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fatallyfalling · 22 days

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Bitter Water 0.07 ~ ♆

“ You were nothing like him. You were more. And maybe that scared him a little. “

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, ptsd, forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, death, nightmares, unintentional self injury, alcohol, insinuation of suicidal thoughts, mention of aphrodisiac abuse, sexual abuse, etc

{{ word count }} 8.2K

{{ prompt }} Six months was never going to be long enough. You would have sooner dug your heels into the earth and bared your teeth than go back - but you have to keep them safe. You only ever wanted to keep them safe….. in the end you never could…

{{ a/n }} Markiplier voice: “Hi - It’s me! I’m not dead! Which is an awful surprise considering how many people wrote my obituary yesterday! PREEMPTIVELY! In case i did die! But i didn’t! so suck on that!” anyhoo - This is LONG but also get ready to cry <3

p.s.- I promise reader isn’t a crybaby they’re just traumatized 😭 I also apologize if this is a bit scattered, it’s been in the works for over three months now but i swear you’ll get more consistency from reader here on out akkfkskdkskd The ending is also a tad rushed i just REALLY wanna get into them being older so I can write with more substance IM SORRYYYY

They’re alive.

Two words. Three syllables.

This mantra kept you moving. You’ve been home for little more than a month, but the treacherous plague of the arena had left its permanent reminders engraved on your skin. Still, you were too often dragged back by those same claws, kicking and screaming, under the blanket of night to relive the horrors of the 67th annual Hunger Games, only to awaken with bitter copper coating your tongue and a twisted scream retching from your throat. You’d already lost count of how often your episodes upset Dorian and Callan. They were too young to understand the poltergeists that haunted your nightmares. The poor boys had even started running to your father on wobbly legs dragged down by sleep to rouse the gruff man, bleary eyes the size of saucers, as your cries echoed through the too-big house. It sputtered that vital flame still fighting to ignite inside your chest to see them cry because of you.

You hated yourself for it.

Marjorie had hobbled up the three steps to your porch on creaking knees, breathless and panting as your Father led her into the finely furnished house the first night the terrors returned. He hadn't even bothered for his brown leather duster to cover the mangled remains of his dominant arm. Sweat pooled on Marjorie’s brow as the elder gripped her threadbare shawl tighter around her shoulders. The panic on your Father's face was all she'd needed to follow the man home in the middle of the night. Your screams met the elder's ears first. Then Dorian and Callan came bounding out of the parlor to meet her with fearful eyes and tight hugs. "Please, help them, Nana!" The twins blubbered between tears. An expression heavy enough to resemble grief painted your Father's features as Marjorie connected her gaze to his.

"I'll see what I can do."

The unfortunate reality was that there wasn't much that could be done. Marjorie had even enlisted Mags’ help in deciphering a possible treatment plan for the traumatic stress that seized your mind, but any leads ended up inconclusive. A specially brewed tonic of chamomile and lavender before bed at least aided in closing your eyes to combat the insomnia you'd developed, but little could be done to keep you asleep. You had daily sessions with Mags to try and sort through the inner turmoil. But progress was slow going, and you rarely made it past recounting the first few weeks of life in the arena before tears bubbled and panic took over your chest, squeezing so tightly you feared suffocation. Marjorie suggested seeking a higher level of care for your condition, but Mags signaled things might only get worse for you to be removed from your loved ones again so soon. You'd agreed with your mentor. As harrowing as your experiences had been, all that mattered to you were the twins smiling faces and the warmth in their embraces, or the idle chatter over an evening meal about their latest school projects or primary school gossip. The normalcy helped in its own way.

Your father once tried to coax you into going to a local medical clinic on one of your better days. "It's just a check-up." He'd claimed. But after angry red scratches peppered his one good arm, and you were huddled in a corner far from the door like a wild animal set to pounce, the idea was left to rot amongst other failed attempts to heal your internal wounds.

As much as you hated to admit it, your episodes had only worsened since being back.

There were four things you'd learned to despise since surviving The Games.

1. Water

2. Closed Spaces

3. Finnick Odair

4. President Coriolanus Snow

Your aversion to water still clamped around your throat like a vice. But that natural, sometimes visceral, longing for the sea was a heavy weight in your chest. Water still brought painful memories to the front of your mind, with soap suds burning your eyes in the shower between ferocious blinks, but the salty spray of coastal air was too enticing to turn from. You still found yourself sneaking away from Victor’s Village in the wee hours of morning to the brine scented sands down a tall-grassed hill behind your house. Unlike your home, tucked away in a more secluded, woodland, part of town, the Village was right along the coast outside the edge of the port. You could see the lit up pier and ship docks down the shoreline in murky shadows over the horizon, occasionally illuminated by the ever turning lighthouse nestled amongst the cliffs younglings favored to dive from.

You’d ventured up to the cliffs a handful of times since returning to District 4. The wind was wild and whipped your hair this way and that with howling gusts up the face of the rocky mountain. Summer was nearing the end of its course, with crisper air wafting in from the ocean that sent shivers up your spine, and the hair on your arms and the nape of your neck to stand on end. You’d wander up at night, cloaked in shadow with whisps of moonlight curling over the planes of your face and arms. If anyone below witnessed the picture of your gauzy night clothes billowing in the wind amongst the shadows passing your face under moonlit clouds, they’d think they saw an apparition. One of the local myths, told only in hushed voices in warm taverns by rosy-cheeked, ale scented, fisherman out of Peace Keeper's earshot. You didn’t dare try to jump. However tempting the darkest reaches of your mind made the caress of its fingertips along the veil of your sanity, pawing the sheer curtain as if asking permission to flood your thoughts and set that roaring inferno in your chest loose, you stayed firm on the damp earth.

You wouldn’t do that to your family.

Days were easier than nights at least. You favored the large, second story bay windows of the grey dappled house, soaking up warmth from the sun and your personally home brewed tea. Your father had tried to replicate your recipes while you’d been away but Dorian and Callan loved to remind the poor elder that yours still tasted sweeter. Another thing the twins had missed in your absence. You’d taken it upon yourself to teach the younglings the simple brew in perfect replication, earning giggles of sheer joy from the boys and an eye roll from your bemused Father. You’d also begun a small collection of your personal recipes in a small leather bound journal gifted to you from your father to replace the old water damaged cards you used to keep the instructions on. Amongst freshly printing the terms you still tucked the old cards between the pages as keepsakes and tell of origin. You cherished the small book tremendously.

Cooking had also surprisingly became rather cathartic for you in a way. Doing something with your hands helped ease the nervous habit that created burning red crescents in your palms, especially when it came to kneading dough or fixing herbs to garnish meals. It had been an adjustment to fix more filling meals that made enough if not more for your small family. Instead of saving every scrap, or even skipping your own helping to allow the twins seconds, there was enough to feed everyone and then some for once.

The wealth that came with winning The Games was generous and easily enough to live well into the rest of your lives. But it also cast a heavy weight on your shoulders. Another permanent reminder of the spilt blood that coated your skin in phantom stickiness. Sometimes you wished nothing more than to be rid of the fortune, but the prospering health of your siblings always managed to chip away at the solid guilt cocooning your heart.

All you ever wanted was to provide for them and keep them safe.

Safe.

Three months have now passed since You’d arrived back in District 4.

Finnick Odair had kept his distance, if not attempting to avoid you entirely. Well - as much as he could with what shred of free will the boy had to spare. He was exhausted, and the knife that had carved out his bleeding heart from his chest had become a rudimentary ache. No matter how heavy the concealer his stylist’s applied was, dark circles and hangovers could only be hidden under playboy charm and pointy smirks for so long. Since Finnick’s announcement as a “Desirable” Victor four months prior, he’d felt the Capital collar and chain around his neck tighten and yank in whichever way Snow commanded with growing severity. Part of him was surprised there wasn’t bruising where the icy torque would have rested on his throat.

There was never a ‘day off’ for Finnick Odair. Not anymore. There was always a performance to be made, or an appearance at a party, or a sticky-fingered Capital elitist client spewing sultry filth in his ears that made the boy want to either be sick or run the lethal triple blade trident hanging in his bedroom through their gut several times.

The retched hunger of Capital elitist’s, heiresses, and whoever else was rich enough to pay the sharks prowling in shadowed corners of banquet halls or knew who to speak to in order to arrange an ‘evening’ with the ‘Prince of District 4’ was insatiable. Every minute detail of the Golden Boy’s daily life became scheduled, prepped, scrubbed, tested, ordered, dressed, touched, and pressed. There were no choices, no breaks, no compromises.

If Finnick Odair wasn’t perfect or spotlight ready for even a millisecond - people would talk. If Finnick wasn’t flirting or hanging on the arm of someone new every night they’d get bored. If there was no gossip, no allure to the honey-tanned playboy they’d lose interest and President Snow would bring down the iron fist poised mere inches over the carefully crafted safety net around Mags and the few people he dared hold higher than himself.

Cold water helped ease the pressure.

The freezing splash of droplets on his tanned skin was palpable. The opposite of sparks and flames which singed lapping, invisible burns through his veins and made setting himself ablaze more appealing than the possible friction of another persons touch for a thousand years. It was an expensive effort to not flinch away or recoil from groping hands. The most Finnick allowed himself under a mirror-practiced mask of feigned pleasure or pride was a minuscule flutter of muscle in his sharp jaw and the continuous picking at invisible lint from progressively more revealing tunics and netting.

Finnick didn’t want to think about what kind of scrap fabric or net he’d be forced to wear years down the line if the stylists were already pushing to show more skin on the Victor.

Scrubbing calloused palms down his mascara streaked cheeks, the taste of sea salt met his tongue. Poseidon’s waves had effectively washed the remaining remnants of gold luster from his neck and shoulders in the rolling shallows. Finnick took his time to savor a thorough inhale of the briney coast. He hadn’t bothered to venture back to his house in the Victor’s Village culdesac. He was lucky to have slipped away from the escorts Snow often ordered to be close by. Protecting the “merchandise”. Shades of navy and indigo painted the horizon with thin smears of pink where the endless sky met the waves.

The air was crisp, sending small puffs of white air into the atmosphere under tired breaths. Finnick had just barely returned from yet another unremarkable Capital function. He didn’t care that his luxurious trousers were now soaked to mid thigh in the frigid water, or that his fingertips had gone numb and pruned. He just wanted the memory of touch and the stupid damn gold dust gone.

“Damn it…” Finnick sighed. It was another exhausting effort to bite back the string of curses threatening to push through his teeth on pointed canines. To curse Snow, curse the Games, hell - curse all of Panem and the Capital for all he cared.

