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Finnick Odair turned twenty a month before the 71st Hunger Games. To say it had been the worst year of his life was an understatement. And he was factoring in the year he won his games, was sold to the highest bidder, and had his entire reputation sullied to the tabloids.
He remembers Haymitch sarcastically remarking about the joys of being a Victor, and he thinks he finally understands his cynical friend to his core.
His most recent ‘joys’ included his father being killed for his insubordination, Annie’s victory tour (the news outlets called it a failure tour), and Mags finally retiring from being a mentor.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been to the Capitol alone, having gone there for his birthdays, presidential celebrations, and pre-games press several times over the years. But it’s the first time he’s left for the games without his beloved mentor at his side.
He felt like a piece of him was missing when she stood on the platform, waving him off. But after a stroke left her unable to string a coherent sentence together, they decided it wouldn’t be fair on their tributes if she mentored.
So instead, it was him and Pearl, winner of the 40th games, left to run ship.
Following the ‘failure tour,’ any mention of Annie becoming a mentor had been swiftly shutdown. She was too fragile and, at risk of making the Capitol seem even more needlessly cruel, it was decided her mental torment wouldn’t be worth it. Not only could they not risk a public outburst, but the drugs they’d pumped her on for the tour made her too spaced to hold long conversations and it was deemed too impractical this soon.
A selfish part of Finnick hopes she stays this way, for her own good, lest she fall victim to the same fate as him.
He’ll never forget the last conversation he had with his dad. A picture of him leaving a club hand-in-hand with a Capitol gamemaker, following a sordid picture of him leaving her apartment the next morning, shirt ripped and hickeys clear, had made it to the front page. His dad couldn’t understand how he could be so happy with this. The same gamemakers who orchestrated the deaths of innocent children each year - and Finnick is choosing to have sex with them.
It still stings when he thinks about the fact his dad died believing that - that his son was more Capitol than district; that he had a say in any of this.
It’s almost better though, he rationalises, as he pours himself a cup of coffee in the mentor’s lounge. He can’t bring himself to imagine the look of heartbreak on his father’s face if he’d ever found out the truth. The deal he’d made all those years ago to guarantee the safety of everyone he loved. How young he was. The fact his sister’s death was no accident, instead a direct result of his bad behaviour during the 68th Games.
He shakes his head, trying to rid his mind of the pain of that particular memory, and turns instead to look at the screen. His tributes are trekking through the woods, part of the career pack like usual, just missing Blight’s scared girl (is her name Jo?), who’s ducked behind a tree.
His tributes are what you’d expect. The girl, 18, fresh out of training, and the boy, 15, saying in his interview that he volunteered to be just like his mentor. Finnick’s stomach churned at the sight of his confident demeanour and charming smile. Too much like him.
The boy is attractive enough for the Capitol - old enough, too - and he finally understands why Mags wanted him to die in the arena all those years ago. Save him from the noose around his neck, constricting slowly, leaving nothing but scattered bruises and sinful scratch marks.
Speaking of, he can see Cash eyeing his neck, littered with hickeys, before turning to look at her lap, sadly. She can’t meet his eye anymore.
After Haymitch and Cashmere told him of his fate when he was still a scared fourteen year-old-boy, they’d both developed strong feelings of protectiveness over him. Haymitch still answers the door to him in the middle of the night, allowing him to cry, shake, pass out from the pills he’s on. And each morning he would wake on the floor - never a bed - with a blanket over him and a bucket next to his head. He’ll never be able to repay the older Victor for all he’d done.
Cash on the other hand, was the only person who came close to his level of popularity and buyers. She would step in when he was scared, squeezing his hand and letting him know he’s not alone. She’d dominate the conversation when he was dealing with flashbacks; hands groping flesh, around his neck, holding tighter and tighter.
He shakes his head again, this time trying to wake up from the memory that haunted the both of them. Last week, they’d been bought by the same person - Head Gamemaker Crane. He hasn’t allowed himself to think about it, beyond knowing it happened. He can’t. Nor can she.
He patted her shoulder yesterday and she flinched. For the first time in the six years he’s known her, she flinched at his touch. Because he was no longer a safe person. Not after what Crane made them do.
