NO SIGN OF LAND

hi there! this is a private rp blog for finnick odair from the hunger games trilogy! this also serves as the main blog to the following sideblogs where i  would love to write with you on

@killmeorfuckoff​​ -> tim stoker of the magnus archives (not spoiler free)

@blackclothed​​ -> siggy kyung, a fandomless oc

i also have a multi on a separate account -> @fevertaste​​ / muses

and an oc on a separate account -> @reastless​​

and finally my personal blog is @jontims​ <3

It would make Hauvomil feel good to scold somebody for this. A proper reprimanding would greatly appease his personal feelings about the situation. But he is learning to be the kind of man who acts not just to punish the bad in the world, but to protect the good in it. The jeer is a good reminder — he shouldn’t focus on the owner, and he shouldn’t provoke unwisely before he knows what he can do to HELP. Because like a dog with a bone, once Hauvomil has identified a wrongdoing he will not let it go. He will help if he knows how.

Knowing all this still doesn’t stop the corner of his lips from twitching into a frown at the nymph’s words.

“You can speak. And insult. You seem sentient.” Hauvomil takes a long, deep breath, pushing his senses out into the space of the room, and apparently satisfied with some conclusion, goes on: “And you don’t seem overtly evil. Do you have a name?” Speaking past the owner of this creature is perhaps a bit disrespectful, but Hauvomil’s stolid demeanor and intimidating presence can sometimes afford him the license to be coarse and go unquestioned. It’s not an overt sign of disdain, but a quiet kind, insinuating an unaffected superiority, assuring the ignored that their insignificance is not an assertion of Hauvomil’s opinion, but only a natural fact. By contrast, his attention, fixed on the captive, is heavy but approbative; it expects much of one, but flatters with such high expectations.  “Do you know why he keeps you locked up?”

OH MY, HOW FORWARD OF THE STRANGER to call finnick sentient before taking him to dinner. the most beautiful eyes in the world graze the ceiling briefly. the monster did not choke down all his deadliness like cheap wine then learn to bare his neck, not his teeth, just to be spoken to like a dog. he is far too human for this, even with the collar.  

“ you bewitch me with your words. ” he drawls, fingertips still sore from their last clipping running up and down the bars, coated in sea-salt exacerbated rust. “ are you asking why I am being kept here or the use of a cage for an animal? ” amusement touches that saccharine sweet smile. he wants to tear this man’s throat out just for the fun of it, but he will settle for being impolite.

“ I am beautiful. I might be one of the most beautiful creatures you have ever seen, so much so that you would be willing to empty out your pockets just to spend a night with such magnificent and well-behaved monster. after all, when ever will you have the chance again? my claws are clipped. I only bite if you want me to. my body speaks for itself, darling. ”

   WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE SMELL LIKE? sea salt, the beach, sandalwood

   WHAT DO YOUR MUSE’S HANDS FEEL LIKE? rougher than you would think, they hold callouses from working with his hands so often

   WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE USUALLY EAT IN A DAY? he eats less than he should but fruit and fish are some big staples in his house  

   DOES YOUR MUSE HAVE A GOOD SINGING VOICE? no

   DOES YOUR MUSE HAVE ANY BAD HABITS OR NERVOUS TICKS? he hides his nerves well when he needs to, but if he doesn’t need to his most noticeable habit is covering his ears and shutting his eyes like he’s trying to block the world out

   WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE USUALLY LOOK LIKE / WEAR?  if he is choosing what he is to wear it will oftentimes be a loose buttoned shirt and shorts, something he can wear out at the beach. he knows how to dress nice when he wants to but he’s always going to default to comfortable if it’s by his own choice. if it’s in the capitol, um, probably as little as possible

   IS YOUR MUSE AFFECTIONATE? HOW SO?  absolutely, regardless if it’s real or not. he has his patrons wrapped around his finger and it isn’t because he withholds his affections. he’s tender, and his touch is sweet like sugar. with his actual loved ones he is also highly affectionate, but in a different manner. finnick is someone who was not loved for so long that now he cannot get his fill— he is always holding annie’s hand, stealing kisses and lifting her off her feet in hugs, and with mags as well he loved affection from his mother.