The boy let his sea-green gaze sweep across the coastline. Part of him wondered if snagging a boat from the docks and going off on his own would be worth it. Mags would never agree to it. Before the Games, Finnick would have accepted a quiet life as a fisherman, helping younglings and living off the daily catch.

But he wasn’t normal anymore. He wasn’t even a kid.

‘You’re just a kid.’

‘You’re both just kids.’

The memory pierced Finnick’s mind, drawing a crease between his brows and a wrinkle in his nose.

He wasn’t allowed to be a ‘kid’ anymore. He didn’t have a choice. Tearing his gaze from the sparkling lights of the bobbing sailboats sleeping in the far-off dock, Finnick’s gaze lifted to the spinning lighthouse on the cliffs. The weather stained roofing and salt eroded stones that made up the building left an eerie aura to the tower. Some of the older younglings (himself included) had spun ghost stories to scare the youngest kids around campfires on the dusty sands in mid summer.

He’d missed Summer.

The short cliffs were quiet much like the docks, a sleeping district soon to be awake in a matter of hours. There was a chilled breeze swaying the tall pine trees. Breathy smoke curled around the boy’s shoulders as he set himself moving. The frigid air and water had numbed his legs but he welcomed the cold. Late November didn’t freeze the coast but it sure as hell made things icy up here in the north. Wet sand sank and remolded under his leather boots. The boy had cast down his gaze towards the sand for only a moment in quiet contemplation before snapping back to the cliffs at the sound of a shrill cry.

“What the hell?”

Another sob ricocheted across the cliffs and swam over the shore through his eardrums. The sound was pained, and warrior instinct had his eyes scanning the cliffs over and over for its owner. Remembering he did in fact have legs, the boy put them to use, kicking up sprays of damp sand under heavy strides as he made a break for the curving paths that led to the summit. The specter of pale, gauzy fabric had been his only clue that someone was up there. Maybe he was an idiot for chasing danger, a fool for following the snapping thread in his chest like a second heartbeat. He’d remembered that scream as vividly as the day he’d witnessed you finish the Games.

His lungs started to burn halfway up as a haggard cough choked from his throat between ragged breaths. His calves barked in protest at the uneven terrain but he pushed himself harder. Already cycling through worst case scenarios the Victor had thrown caution to the wind well beforehand. Despite every fiber of his being screaming to stay away and forget. Forget the thread, forget the draw, forget the stupid hunger that made his fingertips twitch or the buzz in his ears get louder under your cold gaze.

He just had to get there. To you.

But why?

You were just another Victor. Just another cog in the grotesque clockwork of Snow’s empire. You were just like him.

You were nothing like him.

Maybe that was it.

You weren’t a career. You weren’t born and bred to kill. You weren’t him.

You were more.

And maybe that scared him a little.

Your name was a desperate prayer on Finnick’s tongue as he crashed onto the clearing he’d glimpsed your hazy form upon.

It was empty.

Maybe he was losing it a bit. Reckless paces that brought the boy peering over the edge on a tightened stomach that feared the possibility of what lie below dropped as sea green storms met empty rocks. You weren’t here. A vulgar curse huffed from his chest as damp hands fisted bronze waves as he paced around the empty clearing.

Maybe he was crazy.

But unbeknownst to the bronze-haired boy, your trembling form quickly retreating through the brush on bare feet that had the hemming of your nightclothes snag on stray twigs, growing caked in smears of mud by the second, said otherwise.

Six months passed too quickly.

The sun was a glowing smear between grey, puffy clouds. The weather had been dreary and damp for weeks now as winter set in. Maybe the sun had pushed past the clouds as a form of goodbye. A last touch of warmth before the metal tomb that stretched down the station platform before you swallowed you whole.

The Victory Tour was to begin in a matter of moments.

There was a cruel sense of comfort as you peered across the cobbled station at your family and the ever bustling Capital team featuring Thatcher Bellstone - your escort, and Hyacinth, your stylist from the Games, who was currently fussing with straightening jacket collars and lint rolling trousers.

Everyone had been dressed to the nines in typical Capital fashion. Callan and Dorian featured matching knit hats and handmade mittens, your Father bearing a new fur lined duster, and Mags had a cream colored muff to protect her aging hands that matched her coat.

And Finnick - God why was he even here?

His navy wool coat matched the emerald scarf hugging his throat in a neat knot. Black trousers and snow dusted dress shoes holding a casual stance as the boy’s bronze waves danced in the breeze. Your jaw set in annoyance. The two of you still hadn’t spoken, hadn’t interacted since the train ride six months ago. Vague glimpses of Bronze waves and liqueur coated chuckles had ventured through your cracked windows some nights but you could barely look at the fellow victor without wanting to punch him. The pleasure he seemed to take in being “Desirable” made your insides churn.

All cheshire smirks and no bite. That’s who Finnick Odair was. You’d stopped trying to decipher the hazy echoes of his cries that barely formed your name three months ago. How he’d even seen you on those cliffs that night was wild all on it’s own. Maybe you had imagined it - some half-baked, desperate, imaginary cry for help. Useless. Worthless.

He’d never care about you - maybe anyone - that way. It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered.

Adjusting the dappled grey coat Hyacinth had dressed you in to match the twin’s, you averted your eyes from the Victor just as sea green irises flashed in your direction. You were thankful he wouldn’t be coming with. Finnick would rejoin your ensemble once the tour made it back to District 4 in a few weeks, but until then you’d be Peacock free.

Your senses felt wired with electricity as cameras flashed, with your knuckles burning under the vice-like fists you’d balled at your sides. You didn’t want to go, but you didn’t have a choice. It was tradition for the Victor of every Games to take a tour across the twelve districts and speak to the families of fallen tributes. The idea made you sick. You hadn’t won anything. You’d only survived.

Dorian and Callan were blubbering like sea sponges against your chest as you bent down to grip them tight. “It’s just for a little while…” You murmured while breathing in the love in their identical hair. The words were meek and your breath hitched on the end of the sentence but you bit down on the hiccuping sob prodding your throat and squeezed the boys tighter.

You’d said similar words before entering a death match mere months ago.

“Shh.. it’s gonna be okay, there’s plenty of tea in the ice box. Just don’t stress out Pa okay? Do your chores and be good. I love you.” You murmured between pressed lips, pulling back to look the twins in the eye. The boys nodded vigorously, giving tiny smiles between tear stained faces and red button noses. “We’ll be SO good!” Callan chirped with a small salute.

“That’s my boys.” You rasped, pulling down both of their knit hats over their eyes before quickly standing just as cameras flashed and elated shrieks echoed across the stones from the boys. Your heart squeezed as scruff brushed your cheeks while your Father came to envelope you in a bear hug with his good arm.

“Be good kid, be good..”

“I will, I will…” You nodded back, squeezing the man just as tight.

“Come, Come! We need to keep on schedule!” Thatcher clapped their burnt sienna gloves twice, calling everyone’s attention and causing the warm embrace of your Father to disappear as he returned to the boys a few paces away. The twins were busy ogling Finnick. Ironically, despite your disdain for the Darling, they’d taken a steep interest in the older boy as some “cool kid” much like how they referred to popular younglings at school. It made your eye twitch sometimes, but Finnick wasn’t mean or short with them. If anything he was kind and caring. Gentle. It was weird, seeing Finnick be gentle with someone other than Mags.

You tried to brush off the rising warmth in your chest.

Mags had soon appeared beside your Father, and the two silently communicated in hushed whispers from the man with Mags waving off his worries with gentle nods and heart warming smiles. They no doubt were discussing how to handle your terrors and your ‘zero alcohol’ rule they’d been enforcing the past months. You were thankful they didn’t let you sink too far, but sometimes the itch for that familiar numbness and sway in your vision picked at your brain a bit too harshly.

“Right! We have a tight - tight! Schedule to follow now. Smile for the cameras and let us be on our way dear. You’ll be back before you know it!” Thatcher bellowed between a phlegmy cough. Rolling your eyes, you gave everyone one last hug before standing in front of the bronze-haired Victor while everyone else filed onto the train or off to the side.

“Peacock..”

“Still using names are we? Didn’t know you liked me that much~” Finnick all but purred, earning another eye roll from you. “Shut up. Just - don’t corrupt my siblings while i’m gone. I can barely handle one of you, I don’t need three Peacocks running around.” You huffed with a wave of your hand. Finnick chuckled, the sound deep and rumbling in his chest as his voice had all but deepened and matured further these past months. “Can’t say that’d be the worst thing, would it?” You felt the tips of your ears burn at the flirtatious tone in his voice and shoved his shoulder away before turning around to face the train.

“Goodbye, Odair.”

“Hey - just..”

You couldn’t help but stiffen as the boy turned you back to face him, a firm hand gently brushing your shoulder. The urge to punch him had your jaw setting all over again.

“Don’t sink. You’ll be back.” Finnick’s voice was soft, softer than you’d ever heard it and for a moment you felt as if a thread ran from your heart up to meet his fingertips on your arm. He was never gentle. Not like this. “Stop being weird, Peacock.” You shrugged his hand off your shoulder despite the burning you felt in your cheeks and swiftly turned and strode away.

You had to have imagined it. The softness in his eyes that made him look younger, more alive. The honey in his tone that matched something you’d only read about. There was no way.

None.

The metallic click of the train car doors closing managed to snap you out of your thoughts as you scrubbed a stray tear from your cheek. Hyacinth coming over to flit about a powdered brush to fix the small amount of cosmetics she’s applied to your skin earlier that afternoon. “It’s wonderful to see you again darling, absolutely wonderful.” The stylist chirps while brushing an airy kiss past each of your cheeks.

You feel a bit sick.

A lot sick - actually.

Time moves almost in slow motion for a moment as your knees buckle and next thing you know you’re on the floor hurling up the biscuit and pear jam you’d choked down that morning. Ringing starts in your ears and a shrill cry from Hyacinth has Thatcher and Mags bustling over to help as the room sways and your trembling hands become blurry behind tears.

You’d been caged all over again.

The tour took a little over two weeks.

Every day and different district you visited felt like an eternity. You’d barely been able to keep anything down as the haunted faces of fallen Tributes and their families plagued every waking thought. Hyacinth continued applying increasingly heavier cosmetics to try and conceal your pain. Your facial features had become gaunt from the retching with deep smudges of purple making homes beneath your dull eyes. You couldn’t stand looking out at the families of people you had or hadn’t killed and having the audacity to apologize and read a flimsy notecard scrawled in neat cursive by Thatcher expressing that their deaths somehow meant something. You’d been verbally assaulted by crowd members gathered in the District’s Judicial Complexes more times than you cared to count.

