Finnick Odair x hijacked!reader who asks what's real or not real [2k words]
summary: a District Thirteen reunion story heavily inspired by the brilliant @ervotica's fic 'a life of our own' & @/ilguna's 'hijacked'! Reader was tortured much like Peeta was into fearing Finnick, finding her playing the game 'real or not real'
CW: fem!reader, discussion of past torture [not described], reader tortured into believing Finnick did abhorrent and disgusting things to her [not described], medical personnel acting as villains sort of, hurt/comfort, hopeful/open ending
Finnick drummed his fingers against the paperback book that he brought with him to your hospital room every day which acted as nothing more than a glorified prop.
Routine was a word that came to dictate much of Finnick’s life recently; stability. Ritualized schedules were the norm in District Thirteen. But more importantly, routine, stability, and ritualized schedules were deemed necessary and important to your recovery.
Thus, Finnick drummed his fingers against the paperback book - the same paperback book - that he brought with him to your hospital room every day - at the exact same time - which acted as nothing more than a glorified prop.
He’d been following more or less the same routine ever since you’d been rescued from the Capitol a few weeks ago, though Finnick could admit visiting you felt slightly better now than it had in the beginning.
The beginning had been nothing short of heartbreaking for him. The beginning had been nothing short of torturous for you.
There’d been a hunch in place of hard evidence that the lot of you were being tortured in the Capitol, though to what extent no one knew. And absolutely no one was prepared for what awaited them by the time the three of you were safe in District Thirteen.
Peeta had promptly tried to off Katniss which was very off brand of him; Johanna’s head had been shaved, she was emaciated, and had a plethora of evidence of gruesome physical torture, and you…
You weren’t filled with the same loathing, hatred, and disgust that Peeta seemed to carry for Katniss. No, you were completely and utterly terrified.
Medics had to sedate you when Finnick rushed into the room upon hearing of your arrival because you’d thrown yourself against the wall so violently you’d split your head open, then nearly ripped your nails clean off your fingers in your desperation to open a locked door in an attempt to escape from him. And if that hadn’t been devastating enough, the sounds of your guttural screams and desperate cries caused by him still haunted many of Finnick’s nightmares.
Finnick had been hesitant to return to you after that; he didn’t want to ever cause you that much distress again.
Haymitch tried to reason with him; Finnick wasn’t the one causing you this much distress, it was the Capitol. The medics tried to reason with him; it was to be considered exposure therapy, they hoped that - over time - as you regained some familiarity and comfort with him and worked through your memories and trauma with the doctors that you’d start to remember.
He reluctantly agreed. So, he was horrified when, the first day he returned, you’d been strapped down to your bed in preparation for his meeting.
“This is sick!” He’d shouted at the medics as he gestured at your current state. “This isn’t exposure therapy, this is torture!”
“Mr. Odair, the hope is that once she begins to realize there’s no need to fight or run, we’ll be able to take the restraints off.” One of them explained in a bored manner.
“Fuck whatever you’re hoping for! You’re torturing her; she’s not going to feel any safer here than she did in the Capitol!”
They’d tried calling after him, but he simply looked over at you and offered a pathetic “I’m sorry, honey” that you probably hadn’t heard over your own desperate wails before he fled.
The next day he returned, you hadn’t been strapped down, but you had been heavily medicated with some kind of sedative before his arrival. He swallowed around the bile in his throat as he took a seat in one of the chairs, pretended to read his book and tried his hardest to ignore the extremely wary and haunted gaze that stayed glued to his side for the entirety of his visit.
The third visit went much the same, except about halfway through his scheduled ‘visit’, he noticed that your eyes seemed to fall extremely heavy.
“Are you tired, sweetheart?” He murmured quietly, though you would have thought he’d screamed at you with the way you bodily flinched and your eyes snapped open.
He just continued watching you as you fought to convince your heart to return to its normal tempo, slowly, cautiously nodding your head yes to his question when you seemed to realize he was earnest in his question.
“Would you like me to leave so you can get some rest?”
Your brows furrowed ever so subtly, eyes darting across his face as you searched for any hidden meaning or potential threat.
You must not have found one.
“Please.” You whispered, and - though it was still but a whisper - it was the first time he had heard your voice since the Quarter Quell that wasn’t shrieking and sobbing in fear, causing a lump to form in his throat.
“Okay, honey, I’ll go.” He whispered back, smiling at you through tears as he stood and swiftly left the room, hardly closing the door fully behind him before he let out a sob.
Over the weeks, you began finding your own routine and schedule outside of the time you spent working with doctors and medics. You were hardly ever seen without your journal on your person, and one of your doctors explained to Finnick that you were beginning to compile notes to differentiate between things you knew, things that you didn’t know, and what was real or not real. Many times, Finnick could find you working in your journal when he arrived, and though you still managed to keep a concerned eye on him at any given point and your body never fully relaxed while he was there, he was grateful you were becoming more or less accustomed to his company.
And then one day he showed up to your room to find one wall completely transformed into a giant drawing board. The board was divided into two equal sides; one side was labelled REAL and one side was labelled NOT REAL. The only thing that had been written down so far was on the NOT REAL side, which read “Finnick did not set you up and leave you there to die.”
“She’s been struggling to sleep without the aid of sedatives; she wakes up quite violently from nightmares, struggling to differentiate between what is real and what is not, even when we’re standing right there in front of her.” One of the medics told him. “We tried once to have her look through her journal, but she threw it across the room and told us to get away from her. We thought maybe having a very large visualization in front of her in her own writing would be helpful to tether her to reality upon waking.”
And that seemed all well in good, but Finnick found himself sick over some of the things the Capitol had convinced you he was guilty of more than once.
But, if this is what you needed, if this was helping you, Finnick would stomach it, no questions asked.
So, Finnick drummed his fingers against the paperback book that he brought with him to your hospital room every day which acted as nothing more than a glorified prop.
He knocked twice gently on your door before stepping inside, watching as you stepped quickly away from the board and hid the marker and eraser behind your back as if you’d been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to, watching Finnick as though you were waiting for him to attack.
“Hi, honey.” He greeted quietly, nodding politely at you before he pulled out his chair and took his place, flipping his book open to an arbitrary page as he pretended to read.
You didn’t move; your feet seemed to be glued to the spot as you watched Finnick pretend to not be watching you. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had missed your gaze, quite selfishly, and found that while the atmosphere wasn’t exactly relaxed, he was happy enough just to have your eyes on him again.
Finnick wasn’t sure how much time had passed before you ended up breaking the silence.
“F…Finnick?” You asked, barely above a whisper; question so quiet that Finnick was sure if he hadn’t only been pretending to read, he would have missed it entirely.
You sounded as though you were trying his name out for size, just to see how it felt on your tongue. Finnick missed the days when you used to squeal his name in laughter, or groan his name in frustration, or call his name in excitement. But even though it came out cautious and stilted, he didn’t think he’d ever heard as pretty a sound as the sound of his name falling from your lips.
“Yes, sweetheart?” He asked eagerly, fighting to keep his tone, face, and body language calm as he saved his ‘place’ with a finger and leaned forward in his chair, resting his knees on his elbows.
You swallowed thickly and fiddled with the marker in your hands as you stole yourself to speak. “Can I ask you something?”
He wanted to be an ass; he wanted to say ‘you just asked me two things’, he wanted to whoop and holler at finally having an actual conversation with you after weeks of finally having you back, yet not really having you back at all.
Instead, all he said was “of course.”
You cleared your throat before gaining the courage to ask what he heard as “you love me; real, or not real?”
Finnick wasn’t sure an answer had ever come to him so fast. “Real.”
You seemed somewhat surprised by his answer even though it was clearly the answer you’d been expecting. After a few moments, you simply nodded at him before turning back to your drawing board’s REAL side.
Finnick loved me you wrote, adding bullet points underneath it...
He told me so
He acts like it
Gut feeling
...is what you cited as proof to this revelation. Finnick wanted to weep. A gut feeling; you were still in there, somewhere. There was still a version of you that knew deep down that Finnick loved you.
“It’s not quite right, honey.” He offered softly, fighting the urge to smile when you turned at his interruption, yet didn’t flinch at the sound of his voice as you often did. You simply looked at him in confusion.
“Do you mind if I make a minor adjustment?” He asked as he carefully placed his book on your empty bed and slowly stood, holding his hands out in ask.
