#thg smut

[babiicatt]

breeding for babies young president!coriolanus snow & f.reader content. dubcon towards the end, p in v.

corio under pressure for an heir + his pretty little wife...

coriolanus is deadly with his thrusts, making you positively throb around his length as he takes you over and over again. “m-mmph!” you squeal when he pushes the pads of his fingers on your clit just right, teasing you closer to the edge.

“c’mon, sweetheart,” your president coos into your ear, as sly and seductive as ever. he’s only got one thing on his mind - getting you so fucked out that you won’t notice when he pumps his load into you.

he’s got you in a mating press and everything, trying to melt you under him, so he presses at the back of your legs a little harder so he can get deeper into your guts. “shh,” he hushes you, stuffing his big fingers into your hot, wet little mouth. using all the strength you have left, you lazily suck on them between your messy moans.

“don’t worry, just give me one more n’ i’ll be done, kay?” his whispers nearly go unheard until he says, “just gotta fill you up. yeah, i got you - fuck…” your eyes change into saucers filled with tears of pleasure, making a half-hearted muffled protest that goes unheard.

“my pretty little wife, about to be a pretty little mother,” he groans as he doubles over your body, spilling into your insides, your own body already shaking with an orgasm. both his cock and his fingers slip out of you simultaneously, gooey strings of bodily fluids attatched to both appendages as he retracts from you, leaving your holes feeling completely empty.

you let out a gurgling whine as corio wipes some of your spit on his fingers on your cheek as he cups it lightly. “god, you’re going to be the prettiest mother in all of panem.”

[cheriecelestial]

Gilded Lily | [I]

disclaimer *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ dd:dne. heavy disclaimer for dark content. mentions of sexual exploitation. mentions of prostitution and canon typical violence. physical abuse. angst. psychological trauma and ptsd. mild smut. pet play dynamics. dumbification. dubcon. MDNI.

pairing *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Finnick Odair x fem!Snow!reader

a/n *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ So every writer has a controversial fic in their career, this probably is mine (please don't show up with pitchforks in front of my house). This is set post mockingjay and establishment of the new Republic, this deals with very heavy themes and possible ooc for Finnick in this part. Comment, Like and Reblog

Comment to be added to taglist

[I] | [II] | [III] | [IV] | [V] | [VI] | [VII]

Finnick Odair’s path had never been an easy one and his work in the Capitol was no exception. As a senator representing District 4 and one of the most active and outspoken members of the fledgling New Republic of Panem, his days were a relentless cycle of council meetings, parliamentary hearings and the endless, suffocating tide of paperwork that followed each one. There were no Hunger Games to fight anymore, no arena to escape from—only the quieter, slower battles of governance, which often proved just as draining in their own way. And yet, Finnick knew he had no one to blame for his exhaustion but himself.

Katniss, practical and weary of the Capitol’s lingering shadows, had chosen to retire to the familiar shores of District 12, to the woods and the quiet life she had always longed for. Finnick, however, had decided to stay. It wasn’t only duty that kept him here, though that was part of it. There were other reasons—more personal, more complicated—that anchored him to this glittering, haunted city. But in the end, it was his choice. He had volunteered for this life. And he would see it through.

“That’s all for today, Susan,” he said, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the bridge of his nose. His voice was calm but there was a thread of weariness beneath it. His secretary looked up from her notes and gave him a small, knowing nod before gathering her things and slipping out of the room. Unlike most days, work had ended early. Not that it made the day any less tiring; the fatigue clung to his bones like salt spray to skin. But at least the evening stretched before him now, dark and open.

His car was already waiting outside the government building, engine humming softly in the cool Capitol air. He slid into the back seat and let his head rest against the window as the city blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow. He watched the lights flicker—advertisements, streetlamps, the glowing spires of buildings that had once belonged to the decadent and the cruel. He hated the Capitol. He had always hated it, even as a boy, even when he had been paraded through its streets as a victor, smiling for cameras that devoured his pain like candy. Back then, he used to return to District 4 whenever he could—to the salt breeze, the wooden piers, the honest, unpolished lives of the fishermen and their families. But as the years passed, those visits grew fewer, then rarer still. The sea began to feel distant, like something from a half-remembered dream. Now, the Capitol was all that remained of his waking life.

The car pulled up outside his building—a towering structure of glass and polished stone, elegant in the way old money often is. He stepped out into the cool night air and walked into the lobby, where the staff greeted him with practiced smiles and murmured welcomes. He returned them with a small, polite smile of his own—a reflex, nothing more—before stepping into the lift. The doors slid shut and he watched the numbers climb in silence. When the lift dinged open, he stepped into a long, narrow hallway, its floor covered in dark marble that reflected the soft glow of wall sconces. At the far end stood the only door: a grand, imposing thing of rich mahogany, polished to a mirror-like shine. The apartment had once belonged to a Capitol noble—a wealthy sympathizer of the old regime, someone who had turned a blind eye to the Games while hosting lavish parties on the upper levels of the city. Now, it belonged to Finnick. A trophy of a different kind. Not the first one he had been given anyway.

The lock clicked open with a soft electronic chime as Finnick pressed his thumb to the sensor. For a moment, he hesitated, his palm still resting against the cool metal of the doorframe. Then he pushed the door inward and stepped across the threshold into the quiet darkness of his home. The silence wrapped around him like a second skin—thick, immediate and deeply unusual. No soft steps padding toward him. No gentle murmur of greeting. Just the low hum of the city filtering through the reinforced windows and the distant whisper of the ventilation system. Without a word, he dropped his bag by the coat stand and kicked off his shoes, sighing audibly as his bare feet met the smooth, cool floor.

He stood still for a long moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. The apartment stretched out before him in shades of grey and shadow. The quiet was almost oppressive—heavy in a way that felt wrong, like a room holding its breath. He could hear his own heartbeat settling into a slower rhythm, could feel the tension in his shoulders beginning to unspool. But still, something was off. Something was missing.

He walked toward the living room, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. The only sources of light were a single distant hallway lamp, its glow weak and amber and the cold flickering of the Capitol’s night skyline pressing against the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sprawled endlessly beyond the glass—a constellation of ambition and excess, beautiful and rotten all at once. Finnick paid it no mind. His attention was drawn instead to the far corner of the room, where a familiar shape waited in the half-darkness.

A cage.

It was a large one, ornate and unsettling in its beauty. The bars were gilded in gold that caught the faint light and threw it back in soft, fractured gleams. Inside, a thick mattress lay on the floor, a little over half the length of a standard human bed. Along the inner walls, were arranged a small collection of plushies: soft, childish things with button eyes and stitched smiles, their cheerful faces at odds with the cold metal surrounding them. And there, curled in the centre of it all, was her.

She was asleep. Or had been. Her breathing was slow and even, her body tucked into a loose curl on the mattress, one hand resting beneath her cheek. The soft glow from the city outside caught the curve of her shoulder, the pale line of her neck, the delicate braid of her light blonde hair swept to one side—exactly the way he preferred it. Even in sleep, she wore what he had chosen for her that morning: a sheer baby doll slip, translucent as morning frost, layered over black lingerie that left little to the imagination. Around her throat sat a matching collar, sleek and dark, with a silver tag that caught the light as she breathed. He didn’t need to read it to know what it said. Property of F. Odair. Attached to the collar was a silver leash, its end coiled loosely on the mattress beside her.

Finnick took a slow step closer, then another. He reached out and tapped his knuckles against one of the golden bars. The metallic rattle cut through the stillness like a bell. She stirred almost immediately—a soft, sleepy sound escaping her lips as consciousness pulled her back to the surface. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then found his face in the dim light. Recognition struck her like a physical blow. She shot upright in a frantic scramble, her head connecting hard with the top of the cage with a sharp thunk that made her wince.

“Master, I—” Her voice was small, breathless, laced with panic. “You’re back? I didn’t hear—I mean, I thought—” She was already crawling out of the cage on her hands and knees, her movements hurried and ungraceful, the leash dragging behind her like a silver serpent. She knelt on the carpet before him, her eyes wide. There was little light in the room, but Finnick could see everything he needed to see: the fear pooling in her gaze, the trembling of her lower lip, the way her fingers twisted anxiously in the thin fabric of her slip. She was terrified. And she should be.

Finnick regarded her in silence for a long moment, letting the weight of his presence settle over her. His expression was unreadable—not angry, not cold, simply patient. As if he had all the time in the world. As if her fear was a slow wine he intended to savour.

“Why weren’t you at the door to greet me?” he asked at last. His voice was calm, almost gentle, but there was no mistaking the expectation beneath it. It wasn’t that he was offended or even particularly angered. It was simply a matter of duty. She had a role to play, a set of responsibilities she had accepted the moment she entered this arrangement. And tonight, she had failed in one of the most basic ones.

“I’m sorry, Master.” The words tumbled out of her in a frantic rush, her voice cracking at the edges. “I thought you’d be back later. You’re usually—I mean, work ended early today, right? I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I was waiting, I swear I was, but it got so quiet and I just—” She was trying to talk her way out of it, weaving excuses like thread through a loom, hoping to stitch together some version of events that would soften his response. Her hands were shaking now, clutching the fabric of her slip until the delicate material creased under her fingers. “I didn’t mean to, I—please, Master, I—”

Finnick bent down slowly, deliberately and took the end of the silver leash in his hand. The metal links chinked softly as he wrapped the length around his palm once, twice, until there was no slack left between them. Then he tugged. It wasn’t a hard pull—not yet—but it was sharp, sudden, enough to make her body lurch forward with a startled squeak. Her knees scraped against the carpet and she caught herself on her hands, her breathing gone shallow and rapid. A soft whimper escaped her throat as more excuses began to form on her tongue, her lips parting to let them spill out once more.

But Finnick was too tired for any of it. The day had been long, the meetings endless, the weight of the Republic pressing down on his shoulders like a stone mantle. He did not have the patience for a litany of pleas and justifications. He silenced her with a single look, a flicker of something cold and unyielding in his sea-green eyes and she closed her mouth immediately, her whole body going still except for the fine trembling he could feel traveling up the leash and into his hand.

“What’s my number one rule?” he asked. His tone carried a note of finality, the quiet authority of someone who expected an answer and would not ask twice.

“Always greet Master when he comes back,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her gaze had dropped to the floor, her lashes casting small shadows on her cheeks.

“And number two?”

“No excuses.” The words came out as a whimper, small and broken.

“And what happens to bad puppies who break rules?” Finnick tilted his head slightly, watching her. The city lights painted silver lines along the edge of his jaw, catching the gold of the cage behind her. He looked almost serene, almost pitying. But there was little softness in him tonight.

She was quiet for a moment, her hands bunching so tightly in the fabric of her slip that her knuckles went white. When she finally spoke, her voice was scarcely more than a breath, fragile as spun glass.

“They get punished.”

The silence that followed her words was heavier than any punishment Finnick could have spoken aloud. It stretched between them like a held breath, thick with anticipation and the faint, electric taste of fear. Y/n remained motionless on her knees, her head bowed, her blonde braid slipping over one shoulder to hang like a pale rope against the dark lace of her lingerie. She didn’t dare look up. She didn’t dare move. The only sign of life was the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath the translucent slip, and the occasional tremble that coursed through her slim frame.

Finnick watched her for a long, deliberate moment. His thumb traced the cool links of the silver leash idly, back and forth, back and forth—a small, almost unconscious gesture that seemed to calm him while it wound her tighter. The golden bars of the cage gleamed softly behind her, their open door a silent reminder of where she belonged. The plushies inside stared out with their blank, stitched eyes, witnesses to whatever came next.

“Look at me,” he said finally. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the stillness like a blade through silk.

Y/n hesitated for only a fraction of a second before lifting her gaze. Her eyes were glassy, caught somewhere between terror and desperate hope. Tears had not yet fallen but they clung to her lower lashes like morning dew, threatening. She searched his face for mercy, for leniency, for anything that might soften what was to come. Finnick’s expression, however, gave nothing away. His features were carved in shadow and moonlight, beautiful and unreadable. He had learned long ago how to hide everything behind a pleasant smile. Tonight, he wasn’t smiling.

“You know I don’t enjoy this,” he said, and there was something almost tender beneath the words, almost gentle. “But you also know that rules exist for a reason. Structure. Order. Without it, there’s only chaos. And chaos—” He tugged the leash again, just a fraction, just enough to remind her of its presence. “Chaos is dangerous for little things like you. Isn’t it?”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered. A single tear slipped free and traced a slow path down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

“Do you remember the last time you broke a rule?” Finnick asked, tilting his head. The question was soft, almost conversational, but his eyes held her captive. “Do you remember what happened?”

