Hunger Games fic: Treading Water (12/30?), NC-17
Title: Treading Water (Part II - The Capitol)
Chapter Title: The Hand That Feeds
Rating: (this chapter) NC-17
Word count: ~5,400
Betas: mrsdrjackson and pinkfinity (all mistakes and missteps are my own)
Focus: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair
Characters: Finnick Odair, Gloss, Annie Cresta, Mags, Original Characters
Summary: "What do you think they'd do if we just cleared a spot on the table and went at it?"
Warnings: forced prostitution, dub-con
Author's note: The title of this chapter is taken from the Nine Inch Nails song of the same name, which is on the soundtrack you can download here. Enjoy!
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Chapter Twelve - The Hand That Feeds
When Finnick arrives at the Training Center lobby, there are more people around than he anticipated, among them some of his fellow victors and several pairs who could be the couple Snow sold him to. He has neither name nor description and doesn’t feel like walking up to any of them and asking if they bought him for the evening, so he heads to the bar in the corner of the room. If they want him so badly, they can come to him. It’s not like he’s hard to spot.
Stepping into an empty space between Gloss and a tall woman with long, straight black hair, Finnick catches the bartender’s eye and orders a glass of whiskey. Gloss glances over at Finnick and slides to the left to give him a little more room. “Don’t you have an eight o’clock?” he asks.
“I’m in no hurry.” Finnick picks up his drink and downs it in one swallow, ignoring the burn, and signals for another. “Nobody said I have to be sober.”
Gloss makes an amused sound, more snort than laugh, as he sips at his own drink. “Snow must have a hard on for you to win.” Finnick gives him a quizzical look; the observation is diametrically opposed to Finnick’s own opinion. “No one else is on display like that.” Gloss gestures with his glass at Finnick’s costume. “Whatever he’s getting for you now, it’ll probably double once you’re a two-time victor.”
Finnick shudders as he takes his refilled glass from the bartender. He hadn’t thought of that in regard to his own chance of survival. “Just one more thing to look forward to.” He studies Gloss for a moment, but the man is keeping his expression perfectly blank. “That’s assuming I even make it past the bloodbath at the Cornucopia.”
Gloss shrugs. “You have as good a chance as any of us.” He takes another sip. “Better than most.”
Finnick laughs. “With you and the rest of the Careers targeting me?”
“You’re a Career, too, Finnick,” Gloss reminds him.
“Not this time.” He takes a swallow of the whiskey, drinking it more slowly, enjoying the smoky sweetness and already feeling the buzz from the liquor hitting his empty stomach. The dark-haired woman is still there to his right; the bartender brings her a drink and a menu.
Nodding, Gloss says, “Bari warned us you were breaking with the pack.”
Finnick laughs. “She hates being called that.”
Gloss grins at him. “I know.” They drink in silence for a couple of minutes, a noticeable change from the subtle needling they usually engage in when chance - or Snow - brings them together. They’ve known each other for years. Thanks to Snow, they know far more about each other than either of them likes, but standing here with Gloss now, Finnick thinks that if they had met under different circumstances, they might have been friends.
The woman to Finnick’s right places a food order. On the other side of the room, a pair of Peacekeepers enters the lobby and moves toward the small group of victors talking together around one of the low tables between the door and the bar. There’s a brief conversation and the victors, tributes and mentors alike from 5 and 9, stand and start heading for the door. One of the Peacekeepers spots Finnick and Gloss at the bar and crosses the room to them. With a glance at Finnick, the Peacekeeper says to Gloss, “I’m sorry, sir, but I have to ask you to return to your floor.”
Gloss straightens and frowns; not a small man, between his expression and his stance, he looks vaguely menacing. “Is there a curfew I don’t know about?” The Peacekeeper’s posture stiffens and his hand drops to his sidearm. Gloss doesn’t look particularly concerned by this when he gestures toward Finnick and asks, “What about him?”
“I’m supposed to be here, Gloss.” Across the room, an Avox delivers two plates of food to a man at another low table just as the woman from the bar joins him, kissing his cheek before taking her seat. When the Avox leaves, the man and woman both turn toward the bar. The woman says something and the man waves at Finnick, beckons him over to join them. “And those two must be my ‘dates’ for the evening.” He pushes back from the bar. “See you in training,” he tells Gloss as he picks up his half-full tumbler.
Gloss tosses off the rest of his drink and follows Finnick’s lead, pushing away from the bar. With a dismissive glance at the armed Peacekeeper, he claps Finnick on the shoulder. “Hope you get some sleep tonight, Finnick.” Gloss follows the other victors as they leave the lobby with their Peacekeeper escort and Finnick, drink in hand, heads to the table and his eight o’clock appointment.
Snow gave him no instructions. He has no idea which of the pair is the driving force or what’s expected of him, and thus he doesn’t know how he should act. Under the circumstances, the alcohol was probably a mistake. While a drink or two beforehand can make things more bearable, he’s afraid tonight it will only allow him to say things he’ll regret later. Like what he really thinks about having to be here.
The man catches Finnick’s eye and nods almost imperceptibly toward his companion, whose back is to Finnick. A dozen or so people remain in the lobby, including Training Center staff, and Finnick is the only victor. For the second time that night, he is the center of attention, and he wishes he could kill Snow for making this a semi-public event, Rafe for dressing him in nothing but a net and some ribbon. At least Mags had strategically placed shells.
The woman’s dress is low cut in back and her hair is gathered on the left side of her long neck, leaving the back of her neck and her shoulders bare. Still watching the man for cues, Finnick trails his fingers over her smooth skin and she shivers, turning her head toward Finnick. “Do you mind if I join you?” he asks in his trademark seductive purr. “I couldn’t help but notice you at the bar.” Finnick wonders how many cameras are recording them as the man at the table stands and holds out a hand, gesturing toward the chair between himself and the woman.
“Mr. Odair. Please. Join us. I’m Henrik Muhti and this is my wife, Melissa.”
Melissa smiles up at Finnick, her eyes traveling over his body with frank interest. “Oh, Rik, my love, can we take him home with us?”
Finnick glances at Henrik’s outstretched hand, at Melissa’s smile, her bright-dark eyes. For the first time since his brother’s boat docked at the public wharf back home - was it only yesterday? - he thinks about his family, about what he told his father of the potentially devastating storm racing their way. He thinks about Annie and the fact that he still doesn’t know where she is or what happened to her after the Peacekeepers dragged him off to the Capitol. In a flash Finnick decides that he has to trust that she’s okay and that his father heeded his warnings and will take care of everything back home, because if he doesn’t, the fear and doubt will paralyze him.
