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heliads · 4 months

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I’d like to request a platonic Finnick x female reader one-shot. The reader is Finnick’s twin sister (younger by 10 minutes) and won the games the year after he won the games. Katniss and Peeta meet the reader and Finnick on the victory tour that takes place after the 74th games. The reader isn’t part of the 75th games, but she is part of the rebellion that takes place after the 75th games. Before Finnick dies, he tells the reader he loves her and asks her to look after Annie.

hello thornyrose

'supposed to be us' - finnick odair

masterlist

Your nightmare is dark and dangerous. It clings to your mind like bathing in an oil slick. You can hear ghosts shouting and screaming. A boy from your district begs you for mercy, but you don’t give it to him because you saw him trying to poison your food supplies mere hours earlier. There is no justice in the Hunger Games. The one who lives is not always the one who deserves it.

Even after your eyes open, you can only stare upwards into nameless dark, petrified that a single movement will set the other tributes upon you in an instant. For a moment, you don’t know where you are, and then the dream lifts and you’re only certain that you aren’t stuck in the place you just were. This is not the Arena. The Arena was never quiet. Even when the Gamemakers cut the sound of chirping insects and rustling leaves so they could hear your heartbeat and the shallow beating of your lungs as you waited for death to come your way.

District Thirteen is quiet, and that is where you are. Your Hunger Games ended nine or ten years ago. You have not been in the Arena again, even if your brother has.

Your brother.

Finnick Odair is a household name. To you, though, he was never the golden Victor of District Four, the pretty boy with the trident, the peacock. Finnick is your twin brother, older by ten minutes. He’ll never let you forget that. When you watched him in the Arena for the first time, all you could do was hope that you’d hear him remind you of it even one more time.

As it turns out, you got your wish. Finnick won the sixty-fifth Hunger Games at the young age of fourteen. He came home shell-shocked but doing a quite good job of pretending otherwise. He talked to you and your parents and made sure none of you saw him break down whenever the Capitol came to claim him again. He never told you what happened whenever the Peacekeepers spirited him away from you, but you found out anyway when your name was read in the Reaping one year later.

They saw it was Finnick’s fault that you ended up in the Games. It’s easy enough to fudge the name chosen in the Reaping Ceremony, even if the Capitol always pretends it’s a total twist of fate. Finnick was acting up. He didn’t want to be a body in warm sheets that didn’t belong to him. He protested Snow sending him to strangers’ beds one too many times, and as a warning, you ended up in the Games one year after Finnick won his. Finnick never fought the orders again.

You cannot tell who blames each other more for their troubles, you or him. It is not either of your faults that you ended up with the blood of twenty-three tributes on your hands, nor that Finnick hasn’t been wholly Finnick in a very long time. He is your brother. Things happen in Panem that no one will speak on. Not even family.

You were supposed to die in the sixty-sixth Hunger Games, of that you are almost certain. The Gamemakers certainly threw more than the typical amount of twists your way. It felt as if every mutt in the Arena was designed to hunt you first before any other tribute. Rain snuffed each fire you made. Ants spoiled your food. Other tributes were directed towards your camp. Still, you managed to pull through. As a District Four Career, you had been receiving training in preparation for the Games since you were young, but Finnick had made sure to help you in advance just in case something like this happened.

As it turned out, he was right to worry. Your Games were close, but when the final cannon sounded, you were the one standing bloodsoaked and exhausted on an empty battlefield. After that, even President Snow couldn’t kill you off. You and Finnick, beloved twin Victors of the Capitol, were as untouchable as District gets.

Look where that got you, though, dragged back to the Capitol each and every year to remark on the Games and mentor a new couple of kids to their death. District Four tributes have a good chance at winning, so you were able to help a good few along. Annie Cresta, to be specific. You watched as they fell for each other. It is supposed to be a simple thing, watching your siblings fall in love. For Finnick, it was a victory akin to winning the Games.

You can still remember one dark evening, the first time you and Finnick were home after you’d won the Games and were finally alone without one of Caesar Flickerman’s cameras shoved in your face. He’d sworn to you then and there that he’d never fall in love. Finnick didn’t want anyone else to be used as a sacrifice to get him to play along with the Capitol’s rules. He’d been forced to watch you compete in the Hunger Games as a punishment for disobedience. Never again would he allow himself another weakness.

Annie grew on him, though. She has a way of melting down people’s barriers. Annie reminds you of salt water on a rusty latch; give it enough time, and even the hardiest locks will be worn down to ash and dust eventually. Finnick needed her more than he needed his walls to stay strong. After some time, he allowed himself to indulge in the sheer joy of needing someone and being needed by them, and after that, he was better.

There had been a brief time of relative peace in District Four. There is no peace in Panem, not really, not even when the weapons have been laid down and the Peacekeepers are posted at every door to stop the fighting. We send our children to die. We save some of them, but not all. Never all. You and Finnick and Annie and Mags do your best. It is never enough.

In between the Games, though, in between the Victory Tours and scheduled press appearances, you make your own kind of peace. You talk with your brother late into the night. You learn more about Annie, and she learns to trust you like she trusts Finnick. There are people who understand your life after the Games, and there are those who don’t. As it turns out, you don’t need the world as a Victor, just two people. You give them their space so they can imagine what it is like to live a life without fear or terror, and when you need them, they reach out to you. You are not alone, you are never alone. Except for when you want it.

And, when several years have passed, you watch the seventy-fourth Hunger Games and learn about a girl they call the Mockingjay. You haven’t seen someone like Katniss Everdeen in a very long time, if ever. You observe her closely on her Victory Tour with Peeta Mellark and make sure to speak when you run into each other during her stop in District Four. There’s an earnestness to the two of them that you can’t help but appreciate. You consider their strength for a while, and then you contact someone in the Capitol you’ve grown to know during your many mentorship runs and tell him that it’s time to act.

Plutarch Heavensbee has been involved in the rebellion for a very long time. He won’t tell you how long, not exactly, but you can guess that his start date was far before your name was even pulled from the Reaping, before Finnick’s. He confessed that he’s been eyeing you and your brother for a while now, but he’s been waiting for the proper impetus. Watching the District response to Katniss, you tell him that it’s now.

Plutarch agrees, and begins to give you specific tasks to further the goals of the rebellion. It’s small at first. You deliver secret messages to a certain Beetee Latier when you’re near District Three. You also speak to Haymitch Abernathy at the opening ceremony of the seventy-fifth Hunger Games under the guise of exchanging mentorship tactics. Slowly, carefully, plans are laid.

This is also due in part to the fact that you are not Reaped for the third Quarter Quell, although your brother is. There are many surviving Victors in District Four, and you immediately complained to Plutarch that Finnick and Annie were both Reaped even if Mags stepped in, but there was nothing the Head Gamemaker could do. He told you that it would have been more suspicious if the rebellion had meddled with the Reaping and likely given them away too early.

Still, that doesn’t settle any apprehension in your gut as you have to prepare your twin for yet another round in the Arena. Although he was careful to disguise his expression the moment his name was called for the Quarter Quell, you saw the brief flicker of desolation in his eyes. Finnick doesn’t want to go back there any more than you would. All you can do to save him is ensure that the rebellion’s plan works and you can pull him out before too many Victors are killed.

If you were going to confess something, it would be that you value your brother above all else. Yes, the rebellion’s plan is important, but at the end of the day, you are there to save your twin. Finnick made you promise that you’d watch out for Mags and Annie both outside and inside of the Arena, but you disregarded both of those oaths in favor of focusing on him. You get Finnick supplies and sponsors when he needs them, you make sure to talk the Gamemakers out of siccing any truly terrible mutts on him. More than the usual, of course.

And, when the Arena is breached by the rebellion and it comes time to get the Victors out, you tell them to go for Finnick first. This means that they don’t have time to get Annie. You don’t think you’ll ever forget the look on Finnick’s face when he realized that Annie was still in the Capitol after he was rescued and brought back to the underground colony of District Thirteen. He’s glad to see you alive, of course, and he was about to stage a fit before he knew you were safe, but you don’t know if he’ll ever forgive you for not getting Annie as well. It’s not as if you had any choice, the Peacekeepers came for you immediately, but the fact remains that Annie is as good as blood to you and you left her behind.

You make up for it eventually, of course. While you join an attack party to break into the Capitol and bring back Annie, Peeta, Johanna, and the other captive Victors, Finnick stays behind to act as a distraction. You heard later the sorts of terrible secrets he had to offer from his time in the Capitol. Finnick had done his best to shelter you from all of it, and you can only hope to return the favor someday, and more than just pulling him from the Arena.

You never get the chance. Yes, seeing him reunite with Annie after your mission was a success felt better than winning your own Games, but the happiness didn’t last forever. Soon enough, you and Finnick fought your way back into the Capitol along with Katniss, Peeta, and other highly trained soldiers in an effort to end the war once and for all.

Only one Odair made it back.

It wasn’t Finnick.

Should it have been? You’ll never know for sure. The memory of his final moments will stay with you forever. Your group had been running through the underneath of the Capitol, pursued relentlessly by bloodthirsty lizard mutts. The fight had ended with a dead end, a ladder up to the surface. Finnick had insisted on being the last one up because he had always been the hero, the good one, the savior. Right before he was able to make it, the mutts charged and pulled him back down. You had heard his screams and known there was no way you could save him, not this time. Katniss had detonated the tunnel to bring him a quick end. It was merciful. You wish you had died instead of him.

It is a terrible thing, losing a brother. Since Finnick was older, he has been around quite literally your entire life. You are now older than he ever was. It is far more devastating than it sounds. Living that kind of agony is like nothing anyone can ever describe to you. There is only pain in endless waves. As time goes on, you have more space between each rush of hurt, but then you remember the way District Four sun shone on his hair and turned it to gold, or how the two of you learned to swim together, or the smile on his face when he married Annie and everything goes to pieces again.

Before Finnick died, he had told you that he loved you and asked you to look after Annie. You do so to the best of your ability. Neither you nor Annie want to spend time with others all that much after the war. You retreat back to a small house in District Four where nobody comes looking for you, asking you to kill again. Annie has a baby boy. You see Finnick in his face every day. At first, this is agonizing, but then you realize that it would be worse to forget the precise shade of Finnick’s eyes than to be piercingly reminded of it every time you see your nephew.

It becomes a sort of game you play, looking at the little boy and remembering each bit of Finnick that you can. There was a certain way he would run, all efficiency, and a precise method of articulating each syllable in your name. The first time Annie’s son says it, you have to excuse yourself to another room to cry. After that, it’s easier. The game becomes more one of happiness than sadness.

It destroys you sometimes, the life Finnick should have led. The memories make it bittersweet. But, as a friend of yours once said, there are worse games to play.

hunger games tag list: @w1shes43, @ilovexavierthrope

all tags list: @wordsarelife

#finnick odair #finnick odair oneshot #finnick odair imagines #hunger games #hunger games imagines #hunger games oneshot #platonic finnick odair #sibling finnick odair #the hunger games #the hunger games imagines #the hunger games oneshot #hunger games finnick #hunger games finnick imagines #hunger games finnick oneshot #finnick odair x sister reader #finnick #finnick imagines #finnick oneshot

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caesarflickermans · 3 months

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I've seen multiple claims about how the rebellion functioned already and have seen many of those relate to Finnick's place in the rebellion.

I do not know where people exactly get takes like "If Katniss hadn't happened, the 75th would have had Finnick as the face of the rebellion" comes from, but I'd nonetheless like to speak to some of those misreads of this above interview quote.

It should be very clear to anyone who read the books to know that Katniss' actions in the 74th were both not predicted nor planned by the rebels. Katniss' point in the story is her randomness. The rebels did not secretly rig the District 12 reaping.

Equally, I don't see the 75th Hunger Games as pre-planned stages for the rebellion before Katniss, either. The fire that those events brought could only have happened with Katniss' actions a year prior. And, again, those were random.

The uprising and war that followed wouldn't have existed without Katniss. You cannot plan a rebellion.

And in that sense, I think a lot of people in much less egregious ways misread the Finnick mention in the above interview. Collins mentions Finnick on the side. He is unlikely to be the first nor the last in a row of tributes (whether they survived or not) that Plutarch might have seen potential in.

This isn't a "well, next to Katniss, Finnick would have led the rebellion". Finnick, very specifically, did not lead the rebellion. His case was one of many that did not work out. If Katniss hadn't come around, there wouldn't have been a rebellion.

Nor does Collins speak to Finnick being the best of the potential figureheads. I'd find it even much more likely that there were tributes that had much more potential and who were killed off by the Capitol because they saw them for that, too.

This isn't a dig at Finnick! I still think he was one of the likeliest candidates—but he was just that. A candidate. And a failed one at that. Plutarch saw hope in him, and then nothing came from it. Finnick's chance of leading a rebellion were born and died in the year of his victory.

And I do not think Finnick was the first—that role likely falls to Haymitch—or last of those "candidates" Plutarch saw.

For all we know, someone like Annie or Johanna—those who came after—might have had chances, too. Annie who was likely seen as a disgrace of a victor, who so openly showed to Panem how horrendous those Games were. And Johanna, who was the one playing the Capitol with her pre-Game persona. Especially reading Haymitch as the "first" could-have-been tribute to Plutarch, Johanna's playing against the rules is especially in line with what Plutarch might have looked for.

In fact, I'd even argue that all those potentials are those that ended up being in on the rebel plan.

Finnick's tragedy as a could-have-been lies in the quantity of could-have-beens. There were so many, like Finnick, that never caught the spirit of the nation. Unlike Finnick, many of them are likely long dead by the time Katniss comes around.

#thg #the hunger games #plutarch heavensbee #finnick odair #katniss everdeen #annie cresta #johanna mason #just gonna tag those i mentioned!#but i can def see Beetee and co. in there too #just that Plutarch only realised their potential in retrospect #young plutarch heavensbee binging the hunger games ahaha #if the spark had never come for katniss #she and peeta would have been recruited eventually #ALSO! this isnt @anyone specifically!!#ive just seen A LOT of those posts on reddit and here #and i suspect that a lot of ppl dont know the OG quote

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stusbunker · 3 months

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Spotless: Giocoso

Chapter Nine

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean/Bela

Other characters: Charlie, Kevin, Annie, Bobby, Sam/Madison, Pamela/Lee, goth karaoke hostess, Dawn the bartender

Word Count: 2650

Warnings, etc: Mutual pining, drinking and antics, Dean tries to measure the depth of the hole he dug himself into, unbeta'd

Series Masterlist

Divider courtesy of @cafekitsune

You almost fell into Dean’s arms, the awkwardness of Charlie’s little reveal felt like you were on display and you let yourself hide against his chest instead. The energy of the band around you was both comforting and triumphant. A victory you hadn’t earned, but were still welcomed to take part in. He held you differently than Charlie, letting his hands sink lower onto your back, letting you burrow into his warmth.

His cologne was faint, the alcohol and sweat softening it into something raw and grounding. You hadn’t realized how much you missed him, or how long it had been since you’d even seen him with the week you’d had. But that all melted away as he pulled back and gripped your collar bone.

“Let’s get you ladies something to drink!” He grinned wolfishly and corralled both you and Charlie towards the bar, which was filled with a crowd that looked like they owned their very stools.

Charlie had shown up on your doorstep without warning, giddy as ever as she demanded your presence. Of course, if you’d been paying attention you would have been more prepared for the usual post-recording shenanigans. But she had blindsided you and pushed you into your bedroom to change, then plopped herself down onto your couch and gave running commentary on your Dawson’s Creek rewatch.