Y/n swallowed hard. Her throat bobbed visibly above the collar. “Yes, Master,” she said again, her voice even smaller now.

“And did it help you remember?”

“Yes, Master.” A second tear joined the first. “I’ve never forgotten.”

“But you forgot tonight.” Finnick sighed, a long, slow exhale that seemed to drain some of the tension from his shoulders. He looked tired suddenly—not just physically, but something deeper, something bone-weary. The weight of the Capitol, of the Republic, of all the ghosts that followed him like shadows—it pressed down on him even here, in the sanctuary of his own home. He ran his free hand through his hair, the bronze waves falling back into place almost immediately.

“I don’t want to punish you tonight,” he admitted and the honesty in his voice was startling. “I’m exhausted, Y/n. I’ve spent the entire day listening to people argue about grain quotas and district tariffs and whether the train lines to Seven should be repaired before the winter. I’ve smiled at people I despise. I’ve shaken hands with men who would have watched me die in that arena and called it entertainment.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “I came home because I wanted peace. I wanted you. At the door. Where you were supposed to be.”

Y/n’s lower lip trembled violently now and more tears followed the first two, streaming freely down her cheeks. She didn’t make a sound but her shoulders shook with the effort of containing her sobs. Her hands had released her slip and now lay flat against her thighs, palms down, fingers spread—a posture of utter submission.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, the words barely audible. “I’m so sorry, Master. I’ll do better. I promise. I’ll—I’ll never fall asleep again. I’ll wait by the door every single night, no matter how late, no matter how tired. I swear it. Please—”

“Shh.” He released his grip on the silver leash, letting it fall to the carpet with a soft clink. His movements were careful, measured—like someone approaching a skittish, frightened animal that might bolt at any sudden motion. Then, instead, he reached out and cupped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face upward so that she had no choice but to meet his eyes. His thumb brushed slowly across her cheek, wiping away the wet tracks of her tears with a tenderness that felt almost cruel in its gentleness. His touch was warm, almost tender, a stark contrast to the sharp authority in his voice. “Don’t make it any harder for me, hmm?”

Y/n choked on a sob, her throat tightening around the sound until it came out as a strangled, broken thing. She tried desperately to blink back the tears that kept welling up despite her best efforts, her vision blurring and clearing in uneven waves. But she nodded—a small, jerky motion of her head, submission bleeding into every line of her body. She took a deep, shuddering breath, filling her lungs with the cool air of the apartment and forced herself to steady. Her hands unclenched from the fabric of her slip, then clenched again. She knew what was coming. She had known the moment she woke up to find him standing over her cage. And some part of her, the part that had been trained and conditioned and slowly reshaped, had already accepted it.

Finnick raised his hand. There was no hesitation in the movement, no second-guessing. It was clean, precise, almost clinical. His palm landed against her cheek with a sharp, ringing crack that echoed off the walls of the silent living room. The sound was startlingly loud—a single, perfect note of punishment that seemed to hang in the air long after the impact had faded. Y/n tried her best to stay upright, to hold herself straight and still the way she had been taught, but the force of the blow was a bit more than she expected. Her body twisted sideways, her shoulder hitting the carpet as she caught herself on one trembling arm. A soft gasp escaped her lips, more surprise than pain at first, before the sting bloomed across her cheek like fire spreading through dry grass.

Before she could recover, Finnick’s other hand found its way into her hair. His fingers tangled in the light golden blonde strands, fisting firmly but not cruelly and he pulled her back upright. The motion was neither gentle nor brutal—simply efficient, like a fisherman hauling in a line. She winced as the tension pulled at her scalp, but she made no sound of protest. Her eyes were wide and wet, fixed on his face with an expression that hovered somewhere between fear, pain and desperate, aching devotion.

“What do you say after this?” His voice was calm, almost conversational. As if he had asked her about the weather, or what she wanted for dinner. But his eyes held hers with an intensity that allowed no evasion.

“I’m sorry, Master.” Her voice came out raw and wavering, but she forced the words out one by one, shaping them carefully. “I failed my duty and deserve to be punished.”

It was the right answer. The only answer. She had repeated it so many times now that it had become a kind of prayer—a litany of guilt and atonement that she whispered to herself in the dark hours of the night. The words settled into the space between them, heavy and fragile all at once.

Another slap landed on the same spot. This one was softer, restrained, almost perfunctory. A reminder rather than a punishment. But still, Y/n whimpered—a small, wounded sound that escaped despite her best efforts to stay silent. The lingering tenderness from the first blow made the second one feel sharper than it actually was and her cheek throbbed in dull, rhythmic pulses. A tear slipped free despite her attempts to hold it back, tracing a hot line down her flushed skin.

“This is the last time that I’m letting you off this easy.” Finnick’s voice hardened slightly, the gentleness of before giving way to something sterner. He released her hair and instead raised his hand, tapping her forehead with the middle of his index finger—once, twice, three times, each tap landing with a light but insistent pressure against her brow. “You need to get it through that dumb little head of yours, hmm?” There was no cruelty in his tone, precisely. But there was no softness either. Only the flat, matter-of-fact authority of someone who had repeated this lesson many times before and was growing weary of the repetition.

Y/n nodded solemnly, her chin dipping toward her chest. She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing beneath the dark collar and murmured, “Thank you, Master.” The words came automatically now, ingrained so deeply that she no longer had to think about them. Gratitude for the correction. Gratitude for the punishment. Gratitude for the fact that he still cared enough to discipline her, to shape her, to mould her into something better than what she had been before.

Finnick studied her for a moment longer, his sea-green eyes roving slowly over her body with an intensity that made her feel like she was being taken apart and examined piece by piece. He looked at the reddening mark on her cheek, at the tears still clinging to her lashes, at the way her chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths beneath the translucent babydoll. Then his gaze drifted downward, catching on the silver tag that hung from her collar. The dim light from the city outside caught the engraved letters, illuminating them in soft, ghostly white: Property of F. Odair. He stared at the words for a long moment, his expression shifting through something unreadable—a flicker of possessiveness, perhaps, or satisfaction, or something darker and more complicated that he would never put into words.

Then, slowly, he exhaled. The breath seemed to carry something out of him—tension, maybe, or the last remnants of the day’s exhaustion. He cupped her face again, this time with both hands, his palms warm and dry against her tear-stained cheeks. He tilted her head up gently, forcing her to meet his gaze one more time. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, but she didn’t look away. She never looked away when he asked her to.

Without another word, Finnick’s arm wrapped around her waist, his hand splaying across the small of her back. He pulled her closer, guiding her body between his legs as he shifted and sat down fully onto the floor, his back resting against the cold bars of the cage behind him. The metal pressed into his spine through his shirt, but he didn’t seem to notice—or if he did, he didn’t care. He drew her into the vee of his thighs, her knees bracketing his hips, her body flush against his chest.

He didn’t waste any time. One moment he was looking at her, studying her and the next his lips were on hers. The kiss was not gentle, but it was not harsh either. It was hungry, demanding, a claiming as much as a caress. His mouth moved against hers with a confidence born of familiarity and she responded instinctively, her lips parting beneath his, her body melting into his hold. His hands slipped under the hem of her babydoll, finding the warmth of her bare skin beneath. His palms were rough and calloused in places—remnants of a life lived before the Capitol, before all of this—but his touch was sure, almost reverent. He caressed her waist, his thumbs tracing slow circles against her ribs, then slid his hands higher, then lower, traveling up and down her midriff in a lazy, possessive rhythm. She shivered against him, caught between the chill of the room and the heat radiating from his body.

His hand moved up with deliberate slowness, fingers ghosting over her ribs before coming to rest against the soft curve of her breast. She let out a small, needy whine that seemed to travel straight through him and Finnick smiled against her lips—a slow, satisfied curl of his mouth that held no warmth, only possession. He could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat beneath his palm, the way her breath hitched and stuttered as he applied the slightest pressure. His fingers found her nipple through the delicate layer the lingerie bra, rolling it gently at first, then with a little more intent, just to watch her react. She never disappointed. Her responsiveness had always been one of her most endearing qualities—every touch, every whisper of sensation seemed to light her up from the inside, her body answering his before her mind could even catch up. Her hips twitched involuntarily and a deeper, more breathy sound escaped her throat, swallowed by his mouth.

Finnick exhaled slowly, feeling something shift within him. The tension of the day—the endless meetings, the sterile conference rooms, the weight of a nation pressing down on his shoulders—began to unspool, thread by thread, as her lips left his and began to trail down the sharp line of his jaw. She kissed her way lower, her mouth soft and warm and impossibly eager, pressing small, open-mouthed kisses to the column of his throat. She nipped at the skin just above his pulse point, exactly where he liked it, with exactly the right amount of pressure. Then she soothed the spot with her tongue, a practiced rhythm that spoke of long nights and careful instruction. She knew precisely where to kiss, where to bite, where to linger until his breath caught in his chest. She moved like a creature trained to perfection or perhaps one that had simply learned that her survival depended on knowing every inch of him.

His free hand drifted lower, brushing against the damp heat at her core through the thin lace of her panties. Even through the fabric, he could feel the growing wetness, the unmistakable evidence of her arousal soaking through. His fingertips pressed more firmly, circling lazily, and he felt her shudder against him.

“You’re so wet, puppy,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvet rumble against her hair. “Were you good while I was gone?”

“Yes, Master.” The words came quickly, breathlessly, pressed against the hollow of his throat between kisses. She sounded sincere. Earnest. Desperate to please.

Finnick hummed thoughtfully, his fingers continuing their lazy exploration, teasing at the damp fabric. “Then how are you so wet so quickly, hmm?” His tone shifted into something lighter, almost playful—a sing-song lilt that danced on the edge of mockery. There was amusement threaded through every syllable, the quiet confidence of someone who already knew the answers to the questions he was asking. “Are you sure you didn’t touch yourself while I was away? I know how desperate you get when you’re left alone too long.”

At that, Y/n straightened abruptly, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. Her gaze was wide and imploring, the raw intensity of her need to be believed. Her lips parted as she shook her head with such fervour that a few strands of her braid came loose.

“Master, I would never,” she said, her voice steady despite the quiver in her chin. “No matter how desperate I get—no matter how much I ache, or how long the day feels—I always wait. I always wait for Master to come back so he can touch me. I would never break that rule. I promise. Please, you have to believe me.”

Finnick studied her for a long moment, his sea-green eyes unreadable. Then something in his expression softened—not with mercy, exactly, but with something that looked almost like approval. He tilted his head, his lips curving into a faint smile.

“My, my,” he said softly, almost affectionately. “You really are such a good puppy, aren’t you?”

She nodded eagerly, a small, hopeful sound escaping her throat. And that was all the confirmation he needed.

His hand moved with sudden, deliberate purpose. He shifted the damp lace of her panties to the side—just enough—and shoved two fingers inside her without any warning, without any preamble, without even the pretence of gentleness. Y/n let out a sharp, startled squeak, her entire body jolting as her hands flew to his shoulders for purchase. Her nails dug into the fabric of his shirt as her thighs began to tremble violently. She gasped, her mouth falling open in a silent O and Finnick watched her with hooded eyes as he began to move.

He pumped his fingers in and out of her heat with a steady, unforgiving rhythm—deep, deliberate strokes that left no room for doubt about who was in control. The sounds that spilled from her lips were obscene filling the quiet apartment like a confession. She was no longer trying to hide her reactions; there was no point. Her head fell back, exposing the pale column of her throat and the dark collar wrapped around it, her silver tag catching the distant city lights and throwing them back in fractured gleams.

“That’s what I like about you,” Finnick said, his voice low and nonchalant, as if he were commenting on something casual rather than the way she was falling apart around his fingers. He curled them suddenly, mercilessly, against a particular spot deep inside her—one that made her entire body arch like a bow and her head snap back even farther, a broken cry tearing from her lips. He smiled then, slow and satisfied. “You’re a dumb, dirty little pup. But you’re willing to learn. And you’re,” he curled his fingers again, harder this time, pressing and rubbing in tight circles against that devastating spot, watching her eyes roll back, watching her mouth hang open on a soundless scream, “so responsive.”

Her nails raked down his shoulders—sharp, desperate crescents of sensation that left pale trails blooming into red. Her thighs clenched tight around his hand, a reflexive, involuntary grip, as though she could anchor herself to him and keep from being swept away entirely. Her whole body bowed to the rhythm he set, arching and trembling and yielding all at once, a creature of instinct now rather than thought. Every breath she drew came in ragged gasps. Every muscle in her frame quivered with the effort of holding on. And Finnick simply watched. Patient. Unhurried. His sea-green eyes never left her face—the flush spreading across her cheeks, the way her lips parted around sounds she couldn’t suppress, the flutter of her lashes as she fought to keep her gaze on his. He controlled everything: the pace, the pressure, the very air between them. And she surrendered to it because surrender was all she had left.