The lust in Melissa’s eyes and the anticipation in Henrik’s combine with the alcohol and the chaos of Finnick’s emotional state. Ignoring Henrik’s hand, Finnick sits. Leaning across the table, he grabs a piece of chicken from Henrik’s plate and, setting his drink on the table, takes a bite. “I hope you don’t mind,” he lies. “I haven’t really eaten since breakfast yesterday.” Turning toward Melissa, he says, “And no, you can’t take me home. I’m a tribute. I can’t leave the grounds.” Henrik blinks rapidly for a moment while to his left, Melissa’s smile slips a little. Good. Now they’re the ones who don’t know how to act. It feels good to have a modicum of control over his life, even if it is only an illusion.
“Mr. Odair…” Henrik begins to say something but, looking at his wife, he trails off and Finnick, shaking his head, jumps into the gap.
“Henrik, Henrik. Please. We both know you paid a lot of money for one or both of you to have sex with me. I think we can be on a first-name basis, don’t you?” He takes another bite of chicken. Both Muhtis stare at him.
“Henrik?” Melissa sounds surprised and maybe a bit upset, although, since Finnick doesn’t know her, he can’t be sure.
Henrik’s mouth opens and closes like that of a fish. Finnick suppresses a grin and swallows. “Oops. I guess Melissa wasn’t supposed to know about that part?” He reaches across the table and snags a roll from her plate, fully aware that if his mother were here, she’d smack his hand for his rudeness. He pulls the roll apart, picks up a knife and spreads butter on the still-warm bread, Henrik and Melissa watching his every move. Neither of them says anything, so Finnick eats the roll and then knocks back the rest of his drink.
“Are you finished?” Henrik asks. He seems to have dropped the pretense that Finnick’s presence is just a happy coincidence.
Finnick leans back in his chair. “No, I don’t think I am.” He looks between the two of them. “I’m tired. I don’t want to be here. In just under a week, I’ll be back in the arena, and the odds are these next few days are my last, and no offense intended, but I don’t want to waste that time with you.” He snags a piece of chicken from Melissa’s plate. “I know you paid for a service, Henrik, and I’ll do whatever you want me to do, but I’d appreciate it if we don’t pretend this,” he gestures toward Henrik on one side and Melissa on the other, “is anything more than a business transaction.” Melissa leans back in her chair, a speculative expression on her face as Finnick takes another bite.
She cocks her head to one side, still studying him, and asks, “So why are you here?”
I knew the alcohol was a bad idea. Finnick swallows. “That is a good question.” He’s here because obedience to Snow has become a habit, because he can’t risk rocking the boat too early, before whatever plan Heavensbee and the rest have concocted is put into play. Finnick smiles at Melissa. “You requested me. Why don’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t ask why my husband made arrangements for you to be here, Finnick. If you don’t want to be here, why are you here? Why don’t you just leave?”
As Finnick considers how to respond to that in a way that will satisfy her and yet still tell her nothing, Henrik mutters around a mouthful of chicken, “If he leaves, I’m getting a refund.”
Finnick’s heart seems to stop and then beat again at triple time. He can’t pull enough air into his lungs. He feels the blood drain from his face at the thought of what Snow could do if Muhti asks for a refund, and it’s brought forcibly home to him that he can tell himself all he wants that Annie and his family are safe. The simple truth is that they’re not and just that quickly, the illusion of control is shattered.
Forcing his face into blank lines and his voice to remain steady, he says, “I’m not leaving.”
Melissa is still watching him. “Do you need the money so badly?”
One hand clutching a half-eaten piece of chicken and the other holding equally tightly to the arm of his chair, Finnick says, “I don’t need the money.”
“No, you wouldn’t, would you? Not if you expect to die in the arena.” She crosses her legs and takes a sip of her drink. “Your family, then?”
“Enough of this.” Henrik stands, interrupting her and looking down at Finnick. “I didn’t pay for you to talk.”
“Henrik.” Melissa’s voice is quiet. “Sit down, please.” When he resumes his seat, she continues, “I assume Finnick is a belated birthday gift for me?”
“Yes, although it wasn’t meant to be belated.”
“Then hush, dear. Talking with him is part of my gift.”
The band of fear squeezing Finnick’s heart and lungs loosens along with his grip on both the chair and the chicken, which drops to the floor. He leans over to pick it up, using the distraction to try to resume his “Capitol face.” Straightening, no longer hungry, he drops the chicken into his empty glass.
“Finnick?”
“Melissa.” He’s surprised to see sympathy in her expression.
She glances at her husband who waves one hand in a do-what-you-want gesture. Smiling fondly at him, she turns back toward Finnick. “I suppose I’ve had a bit of a crush on you for years. I’d hate to completely waste Rik’s lovely gesture.”
Here it comes. Finnick leans back in his chair with a classic Finnick Odair Smirk on his face in lieu of commenting on the loveliness of Rik’s gesture. But Melissa surprises him again.
“All I want is one kiss. Do that for me and you’re free to go.”
“That’s it?” Finnick asks, surprised. Henrik leans back in his chair and wipes his mouth with a napkin, finished with his meal. When he notices Finnick looking at him, one brow raised in question, he shrugs as if to say, “I’m out of this. It’s between you and her.”
“That’s it,” Melissa confirms.
Finnick almost laughs. “Easy enough.” The least he can do is kiss her breathless, if that’s all she wants. He stands and takes the step he needs to reach her chair, holding out his hand. She takes it and as she stands, he pulls her body flush with his, puts an arm around her waist, spreads his hand over the small of her back. He threads the fingers of his other hand through her hair as he cups the back of her head, strokes his thumb along her jaw, brushes his lips lightly over hers before taking her mouth with his.
She opens her mouth with no urging from him, meets his tongue with her own. When he finally pulls back from her, he has to hold her up until she’s steady on her feet again.
“Oh.” She straightens as he drops his hand from her back. “Your girlfriend is a lucky woman,” she says, voice pitched so only he can hear.
He knows she’s fishing, but he answers her anyway. “She might as well be a widow.” And with that, Finnick turns and walks away, leaving them both staring after him.
xXx
Annie doesn’t know how long she sits there beside Mags, the others who remain in the room staring at her. Snow… Snow… Snow… She shivers. Getting up from her place on the couch, Annie walks again to the window, looks down into the courtyard. She’s so cold, feeling as though she’ll never be warm again. Leaning her forehead against the window, she wills herself not to cry.
The lights below highlight the fountain in the middle of the courtyard. She watches the water shimmer and dance, watches the branches and leaves, brilliant green where the light touches them, of the potted trees as they sway, caught in whatever bit of breeze snakes its way down past the towers of the Hunger Games complex.