He stands quickly, knocking his coffee over, hands shaking, before dashing to the bathroom. He’s splashing water on his face, as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the fluorescent powder he’d acquired earlier.
Haymitch walks in as Finnick’s head is bowed, oblivious to the intruder, powder being snorted up his nose.
Haymitch just stands, hating how much the younger man reminds him of himself. The way he tilts his head back, groaning, a vein pulsing in his neck. Absolute ecstasy at the substance making its way into his bloodstream.
”Finnick,” he says and, to his credit, Finnick looks absolutely horrified to be caught.
”Haymitch, I’m so sorry, you shouldn’t have seen that,” his voice is slurred, eyes unfocused. He shakes his head again, an obsessive tic of his, whenever his mind becomes too much, and Haymitch feels sick to his stomach.
Haymitch doesn’t know that Finnick overheard him, sometime during the 69th Hunger Games, calling him ‘his boy.’ Finnick’s client had been particularly rough that night so like usual, he went to Haymitch who was drinking himself into a stupor with Chaff. He made himself comfortable on the floor - never something soft after a booking - popped enough pills to knock out Brutus, and remained in a catatonic state between sleep and awake for the next few hours.
He overheard Chaff asking if he’d be okay, to which Haymitch said no - at least not now. He then told Chaff that he’ll do anything to guarantee Finnick, his boy, a happy ending.
Finnick has long resigned to his ending being sometime far into in the future, when the Capitol is finally sick of him and his body. But it made him smile briefly - the thought of someone willing to do anything for him to be happy. A nice thought amidst all the anguish. That same year his father called him a disappointment to District 4.
He thinks that’s probably the worst part about his arrangement with President Snow. Being made to look like a willing participant in the very thing that kills him. Being forced to look like someone who was exposed to too much sex, and drugs, and partying at too young of an age. “The poor boy couldn’t help but be seduced by the Capitol’s darkness,” he’d heard his great Aunt tell his father. A picture had circulated of him in a club, a purple woman sat on his lap as he hunched forward to snort a hot pink powder up his nose. His father demanded to know why, but he could only tell him he wasn’t a kid anymore, before storming out of his house, in favour of Mags’. All he wanted was to scream the truth at his dad - that the woman had been gifted him to do whatever she pleased with for snitching on her rebel sister. That the pink powder was an aphrodisiac, the woman’s kink, and he had no say in any of it. Unless he wanted the rest of his family to die.
Finnick’s intoxicated state doesn’t allow for him to dwell on that too long, instead giving him the confidence to continue talking to Haymitch.
”Why did you follow me in?” He questions, voice as steady as possible. And he watches Haymitch sigh a heavy sigh, before running his hand down his face.
”Two things,” he starts. “First, do you want to talk about what happened between you and Cash?” But Finnick’s shaking his head so fast and so certain that Haymitch drops it just as quick.
”Okay, don’t worry, kid, I won’t ask again,” he placates, as Finnick gets a flash of Cashmere’s face beneath him. But Haymitch is talking again and he’s trying so hard to appear sober. “..Blight’s girl has gone crazy,” Haymitch finishes, and Finnick winces at the word. His Annie, deemed nothing more than a mad woman.
”Finnick are you listening to me?” It’s the harsh tone of Haymitch’s voice that makes him look up, gesturing, rather elegantly in his opinion, for the other man to continue. “She’s just killed your boy.”
His head will blame the drugs, his heart will blame the fact he cares - too much - but all he knows is that he’s violently vomiting into the sink, as Haymitch apologises profusely. You’d think he’d get better at delivering things after six years, but here they are.
Once Finnick stops throwing up, he slumps against the wall, his hands finally starting to still, reminding Haymitch so much of the boy he found wandering around the tribute centre, as high as a kite, before his games
”The bets have changed - they think she’s going to win by tonight. There’s only three others left, including your girl, and Johanna seems intent on taking the rest of them down.”
*****************
Finnick is stood in the courthouse in District 4, awaiting the victor of the 71st Hunger Games. Johanna Mason. She turned 18, sometime between winning her games and now - her Victory Tour - and he already knows what her fate will be.
A few of his patrons had expressed their liking for her. Some wanting to tame the ax wielding maniac they saw towards the end of her games, and some eager to relish in the quivering mess of a girl they saw getting dropped into the arena.