An hour later and you were still shaking your head at her ability to just pop into any situation and have fun.

“So, Springsteen, we gonna get to hear this thing this year, or what? What’s your timeframe look like?” she asked as Dean waited to get the bartender’s attention from a regular.

“We’ll see. Gotta go over the rough cuts with Ash yet, but I think I’ll have it out to the group before we take off for Christmas. You going home this year?” Dean hopped from one subject to the next before you could verify for the label’s sake.

You weren’t supposed to be working tonight anyway.

“Not much left for me there, besides some not so great foster families and an empty cemetery where I’d only freeze my nonballs off this time of year,” Charlie said cynically.

“Well, you’re always welcome with us, you know that,” Dean replied, getting serious.

“Uh, no. No way I’m going to sit through all that testosterone and pretend that you all get along for more than an hour once a year. You just want a buffer.”

You barked out a laugh at Charlie’s bluntness, she wasn’t wrong.

Dean dropped his head trying not to laugh, but he was already too tipsy. “Sue me for trying!” was his lame rebuttal between giggles. “What about you, Trouble? When do you fly out?”

Dean turned at once, he had finally caught the bartender’s eye. “Hey Dawn, can you hook up my friends here? We need some tequila shots and some chasers.”

You and Charlie shared a look, holding back more laughter at Dean’s urgency to get you caught up in the inebriation department.

From there the night kind of got away from you. Dean got called back to the pool tables by Pamela and then Kevin and Charlie started heckling Bobby and suddenly the bar was packed more than you thought possible and an emo chick was making announcements in the corner about karaoke. Suddenly, you realized this was going to become a headache for you because there was no way the band was going to sit this one out.

Sam was in a corner booth with Madison and Annie and you squeezed your way across the room to sit on the bench next to Annie, with a warm buzz beneath your skin.

“How drunk is everyone? Are we gonna need to haul ass out of here?” You asked Sam, who had somehow become the voice of reason for them all.

“I think we’re good.” Sam glanced around the room, ignoring your look of disbelief. “Seriously, Trouble, relax. Let them have their fun. It’s not the worst thing we’ve done after an album.”

You swallowed back your retort, because, sure, it wasn’t streaking through the commons once they finished their first record in Lee’s dorm room. And it wasn’t the strippers and blow that they supposedly topped off their first studio album with. But you still had to keep it under wraps. Crowley was counting on only good publicity from here out, especially for Dean.

Kevin appeared with a fresh pitcher of beer and you poured yourself a cup before he even got a word out. He grinned at Sam.

“I got us three slots. These people are serious about their karaoke,” Kevin said once everyone was done giving you the questioning eyebrow.

“What are you singing?” Annie asked, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“You’ll see,” Kevin’s brows pop up, chin jutting out.

“Okay, this I gotta, see,” Madison insisted and turned to Sam. “Let’s get a better spot.”

After twenty minutes of negotiations with different tables, and you’re pretty sure a bribe, you, Sam, Madison, Charlie, Dean and Annie were all huddled around a high top to the right of the stage. Bobby, Lee, Pamela and Kevin were at a booth behind you, everyone waiting for the fallout of whatever Kevin signed them up for.

You sipped your beer, watching as the first victims of the evening took the stage. Or perhaps they were the heroes for going first. By the way the crowd reacted, they knew them well, welcoming them up to the mics with cheers and pounding on tables. You could feel everyone’s excitement and your worry started to unwind somewhere between the beer and the warmth of Dean’s shoulder against yours, and the enthusiastic and surprisingly talented singers. An hour in, Lee was the first band member to take the stage, unaware what he’d be singing because Kevin was somehow a master at subterfuge.

A melancholy piano intro began and Annie gasped.

“What?!”

“Oh that poor thing,” was all she said before Lee began reading the lyrics off the screen.

“I’ve been alone with you inside my mind–”

Dean cackled and then put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. It was deafening. And even though everyone around you was giggling, Lee was holding his own with the Lionel Richie classic.

“Hello? Is it me you’re looking for?”

Around you people started holding up their cellphones like lighters of years gone by and you couldn’t help but snap a few pictures of the long haired guitarist crooning. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Pamela drinking in her ex husband’s talents, among other things. Dean leaned in to see what shots you got and didn’t take his arm off the back of your chair the entire song, until it was time to clap. The proximity made you dizzy, but you hooted and hollered for Lee’s performance right along with him, and the entire bar.

There was a short intermission, probably for the hostess to take a smoke break and piss. But it broke up the bubble a little and gave everyone more of a chance to talk, since you were all respectful of the performers, trying not to interrupt any songs with your fucking around.

“Who’s up next?” You asked Sam, hoping he’d spill if Kevin had clued him in.

He held up his hands. “Don’t look at me, I’m not pissing the kid off, he’s ruthless.”

Dean laughed and took a drink of his beer, somehow he was the only one drinking out of a bottle. “Yeah, he is.”

Then Sam gave Dean a bitchface which meant something, but you didn't quite know what. Madison rubbed Sam’s forearm and you could see the little smirk on Sam’s face, though he tried to hide it as he turned to her, whispering in her ear.

Not wanting to creep out your friend by staring at their little moment, you turned to Annie to ask, “would you sing? If he put your name down?”

“Hell yeah, though I don’t think the kid’s quite got the balls to throw Bobby’s old lady under the bus.” She winked and took a sip of her tonic.

“You’re not old,” you said emphatically, turning to look her dead in the eyes.

She giggled in her throat and shook her head at you. “Trouble, I don’t know how you do it. But you’re right and wrong all at the same time.”

Dean huffed and threw his arm around your shoulder, “I know, right?” Then he proceeded to give you the worst noogie you’d have this side of your teens. You howled and backhanded him in the ribs, making him flinch to protect himself. Then Charlie kicked him under the table, which had him slowly backing towards Bobby’s booth.

“Asshole!” You tried to straighten your hair, and you felt more than saw Annie glaring at Dean on your behalf, which made it slightly better. Did he always have to think you were some kid to pick on?

Tap-tap-tap, a piercing feedback broke through the banter.

“Second verse, same as the first, folks! Let’s get back to it!” the hostess bellowed and everyone turned back to the stage. “Can I get Dean Smith to the stage please?”

It was all worth it, to be able to see Dean’s face the moment he realized what Kevin had signed him up for. The music blasted through the speakers and Dean looked around the room and deadpanned, “let’s go girls.”

“No!” You and Sam balked in unison. You beamed at Kevin, he was really starting to grow on you.

“I’m goin’ out tonight, I’m feelin’ alright. Gonna let it all hang oo-out–”

Dean swayed his hips and really got into it. You couldn’t help the rush of it all. He must have been pretty toasted to be able to let himself have fun with it.

The song was building up and you had to get this on camera.

“The best thing about being a woman– is the prerogative to have a little fun,”

The crowd supplied another “fun” and Dean went falsetto. “Oh-oh-e-oh, go totally crazy!”

By the second refrain everyone was singing along and Dean was playing up to the crowd. You were getting the shakiest of videos on your phone, but you didn’t care. Charlie was kneeling on her seat and dancing with her arms above her head as she sang along. Dean pointed at her and almost lost his spot, bending in half with laughter.

“Oh-oh-e-oh, get in—-- and feel the attraction—Color my hair, do what I dare.---Oh-oh-e-oh, I wanna be free, yeah!---To feel the way I feel—Man, I feel like a woman!”

He earned a standing ovation. The entire bar erupted as he took a bow, no, he fucking curtsied and handed the mic back to the hostess like it was a precious award. He left the stage pumping his fist and beelining it for your tables.

“Here he is, folks, the man not afraid to feel like a woman!” Charlie crowed, grabbing Dean in an uneven hug around his now sweaty head. Dean tossed Charlie over his shoulder and did a little victory lap over to Bobby’s booth, letting the crowd calm down for the next performer.

Sam chuckled and admitted to you, Madison and Annie. “You know I think that might have been more of a punk-out if Dean hadn’t had a Shania Twain poster on his wall in high school. Kevin really tried to get his goat.”

“Well, he’ll learn all of y’all’s buttons soon enough,” Annie pointed out about the impending tour.

Sam cringed. “Probably.”

You sighed and drank the last bit of beer in your cup. The pitcher hadn’t lasted nearly as long as you had hoped and that meant you had to go wait in line for another. Careful not to make too much of a distraction from the duet of “A Whole New World” going on, you ducked behind the table and squished your way through the crowd.

But as you spotted the line for drinks, your bladder decided it had more urgent needs to attend to. You found the bathrooms, tucked away by a service entrance and only had one other person ahead of you. After you finished your business, Dean stopped you outside in the stunted hallway.

“Hey, can we talk?” His voice was hoarse, but he’d been singing on and off all day, add on hours of bar conversation, it made sense.

“Suuuuure,” you looked around and Dean just kind of drew you further into the hall, blocking the rest of the bar with his back, he leaned behind the men’s room door. “What’s up?”

“Is everything alright? Like with you and me? You seem kind of quiet lately. And I wanted to make sure you weren’t pissed at me.”

You thought back to your busy ass week and couldn’t think of anything that would make him think that. But maybe something had happened and you just didn’t know about it yet. “Is there a reason I should be pissed at you?”

You glared up at his impossible face, trying to read something besides the clear panic flashing now in his eyes. God, bars were always so dark, you felt like you were hiding with Dean in the shadows. Like maybe he had brought you here for something besides talking.

No, you wouldn’t get your stupid drunken hopes up.

You straightened your stance and waited for him to man up.

He licked his lips and it was like you could see the wheels working in his head about what to say next. “Look, did Bela say anything?”

“I haven’t talked to her either, Dean. I have been busy working out one million schedules for interviews before we can even get started on the tour dates.”

“Right, you’ve been working.” Dean looked around like he needed someplace to hide. “That’s good though, means I didn’t get on her shit list either.”

“You are not making me feel any better, Dean. What is going on?”

Dean pushed off the wall, leaning on his palm instead of his shoulder. “Nothing, just she had a big ball— event— thing and I wanted to make sure I didn’t embarrass her or anything. You know, things she’d bitch to you about.”

“From everything I’ve seen, it went well. And she didn’t even complain about your questionable table manners.” You felt like he was fishing for something, but you didn’t know what.

Dean grinned at your jab. “That so? You think I’m sloppy?”

You rolled your eyes. “No, I think you shove whatever you can get into your mouth, whenever you can.”

Dean bit his bottom lip and leaned towards you. “Yeah, alright. I’ll give you that, that does sound like me.”

You got lost in the way his face had shifted, from worry to playful and almost hungry. “What?”

“Nothin’, just thinkin’.”

“Care to clue me in?” You asked worried he was gonna give you another noogie, or maybe the Charlie treatment of tossing you over his shoulder and parading you around.

Dean leaned in to say something when the men’s room door slammed open and nearly knocked him out cold.

“Oh! Are you okay?” You gasped, but suddenly your eyes were on Lee as he helped Pamela slide her bra straps back underneath her muscle tank. She was fastening her belt with the most sinful look on her face.

“Hey! Keep it in your pants, will ya? We’re in public!” Dean chastised.

“Speak for yourself,” Lee said, looking at you and Dean with amusement. “At least we know when to have fun.”

They strutted away, Lee with his arm around Pamela’s shoulders, her with an extra sway in her hips. You didn’t know what to say.

“Are they?”

“Fucking again? Looks like it. I am not standing up for another goddamn wedding for those two, I swear to God,” Dean muttered. “Come on, Trouble, lets get another round.”

And so you followed Dean to the bar.

Tagging: @deans-spinster-witch

@mrswhozeewhatsis

@cosicas-cuquis

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like

@suckitands33

@ladysparkles78

@deans-baby-momma

@stoneyggirl2

@sassy-pelican

@leigh70

@globetrotter28

@winharry

@lastactiontricia

@rockhoochie

Chapter Ten: Cuivre

#spotless series #dean winchester fanfiction #dean/reader #dean/bela #slow burn #rockstar au #friends to lovers #fake dating

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vesteneris · 3 months

Note

I love your Annie design soo much and the hc that her stylist dyed her hair red to match the capitol fashion more, I was wondering if you have any more Annie hcs? I would love to hear them ^^

ofc i have more hc, and sketches! >my Annie was a confident career >if it comes to her look she was latina with dark curly hair, and freackles all over her body

>from kinda rich family, her father had few fishing boats and she was going to take over the buisness after him, she was working with 16 yo old boy, who was later in the games with her (he was not a career and she didn’t know he would be in the games before volounteering)

>her bodycount in the games was 2 (bloodbath and the last standing opponent) on her own and next 3 when she was working with her District partner, so 5 in totall, and it was Annie's idea to cause an avalanche of rocks that crushed their camp, my girlie was determined to win

>my arena for 70th games is inspired by the Green Canyon in Turkey, mostly bc there is a dam right there

>when everyone was thinking about her as a confident career she mostly wear bright solid colours

(Everyday working clothes, Reaping outfit, 2 in-between-the-trainings outfits, and dress for the interview with ceasar)

>shes pretty tall (about 178cm)

>after her victory when everyone thought that she win because of her luck not her skills, her stylist starts to dress her in pastel colours that washed her out, to make her look more pale and innocent

>they also dyied her hair red and straighten it, get rid of most of her freackles, starts to just in general making her more white, just everything to make her look more Capitol

>when they finally become a couple with finnick i imagine theyre dynamic kinda like this

Like, c’mon, theyre both teenagers basicly, ofc they’ll be stupid together

>more than 1 year after her games annie could function pretty well (like, for her, not totally at her own, still with nightmares and with screaming crying throwing up, losing in her own thoughts etc) but whenever she would be put in public the capitol would put her on so many calming drugs to make sure she wouldn’t make a scene that she couldn’t even speak and wasn’t mentally present at all

>the whole crown for a Victor from president Snow? Don’t remember a thing. Learn that she was crowned from posters and tv

>thats kinda how her friendship with Johanna started, the new Victor was asked to hang out with previous games winner to make it look like Annie was cool and normal

>theyre trio of besties, Annie, Finnick and Johanna, No one can change my mind

thank you very much for the question anon, I’m just so happy that someone asked me this, I love talking about my version of Annie

#I also hope that you’ll love my future posts about her #Cuz once im done with my exams im unstoppable #annie cresta fanart #annie cresta #thg fanart #hunger games fanart #thg finnick #finnick x annie #odesta fanart #odesta #career Annie #ask #hunger games #catching fire #mokingjay

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whillywisp · 7 months

Text

heaven is not fit to house a love like you and i.

SUMMARY: They met along the shores and then met again at the foot of those that worshipped them. One rose, one fell from grace and the other caught them both in her gentle embrace.

Or alternatively,

Finnick, Reader and Annie's victory, loss and everything else in between. Brought to you by the music of Hozier, Agust D, Halsey and my wandering friend crafted with grief: A story of trials, love, resentment and rage.

WARNINGS: gore, nightmares, ptsd, self destructive tendencies, self harm, child abuse, near death experiences, forced prostitution, non explicit talks of prostitution, drug addiction, alcoholism, domestic violence, non explicit smut, miscommunication.

PAIRINGS: Finnick Odair x Reader x Annie Cresta

My life was a storm, since I was born. How could I fear any hurricane?

— Francesca, Hozier.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Chapter One: Amygdala.

Summary: It's been six weeks, seventeen hours, forty one minutes and twenty three seconds since he came out of the arena drenched in someone else's blood and he eats dried mangoes with a stranger to cope with it.