Behind her Martin takes a step toward her but Mags reaches out with her cane to stop him. The strange man asks in a loud whisper, “Who is she?”
“Annie Cresta,” Martin answers, still standing where Mags stopped him. Annie watches it all reflected in the glass. She hears the concern in Martin’s voice and it reminds her of Cinna. “Annie, this is Rafe Simons,” Martin continues, his tone that of an adult trying not to frighten a small child. “He’s Finnick’s stylist. And this,” he nods his head toward the woman, “is Rialla Chen, Mags’ stylist.”
Annie turns away from the window, toward these strangers, but doesn’t greet them. So this is the man who sends Finnick off to his… clients. She stares at Rafe and he stares back at her and Annie can see it in his eyes that he knows exactly what Mags meant when she said “Snow.”
Phineas calls to them from down the hall, his voice breaking the tableau. “Come along now, everyone! Our dinner is ready and we don’t want it to get cold.” Rafe quickly makes his escape toward the dining room and Rialla follows, her pace much less hurried. Martin helps Mags to her feet and the two of them trail the stylists, but when he realizes Annie isn’t following, Martin stops and looks back at her.
“I’m not hungry,” Annie says. “I’ll wait here for Finnick.”
Mags thumps her cane on the floor and Martin looks first at her, then back to Annie. “At least come sit with us while we eat, Annie. The first place Finnick will head is the dining room.”
Annie raises one eyebrow. “The first place Finnick will be is right here. Everyone has to pass through here to get anywhere else.”
Mags pokes Martin and says something Annie can’t make out. It takes a second or two for Martin to decipher it, too, but then he nods and tells Annie, “Mags is right. Finnick isn’t going to want you to see him when he gets back. He’ll want to get cleaned up and changed first.”
“I suppose that’s true.” She thinks of how, when he arrives home from the Capitol, he never seeks her out until he has at least removed all physical traces of the Capitol and sometimes not even then. On at least two occasions, it was more than a day before he came to her. Martin holds out his free hand to Annie, but she doesn’t take it, instead walking past him with her hands covering as much of her bare arms as she can, still cold.
“Aw, come on, Annie,” he says to her back. “I was hoping to walk into the room with two beautiful women on my arms.” Annie stops and turns to look at him. She can’t help but smile when Mags whacks his foot with her cane.
“You… married.” She waves Martin and Annie toward the dining room. “Shower. Change. Supper.” With that pronouncement and a nod of her head, Mags makes her way to the room Annie used earlier for her own shower and change of clothes.
Martin sighs heavily. “I cannot catch a break,” he says, pouting. He holds out his hand to Annie a second time and she lets him escort her to the dining room.
The others are already seated, chattering away, mostly about the other tributes and their costumes from the opening ceremonies. They’ve already uncovered the plates of food the Training Center staff delivered and each one appears to be different. While Annie is curious as to what they’ve given her, since there is a still-covered plate with her name on it, the smell of it all makes her a little sick.
Before Martin takes his seat in front of his plate, he pours glasses of water for himself, Mags, and Annie, and pushes a bowl of fruit within Annie’s reach in a not-so-subtle attempt to get her to eat something, guessing correctly that she won’t take a bite of whatever was prepared for her. If she thought she could keep it down, she’d eat an orange, but she’s too wired, too stressed. She looks up at Martin and shakes her head and he shrugs and sits, digging into his own meal.
“It appears they took good care of you at the Remake Center, Annie,” Phineas observes between bites of some kind of pasta. “You look much better now than you did this morning.”
Annie shrugs. “I suppose so.”
“I took the liberty of ordering a meal for you, so I hope you’ll enjoy it.” She doesn’t respond, just looks down at the plate in front of her. She doesn’t want to talk to him, doesn’t want to talk to any of them. They’re all watching her. Not knowing what else to do, she takes a sip of water.
Martin lays down his fork. “Wait a minute.” Annie looks over at him, startled at the thread of anger in his voice. “You knew she was here and you didn’t say anything?” he says to Phineas.
Phineas cocks his feathered head to one side, his gaze darting back and forth between Martin and Annie. “Why would I?”
“You stupid…” He bites back whatever he started to say and continues instead with, “You were there. You saw that blow she took. It didn’t occur to you that the rest of us might be worried about her?”
The other Capitol citizens whisper to each other on their side of the table. Phineas shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re so upset about, Perch. She’s here now and she’s perfectly fine.”
Annie shakes her head when Martin opens his mouth to say something else. They’re all still looking at her and she fights the urge to just sink under the table and hide. She doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to be on display or to listen to these people, well-meaning or otherwise, talk about her.
Mags’ arrival spares Annie further anxiety. The old woman pauses in the doorway, then heads over to the chair between Annie and Martin, looking much more comfortable than before in a loose shirt and pajama pants. Martin rises to pull her chair out for her and she hooks her cane on the back of it as she sits. Looking over at Annie, she orders, “Eat.” Annie just stares at her place setting and takes another sip of water.
Conversation resumes around the table, thankfully no longer revolving around her, although they all, stylists and prep teams alike, keep sneaking glances at her. At least they’re no longer staring. Martin and Phineas are talking about the training schedule in the morning when Mags’ stylist looks across the table at Annie and doesn’t look immediately away.
“Annie, dear,” she says, “your hair is lovely and so long.” She smiles. “Would you let me style it for you?”
Strange hands washing her, dressing her, touching her… Strange voices discussing her as though she isn’t there, as though she can’t understand what they’re saying about her… “Pretty, but so provincial.” “Too thin.” “Weak.” “Won’t survive.”
Annie blinks, gasps, reaches for her water glass, but her hand is shaking. They’ll see it. She blinks again, pulling her hand back to her lap, where the table blocks their view. Mags touches her shoulder and says something across the table to Rialla, but Annie doesn’t understand it. Rialla seems to, though; she nods her head and returns to her conversation with the woman to her left.
Annie shoots a grateful look toward Mags, but sees movement past the old woman and gasps again. She pushes back from the table, setting her chair to wobbling, but it doesn’t fall as she runs past Mags to the man in the doorway.
“Finnick!” Annie throws herself at him where he fills the space, looking stunned at the sight of her. He lifts his arms to catch and hold her, buries his face in her hair.
“Annie. I was so afraid…”
“You’re here. I missed you so much.” He smells crisp and clean and his hair is damp where it brushes against her arms.
Still holding her close, he reaches up to smooth the hair from her forehead, touches the spot where the Peacekeepers hit her. She reaches up to stroke his lips with the tips of her fingers and he kisses them.
“They wouldn’t tell me where you were, if you were okay,” he says and brushes his lips against her forehead. “I was beginning to think you were dead and that’s why no one would say anything.”