He’s with Annie, Mags, and a few other victors from 4, watching as Blight downs a glass of tequila, knowing instantly what was wrong. Johanna was not the type to go quietly, and Finnick can guess she’s already caused Blight several sleepless nights from worry.
The evening progresses, Annie goes home, and Finnick gets more drunk. That’s when she approaches him, next to the refreshments table.
”How do you do it?” She questions, and the sharp edge to her tone has him instantly respecting her. She’s about the most authentic thing in this District.
”Johanna Mason,” he says, kissing her knuckles. “Can you be more specific, sweetheart.” And she’s rolling her eyes at his seductive purr of a tone.
”Haymitch warned me when I was in 12; said I should talk to you as soon as possible,” she continues and Finnick knows exactly what she’s questioning.
He doesn’t answer, instead grabbing her hand and pulling her behind him, to the roof of the building. He ignores the knowing glances from the rest of his district, and the slightly peeved look from Blight, instead deciding this is the safest place to talk. They should be free of bugs, but even if they’re not, he’s sure he’ll get a free pass for this. It’s not like he’ll say anything rebellious - Snow has enough to keep him dancing the way he wants and one jerk of his strings has him transforming into the good Capitol Whore.
”I told him no,” she says, before Finnick has the chance to talk. To say he’s shocked is an understatement. He doesn’t know anyone who has outright told Snow no in his time as victor and he knows it won’t go down lightly.
”He’s not bluffing, Johanna,” is Finnick’s response. Because he’s hoping she was only asked recently - hoping she can go back and smooth things over.
He watches as her face turns white, lips paling under the red tint. Blood, he realises, is the colour her stylists have favoured for the tour. They’re playing up to the ax maniac label.
She’s huffing out a breath and he can see her pride attempting to stop her from speaking. From sharing her feelings. “He said he’ll give me the chance to rethink when I get to the end of the tour,” she finishes. And it’s obvious now what is happening. He’s going to kill one of her loved ones to show he isn’t bluffing, knowing she won’t have the chance to deny him again.
Because Snow always wins.
”Whatever you do, say yes. It’ll kill you but it’ll keep them alive,” he learned from the best that the truth only hurts once. If he were to lie to her, it would hurt every time she thinks back to this memory - every time she questions her actions. It’s why he doesn’t tell her it’ll be okay, doesn’t say her family will be fine. He know she knows; knows she figured it out the second she saw that look on his face. The one of complete terror. She knows someone she loves has succumbed to Snow - knows she made the wrong choice, let her pride win. But he can’t blame her, he never would. Because he still lost his dad and sister, even after telling Snow yes. Because there is no such thing as the perfect victor. And he knows it better than anyone.
*****************
Finnick is sat at the kitchen table in 4’s tribute living quarters, sometime in the middle of the night during the 72nd Hunger Games. It’s his seventh year of going back and forth to the Capitol and each year he thinks his hatred can’t get any stronger - but it does.
He’s just gotten back from a party, Seneca Crane’s, pre-games bash. Cashmere and him are back on speaking terms, but being back in Crane’s house made her unable to meet his eye once again. He can’t wait for the day he gets to kill the Head Gamemaker.
And he’s quite happy to continue munching his cereal, drugs pumping through his body as he hums at the thought of Seneca’s head rolling off his body. Finally made powerless.
His tributes and Pearl are all in bed, their interviews with Caesar are tomorrow so they settled on an early night, as Finnick attempted to get them both sponsors.
They're ordinarily plain this year - both eighteen-year-old Academy volunteers - lacking the charm he possessed. He tried to teach them the art of wooing the Capitol, but both seemed disinterested, thinking their weapon skills would save them. Oh, how wrong they are.
He’s so deep in thought, mulling over his options of securing allies and sponsors, that he misses the knock on the door. It’s only when it sounds like someone is booting the frame, that he finally realises what it is and stands to see who’s there.
He can’t say he’s too surprised to see Johanna Mason, eyes red-rimmed and body covered with a hoodie and sweatpants. She looks like a mess.
He opens the door, gesturing for her to enter, hyper aware of his bare chest (why must his prep team always make him forgo a top?), and moves instantly to the bar cart next to the couch.