Liar.

Murderer.

Cheat.

Thief.

The colorful names they called you felt like repeated blows to the gut. And they somehow knew exactly where to hit. Part of you wondered how Finnick had done this. How Mags had done this. How any Victor of the Games had done this. You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t handle any of this.

“I-I can’t… I can’t Mags…” You’d begged and pleaded with your mentor to let you not go on stage. Begged her to not make you face another grieving family while you stood there alive like some prize winning salmon. It didn’t matter how much you’d survived you were still a coward. You didn’t deserve to be here.

Coward.

You’d been a coward to hide. It didn’t matter that you’d survived, you’d still killed and fought your way to the end of the 67th Games. You were everything those hecklers claimed you to be and worse and you knew it. Mags gripped your shoulders tight and forced your eyes to meet hers. Her stare alone told you everything you needed to know before she wrapped you in her thin arms and squeezed tight. You didn’t have a choice in this. You understood she’d have done everything and anything to keep you from going out there if she could but she couldn’t.

By the time the tour reached District 7 you’d gone numb.

“Panem thanks your tributes for their bravery. A-and I thank… th-thank them for their sacrifice…” You stammered on the sentence you’d read six times now. You’d continued to stumble through it for the past six districts you’d been forced to speak in front of. A bottle hits the front edge of the stage with a shattering crash, and angered shouts rouse from the crowd as Peacekeepers force themselves forward in an ordered line, batons shooting from holsters and sharp-shooter rifles strapped across their chests. Your eyes squeeze shut as white gloves grip your under arms and force you away. The speech remains unfinished.

Heavy wooden doors slam behind you and gentle hands grip your face as your mouth contorts to an even deeper frown. The owners fingers are soft, but a tinge cold. Mags. Your eyelids crack and the flimsy, wrinkled notecard in your hands falls to the floor as you crumple into the elders arms. The embrace is short as Thatcher comes up to usher your team to the train as shouting starts to echo through the thick doors behind you.

Coward.

“Best we be on our way. Things seem to be getting a bit out of sorts here.” Thatcher chirps, but their face is solemn as your eyes meet. “Come now Dear,” They sigh. Your only reply is a meek nod. Hyacinth provides a small handkerchief to wipe your eyes and the mechanical maneuvers of the Capital train greet your party as the machine lurches into motion minutes later. ‘Just a few more days…’ You try to remind yourself as Mags helps guide you to the observatory car. You didn’t need the physical support but welcomed it as the two of you found places to curl up on the large, curved sofa. The seats were as plush as you’d remembered.

You’d managed to spend most of your down time here. The scents of damp earth and various florals were comforting. Except the stark-white roses, which had been removed from the various coffee tables to one corner of the room. You tried not to look at them. Your mentor laid a gentle hand to your knee as you curled up to peer out the window. Buildings passed and turned into tall trees, citizens working the lumber were only spotty blurs amongst the rush of the train. “It’s hard to keep doing this over and over Mags…” You sigh, sparing a glance to the elder before continuing. “It’s almost like reliving the arena over and over…” A small squeeze to your knee was enough to turn your attention from the window.

Mags’ eyes seemed far away. Although she maintained eye contact with you, you could tell she was somewhere else. Revisiting the countless tributes she’d mentored in the past no doubt. Her small smile didn’t meet her eyes like it normally did. A few hand gestures from the woman was enough to convey what a part of you was itching to ask.

“It never gets easier. Only tolerable.” You echoed. Mags nods, and your knee receives another small squeeze. Your response is a small hum, moving a hand to cover hers as your fingers gently interlace. You’d had quite enough of the tears and the pains overwhelming your thoughts. The past half a year had been harrowing enough. Maybe it was time to take something back from Snow. From the Capital. From the Games. From all of Panem. A muscle in your jaw tenses before you speak, “I-I want to get better.. learn to tolerate it.” You mutter.

“I’m sick of being useless. Of sitting, and doing nothing. I don’t want to show the Capital that they hold power over me. That they’ve hurt me. They’ve seen enough of my heart, it’s time they see something else.”

An echo of words from the train platform almost a week ago ebb their way to the forefront of your mind.

“Don’t sink.”

You wouldn’t sink. Not anymore.

A twinkle of hope appears in Mags’ eyes as spiteful determination sparks in yours. That flame in your chest sparking back to life with a newfound vigor. You’d be better. You had to be.

You will not die. You will survive. And you will float - not sink.

You don’t stutter through anymore speeches from them on. You wouldn’t let them see that they got to you. Even if you broke behind closed doors, hiccuping sobs on the onyx tile of your bathroom floor, you wouldn’t dare let anyone else see it from now on.

Coward.

Arriving back to District 4 was a monumental relief, even if it was only for a day. The twins were overjoyed, forgetting a certain Bronze-haired boy’s existence the moment you stepped onto the cobblestone platform. Your nickname is a shriek behind elated laughter as you kneel to embrace the boys.

“Sheesh, what have they been feeding you boys? You’ve gotten taller and it’s only been a week!” You quip behind a coy smile. Dorian simply shakes his head and clings to your arm while correcting you that it’s been longer than seven days while Callan hollers a retort saying you’re lying. “Nuh uh! We’re just the same!”

You’re dressed in the same dappled grey coat with the edition of a sage colored scarf as breathy puffs of white air curl through your conversations.

“Uncorrupted just as you ordered.” Finnick quips with a dramatic wave of his hand and a slight bow as he approaches. Your eyes roll in annoyance but you can’t help the slight pull at the corners of your mouth. “My hero,” you deadpan as you rise, picking up Dorian and setting him on your hip. Finnick is dressed much the same as when you last saw him, though his bronze waves are more tousled than usual. His scarf is tied tighter around his throat, but you still catch the tinge of red and purple smears under his jawline. A tightness seizes your chest as Finnick seems to notice your stare and adjusts the knitted material.

“It’s nothing.” The boy claims, but a crease draws his brows in, and his tanned fingers pick a piece of invisible lint from the lapel of his navy coat. “Hm,” You hum in response, averting your own gaze back down to the twins as you feel an awkwardness rise in the air. You clear your throat while scrunching your nose and wetting your lips a moment before moving to say hello to your Father. Finnick remains rooted to his spot, but you can sense the Darling’s eyes lingering on your form as you retreat.

The rest of your visit to District 4 runs smoothly. There isn't much of a speech to be given, rather a small banquet is held in your honor instead. You dread parties, and a painful twist in your stomach squeezes as you sit through the meal that night under the beaming lights of the Judicial Complex auditorium making your head start to spin. What a part of you wouldn't give for one of the many glasses of champagne floating around, but based on the daggers Mags sends your way each time you reach for one of the crystal glasses has you quickly retreating and second-guessing your decisions. Finnick is somehow glued to your side much to your dismay. The boy looks almost like a prince. His pine-colored poet's tunic is cut low, almost to his navel, with black, slim-fit trousers with knee-high laced boots to match with a shimmer of iridescent luster sprinkled across his clavicle and the highest points of his cheeks. The miniature rendition of his famous trident rests around his neck again as well. Part of you wonders if Hyacinth and the boy's stylist were in cahoots behind the scenes as your equally pine-colored ensemble matches the elegance of Finnick's outfit a bit too well. You weren't fond of form-fitted clothing but had become rather desensitized to the matter following Hyacinth's frequent choices to show off your figure. Your garment tonight was a form-fitted silk gown that featured a high slit up your left thigh and an open back. The sleeves were off the shoulder and flowed in a balloon-like fashion before gathering once more at your wrists. Inky, strapped shoes with a short heel could be glimpsed at your feet as well. part of you wondered if Finnick had caught on to the whole ordeal but by the carefree, cheshire smirk on his rosy lips you couldn't tell.

Finnick had caught on the moment you'd stepped into the auditorium.

It felt as if he’d been set on fire. Sparks shot like lightning up his arms and across his chest as he couldn’t help drinking you in from across the room. That excruciatingly tight thread in his chest started to fray.

Finnick tried not to think about it.

He couldn't. He shouldn't.

'Shit...'

The closeness as you sat beside Finnick absentmindedly picking at your plate, not even a foot away had the boy so overwhelmed he couldn't think, only sparing a glance your way every now and then while trying to casually drape himself over his chair. The effort to keep a smirk on his face and a carefree aura was suffocating. What the hell was wrong with him? You’d sat next to or across from one another plenty of times. He'd seen you dressed up like this plenty of times.

Okay - maybe it had only been on screens but that was besides the point.

He had to get a grip. He'd already heard the rumors of there being something between the two of you from the Games starting to stir again amongst the elites as the end-of-tour banquet in the Capital district edged closer in the coming days. You didn't need more to stress over. especially not regarding him. You may have been able to keep a mask of chemical calm when dealing with everyone around you but he could see the shadows under your eyes and the limpness in your hair. Your hands still trembled, and your lower lip remained puffy from biting it. He'd learned your anxious habits from quiet observation. He had plenty of his own tells he was well aware of himself.

Finnick silently cursed himself again.

You were lucky enough to sleep in your own bed for the night, though Dorian and Callan insisted on joining you as if they were attention-deprived puppies. You welcomed their embraces as they nestled close, but knew you'd end up in a corner of the mattress without any blanket to keep warm as the boys occupied the majority of the bed space available. But you didn't mind. Nor did you want to leave them again so soon. But the tour had to be finished. You rested easier that night than you had in weeks, despite the bed-hogging of your siblings.

The morning was met with a quiet breakfast and another teary-eyed goodbye. Then it was back on the train and on to the final three districts. Homes of the Career Tributes.

This time around, Finnick had joined your party of escorts for the last leg of your journey. He claimed he had some occupations to fill and favors to uphold but didn't offer more explanation than that. He'd also opted for wearing higher-necked shirts and sweaters around the train, which you had found unusual compared to his normal attire, but didn't bother to question. It was his business and therefore you needn't bother with it. Pretty Peacocks had Pretty Peacock things to do, you supposed.

The remaining districts were as troublesome as the last eight. District 2 was especially harsh, considering the blade you'd driven through the chest of their male tribute in the final moments of the Games. The district of luxury held nothing back as the family spewed filth your way for your cowardness in killing their son. You couldn't manage to keep your dinner down that night. You didn't stay in your personal quarters either, opting to remain in the Observatory car instead.

