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valynne · 3 months

Text

my house would miss you (and so would i)

pairing(s). finnick odair x gn victor! reader word count. 2.2k description. your porch swing in the victors village has always been your favourite place to watch the ocean and her troubles. the ocean has always loved watching a gentle love story from her shore.

content. reader never wears their shoes (loves their skirt tho), gentle love, trauma from the hunger games, death of childhood, mentions of murder

a/n. i finished work not even half an hour ago and had the beautiful idea that is this fic while walking back along the beach while it rained <3

The porch wood beneath your feet is scratchy, the salt weathered wood has splintered in places and the finish has peeled back with the years of use. The book in your hand sags into your lap as you lift your gaze to look through the grey and rusty iron bars of the Victors Village.

There had been a weather prediction earlier in the week that you had waved off, thinking little of the percentages and weird lines they used to indicate winds. Rain, gods above did you love rain.

You pull your feet up onto the cushioned porch swing. The wind makes the chair sway as you tuck your feet beneath your skirt, leaning further into the armrest as you slot your bookmark between the pages that you were sure you had just been rereading for 3 minutes.

You strain your eyes to see over the fence of the village, to catch a glimpse of the waves lapping at the shore. For someone who grew up around the smell of the ocean you would never get tired of it; the smell of fish from upwind, the sight of the waves and the sun melding at the beginning and end of each day, the water lapping at your calves on especially hot afternoons, the spray of the brine during storms.

You missed it during your games, good lord did you miss it. You had been clutching your knife to your chest and praying with the power of every kind deed you had done that it was a fishing rod instead. That the blood under your nails was from deboning fish and scrapping their scales off. That the nasty scars that run along your shoulder and back had been from a boat propeller and not a particularly cruel Career girl. You had cried when you won, an ugly howling as you sat astride the body of the last tribute. During the interviews he had been strong, his cheeks full of muscle and fat and his eyes gleaming with a knowing type of jollity. You had seen him during the Last Feast, he was as gaunt as you were, he looked fearful and starving. During the last few minutes of your Games though, his dark hair was matted with mud and his cheeks were swollen with blood as rain ran in rivulets in the cuts on his soft skin.

Finnick had told you the doctors that fixed you up when you won had to realign all four knuckles on your right hand, and entirely replace one on your left. He said that the Capitol had gone crazy when you chose to use your hands instead of a weapon. Had applauded so loudly when you knocked his weapon, Terce Steelbrand from District 2, from his hands and brought blow-after-blow down on his face. The canon had gone off before you stopped, way before you had. It was gruesome, bloody, and foul and gut-wrenching. You had beaten a boy a year older than you to his death.

“You alright?” You shudder slightly as you turn to the sandy haired man, a gentle smile spreading across your lips as you pat the seat beside you.

“Yeah.”

He hums as he stands at the threshold of the house, the creaky door squeaking as he weighs his options. He chooses you; he always does. The seat creaks as he adds his weight to the chains load, swinging his feet as he pulls your legs over his lap. He makes sure to tuck your long skirt under your feet, the way you like too.

“What were you doing out here?” He traces a gentle finger over the patterns of your skirt, the other arm sitting over the back of the chair.

“Was readin’ but… I couldn’t.” You glance over at him. “Realised it was gonna rain just before.”

“Mmm, I think you should be a weather reporter.”

You try and force the smile that licks at your lips away, but you can’t help it as you decide to glare at Finnick. It’s a half-assed glare; it’s hard to be angry at the Finnick Odair.

You sit silently for a moment, just taking in his features. The gentle slope of his nose, the angle of his cheeks littered in tiny freckles you could spend an entire afternoon kissing, and his eyes. Those eyes that stare back at you fondly, gently. You never feel scrutinised under those sea-green eyes —never feel small like under the gaze of the Capitol— you could compare being stared at by Finnick with feeling the sun on your skin after a sleepless night.

“What’re you staring at?” His voice feels like having silk dragged along your ears. You can’t look at him anymore —not with that look swelling in those sweet eyes of his— you opt to watch his thumb work circles into your skirt-clad calf.

“You were looking first, Fin.” Your hand drifts to rest on his forearm, thumb brushing over a burn scar. The aftermath of a small cooking incident weeks ago.

“Oh, was I now?” You can see him through your lashes. Can see the way he peers down at the fingers that brush along the warm skin of his forearm. “I didn’t even realise.”

“Mhmm.” You smile a soft little thing. Fingers finding the dip of another scar. You’d accidentally scratched him when you were on your Victory Tour. There had been an accompanying bruise on his jaw, but it had long since faded. A nightmare you can’t even remember now, woke you up screaming bloody murder. Finnick had run in and tried to settle you, and you were still high on adrenaline with one thought in mind. Survival.

There’s a rumble of thunder in the distance, a streak brightening the sky and showing heavy rain clouds. You can hear the raindrops before you see them. They’re hitting the roof of your Victors house, pattering gently on the dark roof as it begins building. You can barely bring yourself together as the man beside you begins speaking.

“Y’know, I thought we could do some shopping today, your pantry’s looking empty. Maybe coffee and flo–”

“You.” He stops speaking, the word dying on the tip of his tongue.