You looked between him and the marker and eraser in your hands before holding them out for him; an invitation.
Finnick smiled at you as he slowly walked towards you, hyper focused on remaining as unthreatening as possible as he gently took the items from you, careful not to touch you unnecessarily.
He moved to the REAL side of the board, using the edge of the eraser to remove the d from the end of loved and replacing it with an s. The sentence now - properly - read Finnick loves me.
“There, now it’s perfect.” He offered you with another smile as he held the items back out to you, gently placing them in your hands when you held them open for him before he turned back towards his chair, retrieved his book, and sat back down.
Your eyes stayed glued on the correction he made to your board as the marker and eraser hovered uselessly midair; moments dragging on before your arms finally lowered to your sides.
Finnick didn’t bother pretending to read, so when you turned to look at him - face full of confusion, curiosity, concern, and what looked to be devastation - you found him already looking at you.
“Still?” You asked, voice cracking painfully as a heavy tear fell down your face.
And if Finnick thought that no answer had ever come faster to him before, he was sorely mistaken.
summary: your stylist must hate you, putting you into a corset so tight. thank god finnick odair is there to save you
warnings: female reader, finnick and reader are friends with implied feelings, mentions of capitol people being awful people, finnick being a sweetheart, no use of y/n
: ̗̀➛ masterlist
If there was one thing you were certain of, it was that you hated Capitol parties. They were always extremely extravagant, filled with the most obnoxiously unaware people you had probably ever met. Being a Victor was nothing less than a major pain in the ass. You lived, but you also lived with the pains of the Capitol and Snow breathing down your neck every five seconds.
It wasn't uncommon for Victors to be invited to parties in the Capitol. It was actually rather unusual for them not to be invited. After all, they were the real Capitol stars. So, here you were, drinking some bubbly liquor that tasted incredibly awful in comparison to any other drink, fake smiling and laughing with some socialites who wouldn't leave you alone for more than two minutes at a time.
Their stories were very unimpressive. Dull and lifeless, like how someone stepped on a bug while shopping, or how another ate so much they had to throw up six times. Stories from the Districts were always better. Folk stories or real, it really didn't matter. At least they were interesting and not about something stupid like fashion or gossip.
The worst part of the whole night was that your stylist must've hated you. You wore some long, pirate-esque, flowy skirt with the most painful heels that had ever been made along with the tightest corset you'd ever worn. It was squeezing all of your insides in all the wrong ways. If you turned the wrong way or breathed too hard, it really hurt. You were sure if you bent over, you'd crack your ribs. It was torturous to be wearing such a thing.
You managed to laugh at all their jokes, share stories back and forth, and pretend to be interested just long enough to tolerate the pain. But now it was becoming a little bit too hard to manage. It felt like you could no longer breathe normally. You were all too aware of your breathing. If you stopped thinking about it, there was a chance you'd stop completely, at least, that's what you convinced yourself. Your fake smile seemed harder to keep up as a socialite finished their story.
"Honestly, isn't that just the most terrible thing you've heard?" You fake laughed, nodding along as best as you could with your circumstances and disinterest. "I mean, I couldn't imagine anything more awful that a broken heel!" How ignorant. Ever heard of The Hunger Games?
"I would have thrown a fit it if were me," another socialite said, seeming very remorseful.
A different one nodded, "Truly the most nightmarish ending to your evening."
As you stood there, you wondered if it could it be possible that the corset was getting tighter. There was no possible way it could have been, but it sure felt like it. The squeezing was becoming incredibly unbearable. Every little breath ached your ribs and sides. You were positive there would be bruises in the corset's place tomorrow. Maybe the injuries you'd sustained during your Games a few years ago weren't so bad seeing as you were sure you were about to suffocate and die right there on Snow's courtyard.
"The only nightmarish ending I can think of is leaving this party without a lovely lady on my arm." It was like the heavens had graced you with Finnick's presence. If you could have released a breath of relief, you probably would have. "Good evening, ladies, gentlemen," Finnick turned to you, giving you a small smile. You returned it, strained, but you returned it.
Oh, sweet Finnick. He was your best friend. His presence was so comforting no matter where you were. It was times like these you wondered how he could just waltz over when you needed him the most. You weren't sure how he did it, but you were damn thankful that he did. You were hoping he would get the hint that something was wrong without needing to raise all hell to make it obvious.
"I can't see you having a hard time leaving without a gorgeous, lucky woman on your arm," the first socialite said to Finnick. She must've hoped it was her. "After all, you are our Golden Boy."
Finnick chuckled, smiling with those gorgeous teeth of his. "Well, someone has to keep the standards high."
"I'm sure you won't have trouble leaving here with a lucky man, either, darling." Your eyes shot over to the third socialite who had addressed you. You could barely breathe, let alone speak anymore.
"I'm sure I won't." Your voice felt strained. Did it sound strained? You hoped it didn't. The last thing you wanted was to look like you were suffering.
Finnick, however, could sense the tone in your voice from a mile away. You were his friend, after all. Probably his best one if he was being honest. The sharp nod you gave, the raised, airy tone to your voice were all very worrisome signs. His eyes searched your face for answers you tried to hide from any prying eyes. However, the way you tugged down at the bottom of your corset was.. something. Were you anxious, uncomfortable, upset? Finnick couldn't place it. There were just too many missing details. He knew something was wrong. It was like putting together a puzzle without looking at the picture on the box.
The conversation continued onwards. Eventually, you found yourself leaning into Finnick's hand that moved to softly rest on your lower back. You couldn't decide if it was for comfort or in case you passed out from lack of oxygen. You assumed it was for comfort. The good news was that if your face turned blue, you'd match the shades of your outfit for the night. If you considered that good news. Maybe it wouldn't look all that displaced after all.
Only one singular minute had passed and you quickly realized that not even Finnick's welcomed gesture would be enough to help you. You felt yourself begin to panic, the worst possible thing you could do in this situation. The more you panicked, the more your breathing would increase. That would only cause yourself more pain and frustration, not to mention it would double your anxiety. What a horrible domino effect that would be.
Keeping your cool was becoming impossible. You tried to hold as still as a statue to keep from moving and upsetting the corset more, but it was proving very difficult. Holding your breath wasn't really an option here, so the only thing to do was try and remain calm.
When the first very sharp pain radiated through your ribs, you knew you were done for. You sucked in a very noticeable breath, thankfully, only Finnick had heard. The conversation had continued, but the words had fallen deaf to your ears. It had been long forgotten amid your growing panic.
"Ah," Finnick said, abruptly pausing the conversation, "we completely forgot, but we're meant to meet with the president. If you'll excuse us." Finnick was pushing on your lower back, now. He guided you through the crowd, up some stairs and into one of the first open rooms he could find. The moment you were inside, you pressed on your stomach, trying to give yourself comfort, but ultimately failing. "What's wrong?" Finnick quickly asked, approaching you with worry in his expression. "Sweetheart, talk to me."
Now you were positive you couldn't talk. Your head felt dizzy and your tongue felt numb. You shook your head, tears brimming your eyes as you scratched at the corset. Finnick's eyes were darting to your hands and back to your face over and over, trying to understand what you were trying to convey to him.
You opened your mouth, trying to find words, but all you could manage was an awful wheeze. Your lungs and throat burned like fire. You were sure your face was turning red. Finnick's eyes widened as he quickly grabbed your shoulders, turning you around so your back was facing him. You felt his hands on your back again, but this time, they had a mission. Finnick grabbed a hold of the ribbon of your corset, not so much as grunting as he tore it apart.
The moment the ribbon tore, you gasped, sucking in as much air as you could as you fell to your knees, holding the front of the corset to your chest as you heaved, the air feeling so incredible that you took note to never take breathing for granted. Finnick was by your side in a heartbeat, hand on your back rubbing soothing circles on your now exposed skin. "It's okay, you're okay. Slow, deep breaths. Don't rush, nice and slow." His voice slowly worked the panic out of your system, your inhales deep, but exhales shaky and unsteady.
"I couldn't breathe," your voice was soft, almost as if talking were still too much to handle, "every breath hurt."
Finnick nodded, "I know, honey. I know, it's alright now. You're okay." You looked up to Finnick, watching his expression. He no longer looked panicked, but he still looked just as worried as before. "Do you need anything? Water?"
You shook your head. "Sit with me? Please?"