”Drink?” He questions, and she nods, settling on the couch. He pours them a glass each, before moving to sit next to her, trying to judge how bad of a situation this is.
He questions whether he should call Haymitch, scared he won’t know what to say or do, but decides to at least hear her out first. Maybe she just wants company.
“Are you okay, Johanna?” He questions. She looks down at her lap, downing the rest of her liquor, and he mirrors her, deciding this is not the time for slightly sober Finnick.
“I have my first.. appointment in four days,” she says and his heart pangs in his chest.
He doesn’t know what to say. What can he say? It’s going to be just as shit regardless of his input. “I’m sorry,” is what he settles on, but he knows it doesn’t come close to how he actually feels. Like his heart has been ripped from his chest at the thought of someone experiencing what he has.
But Johanna is holding her hand up, shaking her head, making it clear she doesn’t want his sympathy. “Can you do me a favour?” She asks. And he’s nodding before he has the chance to question if it’s good idea.
She sighs, cheeks turning a shade of red, as she eyes his chest. “I’m still a virgin and I don’t want to lose it to some Capitol cunt. Can you- can we..” she trails off.
“Use your words, sweetheart,” is his response. And it’s almost too Capitol that he wants to apologise, but he knows she’s going to hear a lot worse in the coming days. And weeks. And years.
“Can you fuck me?” She finalises. For some reason, he’s still shocked to hear her say it, even though he’d already guessed that was the point of her stuttered admission. He thinks back to the night he lost his virginity, and just as quickly, shakes his head to rid him of the memory - because he didn’t have the opportunity to choose, and the thought still haunts him, seven years later.
He wants to say no, wants to tell her to lose it to someone better. Someone less tainted. But he knows her options here are limited. The other Victors are much older, some with partners and families, and he would never suggest she have sex with a Capitolite. She’ll be doing enough of that, anyway. Well, what she’ll be doing with them isn’t sex, and he’ll make sure she understands that, several times over the years, just like Haymitch does for him
”Sex is supposed to be pleasurable, kid,” he remembers Haymitch saying. “And more importantly, you’re supposed to be able to say no.”
But before he can answer, she stands, pacing in front of him. “Forget it. I’m so fucking sorry, Finnick,” she says, tone anguished. “The last thing you need is a fellow mentor trying to take advantage of you-“
He tries to interject, but she continues, completely appalled with herself. So instead, he stands, cutting her off, as he grabs her face in a rough kiss. If she’s shocked, she doesn’t show it, instead relaxing into him as he pushes his tongue past her lips.
They’re a mess, teeth clashing as her tongue battles his for dominance. He wins, of course, and he’s pulling away to start trailing kisses down her neck. “If you want to stop at any time just tell me. Do you understand?”
She nods, a soft moan leaving her lips as he finds that spot beneath her ear, but he’s pulling back just as fast. “Words Jo. I always need your words, sweetheart,” his tone is low and utterly wicked, and he sees her fight to roll her eyes.
“Yes, I understand,” she says, her voice a higher pitch than he’s used to. And then he’s picking her up, hands beneath her thighs as she wraps her legs around his waist.
She’s aware that he’s walking them up some stairs, but she keeps her eyes tightly shut, head in his neck, thinking it somehow obscures her from view. She assumes his fellow mentor and tributes are in bed, hoping they don’t catch them. She decides to start kissing his neck - that’s what she’s supposed to do, right? And it’s only when she hears a quiet groan followed by his hands tightening on her thighs, that she knows she made the right choice.
She’s completely lost in the sensation of licking, suckling, and biting at the soft skin of his neck. So much so, she doesn’t realise they’ve entered what must be his bedroom, until she’s dropped onto a too soft bed. Everything about the Capitol is manufactured in such a way that it appears far more soft and unassuming than it is. The beds are no different.
But before she can deep it too much, Finnick is crawling on top of her, resuming their passionate kiss. Everything about how Finnick kisses is measured - meticulously perfect - knowing exactly how to send her head dizzy. The slip of his tongue, bite of her lip, groans from the back of his throat; it makes her feel accomplished simply by being there.
