid vow into your lungs. But he hesitates, fingers twitching against your collarbone. Still afraid, still fragile.

“I’m okay, Finn. I promise.” A smile ghosts his lips, but his next words are barely audible. “Everybody’s watching.” He doesn’t need to say anything else. You remember the first oath you ever swore to each other: Don’t let them in. Don’t let them twist this. Your relationship was never just yours—it was a stage play for all of Panem, a performance where even you sometimes forgot where the script ended and the truth began.

Yet here he is, clinging to another promise—the one where he swore to shield you, even from himself. You see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands hover like he’s afraid touch might shatter the illusion of control. He’s trying so damn hard to be what you need: steady, selfless, safe. But the irony is delicious. His restraint is the proof you crave. It screams what the cameras will never understand—that this, right here, is the most real thing either of you has ever had. So you tilt your chin up, your voice a challenge and a dare as you scan his face: “Then let’s give them something to look at.”

Your words are another whisper, so quiet you fear they might dissolve before they reach him—but then his head snaps up, his gaze scouring your face like a man reading a map in the dark. And then he breaks. He lunges forward, lips crashing into yours with a desperation that steals your breath. It’s overwhelming, it's perfect, the familiarity of his mouth against yours is everything you had been craving since you last saw him. You kiss him back like it’s the only language left to you, pouring every unsaid ‘I love you’ into the press of your lips. His touch is featherlight yet feverish, hands tracing your arms, your spine, as if trying to memorise you through his fingertips. And in this fragile bubble of shared breath and tangled limbs, you find it—the truth you’ve been starving for.

Finnick kisses like it’s his salvation. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging gently, insatiable, while his arm bands around your waist, hauling you flush against him until not even air separates you. You feel the frantic thudding of his heartbeat where your chest meets his, a wild counterpoint to your own. When he groans into your mouth, it’s a sound you want to bottle. It’s not enough. Even now, with his skin against yours and his pulse thundering under your palms, you’re already aching for more—more of him, more of this, more of the way he makes the world vanish.

A very deliberate cough shatters the daydream you’d been lost in, and the two of you spring apart like kids caught making out behind the gym. “You two never fail to disgust me.” Johanna’s voice is flat, devoid of even her trademark sarcasm, and the heat that floods your cheeks is embarrassingly familiar. “If you’re done trying to swallow each other’s faces, we’ve got shit to do.”

Finnick snaps back to reality first, hauling himself upright before pulling you up with him. His hands linger, like he needs the contact to convince himself you’re really here. Johanna rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t stick, already stalking back toward the clearing—but not before you catch her gaze flickering over you, her lips twitching like she’s fighting a smile. Of course she cares, she's the one who introduced the two of you to begin with.

“I think she might actually be glad I’m not dead.” You murmur, and his laughter is warm against your ear. The sound settles something in your chest, a reminder: You’re here. You’re together. Maybe, against all odds, things will be okay.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he jokes back. “She’s just relieved she won’t have to suffer through my moping anymore.” The lightness in his grin tells you everything—he’s found his footing again. And so have you. But as Finnick’s thumb brushes your wrist, you both hear it: another cannon in the distance. The Games aren’t over yet.

[prequel: The masks we wear]

[dontwannastudybutihaveto]

[rosaaeles]

VICTORY TOUR POSTERS pt. 2

ANNIE CRESTA, THE MERMAID OF DISTRICT 4

WINNER OF THE 70TH HUNGER GAMES

“Did you love Annie right away, Finnick?”

"No… She crept up on me.”

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖° *ੈ✩‧₊˚🐋 ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧⋆ ˚｡⋆🦪

was feeling very inspired and thought I'd try my hand at making some new victory tour posters for the loml annie cresta! The original ones I made are here!

[skzyeri]

finnick odair fic recs

F - fluff S - smut A - angst ♡ - series ☆ - one shot ◇ - imagines and drabbles

last updated - 23/05/2026 ⤷ fic count - 17

@aphroditelovesu ——————————

☆ soft yandere!finnick odair x female!reader | A.

@asterias-record-shop ——————————

♡ in our next life | F. S. A. ⤷ peeta and katniss weren’t the first to fall in love after the games. that title went to you and finnick, your mentor after you were reaped at the age of fifteen two years after finnick. after being dragged back into the games with the quarter quell, you both are determined to stop it, no matter what- especially if one of you would gladly sacrifice themselves for the other.

@daisyjonesgf ——————————

♡ midnight rain | F. A. ⤷ finnick had pulled the plug on your relationship long ago, when he could no longer keep from you what he'd been forced into. but after you've returned victorious from your games, he knows you need him as the nightmares come for you each time you close your eyes. ⤷ [ part 2 ] ♡ the lakes | F. A. ⤷ it's supposed to be over, you and finnick are supposed to spend the rest of your lives helping each other heal. living as peacefully as possible, but the the third quarter quell throws a wrench in your domestic bliss. ⤷ [ part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 part 13 ] ♡ the river | F. A. ⤷ the capitol has taken you away from finnick, the life you've been trying to build together and now he has to fight to get every part of you back ⤷ [ part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 ]

@ellecdc ——————————

☆ dad!finnick odair x pregnant!reader | F. ⤷ who's daughter throws a fit

@fangirlingalittletoohard ——————————

☆ ageing | F. S. ⤷ it's a few years after the rebellion. finnick is ageing like a fine wine, but can't seem to get past the fact that he no longer looks like he did in his early twenties. you make it your mission to convince him of how utterly obsessed you are with his body.

@francixoxoxo ——————————

☆ moon on the rise | F. ⤷ you and finnick wake up to take care of your daughter when she cries in the middle of the night.

@hyperfixationstati0n ——————————

◇ finnick odair being a sweetheart during your pregnancy

@morganwrites12672

☆ finnick odair x hawthorne!reader | F. ⤷ being stuck in district 13 has been nothing but a living hell. your boyfriend makes it more bearable for you. now, your brother on the other hand...

@mysadcorner ——————————

◇ finnick odair dating headcanons

@queuestarter ——————————

☆ altered | F. A. ⤷ pregnant reader in the quarter quell

@reesereadsalot ——————————

♡ facing the arena | F. S. A. ⤷ your 7 months pregnant with finnicks baby. when your the happiest you were in your life, your whole world comes crashing down. you were reaped for the 3rd quarter quell.

@s0urw00lf ——————————

☆ all in time | F. A. ⤷ finnick is on a mission to convince the world you aren’t what they think ☆ dad finnick | F. ⤷ literally just finnick being the cutest dad

@targaryenluvs ——————————

☆ want and desire | A. ⤷ you’d thought you’d escaped the capitol, and to some extent, him, the ever so sweet and charming finnick odair. but it seems your fate had been signed as it seemed you couldn’t get away from him no matter how hard you tried.

@thisisourlovestory ——————————

♡ safe and sound | F. A. ⤷ you are a victor from district 4. the quarter quell has just been announced. how will you cope with the turn of events coming your way.

[vocallywritten]

Do you think Finnick had any questions about why Nick and Judy were having him dress up in a bunny costume? Or did he just roll his eyes and go with it because this isn't even the weirdest thing they've asked him to do.