i'm the hero of the story, don't need to be saved, finnick odair
He never sleeps when he stays in the Capitol.
The beds are too soft, the sheets smell of vanilla and roses and sickly things that make him gag, the bodies laying next to him are strangers with cold, clammy skin he can't bear to touch.
So, instead of sleeping, he shuts his eyes and pretends. It's always better to pretend, pretend that he's somewhere else, with someone else, doing something else. Pretend that his name isn't Finnick and that he's never been a winner. Pretend that he's just a boy who got lucky and was never forced to be a hero.
The dreams never last long though. Annie's face disappears when there's a groan from beside him and an eager hand cups his face for a kiss. He plays his part with a smile, always the perfect gentleman, as though none of what is happening makes him want to grab a knife and slit their throats.
It was hard to kill in the games. Somehow now he thinks he might actually enjoy it.
-
Tonight is easier. The woman next to him is drunk, half with wine and half with happiness, and she's content to simply hold his hand, fooling herself into thinking she's wanted.
They talk, inane things he doesn't care about, all through the night and he waits, simply waits for the time to come to get his reward. It always does, like clockwork, and he can't even find it in him to find himself disgusting.
Shall I tell you a little secret, Finnick, darling? Her finger traces the line of his jaw and he tries not to shiver.
The winning smile is back and he's playing his role, the victor, the champion, the hero. (The whore.)
The secret she tells him makes the mask break and he bruises her wrists as he pushes her away.
He might have to become the hero again, one last time, after all.
He wonders if he'll survive the arena a second time.
He never sleeps when he stays in the Capitol.
The beds are too soft, the sheets smell of vanilla and roses and sickly things that make him gag, the bodies laying next to him are strangers with cold, clammy skin he can't bear to touch.
So, instead of sleeping, he shuts his eyes and pretends. It's always better to pretend, pretend that he's somewhere else, with someone else, doing something else. Pretend that his name isn't Finnick and that he's never been a winner. Pretend that he's just a boy who got lucky and was never forced to be a hero.
The dreams never last long though. Annie's face disappears when there's a groan from beside him and an eager hand cups his face for a kiss. He plays his part with a smile, always the perfect gentleman, as though none of what is happening makes him want to grab a knife and slit their throats.
It was hard to kill in the games. Somehow now he thinks he might actually enjoy it.
-
Tonight is easier. The woman next to him is drunk, half with wine and half with happiness, and she's content to simply hold his hand, fooling herself into thinking she's wanted.
They talk, inane things he doesn't care about, all through the night and he waits, simply waits for the time to come to get his reward. It always does, like clockwork, and he can't even find it in him to find himself disgusting.
Shall I tell you a little secret, Finnick, darling? Her finger traces the line of his jaw and he tries not to shiver.
The winning smile is back and he's playing his role, the victor, the champion, the hero. (The whore.)
The secret she tells him makes the mask break and he bruises her wrists as he pushes her away.
He might have to become the hero again, one last time, after all.
He wonders if he'll survive the arena a second time.
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Ohmigod, Finnick. You wrote him so well.
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GUUUUUH. SO GOOOOD. Awesome job!!
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