You hadn't missed the dazzling limelight of the Capital district.

You especially hadn't missed the pawing hands of the elite citizens.

The gala outside of President Snow's mansion was beyond anything you'd seen previously. To say the vibrant lights and overstuffed buffet tables were overwhelming would be an understatement. They were downright outrageous. Between the high-pitched caws of heiresses and the phlegmy coughs and sticky fingers of brokers and other top-class citizens and staff, you felt your skin practically buzzing from the overstimulation. You wanted nothing more than to slip away or melt into the floor. Peacekeepers lined every alcove and doorway on guard. But there wasn't any concern for the groping hands or lingering touches as you tried your best to squeeze through the crowd. Thatcher had disappeared almost instantaneously, swallowed up by the sea of brightly dressed vultures. You felt your breath grow hyper as your eyes darted around in search of anyone to hold onto and ground yourself. Finnick could be spotted across the swell of dancers in the hall hanging on the arm of two squawking elitists. The Darling was dusted in a similar luster you'd seen at the banquet in District 4, except in much more excess as the boy wore an organza tunic the color of his eyes that left little to be imagined. His trousers were bone white with chestnut dress shows. The Darling was equally adorned in dainty, golden chains as he was glitter and smudged lipstick. Your own cheeks burned at the blatant display.

What on earth was he doing??

Your eyes locked for a mere second, your bewildered gaze pleading, if not begging but the victor paid you no mind as pointed, too-white canines flashed in scandalous conversation with the people around him. You were utterly stranded.

Someone gripped your backside suddenly, earning a yelp and the urge to whip back and punch but instead, you whirl, backing straight into someone's shoulder. Amid the swirling music and voices, you felt tears spring to your eyes, threatening to spill as a gloved hand catches your waist and you're steadied on your feet. Your deep aqua gown whispers on the tiled floor (yes, another secret match to finnick's ensemble) and you're sputtering apologies quicker than you can think. You had to get out of here.

"It's quite alright Dear. A bit overwhelmed are we?"

"I- uhm... I'm so sorry, s-sir." You stutter as you behold the man standing before you. Snow white hair slicked back, with a neatly groomed beard and stark white suit has you gulping down the lump forming in your throat.

President Coriolanus Snow is standing in front of you.

You wish nothing more than to be shot dead right then and there. The creator of your horrors, of the hardships across the districts and the killing games children are forced to play in, was standing in front of you with his hand on your waist. A wolf in sheep's clothing. The devil himself.

A string of colorful profanities cycles through your mind as you're only able to blink in horror and feigned surprise. Any confidence or spite you thought you might have leeches from your mind as your skin blanches.

"I've been meaning to have a word with you. You did quite well in the Games this season, and have caught the interest of a few...clients, of mine. Not to mention the Mockingjays flittering about with rumors of a certain Darling, hm?" The President's tone is hollow. His steeled gaze bores into your own and you can't form the words to reply before the gloved hand at your waist slides up your torso and over to the back of your arm as the older man begins to guide you. The crowd instantly parts and conversations nearby halt, obviously eavesdropping on what the President of Panem has to say.

"Let us move away from prying ears. Gossip is a terrible thing." The President drawls as he pats your elbow. You swallow hard with a meek nod, sucking your lower lip between your teeth and feeling the taste of copper coat your tongue. You bit too hard.

No words are exchanged between the two of you as you pass a very unbothered Finnick, his cheeks and honey-tanned skin are flushed as his overly dilated pupils pay you no heed. Something was wrong. very wrong. The Darling reeked of champagne, mint, and something you couldn't place, and strong. The heiresses on his arms were speaking in hushed, sultry tones, and were tugging at his barely-there tunic. The boy wasn't fighting back. Your stomach drops to your toes as you can only sense the growing fear coming from the crease between his brows and the muscle fluttering in his jaw.

The greenhouse the President brings you to has bile rising to your throat. Every pot, bed, soil flat, and more was covered in white roses. The sickly sweet scent had your skin crawling and nose scrunching, despite the tang of fear on your tongue and the gnawing pressure squeezing your chest. Snow gestures for you to sit on a stone bench near a small fountain. The water gurgles as it threatens to overflow the basin it waters. Snow takes his place beside you, a gentle twist in his torso that sends whispers of his blazer over his silk shirt.

"You put on quite a show in the Arena my Dear. Playing soft and subtle but outlasting the wolves and striking like an asp in the end. You caused quite a stir amongst high-profile viewers. There have been whispers of intrigue about you. Many people covet a doe amongst a pack of wolves. Soft and sweet - like a lily among a field of thorned roses. Something to control," Snow begins. You feel miniscule compared to the powerhouse of a man beside you. You worry he can scent the fear seeping into your bones as you clasp your hands together like a vice to hide the trembling.

"I-I'm sorry. I don't quite follow."

Snow chuckles. Chuckles. The sound makes you wish to crawl out of your skin.

" Certain individuals feed on control. On submission. Complete - submission." The President's eyes grow dark and feel yourself shifting away, though the attempt is futile on the small bench.

"I'm saying people want you. You're - Desirable."

Desirable.

You'd heard the word only in hushed whispers less than a handful of times. Mainly when Finnick was involved. This couldn't be good. An awful nausea settles in your stomach as the President makes his proposal.

"Predators enjoy the hunt of their prey. The thrill of the hunt. They want a new Desirable Victor. Yes, they've had their shiny new Princeling to enjoy and ravish. Mr. Odair, if I'm not mistaken. But with your victory and spectacular display, they crave more. So I'm offering this," The mention of Finnick's status holds a venom that solidifies the sickness in your gut. If you could run far, far away right now, you would. And you'd sure as hell hunt down the vipers coiled around Finnick and take him with you.

"Become Desirable - or those fetching siblings of yours, and dear old Father, and everyone you hold dear, will be punished. Severely. What are their names? Dorian? Callan?" The President squints his eyes, crow's feet becoming pronounced around the corners of his eyes as your throat goes dry. Horror shoots through you as your heart all but shatters into a million pieces.

"Maybe I should throw in your dear Peacock, hm? The Capital would adore a star-crossed scandal. Trading their prince for a heartbroken princess?"

"P-please..." You murmur, the word barely audible.

"There's no room for discussion here. They'll be dead by morning if you don't accept. For the greater good of Panem and the strength of the Games, Dear."

Your vision blurs as defeat slashes your chest. Your limbs feel like jelly as you feel blood drip down your chin from the bite on your lip and a dampness coats your cheeks.

"Let them live..." You squeak.

Shame filters through the horror and disgust you feel. But you have to keep them safe. You'd lay down your own life sooner than any of theirs. Always.

A white glove smudges the blood from your chin, a crimson stain coating the President's glove as he accepts your agreement and gestures for you to stand. You do.

"Smile for the cameras Dear, tonight will be grand."

You can't bring your lips to move. Another tear slides down your face.

President Snow wipes the stray tear from your blanched cheek as a vile grin adds to the wrinkles on his face. You say nothing as the Predator guides you away from the greenhouse and up to the balcony overlooking the party. The President clears his throat and the room falls silent.

Finnick is nowhere to be seen through the crowd and panic surges through your chest.

"My dear citizens of the Capital, and all of Panem. I have a very special announcement to make this evening. As you know, we are gathered here tonight in honor of the Victor of our 67th Annual Hunger Games. " Snow's voice booms over the gala. Your insides churn as he continues to announce the sentence to seal your fate. You'd lost an even bigger game than you thought imaginable. You can’t find Finnick anywhere. A part of you wants to scream.

"May I present to you my dearest subjects, the doe who won against all odds. They prey who vanquished the beasts. Your new desirable," Snow bellows your name with a venom that makes you fear vomiting right then and there. You weren't a Victor, you weren't a survivor, you weren't even considered a human anymore. You were a product. You were a doe staring down the maw of a starving wolf.

You were nothing.

Mechanical shutters fill your ears as flashes blind your vision. You’re supposed to be smiling. Things will get worse if you don’t smile. But all you can feel is the bile rising in your throat and your leaden tongue refusing to move. The sickly scent of roses invades your senses as gloved hands pat your trembling ones that grip the President’s suit jacket like a vice. You don’t dare move an inch.

There are two things you've learned to despise since surviving The Games.

1. Liars

2. President Coriolanus Snow

@emerald-09 @reader-bookling123 @finnickodaddy @thehairington86 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @avoxrising @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @whens-naptime @violettbae @the-lonely-abyss @secretsicanthideanymore @nexxus13 @takanparadiae @yourdailymemedelivery @wowzabowza69 @c4ttheart @lizzo-del-jaileraka @inatimate-icarus @thestrals-and-firewiskey @honethatty12 @goldencolorrock @cherrsnut

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fatallyfalling · 22 days

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BITTER WATER 0.07 TONIGHT IM EDITING STILL PLZ DONT WORRY ILYSM <33

EDIT: ITS UP GO READ IT 💕💕✨✨🫶

#finnick odair x reader #the hunger games #finnick odair #finnick imagine #bitter water #soup soupin’

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fatallyfalling · 25 days

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guess who’s back from the dead and on spring break with too many drafts and feelings to burn.

Bitter Water 0.07 this weekend <3

for real this time i swear

#finnick odair x reader #bitter water #soup soupin’#please beleive me i swear i’m alive college sucks

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fatallyfalling · 2 months

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GUYS IM SORRY COLLEGE HAS BEEN KICKING MY ASS SO HARD IM SOSO SORRY

but here’s what me planning a chapter looks like - as a treat - i think it’s silly

you guys gotta ignore the typos i scramble so hard when i’m writing ajjfjsjjdksks i also did not mean Cinna i meant Caesar Flcikerman snenfnskfkskkf

i’m sorry

#bitter water #finnick odair x reader #the hunger games #finnick odair #finnick imagine #finnick x reader #thg #x reader fanfic #finnick x you #fanfic #fanfiction #GUYS IM SORRY ILL POST SOON I SWEAR ITS JUST TAKING FOREVER AND EVER WAAA

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fatallyfalling · 3 months

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Bitter Water 0.07 Teaser

forehead kisses for you all tysm for the patience have a treat ! *tosses this into the void and runs*

#bitter water #soup soupin’#finnick odair x reader #the hunger games #finnick odair #finnick imagine #finnick x reader #thg #x reader fanfic #finnick x you #fanfic #fanfiction #i’m so sorry i promise i’ll post soon plz don’t kill me #aaaaaaaaaaa

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fatallyfalling · 3 months

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guys - please don’t kill me

this chapter is going so much longer than expected - and i got pulled in to working extra shifts this week :(( i promise it will go up in the next few days i’m so sorry 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

i hate delaying repeatedly i just have a lot going on atm with college - im working on finding a healthy balance :”(

#finnick odair x reader #bitter water #i’m so sorry i’ll get it out asap !!#soup soupin’

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fatallyfalling · 3 months

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Hello Hello ! Here is a sneak peak to get the excitement stirring - 0.07 will be up this weekend and sneak peeks will be hinted at throughout the week I’m so sorry for my absence <\3

p.s.- prepare to cry <3

{{ Prompt }} Six months was never going to be long enough. You would have sooner dug your heels into the earth and bared your teeth than go back - but you have to keep them safe. You only ever wanted to keep them safe….. but in the end you never could…

“Finnick felt as if he’d been set on fire. Sparks shot like lightening up his arms and across his chest as he couldn’t help drinking you in from across the spotlight lit street. That excruciatingly tight thread in his chest started to fray.”