The two of you sat against the couch, sitting on the floor looking utterly exhausted. It was obvious the night had worn you both out, from the socialization to your near suffocation. Your head fell over, leaning on Finnick's shoulder as his head rested on top of you own.
"Do you want to go sailing tomorrow?" Finnick quietly asked. "I heard the waves will be perfect. You can bring that book you're reading and we can have lunch."
"That sounds nice," you hummed, "I'd like that a lot."
After a few more quiet minutes, you realized both of your absences would start to look rather suspicious. You both knew that it was long past time to go back to the party, but the silence you shared was too nice to give up just yet.
"Thank you for saving me," you thanked, looking over and up at Finnick.
He shook his head with a soft exhale, "You don't need to thank me. I'm just glad I got you up here in time." Finnick slowly stood up, holding your head as he stood so you wouldn't fall over. He held out a hand to help you stand up.
"Wait, I can't go back out there like this." You could. The Capitol people would love it. Seeing you holding the corset onto your chest to cover yourself. You knew deep down that the position you were in would make the people go wild for you. It was the kind of attention you weren't looking for. The kind of attention you never looked for.
Finnick didn't hesitate to take off his poet shirt, leaving his upper half bare, besides his shark tooth necklace. He didn't even need a second thought. The moment you started to speak, he knew what you were going to say. It was an easy choice for him to make. He would do anything to protect you.
Denying Finnick's kindness wasn't something he'd let you turn down, so you accepted. Finnick turned around while you put it on, only turning back around when he heard you fumbling with the sleeves. He helped roll them up so they weren't as long, while you began to tuck it into your skirt.
"You'll get cold," you commented worriedly, remembering what the chilled breeze had felt like on your own skin not too long ago.
"Then stay with me and keep me warm," Finnick replied, a small smile on his face. You chuckled airly, smiling back at him. "You look beautiful. They'll think we both just did a small wardrobe change. And that's what we'll tell them if they ask. I doubt they will. Capitol isn't all that observational."
You looked at Finnick, biting your bottom lip, "I wish we didn't have to go yet." You wished you could stay in this room with Finnick all night. Unfortunately, that was no option.
He seemed to agree based on the way his smile turned lopsided. "Just think about all the fun we'll have tomorrow. The waves, the wind, us. I'll even bring us some coconuts to crack open."
"And my book," you insisted. "I'll read it to you."
"My favorite activity," Finnick nodded. He held his hand out to you, "C'mon, honey. Let's get this night over with." His offer was easily understood, even if he didn't say it. Let's get this night over with together.
summary ۶ৎ you're suspicious over finnick's sudden clinginess.
warnings ۶ৎ allusions to finnick's prostitutions, finnick's awfully clingy
word count ۶ৎ 2.5k
author's note ۶ৎ mi bday special cuz im officially an adult in 42 mins ( ｡ﾟДﾟ｡)
There’s a shift in the air.
You could feel it from a thousand miles away. Hell, it’s like you have a sixth sense when it comes to Finnick—an internal alarm that goes off the second something is off with him. And this morning, it rang the moment you woke up.
Finnick’s arms were wrapped too tightly around your waist, his body practically fused to your back, his nose buried so deep in the crook of your neck it felt like he was trying to melt into you. You didn’t even have to open your eyes to know: he’s hiding something.
The problem is, you can’t figure out what.
It started with how hard you had to work just to get him out of bed. He clung to you like a lifeline, whining and pouting like a lovesick teenager. His sea-glass eyes held a look that was too intense for just morning cuddles, and when you cupped his face and asked what was wrong, he only gave you this goofy, love-drunk smile before pressing soft, distracting kisses to your lips. “Breakfast can wait,” he mumbled, flipping you over with too much ease for someone who looked so emotionally frazzled.
Then came the kitchen.
Your house is small, especially the kitchen, tucked into your inherited little wooden beach cottage, filled to the brim with mismatched pots and hanging herbs. Two people don’t fit in there, not without bumping hips and brushing arms—and Finnick? He was practically glued to you. Wherever you moved, he followed, hands around your waist, his head nestled in the crook of your neck again like he was trying to memorize your scent.
It would’ve been sweet if you weren’t so damn hungry. And if you weren’t still recovering from the thirty minutes of relentless affection earlier.
At one point, you spilled batter down your shirt from how many times you bumped into him.
That was the last straw.
You turned around, firm hands on his broad shoulders, brows raised in tired disbelief. “Baby,” you said, tone edged with warning. “Will you please just sit here and look pretty?”
He let out an exaggerated huff but nodded quickly the second your brows lifted higher, that signature ‘don’t test me’ look you’ve perfected over the years. He pressed a kiss to your nose—loud and wet and obnoxiously smug—and plopped himself down in one of the wooden chairs with a dramatized sigh. You backed away slowly, eyes narrowed, watching him as if he might leap right back up again the second you turned around.
He sat there like nothing was wrong, like he hadn’t been acting weird as hell since he got back last night.
Now it’s afternoon, and you’re curled up in the pink nook by your bedroom window, knees tucked under your chin, your fingers holding a book you’re not really reading. You’ve been trying to research flowers for your garden. Finnick built you a greenhouse just last month—white picket fence and everything—because you mentioned once, half-asleep, that you wanted to grow your own vegetables. Tomatoes. Garlic. Onions. Anything so you wouldn’t have to keep hauling yourself down to the market every few days.
It took him a day and a half to build it. Just showed up grinning with dirt on his cheeks and a ribbon tied to the gate latch.
But today, your mind can’t focus on gardening.
You keep replaying everything from the moment you woke up. The bed. The kisses. The slow, almost too tender sex. The shared shower—where Finnick insisted he wash your hair. The way he kept looking at you like you might disappear if he blinked too long. He’s always been affectionate, yes, but this was different. This wasn’t just clingy. This was like he was terrified.
He finally left the house an hour ago to swim, saying something about not missing his daily laps. It took you twenty-five minutes to get him out the door. He kissed you repeatedly. Begged you to come with him. Told you it wouldn’t be fun if you weren’t there. And when you refused—because, frankly, the ocean is freezing and you’re not trying to die today—he pouted like a child and dragged his feet all the way down the porch.
You shake your head, trying to will the thoughts away. Surely, if it were something serious, Finnick would’ve told you by now. He’s never kept things from you—not since the night he finally told you what the Capitol really made him do during those long absences. Not since he looked you in the eye and admitted the truth with shaking hands and a voice that barely held together.
You didn’t flinch, judge or looked at him differently. You just held him. Because you were glad that he let you in. That he trusted you enough to share the darkest parts of himself.
You love Finnick. That much is undeniable. Sometimes you think about where you’d be if you hadn’t met him two years ago—and the image is always darker. He pulled you out of a hole you didn’t even know you were sinking into after your parents died in the fire at District 4’s fish market. It was a freak accident—took several others too, including Finnick’s uncle, the last family he had.
So yeah. It’s an understatement to say you’re worried about him.
You glance down at your notebook and realize, with a tired blink, that you’ve scribbled “causes of Finnick’s sudden clinginess” instead of “causes of pest infestations in a garden.”
Your pen stills, and you blink—once, then again—staring down at the page as the weight of it all finally settles in. Even now, with two rooms and a closed door between you, you can still feel him—his presence like gravity tugging at your chest.
Before your thoughts can spiral deeper, the door creaks open and Finnick steps into the room.
He’s a mess. A towel is draped over his head, soaked and sliding halfway down his neck. His bronze skin is glistening with seawater, droplets trailing down his bare chest and soaking into the waistband of his shorts. He’s left a winding path of damp sand from the hallway, every step tracked in prints that smear slightly with each move he makes. His feet are bare and his curls are still dripping, little beads of water falling onto the wooden floor.
You stare at him from the window nook, frozen for a second, your book slipping slightly from your lap.
He looks at you like he hasn’t seen you in years.
Then, without a word, he crosses the room, moving with that same effortless grace he always has—except this time it’s less like a flirtation and more like a need. When he reaches you, he doesn’t pause or ask permission. He just climbs right in, damp and heavy and all saltwater heat, stretching himself across your curled-up body like he belongs there. Like he has to be there or he’ll unravel.
You grunt under the sudden weight, your hands instinctively bracing against his slick shoulders. “Finnick—”
He silences your protest with a peppering of kisses across your face. Cheeks, nose, forehead, chin, lips—he leaves no space untouched. Each kiss is frantic, uncoordinated, wet with ocean and something deeper—something you still can’t name.