Outside, the Capitol glittered on, indifferent and eternal. A thousand lights flickered across the night skyline—buildings that had once belonged to Snow’s allies, streets that had once run red with the blood of tributes, now polished and pristine and pretending at innocence. The city never slept. It simply reinvented itself, shedding old skins like a snake, forgetting as easily as it breathed. But Finnick did not forget. Even now, with her soft sounds filling the quiet apartment and the weight of the leash still coiled loosely in his free hand, his mind drifted backward. Not to the arena. Not to the ocean. Further than that. To the chaos that had followed the fall.

The old regime had crumbled like a rotten pillar, finally unable to support the weight of its own cruelty. Coriolanus Snow was dead. The rebellion had swept through Panem like wildfire and from its ashes, the New Republic had risen, still unsteady on its feet, still learning how to breathe without tyranny strangling it. The parliament had set to work immediately on two fronts: reform and the punishment of those who had committed crimes against the people. Tribunal after tribunal was convened. Names were dragged into the light. And among the accused, one name stood out not for what she had done, but for who she was.

Y/n Snow.

The prized granddaughter of the late President. Something of an “it-girl” in the Capitol’s glittering, poisonous social scene—though that phrase hardly captured the truth of her existence. She had worn the finest dresses, yes, silks and velvets that cost more than a District 12 family earned in a year. She had eaten the finest foods, had been photographed at every pompous event with her grandfather’s cold hand resting on her arm like a brand. She had smiled for the cameras, had recited the gracious, empty pleasantries expected of a Snow. But had she ever been free? Had she ever been anything more than a decoration, a prop, a pretty thing to be displayed and discarded at the former president’s whim?

“She should be executed!” The memory of that voice still echoed in Finnick’s mind—sharp, furious, a District 7 representative whose family had lost someone to Snow’s machinations. “Are we forgetting all that she did? She stood beside him. She smiled for him. She wore his jewels and ate his food and never once lifted a finger to stop any of it!”

The chamber had erupted into chaos, voices overlapping in a storm of anger and grief. Finnick had sat in his seat, silent, watching. He had seen the girl in question seated in the defendant’s alcove, her hands folded in her lap, her face pale as marble. She had not spoken. She had not defended herself. She had simply sat there, waiting, as though she had already been sentenced a thousand times in her own mind.

“I must remind you,” another voice cut through the noise—softer, but no less firm. Tigris. The former president’s own cousin, her face altered by years of self-inflicted surgeries, her loyalty to the rebellion unquestioned. She had harboured fugitives. She had fed the resistance. She had risked everything to help bring down her own family’s terrible legacy. “That my grandniece was used by that man to better his reputation. The girl had no part in the atrocities that he committed. She was a child—a pawn—no different from any other tribute paraded in front of cameras to make Snow look magnanimous.”

A murmur rippled through the parliament. Some nodded. Others scowled, unconvinced.

“And what of her brother?” A District 1 representative rose to his feet, jabbing a finger toward the defendant’s alcove. “Cornelius Snow knew. His list of crimes wasn’t short either—in fact, it was longer and more grotesque than most. Shall we pretend she knew nothing of that as well?”

Cornelius Snow. The name alone was enough to darken the room. Unlike his sister, Cornelius had been no decoration. He had been an active participant in the regime’s ugliest excesses—a notorious rapist and abuser, known for assaulting female tributes and district women alike with impunity. Rumour had it that he would take women from the districts in small groups, keep them in his private wing of the Snow mansion and use them for his pleasure until he grew bored. After that, they were either killed—silently, without record—or tossed out into the streets with nothing but the clothes on their backs and scars that would never fully heal. He had also served as a Game Master, designing tasks and arenas for the Hunger Games with particular sadism. The traps he created were not designed simply to kill, but to prolong suffering, to turn death into performance art. Few tributes who entered one of Cornelius Snow’s arenas died quickly. And none died kindly.

“He is dead,” Tigris replied, her voice cool but strained. “Cornelius is dead. His crimes died with him. Why do you want to punish a girl for her brother’s sins? For her grandfather’s sins? Y/n Snow was kept in that mansion like a caged bird. She was rarely let out unless Snow needed her for his schemes—a smile here, a wave there, proof that the Snow family was civilized, cultured, worthy of power. She was not given a voice. She was not given a choice. She was as much a prisoner as any tribute.”

The chamber fell silent. Finnick remembered the weight of that silence—how it pressed against his ears, how he had shifted in his seat, how his gaze had drifted back to the pale girl in the defendant’s alcove. She had finally looked up, just once, and her eyes had met his across the room. There was no defiance in them. No pride. Just exhaustion and something else—something that looked almost like relief. As though she had been waiting, for years, for someone to finally see her for what she was.

Not a predator. Prey.

“Then what do you propose?” another voice asked. “We cannot simply let her walk free. A Snow is a Snow. Her name alone is a weapon.”

The chamber erupted again before Tigris could form a reply. Another man shot to his feet—a broad-shouldered counsellor from District 6, his face flushed with the particular righteousness of someone who had waited a long time for vengeance and could taste it now on the back of his tongue. His voice boomed across the hall, carrying a rawness that silenced the murmurs around him.

“I suggest we make a whore of her. The way her brother and grandfather did to so many of our sisters and daughters.”

A ripple went through the room—shock, yes, but also something uglier. Approval. Men began thrumming their hands against the heavy wooden tables, a low, rhythmic drumming that built like thunder before a storm. The counsellor, emboldened by the response, pressed on, his words growing sharper, more vicious with each syllable.

“Put her in a brothel. For any man to fuck as they please. She wants to atone for her family’s crimes? Fine. Let her do it in the only fucking way she knows how. The Snows took our bodies for generations. Let theirs be taken in return. That’s justice.”

“Mind your words, counsellor.” Tigris’s voice cut through the din like a blade—low, dangerous, barely contained. Her features twisted into something almost feral, her golden eyes glinting with a cold fury that reminded everyone present that she, too, had once been a Snow. That she had turned against her own blood at great personal cost. That she had earned the right to speak. But her voice was drowned almost instantly beneath the rising tide of agreement—the thrumming of hands, the shouted approvals, the ravenous sound of a crowd that had found its scapegoat.

Y/n did not look up. She couldn’t. Her eyes remained fixed on the polished floor, tracing the patterns as though it might open up and swallow her whole. How could she lift her gaze? How could she meet the eyes of people who had already decided she was a demon to be exorcised, a stain to be scrubbed away? They did not see a girl, raised in gilded captivity, fed poison disguised as privilege. They saw a surname. They saw a symbol. They saw all the pain the Snow family had inflicted and they wanted to return it tenfold. There was nothing she could say. Nothing she could do. Her words would be ash in their mouths before she even spoke them.

Beside Finnick, a familiar figure shifted in her seat with an exaggerated groan. Johanna Mason—former victor, former tribute, former prisoner of the Capitol’s darkest chambers—rolled her eyes so hard it was almost audible. She had suffered more at Snow’s hands than most people in this room could imagine. Her family had been slaughtered. Her sanity had been stripped and rebuilt into something jagged and sharp. And yet, even she seemed weary of the bloodthirst filling the chamber.

“Ugh. I can’t believe this,” she muttered, loud enough for half the row to hear. Then, without waiting for a response, she leaned forward, tapped her microphone with a fingernail and began to speak.

The parliament fell silent the moment her voice cut through the noise. Johanna Mason had that effect on people. She was not beloved—she was too raw, too honest, too sharp-edged for that but she was respected. Feared, even. Because she had survived things that would have broken anyone else and she had emerged not softer, but harder. An axe honed by fire.

“Why can’t we just kill her and put the other one in the Capitol Hunger Games?”

A murmur rippled through the chamber. The “other one.” Lucia Snow. Y/n’s younger sister, barely fourteen years old, still a child by any measure. She had been found hiding in a servant’s quarters during the fall of the mansion, trembling beneath a bed, clutching a tattered stuffed fox to her chest. Unlike her older sister, Lucia had never attended the galas. Never posed for photographs. Never been paraded on her grandfather’s arm. She had been kept hidden—some said because she was shy, others because she was illegitimate, others still because even Snow recognized that one innocent granddaughter was useful, but two was a liability. Now, she sat in a separate holding cell, her fate tied inexorably to Y/n’s.

Johanna, of course, had her own reasons for suggesting the Capitol Hunger Games. She had been one of the loudest voices advocating for a reversal—Capitol children in the arena, district children as spectators. An eye for an eye. A taste of their own medicine. But Katniss had refused to endorse it and without the Mockingjay’s blessing, the proposal had died stillborn.

Y/n looked up.

For the first time since the proceedings began, she raised her head and let her gaze sweep across the room—the rows of representatives, the judges, the spectators, the victors, the rebels. Her face was ashen, her eyes red-rimmed, but there was something else there now. Not defiance. Not pride. Something fragile. Something more desperate.

“Please,” she said, and her voice cracked on the word. “Please, no. I—I’ll do it. Anything. Whatever you want. Just don’t—”

“Silence, girl.” Tigris’s voice was sharp, but there was something beneath it—fear, perhaps. Or pity. She knew what her grandniece was about to do and she knew it would not help.

But Y/n shook her head, a small, frantic motion. Her hair came loose, strands of pale blonde hair falling across her flushed cheeks. She was trembling visibly now, her whole body vibrating with the effort of staying upright.

“No. I know I am at fault. I know that my ignorance came from a position of privilege that most people my age were never granted. I know that I ate while others starved. I know that I smiled while others screamed. I know all of it.” Her voice grew stronger as she spoke, though it never lost its tremor. “And I will pay for my family’s crimes. For all of them. For my grandfather’s. For my brother’s. Even Lucia’s share. Please. I accept whatever punishment you see fit. Just don’t harm her. She is a child. She didn’t know anything. She never even left the west wing. Please. Please grant her mercy.”

The chamber fell silent. Not the angry silence of before, but something deeper—a held breath, a collective pause. People had expected arrogance. They had expected a Snow to scream, to curse, to demand better treatment. They had expected pride, defiance, a refusal to bend. They had not expected this. A broken girl, offering herself up like a sacrifice, asking only that her sister be spared.

Johanna rolled her eyes again, though there was less venom in it this time. More exasperation. She didn’t like being made to feel things. She leaned back into her microphone, her voice flat and tired.

“Okay, so what will it be? Whore or death? Cast your vote.”

The chamber moved to vote before Tigris could refute, before anyone could call for a recess, before cooler heads could prevail. Paddles rose. Counts were taken. Voices called out yea or nay. And through it all, Y/n Snow stayed in her alcove, hands clasped in front of her, eyes fixed on the floor once more. Waiting.

In the back of the room, Katniss watched it unfold. Her hand found Peeta’s under the table—his warm, solid, scarred fingers interlacing with her own. She didn’t like this. None of it. Her jaw was set, her grey eyes stormy. She had not fought a war, had not killed Coin, had not sacrificed so much, only to watch the new government turn into the old one by another name. But she was one voice among many and the people wanted vengeance. They would accept payment only in blood.

She had suggested house arrest with monitoring. Life imprisonment. Even exile. Each proposal had been voted down with increasing hostility. The parliament had decided that mercy was an insult to the dead. And that was the horror—and the boon—of democracy. Once the mob decided on something, innocence became subjective. Truth became flexible. Justice became a word you used to dress up revenge in nice clothes.

Finnick sat beside Johanna, his expression unreadable. He had not voted yet. His hand hovered over his paddle, his gaze fixed on the her. She looked so small from here. So fragile. Like a bird that had flown into a window and was still trying to understand how the sky had betrayed it.

The vote was cast. The numbers flickered across the large screen at the front of the chamber—a cold, digital verdict that carried the weight of a life. Death had been swift and brutal, a simple matter of a firing squad or a hanging, a clean end to a dirty legacy. But the other option had won. Not by a landslide, but by enough votes to matter. Enough to seal her fate. Enough to condemn her to something far worse than death in the eyes of those who had cast their ballots.

“Whore” had beaten “death” by a margin of seventeen votes.

“I knew it.” Johanna shook her head slowly, a bitter, knowing smile twisting her lips. She didn’t bother to hide her disgust—not at the decision itself, but at the predictable hypocrisy of it. She turned to Finnick, her voice low enough that only he could hear over the murmurs rippling through the chamber. “Of course they’d pick that option. Have you seen her? Looks like a fucking angel, that one. Golden hair, doe eyes, that whole innocent, untouchable thing she’s got going on.” She gestured vaguely toward the defendant’s alcove, her hand slicing through the air with dismissive disdain. “Who wouldn’t want to put their hands on her? They’ve been thinking about it for years. Now they’ve got permission.”