   WHAT POSITION DOES YOUR MUSE SLEEP IN?  finnick likes to sleep on his stomach, but he will curl around annie most nights  

   COULD YOU HEAR YOUR MUSE IN THE HALLWAY FROM ANOTHER ROOM? yes, finnick’s presence commands attention in more ways than one, size alone being one of them

such  a  small  and  skittish  thing,    she waits for him to leave before reaching for the water.  as if she had been worried he might change his mind, take it back and kick her out onto the street.  her hand shakes still as it curls around the tall glass but she brings it to her lips, eyes widening when the cold hits harsh her tongue and teeth.   something violent floods her senses, if only for a moment, before she quickly swallows it down.  a brief memory of icy water  —  up her nose and down her throat and blurring her vision.  it makes her skin itch with the threat of an invisible enemy.  suddenly, she is not so thirsty anymore. it takes a few shallow breaths and the gentle wave of his words washing over her for calmness to settle in again.  she pushes the glass far toward the center of the table. “  i  do,  ”    her voice waivers,    “  three  meals  every  day.  ”

SHE WAITS, nervous as a stray, for the space of his absence before reaching for the glass. finnick takes note of this, and then she slides the glass as far as her reach will push it, as if it makes her sick.

FINNICK ODAIR IS ADORED IN A PAPER-THIN SENSE AND DESPISED IN THE SAME MANNER. this entire country knows him before they have met him, and when they see him up close their eyes always scan him up and down to collect everything in his demeanor that affirms their judgement. sometimes they are subtle, sometimes they are not, but they always eat him up because he is theirs to consume.

if he were fourteen he might care— if he were sixteen he might still— but finnick has been doing this for seven years. so, wreathed in a capitol crowd indulging glasses of champagne and dishes a less experienced victor might not even know the name of, he seeks out the one exception, the one victor outside of his family that has proven him wrong.

he catches johanna from behind, tapping the right shoulder then facing her from over her left.

their  home  is  not  empty  as  hers  had  been.    it is surprisingly well-lived-in, well-loved.  at the kitchen table, trembling fingertips pull tight the thin blanket around her shoulders and she sits quiet as if trying to fade unseen into the background of a swirling storm.  her tired gaze tracks slow across the unfamiliar terrain, letting it all sink in.  pretty shells and fishing bobbers line the windowsills and the cloth dusted across the tabletop seems to be hand-made. she watches as he moves about with the curiosity of a small, winged gull, too timid to ever actually approach.  yet idle imagination gives way to her body standing next to his at the counter, mashing fried plantain beneath the heel of her abuela’s prized pilón.  she can still smell the garlic and the sea salt, the heady scent of the chicharrón.  there has never been a kitchen she did not love. “  do  you  cook?  ”    her words break a long silence, pulled sharp from old memory when a cabinet door shuts just slightly too loud.

AT THIS, FINNICK CRACKS A SMILE, laughing softly and he tugs open cabinets and withdraws a couple of plates and glasses, then takes out a skillet already dried and sitting outside the sink on a faded pink towel.

“ not well, but mags’ hands aren’t as steady as they used to be, and I have to pull my weight somehow. she also cannot reach the cabinets as easily as I can. I don’t know how she lived here for so long without someone tall. ”

he fills one of the glasses with crisp ice water, then returns to the dinning table to set the glass down before her.

they  had  seemed  close,    from what little she observed in their short time spent together, but andresa had not known what to make it of it then.  the stark difference between the finnick odair that all of panem knew and the one that only a little old woman seemed to.  she thinks it almost sweet that he lives with la vieja.  and belatedly wonders if neither have families of their own.     the rush and roar of the sea in the distance reaches her just as clearly as his words, as the slow passage of his thumb across her skin.  like tug-of-war, they fight for dominance over her thoughts and her tongue in knots, and she is left floating somewhere silent between the two.  but he seems to hold for her now that same soft patience he had reserved only for their mentor back then, so she lets herself stray.  she follows him, in all his golden-bronze strength, like some sort of mindless sea bird scuttling after a wave receded back from shore.  “  i  missed  it,  before,  ”    her eyes close and she nods as they walk, head tipped back slightly to welcome the sun’s warmth amidst her confession,    “  nunca  había  vivido  sin  sol.  ”