“I missed you,” he mumbles between kisses. “God, I missed you. I was only gone for an hour and I missed you.”
“Finnick,” you laugh breathlessly, tilting your head back as he continues his unrelenting affection. “You were literally just—hey! You’re soaking the cushion!”
“Don’t care,” he mutters into your neck, arms wrapping tight around you like you might disappear if he lets go. “You smell better than the ocean.”
“Finnick,” you say again, softer this time. There’s a flicker of something uneasy in your chest, something too big to ignore anymore.
You push him back just enough to see him clearly, your hands moving up to cup his cheeks—firm, steady, squishing them together until his lips pout in that ridiculous way that practically begs to be kissed. It takes everything in you not to give in to the urge.
Instead, you hold his gaze.
His sea-green eyes blink at you, wide and soft, still wet at the lashes.
“What’s wrong, baby?” you finally ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
Finnick blinks at you, lips still squished between your palms. He gives a pitiful little hum, eyebrows raised innocently like he’s got no idea what you’re talking about.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he says, words slightly muffled through his puckered mouth. “I just love you, that’s all.”
You narrow your eyes. “Mmhmm.”
He tries to lean forward again, aiming another kiss at your jaw, but you tighten your grip on his cheeks and pull back just enough to stop him.
“Nope,” you say firmly. “We’re not doing that.”
His brows knit together, the pout deepening. “Doing what?”
“You trying to distract me with kisses and charm so you don’t have to answer.” You tilt your head, voice still teasing but firm beneath it. “We can sit like this for the rest of our lives if we have to. I’ll hold your face hostage, Finnick Odair. Don’t test me.”
A beat passes.
Something shifts in his expression. The smile fades. His mouth relaxes under your hands, and his eyes—those heartbreakingly beautiful eyes—drop slightly, losing the usual glint of mischief. He swallows hard, and when he looks back up at you, it’s like something inside him finally gives way.
“I had a dream,” he says quietly, almost like he’s ashamed of it. “Last night. You died.”
The words hit you like a jolt, but you don’t move, don’t flinch. You just keep your hands on his face, grounding him.
“You died,” he repeats, voice cracking slightly. “And it felt so real. I woke up and—I couldn’t breathe. I thought I lost you. I thought—God, it was so stupid, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how I waste so much time just… assuming you’ll always be here.”
He leans into your touch then, like he needs it to keep going.
“I realized I can’t do that. I don’t want to waste a single second. I don’t want to go another day without making sure you know how much I love you. How much you mean to me. Because if something happened to you and I didn’t say it enough or loud enough or clear enough…”
His voice trails off, and then he breathes out—soft and hoarse, like the weight is finally leaving his chest.
“I’d rather spend one tomorrow with you, making sure you know I love you,” he whispers, “than a thousand tomorrows without you… and never get the chance to say it.”
You stare at him, heart squeezing painfully, lips parted—but the words don’t come. Not right away. Because what do you even say to that?
You don’t say anything right away. You just release his face with the gentlest touch, then open your arms and pull him into you—tugging him into your chest like you're trying to shield him from the very world that haunts his dreams.
He doesn’t resist. He folds into you like a tide pulled home, arms locking tightly around your waist, his cheek pressed into your shoulder. He holds you like he thinks you might vanish again. Like it’s your last night together. And it breaks something inside you.
You run your fingers through his still-damp hair, slow and steady, the same way someone might soothe a frightened animal or calm a child after a nightmare. He trembles once. Just once. But you feel it. And it makes your chest ache.
“Finnick,” you murmur softly, lips brushing the shell of his ear, “I know you love me.”
His arms stiffen slightly, like he’s unsure if you’re just saying it to soothe him, but you pull back just enough to see his face, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.
“I know it,” you repeat, firmer now. “Not just because you say it. But because you show it.”
You smile faintly, eyes locked on his. “You built me a greenhouse in less than two days just because I said I wanted to grow tomatoes. You kiss my forehead every time I fall asleep reading. You get up before sunrise to untangle my wind-chimes when the sea breeze knots them up. And when you think I’m not looking…” Your voice catches a little. You look at me like I hung the stars in your sky.
His eyes are glossy now, red at the rims, but he doesn’t look away. You don’t let him.
“You’ve already told me you love me a hundred different ways, Finnick. Even when you don’t say it.”
You rest your forehead against his, nose brushing his as you close your eyes. “So next time you have a dream like that… just wake me up. You don’t have to wait. You don’t have to hold it in. I want to be the person you can fall apart with. Okay?”
Finnick nods, slow and silent. And then he kisses you—not with urgency this time, not to dodge or distract—but like he’s memorizing the shape of forever on your lips.
It’s warm and slow and almost shy, like he’s still trying to believe you’re real. His lips move against yours with a tenderness that steals your breath, his hands trembling slightly as they cradle your waist, holding you like something precious. Like something breakable. Like he’s scared he might crush you if he holds too tightly, but terrified you’ll slip away if he doesn’t.
You kiss him back just as slowly, threading your fingers into his damp curls and brushing your thumbs over his cheekbones, tasting salt—maybe from the ocean, maybe from him. Neither of you pulls away. Time stops. The only sound is the faint ticking of the old wall clock in the corner and the hush of waves crashing somewhere in the distance, just beyond the house.
When you finally part, it’s only because you both need to breathe. Finnick leans his forehead against yours again, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispers. “Ever.”
“You won’t,” you whisper back, just as fiercely. “You’ve got me. For as long as you want me.”
His eyes flutter open. “Forever, then.”
You smile, tears burning quietly at the edges of your vision. “Forever sounds just right.”
He pulls you in again, tucking your head under his chin, wrapping himself around you until you can barely tell where you end and he begins. His heart beats against yours like it’s trying to speak a language only the two of you understand. The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full. Heavy with everything that didn’t need words.
You stay like that for a while. Wrapped in each other. The sun dipping lower through the bedroom window, casting everything in a soft amber glow. Outside, the waves keep crashing. Inside, he’s holding you like he’ll never let go again.
summary : the night before the 75th hunger games, finnick odair shows up at your door. he says he couldn't sleep. that's not the whole truth.
tags: love confessions, night before the 75th games, hurt/comfort (i think), little bit of fluff at the end (ew)
a/n: thg is my life blood. it's woven into my dna. im working on a series rn but wanted to get something up in the meantime. wrote in 2 hrs. unedited. ignore mistakes :)
word count : 2.5k
masterlist
The knock is soft enough that you almost miss it. Soft enough that you didn't expect Finnick Odair to be the one behind it.
He props himself against the door frame with one arm, wearing a smirk that doesn't quite fit the rest of his face.
"Couldn't sleep," he says, though it isn't quite a sufficient explanation.
You give him a once over, noting that he's still dressed in what he wore after training today. There's something more domestic about him than the last time you saw him.
As you try to formulate a response, he enters without invitation — you aren't sure he was even expecting one. The room rearranges itself around him. The man belongs where he stands and you both know it.
Only when you shut the door does he turn to face you, and you question, briefly, if that quality is gone entirely. Perhaps he invited himself in for other reasons, ones he wasn't sure he knew how to admit.
He lowers himself onto the bed and deflates all at once, studying the pile of discarded clothes beside your bed as if making a pointed effort to avoid your eyes.
"Your room looks like mine," he says softly.
"Well," you sigh, not moving from where you stand by the door, "it's a hotel. That's sort of how it works."
He doesn't push the notion and you don't tease him for it because it's an obvious stalling tactic.
You were afraid to ask what was wrong. It would sound silly out loud. Tomorrow you would be thrown back into an arena for the second time after wholeheartedly believing escaping once would be the end of it. Everything about it was wrong — you'd been drowning in wrong for quite some time now.
And perhaps asking would be crossing a line. The two of you aren't close, not in the way he and Johanna are or you and Haymitch. (Granted, all victors are "close" in their own way, but not in the sense that you can spill your guts at random to anyone in the group. That was the nature of being a victor — you haven't made it this far by misplacing trust.)
You and Finnick had shared hushed jokes at ceremonies and traded bubbling fruity drinks in hidden corners of galas. It's hard not to enjoy your time with someone so charming and witty, and you had no trouble admitting that.