He’s reaching for the hem of her hoodie and before he has the chance to ask, she’s helping him pull it over her head as she kicks out of her sweats. She’s sure it’s the most inelegant strip tease he’s ever had, but he doesn’t complain, instead pulling back to eye her semi-naked body. The matching lace set she’d picked out for the occasion making her feel ridiculous.
“You’re beautiful, Jo. Do you want me to touch you?” He questions, hand hovering over her breast. She nods again, but the sharp look on his face has her quickly lamenting with a verbal yes, and then his hand is on her, pinching her nipple.
She doesn’t mean to make the sound she does. Doesn’t mean for it to be so loud. But the feeling of Finnick Odair on top of her, tongue on her neck, her nipple between his fingers, has her acting in ways she never thought she would. She’d let him do anything he wanted.
But he’s pulling back, quickly, his hand coming up to slip a finger between her lips. The feeling is foreign and she’s unsure of the purpose, until he’s whispering to her again in that deep voice of his and her mind whirls, tongue lapping at him.
“You need to be quiet,” he says, thrusting his finger into her mouth once again. “Trust me, Jo, I want nothing more than to hear you, but I don’t want to scar my tributes before their interview tomorrow.”
His tone is filled with mirth as a small smirk takes over his face. He finds this amusing, in whatever way, and while she doesn’t particularly mind, finds it mindlessly attractive, she decides to bite down on his finger instead, relishing in his gasp.
”Can’t you behave for one night?” He questions, smirk still firmly on his face as he withdraws his fingers from her mouth. She wants to respond with something witty - something that makes her feel less inexperienced, but his hand is back on her breast as his other trails even lower.
She can’t believe what she’s doing. She’s losing her virginity to Finnick Odair because Snow is going to sell her. She’ll have to tell Finnick at some point that he was right - she had to say yes. Her uncle and cousin were in an accident, they didn’t make it. And it’s all her fault. Dead because she was too prideful.
She doesn’t realise she’s staring into space until Finnick pinches her hip, hard, and she thrashes, looking at him indignantly. “Are you with me?” He asks, concern overriding his features. “We can stop if you want,” but he knows she won’t. She needs to do this - needs it to be with him. He thinks about her internal battle before knocking on his door; talking herself into it. And she’s saying as much when she finally leaves her memory lock.
“I want to, I promise. I was just thinking about home for a minute.” Her hand is on the back of his neck, pulling him back for another kiss, simultaneously hating and loving the practised feel of his mouth. It’s almost clinical, but it works for a reason. And then she’s the one pulling back, looking up at him. “Do you want to do it, Finnick?” She questions, realising in her embarrassment, and pleasure, that she’d failed to check in on him.
How stupid of her.
But he’s just smiling, fingers lacing through her hair. “Yes, Jo, this is he first time I’ve been able to choose as well,” he replies, tone sad. But he doesn’t allow her to dwell on it, instead distracting her with his tongue, licking a stripe down her neck, continuing down her stomach until his head is between her thighs.
And it’s so intense. She has to force herself to verbally assent, trying hard not to be consumed by the pleasure. He’s checking in every few minutes, as he sucks, and licks, and-
He’s reaching up, putting his hand over her mouth, muffling her moans. “Tap my hand once for yes and twice for no,” he says, before pulling back and she knows instantly what he’s waiting for. She taps once, and he’s smiling a smile that actually reaches his eyes.
“Good girl.”
The pleasure is so - too - much and she’s on the cusp, legs shaking, when he pulls away, sucking his fingers for good measure. “Not yet,” he says, before crawling up her body and kissing her squarely on the mouth.
She should probably be perturbed at the taste of her on his lips, but the whole thing is so intense and so erotic that’s she’s slipping her tongue into his mouth, instead.
Finnick is aware of his own arousal, one induced by experience, rather than drugs or expectation, and he allows himself to relish in the sensation of kissing, knowing he can say no. But he doesn’t want to. Because kissing Johanna Mason numbs all else.
He can tell she’s getting impatient, still pissed from her ruined orgasm, when she reaches down to unzip his trousers, her hands fumbling and unorganised. He can see her inexperience clearly, but it’s something he secretly enjoys. Knowing she gets to have a choice in the matter - in learning - and for four days, it’ll only be the two of them.