Finnick said nothing. He simply looked back at Y/n Snow, still in her alcove with her hands clasped in front of her. And Johanna wasn’t wrong. The girl was extraordinarily beautiful—the kind of beauty that stopped conversations, that made people forget what they were saying mid-sentence, that lingered in the mind long after she had left a room. She had what the Capitol commentators used to call “Snow features”: high cheekbones, a delicate jaw, skin that seemed to hold light rather than reflect it. Her hair was the colour of spun gold, so pale it was almost white in certain lights, falling in soft waves around her shoulders. Her eyes were pale blue—the colour of ice melting in spring or of a sky just before dawn. And her proportions were the stuff of classical sculpture: slender but not fragile, curved but not overstated, every line of her body suggesting grace and carefully cultivated perfection.

It was no accident. President Snow had ensured that whenever his granddaughter appeared in public, she was dressed in the most flattering garments imaginable—custom pieces designed to appeal to both men and women alike, to make her seem desirable and untouchable in equal measure. She was a tool of propaganda, a living symbol of the Snow family’s refinement and benevolence. Look, the Capitol could say. We have such beautiful things. Such civilized people. We are not monsters. We are patrons of beauty. We are worthy of power.

The thought made Finnick’s stomach turn. He had seen that same machinery at work in his own life—the way the Capitol had dressed him up, preened him, sold him to the highest bidder. The way they had made him into something desirable and then punished him for it. He looked at Y/n now, truly looked at her and saw that she was not staring at the floor anymore. She was staring at Katniss.

Tigris stood beside the Mockingjay, her spotted, weathered face close to Katniss’s ear, whispering urgently. Whatever she was saying, it seemed to be having an effect. Katniss’s expression shifted from grim resignation to something harder—something more determined. She straightened her shoulders, pulled her hand free from Peeta’s grip, and rose to her feet. The chamber quieted almost immediately. Even Johanna leaned back in her seat, arms crossed, watching with narrowed eyes.

“I acknowledge the decision of this parliament,” Katniss began, her voice steady and clear, carrying to every corner of the room. “On humanitarian grounds, however, I do not approve of it. What will make us any different from Snow if we do this? What separates justice from revenge if we stoop to the same tactics he used?”

“So what? We let her go?” Johanna interrupted, her voice sharp as shattered glass. She didn’t bother to wait for an acknowledgment before pressing on. “Just because she begged for her sister’s life doesn’t make her innocent. She’s still a Snow. Tears don’t wash that away.”

A chorus of voices rose in agreement—some from District 2, where families had lost daughters to Cornelius’s appetites; others from District 11, where Snow’s agricultural policies had starved entire communities; still others from the Capitol’s own reformists, who wanted every trace of the old regime scrubbed clean, no matter the cost. The chamber buzzed with anger, with grief, with the particular ugliness of people who had been hurt and were now lashing out at the nearest available target.

Finnick understood Johanna’s ferocity better than most. He knew what Cornelius Snow had done to her—not just the public humiliations, but the private ones. The ones that left scars on the inside. Cornelius had developed a “special liking” for Johanna during her years as a victor and whatever that had entailed, it had left her with a hatred so deep it could never be fully excavated. Unfortunately, in the absence of Cornelius—dead by his own hand during the fall of the mansion—that hatred had found a new home. Y/n was close enough. Y/n shared his blood, his features, his last name. And for Johanna and many more, that was enough.

This was a dangerous moment for Katniss and she knew it. The Mockingjay’s power had always been symbolic, not political. She could inspire but she could not command. If she appeared to sympathize too openly with Y/n Snow—a woman the people had already convicted in their hearts—she risked losing the fragile authority she still held. And yet, Katniss had never been one to back down from an impossible position.

“No,” she said, raising her voice over the noise. “I know that I alone cannot single-handedly overturn a decision taken by this body. I am one voice among many and I respect the will of the parliament even when I disagree with it.” She paused, drawing a breath, steadying herself. “So, I propose a condition. An amendment, if you will.”

The chamber settled into wary silence. Even Johanna stopped fidgeting.

“She will still be punished. The parliament’s decision will be carried out. But not in a brothel.” Katniss’s eyes swept the room, daring anyone to interrupt her. “She will be bound to the service of a single individual. One keeper. One master. Someone appointed by this body, subject to our oversight and approval. She will still serve her sentence. She will still atone for her family’s crimes. But she will not be passed from hand to hand like—like meat.”

She stumbled over the last word, her voice catching slightly. But she recovered quickly, her jaw setting in that familiar, stubborn line that had carried her through an arena, a war and the murder of a president.

Behind her, Tigris bowed her head in a small, grateful nod. The Republic had wanted her grandniece punished. The districts had wanted Snow blood. Tigris had wanted the girl saved. This was not salvation—not really—but it was something. A reprieve. A crack in the wall. She would take it.

“And who exactly will take her?” Johanna asked, her tone dripping with skepticism. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin propped on her hands, playing along for now. “Who gets the honour of owning a Snow? Drawing straws? Auction? Or should we let her choose her own master like some kind of twisted dating game?”

A few people laughed—nervous, uncomfortable laughs. Katniss’s expression did not change.

Before she could answer, the counsellor from District 6 rose to his feet. He was a broad, thick-necked man with calloused hands and a florid face, the same man who had first proposed the brothel solution. His eyes were fixed on Y/n with an intensity that made Finnick’s skin crawl—a possessive, hungry look that had nothing to do with justice and everything to do with lust and appetite.

“I’ll put my name forward,” he said, his voice thick with barely concealed eagerness. “I proposed the punishment. It’s only fitting that I should be the one to—to administer it.”

He smiled. It was not a kind smile. His gaze roamed over Y/n’s figure—the curve of her hip, the slender line of her neck, the way her hands trembled at her sides and Finnick felt something cold settle in his chest. That man would not keep her as a servant. That man would not treat her with even the barest shred of dignity. That man looked at her the way a predator looks at prey it intends to eat alive, slowly, savouring every moment.

Finnick wanted to believe the counsellor wasn’t a bad person. Perhaps, in another life, he had been a decent man—a father, a husband, a worker who simply wanted justice for wrongs committed against his district. But the glint in his eyes told a different story. It was the same glint Finnick had seen in the eyes of Capitol patrons who had purchased him for the night. The same glint he had seen in Cornelius Snows eyes when the man had looked at Johanna. It was the glint of someone who wanted to tear another person apart and call it punishment.

Finnick looked back at Y/n.

She was staring at him.

Not at the counsellor. Not at Katniss. Not at the floor. Directly at him. Her pale blue eyes—those strange, light eyes that seemed to hold whole worlds of sorrow—were fixed on his face with an expression he couldn’t quite name. It was haunted, yes. Sad, certainly. But there was something else beneath it, something that looked almost like recognition. As though she was trying to reach out to the version of him that existed in a dream long ago. As though she was asking him, silently, without words: Will you let them take me?

His breath hitched. His chest tightened. And suddenly, without fully understanding why, he was standing.

The chair scraped back behind him with a sound that echoed through the suddenly silent chamber. Every head turned. Every eye fixed on him—Finnick Odair, the victor, the senator, the man who had been sold more times than he could count, who had worn the Capitols chains and learned to smile through them. He stood tall, his sea-green eyes clear, his voice steady despite the hammering of his heart.

“I’ll take her.”

╰ ┈➤ A/n 2.0: I took a bunch of references from real life events and people for this fic and do let me know if you wanna know about it. And this Finnick is very ooc ik but it'll be explained better in the coming parts, trust.

╰ ┈➤ Masterlist

╰ ┈➤ Tags: @avantlilies @joekitsu @sarabelllah @lil-mex-child @themischievousher @iloveyou3000morgan @saoriixbjh @fnimln @gmiasa03 @foulkingtree-101 @doll-parts111

© cheriecelestial - arabelle | 2026

[ferrarifinnick]

SWITCHING POSITIONS! | THE HUNGER GAMES HEADCANONS

going feral thinking about thg men and their fav positions to put you in. this was so much fun to write and sooo hot 🫢🫢 also this is a lil bit longer than my other thg headcanons. are we loving longer or shorter headcanons pls lmk?? anyway, enjoy <3

includes: gale, finnick, peeta

warnings: sub/dom, switch, p in v, manhandling, teasing, dirty talk, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, cum, creampie.

gale has an insatiable need to overpower you. he likes his body to be on top of yours, pinning you down and threatening to crush you if he ever decides to stop supporting his own weight. he’ll lift your legs over his shoulders in missionary then lean down to kiss you, just so you feel his weight pressing you into the mattress. but he doesn’t just want to weigh you down. no, he wants you to feel powerless. expect him to manhandle you. he’ll toss you around, lifting and bending you into whatever shape or over any surface he desires. and resisting is futile, so if you do, don’t be surprised when he takes hold of your chin and forces you to look up at his disappointed face. “thought you knew better,” is all he’ll say, before he’s lifting you into his big arms and bouncing you up and down on him.

it’ll be too slow, slow enough for you to whine at the punishment, and that pathetic cry is almost enough to bring him to his knees. almost. instead, he’ll say, “oh, so now it’s too slow for you?” with feigned shock. then he’ll shrug and say, “don’t be sorry for what comes next.” cue him pinning you to the mattress, face in the blankets as he rams in and out of your pussy from behind. when you’re crying out at your second orgasm, he’ll say “no tears! you asked for this.”

he comes alive in missionary, standing up cowgirl, and PRONE-BONE (hands on your back, full weight crushing you into the mattress).

when it comes to sex, finnick has very few reservations. despite his sexual past, he will turn very little down for you because for once he feels safety in his sexual explorations. the only nonnegotiable for him is being able to see your face at all times. it grounds him, and more importantly, it encourages him to enjoy sex. like gale, he likes showing off his strength by lifting you up and down on his cock. but finnick is a switch, and he loves the feeling of falling out of power just as much as he loves the feeling of getting it. so when you push him down on the bed (or sand, boat deck, or shower floor), he’ll put up no fight as you climb on top of him and take charge. expect strong eye contact, but don’t blink here or you’ll miss that smirk stretching into a grin. the only time it will disappear is when he’s about to cum. eyes rolled back, throaty moans spilling through his open mouth, and don’t be afraid when he pinches your hips and fucks his own up into you. he just really likes getting deep inside you when he cums.

shines best in standing cowgirl, cowgirl, missionary (he likes watching your face when he first pushes himself inside you).

peeta isn’t fussy. as long as you’re the one who’s over or under him, he’ll be up for anything you want. but being underneath you is his favourite, especially when you get a little bossy and tut at him for trying to push up into you, or when you peel and throw his hands away when he cups your tits without your go ahead. it drives him crazy to be so powerless, and he appreciates every second that he gets to watch you bounce or squat on him, because he knows just how lucky he is that this is his view. but sometimes you go too far. sometimes you pin his hands down for too long, or he’s had enough of your tuttings and teasings. sometimes he thinks you forget that he lets you be in control.

you might miss the dark shift in his eyes when he’s decided you’ve gone too far, but you’ll know it when he has your face pressed into the mattress, strong arms caging you beneath him as he grunts out “think you can tell me off, huh?” between powerful thrusts. “no, peeta,” you’ll cry out, but he’ll ignore you. he’ll keep going, thighs slapping heavily against the backs of your own. “peeta!–” you’ll beg, but this time he’ll tut at you and slide his hand over your mouth. “shh, i didn’t say you could talk, did i,” he’ll say, and when you silently shake your head, he’ll grin and affectionately say “ah, there’s my good girl.”

routinely finds himself in under you in cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, but comes alive in DOGGY!!

sorry but peeta’s makes me GIDDY hehe. please consider liking, commenting, and reblogging. love <3

© ferrarifinnick — all rights reserved.

[haymitchsbunny]

Collateral

Haymitch Abernathy x Victor!Reader (smut)

word Count: 4.5k

warnings: Haymitch's perspective, slight angst, porn with too much plot, emotional Haymitch, drinking, overthinking (self deprecating), f/m smut, soft dom Haymitch, making love not fucking (but fucking too)

summary: you're such a little stuck up princess the second the train leaves 12, acting like a capitol girl. Haymitch is sick of it, but with a little coaxing, maybe you arent as bratty as he had thought.