But you've been through this moment before, the final dark hours before losing control of life as you know it. Sitting in the shroud of night with only your thoughts, where all your regrets and fears and love threaten to strangle you. These weren't moments you spent with a fair-weather friend.
And yet, there he is: looking too hollow to be someone you recognize, comforter bunched up under his fingertips, looking as if something is burning so fiercely within him that he fears what will happen if the flame dies out.
It's rather heartbreaking to watch, especially considering you are wrought with fear yourself. So despite everything, you ask.
"What's wrong?"
He takes a deliberate, steadying breath and straightens his spine, but it does nothing to improve his state.
"Nothing. Just," he purses his lips, only now looking up at you, "couldn't sleep."
You cross the room and sit next to him on the bed, not touching but close enough that he could shift slightly and change that. You don't say anything because silence may be the only honest thing either of you have to offer right now.
He laughs, low and humorless. "You're not going to let me get away with that, are you."
"I wasn't going to say anything."
You steal a glance at him in your periphery and watch his face twist with something you couldn't name.
"You didn't have to."
Silence fills the room, broken only by the soft crack of fireworks outside and the constant hum of partying in the streets.
You wonder if that's all you'll get out of him. A dry, offhanded joke serving as the slam of a door on something that was almost real. But if that's what he needed, you'd let him give that little.
In a sudden moment of realization you quietly admit you'd sit side by side — knees and shoulders threatening to collide, suffocating in the space between words — if that's what it took. You don't dare rationalize that desire because that train of thought would lead nowhere useful. Not now.
His voice, the sudden, gravelly sound of it, almost makes you jump.
"I keep thinking," he starts, then stops. Then starts again. "I keep thinking about what I'd regret if tomorrow goes the way I think it will go."
He says it coolly, like it costs him nothing, but you watch as his hands clasp tighter in his lap as if he's working very hard to keep them that way.
"And I keep coming back to the same thing."
You wait patiently, giving him the space to continue if he chooses. He shifts rather uncomfortably and keeps his gaze trained ahead, watching the way the city lights project against the door.
"You," he says with more confidence than you expected. Not the even, practiced kind he wears so often — understated but certain.
This time you stay silent because you aren't sure what to say at all. Your attention jumps to the rush of heat to your cheeks and the way everything around you falls completely still.
"I couldn't sleep," he nods, "that was true, but I didn't expect to anyway. I was just sitting there thinking about the Reaping… over and over and over."
You can feel his eyes on you but you can't bring yourself to face him. Your gaze falls to your lap and you trace the seam of your pajama pants along your thigh to ground yourself.
"I was tying my shoes, practically out the door, when they started showing your district. I saw you up there and… you looked so different than the last time I saw you. I guess it's been months, maybe almost a year now. I don't remember. Either way, you were up there on that stage — it was something about the way your hair was done, maybe the way you were standing, or… I don't know."
He sighs and leans back, propping himself up on his palms and letting his gaze wander off into the distance. After giving himself that pause, he's much more collected. Something in him is almost lighter.
"You just looked so beautiful, I couldn't look away."
You huff a laugh before you can stop yourself. He pauses and the spell of his monologue breaks. Suddenly the girl he'd been speaking about so distantly is sitting right beside him, close enough to touch, laughing awkwardly at her own confession being handed back to her. The energy in the room shifts all at once and rushes into the space between you.
"What?" He smiles softly, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of your face.
"Nothing," you wave sheepishly, "sorry."
You turn to meet his gaze and suddenly you feel alive. His breathing is shallow, eyes darting around your face like he's trying to work something out. Hauntingly beautiful — this wasn't new, of course — but now part of his light, the one so much of the world adored, is shining on you. The weight of it feels like too much to bear, so you look away.
"I mean it," he says, softer now. "I couldn't bring myself to leave while you were still on screen. When they called your name, it stopped feeling like a game."
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, as if the words won't come out, or there are too many.
"I know what people think of me. The flirting — it's a habit. It comes easily." He pauses. "It never came easily with you."
You can feel yourself slowly drifting closer to his side but refuse to label it as intentional. Instead, you let it happen and wait with bated breath.
"I'm good at making people feel like the only person in the room. I know that. I've done it enough times to know exactly what I'm doing when I do it. It was never like that with you. You made me nervous," he swallows like it's hard to admit, then laughs at himself. "Genuinely, embarrassingly nervous."
He glances at you sideways, whatever lightness he'd worked up before dissipating. "Please don't look at me differently for saying that. It's awful, I know, the way I—"
"Finnick." You surprise yourself, how steady your voice comes out. "We all do what we need to do to get by. That's nothing. You know that."
Something in him loosens. He mulls over what you said for a moment, then continues.
"I never let myself think about what it actually meant. That at all our horrible, mandatory victor events, you were always the one I looked for first."
A small, rueful smile crosses his face. "I'd manufacture any excuse just to spend another minute with you. I don't know if you remember, but at last year's opening ceremony I spent the entire night doing impressions of the other victors just because you laughed at it once. I must have looked like such an idiot."
You light up at the memory, instinctively turning to face him.
"Yes! Oh my god," you breathe out a laugh, "you did the best Beetee impression I'd ever seen. I thought it was hilarious."
When you focus in on his face you notice he is absolutely beaming, as if he's relishing the fact that he made you laugh again.
"Sorry," you smile, now finding it hard to look anywhere else but his face, "I cut you off."
"It's okay," he grins, shaking his head. "I was just saying you made the events, the Capitol, all of it bearable. I'd see your name on the guest list and suddenly the whole thing felt survivable." He exhales slowly. "And then they called your name at the Reaping and I understood, all at once, what I'd been pretending not to feel."
He shifts so that his leg is on the bed, able to fully face you now. There is nothing between you. No charisma or fond memories or dread or fear. Just Finnick, stripped plain and bathed in the dim light.
"The way you say exactly what you mean even when it would be easier not to. The way you laugh at the wrong moments. The way you've never once looked at me like I'm something to be collected." His voice drops. "I would have been happy to search for your face in every room for the rest of my life and never say a word about it. I was ready to do that. But now…"
He steadies himself and you have the instinct to brace yourself — it feels as if the world is tilting and you are sliding right towards him.
"I just didn't know how to walk into that arena without having said it."
You don't know how to proceed. The feelings, the memories, the person he's speaking about feel like a familiar silhouette but the full picture is impossible to make sense of.
And that thought from before — the one that begged you to sit with him until the sun came up, the one sitting patiently in the back of your mind like something expecting to be returned to — finally lands somewhere solid.
It doesn't take the shape of words, however. Instead, you reach for the hand resting on his leg, your knuckles grazing his hesitantly as if you hadn't already made the decision. Without a second thought, he places his hand over your open palm and laces his warm, steady fingers with yours.
"I love you. Not because I want anything from you. Not because I need you to say it back." His eyes hold yours and his thumb brushes across your knuckles. "Just because it's true, and because I couldn't die with it still sitting in my chest."
His eyes bore into you with such heartbreaking honesty that you feel as if you are melting right in front of him.
You never took someone for their word. Ever. You'd seen too much to be so careless. But for the first time you betray yourself — because no one could witness something so raw and so unguarded and not believe it. And no one could see themselves so plainly in another person — their own unnamed feelings laid out in someone else's words — and call it anything other than love.
The world tilts again, the way it had before — only this time you don't brace yourself against it. You let yourself be taken by the angle.
You climb into his lap slowly, giving him every opportunity to say something, to make a joke, to be Finnick Odair about it. He doesn't. His hands find your waist like they already knew the way, and when you finally kiss him it is nothing like you would have expected from a man with his reputation. It is reverent, like something he needs to get right. Like he is racing against time and he dares to slow down and savor it.
With his hands tangled in your hair, he pulls away, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes — his attention waging an internal war. You don't have enough patience to wait for one to win out. Instead, your limbs slide to fit his like puzzle pieces and you ease yourself into the crook of his neck.
It is as if the touch brings him back to reality. He stills beneath you, and for a moment you wonder if you've miscalculated. Then his arms wind around you, slow and deliberate, pulling you further into him like he's afraid you might change your mind. He presses his lips to your hair, your temple, the side of your face — quiet and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world, which you both know is the one thing you don't have.
"I love you too," you say into his neck.
He goes very still. Then, softly: "I know. You didn't have to say it."
You pull back to look at him. "Shut up."