Warnings: mild gore, unreliable narrator, PTSD.

Word Count: 2k

Because they're also all in the past now. So, is all countless suffering for my own good?

— Amygdala By Agust D.

6 weeks after the 65th Hunger Games.

Sometimes, when he closed his eyes and tried to focus, he could hear it. Wind chimes, his sister laughing as she struggles to keep up with him on her toddler legs, the wet sand making it hard for the three year old and the waves splashing them with salt as he slows down just enough for her to wrap her chubby arms around his legs and think she was the one who caught him.

Her giggles sound bright as wind chimes and just for that minute he can pretend everything's oka—

She drops down next to him in the grass as unceremoniously as one would when sitting down for a boring class. The wind, freezing and cold in a way that's only characteristic to District 4, ruffles his hair as he turns to look at the stranger.

She's familiar but, honestly speaking, so is everyone else in the tiny public school of District 4. But he's never spoken to her, that's something he's sure about. The girl doesn't turn to look at him, instead choosing to look at the waves crashing against the foot of the cliffs.

Neither of them should be here, not really. This small patch of grass and wildflowers was out of bounds for it was perched at the edge of the cliffs that line the back of the school. But Finnick couldn't care less and it doesn't seem like this girl does either but that doesn't explain her presence there, sitting right next to him on the semi-damp grass, too close to be just sharing the space.

His eyes take in her nonchalance for one more minute before he eventually says, "What are you doing here?"

The girl's eyes, as deep as the sea they sat in front of, snapped to look at him and he inhaled sharply, only barely stopping himself from visibly squirming at the intensity of her gaze. She shrugs then, looking back out at the sea as she speaks easily.

"Admiring the view."

He nods and sighs, mimicking her movements as he turns back to the sea too. For a moment, he says nothing, content to stare out at the vast expanse of blue. But after a bit, he turns his head to look back at her. "Who are you?"

Her cheeks redden, just enough to be noticeable that makes something in his heart thaw, before she glances at him, her voice as delicate as lotus silk.

"We, ah, we sit in English together."

He looks at her, actually looks at her, and realises she's indeed the girl who sat next to him in English. Mrs. Hedsson had made them sit together so she could help him keep up but in all honesty, he's spent the past few weeks sleeping in class and for some strange reason, the girl had had neither woken him up nor snitched on him.

He clears his throat, before saying as pleasantly as he could muster up to at the moment, "Of course. You're the smart kid right?"

She raises an eyebrow and tilts her to the side in a way that reminds him of those terrifying, colourful snakes from the arena and their bite making his entire body numb and burn like he was on fire— "I have a name, you know?" She deadpans, a barely disguised sigh in her voice.

He nods, laughing nervously. "Well, do enlighten me on your name." He smirked at her, as he would at the crowds of people in the Capitol or even at the girls here in District 4, but this girl looked at him like he had grown another head, which made his cheeks darken.

She glanced at him curiously, as if he were a very interesting type of lizard before finally speaking. "I'm Y/N."

"You look like a Y/N." *Finnick murmurs. "I'm Finnick. Finnick Odair." He pauses, as if debating how much more to say. "Why don't you ever speak in class?"

"And you certainly look like a Finnick." She looked at him with a frown, making him want to swallow his own tongue. "I do speak in class. You'd know that if you didn't sleep through them."

"I don't sleep through class." Finnick counters, defensive. His face flashes through a few different emotions as he looks at her. Anger, frustration, annoyance, then finally resignation. "I'm trying to figure out..." He sighs and looks back out at the sea. Then, he turns his head back towards her. "... why I'm talking to you."

She shrugs, putting her hand into her pocket and for a second he's sure she will pull out a knife, — like his dagger, like the one from the arena, the weapon he had depended on for the first several days and he braces himself for the pain, for the warm blood to stain his uniform — but all that comes out is a faded blue handkerchief which she unwraps to reveal few pieces of dried mangoes.

Finnick stares at them blankly, a little lost. Dried mangoes which were salted and made during the summer using mango seeds were a delicacy in District 4, far too expensive for the normal people to afford sometimes. And by the looks of her old faded school uniform, the girl wasn't anyone special with enough money to be able to buy such lavish things and the only reason he could think she was able to was probably because of his win that caused the prices of things in the market to drop. So he couldn't understand why she's sharing something as precious as this with someone who could buy her entire existence three times over with all his wealth as a victor.

He looked up at her, confused but she just smiled, placing the handkerchief with the sour treat between the two of them. "You looked tired, you skipped lunch and if you sleep through the next English class, Mrs. Hedsson will send you to the principal's office. The victor status won't protect you from the suspension, you know. So eat and keep yourself awake."

Finnick looked at the mangoes with confusion again. Then, his expression softens and a small smile plays at the edge of his lips. "You're right. I skipped lunch. I should eat something." He takes the mangoes gratefully. "But how did you know I didn't eat lunch?" He asks curiously, taking a bit of the food.

She shrugged again, taking one for herself and chewing on it carefully. "We also have maths together, and it's right before lunch. And you never go to the cafeteria." She paused, rolling the piece of mango between her fingers as she peered at him through her lashes. "Also, Mrs. Hedsson is still not happy about you killing her daughter in the arena. So if you're going to Violet's funeral next week, you should probably try to talk to her about it. Maybe take a gift, make sure it's expensive or thoughtful and write a eulogy. Also avoid her boyfriend, Ren. He and his friends are planning to drag you into an alleyway and beat you up."

Finnick stiffens, visibly agitated by everything she's said to him. "How do you know all these things?" He asks, his tone somewhere between annoyed and concerned. "How do you know I wasn't going to the cafeteria? Or th-that Mrs. Hedsson is mad at me? Or that Ren is gunning for me?"

She only raises an eyebrow at his rudeness and his cheeks flush in embarrassment but he stands his ground, his irritation winning over his guilt. She takes another bite of the mango before smiling in a way that reminds him of a child about to get into trouble.

"People don't like to talk to me. But I do listen to them."

This stumps him a little. You would think someone that looked like that would have more friends but apparently not. But that doesn't subdue his anxiety. "And...you decided today was the day you would share all of this information with me?" He asks, his tone a mixture of disbelief and panic. "Why now? Why me?"

"Because no one else is going to," She says easily, crossing her ankles as she watches a butterfly settle on a wildflower near her feet.

"Everyone here is too self absorbed and desperate to be a part of the Hunger Games fanfare. They're too envious to care about you as a person because they don't like how popular and loved by the Capitol you are. They're all going to be at Violet's funeral next week," she says, turning to look at him. "And watching you get accused by Mrs. Hedsson for her daughter's death or getting beat up by Ren will make them feel like they won over you, that you're not as invincible as everyone thinks you are. So when next year one of them gets selected for the Games and you are mentoring them, they can hold your momentary weakness over you."

She scoffs, pushing her hair back as the wind blows it into her eyes. "The only animals that have a black heart is ayami cermani, a type of chicken," and Finnick can't help but be a little impressed by her random knowledge about chickens with actual black hearts as she continued. "But no. I'm not telling you this out of generosity but because you left your vigilance back in the arena and that's not smart. All of these things have been happening in plain sight around you. Ren glares at you during maths. Mrs. Hedsson targets you in English and you get detention for no reason. Other kids knock into you or stick too close to you for it to be normal. You'd know that if you paid attention."

Finnick pauses, trying to process everything she had just said before he speaks, "And you're giving me a heads up just... out of the kindness of your black little heart?" He asks sarcastically, not able to hide his skepticism.

Finnick flushes at her observations, a little surprised — and also, maybe a little unnerved — to find that some of her criticisms of him are legitimate. "I have been...a bit absent these last few months. You're right about that." He concedes, looking at her curiously. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." She whispers back, her eyes trained on the butterfly that was still on the wildflower. "You, of all people though, should be more vigilant."

He raises an eyebrow, popping another piece of dried mango into his mouth before chuckling nervously. "You're too wise for a fourteen year old."

She shrugged before picking up the rest of the snack and placing it, handkerchief and all, in his lap. He glanced up at her, a little surprised by the gesture. "I told you. I listen to people."

His breath hitches in his chest and before he could say something, the shrill ringing of the school bell cuts through the peace of the moment and she stands up, brushing the grass off her faded blue skirt. She looks out at the ocean for a split second and starts walking back towards the school before turning back around, to look at him, her clear, high voice startling him out of his trance.

"Oh and, Finnick? I'm sorry about your family."

He stiffens, watching her walk back to the school without waiting for an answer. He couldn't understand. How did she know? No one did, not outside the people who cared and his fellow victors that lived in the Victor's Village. It only happened last week. How did she know?

But his mind couldn't bring itself to draw connections as it lost itself in the familiar haze of pain. Her condolences hang in the air where she stood as his breathing becomes shallow and his vision blurs, both with tears and the living room floor covered in blood, his little sister's blank blue eye staring up at him, her slight body that didn't even come up to his waist laying across his parents, their own eyes wide open as if surprised even in death and their lifeless gaze feels as heavy as the single sheet of expensive cream paper with names, hotel room numbers and the exact composition of Mags' arthritis medication crumpled in the pocket of his school uniform trousers.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

A/N: I'm a little rusty so be nice. BE NICE.

#finnick odair x reader #hunger games #fanfiction #finnick imagine #finnick odair #thg #the hunger games #finnick x reader #finnick x you #annie cresta #annie cresta x reader #annie cresta imagine #annie x you #fic #writing #canon divergent au #au #moonfm

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lemonluvgirl · 9 months

Text

ROLE REVERSAL: More Hijacked Katniss AU (Alternate version of the lunch room scene)

"Your bread used to taste better." She says conversationally, as if she just wants to contribute something to the lunch room discussion, but her eyes cut to him and stay there. Narrowed and waiting for his reaction. All around them, their table grows quiet. Finnick stops separating Annie's carrots and peas on her plate. Gale's head snaps up from where he had been determinedly staring at his garlic/squash soup and shoveling it into his mouth dispassionately. And Haymitch cocks his head in her direction attentively. They are all watching her. This is the most she's said to him in days since their last botched interaction.

Peeta, though, keeps quiet as per their mentor's advice. Holding back a million things, he could say in reply. Like how District 13 only keeps the barest of ingredients in stock to make their food. No spices or herbs to add flavor. No add-ins like fruits or nuts or even butter can be spared from their spartan like rationing. Their ovens are also huge and dont heat to temperature evenly. They are for making large quantities of food fast and easily, not for slow cooking breads. Everything that has come out of them so far is either overcooked and dry or still slightly doughy in the middle. He can't seem to get them to produce a decent loaf no matter how hard he tries. They are nothing like the bakery ovens he is used to.

He gives her only a half shrug in reply, and the corner of her mouth twitches up in a near smile that sends a shiver down his spine. He doesn't like that look.

"Then again, maybe your bread was always shitty. Maybe everything you do is mediocre at best, like those kisses in the cave and those kisses on the Victory Tour, and Snow just messed with my head to make me think you were better than you are." She says the words, and they drip with undisguised malice.

The comment hits him square in the chest. Like a punch to the sternum. Just like she intended, no doubt from the way her gray eyes are glittering with hungry anticipation. They way she wants to hurt him and watch his reaction is so personal that it's vindictive. He never knows quite what to say to her when she does it. On one hand, it's better than when she's ignoring him completely. Like the way she treats Gale. As if he barely exists, and isn't even important enough to warant her disdain. He is like a nonenitity to her, a mild annoyance she occasionally frowns at when she can be bothered to acknowledge he even exists. Peeta can't imagine being that inconsequential to her after everything they've been through together. On the other hand, when she speaks to him, now it's excruciating. She's a sharp pointed weapon, as deadly accurate with her aim as she ever was, only now she uses her words instead of her arrows. Every time she opens her mouth, he's left feeling like a wounded fawn, shot through and left bleeding on the forest floor, heart pumping and blood racing in fear and desperation as she stands over him in violent triumph. He tries not to react to her words. Tries not to show how deeply she cuts him. Getting defensive only spurs her on he's learned. Because the more he struggles, the more she enjoys it. Like she knows, he'll bleed out faster because of it. He won't be able to keep his terrifying emotions in check. His broken heart will ooze from him and land in a puddle at her feet. Something for her to drag her boot through in disgust before she closes in for the kill.

A weezy chuckle breaks through the silence that has decended around the dining table, and it's their mentor who speaks while everyone's eyes are glued to the two of them.

"Of course, his bread used to taste better. You were in love with him. Everything in the world is better when you're young, stupid, and in love."

Peeta watches as the weight of their mentor's statement lands. Anger and something like embarrassment flash in her eyes. She scoffs, but two twin spots of color rise high on her cheeks. Evidence that the well placed volley has hit its mark.

Peeta exhales slowly. Fighting the urge to defend her and himself. It's a hard to break habit. And he knows that the urge to protect her will serve no one right now. She would hate him all the more if he even attempted it.

On the other side of his instinct is a strange kind of satisfaction at seeing her thrown off balance for even a moment.

Haymitch's words are a kind of vindication, and her reaction is further evidence, but the feeling that it leaves in his soul is bittersweet. Because it rings soundly true in a way that is simple and irrefutable. She did like his cooking once. Couldn't get enough of it, in fact. And she did love him in some way. She must have. The way she hates him now all but assures it. But Haymitch's use of the past tense when he talks about her feelings for him makes a place inside Peeta's chest ache with a sad longing that he fears will never completely go away.

Because she doesn't love him anymore, and now all that is left of their once profound connection is this. This cruel exercise in bloodletting that he really should walk away from but can't.

"I never loved him." She spits out, and if Johanna were here, she'd say something snarky and sarcastic about how Katniss is still a shit actress.

"That's what Snow wants you to think." Finnick says, looking squarely at Katniss, even voiced and confident in his words.

She sneers at him, opens her mouth, but Haymitch cuts her off.

"You did, and you still do. You're the only one who can't see it. Then again, even before the hijacking, you were pretty slow on the uptake. Still got the intuition of a fucking rock. Guess it's nice to know they didn't change everything about you." Haymitch says, words slipping out quickly, and punctuated by a loud burp that leaves a lingering stench of garlic.

It makes Peeta's nose wrinkle, and in the time it takes for him to shake his head to try and dislodge the smell from his nostrils, she bolts.

All he can do is stare at the empty space she had been sitting in and wonder if they will ever be able to have a normal conversation again.

#thg #everlark #fanfiction #lemonluvwrites #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen #the hunger games #Golden Cages #Hijacked!Katniss #thg au #angst #hurt #no comfort #just ouch

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laceswan · 10 months

Text

The Angel of Hope

The Smiling Princess, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4

Finnick Odair x fem!dancer!reader

What if the equivalent of a Disney Princess was thrown into the Hunger Games? Sylke is optimistic and has an affinity for all that is gentle and sweet. What happens when she is placed in an arena and forced to kill or be killed?

Fluff and angst, strangers to lovers, T/W: canon-typical violence

Part 5 is out!

Finnick’s leg was bouncing uncontrollably. He was hunched over with his hands close to covering his mouth. His eyes were wide, staring at the screen in front of him. He didn’t normally watch the news, but this was important. President Snow, the man he hated most in the world, was looking right back at him on that screen. That voice would never sound anything but vile in Finnick’s ears. That voice was the one who threatened his family, his friends, the root of so much evil, and all done with that snake-like smile. Finnick tuned out of his thoughts just long enough to hear his words.