“I had a concussion, but they fixed it in the Remake Center.” The knot of anxiety gripping her loosens even as his arms tighten around her. His eyes drift closed and he rests his forehead against hers, then shifts to kiss her. Their mouths meet and she kisses him hungrily, greedily. His mouth tastes of mint.
There’s a whisper, quickly hushed by someone else, and Annie slowly becomes aware again that there are others in the room. Most of them are staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at her and Finnick as the two of them cling to each other as though they’ll drown if they let go.
Finnick pulls back a little, whispers, a wicked glint in his eyes, “What do you think they’d do if we just clear a space on the table and go at it?”
She whispers back, “I think their heads might explode.” She bites her lower lip to keep from laughing; Finnick’s eyes track the movement, fixing there.
Martin asks, “I take it none of you knew about Annie and Finnick?” Rafe shuts his mouth with an audible click of teeth as he stares at them. They all stare at them. Annie feels like she should be used to it by now, but she still hides her face between Finnick’s neck and shoulder.
“Oh! They’re just like Katniss and Peeta!” the younger girl on Mags’ prep team says, and Annie feels Finnick start to shake. She glances up at his face, sees that he’s fighting hard not to laugh. He grins down at her.
Rafe asks, “How long have you been… together?”
Finnick doesn’t answer him right away and Annie has no intention of answering at all. With another quick kiss, Finnick finally releases Annie, all save for her hand, and they take their seats at the dinner table, side by side. Annie moves her chair closer to Finnick, who looks across at Rafe, shrugs and says, “Four years, give or take.” She knows he’s not comfortable talking about it; neither is she.
“Why have you kept this lovely girl a secret?” Rialla asks, and Finnick squeezes Annie’s hand under the table but doesn’t answer.
Annie squeezes his hand back and bumps her shoulder against his when his stomach growls loudly enough that everyone’s attention is momentarily diverted from the two of them as a couple. “What?” Finnick asks. “I’ve barely had anything to eat since breakfast yesterday.” He lifts the cover from his plate with his free hand, discards the cover in favor of a fork, and begins to devour the fried fish on his plate.
Taking her cue from Finnick, Annie lifts the cover from hers. Beneath it is steaming fish stew in a bowl made of bread. She tears off a piece of the bowl, suddenly ravenous, and smiles at Finnick. He doesn’t let go of her hand as they eat, he with his right hand, she with her left, and they both just let the conversation swirl around them, not participating, not paying attention. Several times Martin or Phineas tries to pull one or the other of them into a discussion of strategy, while Mags just shakes her head, no doubt knowing how futile that is.
Annie nibbles at her food and watches Finnick; he eats as though he’ll never see another meal like this again. Studying his face, looking at his hands, she sees that the bruises are gone as though they’d never existed, but his lower lip looks as though it’s been bitten, a little bit swollen, a little bit red. It might have been from her, but… When he lays down his fork and wipes his mouth with his napkin, she doesn’t think about what she does - Snow… Snow… Snow… - she reaches out and touches his lip with her fingertip.
“Was it bad?” she asks, afraid to look at his eyes and see the answer there.
“Was it…? Annie…”
She meets his eyes then. “When you didn’t come back with the others, I asked where you were. Mags told me you were late because of Snow.”
He exhales a huff of breath and closes his eyes, but then he opens them again and takes her hand, lifts it to his mouth. “Annie, nothing happened.”
She shakes her head. “Your lip…”
He kisses her hand and smiles. “She asked for a kiss. Told me if I gave her that, I was free to go.”
Annie frowns. “Just a kiss?” As though that weren’t bad enough…
“Just a kiss.”
She knows he’s not telling her everything, but he doesn’t try to avoid her gaze, and she doesn’t think he’s lying to her. She pulls her hand from his, cups his cheek, strokes his lower lip with her thumb, then leans into him and kisses his lip. Before she can pull back, he cups the back of her head with one hand and slants his mouth over hers, catching her lower lip in his teeth.
He breaks the kiss and his eyes are intense with desire. “Let’s get out of here.”
Annie nods, wanting him as much as he wants her.
“Are you kidding? We’re not going to get anything useful out of either of those two tonight. Maybe over breakfast.” Martin’s voice breaks into Annie’s consciousness and she realizes that Phineas said something to both her and Finnick that neither of them noticed.
Taking that as a sign, Annie tells them all, “Goodnight.” Finnick’s hand firmly in hers, she stands up from the table and heads for the door, pulling Finnick along with her.
The picture of innocence, Finnick says, “I guess it’s bedtime.”
They hit the wall outside the dining room and Finnick pins Annie there with his body. She slips her hands under his shirt so she can feel the warmth of his skin. His mouth and hands are everywhere, it seems, light touches that make her shiver, heavier, more insistent touches that make her moan.
“Need you,” he whispers into her mouth, over and over, continues when he kisses her throat and collarbones. Then, “Which room is yours?”
Since she doesn’t have one yet, she says, “Yours is closer.” Without another word, still kissing, they slide along the wall until they reach his door. While he fumbles with the doorknob, she tries to pull his shirt off, but his arms get tangled in it. Taking a step back from the door, still kissing Annie, he finally frees himself, tossing the shirt away to land wherever. It takes him another second or two to get the door open.
Once inside his room, he kicks the door shut, pulling her dress up and over her head, dropping it to the floor, pushing her back against the door.
“You realize this whole place is riddled with bugs and cameras, right?” His voice is rough, a little breathless.
“Don’t care,” she tells him as she works the button at the waistband of his pants. “Want you.” They quickly remove the rest of their clothing and as soon as he can, Finnick lifts her up, rocks against her as she wraps her legs around his hips. He pushes into her with a groan, eliciting a gasp from her.
“We’ll probably be on pay-per-view in a matter of hours,” he whispers against her shoulder.
“They can call it ‘The Hunger Games After Dark,’” she responds, although the ‘dark’ is a little shaky at the end as he pounds into her, rattling the door. His mouth on her neck, sucking, he tightens his arms around her and backs away from the door, carrying her with him. He stumbles before they reach the bed and they end up on the floor, Annie on her back, Finnick kneeling over her. She pulls him down and he pushes into her again, sets up a rhythm of long pulls back followed by quick, hard thrusts.
“Yes! There! Yesss!” She arches up, takes him deeper as she shatters around him, only dimly aware of him crying out with his own release a moment later.
After a time, he rolls off her, rolls to his knees, takes her hand and pulls her up with him when he stands. He leads her to his bed and they slide beneath the covers. She curls onto her side and he fits himself around her. They drift off to sleep and there are no bad dreams that night, for either of them.