He laughs — a real one, one you can feel against your scalp — and before you can settle back into your own space he pulls you firmly back against his chest, tucking his chin over the top of your head.
A beat of comfortable silence passes.
"Horrific timing on your part, by the way," you say, angling for light, but it falls flat.
"You have nothing to worry about," he says with certainty, his fingers drumming against your side absentmindedly.
"Is that so?"
"I'm going to make sure nothing happens to you." His arms tighten slightly around you.
You frown. "Finnick. Katniss and Peeta are the objective. This whole thing is bigger than just me, you know that."
"I know," he says simply, like he's already made peace with it. Like the decision had been made long before tonight, long before he ever knocked on your door. "I'll see to all of it."
His lips press once more to the top of your head.
"And then I'm coming for you. That's all I care about getting right."
Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader
Summary: You black out in the Quarter Quell — when you awaken, you believe you've killed your husband. The jabberjays don't help.
The next thing you knew, you were sprinting.
Your chest heaved with full, panicked breaths, each less relieving than the last. You ducked tree limbs, jumped over rocks, did anything you could to just keep running. You were confused. You were terrified.
A scent caught your nose. Metallic, one you'd smelled before. One you hadn't smelled since your Games. Since you'd last slit a throat.
Glancing down, you let out a gasp, almost loosing your footing.
Your hands were covered in a thick sheen of blood, shining in the light of dusk.
You stumbled to a halt, chest rising and falling as the world tilted beneath your feet. The blood was warm, sticky, too real. And it wasn’t yours.
“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling as the trees around you pressed in too close. “No, no, no—”
What the hell had you done? What had you done that was so bad you couldn't remember it?
Your legs gave out beneath you, knees slamming into the mossy forest floor as you stared at your stained hands. You didn’t remember what happened — and that was the worst part. Because in the arena, if you couldn’t remember, it meant you lost control. And losing control meant someone else had died.
A sob left your lips. Your breaths became more frantic, shorter, and not relieving at all. You felt like you couldn't get a single molecule of oxygen into your lungs.
“Finnick,” you choked, your voice breaking on his name.
The jabberjays heard it.
They swarmed.
Suddenly, the trees were echoing with his voice — agonized, screaming in pain. Your name on his lips. Begging. Crying. Screaming like his soul was being ripped out.
Your hands flew to your ears. “No! Stop it! It’s not real!”
But it was real, wasn’t it? You’d blacked out. You’d been covered in blood. You’d heard nothing from him since you'd come back to. You'd heard nothing from the one that was usually always by your side.
You curled up, sobs wracking from your body, until you felt it. The acidic feeling in your stomach, crawling up your throat. Leaning over, vomit sprayed from your lips. You choked and coughed as the jabberjays continued to wail, your husband screaming in despair.
Blood smeared onto your clothes and onto the ground as you tried to brace yourself. The smell of the blood unearthed another wave of vomit.
You collapsed forward on your hands, shaking so violently it felt like your bones might crack under the weight of your grief. The jabberjays were merciless. They repeated his voice like a broken record —twisting it, warping it. "Please! Don’t — Name — please don’t leave me!" His cry pierced the air like a knife through flesh. "It’s me! I love you!"
And you believed it. You believed every damn word.
Because why else would the blood be there? Why else would you be alone?
Your mind was spiraling, slipping into that abyss you hadn’t touched since your own Games. Since you’d thought survival meant severing yourself from humanity. But Finnick had stitched something soft into your heart again. Something real.
Now it was tearing apart.
You retched again — dry this time, your throat raw and lips trembling. You didn’t know how long you stayed like that. Minutes? Hours?
You looked up to the sky, a scream tearing through your throat. Hot tears flowed down your face.
You didn't even register the strong arms wrapping around your frame. The familiar scent. The quieting of the jabberjays as you were hauled off somewhere else.
You didn’t fight the arms pulling you in — maybe because part of you thought you were finally dying, and it was death cradling you. Maybe because it didn’t matter anymore.
But then — a voice. Not the high-pitched mimicry of the jabberjays. Not a hallucination.
You blinked, your vision swimming, unable to believe it until his thumb brushed under your eye, wiping away tears and blood and dirt like he was afraid you’d shatter.
"I hurt you—" You sobbed frantically, looking down at your hands. "Blood, there's blood—"
“Honey, no, no, hey — look at me.” Finnick cupped your face in both hands, gently but firmly pulling your gaze back to his. His eyes —those sea glass eyes — were wide, desperate, but whole. “You didn’t hurt me. Not a scratch, okay? This isn’t my blood.”
You shook your head, breath hitching, but he didn’t let you slip away again.
“I swear it,” he said, his voice trembling now, cracking like a wave against rocks. “You blacked out for maybe two minutes. You bolted into the trees. I ran after you. I never stopped.”
Your hands hovered uselessly between your bodies, stained and trembling. “Then whose blood is it?”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “There were mutts in the area. Could be one of them. Could be one of the other tributes who didn’t make it out in time. But it’s not yours, and it’s not mine.”
“I thought I killed you,” you whispered, eyes welling again. “And the birds — they used your voice. They knew what it would do to me.”
Finnick’s expression crumpled for a brief, unbearable moment before he pulled you in, arms wrapping tight like he could protect you from everything if he just held hard enough.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I should’ve gotten to you sooner.”
Your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt, still trembling, still unsure if any of this was real. But he was solid. He was warm. His heartbeat thrummed steadily against your ear, proof of life.
“I couldn’t hear you,” you whispered, voice wrecked and thin. “I kept calling, but I couldn’t find you. I thought — God, Finnick, I thought—”
“I know,” he said, breaking a little with every word. “I know. I was calling for you too.”
You felt his hand slide up your back, anchoring you, grounding you. He didn’t try to rush you or pull away. He just held you, like he was trying to hold your broken pieces together.
The jabberjays were gone now. The screams had faded. All that was left was the humid quiet of the jungle and your ragged breathing as you clung to him.
You began to cry again. To sob. You didn't know why. Fear. Relief. You clutched the material of Finnick's suit.
"Shh, baby. I've got you." He cooed, pulling you impossibly closer.
He rocked you gently, as if you were something fragile — and maybe you were. Maybe the Games had finally cracked you down the center, and only Finnick’s arms were keeping you from breaking apart completely.
“It’s okay,” he whispered into your hair, over and over. “You’re okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
You wept into his shoulder until your throat burned and your fingers ached from how tightly you were holding on. It was primal, wordless. A grief too big for language, a terror too deep for sense. But Finnick never let go.
Eventually, the sobs quieted into hiccups, then shaky breaths. You were still trembling, your whole body aching with exhaustion, but the panic had dulled — replaced now by the awful throb of aftermath.
Finnick pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering. “Let’s get out of here, alright? Let me clean you up.”
You nodded against him, too tired to speak.
He helped you to your feet like you weighed nothing, like he’d carry you if you asked. You didn’t have the strength to argue.
And as he guided you through the trees, his hand in yours, you realized something that terrified and comforted you all at once:
You would do anything to keep him alive. Even if it meant breaking yourself open all over again.
The walk was quiet.
Finnick kept his hand clasped with yours the entire way, thumb stroking the back of your fingers like he needed to remind himself you were still here. Occasionally, he’d glance over, watching you like you might vanish again — like if he looked away for too long, the jungle might swallow you whole.
Eventually, the trees broke into a clearing, revealing a small stream winding through mossy rocks. The water sparkled in the early evening light, soft and cold-looking, untouched by blood or nightmares.
“Here,” Finnick murmured. “Sit.”
You obeyed, letting him guide you to a flat stone by the edge of the water. Your hands were still shaking, your body humming with fatigue, but Finnick was steady. Solid.
He knelt beside you, pulling a small packet from his belt — standard Games-issued medical gear. But in his hands, even something as impersonal as gauze looked like an act of love.
“Let me see,” he said softly, and you gave him your hands.
He dipped a cloth in the cold stream and began gently wiping the blood from your skin. He didn’t flinch at the stains, didn’t comment on the cuts or bruises blooming along your arms from your frantic run through the trees. He just worked in silence, careful and slow, like he was afraid of hurting you further.
The cold made you hiss a little, and Finnick looked up instantly, his brows pulling together. “Sorry. I’ll be quick.”
“It’s okay,” you whispered. “Doesn’t hurt as much now.”
He smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“I scared myself,” you admitted, voice barely audible.