“…are to be reaped from the existing pool of victors…”

His head snapped up to look more directly at the screen. Snow was calm, smiling like he hadn’t just broken a promise. Finnick’s mind went immediately to Mags. Exiting his house, he walked quickly to the adjacent one to see his mentor. Mags and Annie were sitting at a table, the remote for the tv still in Annie’s hand. She looked on the verge of tears, staring down at the grain of the wooden table. Mags called Finnick over with a small movement of her hand. She looked to him with kind eyes as she signed.

“Let’s go to the shore.”

Finnick nodded, helping her up from the chair. He tapped Annie’s shoulder. She didn’t look up.

“We’re going to the shore, you should join us.”

She nodded and got up, never once taking her eyes off the ground. They strolled out of Victor’s Village down to the beach in silence. The sun was setting when they sat down on the sand, silently watching the sky slowly darken. Finnick’s mind wandered to Sylke. He wondered if he would ever see her again. If he would ever see her lips curl into that lovely smile, if he would ever get to show her that he never forgot how to waltz.

The next few days passed quickly and yet not fast enough. Being the only living male victor in their district, Finnick knew he would be reaped. He flashed his signature Casanova smile when the camera focused on him. He expected--he knew--that his stomach would drop upon hearing the other tribute get reaped, but he never could have anticipated just how much. His heart felt immensely heavy when Annie’s name was called, and only more so when Mags raised her hand. The three of them only had a moment before he and Mags were whisked away to the capitol. They didn’t say much on the train ride, just gazing out the window. Through each of the districts, signs of rebellion and rioting were present for those looking. Finnick saw them and couldn’t help but wonder what part he, the capitol’s prince, would play in the inevitable rebellion. He’d always held disdain for the capitol, ever since they mercilessly killed an angel ten years ago. Many nights after his victory were spent wallowing in his own self-pity, hopelessly letting his mind torture itself with thoughts and memories of her. When he turned sixteen, that depressive melancholy shifted to a simmering and spiteful sort of anger. She was alive, but not smiling. And if she was ever to regain that smile, perhaps see him again, he would have to play by the capitol’s rules. Such powerlessness in his own story and agency had a way of infuriating him, which he was able to channel into machinations for his own gain. It was never something he was proud of, that he resorted to secrets and blackmail to survive, but what else was he to do? Sylke always had that ability to hope, to see the little joys. Perhaps that was how she kept her sanity. He didn’t have that skill, at least not to her degree. Even ten years ago it had been like this. He was focused on survival, and desperate times called for desperate measures. She didn’t like to stray from her morals, even in the most trying of times. That was what killed her in the end. Finnick couldn’t have that. He needed to survive, to keep going, and that meant he needed to play the game. Only recently was there a glimmer of hope that it didn’t need to be this way. When Katniss and Peeta were both crowned victors, there was hope that things could change. When they were fourteen, Sylke had a way of making things seem hopeful. That air of possibility returned when the rebellions began. Perhaps it wasn’t naïveté, perhaps she had been right to hope. When they got to the capitol, all of the tributes were whisked away to be prepared for the parade. As they stood by the carriages, the air was thick with tension and discontent. The games were a celebration, at least that’s what the capitol treated it as, with their lavish preparation and roaring crowd. But no one in the spotlight wanted to be there. Finnick kept a smile on his face, but it was clearly one of snark, laughing in the face of struggle simply to make it seem less mortifying. Johanna had mentioned something to him, something that had been on his mind ever since that night at the beach: that things didn’t have to be this way, that maybe they could finally burn it down. Perhaps that is why he was so willing to trust Katniss, the symbol of rebellion. A closer relationship with her might be a step closer to change. When the noise of celebration died down for the night, Finnick enacted his own small rebellion. He knew the streets of the capitol well enough that he could slip quickly through alleys and small one-ways until he reached the life-size dollhouse of Lycan Indigo. In fact he’d done it many times before. Whenever he was in the capitol, Finnick would sneak out to see Sylke. They had no way of communicating specific nights, as his schedule often didn’t prepare that far in advance, and so sometimes she wasn’t even awake when he visited the house. Sometimes she was. A few times, they even spoke. Every year, around this time, Sylke’s letters would mention the magnolias. Once he got to the house, Finnick realised just how accurate her letters had been. Even from the street, he could smell the gentle sweetness in the air. When he got closer he saw her sitting by the window. She’s awake. Must be fate. One hand was hanging out of the frame, caressing the petals. There was a book in her lap, probably one of the ones that Mr. Indigo recently let her have. She looked beautiful, glowing like an ethereal, heavenly spirit in the moonlight. Finnick threw some pebbles to the window, making sure to aim a little higher to hit the wall instead of her head. They bounced off the brick, making a noise that roused her from what looked like a daydream. She looked around before fixing her gaze on him. He saw a small smile before she disappeared into the house. After what felt like an eternity, she emerged from a door and ran over to him.

“Finnick!”

She came up to the fence, reaching her arms between the iron bars to touch him. His hands found hers instantly.

“What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you.”

She smiled, pressing herself even closer.

“I saw you at the tribute parade. You look so different.”

“You do too. Ten years…”

“Ten years. It almost feels like it didn’t happen.”

Finnick knew what she meant. In her letters she often mentioned how time passed in a haze in that house. And in some ways he agreed with her, it did feel like just yesterday when he felt her go still in his arms. But at the same time, so much had happened in between now and then. And yet, here they were, meeting secretly in the safety of night, before going back into that arena.

“I wanna dance with you.”

She laughed, a small chuckle that might turn into crying at any moment.

“I wish we could.”

“I didn’t forget. You taught me how to waltz; I still remember.”

“Finnick…”

Her voice started to crack, her eyes welled as a gentle smile grew on her face.

“Come back to me and we can see how much you remember.”

“You know I can’t promise that.”

“I know… I think you can though. You did it before,”

“That was different.”

“How? You’re stronger and smarter now anyway, who says you won’t be able to win again?”

“The other tributes are stronger and smarter too.”

“Yeah, but-“

“And besides, you’re not gonna be there. I won’t have you there to take care of my wounds or keep a smile on my face. I wouldn’t have made it without you in there.”

Squeezing his hands slightly, she looked him square in the eyes.

“Don’t say that. Finnick. I have faith that you’ll come back to me. I assume that means you’ll win, but maybe not. Whatever happens, I know that I’ll see you again.”

There was security is her smile. She looked so gently sure of herself and her words.

“You know I believe in fate. If I somehow survived to see you again, I know you will too.”

There it was. That undying hope and optimism of hers. It occurred to Finnick that he’d never actually mentioned that ability of hers to her. He brought his hand out of her grasp to caress her cheek.

“I love that smile. I don’t think I ever got to tell you--not with spoken words, at least--just how beautiful it is.”

With cheeks dusted pink, she glanced away, laughing a little.

“I’m serious. I think that’s why I fell for you. You always have that smile. Even when things are going to shit, you find something to smile about.”

She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes.

“It’s divine--angelic, even--your faith in good things.”

With another laugh escaping her lips, she looked back at him with a lighthearted grin.

“Is that why you always call me Angel?”

“Of course.”

He pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her lips. Iron bars were digging into their bodies, but neither of them seemed to notice much less care. It had been so long since they could be so close, since they could kiss without worry or haste. Any and all time limits or responsibilities melted away for a moment. But when that moment was over, Finnick pulled away. He kept their foreheads together when he spoke.

“I need to go.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to go.”

Tears were rolling down both of their faces by this point. As much faith as she had, the possibility of his death was still very much present. She couldn’t help but think about him, hold him a little tighter in the hopes she might be able to keep him safe. But she couldn’t. Like he said, she wouldn’t be there this time.

“You need to go.”

He kissed her quickly.

“I love you. Never forget that.”

And then he was gone, slipping back into the darkness of capitol alleyways.

Finnick spent the training period trying not to dwell on the people he might be leaving behind. Knot-tying and throwing practice helped him a lot. While taking a moment to breathe, Beetee happened to be in his field of vision. The man with glasses was standing by a screen, familiarising himself with plants and their properties. Finnick was struck with a pang of melancholy recollection. Back then, when they were but children, it was just like this. He would be working with a trident, endlessly throwing at a target until his arm got tired, and he’d switch to the other one. He would steal occasional glances at her, studiously examining leaves. There was one memory in particular that he carried fondly in his heart. She was sitting on the floor, drawings and leafy stalks sprawled out around her, as she read through an herbology book. Perhaps he had been staring too long, for eventually she looked up and met his gaze. A soft smile came to her face and she waved. Finnick was a little flustered as he waved back, but he tried not to let it show. He quickly turned his head to look back at the target, throwing his trident swiftly after. It was the first and only time that day that he missed. He couldn’t allow himself to reminisce any longer. He threw the knife in his hand, hitting the target with precision as always.

As the two weeks dragged on, a plan formed. Plutarch had apparently learned about Finnick sneaking out and discretely mentioned it a few days later. As gamemaker, he came to training one day, and after giving a small speech about preparedness and odds being in one’s favour, he approached Finnick. Once they were behind closed doors, he said nothing of Sylke. Finnick had a rope in his hand, something to keep his hands busy during the speech earlier, and he began tying and untying knots as he waiting for Plutarch to mention her, too afraid to reply in hopes he had just imagined it. Instead, Plutarch brought up a plan for rebellion. Finnick was hesitant to trust the gamemaker until he said:

“If this works it wouldn’t just be you and the other victors that would be free. It would be Sylke too.”

Upon hearing that name, Finnick couldn’t say no. He was filled with a burning hope. He could almost see it, the day where nothing held them back, the day where they could dance as long as they wanted. No president with a snake’s tongue, no dollhouse or iron bars. Is that what freedom is? Whatever it is, that was a future he would fight for. The plan moved slowly, and much of it between Plutarch and Haymitch. Finnick and other tributes involved were informed of little, only things essential to them. Finnick knew to keep Katniss and Peeta safe, and that Beetee, Wiress, and Johanna were also involved. That was all. Knowing glances between him, Mags, Johanna, and the tributes from three were all too common in the tribute centre.

After two weeks that seemed to pass both too slowly and all too fast, the night of final interviews came. Finnick was dressed to look like a pirate, missing nothing but an eyepatch. The goal of the night was to cancel the games, something none of the tributes could disagree on. First was district one’s Cashmere and Gloss. They were glimmering in the stage light, dressed glamourously with liberal amounts of glitter. Watching them, Finnick couldn’t help but be reminded of the night when he watched Sylke shine the same way. In his memory she had no glitter or shiny fabric, only an angelic light one can only achieve in someone else’s nostalgia. Finnick wondered if she was watching, remembering the same moment. There was a chance that Mister Indigo let her watch despite Finnick’s presence. A slim one, but a chance nonetheless. What did she think of Cashmere and Gloss, he wondered. Did she look fondly to her district? Was it still home? District was never particularly important to Sylke, Finnick knew that much. In the 65th game she hardly cared for the segregation of districts, attempting to make friends will everyone she came across. It worked of course, but never with the other tributes. They thought her a liability and nothing more. As he reminisced, Finnick wondered if that was something that drew him to her. Perhaps he saw that none of the tributes would speak with her, and wanted to relieve her of some loneliness. But all of that hardly mattered anymore. The others were all dead, he was back in the game, and she was trapped in that dollhouse. The feeling of imminent death began to truly set in. There was a spectre itching at his ears and tapping on his shoulder, one that whispered: was this not always the plan? She can be the victor now. He tried to wave those thoughts away, to focus on the plan and the hope that his declaration of love, along with all the other veiled protests from tributes, would be enough. Quickly, he told a member of the staff that he had a message for a lover to broadcast during his interview. After they sped away, he could almost hear the whispers among capitol patrons and socialites. It had been a sly move on his part, something to propel him and his Casanova image into gossip columns and hopefully add a straw to the back of the camel that carried the games. And then of course there was the message itself. Once prompted by Caesar Flickerman, all of the performance melted away. He could only hope that she was watching, that she would understand how much he loved her. His eyes were tender and kind as he spoke, his mouth downturned and ever so slightly melancholy. All of the smug and suave demeanor he carried and amplified fell away, leaving only desperately amorous affection remaining.

“My love… you have my heart, for all eternity. And if I die in that arena, my last thought will be of your lips”

The message was still something of a compromise. He kept it vague, using “Love” instead of “Angel” and electing not to specify that he would be thinking of her lips when she smiles. There was so much more to say left lingering on his tongue, but for her safety (should Mr. Indigo be incredibly perceptive) and for his image, it was better to say less. The crowd roared when he was finished, and he saw a couple of his former clients/lovers faint in the audience. With a returning grin, he took his place standing with the other tributes behind the main stage. Beetee leaned closer and spoke in a whisper to Mags. Finnick couldn’t hear all of it, but it seemed that Beetee was asking if the message was sincere. Mags nodded, and both of them looked a tad bit more melancholy. Was it pity? Finnick could never stand pity, even when he was young. It made him feel separate, lesser, all things he never wanted to be. And so he learned the skill of confidence, of showing the world that you can hold your own, that you needn’t be pitied. The last time he saw a face like that, one that gazed at him so, was in the arena. Sylke had shown him compassion, she took care of him, and though he knew it to be love and affection, it still felt a little repulsive. The more practical side of him made it so he did not refuse her help, but it was undeniably difficult to simply sit and do nothing as she tenderly attended to his wounds. He had sworn to himself that he would protect her, and as she cared for him, he felt utterly incapable. He knew, of course he knew, that she did not think him weak or lesser, but the instinct to refuse help remained. After the games, he never really asked for help again. It was something of a personal mission to do everything for himself, and with no help from others, he would keep his loved ones safe. He would protect them, and when he found out she was alive that of course included Sylke. It was his choice and his alone to sell himself to Snow, and he did so without hesitation. Anything to protect them.

Pity was something he never encountered in the capitol either. All of his clients sought a physical relationship, they admired him, but they never wanted more than a plaything or something shiny to display. Emotional connection was entirely missing from those relationships, and thus so was pity. And that was fine by him, it made things easier. But it seemed pity was unavoidable after his heartfelt message, that was part of the goal after all. He looked blankly forward in an attempt at ignorance to Mags and Beetee’s words, focusing instead on the show before him. The air was tense on the stage. Every tribute was angry and anguished, but they all had their own ways of hiding it, making their pain as marketable as possible. Some tried for reason, others sympathy, and one started a fire. Somewhat literal, but generally metaphorical was the fire Katniss sparked in the people. There was again a burning sense of hope and ambition thrumming in Finnick’s chest when he saw the mockingjay wings spread in the spotlight. Then Peeta revealed that Katniss was pregnant. There was uproar in the crowd; a fuse had been lit. Finnick wasn’t sure what to think. The two victors from twelve weren’t in on the plan, this wasn’t predetermined. Was she really pregnant? Regardless of the truth, it had certainly helped their case. When Mags reached for his hand he knew exactly what to do. They raised their hands in a show of solidarity, shining and united for a brief moment before the lights went out. The capitol was not happy with them.