“Mechanical shutters fill your ears as flashes blind your vision. You’re supposed to be smiling. Things will get worse if you don’t smile. But all you can feel is the bile rising in your throat and your leaden tongue refusing to move. The sickly scent of roses invades your senses as gloved hands pat your trembling ones that grip the President’s suit jacket.”

#bitter water #soup soupin’#finnick odair x reader #the hunger games #finnick odair #finnick imagine #finnick x reader #thg #x reader fanfic #finnick x you #fanfic #fanfiction #finnick odair imagine #the hunger games finnick #finnick #thg finnick #finnick x y/n

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fatallyfalling · 3 months

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sorry for dropping off the face of the earth this past week, i started college again this week so moving back in and starting classes and work has been a bit insane @-@

I’m starting to slowly figure out my schedule and i plan to write some more of the next chapter for Bitter Water - there’s a lot to cover in that one as I’ve decided to semi-push ahead with moving the plot along. My chapters will slow down in how often i post due to crazy art school things but yea !! I’m still here and writing <3

#finnick odair x reader #the hunger games #bitter water #soup soupin’#finnick imagine #finnick odair #finnick x reader #finnick x you #x reader fanfic

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fatallyfalling · 3 months

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Ok Ok Ok - HEAR ME OUT

So i’m loving what i’m doing with Bitter Water so far - but i’m struggling to move the story/relationship dynamics between Reader and Finnick along because they’re still so young.

My original plan was to write out majority of the victory tour THEN time skip

BUT

My brain is itching to write more developed dialogue and interactions so i’m thinking of writing a summarized version of the tour in a singular (very long) chapter like i did with the 67th Games with a big event at the end before skipping ahead to Reader and Finnick being around 22 and their interactions are more solidified so i can also bring in the main plot of the trilogy slowly.

This also means the slow burn will ramp up with more tension than just “RAAA im mad at you but can’t stay away from you RAAA”

because 16 y/o Finnick & Reader are ADORABLE but also silly teenagers that don’t know what big feelings are 😀👍🏻

Really i just have too many cliches and scenes kicking around in my brain that i don’t think would work when both of them are sixteen and i want to move things a bit quicker ahaha

PLEASE VOTE AND COMMENT ANY THOUGHTS I LOVE TALKING ABOUT THIS PLEASEEEEEE I LOVE YOU ALL TYSM FOR ALL THE LOVE MUAH MUAH MUAH 🫶🫶

#bitter water #finnick odair x reader #the hunger games #finnick odair #finnick imagine #thg #finnick x reader #x reader fanfic #finnick x you #fanfic #fanfiction #the hunger games finnick #finnick #finnick odair imagine #thg finnick

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fatallyfalling · 3 months

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Bitter Water 0.06 ~ ♆

“ You’re just a kid. “

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, ptsd, insinuation of forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, death, nightmares, Finnick is still an ass, unintentional self injury, alcohol, description of scars, Reader has a vivid nightmare/episode, etc

{{ word count }} 4.5 k

{{ prompt }} Reuniting with your siblings feels like heaven on earth. You thought you’d never see them again, but coming home comes with new challenges and a certain peacock can’t seem to stay out of it.

{{ a/n }} i’m making up interiors at this point because the fact there were no imported plants in that observatory car in catching fire was CRIMINAL *sincerely, a shocked plant parent*

The rest of the train ride back to District 4 was…complicated, to say the least.

Honestly, remaining out of touch and only communicating through sweeping glances had been remarkably more constructive than you and Finnick standing even remotely close to one another. The Darling apparently couldn’t keep his mouth shut or the coy, dimpled smirk off his honey-tanned face, and you pled just as guilty. The leash that gripped your anger and self-restraint had slackened, snapping back every time he baited you into a fight. Poor Mags was unfortunately caught in the middle, mediating both sides or swatting Finnick out of the room before scolding you as if you were a child. You knew you should be more mature. Having been through hell and back, here you were, bickering like school children and crinkling your nose while allowing a crease to form between your brows at every snide comment or provocative gesture from your fellow victor.

You tried to ignore it. Tried to hold your tongue. But something about his insufferable smirk or the mischievous glint in those sea-green eyes always drew you back in.

You hated it, hated him.

The two days spent on the train felt more like a week. No matter how many efforts you made to avoid the bronze-haired boy or simply rest, he somehow materialized with some half-baked excuse. Whether it was fetching you for a meal or simply his own boredom, the urge to throttle the boy or defenestrate him became more enticing with each altercation. You just wanted to go home, but the closer District 4 came and the more rules Thatcher shoved down your throat, part of you pondered if the home you'd once cherished still existed for you back in District 4.

Maybe you didn’t deserve a 'home' after what you’d done.

Scabbed crescents made homes in your palms that throbbed when your tremoring fingers flexed, and your bottom lip was often flushed and puffy from sucking the muscle between your teeth. Both anxious habits had worsened since leaving the Games. Maybe it was self-punishment or purely unconscious side-effects of the arena, but the stinging pain and the angry flesh had somehow become a reminder of your survival.

Survival, what an ugly word.

There were times you’d be cleaning your hands before a meal or after using the washroom where you’d get stuck in an ugly cycle of scrubbing your skin to the point it was angry and stung under the scalding water. Your fractured mind loved to play tricks nowadays, and imagining permanent, sticky, crimson blood coating every pore of your skin seemed to be a favorite. Bathing, or honestly, anything to do with water, became a challenge in and of itself, but you valued your hygiene despite wanting to scream whenever you were under the shower head. Besides, Hyacinth or Thatcher might skin you alive if you’re not media-ready to some extent every excruciating moment.

Your newfound fear of the water had broken something in your chest that you didn’t know how to fix. The entity that once brought serenity and joy to your mind that had kept you grounded for so long was nowhere to be found. All that remained in the watery depths was copper-tasting liquid and a chokehold around your throat that threatened to squeeze every morsel of life from your lungs. Your soul was lost at sea with no lighthouse to guide you back to shore. You avoided water as much as you could. Not allowing yourself to fully step under the rainfall in the shower or to close your eyes when scrubbing your scalp despite the soapy suds stinging your vision.

Sleep barely came unless pinpricks tickled the base of your neck and your mind was clouded enough by wine that vomit greeted you when you awoke. The second night on the train home, Mags had to help you to your room after discovering you curled up in an empty sitting room again. Viciously scrubbing your hands as salty tears streamed down your cheeks. An empty bottle of hard liquor you’d swiped from the bar lay cast off beside you. “I-it won’t come o-off,” You’d repeated continuously as the mentor shushed your sobs and gathered you up, guiding you back to your room before tucking you into your bed. Sitting beside your curled-up body, Mags gently pet your hair while giving you a heartbroken smile till sleep enveloped your eyes and your tears left water droplet stains on the satiny pillow. Mags stayed with you through the night, helping when you were sick and holding you as trembling cries and hiccups escaped your lips between agonized screams that fed off the poltergeists inside your head.

You felt like the nightmare would never end.

The next morning, dappled sunlight filtered through the blinds in your room and drew throbbing consciousness into your body, along with a new round of bile to expel itself from your stomach. Your head felt like a rubber band had been stretched over your cranium and was digging into your forehead. Internal thoughts screamed for the sun to be snuffed out as well. Mags drew soft circles up your spine with a feather-light touch, and you rasped numerous apologies that she dismissed with a shake of her head. The tips of your ears burned with embarrassment. Your mentor fetched a glass of ice water from somewhere, and you could have sworn it was the best drink in your life as the icy liquid poured down your parched throat. The cooling effect of the hydration bloomed from across your chest to deep down into your stomach. You drank three more before Mags felt comfortable leaving you to your devices before breakfast.

Dressing moved at a snail's pace. Opting for lightweight, inky-colored shorts and a wide-necked olive green sweater that slipped off a shoulder, you tugged on fresh crew socks and padded your way into the bathroom to scrub the abysmal cocktail of bile and liquor from your throat. The urge to splash cold water on your face was strong, but instead, you unwaveringly glared into the onyx basin of the sink for a minute, maybe five. You did your best to look presentable, but a firm crease rested between your brows over squinted eyes to make the overhead lighting of the train cars somewhat bearable. You still wished the blazing sun of early morning would blow out.

Thatcher is glaring as you enter the dining car. They’re dressed in their usual over-the-top tux with matching gloves, and your bottom lip sucks between your teeth to bite back a sarcastic remark. Hyacinth is dressed much the same. Layers of lilac and ice blue organza compliment the lavender tones in her silver hair. She looks almost like a fairy. You would have flattered the stylist if you weren’t so horribly ill. But instead, you silently slump into your designated seat while crossing your arms tightly over your chest. The sleeves of your thin sweater are pulled over your bruised knuckles in mimic of mittens. A shiver runs up your spine, and you regret your choice of bottoms.

A thin hand reaches across to give a comforting squeeze to your shoulder, and your eyes drag across to meet warm brown in Mags. A ghost of a smile tugs the corners of your mouth, but your gaze inevitably falls away. Finnick saunters into the room a few moments later, looking slightly irritated but still finely dressed. The irritation in his jaw diminishes as his eyes sweep the table, almost in a satisfied manner. The Darling is wearing a stark-white poet’s tunic and deep ocean-blue trousers. Deep brown boots lace up to his knees and your eye twitches at how put-together the bronze-haired boy is. A miniature golden trident sits on his clavicle on a thin chain, and it’s an effort to force your eyes away from the tiny weapon.