A/N: so sorry for the months since my last fic.. i had one almost finished then deleted it by accident. was genuinely heartbreaking. this is NOT an ask, but ASKS ARE ALWAYS OPEN!! i love any and all feeback + reposts, i look at everything! did i mention asks are open?

have a nice read ♡

The Capitol; beauty, wealth, significance, ease. The definition of luxury. With a simple location change, the district scum could forget their mistreatment in absolutely no time. Just like you did.

Haymitch couldn't help but to judge. Sure, he abused the free selection of drinks, but you? It was like you completely changed when you arrived. Abandoning him every year with the tributes, rarely speaking to him or them.

It was like you wanted them to die on your watch.

Detached behind the scenes, yet when the cameras were on you, you worked them like you had private lessons from Flickerman. All smiles and positivity and, quite frankly, more charm than he had ever managed himself. Selling your tributes to the audience the way you had before your own games.

Some sickly impressive show of survival instinct, such a dramatic shift from your demeanor at home. The sweetest girl turned manic at the sight of gold and cat whiskers. You would get at least three new tattoos every year. You would buy a whole new closet worth of clothes. You weren't you.

So to see you sitting across from him, the pretty little Seam girl he grew to adore, turned complete stranger when you got off that train every year.. He couldn't articulate his true feelings. His bemusement with you back home had begun to turn cold when you behaved so strangely.

Half of him still saw you as the kid you had been the first time you were in the capitol; small but smart, articulated but loud. Admirable.

But the part that was far from sober, the dense and hurt bit that was looking at you now, was disgusted.

He had come with you because you offered, hoping for at least a fragment of your normal self to shine through when you were alone with him. Yet as you lay on your stomach getting a fresh back tattoo, all he could think of was what could be.

You had been so reserved around others, but when you were on his couch, sitting close to his side, you always giggled and joked, squealed and snorted. Encouraged any semblance of humor he could muster. You changed him, transformed him from a bitter, aging man to someone all-together new.

If only you knew that he was putty in the palm of your hand, one of Pavlov's dogs salivating at your attention, confused when it led to nothing of substance or nothing at all. He groaned aloud, placing his empty glass on the table next to him as he stood from the crushed red velvet couch.

He stumbled away from you, thoughts a cesspool of his adoration and contempt for you swirling together into an incoherent dumpster fire he wasn't sure he'd be able to decipher sober.

He wondered if he would ever tell you he loved you. If you would give a damn, if you would say you loved him back. If you would call him a disgusting old man or reject him in a more painful way than he could imagine.

His currently muted rationale was very well aware that you were truly nicer than that, you had always admired him and would never treat him the way his irrational fears were promising you would. He knew your insanity was part of the same defense mechanism you used to win, it was the way you defended yourself from breaking apart every year, but it didn't hurt any less.

He grabbed a whole bottle from the parlor's bar, bringing it back with him. When he entered, you craned your neck to look at him. A confident smile graced your lips and he attempted to reciprocate, but could barely manage.

He was crumbling, overwhelmed and drunken and becoming irritable. Why were you doing this to him? Why was he letting you dominate his thoughts in the way only you could? You were always there for him and he had never been so frustrated with your behavior this year when it had barely been a minor issue in the past?

He knew why, he knew only he had the power to mend this emotional turmoil you had thrown him in. Because in reality, he had reached the apex of infatuation. He had to tell you, and it would either be from you breaking him or on his own terms.

He took his seat back on the couch across from you, allowing himself to take in your form. The current tattoo you were receiving was a pair of angel wings, stretching from your shoulder blades to right above your rounded ass. His eyes traced the shape of your curves, the tight little black thong causing your hips to bulge ever so slightly around the strings.

He felt his blood pumping to his groin in no time and forced himself to avert his gaze, shifting uncomfortably to hide his erection. His awkward shuffle caused your artist to look up, giving a low chuckle that caught Haymitch's attention. He kept his eyes trained away from the two of you, doing his best to distract himself from the crude imagery flowing much too freely through his consciousness.

"What's so funny?" Your muffled voice came from the jacket bawled up under your head. Your artist simply shook his head and dismissed you with a 'nothing'. You persisted though, arching your back and propping your arms beneath you to look around.

"C'mon Cyprus, let me in on the joke," you giggled, his favorite sound in the world breaking through the night's resentment and reminding him that you were still you. Your eyes shifted to Haymitch, and he was lucky as hell that your angle stopped you from glimpsing his hard-on. You flashed him a grin.

"Lay your head back down, pretty girl," the words fell from his tongue smoothly but he felt far away. "Don't want cyprus to accidentally clip your wings now, do you?" He offered you a drunken grimace for a smile, your giggles encouraging him.

"What does that even mean?" You questioned into your makeshift pillow, clenching and unclenching your fists. "You ain't gonna clip my wings, are you, Cyprus? You better not."

Haymitch could barely make out your muffled words, but you were back. The normal you, lying ten feet from him.

Maybe he should have accompanied you to at least one of your last 6 tattoo appointments. Were you always this.. Unburdened? Free from the shackles of fear, needles poking into your numbed skin, beautiful and pain free the whole process with the Capitol's high-tech ointments purely for cosmetics like this.

Bile rose in his throat when he remembered that ink drilled into your skin had you fucking pussywhipped for Snow.

His spiteful glare flickered from the back of your head and up to Cyprus as he let out a finalizing sigh and leaned back, flicking his machine to a halt.

"You're done, angel," He announced. "Take a peek in the mirror, see if you're happy with it." You launched yourself from the table, giddy with excitement. Scampering over to the mirror, you backed yourself up until your ass was nearly touching the surface, pastie clad tits bouncing as you tiptoed back until you had a clear view.

Haymitch should definitely have come with you sooner.

"Ugh," you groaned, face filling with satisfaction. "I look sexy, Cyprus. God himself lent you his hands for this one."

What you did next took Haymitch by such shock, he wasn't sure he would've been able to shield your eyes from his election if he'd tried.

You sauntered over to him, confidence in your stride, jiggling thighs and tits taking every last ounce of self restraint to avoid staring at. When you reached him, you turned your back to him. You placed your palms on his thighs and sat down on his knees, leaning forward to give him a full, perfect view of your back.

"What'cha think, Haymitch?" You crooned, and what he took for pure confidence before became something that felt near intimate, your tone setting his stomach ablaze.

"You make quite the pretty angel, sweetheart." He rasped, voice nearly catching in his throat. When you giggled and shifted your weight from his lap, his first instinct was to pull you back. So much so, that he actually reached for your hips.

The split second he wasted allowed you to stand and look back at him, and of course, your eyes flickered to the noticable arousal in his jeans. You flushed, confidence transformed into something fiercer, something that took more than yourself to exist.

Lust.

All it had taken was that one little touch, your plump ass planted on his knees, and the floodgates burst.

"C'mere, girl, let me get that finished up for you." Cyprus spoke, breaking your wide eyed stare from Haymitch. His neglected bottle took the entirety of his attention now, the lingering, consuming focus on you previously needing a new target.

Yet, as he took a big swig, avoiding letting his eyes even wander within ten feet of your spot, he was scarcely aware of anything aside from your presence.

"All good, love," Cyprus announced, helping you up from the table, the pleather surface sticking to your sweaty skin. You sauntered to Haymitch's side, slipping your arms through the sleeves of your jacket.

"I've got your bill," Haymitch grunted, approaching the register in the parlor. You attempted to protest but he ignored you, paying up and tipping generously as you struggled into your pants. You had just finished knotting your boots as he reached the door to leave. Your long ass Capitol escort limo was faithfully parked aside the sidewalk. Haymitch stepped out the door and held it for you to follow suit.

The drive back was tense. You stared. Unlike he'd ever seen you, something strange in your gaze. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, reaching to pick up the bottle he snatched from the shop. He offered it to you, tensing as your fingers brushed over his.

"Somethin' on your mind?" He questioned lowly, watching the way you shook your head while sipping, eyes never leaving his. "Keep mean-mugging me and I might start feelin' hurt." He rasped, half to himself and half to you.

"'M sorry," You whispered, eyes dropping to the floor. His heartbeat swiftened, what did you mean by that? What could you be apologizing for when you just ruined his entire concept of what you felt for him and made him want nothing but you?

"What're you sorry for, princess?" He questioned softly.

"I pushed it in the shop, that was inappropriate," You sounded guilty. "I know you're not like that."

"Like what?" He asked, pushing off of the seat and turning to sit next to you.

"Uh," You stumbled over your words, unsure of what to say. "Well, I know you aren't one to..." You trailed off, yet he understood what you were trying to say. He wasn't one to sleep around. Hadn't been. He hadn't touched a woman aside from you in years, so of course you'd get that impression.

"One to touch women?" He offered, and you flushed red.

"That's not what I was going to say!" you exclaimed, a giggle breaking through as you smacked his arm.

"But you'd be right," He countered. "Ain't touched a woman in years." He was so close to you, breath fanning your neck, and yet you didn't seem to notice.

"That's.. embarrassing." You grimaced.

"Unless you count yourself," He smiled. "Rubbin' that ass on me like you wanted a little more than for me to just look at that tattoo, huh?"

"Well, that's kinda why I'm apologizing, Hay."

"Uh-huh."

"Uh-huh.."

He grabbed your hip, gently pressing his lips to your neck. He had an arm behind you, supporting himself against the tinted window.

"Mind showing it to me again? Didn't get to look at the details." And there it was. His offer to you, a choice motivated by something he wasn't sure you had. You finally met his eyes, practically cradled in his warmth, nose grazing the scruff on his chin. You sat like that for a moment, the only noise a mix of quiet music about sex and your own breathing.

"Of course. You sat through the appointment, didn't you?" You stood, hunched over as to not hit your head on the ceiling. You moved until you were hovering over his lap and sat down slowly. He didn't hesitate to put his hands on your hips this time. He heard the unzipping of your jacket and watched as you pulled it off. You shrugged it down until the only thing it was covering was your ass on his lap. He swallowed hard as you pulled it away and to the floor.

"It suits you," He was so quiet, as though speaking up would scare you away. "Beautiful angel."

"What?" You craned your neck to look back at him. "What did you call me?"

"Nothin'," He felt a pit open up in his stomach. "It looks good on you." He was gripping your hips tight, tighter than he'd ever dared to hold onto you. You wriggled out of his grip though, and he feared the moment was over, but you turned and faced him, lips brushing against his cheek.

"Say it," You whispered. But instead of obliging you, he roughly trailed his hand up your spine, stopping as he wrapped his fingers around the back of your neck, massaging with his thumb. A light whimper escaped from you as he watched goosebumps rise on your skin.

"Fuck," He groaned, picking you up and pushing you to the floor of the vehicle in one swift movement, pinning you beneath himself. You gasped and he chuckled. "So fucking sick of the games you play, sweetheart." Your eyes widened.

"Huh? What games-" You attempted to speak, but his lips were on yours. Sparks flew as years of quiet glances and deafening laughter collided at last. It took you a moment before you reciprocated, confusion, as you tried to finish your sentence. He kissed you hard, short circuiting your senses with deep love he'd waited to show you for so long.

He could take the distance. He could handle the cold. You could give him frostbite every day of the year, so long as you let him kiss you like this for one more second. And of course, you did. Every moment of uncertainty became a single vision of one thing; he was a fucking idiot.

Of course you felt the same. How could you not, it wasn’t like there was anyone else either of you could even somewhat relate to. You were his lighthouse in the open sea of trauma and fear, and with your lips molding perfectly to his, he knew he was the same to you.

“Don’t listen to me, sweetheart. Don’t listen to a word I say,” He sighed against your lips. “Just let me love you.” You sucked a sharp breath in at his words. He looked in your eyes and watched your irises disappear, watched the smile form, felt the warmth spread from every point of contact he had with your body. He had so much contact with your body. His chest pressing into yours, one hand pinning both of yours above your head and the other supporting himself so he wasn’t fully crushing you. His knee slotted between your plush thighs.

“Am I supposed to listen to that?” You questioned softly. “Should I let you ‘love me’, Haymitch?” And all he could do was smile. Before he could answer you, the limo halted.

He attempted a quick maneuver off of you, but was quickly reminded by oncoming vertigo and aching knees that he was in fact not young enough for that. He pressed a kiss to your temple before rolling onto his back on the floor next to you. You sat up and looked over at him, smiling. As you helped his sorry self from the ground and towards the door just in time for the valet to open it, he saw something shift in your demeanor once more.

Your grin turned bittersweet and your eyes filled with the sort of sorrow he had felt for decades. He wanted to pull you back to him that instant, embrace you with the warmth your smile had given him moments before. But he let you step out, he followed suit, and he wrapped his arm around your waist as two peacekeepers led you to the elevator, swiping a keycard and pressing a button on the outside of the transportation before the doors opened and you stepped in, immediately soaring towards the penthouse.