HER SECOND SENTENCE, finnick cannot piece together a translation. regardless, he makes a mental note that open windows and fresh air are a comfort for her. they continue, hand in hand until finnick helps her climb the old porch steps of their home, weathered wood splintering from age ( he supposes he’ll need to replace those sometime soon ) then withdraws his key and unlocks the front door.

“ come on in. ” he says, holding the door for his victor before following in himself.

he takes her to the dining room table, discontented that mags isn’t hovering around. she is likely napping, but he needs her.

he pulls out a wooden chair, legs scraping against the hardwood. the kitchen is close— he won’t be far and she will be able to see him.

she  has  not  seen  the  sun  in  days.    its light is brilliant, bright rays blinding and shone warm against brown skin significantly paled since she first boarded that train toward the capitol all those weeks ago.  the deep well of her gaze travels slow from blue, cloudless sky to the gentle expression of her mentor.  and, standing here together, she has half the mind to think his light is brilliant, too.  like a star or a sun that rises and sets over an ocean too wide for her to swim across. andresa allows him to lead her off the porch and into the empty street.  she holds tight to his hand as they walk, looking wide-eyed at the surrounding wharf of beach-front mansions.  had she somehow missed this all before?  it is so much cleaner, so much less crowded than the small and forgotten corner of clustered homes in which she was raised. “  and  mags?  ”    she echoes, voice far-off as she follows his gaze.    “  you  share  a  house?  ”

SHARE A HOUSE, THEY DO. it wasn’t immediate, but despite how finnick, young and unafraid, had reached with a killer’s hands and snatched the world’s eyes all for himself, he was hollow. the real treasure he uncovered was his mentor who saw a hungry child and coaxed the skittish thing ‘till he wouldn’t run away. she loved him for reasons he does not understand, pitied him for reasons he does, and did the kindest thing anyone has ever done for him— let him come home.  

“ yes. I came over so often after I won, and neither of us liked being alone, so eventually I stopped leaving. she’ll be very pleased to see you. ”

he keeps his grip secure around his victor’s hand, thumb working back and forth across her skin. it doesn’t feel right to keep completely still. annie’s skin has the sun-starved look of a sickly girl who has not left the house in weeks.  

she  takes  his  hand  wordlessly,    the other clutched tight to the warm stretch of fabric that now blankets her small frame.  his is a steadiness envied just as much as it is appreciated.  before, she had been known to dance across the sand and through the crowded streets like a wave that could not be contained to shore.  now, she cannot find her footing. dusted across bare legs is a heliotrope sky, bruised clouds fading from stumbles and falls resulted from the dizzying, drug-addled daze she’s been kept in.  and, as they descend the staircase, it becomes increasingly clear that whatever is inside the little blue capsules sent home with her by the capitol head doctor do little to aid in balance and poise. “  you  are  sure  it’s  okay?  ”    at the landing, she looks helplessly between her mentor and the door.   “  si  me  voy  …  ¿no  tendré  problemas?  ”

HE KEEPS HOLD OF HER HAND, uncertain if he should be the first to release her or if she wants to keep hold of his steadiness for longer. it is hers for as long as she wants it.

he hears her question in english, then catches ‘problemas’.

“ yes, I promise it’s okay. no one would want you to stay isolated. it’s unsafe. ” he says, easily. if her family returns then he’ll deal with that bridge when they get to it, because he may have just lied. not that it matters— she can’t stay here.

he unlocks the front door and cracks it open, letting in a pale stream of light and guides her onto the front porch, summer heat greeting them like a loyal friend.