Setting your jaw, your gaze decidedly fixates on fluffy, egg-fried toast on your plate, swimming in what smells like maple syrup and mixing with cinnamon and vanilla aromas. The dish is sickly sweet, sprinkled with fresh raspberries that you take a moment to savor the tart flavor of. The maple adds an intriguing layer to the small fruit, but the sugary coating melts from your tongue quickly.

A part of you relishes that not a peep expels from Finnick’s throat about your current appearance. Any other opportunity, he would have been all snickers and sarcasm, but the air around the Victor seems tense as sea-green eyes silently communicate with your mentor. Suspicion tugs at your chest, but you try to ignore the feeling, snipping the internal cord in two as you force your attention away to Hyacinth’s latest rambling over different textile and design trends with Thatcher. Their posh accents are still outlandish sounding in your ears. The excessive use of adjectives and fancy expressions or metaphors still sets your mind reeling sometimes.

The remainder of the morning meal is calm, a low buzz of idle chatter filling the train car beside the scraping of cutlery on fine china plates. There’s no wine at the table. You take notice of the fact, but the throbbing in your head deters any want of the fermented beverage anyway. Not even Thatcher or Hyacinth dangle a breakfast wineglass between their fingertips. “Odd,” you think, “They never eat without wine.”

Sweeping your eyes across the table from the Capital pair to your mentor, your eyes meet, and a heart-warming smile crosses the elderly woman’s lips. Mischief twinkles in her eyes.

Mags must have taken the wine.

You have to applaud the mentor’s efforts. Being more of an observer yourself, it’s no surprise she’d caught on to why you’d taken up the sudden habit, especially after last night. You feel your skin warm at the thought. Trying to shove the mix of bruised pride and surprise at her genuine care for your well-being away, you pop the last of your toast into your mouth and swallow down the rest of the ice water in your crystal glass. You almost miss the tiny rainbows that reflected through the clear liquid before it was gone.

Thatcher coughs another review of the mountain of expectations, featuring a thorough minute-to-minute itinerary for your arrival in District 4. Despite your aching temples and contingent feelings of nausea and spite towards the glaring sunlight, this feels like the first time you hear the escort clearly. A piece of you feels guilty for ignoring the majority of their spiels. Considering how detail-oriented they were, leaving nothing hidden or away from common knowledge. It helped ease the nerves flowing through your groggy system to know exactly what would happen and when. You’d have to thank them later, maybe when things weren’t so chaotic.

You never did get to properly thank the escort for everything they’d done.

The passing redwood trees loom like Capital skyscrapers as the train speeds onward. The observatory brought up the rear in the train car lineup was rounded with a deep, comforting couch that melded into the curve of the walls. The ceiling and complete back end are made of glass to shape a dome, similarly styled to a paneled greenhouse. Different plants speckle the interior on various tables or shelves covered in crawling vines and lush green leaves. The greenery obviously thrives in the open light. White roses emit their sickly floral aroma from crystal vases on various coffee tables. The air in the room smells of fresh soil and nature. Allowing deep breaths of calm to pass through your lungs, you curl up on the long sofa, your chin resting on your folded arms over the back of the furniture. The bleating pain at your temples has dissolved to a mild ache after having a meal and many glasses of water to regain your depleted hydration.

The scenery is gorgeous. The smudges of red bark in the moving trees tell you you’ll be home in a matter of hours. The faces of your twin younger brothers cross your mind, and you feel your throat tighten and your chest squeeze. You could only hope your father had taken your advice and cared for them. Maybe he had gone to Marjorie for help like you’d said to. She’d know what to do if anything happened. Marjorie was a well-known elder in your northern port town. She was short, plump, and always smelled of lavender and tea with kind, blue eyes and a head of silver curls. Every kid in town knew her as if she were family, and she was regarded as such. The elder provided herbal tonics, mid-wife services, help with newborns, teaching younglings to weave when their parents were too busy, and overall helping care for everyone in town. Some younglings were even allowed to call her ‘Nana’. Your brothers referred to Marjorie as such, but you’d always referred to the woman by name. Your mother had entrusted Marjorie with your care after an accident on slippery rocks off the coast left a gash across your nose, along with torn-up knees and palms. Marjorie had taught you most of what you knew of herbs and foraging. You were eternally thankful for the woman’s kindness.

The sunlight was warm on your skin, and your breathing grew calm and steady enough to stall the trembling in your fingertips. You wanted to hold your siblings and father close so much your heart felt as if it were going to burst. To heart, the thrilled shrieks of your brothers upon your return brought the smallest of smiles to your face. A true smile. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d done that.

You don’t remember the warmth of the sunlit garden lulling your consciousness away or even your eyelids growing heavy with sleep.

Finnick drags his hands through his fluffy mess of hair with a heavy sigh from his nose as the train car door slides shut with a mechanical ‘click’. Bronze waves fall back every which- way across the boy’s forehead as his chin dips, honey-tanned fingertips picking an invisible lint from his shoulder and playing with a loose thread in his ocean-blue pants. He couldn’t seem to stop fidgeting nowadays. With another sigh, he squeezes his eyes shut for a minute before moving to the long curved sofa and plopping down. The cushions sink to his form while he crosses an ankle over his knee before dragging a hand down his face, emitting a small groan. Sunlight glows through large glass panels, and the boy leans back, staring at the cloudless sky. A faint, watery reflection in the glass above and a crease forms between the victor’s brows as he takes in his princely attire. It seemed he couldn’t dress for himself at all anymore. There always had to be a show, even if no one was watching.

The sudden shifting sound beside him causes Finnick to practically jump out of his skin. Finnick's head snaps up, sea-green irises going wide, his hands curl into fists on instinct as the victor’s whole body tenses. Oh - it's just you. Relief floods his system as he visibly relaxes, mentally kicking himself for not being more observant. His position shifts, adjusting to lean his elbows on his knees while covering his face with his hands, another sigh. The miniature trident around the victor’s neck is cold, hanging heavy on his skin.

Swallowing thickly, the boy peeks between his fingers at your still figure not three feet away. Sunlight rimmed an outline across your form and left sparkles on your complexion. Your facial expression was calm, maybe peaceful? There wasn’t a knit-together brow or usual scowl in sight. Your knees were folded up underneath yourself, with your torso twisted to fold your arms and lean your head down along the back of the sofa facing the windows. Smudges of purple darkened your under eyes, along with small, nearly invisible scars decorating your left cheekbone, right temple, and across your nose.

The Capital physicians were experts at polishing away “imperfections”, but even their expansive technology could only do so much for the maiming that appeared during the Games. Maybe it was another entertainment tactic geared to draw interest in the “desirables” or to leave more haunting reminders. Finnick didn’t know. Your hands were also speckled with dozens of scars, the point of interest being the slight bruising on your knuckles. Or maybe the dried blood hiding under chipped nail polish. The lacquer color was a familiar sea-green. He’d noticed it during your interview and several times during your games.

The color matched his eyes.

Why?

Finnick shoved the thought away with a shake of his head. It didn’t matter. At least his gesture this morning at breakfast had worked. Thatcher and Hyacinth hadn’t thrown a hissy fit over their breakfast wine being absent either.

Finnick wasn’t a complete asshole. He also had noticed your little habit, and after Mags had given him a stern chew-out to not bother you any longer because he was only “making things worse.” apparently, he’d explained a half-truth for his reasoning. If he was bothering you, you weren’t drinking. If you were glaring at him or barking back, you weren’t drinking. You weren’t alone crying either if he made himself a problem. The other half of his reasoning? He couldn’t tell anyone because he didn’t really know himself. He’d never desired the attention of another person before, not really. Certainly not their touch. But that string in his chest still painfully tugged at his heart where his eyes met yours, even if you were burning holes in his skull with your eyes or talking him to fuck off. He tried to chalk it up to some sort of ‘Victor trauma bond’, reliving similar experiences from an outside perspective and revisiting those memories over and over. Or maybe it was just pity for your situation. He didn’t know. He tried not to care or think about it too much.

Finnick had been the one to suggest taking the option of alcohol away all together.

If it wasn’t an option, you’d be forced to cope differently or talk to someone. Mags seemed the best option, considering the position he’d placed himself in. He wasn’t licensed for any emotional handling. Amidst the victor’s swirling thoughts, a small whimper breaks the silence, and oceans of sea-green snap from your fingertips to your face. Your features rapidly contorted in the form of distress, familiar creases returning between your brows and your nose scrunching as chipped nail polish disappears under balled fists. Your curled form shrinks further as you close in on yourself. Head twitching side to side over your folded arms, Finnick’s hands slowly fall from his face as his brows sew up in concern.

A nightmare.

You were peaceful moments before, a rare sight according to Mags, but now something dark had sunk its teeth into your mind and destroyed whatever light had been healing your aching thoughts. A murmur of something incoherent slips, and your lips between a deep frown. Near-whispered words grow frantic as your fists move to grip your skull instead of the fabric of your sleeves. Things were getting worse. Setting his jaw, the boy twists, slowly adjusting to grab your wrists. Gently, Finnick maneuvers your hands under a soft touch, disentangling your trembling fingers from your hair. Your arms jerk back towards yourself to flee from the touch, but the Darling holds firm. Flashes of being back in that small med bay in an even smaller corner flash behind the victor’s eyes, causing rapid blinks as he tries to focus on your distressed struggle.

“Hey, Hey! Wake up!”

Finnick doesn’t shout, opting for harsh whispers, but one of your legs kicks out from beneath you, and a painful connection from your kneecap on his ribs emits a strained grunt. The boy’s grip falters, giving you enough time to pull away. A shrieked “No!” rips from your throat as your eyes shoot open, following a gasp as you whip your head side to side in frantic terror. Finnick groans again as a hand wraps around his middle where you made contact. Your panicked gaze snaps to meet oceans of sea-green for a split second as your hands flail over your shoulders and face up into your hair, trying to make sense of what is real and not.

That string inside Finnick’s chest pulls so hard he fears it may snap in two and he’ll bleed out right then and there.

Your breaths are ragged almost to the point of panting, and you’re shaking like a leaf as your your barely coherent murmurs resume.

“D-Dorian… C-Callan… Cal… w-where...? M-My…I… I-I’m sorry… sorry…”

The physical pain in Finnick’s face melds to concern as he barely deciphers that you’re calling for someone. Two people? You’ve collapsed in on yourself. Knees drew tight into your chest, and your arms white-knuckling your biceps in a vice grip on yourself. Your eyes are as wide as saucers, full of terror and far away pain. Faded crescents sting on the boy’s forearms, almost as harsh as the fiery pain lapping flames up his torso.