Chapter 13 - Devils All Around You
Chapter Title: The Hand That Feeds
Rating: (this chapter) NC-17
Word count: ~5,400
Betas: mrsdrjackson and pinkfinity (all mistakes and missteps are my own)
Focus: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair
Characters: Finnick Odair, Gloss, Annie Cresta, Mags, Original Characters
Summary: "What do you think they'd do if we just cleared a spot on the table and went at it?"
Warnings: forced prostitution, dub-con
Author's note: The title of this chapter is taken from the Nine Inch Nails song of the same name, which is on the soundtrack you can download here. Enjoy!
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Chapter Twelve - The Hand That Feeds
When Finnick arrives at the Training Center lobby, there are more people around than he anticipated, among them some of his fellow victors and several pairs who could be the couple Snow sold him to. He has neither name nor description and doesn’t feel like walking up to any of them and asking if they bought him for the evening, so he heads to the bar in the corner of the room. If they want him so badly, they can come to him. It’s not like he’s hard to spot.
Stepping into an empty space between Gloss and a tall woman with long, straight black hair, Finnick catches the bartender’s eye and orders a glass of whiskey. Gloss glances over at Finnick and slides to the left to give him a little more room. “Don’t you have an eight o’clock?” he asks.
“I’m in no hurry.” Finnick picks up his drink and downs it in one swallow, ignoring the burn, and signals for another. “Nobody said I have to be sober.”
Gloss makes an amused sound, more snort than laugh, as he sips at his own drink. “Snow must have a hard on for you to win.” Finnick gives him a quizzical look; the observation is diametrically opposed to Finnick’s own opinion. “No one else is on display like that.” Gloss gestures with his glass at Finnick’s costume. “Whatever he’s getting for you now, it’ll probably double once you’re a two-time victor.”
Finnick shudders as he takes his refilled glass from the bartender. He hadn’t thought of that in regard to his own chance of survival. “Just one more thing to look forward to.” He studies Gloss for a moment, but the man is keeping his expression perfectly blank. “That’s assuming I even make it past the bloodbath at the Cornucopia.”
Gloss shrugs. “You have as good a chance as any of us.” He takes another sip. “Better than most.”
Finnick laughs. “With you and the rest of the Careers targeting me?”
“You’re a Career, too, Finnick,” Gloss reminds him.
“Not this time.” He takes a swallow of the whiskey, drinking it more slowly, enjoying the smoky sweetness and already feeling the buzz from the liquor hitting his empty stomach. The dark-haired woman is still there to his right; the bartender brings her a drink and a menu.
Nodding, Gloss says, “Bari warned us you were breaking with the pack.”
Finnick laughs. “She hates being called that.”
Gloss grins at him. “I know.” They drink in silence for a couple of minutes, a noticeable change from the subtle needling they usually engage in when chance - or Snow - brings them together. They’ve known each other for years. Thanks to Snow, they know far more about each other than either of them likes, but standing here with Gloss now, Finnick thinks that if they had met under different circumstances, they might have been friends.
The woman to Finnick’s right places a food order. On the other side of the room, a pair of Peacekeepers enters the lobby and moves toward the small group of victors talking together around one of the low tables between the door and the bar. There’s a brief conversation and the victors, tributes and mentors alike from 5 and 9, stand and start heading for the door. One of the Peacekeepers spots Finnick and Gloss at the bar and crosses the room to them. With a glance at Finnick, the Peacekeeper says to Gloss, “I’m sorry, sir, but I have to ask you to return to your floor.”
Gloss straightens and frowns; not a small man, between his expression and his stance, he looks vaguely menacing. “Is there a curfew I don’t know about?” The Peacekeeper’s posture stiffens and his hand drops to his sidearm. Gloss doesn’t look particularly concerned by this when he gestures toward Finnick and asks, “What about him?”
“I’m supposed to be here, Gloss.” Across the room, an Avox delivers two plates of food to a man at another low table just as the woman from the bar joins him, kissing his cheek before taking her seat. When the Avox leaves, the man and woman both turn toward the bar. The woman says something and the man waves at Finnick, beckons him over to join them. “And those two must be my ‘dates’ for the evening.” He pushes back from the bar. “See you in training,” he tells Gloss as he picks up his half-full tumbler.
Gloss tosses off the rest of his drink and follows Finnick’s lead, pushing away from the bar. With a dismissive glance at the armed Peacekeeper, he claps Finnick on the shoulder. “Hope you get some sleep tonight, Finnick.” Gloss follows the other victors as they leave the lobby with their Peacekeeper escort and Finnick, drink in hand, heads to the table and his eight o’clock appointment.
Snow gave him no instructions. He has no idea which of the pair is the driving force or what’s expected of him, and thus he doesn’t know how he should act. Under the circumstances, the alcohol was probably a mistake. While a drink or two beforehand can make things more bearable, he’s afraid tonight it will only allow him to say things he’ll regret later. Like what he really thinks about having to be here.
The man catches Finnick’s eye and nods almost imperceptibly toward his companion, whose back is to Finnick. A dozen or so people remain in the lobby, including Training Center staff, and Finnick is the only victor. For the second time that night, he is the center of attention, and he wishes he could kill Snow for making this a semi-public event, Rafe for dressing him in nothing but a net and some ribbon. At least Mags had strategically placed shells.
The woman’s dress is low cut in back and her hair is gathered on the left side of her long neck, leaving the back of her neck and her shoulders bare. Still watching the man for cues, Finnick trails his fingers over her smooth skin and she shivers, turning her head toward Finnick. “Do you mind if I join you?” he asks in his trademark seductive purr. “I couldn’t help but notice you at the bar.” Finnick wonders how many cameras are recording them as the man at the table stands and holds out a hand, gesturing toward the chair between himself and the woman.
“Mr. Odair. Please. Join us. I’m Henrik Muhti and this is my wife, Melissa.”
Melissa smiles up at Finnick, her eyes traveling over his body with frank interest. “Oh, Rik, my love, can we take him home with us?”
Finnick glances at Henrik’s outstretched hand, at Melissa’s smile, her bright-dark eyes. For the first time since his brother’s boat docked at the public wharf back home - was it only yesterday? - he thinks about his family, about what he told his father of the potentially devastating storm racing their way. He thinks about Annie and the fact that he still doesn’t know where she is or what happened to her after the Peacekeepers dragged him off to the Capitol. In a flash Finnick decides that he has to trust that she’s okay and that his father heeded his warnings and will take care of everything back home, because if he doesn’t, the fear and doubt will paralyze him.