He somewhat expected tension- for you to pull back and hide from him once more. But instead, he simply felt a sadness he hadn’t truly seen before radiating from you. Your breath, your movements, your goddamned, beautiful eyes, all hurting in a way he knew all too well and wished he could fix. The two of you sat on the loveseat in the lounge of District 12’s annual abode and caught up on the parts of the games you missed while you were at the shop.

He saw you cry. Something you rarely did in front of him anymore. Not since the months after your survival of the Games. With all of your behavior, he knew he should be concerned. Yet, he knew this was nothing new. You had felt this way every waking second of every day, and yet a kiss was all it took for you to finally feel vulnerable enough to show it to him.

With a flicker, the footage on the screen looped. The young boy from your district was standing still, leaning against a black barked tree, until realizing the girl from 9 was quickly approaching. He turned and began running, surely outpacing her by an insane amount, before he stopped and bounced back strangely. As he fell, it became clear he ran into something. Shining tripwire was laced back and forth between two trees. 

Before you could take it all in again, Haymitch flicked a button on the remote and shut the footage off. The blood making the wires visible, the ripped flesh of the boy, his wide eyes, the cannon, seen once and avoided until necessary to be seen again. 

Haymitch looked at you. Watery eyes to the floor with your arms wrapped tightly around your legs. He sighed and pulled you towards him, your strange position causing you to collapse into his lap. He coaxed you to sit up, your knees pressing into his thigh and your forehead to his shoulder. He placed a hand on your hip and with no further urging, you moved until you were straddling his lap.

This wasn't new; you’d sat on his lap before, accepted affection as comfort when words weren’t enough, exactly as right now. But something about it was different. Something in your breath fanning against his neck, the twitching of your hips, as if you were trying as hard as you possibly could to be still. It was a horrible time- you had just sobbed next to him, but you were so close, so pretty.

“Haymitch,” He would’ve never heard you if your lips weren’t so close to his ear. “Can I sleep in your room tonight?” He nodded without hesitation. This wasn’t new, either. Nightmares plagued the two of you constantly, and when it got bad, he was always here, right next to you.

Wordlessly, he stood with you in his arms. You yelped, he almost dropped you, but in a few moments he was walking down the hall with you steady in his arms. You had your arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers intertwining in his hair as he turned and opened the door with his hip after a moment of struggle.

He carried you to the bed and laid both of you down gently. He knew it was no different from your own, just as your homes in the Victor’s Village were the same. The Capitol handed you both so much, and if it weren’t so impersonal you could take it as a reward. Never an apology, though. Just a fucked way of keeping Victors complacent after killing other children and having friends die in front of them. Payment for participating in the show, for being an entertainer.

He was brought back to reality as you curled your body into his, forehead to his chest and little hands tracing patterns on his abdomen. He couldn’t help but smile at how soft you looked. He felt bad, but he sat up and slipped his shirt from his back. You stayed curled up, but watched him carefully. When he laid back down, you moved closer. Chin on his pec and temple on his bicep, you ran your fingertips through his chest hair. 

He moved his hand to the back of your head, practically petting you. You gave him a small smile, eyes flickering to meet his. You both sat like that for a moment, methodical movements continuing in a comforting manner. Your eyes began to water and he brought his palm to your cheek, you closed your eyes and he pulled you towards himself. 

Your lips met his, softly melding against his own. He set a slow pace, and you pushed yourself closer to him, clamoring up the bed until you were straddling his stomach. He placed his hand carefully on your hip and wrapped the other around your waist, sitting up and placing you beneath him without breaking your kiss. You pulled back for air, hand bracing yourself on his chest.

“You’ve been so damn good to me, Haymitch.” You whispered. “Thank you for everything.” A tear slid down your cheek and he kissed it.

“Don’t thank me, sweetheart.” He pecked at your neck and you choked up a sob. He felt himself cringe, hurting to see you in pain. He held your jaw between his fingers. “Let me make you feel better, pretty girl. Please?” And you nodded between your tears. He offered you a soft smile.

He made quick work of undressing you, having you fully bare beneath him in a matter of minutes. He couldn’t stop just caressing you, running his fingers from your neck to your breasts, from your ribs to your hips. He watched gooseflesh rise on your skin and began kissing your tits, soft little pecks filled with love and care, tongue flicking at your pebbled nipples, giving you love bites until purple marks covered almost every square inch of your top half.

You laid there, breathing heavy and whining quietly as he entertained himself and pleasured you. His lips began gravitating downwards, and soon enough your bare thighs were sticking to his shoulders as he lapped at your cunt. He had you a moaning mess beneath him, hips twitching and toes curling. Tongue fucking you into oblivion, he brought you to the edge and pushed you right back down. He knew what he was doing and he was relishing in your frustrated pleasure.

“H-Haymitch, stop, just make me- fuck, please?” Your mumbling was barely understandable but he chuckled nonetheless. “I know you’re doing that on purpose, please just-” He began relentlessly repeating all of the little things he had noticed you liked in the short time he had been squeezed between your thighs, holding eye contact as he pushed you over the edge. 

You screamed his name, fists balling up in his hair as you humped his face. He was rock hard against the mattress and let you come down before pulling himself away.

He collapsed next to you and you giggled at him, grinning as you reached forward to wipe your slick from his beard. He stuck his tongue out and tried to lick it from his own face. You blushed and he kissed you once more.

“Do you want to fuck me, Haymitch?” You asked, looking deep into his eyes with such genuine question he wasn’t sure what to say.

“Of course I fuckin’ do, sweetheart,” He rasped, and you smiled, leaning in once more.

“Then what are you waiting for?” 

And quicker than he thought possible, he had your knees hooked over his elbows and his cock dipping between your sopping folds. As he sank into you, he had to stop for a moment. Halfway sheathed in your mound and he was already holding on for dear life. Tight, wet, and pulsing with need, he was halfway to heaven and getting all the way without cumming was a task. 

Over the next minute or so, he took his time filling you and letting you adjust to his size. You were ready faster than he had anticipated and he wasn’t going to keep you waiting. Slow and deep, he had you trembling in a matter of thrusts. 

“You have no fucking idea how long I’ve dreamed of this, sweet girl,” He grumbled. “More perfect than I could’ve ever imagined.” The praise began spilling out of his mouth. He rambled on and on about how good your pussy was, words distracting him from his pacing until he was fucking you into the mattress fast and hard. He was sure you couldn’t hear a word he was saying over your own moans.

“Haymitch, I’m gonna-” You were gasping for air, tears streaming down your face for no reason other than pleasure now. “Faster- fuck, harder!” You cried out, and he obeyed without question. He threw your legs over his shoulders and leaned forward to support himself, your knees to your chest as he plunged into you with more force and speed than he had ever imagined you could take.

“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmy-” Your incomprehensible cries turned to one long, drawn out whine as your whole body tensed, nails digging into Haymitch’s back as you came hard around his cock. Your pussy clenched like a vice around his dick and his hips stuttered. He fucked you through your orgasm before pulling out and finishing all over your belly.

With an exasperated sigh, he fell once more to your side. He pulled you into him, sweaty arms sticking to your back as he held you tightly to him. You said nothing, head resting against him once more as you stared at his face.

“Thank you,” you finally said, face glimmering but devoid of tears this time. 

“No need to thank me, sweetheart.” He grinned.

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know,” His heart raced in his chest, not expecting that response from you. A smile spread across your lips. “I love you, too.”

Moments later, you were drifting off in his arms.

[crumblecreamery]

Hii could u do a smut where reader calls finnick ‘Finny’. Like she moans it out while they’re yk and it absolutely makes him feral. And he’s all like:

“What was that sugar? Say it again.” Etc.

Say it Again

Pairing: Soft dom Finnick x shy fem!reader

Notes: Dom/sub themes, voice kink, praise kink, p in v, slight corruption kink, Finnick Odair is such a munch. Minors DNI

A/N: I haven’t had the motivation to write and I’ve still got a few requests in my drafts, I’m really sorry if they’re yours. Hope I hadn’t lost my touch

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Finnick was your first everything- first relationship, first kiss….the first one to break you in- and quite frankly, he intends to be your last too. He loves how he gets to be the only one to teach you all of these things- to be the person who corrupts your innocence, explores different ways to give you pleasure, and work your body better than you can.

Finnick is always sure to praise you during sex to ensure you’re fully comfortable with him. Sex was never really an intimate or enjoyable thing for him before he had met you, so Finnick wants to make sure you are given the experience he never did. More than anything else, Finnick would like to hear your be more vocal during sex.

Although you occasionally make a few noises here and there, letting out small moans and soft whimpers (because let’s be real, it’s impossible to keep quiet when the Finnick Odair is railing you), you often try to conceal your sounds because you feel a bit insecure about your voice. Unbeknownst to you, Finnick would like nothing more than to hear you moan out his name and to tell him how good he makes you feel. If only you know the ego boost it would give him and how his heart would race at a single comment.

This night, Finnick has you laid out on your shared bed, the mattress soft yet supporting underneath you two as he thrusts deeply into you at a steady pace. His warm mouth is latched onto the crook of your neck, sucking and nipping, sure to leave love marks on your skin as one of his hand reaches for your clit to trace lazy circles. The sex, as usual, is phenomenal and your back is arched in pleasure, legs folded as they hang over his sculpted shoulders.

A few soft whimpers fall from your mouth involuntarily at the undeniable pleasure you’re feeling and you bite down on your bottom lips to control your noises like always. Finnick cocks his head, his mouth momentarily detaching from your neck as his lips form that signature smirk which you are so familiar with. You’re confused as of what Finnick is doing but you’re way too cockdrunk to care. His thick and lengthy cock is pounding into you so well, grazing over your cervix with every thrust and you’re surprised that it isn’t bruised by now.

Finnick grabs a pillow from the side of the bed and swiftly places it under the small of your back as he lifts you up and places you back down with ease. Your mouth falls open and you forget about controlling your volume, a loud moan mixed with a gasp leaving your mouth. The pillow has put you in an even better position, raising your hips slightly so that each of Finnick’s thrust is angled to hit that spongey spot inside of you which makes your toes curl in pleasure and back arch further.

“Hmm honey, you like that, huh?” Finnick teases after seeing your reaction, and you can only nod as you attempt to babble something incoherently.

“F-fuck…Finny, s-so good” you mumble, your mind in a state of haze right now.

Hearing your words and the nickname that just fell out of your mouth, Finnick’s eyes immediately light up and an even bigger smirk replaces the former one on his face. Although you don’t realise in the moment that Finnick has bitten his lips at your comment, you sure can feel his reaction to it as his thick cock pulsates in arousal, causing your warmth to tighten around him, feeling every vein and curve.

“What was that sugar?” Finnick chuckles both smugly and proudly, “say it again for me”

“I-I….”

Only then do you realise what you’ve said and your cheeks immediately turn pink, a flustered look appearing on your face which Finnick finds so, so adorable. You struggle to find the right words to say, only blinking shyly as you attempt to cover your face, but Finnick pulls your hands away as he stares down at you with the same smirk.

“Don’t be shy honey, your whimpers and moans are music to my ears……besides, your voice turns me on so much, you have no idea.”

Finnick whispers into your ears, and you feel a tingling sensation in your stomach, ‘butterflies’ Finnick calls them. You blink, not knowing that that is what Finnick feels about the sounds you make, and it makes you feel better.

“Now..I’ll ask you again, sugar, what is it you called me, hmm?”

Finnick hums as he cocks his head with a small teasing smile, waiting for an answer.

“…Finny. I called you Finny..”

“Good girl.”

God save Finnick Odair from the things he is going to do to you.

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A/N: to whoever had requested this, hope this is what you had wanted <3 Once again, all likes, reblogs, and follows are appreciated, so are comments!

[leviathanspain]

Hey could you write a Finnick odair / reader where snow forces them to pretend to date like he did with katniss and peeta? The whole convince him and get married as a distraction thing? Thanks :)

the pretender

finnick odair x reader

synopsis: being reaped from the victor’s pool changed your life in more ways than you imagined

you were his favorite girl.

girl. you were a girl when you had been reaped, a girl when your feet stepped off the platform, more shocked that you didn’t immediately blow up into bits. a girl when you had committed your first kill. you remembered the sound of your knife slicing into human flesh for the first time. the ringing in your ears had become permanent after you had been too close to the explosion that had killed half of the tributes. an explosion that you had accidentally caused.

your rebellious spirit was fun at first, for the capital to laugh and delight in, until you stopped using the scripts that they had written for you, and tried to destroy the idea of the girl in their minds.

snow subdued you, tried to barter your family’s life with cooperation. unbeknownst to him, you hadn’t seen your family in years since they had abandoned you, for fighting against your father’s abuse.