You’re just a kid.

You’re both just kids.

“Uh… hey, i-it was just a nightmare.”

Finnick stutters. Stutters, for Christ’s sake. You side-eye the bronze-haired boy but don’t say a word, continuing to murmur the two names on your lips. “Shit, I should get Mags…” Finnick internally curses. But Mags could be on the other end of the train, and there was no way in hell he was going to leave you in this state. No matter how much you despised his presence.

So Finnick stayed.

Again.

Tension so thick a dull knife could slice through like butter blankets the observatory. Your murmurs persist, and Finnick’s scrambling to figure out something to say. Do? Part of him fears you’ll gouge out his eyes. “Stop being an idiot!” Finnick mentally shouts. You’re a teenager. He’s taken down people twice his size and dealt with worse. He could do this.

“Who…who’s Dorian? or.. Cal?”

The question is simple. It’s enough to make you blink and tilt your head towards the boy. A hint of life returns to your eyes at the names rolling off his tongue. His gaze softens as tears shine in your bleary eyes, threatening to spill down your flushed cheeks. But you don’t reveal anything. Actually, your fearful expression melds to chemical calm before turning sour. Furiously blinking, you smear the backs of your hands across your face with a harsh sniffle before tearing your gaze from the boy’s and abruptly standing.

“No one, they’re no one.”

Your words are strained in your throat, and you’re sniffling again. The damn tears won’t stop. They’re hot and salty as you continue to aggressively wipe the liquid away. Finnick doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even move. He just stares up at you.

The tightness in his chest feels almost unbearable.

Swallowing thickly, you spare the boy a single glance before making a swift exit from the observatory. Your ears burn in humiliation that he witnessed yet another episode of yours, and you hated that his eyes had all but melted under your gaze.

You didn’t need his pity.

He was just a stupid Peacock.

You make a point to evade the Darling the rest of the journey.

The sun was well on its way to sinking below the horizon as the industrial Capital train chugs to a halt in the station of District 4. The sky is painted a lovely range of oranges and pinks with hints of lilac that remind you of fire. Hyacinth had spent the last hour dressing you. Why? You had no clue because you looked completely normal. Your hair was left in its natural texture, and your clothes had been swapped for a simple royal blue ensemble. The dress was soft linen with a square, sleeveless neckline while cinching at the waist before flowing down to just below your knees in a full circle skirt. A thin cord in the same blue ties in a small bow at your lower back. You wouldn’t have chosen something like this for yourself. Spending a minute or two twirling in the mirror just to admire the ripples of fabric while you spun. You felt… pretty. But a nervousness churns in your stomach that urges your fingernails to dig into your palms and your bottom lip to suck between your teeth anxiously.

It was just a few cameras. You’d done this a million times and practiced your smile in the mirror till your cheeks and the muscles in your jaw ached. Just one more performance. Then, your siblings would be in your arms, and you could be left alone for a few months.

One more curtain call, one more final bow.

The cameras are blinding. You underestimated just how many there would be. Plastering that faux smile on your lips, the train doors slide shut behind you, and Thatcher is urging you forward. Mechanical camera flashes and bursting flashbulbs fill your ears amidst a cacophony of photographer shouts calling you to look at them. You’re blinking furiously under the bright lights. Thatcher ushers you along while shooing away questions. You’re internally grateful for their actions. Mags is beside you, a gentle grip on your interlaced fingers. The touch is reassuring.

The cameras thankfully turn to Finnick the moment his bronze waves appear, and you take the opportunity to slip away. Mags leads you to Victor’s Village, Thatcher and Hyacinth close behind to make sure straggling cameras set on following you stay a comforting distance away. The invasion of privacy was still unsettling under your skin. The houses are in a neat culdesac. There are many homes. Not all possess occupants. All the buildings have clean, off-white painted wood exteriors with charcoal-colored shingles on their roofs and navy blue doors. Intricately molded details trim windows, doorways, and shutters with a pretty porch and two bay windows on the upper levels. The homes are identical, and the sight sets your skin crawling.

Mags gently guides you past a few homes before stopping four houses down. The other Victors have stepped onto their porches to check out their new neighbor. Your eyes cast down to the cobblestone, effectively avoiding eye contact. The attention and roaming eyes make you wish to crawl into a deep, dark hole and disappear.

You barely make it up the steps before the front door swings open, and you stumble back to remain upright as two kids bolt from the house. The porch groans under running feet as small arms latch around your legs, but you're quick enough to fall and meet their hold. You're already crying as you deeply inhale the love in your sibling's hair and clutch the toddlers so close you fear they may evaporate in your grasp. The younglings are crying and speaking a million miles a minute with every bursting detail of what's occurred in your absence. Their speech is garbled, but you're too emotional to care. You're just grateful to be alive in this moment.

They're alive. They're safe.

Your father soon joins your huddled trio in a grouped embrace. All of you are crying, and all the faces and prying eyes have melted away. It's just you and your family.

“Dori…Cal…Dad..”

You're home.

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fatallyfalling · 3 months

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* evil laughter *

#bitter water #finnick odair #finnick odair x reader #the hunger games #finnick imagine #finnick x reader #thg #finnick x you #x reader fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #finnick odair imagine #finnick #finnick x y/n #finnick odair fanfic

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fatallyfalling · 3 months

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Welcome ~ ☕︎

“ The words i speak, are wildflowers and weeds, they spread like some awful damn disease “

- this is a multi-fandom writing blog, i don’t reblog things here so it’s purely my writing and personal chaos!

- I can be referred to as Soupy or Soup!

- They/Them pronouns preferred but i’ll answer to anything haha

- I’m 20 years old

- This blog is SFW, there shall be no smut here haha but there may be suggestive undertones to certain scenes/things can be ✨imagined✨ from then on !

- my masterlist can be found in my bio!

- DO interact!! i love love love reading messages, asks, comments, all of it! I try to respond to absolutely everyone as well!

- DO send requests when they’re open! { they’re currently closed! }

- DONT steal my work or artwork and post it anywhere! reblogs are okay and encouraged - but if my artwork or writing is found anywhere besides this blog IT IS NOT ME!!

- DONT spread hate or harmful rhetoric on this blog! i know how to use the block button - this account is a safe space for myself and my readers and i plan to keep it that way!

- Hunger Games { Finnick & Peeta }

- Supernatural { Dean Winchester }

#soup soupin’#the hunger games #supernatural #x reader fanfic #fanfiction #thg fanfiction #spn fanfiction #finnick odair x reader #dean winchester x reader #peeta mellark x reader

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fatallyfalling · 3 months

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i started reading bitter water and your writing is absolutely amazing !! it's hard to come across good writing on here so i applaud you 🫶🏾

ohhh my gosh you are sososososo sweet!!! big big forehead kisses for you! 💕💕 i absolutely thrive on reading and listening to everyone’s reactions and interactions it inspires me so much and helps me know people love and want more of my work! Thank you so much i appreciate this so so much 💕💕 🫶

{{ also side note to any other people debating asks or messages - PLEASEEEEE SEND THEM I WANNA INTERACT WITH YALL MORE PLEASEEE ILYSMMM }}

#soup soupin’#bitter water #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair #the hunger games

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fatallyfalling · 4 months

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Bitter Water 0.05 ~ ♆

“ Fuck you, Odair ”

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, insinuation of forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, death, nightmares, reader throws up whoops, alcohol/tipsy! reader, Finnick is still an ass, etc

{{ word count }} 2.8 k

{{ prompt }} Readjusting to life outside the arena is a challenge. You’re barely able to cope with the blood staining your hands and the new terrors that arise before you’re whisked away back home.

{{ a/n }} happy holidays ! we’re finally going to be getting somewhere in reader and Finnick’s relationship this time around !! there will still be a lot more build up from here don’t fear <3

Finnick had to adjust his grip to keep your buckling knees from bringing both of you to the linoleum tile below. You had gone all but limp in the boy’s arms as choked sobs escaped your lips. You broke down right there in his arms, eventually taking the two of you to your knees regardless of the boy’s strength nor his futile attempts to keep you either standing or to guide you back to your cot. Wires connected sticky monitors to a wailing device and tangled themselves around your arms and chest. A small trickle of blood dribbled down your forearm from where your IV tube had been ripped out in your scuffle away from the medics.

Finnick’s brows knit together in a tight crease as your fingertips pressed hard into his honey-tanned skin. A muscle in the boy’s jaw fluttered as your sobs and burning touch tugged that thread in his chest hard. Your claim from the train ride had been ripped from your grasp without so much as a goodbye, all in the name of survival.

“I’d rather choose death than a life with blood on my hands.”

He didn’t really know why you were gripping him so tight, as if he’d disappear should your grip be released, considering you’d almost taken him out with a medical tool upon his entrance to the small medical bay. The device had cracked the small window next to the doorway, and broken glass now speckled the floor beneath the shattered pane. Your broken, hiccuped cries continued on, ragged breaths barely bringing air into your lungs, while Finnick shot warning glares back towards the doctors who tried to enter the room. The medical professionals slowly backed out upon meeting the deadly daggers within the Darling’s sea-green gaze. You were in hysterics, to say the least. The reality of your survival and the invisible crimson caked into your skin slammed into every fiber of your being and brought bile rising into your already constricted throat. But nothing heaved itself from your empty stomach. Finnick sat cautiously still, the linoleum tile cold beneath his knees, as his gaze turned away from the open door back to your crumpled form. He didn’t say anything nor make any moves to comfort or touch you, only providing space to allow you to get everything out. To be frank, Finnick didn’t know how to react besides sitting still. You hadn’t expressed kindness to him since meeting one another, nor had he you, but the thought of your fear and the pain tearing apart your chest being intensified by the poking and prodding of medics and nurses tugged that thread again painfully as if the tension was pulled so tight on a guitar sting that one more twist would cause it to snap and fly back in a heated slice across his heart.

So the Darling stayed.

He sat with you till exhaustion ebbed into your shoulders, and your tears slowly dried. He sat still as a rock until reality came back into focus, and your fingernails left small, purple crescent moons on his tanned forearms as you released your grip. Your breaths were shaky, and your voice was shot as your bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks flushed with color dragged up to meet calm sea-green oceans. “I-I’m.. sorry…” You struggle to gasp out before your chin dips, and a trembling arm comes up to cough viciously into your elbow. Finnick simply shook his head, rubbing sweaty palms on his tear-stained trousers before combing a hand through the bronze waves thrown atop his head.