The lust in Melissa’s eyes and the anticipation in Henrik’s combine with the alcohol and the chaos of Finnick’s emotional state. Ignoring Henrik’s hand, Finnick sits. Leaning across the table, he grabs a piece of chicken from Henrik’s plate and, setting his drink on the table, takes a bite. “I hope you don’t mind,” he lies. “I haven’t really eaten since breakfast yesterday.” Turning toward Melissa, he says, “And no, you can’t take me home. I’m a tribute. I can’t leave the grounds.” Henrik blinks rapidly for a moment while to his left, Melissa’s smile slips a little. Good. Now they’re the ones who don’t know how to act. It feels good to have a modicum of control over his life, even if it is only an illusion.
“Mr. Odair…” Henrik begins to say something but, looking at his wife, he trails off and Finnick, shaking his head, jumps into the gap.
“Henrik, Henrik. Please. We both know you paid a lot of money for one or both of you to have sex with me. I think we can be on a first-name basis, don’t you?” He takes another bite of chicken. Both Muhtis stare at him.
“Henrik?” Melissa sounds surprised and maybe a bit upset, although, since Finnick doesn’t know her, he can’t be sure.
Henrik’s mouth opens and closes like that of a fish. Finnick suppresses a grin and swallows. “Oops. I guess Melissa wasn’t supposed to know about that part?” He reaches across the table and snags a roll from her plate, fully aware that if his mother were here, she’d smack his hand for his rudeness. He pulls the roll apart, picks up a knife and spreads butter on the still-warm bread, Henrik and Melissa watching his every move. Neither of them says anything, so Finnick eats the roll and then knocks back the rest of his drink.
“Are you finished?” Henrik asks. He seems to have dropped the pretense that Finnick’s presence is just a happy coincidence.
Finnick leans back in his chair. “No, I don’t think I am.” He looks between the two of them. “I’m tired. I don’t want to be here. In just under a week, I’ll be back in the arena, and the odds are these next few days are my last, and no offense intended, but I don’t want to waste that time with you.” He snags a piece of chicken from Melissa’s plate. “I know you paid for a service, Henrik, and I’ll do whatever you want me to do, but I’d appreciate it if we don’t pretend this,” he gestures toward Henrik on one side and Melissa on the other, “is anything more than a business transaction.” Melissa leans back in her chair, a speculative expression on her face as Finnick takes another bite.
She cocks her head to one side, still studying him, and asks, “So why are you here?”
I knew the alcohol was a bad idea. Finnick swallows. “That is a good question.” He’s here because obedience to Snow has become a habit, because he can’t risk rocking the boat too early, before whatever plan Heavensbee and the rest have concocted is put into play. Finnick smiles at Melissa. “You requested me. Why don’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t ask why my husband made arrangements for you to be here, Finnick. If you don’t want to be here, why are you here? Why don’t you just leave?”
As Finnick considers how to respond to that in a way that will satisfy her and yet still tell her nothing, Henrik mutters around a mouthful of chicken, “If he leaves, I’m getting a refund.”
Finnick’s heart seems to stop and then beat again at triple time. He can’t pull enough air into his lungs. He feels the blood drain from his face at the thought of what Snow could do if Muhti asks for a refund, and it’s brought forcibly home to him that he can tell himself all he wants that Annie and his family are safe. The simple truth is that they’re not and just that quickly, the illusion of control is shattered.
Forcing his face into blank lines and his voice to remain steady, he says, “I’m not leaving.”
Melissa is still watching him. “Do you need the money so badly?”
One hand clutching a half-eaten piece of chicken and the other holding equally tightly to the arm of his chair, Finnick says, “I don’t need the money.”
“No, you wouldn’t, would you? Not if you expect to die in the arena.” She crosses her legs and takes a sip of her drink. “Your family, then?”
“Enough of this.” Henrik stands, interrupting her and looking down at Finnick. “I didn’t pay for you to talk.”
“Henrik.” Melissa’s voice is quiet. “Sit down, please.” When he resumes his seat, she continues, “I assume Finnick is a belated birthday gift for me?”
“Yes, although it wasn’t meant to be belated.”
“Then hush, dear. Talking with him is part of my gift.”
The band of fear squeezing Finnick’s heart and lungs loosens along with his grip on both the chair and the chicken, which drops to the floor. He leans over to pick it up, using the distraction to try to resume his “Capitol face.” Straightening, no longer hungry, he drops the chicken into his empty glass.
“Finnick?”
“Melissa.” He’s surprised to see sympathy in her expression.
She glances at her husband who waves one hand in a do-what-you-want gesture. Smiling fondly at him, she turns back toward Finnick. “I suppose I’ve had a bit of a crush on you for years. I’d hate to completely waste Rik’s lovely gesture.”
Here it comes. Finnick leans back in his chair with a classic Finnick Odair Smirk on his face in lieu of commenting on the loveliness of Rik’s gesture. But Melissa surprises him again.
“All I want is one kiss. Do that for me and you’re free to go.”
“That’s it?” Finnick asks, surprised. Henrik leans back in his chair and wipes his mouth with a napkin, finished with his meal. When he notices Finnick looking at him, one brow raised in question, he shrugs as if to say, “I’m out of this. It’s between you and her.”
“That’s it,” Melissa confirms.
Finnick almost laughs. “Easy enough.” The least he can do is kiss her breathless, if that’s all she wants. He stands and takes the step he needs to reach her chair, holding out his hand. She takes it and as she stands, he pulls her body flush with his, puts an arm around her waist, spreads his hand over the small of her back. He threads the fingers of his other hand through her hair as he cups the back of her head, strokes his thumb along her jaw, brushes his lips lightly over hers before taking her mouth with his.
She opens her mouth with no urging from him, meets his tongue with her own. When he finally pulls back from her, he has to hold her up until she’s steady on her feet again.
“Oh.” She straightens as he drops his hand from her back. “Your girlfriend is a lucky woman,” she says, voice pitched so only he can hear.
He knows she’s fishing, but he answers her anyway. “She might as well be a widow.” And with that, Finnick turns and walks away, leaving them both staring after him.
xXx
Annie doesn’t know how long she sits there beside Mags, the others who remain in the room staring at her. Snow… Snow… Snow… She shivers. Getting up from her place on the couch, Annie walks again to the window, looks down into the courtyard. She’s so cold, feeling as though she’ll never be warm again. Leaning her forehead against the window, she wills herself not to cry.
The lights below highlight the fountain in the middle of the courtyard. She watches the water shimmer and dance, watches the branches and leaves, brilliant green where the light touches them, of the potted trees as they sway, caught in whatever bit of breeze snakes its way down past the towers of the Hunger Games complex.