Your eyes drift back up to him, his brows furrow as you meet his gaze head-on. Before he can ask what you mean by it, your hand dances up his arm. You slide your legs out of his lap and curl your toes up as they hit the grainy wood. You hook your fingers into the crook of his elbow and pull him up. He doesn’t waver at all as he stands, following you mindlessly. You take a step towards the stairs as you stare at him. Both hands drifting down to hold his wrist and tangle loosely with his calloused fingers. Line work hasn’t been very kind, but he insists on it. Something about not wanting you to cut yourself.

The wind catches in his hair, making the messy strands and his loose pyjama shirt flutter as you make your way down the sandy cement pathway of Victors Village. He doesn’t say anything but you can feel the trust he has with the way he squeezes your hand every so often.

You sigh and grin something toothy as you feel the raindrops grow heavier as you move faster. “C’mon, Fin.”

“I’m coming.”

As you finally pass the daunting iron bars of the Villages gates the gentle droplets have turned into heavy downpour. You can barely hear them hit the ground over the push-and-pull of the sea, it’s bliss. District 4 hasn’t been taken out of you, there’s no way it could be.

You only look back at Finnick when you reach the dune that separates you both from the waves, and it is a sight. His hair’s damp and random curls stick to his forehead as he comes to a stop with you. You wait for him to toe off his shoes before you’re letting your hand slip from his and you’re running messily down the sand hill. Wet strands of hair slap you in the face as you run, sticking to your cheek as the rain begins doubling down. Flashes of thunder lighting up the dark morning sky. You take a quick tumble that brings you to the bottom of the dune, you hear a call of your name from the top but you’re unaffected.

You roll onto your stomach and rub the sand off your tongue and off your brow.

You laugh, openly and unabashedly. Something you used to do before the Games. When young 13-year-old you would race to the ocean with your friends. Or when your father brought home a tire and a rope to hang on the tree in your backyard. Sticky hot summer days.

You push up and spin to look up at Finnick who’s taking clumsy steps down the dune to reach you. You smile up at him wickedly, and he see’s it. A wash of relief easing his features as he exhales slightly. There’s rivulets of water forming on his cheeks, they nearly look like tears but the look in his eyes is far from sad.

It’s easier to run on wet sand you find —a memory unlocked after so long, you remember running from bullies on a rainy day, this is different—your feet slap the sand as you run from Finnick. You come skidding to a stop just before the oceans foam, your skirt clinging to your legs as you breathe deeply. Flicks of brine mixing with rain water on your cheeks. Cutting clean paths through the grit of sand.

You spin to look at Finnick again, but not even halfway turned and you’re swooped off your feet. Skirt slapping your calves as the man in question swings you. Arms constricted around your middle as he spins with the momentum of his catch.

You squeal, a hand threading through his wet hair and the other looping around his neck.

You gape down at him, incredulous. “Finnick!”

As he echoes your name back to you he mimics a fake accent in the back of his throat, something posh. A new Capitol accent maybe?

“Put me down!” He adjusts his hold on you, a large hand splaying between your shoulder blades. “Down Finnick!”

He smiles up at you as he brings you both to a stand still, his hands keeping you close. The rain drenching you both, running rivers between the both of your chests. “No.”

He has a toothy grin on his face as he stares up at you. Something that makes your heart constrict, swelling in those sea-green eyes. You can’t help yourself, not with the way he’s holding you so gently.

Your lips fall on the arch of his brow, you lean fully into his touch. Your lips skate down his face and find the apple of his cheek. He grins, widely and wildly. You hook your legs over his hips as you press another to the tip of his nose. Your hand moving to stroke his cheek and the other holding the side of his throat. Your thumb brushing over his adam’s apple that bobs as you press a kiss to the corner of his lips.

You pull back, eyes meeting his as you look down at him through droplets of rain that settle on your lashes.

“Finnick.” Your throat feels tight as you wait for him to react or say something, rejection or something softer. What you’re praying for.

His hand finds the back of your head as he pulls your foreheads together, his eyes are far too beautiful this close up. Everything about him is just–

You’re interrupted from the thought as they flutter shut and his lips meet yours. You immediately melt into it, your hands holding his face as you press yourself further into him. His lips are far too soft to be normal but you love it. You pull away for not a second to get air before he’s pulling you back in. Like he’s been starved of it for years, like he needs you more than breathing. And the thought of him needing you so badly, so desperately has your pulse fluttering and your heart beating harder.

Your heart swells and you feel tears gather behind your lids. You can’t help the smile that spreads across your lips. The kiss turns clumsy as his teeth clack against yours, you can’t help the soft giggle. You can feel his lip curl up against yours as you’re both smiling now. Breathing each others air as you rest your foreheads together.

There’s a crack of lightning that illuminates his face, colours his face in a white glow.

“I love you.” You’re breathless as you say it, eyes searching his desperately.

He echoes your words in the most heart-wrenching whisper, his thumb smoothing over your jaw. As he stares up at you.

There’s a tear that drips from his waterline, mingling with the droplets of salt water and the rain on his tanned cheeks. You press another kiss to his upper lip, bumping your nose against his as you do so.

Something about kissing Finnick in torrential downpour beside the strand of beach you grew up on —it feels right— makes your fingers tremble and your bones ache.

You think of the ocean and him, of the salt clinging to your lips, as you dive back to kiss him again.