Smiles, flirting, a cheekiness all his own—that was Finnick Odair, or at least the version of him the Capitol demanded, the one they carved and polished until it gleamed.

At night, the truth came crawling in. Hands. Too many hands. Rough, greedy, familiar, or strangers—it didn’t matter. A thousand beds, a thousand bodies pressing against his, pretending to own him. And he smiled through it all, smiled when they touched his shoulder, when they whispered something vulgar in his ear, smiled as though the words didn’t rot his skin. He acted as though he adored every second.

He didn’t. He never did.

Because beneath the silks and perfume, beneath the heavy gold chains, there was always Snow’s voice reminding him that every refusal had a price. Every broken smile, every flicker of defiance could mean another body on the ground. It was never his body they threatened—it was yours.

So he gave in. Again and again. And each time he told himself it was worth it, that every humiliation, every night of tearing himself open, bought you one more day.

When he finally returned to District 4, to the crash of the waves against jagged rocks, the rhythm of the sea was the only sound that didn’t suffocate him. And then there were your hands—gentle, grounding—threading through his hair, brushing over his temples, holding him together when he thought he might split apart. You touched him like he wasn’t a weapon or a prize, but a man.

In those moments, he let himself collapse. He pressed his forehead to your stomach, to your shoulder, to your hand, clinging as though the ocean itself couldn’t drown him if you were there.

Every trace of them—every fingerprint, every command, every filthy whisper—dissolved under your touch. And for a little while, he believed he was his own.

For a little while, he was just Finnick. Yours.