Behind her Martin takes a step toward her but Mags reaches out with her cane to stop him. The strange man asks in a loud whisper, “Who is she?”
“Annie Cresta,” Martin answers, still standing where Mags stopped him. Annie watches it all reflected in the glass. She hears the concern in Martin’s voice and it reminds her of Cinna. “Annie, this is Rafe Simons,” Martin continues, his tone that of an adult trying not to frighten a small child. “He’s Finnick’s stylist. And this,” he nods his head toward the woman, “is Rialla Chen, Mags’ stylist.”
Annie turns away from the window, toward these strangers, but doesn’t greet them. So this is the man who sends Finnick off to his… clients. She stares at Rafe and he stares back at her and Annie can see it in his eyes that he knows exactly what Mags meant when she said “Snow.”
Phineas calls to them from down the hall, his voice breaking the tableau. “Come along now, everyone! Our dinner is ready and we don’t want it to get cold.” Rafe quickly makes his escape toward the dining room and Rialla follows, her pace much less hurried. Martin helps Mags to her feet and the two of them trail the stylists, but when he realizes Annie isn’t following, Martin stops and looks back at her.
“I’m not hungry,” Annie says. “I’ll wait here for Finnick.”
Mags thumps her cane on the floor and Martin looks first at her, then back to Annie. “At least come sit with us while we eat, Annie. The first place Finnick will head is the dining room.”
Annie raises one eyebrow. “The first place Finnick will be is right here. Everyone has to pass through here to get anywhere else.”
Mags pokes Martin and says something Annie can’t make out. It takes a second or two for Martin to decipher it, too, but then he nods and tells Annie, “Mags is right. Finnick isn’t going to want you to see him when he gets back. He’ll want to get cleaned up and changed first.”
“I suppose that’s true.” She thinks of how, when he arrives home from the Capitol, he never seeks her out until he has at least removed all physical traces of the Capitol and sometimes not even then. On at least two occasions, it was more than a day before he came to her. Martin holds out his free hand to Annie, but she doesn’t take it, instead walking past him with her hands covering as much of her bare arms as she can, still cold.
“Aw, come on, Annie,” he says to her back. “I was hoping to walk into the room with two beautiful women on my arms.” Annie stops and turns to look at him. She can’t help but smile when Mags whacks his foot with her cane.
“You… married.” She waves Martin and Annie toward the dining room. “Shower. Change. Supper.” With that pronouncement and a nod of her head, Mags makes her way to the room Annie used earlier for her own shower and change of clothes.
Martin sighs heavily. “I cannot catch a break,” he says, pouting. He holds out his hand to Annie a second time and she lets him escort her to the dining room.
The others are already seated, chattering away, mostly about the other tributes and their costumes from the opening ceremonies. They’ve already uncovered the plates of food the Training Center staff delivered and each one appears to be different. While Annie is curious as to what they’ve given her, since there is a still-covered plate with her name on it, the smell of it all makes her a little sick.
Before Martin takes his seat in front of his plate, he pours glasses of water for himself, Mags, and Annie, and pushes a bowl of fruit within Annie’s reach in a not-so-subtle attempt to get her to eat something, guessing correctly that she won’t take a bite of whatever was prepared for her. If she thought she could keep it down, she’d eat an orange, but she’s too wired, too stressed. She looks up at Martin and shakes her head and he shrugs and sits, digging into his own meal.
“It appears they took good care of you at the Remake Center, Annie,” Phineas observes between bites of some kind of pasta. “You look much better now than you did this morning.”
Annie shrugs. “I suppose so.”
“I took the liberty of ordering a meal for you, so I hope you’ll enjoy it.” She doesn’t respond, just looks down at the plate in front of her. She doesn’t want to talk to him, doesn’t want to talk to any of them. They’re all watching her. Not knowing what else to do, she takes a sip of water.
Martin lays down his fork. “Wait a minute.” Annie looks over at him, startled at the thread of anger in his voice. “You knew she was here and you didn’t say anything?” he says to Phineas.
Phineas cocks his feathered head to one side, his gaze darting back and forth between Martin and Annie. “Why would I?”
“You stupid…” He bites back whatever he started to say and continues instead with, “You were there. You saw that blow she took. It didn’t occur to you that the rest of us might be worried about her?”
The other Capitol citizens whisper to each other on their side of the table. Phineas shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re so upset about, Perch. She’s here now and she’s perfectly fine.”
Annie shakes her head when Martin opens his mouth to say something else. They’re all still looking at her and she fights the urge to just sink under the table and hide. She doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to be on display or to listen to these people, well-meaning or otherwise, talk about her.
Mags’ arrival spares Annie further anxiety. The old woman pauses in the doorway, then heads over to the chair between Annie and Martin, looking much more comfortable than before in a loose shirt and pajama pants. Martin rises to pull her chair out for her and she hooks her cane on the back of it as she sits. Looking over at Annie, she orders, “Eat.” Annie just stares at her place setting and takes another sip of water.
Conversation resumes around the table, thankfully no longer revolving around her, although they all, stylists and prep teams alike, keep sneaking glances at her. At least they’re no longer staring. Martin and Phineas are talking about the training schedule in the morning when Mags’ stylist looks across the table at Annie and doesn’t look immediately away.
“Annie, dear,” she says, “your hair is lovely and so long.” She smiles. “Would you let me style it for you?”
Strange hands washing her, dressing her, touching her… Strange voices discussing her as though she isn’t there, as though she can’t understand what they’re saying about her… “Pretty, but so provincial.” “Too thin.” “Weak.” “Won’t survive.”
Annie blinks, gasps, reaches for her water glass, but her hand is shaking. They’ll see it. She blinks again, pulling her hand back to her lap, where the table blocks their view. Mags touches her shoulder and says something across the table to Rialla, but Annie doesn’t understand it. Rialla seems to, though; she nods her head and returns to her conversation with the woman to her left.
Annie shoots a grateful look toward Mags, but sees movement past the old woman and gasps again. She pushes back from the table, setting her chair to wobbling, but it doesn’t fall as she runs past Mags to the man in the doorway.
“Finnick!” Annie throws herself at him where he fills the space, looking stunned at the sight of her. He lifts his arms to catch and hold her, buries his face in her hair.
“Annie. I was so afraid…”
“You’re here. I missed you so much.” He smells crisp and clean and his hair is damp where it brushes against her arms.
Still holding her close, he reaches up to smooth the hair from her forehead, touches the spot where the Peacekeepers hit her. She reaches up to stroke his lips with the tips of her fingers and he kisses them.
“They wouldn’t tell me where you were, if you were okay,” he says and brushes his lips against her forehead. “I was beginning to think you were dead and that’s why no one would say anything.”