Sylke didn’t see Katniss on the screen that night. Mr. Indigo had, after some flattery and persuasion, allowed her to watch the interviews. She tried to pay attention when the tributes from one came on the stage. She noted how similar Gloss looked to Cesare, and she wondered if they knew each other. She waited anxiously for the tributes from four to be announced. Mr. Indigo made small comments here and there, jokes about the tributes or the questions, but Sylke barely heard them. Her eyes were empty and yet focused on the screen before her, willing time to go faster. Finally, he stepped into the light. He looked in his element, suave and handsome as ever. People had always made note of his good looks, even when they were teenagers. She had always attributed it to two things: his eyes and his confidence. Of course he had good features, but it was the way he carried himself, the boldness with which he moved, that made him truly shine. Tonight however was the first time she was watching him through a camera. He looked ever so slightly different in that spotlight. As though watching through someone else’s eyes, the camera lingered not of his green eyes, but on his mouth, on the low plunge of his shirt. It made her uncomfortable to say the least. Whenever she saw him in person, she was reminded at least a little of the boy she met ten years ago. Something about him was still the same, whether that was his eyes, his laugh, or his tender care for those close to him. And yet all of that escaped the camera. Sylke was quickly reminded of the image he had cultivated in the capitol. This was how people saw him here. She only saw a glimpse of the Finnick she knew at the end of the interview.

“Now I understand that you have a message for somebody out there. A special somebody.”

He laughed, looking cheekily at the audience.

“Can we hear it?”

Finnick nodded. He lowered his head to get closer to the microphone. In a single movement, something shifted in him, a part of his faces melted and another facet of him revealed itself. His eyes were tender, loving, like he was looking at her and only her.

“My love,”

His jaw twitched. Sylke understood with no words that he was holding back.

“You have my heart, for all eternity.”

It was just one sentence. One sentence, seven words, and tears were already welling behind her eyes. She looked over to Mr. Indigo. His face was somber, eyes empty and lacking all emotion. She couldn’t cry in front of him. Instead, her chest trembled, she shut her eyes tight for a moment, and promised that she would hear all of it before excusing herself to her room. She looked again to his face on the screen. As always, she found such beauty in his eyes. She could almost hear the serene lull and rhythm of ocean waves on a sunny day. She could almost feel the white sand beneath her feet. And around it all, she felt the love he had for her, warming her heart like sunlight.

“And if I die in that arena…”

Fear and doubt were setting in for both of them. Her teeth began to chatter, and the shaking only got worse as she tried to hold in the screams and sobs.

“My last thought will be of your lips.”

She stood up quickly.

“I’m tired, I’m headed to my room.”

Mr. Indigo nodded, never even looking up. She ran up the stairs, finally letting tears slip down her face. Once the bedroom door was closed, she fell straight to her bed. Endless whimpers and wails were caught by and increasingly wet pillow. She clutched a different pillow like a life buoy in open water, with her eyes squeezed tight. She could only imaging that she was holding onto him, and that he was holding her too. She whispered in hopes he could somehow hear her:

“I don’t want you to go.”

Finnick tired to keep his mind empty through the morning. He was briefly informed the night before of plans for the game, but it scared him. He had pondered it before going to bed: what it would be like in thirteen, if they would even get that far. But when the morning came, he didn’t have the energy to wonder anymore. He needed to focus. It was little things that kept him distracted: metal bars, flickering lights, in distinct chatter in the jet, they were like white noise. His head finally cleared when he stepped onto the platform. Thoughts returned in full sentences, fully formed and concentrated. In all honesty, Sylke was hardly present in Finnick’s mind when the game started. His focus was with the golden bangle on his wrist, and with the silver trident beckoning him to jump off the platform. When the gong sounded, he dove into the water and swam like never before. Waves pushed rhythmically against his shoulders, like drums they commanded his thoughts to beat with the melody. They hummed in his mind, alternating between three things. Pull, breathe, pull, breathe. Find Katniss. Pull, breathe, pull, breathe. Find Katniss. Once on solid ground, he sped forward, pushing a faceless body into the water as he ran. There was no time to wonder who it was, no time to look. He grabbed the trident and a familiar feeling raced through his body. He remembered the thrill of throwing a trident, the satisfaction of hearing it sink into the target. And he remembered how it felt to kill. But there was still no time. He could ponder the weight of steel in his hand later. Now, his mind screamed but one thing. Find Katniss. He found a net too, before he saw her, facing away from him, a few feet ahead. She turned with an armed bow.

“You can swim too, where did you learn that in District Twelve?”

“I have a big bathtub.”

“You must. You like the arena?”

“Not particularly. But you should. They must have built it especially for you.”

There was bitterness and spite in her words, hidden carefully under a layer of decorum. He wondered why she bothered being kind.

“Lucky thing we’re allies. Right?”

Her grip on the bow tightened. He quickly raised his arm, letting the golden band shimmer in the light. The sound of footsteps knocks her hostility away.

“Right!” she shot back to him, in a clipped, rushed sort of way.

He saw someone behind her, one his eyes only recognised as a target.

“Duck!”

Hardly even waiting for her to move, he launched the trident. Blood coated the tines when he retrieved it, an image he hadn’t seen in so long.

“Don’t trust One and Two.”

She nodded. They agreed to each take one side of the Cornucopia as the Career pack approached. Only weapons could be found in the golden horn. With their ranged weapons, Finnick and Katniss made rather quick work of slowing their opponents down. Her eyes flickered to Peeta once they set some distance between themselves and the Cornucopia. He still standing on his metal plate. He doesn’t know how to swim. Katniss begins taking weapons off her belt, but Finnick stops her.

“I’ll get him.”

She wasn’t going to abandon Peeta, so the clear way to protect the Mockingjay was to protect her lover. He was certainly a better swimmer anyway.

“I can.”

Her voice is stern.

“Better not exert yourself. Not in your condition.”

He dives into the water. Convincing Peeta to trust him was not difficult, he just pointed our that Katniss was waiting for them. He also spotted Mags making her way to them. Once he brought Peeta to shore it Katniss had a lot less suspicion of him. After greeting his lover with a kiss, Peeta asked if they had any alliance deals with anyone else.

“Only Mags, I think.”

“Well, I can’t leave Mags behind. She’s one of the few people who actually likes me.”

Humor was like second nature to him. Even if not especially in these horrible, inhumane conditions, jokes had to be made.

“I’ve got no problem with Mags. Especially now that I see the arena. Her fishhooks are probably our best chance of getting a meal.”

“Katniss wanted her on the first day.”

“Katniss has remarkably good judgement,” Finnick said to Peeta as he helped Mags out of the water like he had done so many times on the beaches back home.

“Looks like too many people drowned in your game. It’s like a bob,” she signed while patting the wide violet belt on her suit.

Finnick always took for granted that both he and Sylke were decent swimmers. She was slow, but she could keep herself afloat. Other tributes probably didn’t have that luxury. Looking out the water, it seemed Mags wasn’t the only one to notice.

“Look, she’s right. Someone figured it out.”

Finnick gestured to Beetee, who was certainly not swimming or treading water, but managing to stay afloat.

“What?”

“The belts. They’re floatation devices. I mean, you have to propel yourself, but they’ll keep you from drowning.

Katniss gives Peeta some weapons and Mags an awl before they start moving. Finnick hoists his former mentor onto his back, which they had decided during the week of training would be best for traveling in the arena. The jungle was too similar; tropical and humid and just subtlety artificial, just like before. They travel uphill for about a mile before he noticed Mags beginning to get weary and asks to rest. Given the wheel-like shape of the Cornucopia and the steep climb they took to where they were resting, it seemed likely the arena was shaped like a sort of concave disc. Finnick pondered this as Katniss scaled a tree to get a better view. She stayed up there for a while--longer than one would need to simply survey the area. She was probably thinking about all the bloodshed. Finnick had looked back as they began heading into the jungle and caught a glimpse of the violence. When just last night, they were all joined in collective defiance of the Capitol. When Katniss jumped down from the tree, Finnick had his trident in hand, a habit he realised looked rather defensive to someone who didn’t know that he liked to twirl and balance it as something of a fidget.

“What’s going on down there, Katniss? Have they all joined hands Taken a vow of nonviolence? Tossed the weapons in to the sea in defiance of the Capitol?”

“No.”

“No. Because whatever happened n the past is in the past. And no one in this arena was a victor by chance.”

He looked to Peeta. What if he and Sylke had refused to kill each other? What if she hadn’t eaten those flowers, what if she had offered them to him as well in the same way Peeta and Katniss had with the nightlock? It wasn’t Peeta’s idea. He hadn’t become a victor through cunning or ruthlessness like Finnick and Katniss.

“Except maybe you.”

And Sylke. But Sylke hadn’t been given the chance to live a life she deserved. None of them had, really, but she was never even sent home. She hadn’t been to District One in ten years now. But Finnick needed to keep his mind off her.

“So how many are dead?”

‘Hard to say. At least six, I think. And they’re still fighting.”

“Let’s keep moving. We need water.”

And so they stood up and continued uphill. Peeta took the lead, slashing at leaves and vines with a knife. With a single misplaced step, there was a sharp crackling electric noise, and Peeta was left motionless on the forest floor. For less than a moment, Finnick considered letting him die. But all such thoughts evaporated when he heart Katniss’ anguished cry. Both he and Mags were blown a bit back by the force field, and by the time he got both of them standing, Katniss was crouched over her lover, ear to his chest and screaming his name. Moving quickly, Finnick crouched down next to Katniss and pinched Peeta’s nose shut.

“No!”

He kept moving despite Katniss’ cries. She wasn’t thinking, just taking in the information of a deadly man touching the body of her unconscious lover. He likely would do the same in her position with Sylke. Finnick blew harsh and swift into Peeta’s mouth twice before beginning chest compressions. His mind was empty again, a void of all but the task at hand. A song whispered through his mind, keeping a rhythm as he moved. As seconds turned to minutes, his mind wandered to the last time he did this on a real person. He practiced on mannequins, all the fisherman did, but the last time he actually needed to save someone was ten years ago. When Peeta finally woke with a gasp, Katniss jumped to him, wailing and holding him close. Watching them, Finnick was reminded of what he was doing all this for. He was fighting for the freedom to love, to hold her close like that, and to be safe in doing so. There was suddenly a security in him, sure that he would survive. He heard her voice in his head, so sure that they would meet again, and he believed it. But still, he needed to focus. It was hard to forget Sylke, even for a moment, after Peeta opened his eyes. At every turn, Finnick saw Katniss and Peeta, the star-crossed lovers, and he thought of her. He saw her most in Peeta. His kindness offered Katniss hope, the same hope that she in turn delivers to the people. Sylke did that too. That smile had a way of convincing him he’d be alright. Some way or another, he would get out, and he’d get her out too. He would be able to protect her, rescue her, they would be free to love in thirteen.

They started moving again, this time with Katniss in the lead, as she claimed she could hear the buzzing of the force fields. Finnick fashioned walking sticks for Peeta and Mags. Katniss also cut down some nuts and threw them to her left every so often, just to confirm the wall of energy beside them. Soon, Mags noticed that collision with the force field had a way of cooking the nuts, that supposedly the recognised, and she began to eat. They walked for a while, Katniss at one point scaling another tree and confirming Finnick’s earlier hypothesis on the shape of the arena. It also seemed the sky was a dome, so really, they were on the inside of a convex lens. By midafternoon, it became clear that Mags in her old age and Peeta with his newly beating heart and prosthetic leg could not keep going. They made camp and he and Mags began to weave the long grass into mats. Peeta methodically tossed nuts at the force field and collected the meat in a small pile. It was almost domestically enjoyable if it didn’t remind him so much of his time in the arena with Sylke, which similarly domestic as it was, was tainted with bad memories. Everything seemed so different now. When he was little, the games held an air of magic and honour, one that he hoped to one day be part of. All of that was gone now. He was hyper-aware of the cameras examining his every move. Even in the arena, something compelled him not to let his image slip. Over the years of being a mentor, the sound of cannons never seemed to be any less startling. He hated them ten years ago, and he hated them now. But if he was good at anything it was acting. And so, with incredible amounts of denial and restraint, he chuckled at the boom of cannons, and even joked. In all honesty he wasn’t sure why he did it. Dehydration perhaps, or maybe a simple desire to be more stable than he was. Katniss returned from her venture to find water with only an animal they all decided to call a tree rat. Peeta cooked it against the force field as he had the nuts, and all in all they had a decent meal. Finnick wasn’t sure whether to be surprised or not that he still remembered all of the skills he trained for when he was young. Even after all these years of Capitol luxury, it was still so natural to him. The air between him and Katniss was tense. And then the anthem played, and faces were projected onto the sky. For the duration of the song, they were no longer tributes, but simply humans, mourning together. Tension and hostility died down for a moment, leaving only quiet sorrow and sympathy. That humanity returned again when they received a spile from Haymitch. There was confusion at first, as to what this strange metal object was. But after thinking for a while, Katniss had something of an epiphany. They worked to drill a hole in a tree with the awl and then widening it with knives before driving in the spile. After some adjustment, a thin trickling stream of water emerged. Katniss drank first, then Peeta, and then Finnick. He then went to get a woven bowl to bring some for Mags. They were all caring for one another in that moment, with smiles that were all too uncommon in the arena. It was a small and sweet triumph, something to lift their spirits a little. And as though the game makers were watching that precise moment (because they probably were), the celebration was interrupted by an alarm ringing twelve times and lightning striking a tree in the distance.

Finnick was soon woken by Katniss yelling for them to run. Once Mags was on his back, they moved as quickly as possible to escape the fog. He could smell it when it got close, it was sweet and heavy. Almost like the magnolias at Mr. Indigo’s house, but somehow sickening and saccharine. He heard both Katniss and Peeta scream before he felt it. Cold white vapor brushed against his back, but it felt like it was burrowing into his skin. He fell to the ground in pain and screamed, feeling the electric sort of burning sensation coarse through his body. It seared like lightning through his veins, and then there was nothing. A numbness set in--far more terrifying than pain. They ran, stumbling and certainly loud, but none of that mattered. Peeta’s prosthetic leg caught on some vines and he crashed into the ground. Barely thinking, Finnick hurried back uphill to help Katniss carry.

“It’s no good. I’ll have to carry him. Can you take Mags?”

“Yes,” Katniss replies. Her voice is hoarse and perhaps unsure, but in the confusion and tension of the moment, neither of them could truly tell.

Finnick began moving diagonally toward the water, which would hopefully keep the fog at bay. He could hear Katniss struggling behind him. They fall and roll when she buckles under the weight. His own shoulders were screaming at him, but he did everything to ignore it. He’d lost control of his arms as well, but as long as he could keep Peeta propped up and balanced it would be alright.

“It’s no use. Can you take them both? Go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”

“No. I can’t carry them both. My arms aren’t working.”

Katniss looked to Mags, who was getting herself up from the ground.

“I’m sorry Mags, I can’t do it.”

Mags nodded, almost smiling. She placed a gentle hand on Finnick’s shoulder. She said nothing, but the calm in her smile communicated everything. She placed a kiss to a confused Finnick and walked slowly towards the fog.

“Mags?”

The white mist enveloped her, welcoming her like a long lost friend.

“Mags!”

Finnick screamed, all control over himself vanished. He could barely comprehend it. The world went quiet, but he still heard the canon fire.

“Finnick, we have to go. We have to get out of here.”

He nodded, refusing to let himself dwell on Mags. There would be time for that later. He and Katniss carried Peeta forward until they stumbled and rolled downhill. The fog followed them down, creeping like a spectre of impending doom. The poison was setting in. He felt more and more disconnected from his running legs. They gave way and he distantly felt the support of soft earth against his face. Perhaps he would die here, senseless and exhausted. The cameras would capture it. Everyone would know and no one would wonder. Would she wonder? Would Mr. Indigo let her watch? The games were required viewing for the districts, but that rule didn’t need to be enforced in the capitol. Regardless, someone would tell her. She would find out. And she would know that he loved her. She had proof on paper of that. Finnick consoled himself with these thoughts, relaxing his body and letting the fog engulf him.

“It stopped.”