He’s kicking his trousers off, boxers following soon after, and he finally reaches back to unhook her bra with one hand. She pulls away from their kiss, laughing slightly at his practised movements, but he’s kissing her neck again, a soft moan leaving her mouth.
“Are you sure you’re okay with?” He questions, positioning himself at her entrance. She nods, which only makes him retreat and she rolls her eyes, as Finnick stares into them deeply.
He’s clearly trying to see any hint of discomfort. But she doesn’t show any. “I need this, Finnick,” is all she says and he’s pushing into her, slowly.
He’s focused entirely on her, only permitting himself a groan into her neck, as he pushes in at an agonisingly slow pace. Johanna has paused, heavy pants leaving her mouth as she tries to make sense of the feeling.
“You need to breathe, sweetheart,” he says, tone unlike anything she’s heard from him before. It’s not the sultry airhead voice he favours around the Capitol, in interviews. It’s not the tone she heard when he warned her to do whatever Snow says. It’s something so different - like he’s deriving the most painful kind of pleasure.
It’s his first time choosing to do this, as well.
They go through a few more motions of him asking if she’s okay, her begging him to move, before they finally settle into a rhythm that suits the both of them. She can tell he favours roughness, but he’s also so gentle with her. Not pushing her too far. She has four more days to learn, anyway.
And then he’s hiking her leg higher on his waist, slipping in deeper and she feels her climax approaching. His other hand comes down to rub her as she pulls him in for a sloppy kiss.
They’re a tangled mess of muffled moans, her fingers scratching down his back, lips sucking on his neck again. She’s sure he’ll be covered in marks tomorrow, but he doesn’t seem to care and nor does she.
She’s fluttering around him and he pulls her head away from his neck, watching her like she’s the most beautiful painting he’s ever seen, as she comes. He’s following soon after, her name on his tongue, and his head buried in her shoulder, breathing heavily.
They stay like that for what feels like hours, their sweaty bodies clinging to each other, slow kisses the only communication that passes between them.
He only allows himself to think of Annie once, as sleep starts to take over, coming down from the drugs he was on earlier, the alcohol, the sex. But this is his Capitol life, and thinking too much of home will only kill him faster.
*****************
Finnick is sat in prep, waiting for his stylist to arrive, his head throbbing slightly, when Haymitch walks in.
He’s been replaying images of last night, with Johanna slipping out sometime in the early hours of the morning to deflect suspicion, planting a parting kiss on his mouth.
“I didn’t think you had a client last night?” Haymitch questions, hotly, eyeing the bruising and scratches down his neck. If he and Johanna were both sober, they would have understood the necessity of discretion a lot more, but he won’t dwell on that. Can’t, with the line of powder he snorted before Haymitch arrived.
“I didn’t.” And he watches as Haymitch goes through a range of emotions, before finally settling on understanding. Despite his intoxicated state, the older man doesn’t miss a trick.
“Jo?” Finnick just nods. He imagines in normal circumstances, he’d employ a no kissing and telling rule. But the Capitol doesn’t allow for that. Everyone knows everything.
“Snow is selling her in three days,” he starts. “She wanted me to be the one who..” he trails off. Even though this is Haymitch, he still feels embarrassed. He relishes in his ability to still feel awkward around the topic of sex, that he isn’t completely desensitised - the Capitol haven’t taken everything from him.
Haymitch is clearly struggling to decide what to say, also, but finally settles on his usual questioning. “Are you okay?”
Finnick is smiling, before he can help himself. “I slept the whole night in my bed.” He should probably hate how childish he sounds for being proud of that, but he knows Haymitch understands how difficult it is for him, client or not, to sleep on a bed. Normally he favours his bedroom floor, to ensure nobody sees him, or District 12s quarters when it’s particularly bad.
Haymitch is also smiling, in spite of himself, and holds his hip flask up in a mock toast, before downing a good few gulps.
Finnick is relieved he doesn’t ask about Annie, doesn’t tell him it’s wrong. Because he knows it’s unfair, wishes it could have been different. But that hadn’t been in their cards - their love story was always destined to be tragic.
Johanna walks past the room, door ajar, and spots the back of Haymitch’s head before retreating, throwing a quick smile Finnick’s way.
And he’s so grateful that she can meet his eye. He’s still a safe person to her. For now.