Once your hands were clean, he dried them gently and started wrapping a few fingers with gauze, where the skin had torn. His hands were warm, sure. So careful.
“You’re still shaking,” he murmured, brushing your knuckles. “Want to sit back? I’ll do your face next.”
You let him maneuver you like a doll, leaning against a mossy boulder while he soaked another cloth. This time, when he touched your face, you didn’t flinch — not even when the water traced over scrapes or when his fingers ghosted beneath your jaw.
“Better?” he asked when he was done, voice low.
You nodded, watching him with wide, wet eyes.
He reached out, brushing a thumb beneath your lower lip, wiping away the last streak of blood you hadn’t noticed.
Finnick didn’t speak. He just leaned in.
His kiss was soft — impossibly soft for someone who’d seen so much war and horror. His mouth tasted like saltwater and something sweeter, like a promise. He kissed you like he was trying to stitch all your broken pieces together again. Like if he loved you hard enough, the Games couldn’t touch you anymore.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
"You're so beautiful. So strong, yeah? The strongest woman I know." He said softly, a gentle smile on his face.
Your breath caught, tears stinging your eyes again — but not from fear this time. From the sheer weight of his tenderness.
You shook your head slowly, voice cracking. “I don’t feel strong.”
Finnick leaned in, brushing his nose lightly against yours. “That’s the thing about strength,” he whispered. “It’s not about never breaking. It’s about surviving even when you do.”
You blinked at him, lips parted slightly, as if trying to memorize the shape of every word. Every look.
“And you,” he continued, pressing his forehead to yours again, “you survive. Even when the world tries to rip you apart.”
His hand found yours again, fingers threading through like it was second nature.
"I love you." You said, a tear slipping down your face. Through the blurry layer of your tears, you spotted the glint of Finnick's wedding ring. You gently stroked it with a finger.
Finnick looked down as your finger traced the silver band around his finger, the symbol of a promise made long before this nightmare began. His lips trembled with something that looked like awe, like reverence, like he couldn’t believe someone as shattered and beautiful as you had ever chosen him.
He brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles, slow and tender.
“I wear this because you’re my home, you're the best choice I've ever made,” he murmured against your skin. “Even in here. Especially in here. I love you more than words could ever tell you.”
You let out a soft, broken sound — not quite a sob, not quite a laugh — and leaned forward until your forehead was tucked beneath his chin, letting the steady beat of his heart calm the shaking inside you.
“I thought I’d lost you,” you whispered. “I thought the Capitol had finally taken everything.”
Finnick wrapped his arms around you again, holding you like a man clinging to the last piece of light in the world.
“They can’t have you,” he said, voice fierce and low in your ear. “They’ll never take you from me.”
You stayed there for a long time — just the two of you, curled together by the water as the sun dipped lower and the jungle quieted around you. For now, you were safe. For now, the blood had dried, the voices had gone silent, and you had each other.
Request: Could I request a one shot where Finnick odair x fem! Reader reunite after the reader is saved from the capital?
Pairing: Finnick Odair x Fem!reader
Word count: 3.2k
Warnings: Mockingjay violence, torture, psychological torture, jabber jays, peeta’s torture in the capital, Johanna’s torture in the capital, PTSD, anxiety, fear, capital manipulation, president snow
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pain. It was all you knew. Every breath, every moment since they dragged you from that godforsaken arena was laced with agony. You never should have left Finnick’s side. You had promised—sworn—that no matter what, you’d stick together. That you’d never risk losing each other again.
But you also remembered what Haymitch had told you before the Games. The plan.
He had pressed a golden bracelet into your hand—almost identical to Finnick’s. A token, a silent promise. A reminder of what you had to do. Keep Katniss and Peeta in the dark. Keep them both alive. But above all else, get Katniss out.
For a while, everything had been going according to plan. The bread had come, the signal was given, and the time had come to put Beetee’s strategy into motion. You had hope. This could work.
And then it all fell apart.
The explosion hit.
A blast of force sent you both you and Peeta flying, slamming you against a tree, knocking the wind from your lungs. The last thing you saw before everything went black was the blinding white light of destruction—debris raining down as the arena shattered.
Pain drags you back to consciousness.
It’s different now—sharp, aching, thrumming through every nerve in your body. Your head is heavy, your thoughts sluggish, and when you try to move, your limbs feel foreign, unresponsive.
The first thing you register is the cold. Not just from the sterile air, but from the hard surface beneath you, unforgiving and clinical. The second is the color. White. Blindingly white. The walls, the ceiling, the floor. Even the flimsy gown draped over your battered body. It’s like you’ve been erased, stripped down to nothing.
A cell.
You try to sit up, but the movement sends a sharp spike of pain through your ribs. Bruised—maybe cracked. Your wrists are raw, red marks circling them, though you don’t remember why. You don’t remember much at all beyond the explosion. Beyond the moment the arena fell apart.
The soft hiss of a door opening snaps you to attention.
Boots echo against the floor, slow and deliberate. You force yourself to look up, and ice coils in your veins.
President Snow stands before you.
He’s composed as ever, dressed in crisp white, his cold blue eyes studying you like you’re an insect pinned beneath glass. A faint, almost amused smile tugs at his lips. In his hands, he cradles a pristine white rose.
You steel yourself, masking the fear clawing at your throat. You don’t speak first. You won’t give him the satisfaction.
Snow takes a slow breath, inhaling the scent of the rose before his gaze locks onto you. “You’re quite the survivor, aren’t you?”
You say nothing.
“I must admit, I was quite disappointed to see you among those extracted from the arena. A shame, really. I had hoped for better from a Victor of District Four.” He tilts his head. “Finnick Odair’s love.”
Your stomach twists at Finnick’s name, but you keep your face blank. You don’t know where he is. If he made it out. If he’s even alive.
Snow takes a step closer, watching you carefully. “You see, we know there was a plan. We know the Quarter Quell was never meant to go as intended. The rebels orchestrated this, didn’t they?” He crouches slightly, lowering himself to your level. “Why don’t you save us all some time and tell me what you know?”
You blink at him, forcing your expression into something blank, confused. “Plan?” Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Snow sighs, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “Lying is beneath you.” He leans in slightly, and you catch the faintest hint of blood beneath the overwhelming scent of roses. “Very well. We have ways of making you talk,”
And you know he’s right.
And the pain he afflicts never left. It simply changed—sometimes sharp and searing, sometimes a dull ache that settled in your bones—but it was always there.
Time blurred in the Capitol. You didn’t know how long it had been since they ripped you from the arena, since the explosion stole you away from Finnick. Days, weeks… it could have been months. You weren’t sure anymore. You weren’t sure of anything anymore.
They never let you rest. The sterile white walls, the blinding overhead lights, the sound of footsteps approaching and retreating—it all became part of your existence. And then there were Peeta and Johanna.
You caught glimpses of them when they dragged you through the halls, when you passed rooms where screams bled through the walls.
Peeta was barely recognizable anymore. The hijacking, the tracker jackers, had shattered him, stolen the light that used to live in his eyes. He couldn’t focus for long, his mind darting from one fleeting thought to the next. His words were broken, a disjointed mess of confusion and hurt. His body trembled constantly, his hands shaking as if they couldn’t hold onto the fragments of his sanity. He would mumble to himself, apologize for things he didn’t understand, and then, in a fit of panic, beg you to stay, to tell him he wasn’t lost. And you would do your best to assure him, sooth him from across the room.
It was unbearable.
Johanna was different. She was quieter, but there was something hollow in her. Her body shook violently from withdrawal, her lips cracked from dehydration. The Capitol had drowned her over and over again, only to pull her back just before she crossed the line between life and death. When she looked at you, there was no spark of rebellion, no fire. Just exhaustion and pure resentment that kept her going.
And then there was you.
They had their own way of breaking you.
At first, they kept it simple—pain, starvation, isolation. Keeping you across the room from your friends. Close enough to talk. Close enough to hear their screaming. But not close enough to comfort.
But then they brought you to that room. The one with the speakers hidden in the walls, where the shadows were deeper, where the air felt heavier. And they made you listen.
Jabberjays.
You had heard them in the arena before, their eerie mimicry of loved ones’ voices meant to torment you. You had seen Finnick fall to them, and Katniss. And it had broken your heart seeing how they were reacting.
But that had been nothing compared to this.