Katniss’ words roused Finnick to the fact that he was not, in fact, welcomed by the fog. Like it hit a wall, the it had just stopped and faded away. They all sat watching for a little while as the white turned back to clear air. And then Peeta spotted a pair of orange monkeys watching from the trees. He began to crawl downhill once more, and the rest followed. Better not to risk the wrath of mutts. Finnick’s brain was completely on autopilot until they reached the water. He was not thinking, barely feeling, only moving. When a finger touched the warm saltwater there was a burning, stinging, horrible pain that he refused to bear. And so he laid down in the sand, finally allowing his body to rest, even if it was swelling and painful even to breathe. At least you can breathe. You can smell, you can hear. You can hear me sing to you. You’ll be alright. He could hear her words. That’s what she would say, while tenderly running hands over his wounded skin and finding some remedy in the plants growing in the jungle. And she would sing that lullaby, and he would sleep, and in the morning it would be better. There would be a bit of singeing pain, but she would take care of him like she always had. He could feel it, the poison draining from his arms. He felt like he was swimming. Warm water was lapping at his skin, welcoming him into a lullaby embrace. It didn’t put him to sleep, it brought him back to consciousness. He opened his eyes to see a pale moon and a dark sky. He saw his jumpsuit, cut open, and his own body submerged in the shallow water. His head was resting on something warm. Someone’s lap. It wasn’t hers. He looked to Peeta, and then to Katniss, whose lap he was lying on. It occurred to him that he could feel the water against his limbs. He could move his arms.

“There’s just your head left, Finnick. That’s the worst part, but you’ll feel much better after, if you can bear it.”

They helped him sit up and he dunked his face into the water. It was torturous, like his skin was being pulled away, but just for a moment. And then relief. He felt like his skin was exhaling.

“Thank you,” he tried to say, but the words did not manage to escape his sore, raw throat.

“I’m going to tap a tree.”

“Let me make the hole first. You stay with him. You’re the healer.”

Finnick felt himself recovering as he sat in the water. His limbs were working again, following his commands as they were supposed to. He could swim. He didn’t strive for speed at first, just trying to enjoy the feeling of moving at his own will again. And then some amount of life returned to him. There was energy in him he hadn’t felt in a long time. This was the feeling Sylke described when she danced. She escaped her dollhouse and just moved. She could feel the warmth of stage lights and she could hear the applause of a home crowd. Finnick felt it too. He heard the roar of water against his ear, felt the bubbles meeting his skin as he kicked. For a small while he just sat with his head below the water and let himself feel everything. The water vibrated below where it touched the wind. Plants and algae swayed at the bottom. There was life here. He noticed Katniss’ legs standing not far away and decided to play a little joke. It had been far too long since he last laughed. He popped his head up right next to her.

“Don’t do that!”

“What? Come up or stay under?”

“Either. Neither. Whatever. Just soak in the water and behave. Or if you feel this good, let’s go help Peeta.”

She sounded like an older sister, which Finnick supposed she was.

They had to fight off a band of money mutts hiding at the edge of the jungle. District Six must have also been in on the plan, because one of the morphlings died to save Peeta. He refused to leave her body to the mutts and brought her to the beach while Finnick and Katniss fought off the monkeys. When the fight was over, Finnick kept watching the trees, wary of anything else Gamemakers decided to throw at them. From a distance, he saw Peeta whisper in the ear of the dying victory from District Six and slowly ease her into the water. His gentle nature was once again reminiscent of Sylke. They were both such caretakers, and such good ones. It made him sure that there were good people in this world. As night went on, the fog-blisters scabbed over and began to itch. It took all sorts of restraint on all of their parts not to scratch themselves open as they tapped trees for water. Thoughts of both Sylke and Mags were harder and harder to keep at bay. Finnick insisted on taking watch while the other two slept. And once he was alone, everything came out. Quietly, of course, but he finally let himself cry. His breathing was erratic and his chest throbbed as tears and sobs fell out of him. His body hunched over, refusing to perceive anything but it self and its own grief. Mags was gone. The woman who had taught him everything, who kept him alive and taught him how to survive hadn’t. And for what? To keep Peeta alive? To keep Katniss alive? Why were any of them so concerned with these two teenagers from across the country? Finnick knew exactly why. He knew why all of this mattered, he knew why he was fighting and why he was willing to die himself if it came to that. It wasn’t just for him and it wasn’t just for Sylke. Of course those things mattered, but he also cared for people. She did too. He pictured a world where they could be happy. Where they could dance and he could take her to the shore and treat her to all the pleasures that she deserved. And not just the two of them, but everyone. It was idyllic, he knew that. But she dreamt of such a future, so why shouldn’t he?

By midmorning, Peeta and Katniss woke up. They found Finnick, deep in his thoughts, who had clearly not been idle during the night. While his mind ran around, his body needed to be doing something. He wove grass mats for shelter first, and when that was done, three bowls. Those were finished after sunrise, and the other two were still not awake. He filled two bowls with water from a tree, looking back to make sure they were alright. Eventually, his boredom and inability to sit still with his thoughts outweighed his caution. There were some rocks not too far away that he was willing to bet had some mussels living on it. He was correct. In fact there were far more living beneath the surface. It was a plentiful harvest that he could likely pull from again, filling only a bowl with shellfish and heading back to the camp, where his allies were still sleeping. They woke up as he filled his rumbling belly. It had been far too long since he had eaten good, fresh seafood. The stuff in the capitol was alright, but it wasn’t like this. He recalled his last time in the arena, where he spent the majority of his time fishing in the river while keeping a distant eye on a foraging Sylke. He remembered her fascination as she watched him fillet the river fish on a slab of rock. She made meals so enjoyable, like they were just picnicking in the jungle for lunch. Finnick struggled to hold back tears, but he managed as he heard Katniss stirring. She soon joined him in eating, though the sight of dried blood on her fingernails stopped her for a moment. Finnick had been scratching his skin all night, he knew what she was experiencing.

“You know, if you scrath you’ll bring on infection.”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

She washed her hands in the sea before looking up to the sky and shouting:

“Hey, Haymitch, if you’re not too drunk, we could use a little something for our skin!”

Almost on queue, a gift came sailing from the sky on a grey parachute. She returned to the sand and opened it with Finnick. They found it full of dark ointment that reeked of pine and tar. It was nothing like the green, watery poultices that Sylke made for his wounds. Katniss let out a moan of relief as she rubbed it on her itching leg. It stained the skin a comically rot-like green colour.

“It’s like you’re decomposing,” he remarked with a chuckle, before taking some on his fingers to treat his own scabbing skin. It worked like magic, relieving the itch like cool water and dry air on a hot humid day. Though admittedly, the scabbing skin and dark ointment made one look rather awful.

“Poor Finnick. Is this the first time in your life you haven’t looked pretty?”

“It must be. The sensation’s completely new. How have you managed it all these years?”

“Just avoid mirrors. You’ll forget about it.”

“Not if I keep looking at you.”

They quickly spread ointment on one another’s backs before Katniss stood up.

“I’m going to wake Peeta.”

“No wait. Let’s do it together. Put our faces right in front of his.”

Katniss’ face lit up. For a brief moment, she looked like a teenager again, amused, with only lighthearted thoughts at the front of her mind. Humor was a necessity at times like this, Finnick was only more sure of that. It was terribly amusing, watching Peeta’s waking face. As they laughed, another gift floated down from the sky. This morning was turning out to be almost too good to be true. They received familiar green-tinted bread from District 4, something Finnick always enjoyed back home. Mags liked to bake it and share it with himself and Annie. This was like treasure to him, not to go to waste. They would eat and fuel themselves in her honour. As afternoon drew nearer, the ground began to vibrate and a wave moved from jungled hills into the sea, raising the water level quite significantly. A cannon fired. Soon, three figures emerged in the distance, in the same wedge of the wheel which the wave had originated from and remained in, not unlike how the fog was contained behind an invisible wall. Finnick, Katniss, and Peeta retreated into the jungle to watch. They were stumbling around, clearly weary and wounded, and solidly brick-red. One was dragging another, until they collapsed on the beach. There was a fit of temper from the dragger, and something the size of a dagger stabbed into the sand. Finnick knew immediately from this that they were trustworthy.

“Johanna!”

“Finnick!”

“What the hell happened--is that blood?”

“Yeah. The lightning struck and we were stupid close to it ‘cause Volts just had to see it, and then we started moving away when it started to rain. And that made sense, ‘cause of the lightning, and we were all so thirsty. But when it started coming down, it turned out to be blood. Thick, hot blood. You couldn’t see, you couldn’t speak without getting a mouthful. We were just staggering around, trying to get out of it. That’s when Blight hit the forcefield.”

“I’m sorry, Johanna.”

“Yeah, well, he wasn’t much, but he was from home. And he left me with these two. He got a knife in the back at the Cornucopia and her--”

Wiress was circling about in a daze, mumbling to herself, though loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Tick, tock. Tick tock.”

“Yeah we know. Tick, tock. Nuts is in shock.”

Wiress stumbled and fell into Johanna, who shoved her to the ground.

“Just stay down, will you?”

Katniss quickly joined the conversation: “Lay off her.”

“Lay off her?”

Her voice was laced with venom. She stepped to Katniss and slapped her. Finnick couldn’t help but understand. Johanna was short tempered, and she had kept the two from Three alive for this long. It couldn’t have been enjoyable for her.

“Who do you think got them out of that bleeding jungle for you?” You--”

Finnick saw this as his time to intervene. He tossed his friend over his shoulder and brought her to the water to wash her off and calm her down. A flurry of insults were flying from her mouth for a short while, but they were drowned out as he repeatedly dunked her in the water. Eventually, she started to wash herself as they talked. It was small talk for a bit, something they might have done as victors without tributes to mentor during a game. It was like old times, as though nothing was wrong. Eventually, the topic turned to loved ones. Not much could be said with the cameras rolling, but they managed.

“How’s that girl doing? The one he keeps an eye on?”

“She’s alright. She’s alive, which is really all that I can ask for. I hope she’s happy.”

“From what you’ve told me, I’m sure she is. She’s a toughie.”

“Yeah.”

The two of them returned to the rest of the group and Finnick laid down to rest. Katniss woke him and the rest from quiet slumber and delivered epiphanies. The Arena was a clock, each hour a different plague ravaged a wedge of the wheel. They travelled to the Cornucopia and mapped out the clock as well as stocked their weapons. Wiress’ throat was slit as the Careers began to attack. Then the Cornucopia spun. Their opponents as well as Beetee were flung into the sea, though Finnick was able to get him back. They lost the position of the clock, completely discombobulated. Everyone but Wiress survived the encounter and they made it back to the beach, awaiting the ten o’clock wave to reorient. It didn’t take long before familiar voices sounded in the distance. First it was Katniss who hears them, as Finnick was tapping a tree. She ran into the forest shouting her sister’s name and Finnick followed her to make sure she would be safe. He found her cleaning an arrow with a handful of moss.

“Katniss?”

“It’s okay. I’m okay. I though I head my sister but--”

That was when he heard her. She was shouting his name and screaming. She sounded so scared. All inhibition was lost and Finnick began yelling back.

“Sylke? Sylke!”

He ran desperately, aimlessly, trying to find her. She sounded real, that was undoubtedly his angel. How did this happen? Wasn’t she supposed to stay safe, wasn’t that the deal? What was it all for, all the degradation and shame of pretending to love anyone but her, if not just to keep her alive? An anger surged through him, nearly as boiled as his panic, the sort of rage birthed from betrayal and hurt. Katniss soon caught up to him. She scaled a tree and stabbed a bird, at which point the screaming stopped. It fell at his feet, and he could only manage to pick it up, with weary arms and hollow eyes.

“It’s all right, Finnick. It’s just a jabberjay. They’re playing a trick on us. It’s not real. It’s not your... Sylke.”

He was not comforted. He knew this bird, he had learned its history. At least in moments prior, he thought that she was at least here, in the arena, where he could save her or at least die trying. This was so, so much worse.

“No, it’s not Sylke. But the voice was hers. Jabberjays mimic what they hear. Where did they get those screams, Katniss?”

“Oh, Finnick, you don’t think they...”

“Yes, I do. That’s exactly what I think. I wouldn’t ever put it past the gamemakers to do that.”

Another scream rang through the air. It was a man’s voice this time, and Katniss clearly recognised it. He grabbed her before she could chase.

“No. It’s not him. We’re getting out of here.”

He began to pull her toward the beach as the screams continued.

“It’s not him, Katniss! It’s a mutt! Come on!”

The dark birds began to fly at them, attacking with precision and intention. The two of them ran towards the edge, Johanna and Peeta standing with open arms on the other side, but it was like a glass wall. Finnick heard his family, he heard his friends. Mags’ warped scream that she rarely used rang through the air. Johanna’s cry could be heard too, though Finnick didn’t process it in the moment. Loudest in the chorus was Sylke. Sometimes she called his name, even called for help, other times it was just screams. He tried to cover his ears but it was too loud. He couldn’t distinguish what was in his head and what was in the air. Her screams sounded so real, so pained, and oh so loud. They were inside his head, between his ears, behind his eyes, everywhere. With eyes clamped shut he collapsed on the ground, having given up on covering his ears. When the hour was up they went back to the beach. He could still hear her, even after the birds were gone. Sitting in the water helped, hearing the waves crash against him made it quieter, but they didn’t make it go away. Here, he was finally able to think about everything. He finally had time, real time, or rather he didn’t care as much anymore. Mags was gone. He could tell himself that she was never going to make it, but that didn’t make the pain go away. She wouldn’t be there to guide him anymore, or give him a little pat when he did something right. He felt a hole in his heart, one he hadn’t quite felt in years. She sacrificed herself with a smile. He couldn’t be angry with her and yet a part of him was. A part of him wanted to yell at her, tell her to be selfish, then she’d still be alive. This feeling was all too familiar. He had wanted to yell these same things at Sylke ten years ago. It was like deja vu, this unbearable guilt of being the one someone died to help. The one thing he was always grateful for was that she died peacefully in his arms. She wasn’t crying or screaming, she fell still with a smile. But now her cries repeated in his head, and he was left picturing her, hearing her, screaming and wailing until she went silent. And he couldn’t do anything to make it stop.

Finnick’s conversation with Johanna had not been aired. He had also murmured her name in his sleep, something Katniss didn’t tell him until much later. That footage was also omitted. Sylke was watching when the jabberjays attacked. She heard her own voice, but it was different. Younger. It took little time for Mr. Indigo to tell her to go to her room. Sylke knew exactly why and didn’t dare argue. He had never acknowledged her past, and he certainly wouldn’t now. She walked away as Finnick began to tell her name. It took all restraint not to turn back and run towards him, towards where his voice was coming from anyway. But she sat on the stairs and listened, clutching onto the smooth pillars at the end of the banister for dear life. And then the noises were replaced with music and Caesar Flickerman’s commentary came on.

“Now, for the younger folks watching, you might not know the story.”

Finnick called out her name again. He sounded so scared.

“Sylke was a tribute in the 65th Hunger Games with Finnick, you know. He didn’t want to kill her, so she did it herself, poor thing.”

Caesar’s partner Claudius chimed in.

“Such a tragic tale.”

“I know, it really is sad.”

He paused for a moment, letting his dramatic telling sink in.

“But isn’t it remarkable how they managed to capture her voice?”

“I heard they took recordings from the 65th to get it.”

“Really? Wow! The capitol really outdid themselves themselves this year folks.”