“I had a concussion, but they fixed it in the Remake Center.” The knot of anxiety gripping her loosens even as his arms tighten around her. His eyes drift closed and he rests his forehead against hers, then shifts to kiss her. Their mouths meet and she kisses him hungrily, greedily. His mouth tastes of mint.
There’s a whisper, quickly hushed by someone else, and Annie slowly becomes aware again that there are others in the room. Most of them are staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at her and Finnick as the two of them cling to each other as though they’ll drown if they let go.
Finnick pulls back a little, whispers, a wicked glint in his eyes, “What do you think they’d do if we just clear a space on the table and go at it?”
She whispers back, “I think their heads might explode.” She bites her lower lip to keep from laughing; Finnick’s eyes track the movement, fixing there.
Martin asks, “I take it none of you knew about Annie and Finnick?” Rafe shuts his mouth with an audible click of teeth as he stares at them. They all stare at them. Annie feels like she should be used to it by now, but she still hides her face between Finnick’s neck and shoulder.
“Oh! They’re just like Katniss and Peeta!” the younger girl on Mags’ prep team says, and Annie feels Finnick start to shake. She glances up at his face, sees that he’s fighting hard not to laugh. He grins down at her.
Rafe asks, “How long have you been… together?”
Finnick doesn’t answer him right away and Annie has no intention of answering at all. With another quick kiss, Finnick finally releases Annie, all save for her hand, and they take their seats at the dinner table, side by side. Annie moves her chair closer to Finnick, who looks across at Rafe, shrugs and says, “Four years, give or take.” She knows he’s not comfortable talking about it; neither is she.
“Why have you kept this lovely girl a secret?” Rialla asks, and Finnick squeezes Annie’s hand under the table but doesn’t answer.
Annie squeezes his hand back and bumps her shoulder against his when his stomach growls loudly enough that everyone’s attention is momentarily diverted from the two of them as a couple. “What?” Finnick asks. “I’ve barely had anything to eat since breakfast yesterday.” He lifts the cover from his plate with his free hand, discards the cover in favor of a fork, and begins to devour the fried fish on his plate.
Taking her cue from Finnick, Annie lifts the cover from hers. Beneath it is steaming fish stew in a bowl made of bread. She tears off a piece of the bowl, suddenly ravenous, and smiles at Finnick. He doesn’t let go of her hand as they eat, he with his right hand, she with her left, and they both just let the conversation swirl around them, not participating, not paying attention. Several times Martin or Phineas tries to pull one or the other of them into a discussion of strategy, while Mags just shakes her head, no doubt knowing how futile that is.
Annie nibbles at her food and watches Finnick; he eats as though he’ll never see another meal like this again. Studying his face, looking at his hands, she sees that the bruises are gone as though they’d never existed, but his lower lip looks as though it’s been bitten, a little bit swollen, a little bit red. It might have been from her, but… When he lays down his fork and wipes his mouth with his napkin, she doesn’t think about what she does - Snow… Snow… Snow… - she reaches out and touches his lip with her fingertip.
“Was it bad?” she asks, afraid to look at his eyes and see the answer there.
“Was it…? Annie…”
She meets his eyes then. “When you didn’t come back with the others, I asked where you were. Mags told me you were late because of Snow.”
He exhales a huff of breath and closes his eyes, but then he opens them again and takes her hand, lifts it to his mouth. “Annie, nothing happened.”
She shakes her head. “Your lip…”
He kisses her hand and smiles. “She asked for a kiss. Told me if I gave her that, I was free to go.”
Annie frowns. “Just a kiss?” As though that weren’t bad enough…
“Just a kiss.”
She knows he’s not telling her everything, but he doesn’t try to avoid her gaze, and she doesn’t think he’s lying to her. She pulls her hand from his, cups his cheek, strokes his lower lip with her thumb, then leans into him and kisses his lip. Before she can pull back, he cups the back of her head with one hand and slants his mouth over hers, catching her lower lip in his teeth.
He breaks the kiss and his eyes are intense with desire. “Let’s get out of here.”
Annie nods, wanting him as much as he wants her.
“Are you kidding? We’re not going to get anything useful out of either of those two tonight. Maybe over breakfast.” Martin’s voice breaks into Annie’s consciousness and she realizes that Phineas said something to both her and Finnick that neither of them noticed.
Taking that as a sign, Annie tells them all, “Goodnight.” Finnick’s hand firmly in hers, she stands up from the table and heads for the door, pulling Finnick along with her.
The picture of innocence, Finnick says, “I guess it’s bedtime.”
They hit the wall outside the dining room and Finnick pins Annie there with his body. She slips her hands under his shirt so she can feel the warmth of his skin. His mouth and hands are everywhere, it seems, light touches that make her shiver, heavier, more insistent touches that make her moan.
“Need you,” he whispers into her mouth, over and over, continues when he kisses her throat and collarbones. Then, “Which room is yours?”
Since she doesn’t have one yet, she says, “Yours is closer.” Without another word, still kissing, they slide along the wall until they reach his door. While he fumbles with the doorknob, she tries to pull his shirt off, but his arms get tangled in it. Taking a step back from the door, still kissing Annie, he finally frees himself, tossing the shirt away to land wherever. It takes him another second or two to get the door open.
Once inside his room, he kicks the door shut, pulling her dress up and over her head, dropping it to the floor, pushing her back against the door.
“You realize this whole place is riddled with bugs and cameras, right?” His voice is rough, a little breathless.
“Don’t care,” she tells him as she works the button at the waistband of his pants. “Want you.” They quickly remove the rest of their clothing and as soon as he can, Finnick lifts her up, rocks against her as she wraps her legs around his hips. He pushes into her with a groan, eliciting a gasp from her.
“We’ll probably be on pay-per-view in a matter of hours,” he whispers against her shoulder.
“They can call it ‘The Hunger Games After Dark,’” she responds, although the ‘dark’ is a little shaky at the end as he pounds into her, rattling the door. His mouth on her neck, sucking, he tightens his arms around her and backs away from the door, carrying her with him. He stumbles before they reach the bed and they end up on the floor, Annie on her back, Finnick kneeling over her. She pulls him down and he pushes into her again, sets up a rhythm of long pulls back followed by quick, hard thrusts.
“Yes! There! Yesss!” She arches up, takes him deeper as she shatters around him, only dimly aware of him crying out with his own release a moment later.
After a time, he rolls off her, rolls to his knees, takes her hand and pulls her up with him when he stands. He leads her to his bed and they slide beneath the covers. She curls onto her side and he fits himself around her. They drift off to sleep and there are no bad dreams that night, for either of them.
Chapter 13 - Devils All Around You