The pain had been your constant companion, gnawing at you, twisting every second into an eternity.
They didn’t just sing—they screeched. The birds were torture incarnate, their calls designed to break the mind, to twist the memories into something ugly. They brought you to the room, the sterile walls designed to keep you isolated, to amplify the terror in your heart. They had programmed the birds to sound like those you loved—those you had failed.
At first, it was a whisper. A voice you thought you recognized, but it was distorted, cracked, like the sound was being pulled through a filter of madness. It came slowly, building, growing louder.
It was impossible. You had never heard that tone from him before. Finnick never spoke like that. But there it was, his voice accusing you, twisting the memory of his care, of his laughter, into something venomous. The birds sang it over and over, forcing you to hear the words that ripped at your very soul.
And then the voice changed again.
The words cut through you like a knife, too sharp, too raw. His voice, so young and full of trust, was unmistakable. But it was a voice that had long since faded from your memory. The bird had twisted it, made it sound like something darker, like something hateful. Your little brother who you did everything to keep safe.
It wasn’t the voice of a child who loved you. It was the voice of a child who felt abandoned, who had been left alone. The bird screamed again, louder this time, its voice shrill and echoing, sending waves of nausea through you.
The birds’ voices layered one on top of the other, drowning out your thoughts, breaking the barrier between reality and the spiraling nightmare that consumed you. It was as though every painful memory, every regret, every mistake you had ever made, was being replayed and twisted into something ugly. Something unforgivable.
The walls seemed to close in as you sank deeper, the birds’ calls surrounding you, clawing at your mind, twisting your thoughts. It was endless. The repetition, the overwhelming weight of their words, started to chip away at you. You could feel your sanity slipping, each scream from the birds tearing a hole inside your chest.
The pain, the guilt, the spiraling madness was too much. You had no defense left. The voices echoed, screamed, whispered, and everything you had held onto was cracking, shattering like glass. Your hands trembled, your heart raced, and you were drowning in the sound of their accusations.
The sound of Finnick’s broken voice, Annie’s hollow sadness, and the desperation in your brother’s cries—each one felt like a new blade slicing into you. Each call, each accusation, only deepened the spiral you were trapped in. Your chest ached with the weight of their pain, your soul shattered from the guilt of it all. The torment was endless, suffocating.
In the haze of madness, time felt like an abstract concept—blurred, stretched beyond recognition. The room seemed to shift around you, but the stillness of it pressed in like a vice. It was as though you were stuck in this moment forever, caught between memories and nightmares. You couldn’t tell when you were moved from one place to another.
Even then as you laid on the cold, white floor of your cell, the sterile walls closing in around you. The trembling never stopped. It was like a constant hum in your body, a fear that never quite left. Your back was pressed against the smooth, unforgiving surface of the wall, your eyes staring blankly at nothing in particular.
Your mind felt detached from reality, a fog clouding every thought. The voices of the Jabberjays still echoed in your head, their cruel distortions of Finnick’s, Annie’s, and your brother’s voices a constant reminder of the horrors they had subjected you to. You couldn’t escape it. You couldn’t escape them.
You barely noticed the sounds at first—footsteps, muffled voices, the faint shuffle of boots on the hard floors. Then the door to your cell opened with a sharp hiss, and for the first time in what felt like ages, you looked up. Someone was standing there, silhouetted in the dim light, their features too blurred to make out. You didn’t know if it was real, if you were dreaming again, or if it was just another cruel trick of the Capitol.
A hand reached out, tentative, like they were unsure of how to approach you. “You’re alright,” a voice said softly, but with a firmness that cracked through the haze in your mind. “We’re here to get you out.”
But the words felt distant, disconnected, as though they were coming from underwater. You couldn’t trust anything. Your heart pounded in your chest, fear bubbling up from deep within. This could be another trap. Another lie. You weren’t sure who this person was, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to know.
Before you could even form a coherent thought, a sharp scent flooded the room, heavy and sickly sweet. The next thing you knew, the room swirled around you—shapes and sounds warping—and the last thing you heard was the voice again, more urgent this time: “It’s okay. We’re getting you out.”
And then, as the smoke thickened and your vision blurred, everything went black.
The first thing you felt when you woke up was confusion. It was disorienting—your senses a blur, your mind fragmented. You were in a room, but it wasn’t your cell, wasn’t the sterile white of the Capitol. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic, and the soft hum of machines around you was both strange and oddly comforting.
But that didn’t mean you were safe. Not yet. Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes darted around, trying to make sense of the chaos. Doctors in white coats were moving quickly, their voices a frantic buzz. Someone was touching your arm, their hands too firm, too urgent.
You flinched away, panic surging through your veins as memories of the Jabberjays twisted into your mind. The screams of Finnick, Annie, and your brother—distorted and cruel—ripped through your thoughts again. Was this just another trick? Were they going to use the birds again? Were you being captured all over again?
“Please, just… just stop,” you gasped, your voice raw, barely audible. You scrambled, trying to pull yourself away from their grasp, but your limbs were weak.
“Shh, shh, you’re safe,” one of the doctors whispered, but you didn’t trust it. You couldn’t. Safe didn’t exist anymore.
They tried to hold you down, to reassure you, but the more they touched you, the more your skin crawled. Your breath was coming in ragged gasps as the room closed in, and the walls felt like they were suffocating you. Everything felt too bright, too loud. You wanted to escape, to run, to hide from the chaos.
Then you heard it—his voice.
“Where is she? Where is she?”
Your heart skipped a beat, a raw, desperate sound. Finnick’s voice. But it couldn’t be him. You tensed, a jolt of panic shooting through you. No, no, no—this isn’t real. It’s not real.
The words that came next weren’t comforting—they were the birds, mimicking him, twisting his voice. It was too much. Your pulse raced, your body trembling violently as you backed away from the doctors, too afraid to look.
“Where is she?” Finnick’s voice called again, closer this time. “Please, please, I need to find her.”
You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The memories collided in your mind, his voice and the twisted birds, and you weren’t sure where one began and the other ended.
Then, out of the chaos, a familiar face emerged. Finnick. His face was drawn, haunted, but his eyes—his eyes—they were the same. He was real. The fog in your mind started to clear, the panic slowly ebbing away as you locked onto him. The sight of him, standing there, filled you with a raw, aching relief. But the confusion still clung to you, the terror that this was a trick.
He stepped closer, his hand outstretched. “It’s me, sweetheart” he said softly, his voice full of something gentle, something full of warmth you thought you’d lost forever. “I’m here. You’re safe. It’s over.”
Your body froze, heart hammering in your chest, but then something inside you broke. You couldn’t hold onto the fear anymore, couldn’t push him away. You collapsed into him, falling into his arms, the weight of the months of torture pressing down on you, flooding you with every raw emotion you’d been holding in.
The warmth of Finnick’s embrace is overwhelming, like a beacon in the dark. For a moment, it feels surreal, like you’re still trapped in the nightmare, that you’ll wake up any second and be back in that place, alone and broken. But when his arms tighten around you, when he whispers against your hair, you realize that this—this is real.
Finnick was home. His scent, his touch, the way his body feels against yours—it’s everything you’ve been missing, everything you’ve been longing for. For so long, you thought you would never feel this again. You thought you were going to die there, in that cold, endless nightmare.
“I thought I was going to die there,” you murmur, your voice barely a whisper, a broken sob escaping as you clutch him tighter. The words spill out before you can stop them, the weight of them sinking deep into your chest. “I thought… I thought I’d never make it out. That I’d never see you again.”
Finnick pulls back just enough to look at you, his face full of sorrow, guilt swirling in his eyes. “You’re here now,” he says, his thumb gently brushing across your cheek, wiping away the tears. “You’re safe. You’re with me now, and I’m never leaving you again. I swear it.”
The sound of his voice, steady and unwavering, cracks something deep inside of you. It’s like the world around you shifts—like you’re not alone anymore. Like you’re finally home.
He takes a slow, deep breath and leans his forehead against yours, his hand still cradling your face with gentle care. “I know… I know it’s been hell,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m never leaving you again, sweetheart,”
You nod against him, your breath shaky, but his presence is like an anchor, grounding you, pulling you back from the abyss. Your body trembles, not from the cold or the fear, but from the raw relief that courses through you.
For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel safe, or at least the illusion of it. Either way, you didn’t care. And for the first time since the reaping, maybe you can properly start to breathe.