They moved so trivially over her ‘death’. Hearing them talk about her like a relic of the past was too much. She ran as quietly as possible to her room, crumpling against the closed door. Her entire being trembled with each stifled cry. Sounds could escape her here, but they still couldn’t be too loud. Every inhale was desperate and starved, every exhale was shaky. She clutched her knees and crinkled the fabric beneath her hands. It wasn’t even clear to her what exactly she was crying about. Everything, I suppose. About the danger he was in, about the fear in his voice, the fact she couldn’t make it go away, that they talked about her in the past tense, all of it swarmed her, filling her ears with uncountable voices. She heard Finnick calling her name, she heard his message from the interview, she heard Caesar Flickerman’s caucus laughter, she heard her own younger voice screaming for help. It took what felt like forever, but the tears did eventually cease. She was able to stand, albeit slowly and exhausted. Her chest was weak and heavy, her legs struggled to carry her. But she still got up. Without a sound and with very little going through her head, she walked to her bed and pulled out the box underneath. She let muscle memory take over as she slipped her feet under the elastics and tied the ribbons. Like she had so many times before, she danced. With closed eyes and gliding feet she escaped. When the music finally stopped and she returned to the dollhouse, things were still awful. Her heart was still aching, the world was still cruel. But now it was just ever so slightly less so. Mr. Indigo didn’t allow her to watch after that incident. He sat alone on the sofa, eyes glued to the screen. When some of her strength had been regained, Sylke returned to her spot on the stairs, where she sat and continued to listen.

They stayed on the beach for the rest of the day. Beetee had come up with a plan that they couldn’t act on until dusk, so they had a few hours with nothing in particular to do, restrained to the safety of the beach. Johanna and Beetee were sitting closer to the tree line, talking about something that Finnick didn’t care to listen to. Katniss and Peeta were similarly separated and talking, and Finnick was standing in the water. It was cold, but it was tactile, something to feel. He twirled the the trident back and forth, up and down, to keep his hands busy. There was calm in repetition, in the waves lapping at his legs, in the shifting weight of the trident as the ends tilted in different directions. They always moved together. When one end got heavier, the other got lighter. When the rest of the world was chaotic and dangerous and cruel, there was balance in his hands. It was something he could control and something he could make good.

The ten o’clock wave let the group know which wedge was which. They moved camp accordingly and rested. They received more bread: thirty-three rolls from District 3. Katniss and Peeta found a way to scour the scabs from their body and joyously announced that they could make Finnick pretty again. The group gathered as a whole when Beetee formed a plan to set up a trap for Brutus and Enobaria, the two Careers remaining. They left their camp around nine in the morning and headed toward the jungle. Once at the lightning tree, they split into smaller task groups and Finnick was left guarding Beetee. There was little for him to do as Beetee was examining the tree. He continued to play with the trident in his hands, keeping a weather eye on the foliage. When the lighting was soon to strike, they retreated away and took a long route back to the beach. They feasted on bread and fish until the sky darkened and it was time to return the the tree and set the trap. Finnick helped wrap wire around the tree before Beetee revealed the rest of the plan. He and Peeta were to stand guard at the tree with Beetee, and Johanna and Katniss would uncoil the wire as the moved to the beach and drop the remaining spool in the water. They stood in silence, watching Johanna and Katniss disappear into the jungle. Until the line went slack. Peeta heard Katniss scream and ran off.

“Beetee, I-“

“Just go. Go, catch up with them, I’ll be fine. I’ll try to destroy the forcefield.”

Finnick nodded before running on the wire’s trail. It was dark and humid, thick air felt like fog against his face as he ran. He shouted for Johanna and Katniss over and over again, with no response. Once he reached the end of the wire, he turned and began heading back to the tree. Hopefully they had done the same. He could hear his pulse roaring in his ears, adrenaline running rampant through his body. And then he saw her, crouched in the brush with an arrow pointed at his chest. She was shaking, her eyes were determined, but scared too. He opened his arms to show he meant to harm.

“Katniss… remember who the real enemy is.”

She lowered her bow. Storm clouds began to move and the sky flashed.

“Katniss get away from that tree!”

She didn’t move, she was doing something with her arrow. He knew it was a good idea to run, but she was still there and so was Beetee, unconscious on the ground.

“Come on!”

She pointed her arrow to the sky, a wire trailing from the head. There was a flash of light, a searing heat, and a sharp noise that made everything go silent.

There was a crackle of static when the light from the sitting room went out. Mr. Indigo was sitting in darkness for a moment before he turned on the light. There was an inexplicable understanding in Sylke, or perhaps a simple hope, that things were about to change forever. The phone rang with an alarmingly shrill tone. Mr. Indigo spoke with increasing frustration as the conversation went on. She continued to listen from her spot on the staircase.

“What? Excuse me, you can’t just-“

There was a low growl in his throat as he listened to the other person.

“She’s not even… I don’t understand why this is necessary.”

Sylke’s eyes widened. Instinct took over, and perhaps it was just precaution, but something within her screamed that it had to be done. She ran to the kitchen, a room she wasn’t exactly allowed in, and grabbed a candle, matches, and a large bowl. The staff were all too busy sitting in their quarters and staining confused at dark screens anyway. Once back in her room she moved like a machine. The candle was lit, the window was opened, and the box was pulled out again from under the bed. This time, she set the slippers aside and revealed the stack of letters underneath. Paper by paper, she fed them to the flame and dropped them into the bowl. Fire ate at the words until there was nothing left but dust. She couldn’t afford to leave a single drop of ink behind. She watched with cold eyes as all the words she cherished, all the pages she read whenever she was sad, all of it burned. The room filled with smoke, her eyes began to sting. She finally let tears down her face, but nothing else. She sat on the floor with composure and propriety as the pile of pages got smaller. There was impatience that urged her to move faster but she resisted. No word could be left behind. Smoke clung to every surface, small burns appeared on her fingertips. But she continued. Then came the final letter. It was the first one he ever sent, five years ago. She didn’t let herself read more than the final sentence.

I miss you and I love you and I hope this letter brings a smile to your face.

Yours,

Finnick

Almost involuntarily, an anguished cry escaped her. Floodgates opened as she burned the final letter. Tears poured down her face, her hands shook, but she did it. It was gone. All evidence of their contact was gone. The more cynical part of her thought they would still know, but at least she could try. She sat in the hazy room for an hour before there was knock at the door.

“Miss Syren? You are expected downstairs.”

She couldn’t bring herself to care about the ashes, the smoke, or the tears staining her face. She walked down the stairs, where she was met by Mr. Indigo’s sad face, and a group of people dressed in white. He took her into his arms, his cologne overpowering the smell of smoke.

“Little Syren… I am so sorry.”

She felt something cold pierce her skin. In an instant, the world went dark.

When the ringing got louder and Finnick regained consciousness, he couldn’t tell where he was. His eyes wouldn’t open, his arms wouldn’t move, no matter how much he willed them to. He could still feel his body, but nothing else. It was like floating in the air, not even gravity pulled on him. He tried to get up, tried to move, but nothing worked.

No, no no no! I need to get up, I need to move, please! I need to find them…

He cried out to an entity he didn’t know, begging for control of his body. It did not come, and eventually the loving embrace of sleep pulled him in like a siren’s song.

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denydefeat · 5 months

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I never really post wishlist stuff so here, under the cut, is a long list of my muses with vague ideas for wishlists with them. DM me if you're interested in any of them. ALL of these (and all my muses tbh) are open to shipping like let's go.

Nesta - accepting eris' offer :)! Robb - making it to king's landing and winning the war, liberating the North, and getting Sansa back to safety, then having to head out and find Arya. Violet - anything in her marvel or ouat verses tbh I spent a lot of time on those Shelley - taking over the Victory Project after killing Frank. Max - coming back after that summer for the start of college, much to everyone's surprise and keeping his escapades close to the chest (idk the timeline of that show it was a fucking mess lmao) Heather - surviving pls dear goD Denny - surviving pls DEAR GOD Mark, Amanda, Lawrence, Logan - I want to write more about their dynamics with each other (these are just the four I write) as apprentices to John. We only briefly get Mark and Amanda interacting - gimme more. Bruce - let's throw out the entire mcu because it's fucking trash for him thanks. Brunnhilde - More of her relationship with Carol :( Kamala - Building of the young avengers lets GOOO Loki - anything :( Satoshi / Krad - I was always, always interested in the idea of the seal not working/lasting on the portrait and years later, Satoshi and Daisuke being re-possessed by Krad and Dark and having to deal with that as young adults, likely college aged. Too young for it to have passed onto their child, but too old to be able to use the same excuses of the past. Sid - I am fuLLY CONVINCED SID IS THE FATHER AND JESSE IS A RED HERRING (I already have this going I just wish more people cared about HIMYF) Brian - Going to NY and seeing Justin again. :)! Snow White - anything :( Charming - I have about 90420934902 aus for him honestly. I have so many ideas for this stupid idiot. Neal - surviVING AND COPARENTING WITH EMMA AND REGINA SHIPS DON'T FUCKING MEAN YOU HAVE TO KILL A GOOD CHARACTER WHO LITERALLY WAS THE REASON RUMPLESTILTSKIN MANIPULATED REGINA INTO CASTING THE FUCKING CURSE MY GOD THIS SHOW PISSES ME OFF anyways Davy Jones - returning after the 'curse' is lifted from Will Turner, because someone must always be there to ferry the souls to the other side Ben Solo - ANYTHING :( Jyn - her and Cassian getting evacuated just before the explosion and surviving, assisting the Rebellion. Finn - training as a jedi (either trilogy re-write or post trilogy) Jar Jar - i s2g if someone doesn't write with Sith Jar Jar... Anakin and Padme - either an au where she convinces him to run away with her and leave everything behind and raise their children on Naboo before Obi Wan shows up and he believes her when she says she didn't know he was there and they enlist his help in staging their deaths OR an au where he convinces her to join him on his path to the dark side. (i write both so I'll write either) Carolyn - escaping the dark planet after surviving the stabbing, living off of the creatures that would be her demise, fixing a ship in the darkness, built by lights she manages to fix throughout the rubble, and fires made along the way. finding other riddick characters / riddick himself Coriolanus Snow - Exploring more of his additions to the games and how he helped to curate them to be the spectacle they became. Annie - Not having anyone to volunteer for her so having to go through the Quarter Quell with Finnick (Hi I love PAIN). Not escaping the Arena and being taken back to the Capitol. Madge - Watching the Games with Katniss' family and thus being there when the blackouts happen and escaping District 12 with Gale and everyone else to District 13. Kili - surviving PLS Renesmee Carlie - more of her dynamic growing up in a town that's definitely got an attraction for the supernatural. Bella - not taking Edward back immediately, actually being pissed that he lied like what a dick Sam - imprinting on LEAH jfC WHAT A WASTE (or better yet, Leah being the first wolf to change and imprinting on HIM thanks) Garrett - torn between natural instincts, love for Kate, and never letting himself be tested by a challenge, learning how to survive and satiate on animal blood vs. human blood

#WISHLIST / meet me in the pouring rain #[ me looking for my wishlist tag like 'what lyric is this gonna be of course it is ]#[ anyways ]#[ here's a vague list with a lot ]

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the-sun-and-the-sea · 5 months

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How do you feel about the idea that Annie Cresta wasn't supposed to be a victor? Like. The thing that flooded the arena was a natural disaster. Not Finnicks influence, not anyone else's just a true blue natural disaster of an earthquake ravaging the arena and breaking the dam that flooded it. I just keep thinking there's no way the capital would have wanted her to win, and there's no way Finnick would have argued for her to survive after knowing what comes after. I just like the idea that Annie wasn't supposed to win.

I think this really depends on what you mean by "supposed to win."

Did the Capitol want Annie to win by the end? Probably not. She was an uncomfortable reminder of what the Games did to people and I can see the Capitol wanting to forget about her.

But I also don't like the idea that Annie just won by default, or that her victory was just handed to her, because I don't think that's true at all. First of all, we have no idea what Annie was doing before she witnessed her district partner get beheaded. She could have been a skilled Career. She could have been cleverly navigating the arena and making use of the terrain. Whatever she did, it was enough to get her to the flood in the first place. She stayed alive that long, which means she obviously fought for it in one way or another. And even the flood itself required so much strength to get through. Staying afloat that long after everything she's seen would be extremely difficult, but she did it.

That's an interesting point you bring up about Finnick's influence. Again, we know next to nothing about Finnick's involvement in Annie's victory. I know it's a popular trope that he was her mentor (and whether or not that's true is a discussion for another time), and even that he convinced the Gamemakers to flood the arena. But I think one of the most powerful themes of THG is that none of these events are predetermined. They just happen because things go wrong or people get unlucky. So I don't think Finnick had a direct hand in the flood or in Annie's survival.

However, if Finnick was her mentor, I think he would've been doing whatever he could to bring her home. Maybe the merciful thing would have been to let her die, knowing what will happen if she doesn't. But at this time, Finnick is nineteen/twenty years old. He's not going to choose to let her die when he could do something, because he wants to spare himself pain. And I don't mean to say that Finnick is selfish (although I think it's reasonable for a traumatized 19 year old to pick the option that hurts them the least), but Finnick is hurting. And if he had the chance to save someone and alleviate some of that guilt, I believe he'd take it.

So, what does it mean if a victor is supposed to win? Should any of the victors have been tributes in the first place? I don't think so, and I don't think Collins wants you walking away feeling like this should have happened to anyone.

Thanks for bringing this up, it's definitely an interesting point to consider!

#asked and answered #thg meta #annie cresta #finnick odair #odesta #thg #the hunger games

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fandom-imagines-stories · 1 year

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Can't Live With Them, Can't Live Without Them

John Mitchell x Reader

Words: 3628

Summary: Having roommates can be impossible. Especially when they get under your skin the way Mitchell does. When the catalyst of one of your arguments turns into something, well, scandalous, you must figure out what to make of your relationship- and try to keep it a secret from your other roommates.

Notes: Welp. This turned into smut. This is only the second smut I’ve ever written so please be patient with me haha. I really don’t have any excuses for this, it just happened.

Warnings: 18+ Smut (fingering, m and f sex, etc.) Minors please do not interact. You know the drill.

More Mitchell: HERE

The table had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. You kept your eyes fixed in front of you while your roommates bustled around the kitchen, George making his breakfast and Annie making yet another cup of tea she couldn't drink. Your brain had decided that if you looked at them, they’d know.

So table it was.

You’d started to regret coming down altogether when Annie sat across from you. In your peripheral, you could spot a not-so-subtle smile creeping across her lips. Oh no.

“So…” She blew out a long, theatrical breath and tapped her fingers against the spot you stared at. “Anything you’d like to share?”

Your shoulders tensed and your voice shook with worried timidity. “W-what do you mean?”

“Oh come on,” Annie gave you a cheeky grin. “Did you really think we wouldn’t find out?”

Still playing dumb, you stared at her blankly. On the inside, however, you wished the world would open up beneath you and swallow you whole.

Annie persisted. “The walls aren’t exactly thick, Y/N.” She giggled like a schoolgirl gossiping. “And it sounded like you had a very nice time, last night.”

George leaned against the counter. “God, is that what that was?” He whined though he smirked at you from over his mug. “I thought someone was hammering an accordion to the wall.”

“Well?” Annie wriggled her eyebrows at you.

You gulped. “Annie-”

“Who is he? Is he someone we know?”

You relaxed.

So they didn’t know. Thank God. Your moment of relief was only that. A moment.