“kill them. do whatever you want to them. just leave me alone.” your own words haunted you since the day snow had presented evidence of their murders. you didn’t dare flinch in his presence, holding a strong facade that you didn’t care, that they were beneath you.

as he left, irritated at your refusal to comply, letting ideas stir in his head with what to do with you, you broke down. tears shed as you realized that they were gone because of you, because you couldn’t let your anger go.

but snow liked you, he must’ve had a reason to keep you around for so long, and until just a few days ago, you hadn’t known why.

you breathed deeply as you heard your name called. it was deja vu, and suddenly you were back to the thirteen year old girl, who was so emaciated and starved that when her name was called, she believed she was hallucinating.

you looked crudely into the screen, not offering any smiles or sign of pride that you had been reaped, all over again.

“y/n l/n.” hearing your full name made you turn around immediately. you were slightly blinded by his blonde hair and pearly white smile.

“finnick odair.” you realized who the man was, quicker than you’d admit. the last time you had seen him was at a ridiculous capital party that snow had forced you to attend. finnick had been leaned against a wall, with two capital sluts hanging onto his shoulders, whispering in his ears simultaneously.

he smiled, not surprised that you didn’t say anything else besides his name. you had that tendency about you, to shoot down any attempt at conversation. even going as far to avoid it all together. “i’m glad you haven’t tried to run away, not after i had caught you eyes and you dashed off at that party. how long ago was that? three,” his speech hung onto the words, “four?”

“five months. it’s been five months, finnick.” you remembered his gaze, and remembered how your feet made you run at the sight. you had heard stories about finnick, and you weren’t exactly planning on ever talking to him.

“that’s right.” he smiled, “i hope you’ve been well since then. it was nice seeing you in something other than a bloody shirt.” his gaze suddenly seemed very far away, as if he was remembering exactly what you wore that night.

you shrugged, deciding to change topics, “everyone else is polishing their weapons,” you heard a guttural war cry, and saw another tribute lunge at a partner, “and methods.” finnick turned to the source of the cry and laughed slightly, “oh yeah? what’s your choice of weapon, again?”

“knives. anything long and sharp.” you always had an affinity for knives. it was second nature to you, an art of your district. your mind drifted away slightly to the array of knives that you had collected during your games. every tribute that you had slaughtered had a knife, and you collected them as a token. by the end, you had 23 knives, all representing a kill.

it had been upsetting when you went on your victory tour, to see the look on their family’s faces, but you had blurred out their emotions, and at the height of your submission to snow, had given out the same apathetic speech to every district.

finnick watched as your mind drifted back to reality. wherever you had gone for the better half of a minute, was a place finnick spent every waking moment, running away from.

he grabbed your shoulder, squeezing it slightly as he looked into your eyes, whispering your name, “hey, hey.” you focused on his eyes, gaze shifting to his mouth as they shaped the syllables of your name. you swallowed thickly, “im sorry-i…” you pulled away, his hand falling free of your shoulder. finnick watched as you exited the training room, your hands balled up into fists as you disappeared through the doorway.

“absolutely not.” you had spent your childhood under the thumb of one man, and you had barely made it out from under snow’s. this was only another way to get you under it once more.

finnick had his head bowed, having listened to snow’s pitch to make the two of you a couple. he needed something to distract the capital citizens from peeta and katniss, who everyone knew, was just a thorn in snow’s side.

“my dear, i really don’t think you have a choice in the matter.” snow’s eyes narrowed at you and you sighed, “what else is there left for you to do? im already being marched to my death, again, just speed the process up. poison me like you do the rest.” you took a good jab at one of the many secrets you had obtained, living in his cage.

snow laughed, “i would’ve done that a long time ago, y/n.”

just as you were beginning to argue again, finnick looked up, eyes catching yours. he held your gaze for a minute, blinking his wet eyes at you. there was something that was telling you that this wasn’t just about you.

finnick.

oh how could you forget finnick.

there was something clearly at stake for him too, otherwise why had he remained silent this entire time?

compliance was something he had to get used to, also under snow’s control.

“okay, fine.” you felt yourself swallow bile, “i’ll do it.” you looked at finnick, your future husband, and the reason why you were even agreeing.

“why did you do it?” his voice cracked, a raw noise as he looked over at you. you had been silent the whole time since leaving the meeting with snow. you shuddered with the strong winds, having been sat out on the stoop of the building, housing all the reaped former victors.

you looked at finnick, having caught his gaze, holding it for a moment, “my entire life i’ve been selfish, and i guess i realized that it isn’t always about putting myself first.” you knew the stories, heard the rumors. snow had barely played with the idea, making you like finnick, but you had always refused. there was nothing left for him to leverage, and so it never went anywhere.

but this, pairing the two of you was nothing short of cruel. finnick who has everything to lose, with you, who he probably didn’t expect to agree.

finnick hitched a breath, understanding what you weren’t saying. “thank you.” he breathed, “and im sorry.”

you stood up suddenly, nodding as you turned towards the entrance, “just-“ you cut yourself off, waving a hand as you continued inside.

he made the announcement. finnick had decided that with the pull he has on the capital, that he would be the one to do it. especially since he was so beloved, the attention from it was to challenge katniss and peeta’s.

you had agreed to play the part, and now you had to act like it.

there was loud cheering and applause from the crowd, and you were pushed out onto the stage, more cheers erupting as finnick stood up to meet you halfway. you kissed his cheek, grabbing his hand tightly as you two fluttered across the stage.

caesar flickerman was already standing there with a bright, capitol smile. “this is your lovely bride. we hear the honeymoon is the arena?” he looked at finnick who tipped his head back for a laugh, but didn’t answer outright.

you gave a soft laugh, “we just loved each other so much, we couldn’t wait.”

caesar looked at you, as if remembering who you were exactly, “wow.” he seemed truly amazed, perhaps even shocked.

finnick noticed the heaviness in the interview and turned his head at caesar, trying to keep the attention on the union rather than the individuals.

he grabbed your hand suddenly, clutching it tightly. as he held it for the rest of the interview, you staring at the faces in the crowd, more love struck than you, you wondered if he was trying to comfort you or himself.

“finnick.” you looked around behind you, only seeing peeta in front of you. the first few days in the arena had been a blur. you had stuck by close with finnick, who made it his mission to stay close to katniss. there was something he wasn’t telling you, but you didn’t once doubt him.

“finnick?” you whipped your head around and couldn’t find him. you were always in front of him, so he could remain in his eye line at all times. except you had failed to make sure he was in yours.

your ears started ringing as the panic set in. you scanned the trees and couldn’t find any sign of him or katniss, realizing this as peeta shared your same panicked look. your throat felt tight as you screamed his name, “finnick!” peeta suddenly took off, feet blazing towards more greenery. you had no choice but to follow, knowing finnick would’ve had you stick with peeta.

as you barely caught up to peeta, you saw him hit the floor as you ran up. whatever he had bounced off of was holding katniss and finnick back.

you looked at finnick, unable to catch his eyes as he looked up frantically. there was something you were missing, there were just bir-

“jabberjays.” peeta groaned out, “they can’t hear us, but they hear our screams.” he swallowed thickly, resting near the force field. katniss was knelt down at the edge, eyes tightly shut. you stared at finnick, at a loss for words. the panic in his face looked so real, you wondered who he was hearing.

you tore your eyes away, watching him suffer was not something you had signed up for. you felt defeated, unable to do anything as you and peeta sat like sitting ducks, waiting this torture out.

you hadn’t talked to him since the jabberjays. peeta had comforted katniss, in any way she’d let him. but they were different, you and finnick were different.

yes, you were married, he was your husband. but the issue was, you hadn’t much time to even begin to share intimate details, let alone have a good conversation. this was what snow wanted, an empty marriage to stir up all the attention.

except you knew your performance was failing. the audience could see right through you.

“hey.” finnick had snuck up on you. you had stayed a few feet away from him and the others, unsure how to handle it all. but it seems like finnick was trying to make it work. but it should be the other way around.

“finnick.” you breathed a sigh of relief unintentionally, hoping he didn’t catch on, you watched as he sat down on the sand beside you. he grabbed your hand, and for a moment you thought it to be genuine, until he raised an eyebrow.

right.

“i’m so sorry.” your voice hitched, and finnick steadied his gaze, “seeing you like that-“ you faked a choked sob, “i just couldn’t do it. i couldn’t look at you and see-“ you cut yourself off, throwing your head in your hands.

snow had to be happy that you were selling yourself off to protect finnick. but beside that heart to heart you had with him in the beginning, you had nothing else to go off of.

“i heard you.” finnick’s voice cracked, “you were screaming, these terrible, horrible screams.” he shook his head, as if he were hearing them all over again, making you realize that he was telling the truth. “and it wouldn’t stop.” he breathed. his breathing got harder and you found yourself kissing him to make him stop. finnick panted into the kiss, as if you had grounded him. you pulled back, catching his eye as you looked away.

your hand that he had been holding gripped his harder. you looked out into the water, watching as it’s dangerous waters moved, unsure on how you would survive this.

with or without him.

[fangirlingalittletoohard]

Reunion

Your relationship with Haymitch is... complicated. Both victors. Both mentors. Rarely able to be in the same place at the same time. Yes, it's complicated, but your reunions are always worth the wait.

1,046 words

Haymitch Abernathy x reader

No use of y/n, but second person perspective.

Warnings: fast-paced smut without plot.

Masterlist

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It had been too long since you’d seen him. You weren’t exactly sure what you’d call your relationship. It was more than friends with benefits or casual sex. But you weren’t together often. You were barely able to contact one another when you were back in your respective districts. The one perk of the Games was that it gave you and Haymitch an excuse to be in the same place at the same time. 

Your tributes were good. They usually were. But you couldn’t get too attached. Even if your district won, only one of them would come home. 

District Twelve’s were average at best. 

It was the evening of the opening ceremony. The ceremony had gone relatively smoothly. You had sent your tributes to bed. Now, you were tapping your fingers against the glass wall of the elevator as you rose to the twelfth floor. 

The two of you would use this first time as stress relief, as you had fallen into the habit of doing each year after the opening ceremony. You needed it. Desperately. 

Haymitch’s hands were on you almost instantly as the elevator doors opened. Desire pooled in the pit of your stomach as his strong arms wrapped themselves around you. “I’ve missed you.” He murmured between kisses. It was electric. You felt safe but were simultaneously buzzing with energy. 

“I’ve missed you too.” You replied, your hands finding his hair and tangling in the locks by the base of his neck, just how he liked it. Your feet were lifted from the ground and your legs found their way around Haymitch’s waist. 

You were vaguely aware of being carried into another room, but your thoughts were too occupied by Haymitch’s tongue in your mouth to pay much attention to anything else. A door was kicked shut and your feet were on the ground again. Haymitch’s hands found the zip in the back of your dress and it was promptly slipped off your body and discarded on the plush carpet. 

For the first time since the elevator doors had opened only a few minutes previously, Haymitch detached himself from you and took a step backwards. He looked you up and down, taking his time to take you all in. You had worn the lingerie you knew drove him crazy. A little black lacy set that left very little to the imagination. 

“Hi, sweetheart.” He greeted, his hungry eyes burning into you. 

“Hi.” You replied breathily. 

Haymitch fell back into you, his hands roaming over your body as if trying to confirm whether his memory of you was accurate. You fumbled with the hem of his sweater before he stripped himself of the garment in one swift movement. Next, were his jeans. Then, your underwear followed shortly by his. 

Again, your feet were lifted from the floor and you were spun around. Your stomach lurched as you felt yourself falling backwards, but your fall was broken by a soft mattress and satin sheets. Haymitch was on top of you within seconds, his lips attached to the side of your neck and his hands busying themselves with your breasts. 

You whimpered as his teeth grazed your jugular and your hips bucked upwards, your core desperate for some attention. There was no time to drag this out. The two of you were hungry for one another. One of Haymitch’s hands had made its way between your bodies and a cool, calloused finger dipped into your core. Simultaneously, a moan escaped your lips and Haymitch groaned into the crook of your neck. “So wet for me.” He murmured. You whimpered again in response, hips grinding against his hand. 

You needed more. Haymitch was evidently impatient too as after barely a few moments working you with a single digit, his finger was removed and he was lining himself up to your entrance. 

Haymitch stilled himself and leant down to kiss you tenderly. Your hips bucked involuntarily, pressing his tip against your soaked entrance. Surfacing from the kiss, Haymitch held eye contact with you in a silent request for consent. You smiled and placed a peck to his lips in response. Haymitch pressed his forehead against yours as he slowly entered you. The two of you groaned in unison. 