“It’s fine,”

The small room fell silent, aside from the bustling commotion outside the bay and your gasping breaths as air still struggled to fill your lungs. “I should go get a nurse. You’re bleeding again.” Finnick huffs after a beat before moving to stand. You don’t say anything as your arms curl around yourself in a tight hug. A thick swallow goes down the boy’s throat as he forces himself away from the room and into the bright, sterile hallway. That thread tugged his shoulders back as if trying to push him backward into that room towards the corner you’d curled into, but he willed himself to move forward. You were just a scared victor. You had gripped the first familiar thing to you after being trapped in a cruel Game for a month. Your actions were instinct-driven and nothing more. You’d only met for two days. There was no point or reason for his chest to be this tight or his skin to hunger after your touch. His jaw sets as he rubs the crescent indents on his skin, searching for a nurse down the hall.

That thread snaps tight in his chest again with each brush of his thumbs over the purple marks.

You’re kept in the medical bay of the Capital’s Tribute Center for a fortnight. The lengthy stay was mostly for observation purposes following a psyche evaluation alongside the closing ceremonies of the 67th Games and another sugarcoated interview full of bright lights and flashing cameras with Caesar Flickerman. You’d thrown up at least once before or after every public appearance. You despised the spotlight, gargling a minted mouthwash between your teeth to coat your tongue and rid the sour taste of bile from your lips. Hyacinth returned to plaster you in garish flourishes and flounces along with an opaque concealer to cover the deep-set smudges of purple beneath your eyes from lack of sleep. The Capital had been gracious enough to mend your wounds well, but makeup was still needed to cover bruises in various stages of healing. You did your best to plaster on that faux, practiced smile before performing once again for the entertainment of millions of Panem citizens.

Your stomach painfully churned upon your realization that the performance would never end. You’d always be forced to perform from this moment forward.

You’d only seen your mentor, Mags, consistently after your breakdown, besides various medical personnel needing to check on you. Finnick was only seen in passing. The two of you hadn’t spoken since your outburst, nor had the two of you stood in the same room long enough to converse with one another, let alone stand beside one another. Only fleeting glances were shared across crowds, and the bronze-haired boy was constantly moving, constantly changing. Each night, he would appear strapped to the hip of a new Capital elitist in progressively more revealing tunics and netting that unfortunately left less and less to the imagination. Your nose crinkled at the aura he put out, cocky and self-absorbed while flashing showboating smirks and suggestive comments back to back. At least the rumors concerning the two of you harboring some kind of “star-crossed lovers” spectacle had died out upon your announced victory and the Darling’s consistent appearances with new presumed partners, earning him the term playboy in the gossip strips of Capital newspapers. You tried to avoid the victor and his attitude at all costs, forcing yourself to forget the moment shared in a forgotten hospital room corner and move on.

Mags was sweet as ever, doting on you like a worried mother hen and doing her best to ensure your comfort, considering your unstable circumstances. She visited you daily, sometimes more than once. The two of you would share a meal or cup of tea, conversing in your own signals and whispered words, discussing anything and everything to help you get through the day. On the hard days, the two of you would sit in a calm silence, simply absorbing the pleasant company of one another.

Tonight, you would finally board the train back to District 4. Back home. You didn't sleep at all the night before. Whether it was nerves, excitement, or the haunting phantoms behind your eyes whenever they closed? You're not sure. It could be all three, honestly. Thatcher was busy lecturing your procession as bright flashes blinded your vision, and loud hollers of the Capital upper-class bludgeoned your ears. However, all you wanted was to be out of the spotlight and locked inside your personal quarters for the next two days before finally seeing your lovely younger brothers again. A gloved hand grips your shoulder and urges you to keep moving. The stark-white uniforms of peacekeepers cloud your peripherals, sending your skin crawling. The grip feels like a brand on your skin.

Moments after the train car doors shut, the industrial machinery surges to life, and the train sets into motion. An ascending chug roars as the metal car picks up speed. “Come, come! Just like our last journey, there is much to be discussed!” Your escort queries while ushering everyone towards a too-familiar dark wood dining table. Your group was small, but Thatcher, Hyacinth, Mags, Yourself, and surprisingly, Finnick gathered at the long table, taking seats behind cursive name cards and crystal wine glasses. You couldn’t help your sweeping gaze across the silk tablecloth toward the 65th victor. The boy was lounged across his armchair, weight pressing into his left elbow on the armrest as his free arm dangled the wine glass, dark wine slowly swirling inside the goblet. His position appeared comfortable but exuded pride. You forced your gaze down to your glass of wine after sea-green oceans caught wind of your unintentional staring. A cheshire smirk pressed dimples into his tanned cheeks, but no words were exchanged between you two.

“Now, we have two days before arriving back on the sunshine sands of District 4. For our dear victor,”

Your name sounds foreign in such a cheerful tone.

“Your family has already been transferred to your lovely new home in Victor’s Village! Our Darling, Finnick here, will be just across from your new home with Mags beside him. Your fellow victors will be around you in the rest of the village for support and companionship!” You wince at the escort’s last words. You didn’t want their feigned “companionship” You just wanted to go home. A dark chuckle resonated across the table, and even Thatcher goes quiet for once.

“Yes of course, we have weekly parties to discuss our methods from the arena, and sit in circles and sing koombaya.”

Your nose scrunches in discomfort at the bronze-haired victor’s blatant sarcasm. Mags shifts uncomfortably in her seat at the end of the table between the two of you while shooting the boy a pointed look. A beat passes before Thatcher clears their throat and tries to continue their speech. “Uhm, yes… I suppose. Ahem. When we arrive at the station, cameras will be ready, so I expect nothing more than big smiles! We are happy to be home and to see our beloved District again. No more, no less. There will be a meeting with the Mayor, then a procession through the District to Victor’s Village, and then another meeting to discuss the terms of the next six months before beginning your Victory tour through all of the districts, ending with a grand celebration in the Capital city with our Honored President Snow.” Thatcher continues. Their voice regains its usual lilt and confidence, almost as if they’re convincing themself of the festivities ahead. They gives another speech on rules and expectations, Hyacinth flutters on about her ideas of possible designs for the tour, among other details, and you feel like you’re about to be sick.

You quickly down about two and a half glasses of wine before you’re buzzed and floaty enough to settle in your seat. You’d drowned out the conversation long before, finding the dozens of tiny rainbow light fractals sparkling in your crystal goblet far more intriguing. The dark wine was dry and bitter-tasting. Through slow-blinking eyes, you finish what’s left in your goblet and excuse yourself from the nonsensical conversation. Amidst your hazy stumble from the table, you didn’t bother or care to notice the sea-green eyes fixating on your retreating form.

You just wanted to lay down, possibly throw up; you couldn’t decide which quite yet. You’d never bothered with alcohol before. Seeing what the fermented liquid had done to your father made the idea unpleasant. But after experiencing the hazy warmth the drink brought to your core and the ease of a clouded mind, you began to see why he had taken up the habit. The Capital didn’t seem to care if minors drank anyway. You told yourself over and over you wouldn’t let this get bad. You refused to be like him. You just needed to get home and see the sweet faces of your brothers.

Your personal quarters were the same as before, sleek and industrial with shades of grey and royal blue velvet followed by dark wooden accents. Your clothes were comfortable linen, the same ones you’d worn off the train before the Games, but this time, your top was an inky black, and your lightweight pants a cool, forest-toned green. Face planting into the plush bedding, you curled in on your side. Your hair had been left in its natural texture since the games, only maneuvered when Hyacinth needed you to appear publicly in her newest design. Your knees hugged close to your chest, and your arms curled in close, making for a tightly coiled fetal position. The back of your skull felt fuzzy as if a hand was leaving ghostly pinpricks up along the nape of your neck to the crown of your head. The feeling was peculiar yet welcome, adding to the fuzziness behind your eyes and the warmth wrapping around your torso.

Your sleep was light and thankfully, dreamless.

Sleep held you hostage for several hours before jolting you awake in a cold sweat, as the fervent need to expel your stomach sent you scrambled to the black porcelain latrine and heaved bile and wine. You were lucky you’d made it to the small washroom at all, with how quickly the intoxicated need took hold of your consciousness.

“Well now, haven’t we been here before?”

You could hear the smirk on Finnick’s face before you’d even finished wiping your mouth on a strip of bath tissue.

“Get out.”

Your tone was cold, glare laced with irritation, as you shifted to clean yourself up and shakily stood after gripping the onyx rim of the washroom sink. You weren’t in the mood for idle chatter nor the taunts that glinted in the sea-green irises behind you. “If you’re just here to gloat or say, “I told you so,” you can shove it. I’ve had enough false charm and teasing, Peacock.”

“Peacock? Is that a new pet name, hm? What was it you told Caesar? Oh, yes - that you would never fall for a stuck-up Peacock like me in mm…say, a thousand years? Maybe Mr. Flickerman was on to something."

"Fuck you, Odair."

Venom spits from your lips as you finally turn, only to be caught off guard by meeting that insufferable smirk mere inches from your face. The two of you were on a fairly level height, but the slight slouch in the boy's stance hinted that he was taller. Your palms connect with honey-tanned skin as you shove the vain Darling back to get around him. "Get out of my room." You quip, blood simmering in your veins as you thrust a pointed finger toward the open door. The swagger in the boy's walk almost had your eye twitching as the various reasons you'd disliked the boy before became crystal clear in the front of your mind. Whatever regret for your previous outburst, or feelings that had flickered between you two in the medical bay were gone, replaced by whatever Golden Boy persona had infected Finnick and twisted calm concern in his eyes to an unreadable cruelty. You hated the boy standing in your doorway.

"Get. Out."

Finnick simply shook his head, before sauntering out of the room, not bothering to mention you’d slept through breakfast. Again.

As the industrial door slid shut behind the boy, that thread snapped tight in his chest again. Swallowing thickly, Finnick shoved his hands deep into his pockets and tried to shrug off the tightness in his chest. The words had tumbled from his lips quicker and harsher than intended and he felt like kicking himself in the ass for his actions. The phantom touch of your hands pressing into his chest made the pink crescents on his forearms sting, and he had to reach up and pick an invisible piece of lint from his tunic for any sense of relief. Maybe he should let you hate him, keep up the act, and remain at arm's length instead of nursing that tight string in his chest linking back to you. You were frightened, traumatized beyond belief, and you just wanted to go home.

Mags was sure to chew him out for a good hour on his behavior well into the late afternoon.

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