“What are you goin’ on about?” A new voice asked. He stepped through the doorway, running his hands through his shower-dampened hair. Black curls stuck to his forehead. Drops of water traveled slowly down his neck. His eyes met yours, but only for a glance.

“Didn’t you hear all that noise last night?” George scoffed.

Annie beamed. “Y/N had a late-night visitor.” She winked at you.

“Must have slept through it,” Mitchell shrugged. He didn’t even look at you. He just turned his back and opened the fridge. It wasn’t fair. How unaffected he could be. Wasn’t he burning up like you were?

“Where is he? Did you kick him out already?” Annie asked.

You watched Mitchell’s back in the corner of your eye, giving Annie a nonchalant shrug. Two could play at this game. “Oh, you know. He was out as quick as he was in.”

The refrigerator door slammed shut.

“Anyway, I don’t reckon he’ll be round again,” you continued.

“Aw,” she winced, “was it that bad?”

Mitchell stormed off without saying a word. The other two didn’t seem to notice, but you smiled to yourself for the small victory of getting under his skin.

“Not bad, no,” you said. There was a tone of something else in your voice, but even you couldn’t place it. Regret, maybe. “I just don’t see it working out.”

You stuffed your sheets into your laundry bin with a loud, tired sigh. You slid to the floor with your back to the foot of your bed, laid your head against the bare mattress, and stared at the ceiling. Images and feelings from the night before ran rampant in your head and on your skin. His eyes burning into yours in the dark. His breath searing against the skin of your neck. His fingers lighting every nerve in your body on fire. For a dead man, there was so much heat still left inside of you. Was there no escaping it?

“That was quite the little performance downstairs,” Mitchell scoffed from your doorway.

You turned your head towards him, rolled your eyes, and turned back again. “I wasn’t the one with the prima donna exit.” He glowered. You ran a hand down your face and stood. “What do you want, Mitchell?”

For a moment, you thought his eyes went to your lips, but you couldn’t be sure. Just the thought made them ache with the memory of his pressed against them, hungry and wanting. It sent another wave through you. You could only hope you weren’t shaking enough for him to notice.

Mitchell shook his head. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“Which part?” You snapped.

“What?”

“Which part would be most convenient for you to have me forget?”

He shut the door. “Y/N-”

“Could it be you accusing me of attacking people in the park during the last full moon? Like I have some kind of say in the matter? Or, would you like me to erase your attempt at an apology from my memory? Would that work for you?” You didn’t realize you’d been walking towards him until you were inches- breaths- apart. “Oh, I know. Maybe you want me to forget how we fucked the night away and then you couldn’t even look at me this morning!”

Mitchell put a hand over your mouth, grabbing your other wrist when you moved to shove him off.

“Must you be so loud?” He growled.

I thought you liked me that way. You thought, but the burning in his hazel eyes kept you silent.

When he removed his hand, it was you who closed the space between your lips. Just the taste of him sent your mind reeling to the night before.

To his fingers racing over your electric skin.

To his lips traveling every inch of you.

To the moment he-

You pushed away. “Fuck,” you muttered, running your fingers through your hair. Mitchell blew out a low breath, lips swollen and gaze still locked on yours. You paced across the room as if the space could somehow save you from yourself. “This is ridiculous. What are we doing?”

“You kissed me!” He exclaimed. You glowered. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it-”

“I’m serious, Mitchell.”

“So am I,” he sighed. He stepped toward you and you didn’t step away. “Look, I came up here because last night was… it was…” He stammered for words, but you could tell where he was going.

“A mistake,” you finished. His eyes snapped to yours.

He nodded slowly. “Right. A mistake.” His agreement stung more than you thought it would.

“I mean, we don’t even like each other,” you said.

“Exactly. It was just a complete lapse in judgment,” he snapped. You didn’t understand the anger in his voice, but it made the growing lump in your throat even worse.

“Right.”

“Glad we got that out of the way.” Now he was the one shouting.

You covered the disappointment you didn’t want to face with a frustration to match his.

“Fine.”

Mitchell left, the slam of the door behind him echoing through your chest.

Fingers buried in black curls. Teeth nipping at your neck in the best of ways. Growls that rumble through your-

“Hello? Is anybody home?” Annie waved a hand in front of your eyes. Any thoughts of Mitchell’s effect on your body were banished, though you couldn’t help the anxious tapping of your foot.

Christ, even now, he still found a way to get under your skin.

“Sorry, yeah. I guess I got distracted,” you said. “You were saying?”

Your companion’s face split with a wide smile. “You’ve been distracted a lot recently, hm?” You stared blankly in response and she rolled her eyes. “Come on, Y/N. This has got to be about that guy.”

You gulped. “Guy? W-what guy?”

“You know, Mr. In-and-Out,” she snickered. “I think you liked him more than you let on and now he’s driving you mad with desire and passion.” She flared out her hands dramatically and then pressed them against her heart.

Damn, she was good.

“I…” You sucked in a breath and thought of lying. But you knew talking about it may make the itching frustration lighting up your whole body go away. And besides, it’s not like Annie knew who you were really talking about anyway. “Alright, fine. You’re right.”

She squealed. “I knew it! Tell me everything.” She didn’t wait for you to start, instead, she rambled her own predictions as you grew redder and redder in the cheeks. “So he was good then? I mean, it must have been if you’re still thinking about it. I knew there was something off about you that morning. Honestly, good for you for getting out there and getting some-”

“Annie,” you said through your embarrassment.

“Well, go on then!” She beamed.

You ducked your head sheepishly for a moment. You thought of his eyes burning into yours, hovering over you and glinting with moonlight. It was just… perfect.

“He may or may not have been better than I lead on,” you finally smirked. With a deep breath, you let the tension built up in your shoulders relax and you buried your face in your hands. “But that isn’t the problem.”

“Uh oh,” she can’t help the teasing smile on her face. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Your head snapped back up. “What? Of course not,” you scoffed. “He may be good in bed- okay, great even, but that doesn’t change the other things about him. He’s paranoid. He’s arrogant. He… He has this way of getting under my skin no matter what he does. And don’t even get me started on the way he treats me like I have no idea how to take care of myself. Like, I’ve gotten this far in life without him, right? Where does he get off being so overprotective and-and infuriating.”

You stared at the table, your mind too lost in thought to stop your words. “He does this thing where he smiles and I can feel it light up every dark corner of my mind. Like he can somehow fix everything. And then the next minute, he embodies darkness. Not mine, but his own. I just don’t understand him. And I’m not even sure I want to. There’s something so beautiful about him and yet it terrifies me. I don’t understand how I can hate him so much and still…” You trailed off, eventually snapping out of it and looking back up at a stunned Annie.

“Love him?” She finishes for you.

You stand up from the table. “Anyway, it doesn’t even matter because he doesn’t feel the same way. I’d be surprised if he even talks to me again.”

“Oh, I’m sure-”

“Actually, can we change the subject?” You huffed, running your shaking fingers through your hair.

Reluctantly, Annie obliged and the two of you finished your meal talking about menial things happening in the neighborhood.

Mitchell leaned against the wall. From his place at the base of the stairs, he heard it all. Every word from your lips burrowed into his chest and pierced his still heart. The spark he’d felt under his skin became a wildfire. As he hurried back up the stairs so you wouldn’t see him, his mind warred with itself.

“She didn’t exactly say she had feelings for me,” he muttered to himself. “And it shouldn’t matter. I can barely stand her. What happened was a mistake, she said so.”

But he knew it was a lie. Mitchell fell back onto his bed with the dreaded realization that, no matter how he tried to fight it, the reason you drove him so crazy was because, all this time it wasn’t loathing or even just lust that drove the two of you to fight. It was love.

He lit a cigarette even though he knew you hated when smoked and brought it to his lips.

He sighed out with the smoke. “Fuck.”

It was getting ridiculous. Even as you laid in your room with a cigarette in hand, your nerves just wouldn’t quit. You always got on Mitchell for his bad habit, but it’d also been a secret habit of yours for longer than you’d known him. It was almost ironic. You scolded him for having the same vise even though you knew very well that it couldn’t kill him. Just another thing you used as an excuse to be around him, even if it was just to get into screaming matches.

You put it out on a tray by the window and stood in the way of the breeze. Why were you so hot? It was as if your room was an oven trying to suffocate you. But you were too scared to go out into the hall. You were so focused on the night air dancing across the goosebumps on your arms that you didn’t hear your door open and close again.

“Since when do you smoke?”

His voice made you jump and your hand knocked the tray off of the window sill, sending dull ashes across your floor.

“Shit,” You muttered, stooping to put out any possible sparks. Mitchell said something of an apology for startling you and crossed to help you sweep up the mess. You stood and turned your back, trying to hide the frantic panic now rushing through you. “What are you doing here?”

He rocked back on his heels but made no motion to back away from you.

“I wanted to say sorry for the way I’ve been acting. It hasn’t been fair to you and you deserve a better explanation.”

You kept your face away and tucked your trembling hands in your pockets. “I thought we already went over this-”

“I don’t regret it,” he blurted. You turned to face him, finding his hazel eyes wide and his body shaking just as much as yours. “I don’t think it was a mistake and I know you don’t either.”

You froze. Mitchell stepped towards you and pulled your hands out of your pockets, holding them firmly in his.

“I…” He blew out a low, tremoring breath. “I heard you talking to Annie.”

“Mitchell-”

“I just wanted to tell you that…” His eyes fell to your lips. He leaned forward. “I feel the same way. Every bit of it. You drive me fuckin’ mad and I never want you to stop.”

A breath away from his lips, you couldn’t move. The intensity of his stare held you in place. Just a little bit closer.

Mitchell backed away, looking defeated. He’d taken your silence as his answer.

“Anyway,” he coughed. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

He turned and started for the door. Under the thin fabric of his sleeveless shirt, you could see his shoulder blades drawn tensely together. The mere sight broke you.

“Mitchell.” Your voice came out as barely a whisper, but he turned back around.

You didn’t have to say anything. With one look into your eyes, he knew. And he didn’t waste any more time.

The two of you met in the middle, just at the foot of your bed. You crashed your lips against his, hands already clinging to the gray material of his tank. Mitchell’s arms wrapped around you, his hands gripping your waist as close to him as possible. He let one hand travel under your thigh and lifted your leg to wrap around his waist. The movement made the friction between you and the growing tent in his jeans almost unbearable. You rolled your hips against his for more relief.

A growl escaped his throat. His other hand dipped just underneath your waistband, the tips of his fingers just above where you wanted him.

“Are you sure this is what you want because I-”

You stopped him with another mind-consuming kiss. Your fingers tangled themselves in his messy, black curls and tugged just hard enough to elicit a sigh from his lips.

“I want you, Mitchell.” It was almost a whine. “Please.”

He lowered his hand. The mere touch of his fingertips grazing against your sensitive bud drew a moan from your chest.

“Shhh,” Mitchell coaxed, his lips finding your jaw. “We don’t want them to hear us again, do we love?” He slowly rubbed his index finger up and down your clit, stopping occasionally to draw even slower circles into your nerves. Your knees buckled against him, sinking you further onto his hand. His other arm steadied you. “I’ve got you, love.”

As he lowered you onto the bed, your hands worked to lift his shirt over his head. Your nails raked over the muscles of his bare back, earning you another growl.

God, his back.

You made quick work of the rest of each other’s clothes and with you laying out in front of him, completely exposed, he slipped two fingers into your core.

“Mitchell!” You cried out.

He clamped his free hand over your mouth and hovered over you with a teasing smirk.

“Must you be so loud?”

He curled his fingers perfectly to hit the soft spot that made you see stars and began pulling them in and out with a painfully slow rhythm. You had to bite down on your lips to keep from calling out his name again. He chuckled and picked up the pace. He knew what he was doing and you wanted to smack him for it. He flicked his thumb over your clit.

You pulled on his hair again, slightly harder than before, and roughly brought his lips back to yours to muffle your moans.

His fingers sped up and his mouth went to your neck. A series of nips and licks across your collarbone had you writhing beneath him even more than before. You jerked your hips against his motions, desperately chasing what you needed. The white-hot coil inside you wound tighter and tighter.

“Mitchell,” you mewled.

“That’s it,” he said against your skin. “Good girl. That’s it. Let go.”

As if on command, the dam inside you snapped, sending burning waves rushing over your body. More whimpers and moans spilled from your lips, silenced by more, softer kisses. You wrapped your hand around Mitchell’s wrist and brought his fingers up to your mouth. He watched with lust-blown eyes as you brought each glistening digit into your mouth, your tongue swirling around until each was cleaned of your wetness.

You hardly even gave yourself a moment to breathe before gently pushing back on his chest and moving to straddle his lap. With your fingers still splayed out over his chest, you sank down onto him, sheathing him completely inside you in one quick motion.

“Fuckin’ Christ Y/N,” he exclaimed breathily.

Now it was your turn to smirk, using his words against him. “We don’t want them to hear us again, do we love?”

He clenched his jaw and snapped his hips up into yours, making you both moan through gritted teeth.

You rolled against him, pushing him even deeper into you. He sat up, pulling you closer. With his arms locked around you, you bounced up and down on his cock, hitting the same spot as before with just as much thought-numbing precision. He thrust up into you and had to bite down on your shoulder to keep himself quiet.

“Fuck, Y/N. Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” he muttered.

The bed frame knocked against the wall violently, but you’d forgotten to care.

He slotted his hand in between your bodies, rubbing fierce circles into your clit now. Between that and the filthy utterings coming from his mouth, you didn’t last much longer.

Your second orgasm hit even harder than the first and was soon followed by his. Heat filled your core as he spilled into you, both of your motions growing sloppier and less consistent. You climbed off of him, sighing from the emptiness, and fell down onto the bed beside him. Mitchell’s arm laid across your stomach and he nuzzled his face against your neck sweetly.

After a few long moments of breath and silence, he lifted his eyes to yours.

“I meant it, you know,” he whispered as if revealing a secret. “I feel for you. More than I have in a very long time.” He kissed one of the redder marks he’d left on your skin and lowered his voice even more, speaking just into your ear. “I love you, Y/N.”

You pressed your lips to his forehead, running your fingers through his wonderfully messy curls.

“I love you too.”

With the cool breeze still sweeping in from your window, the two of you fell asleep, still intertwined under your sheets.

You didn’t notice the knocking. When you awoke, you could only hear the soft rustlings of Mitchell stirring beneath you, your head on his chest and his arms still locked around you. The sun had just started to peek through the half-drawn blinds.

The knocks grew louder and then stopped.

“Y/N!” Annie called. “You promised you’d help me practice this whole poltergeist thing today!”

You smacked Mitchell’s chest. He snorted awake.

“Hey, what the fu-”

“That’s it, I’m coming in!” Annie announced.

“Shit shit shit shit.” You scrambled to find some article of clothing but failed. Annie appeared at the foot of your bed before you could even open your mouth to speak.

Mitchell scrambled into a sitting position, careful to make sure the sheet didn’t fall from his waist. You clutched the fabric up over your chest, feeling every inch of your skin turn pink.

Annie’s jaw dropped. Her eyes darted between the two of you.

“Oh. My. God.” She gasped.

“Annie, I can explain-” You started, but were cut off by her excited shrieks.

“I knew it!” She squealed. “I knew it! I knew it!” She popped back out of your room, but you could still hear her shouting all the way down the stairs. “George, I knew it!”

You and Mitchell looked at each other and fell back against the bed frame.

Mitchell shook his head. A low chuckle rumbled through his chest and he turned to kiss the top of your head.

“So much for keeping it quiet.”

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