“God, I’ve been thinking about this for months.” Haymitch admitted quietly, stilling himself once he was fully sheathed inside you. 

“Haymitch.” Was all you managed to reply, clutching at the sheets beneath you. 

You remained for a moment, Haymitch buried deep inside you, breathing in synchrony, before Haymitch began to move. The first few thrusts were slow. You felt every inch of him. It was bliss. You were not satisfied yet, though. “More.” You requested breathily. Haymitch complied. 

His previous slow, tender thrusts transformed into Haymitch fucking you. Your legs wrapped around his waist to give him access to a deeper angle, your hands clutching his back for support. Haymitch fucked you relentlessly and you were helpless to do anything other than cry out his name. He held you close to him as he ploughed into you, hitting just the right spot every time. 

As his thrusts began to lose their precision and he became more desperate to chase his high, Haymitch reached a hand between your bodies once again and drew tight circles around your clit. You threw your head back, body arching against his at the new sensation. 

It didn’t take either of you long. The combination of Haymitch’s rough digit against your clit and his cock pounding your walls finally sent you over the edge, walls clamping around his cock as pleasure sent a shiver down your spine. 

The sensation of your spasming walls finished Haymitch off, too, and your orgasm was followed quickly by Haymitch coming hard, deep inside you. 

He lazily thrust a few more times, before coming to rest inside you and lowering his body comfortably over yours. One of Haymitch’s hands stroked your waist and you placed a kiss to the top of his head. 

You didn’t need to speak. Words were meaningless in moments like these. Instead, you held each other and slowly caught your breath. You gave yourselves to each other, and in these little moments of peace amidst the horror of the Games, you found something worth living for. 

[eufezco]

THREE LIES AT ONCE

FINNICK ODAIR X FEM!STYLIST!READER

this is based on a prompt from character.ai c:

SYNOPSIS -> You're his stylist and you discover bruises.

You liked it when Finnick visited the Capitol and Finnick hated doing it except for the fact that he knew you would be there.

You had already earned a reputation as a stylist in the Capitol when you two met. And it had been four years since Finnick won his games but President Snow had kept him close because nothing was more appealing than a charming boy in his twenties to the people of the Capitol.

You learned from the best. Cinna taught you everything he knew about fashion and then made you forget about it all so you could build your own style. It actually worked quite well because your designs were sold in the Capitol as if people needed them to live.

Your colors and characteristic shapes, your outrageous skirts, your long dresses, and your headdresses were worn by everyone, men and women fought over your designs and they spent all their savings on your clothes. President Snow was more than delighted with you, not only because his granddaughter deeply admired you but because you knew how to be liked, and he loved that about you.

That's why President Snow found the perfect match with Finnick and you and for once in his life, he did something right.

Finnick became your muse. From the moment you were introduced at the Capitol and you saw him walking towards you with those bright green eyes, his perfectly messy blonde hair, his tanned skin thanks to the way the sun in District 4, and his body that looked like it had been sculpted by the gods. You knew you never wanted to design anything else but for him.

―When did you arrive and how is it that you haven't come to see me earlier? ―You threw yourself into his arms, your fingers dug into his blond locks of hair. This was not the typical relationship that stylists used to have with their models but after working with him for a couple of years now, it was inevitable that some affection would grow between the two of you. Especially when, during his stays in the Capitol, you spent most of your time together. You were the only thing that kept him from going crazy.

He would sit and watch you while you sketched out his next outfit. You would share a drink and ask him questions about how his life was back in District 4. Finnick loved to talk about his home and you loved to imagine yourself there, in the places that Finnick described to you so precisely. The sea reaching your feet, the sun shining against your skin, the sound of seagulls flying across the bluest sky you had ever seen... And for some reason that you were still trying to figure out, every time you imagined yourself in one of those scenarios, he was by your side. District 4 seemed like a lovely place.

Finnick's arms wrapped around your waist while his face hid in the crook of your neck. He inhaled your familiar scent when you hugged, too sweet for the Capitol, not like the perfume people there used to keep up with their continuous call for attention.

―Yesterday but I was too tired from the trip.

That was the first lie that Finnick told you that night.

There was an expression of relief on your face with something like a small smile on your lips, grateful to see him again after such a long time and when everything in your life was chaos thanks to the preparation of the next games. Your eyes were closed, enjoying him holding you until you heard him say those words and then they opened in a combination of surprise and confusion.

―Don't think that being tired is an excuse for not coming to see me, Finnick Odair. That should always be the first thing you do as soon as you set foot here. ―You said, still thinking about why would he lie to you.

You moved apart from the hug and Finnick had a big smile on his lips that inevitably made you smile too. ―I'm sorry. ―He apologized.

―You better be. But now I need you to tell me if you like it.

You turned to grab your notebook and showed him the sketch you drew. Finnick took the notebook from your hands so he could take a better look and admire every detail.

―This is beautiful. You're an artist. I doubt there is anyone half as good as you in the whole Panem.

―Oh, there's Cinna. I haven't managed to dethrone him yet.

―Come on, you outdid Cinna a long time ago. He says so himself. The student surpassed the master, there's nothing wrong with that.

You shook your head and said nothing. Finnick rolled his eyes, he knew you didn't like hearing from him or anyone else that you were better than Cinna. Not even when Cinna himself tells you.

―Have you started sewing it yet? Can I see it?

―That's why I needed to see you. I haven't started yet because I need to measure you again. The last time you wore one of my garments it was too tight. I don't want to risk it not fitting you this time. ―You grabbed the measuring tape and pins from the table in your studio, full of fabrics and patterns for the new tributes. Cinna had given you his notebook with some beautiful sketches and had told you that he needed something similar but for the male tribute, a guy named Peeta Mellark from District 12, and you had been working day and night to meet Cinna's expectations. ―The robe is behind the dressing screen.

―Yes ma'am.

Finnick walked over without saying another word. You admired his figure as he walked away. Finnick's back was twice as wide as when you met him, his arms had grown stronger, now you could identify each of the muscles in them and his legs had also doubled in size, unfortunately, Finnick loved to wear long skirts, if it were up to you he would be showing them all the time. The features of his face had also changed, now they were more pronounced. Finnick's dimples were more visible and his jaw was so sharp you'd swear if you slid your finger along it you'd cut yourself.

―This looks great on you. I don't know why I try to design you something new every time. I should let you go around with that.

Finnick shook his head, failing in his attempt not to laugh at your stupid joke. ―You are not only the best designer but also the funniest one, huh?

You rolled your eyes. Finnick knew you didn't like it when he told you that and he did it on purpose to tease you. ―Come on, take it off.

Finnick stood before the mirror as you stood behind him. Once he slipped it off, you gasped and jumped back, horrified.

―Gosh, Finnick, what is this? ―You took a few steps backward at the sight of the bruises that trailed down his back. By their bright red color you would say were rather recent. You didn't know how to react, you were petrified staring at his back.

Finnick smiled, dismissing what you just saw with practiced charm. ―Ah, just a little souvenir. My lovers like to play rough. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.

That was the second lie Finnick told you that night.

Finnick's chest was heavy but he was trying to keep his cool. He had assumed that by the time the two of you saw each other the wounds would have healed, besides the fact that he didn't think he would have to undress in front of you.

―Your lovers? This absolute atrocity was done by one of your lovers?

―They were probably just a little too... enthusiastic. Besides, I don't have a problem with it, I like it. My skin heals fast so I'll be all good in no time.

And that was the third lie. His skin did not heal fast. You had always told him off for coming to dress rehearsals all bruised up from his training sessions and those bruises had lasted for days. These new ones were sure to stay on his skin for at least a month.

―How can some one like this?

Finnick could hear the disdain in your voice. You should be disgusted, horrified and definitely judging him, but don't worry, so was he.

―Honey, if you don't understand it's not my problem.

―No, you're right. I don't understand. I don't think you enjoyed that.

―Oh, you're gonna tell me what I can or cannot enjoy?

―Have you seen your back? Have you seen how bad this looks?

Finnick chuckled. ―I don't know why you're making such a big deal out of this. Do you need all the details? Is the life of a stylist so boring?

―Finnick, listen to me. I don't want all the details I want the truth, and now it's the perfect time to start. ―You said. You grabbed him by his shoulders and turned him around to look at you. Finnick groaned as your hands were placed on his shoulders and when he stood face to face with you, he could see how upset you were.

―I don't know what you're talking about. ―He bit the inside of his cheeks, that was just what he had been told, not to tell anyone the truth about what had happened. He saw you roll your eyes and let all the air out of your body through your mouth, annoyed.

―I know that you didn't arrive yesterday. Cinna told me. Do you really think you can go unnoticed? Here? And I know for a fact that those bruises are not from one of your lovers, let alone that they were done to you a couple of days ago.

Finnick swallowed, looking at you with his head held high. He tried to keep the smile on his lips, pretending that everything was okay, that he did enjoy it when those bruises were inflicted on him, but his lower lip betrayed him and began to tremble. You bent down to pick up the robe and carefully threw it over his shoulders so he wouldn't feel so exposed. Finnick's head was bowed. You lifted it using your thumb and index finger on his chin very gently.

―I need you to tell me who did this to you. I can't help you if you don't tell me.

Finnick chuckled amid the sadness and shame he was feeling. ―Help me? You can't help me.

―I'm sure there's something I can do. I could―.

―They were Peacekeepers following Snow's orders.

Your jaw dropped and your heart rate accelerated. It was the first time that Finnick was admitting that to someone. It had been impossible to tell anyone, let alone a citizen of the Capitol like you. Finnick couldn't possibly admit that without compromising his carefully cultivated image. Besides, if he made himself out to be a victim, the Capitol would never allow someone they saw as weak to perform the role of the Golden Boy and all the people he cared about in District 4 would die. At that moment you realized that all the times he showed up at your studio claiming that his injuries were from training were not true and you felt sick to your stomach.

―How did it happen? ―You asked, swallowing the lump that had formed in your throat

―I tried to leave the Capitol. Before I could get on the train back to District 4 I was arrested by Peacekeepers and they took me to Snow's mansion. A lot of people came and when I refused to see them... I've been locked up there since then, that's why I couldn't come to see you earlier.

You shook your head, feeling awful. ―Don't worry about it, Finnick. I'm so sorry this is happening to you. ―Your stomach complained and begged your brain to stop imagining everything that Finnick would have been put through since then. The beatings, the strangers paying to sneak into his bed, the Peacekeepers bursting into his room and leaving him bleeding on the floor...

―Snow likes me. There has to be something I can do for you.

―You don't understand. It's not something that I can quit.

―I can spend all day designing and sewing to pay Snow the money he would make with you. I can talk to Cinna to raise the price of our designs. People here are rotten with money, they'll keep buying them anyway.

―It's not that simple. You can't just buy my freedom.

―Has anyone tried before?

Finnick thought about it and shook his head. ―Snow wouldn't allow that to happen. ―You ran your hand over your face in despair, not knowing what else to do to help him and feeling a responsibility to do something about it. You were the citizen of the Capitol, the one who had superior status and the favor of Snow, there must be something you could do.

―What if I buy you?

Finnick's eyes widened in surprise. ―Buy me?

You nodded and realized how bad that sounded. ―But not in like, a slave type of way. Gosh that sounded awful. I would just― Do it so you can live your life in your district. I wouldn't― keep you here, no. You'd just have to come to the Capitol a couple of times, make a few public appearances, and leave again.

―Why would you do that for me?

You bit the inside of your cheeks and nodded. ―You're my friend. I care about you.

You had managed to give him something he had long been missing. Hope. Maybe what you wanted to do would work or maybe not but at that moment Finnick felt that someone cared and that gave him hope that everything would work out.

Finnick took a step forward and placed his hands on your cheeks. He leaned in slightly and connected his lips with yours. Your hands ended up resting against his warm bare chest, closing your eyes and allowing him to kiss you. You knew it was the emotion of the moment, the adrenaline rush of knowing that maybe he could live his life in peace. You had given him hope and he was happy that someone had shed some light on his situation.

When you parted ways after the kiss, you both were smiling.

―Go and put your pants on, I'll treat your bruises.

―Do you know how?

―Well, not really, but I'm not short of needle and thread and I still have some alcohol from last night.

Finnick pressed his lips together and nodded. That would work. He walked to the dressing screen and you watched him as he walked away in the mirror's reflection. Before hiding behind the dressing screen, he said something that lit up a flame in your heart and made butterflies flutter in your stomach.

―I wish you would come with me to District 4.

my requests for the hunger games are open 📥