Hunger Games fic: Fear Is the Brightest of Suns (NC-17)
Title: Fear Is the Brightest of Suns
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 4,653
Beta: scapeartist ♥
Characters/Pairings: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair
Summary: “My gran used to tell me that the best way to stop being afraid of something is to face it and make it back down. That it can only control you if you let it.”
Warnings: mild bondage, references to past situations of dubious/non-consent
Author's note: Written for trovia as part of the Wicked Winter ficathon to the prompts Finnick, or Finnick/anybody, something about his rope OCD and Finnick(/Annie), just say no. I hope it works. Writing this was way outside my comfort zone, and for that reason alone I like it, because it made me stretch a little. The title of the fic is from Vienna Teng's Harbor.
--------------------
Water runs in tickling, trickling rivulets through Finnick’s hair, dripping into his eyes to blind him, onto his neck to slide under his shirt and making him shiver as he and Corin drag the water-heavy nets to his porch. They drop the piles of knotted rope to the wooden surface with a thud as the smell of fish and rotting seaweed rises in the air. It started raining while they were still half an hour out from Victors’ Island and it doesn’t look as though it’s going to stop anytime soon.
“You sure you want that so close to the house?” Corin asks, wrinkling his nose and Finnick laughs. His mother’s younger brother has always been a fastidious man, but it doesn’t make him any less effective a fisherman.
“It’s not that bad.” Finnick rubs his face in the crook of one elbow, doing little more than smear the water around, but it still clears his eyes so he can see Annie watching them from just inside the door. He smiles at her, his heart beating just a little faster when she smiles back at him. Corin glances over at her and then back to his nephew.
“And will your Annie think it’s not that bad?”
Pushing the door open to join them, Annie says, “She doesn’t mind it so much.” The door slams behind her as she pulls her sweater a little tighter around her torso; bundled up on top, her legs and feet bare beneath a pair of cutoff shorts. It’s the middle of June, but a cold front rolled in, dropping the temperature by twenty degrees since they took the boat out that morning. Corin holds out his hand and takes a step toward Annie.
“I’m Corin,” he says. “Finnick’s uncle.” Finnick holds his breath for a moment, but Annie takes Corin’s hand as though she meets potentially overwhelming strangers on her back porch every day. But then, she survived meeting his own sister and nephew the month before, not to mention his parents; Corin is a piece of cake in comparison. “I’m glad to finally meet you, Annie.” With a sly glance at Finnick, he continues, “Finn talks about you constantly.”
A horn sounds in the vicinity of the pier and all three of them look that way. Saved from dignifying the jab with a reaction, Finnick sees his sister Shandra waving. “Looks like Dad is impatient to be off.” Corin releases Annie’s hand.
“I’d best get down there before he hurts something.” He grins at Annie. “Besides, your boyfriend here has been wanting to cut and run all afternoon. I figured it was because he wanted to get back to you.” Finnick rolls his eyes as Corin jogs down the steps, but then his gaze lights on the pile of nets in need of repair before morning. Something is missing.
“Crap. Corin! Hold on!” he calls even as he turns to tell Annie, “I’ll be right back.” Visibly shivering at a gust of wind that carries with it a spray of rain, Annie nods and goes back inside as Finnick runs down the steps after his uncle.
Seeing Finnick running after him empty-handed, Corin stops and asks, “What did you forget?”
“The rope for the repairs. I don’t have anything heavy enough on hand.”
“Heavy enough, huh?” Corin’s tone is teasing as he starts walking to the pier again. “Just what kind of rope do you have on hand?” He doesn’t mean anything by it and Finnick makes some noncommittal noise in answer, but still Finnick’s step falters and his breath catches in his throat.
Marc Wellington in particular would like to spend some time with you.
Snow’s summons, requiring Finnick’s presence in the Capitol tomorrow evening, had come in the post the day before, but Finnick had only read it this morning. It’s the first time Snow has called him to the Capitol since Annie moved in with him. She doesn’t yet know the significance of the cream and blue envelopes with no return address and so she hadn’t thought to give it to him right away. It will be his third time with Marcus Wellington and his ropes and his penchant for domination. Finnick shudders, but Corin, a few paces ahead, doesn’t notice.
Finnick’s uncle takes the rickety steps two at a time up to the communal boathouse and docks; technically, he still has four steps to go when Thomas Odair sounds the horn again. He reaches the top and shouts down to Finnick, “It’s right here, Finn! Catch!”
The coil of new rope, just as waterlogged as the nets themselves, but with rainwater rather than salt so not so heavy or pungent, sails toward him from above, partially uncoiling as it falls. A lucky shot, it heads straight for Finnick’s head; he has just enough time to raise an arm to protect his face. The coil of rope falls around him, tangling his arms and trailing down his back, momentarily immobilizing him.
…hungry vines snake around his arms and legs, tiny barbed teeth digging in as they pull the mutt bodies along…
…hot breath against his hip as the ropes tighten between his legs, around his thighs…
Finnick barely hears Corin’s triumphant laugh, his shouted goodbye, or the pounding of his feet as he runs down the dock. All Finnick hears is the rush of his own blood in his ears and the remembered sound of Wellington’s voice telling him to beg for his release. He can’t move as the light wind continues to blow and the rain to fall, the drops coming heavier and faster as his father’s boat heads back to the mainland.
He has no idea how long he stands there staring at nothing, fighting the demons in his own head, before Annie rescues him. No sight, no sound, no sensation penetrates the commingled memories and nightmares until she lightly touches his arm, says his name, her voice laced with love and concern. At Annie’s touch, Finnick jerks his arm away from her and, with a strangled cry, fights violently against the rope that binds him. For a moment it only draws more tightly around him, but he doesn’t stop struggling. He’s vaguely aware of Annie asking him what’s wrong, of her repeating his name and sounding more and more frightened. After an eternity, he drags the rope over his head and flings it away.
Approaching him cautiously, Annie reaches for his hand. Finnick is breathing hard, taking in great gulps of air as he fights back tears. He can’t stop shaking. When he doesn’t jerk away from another light touch of her hand on his arm, she steps in closer. Trailing her fingers down his wet forearm, she takes his hand. She’s just as drenched as he is.
“Finnick, dinner’s almost ready.” Her voice is carefully neutral, but he can hear her fear underneath and he hates himself for causing it. “It’s nothing fancy.” She lifts his hand and gently pries his fingers from the rigid fist they formed and it’s only after she twines their fingers together, when he feels the ache in his muscles, that he realizes just how tight that fist was. He clutches at her hand almost desperately and she gasps, tries to cover it with a cough. He immediately modulates his grip on her hand, but it’s hard. So very hard.
Hand-in-hand, Annie leads Finnick up the beach to their house, the rope still lying abandoned in a heap on the sand.
xXx
Although he’s still feeling a little shaky, Finnick retrieves the rope he’d left out on the beach while Annie cleans up the kitchen after dinner. He has a good two hours’ worth of work to do on the nets and he wants to get them done before he has to leave for the Capitol. It’s not critical that they be done right away - his father has other nets and other hands who can repair them - but Finnick will be gone for a couple of weeks before the Games, only returning to 4 for a day or two before heading back to the Capitol for the Games themselves. His father already thinks him a flighty slut; he doesn’t want him to think he’s completely useless as well.
A gust of air blows in off the gulf, salty and cool, and Finnick shivers. His steps slow as he approaches the sad little pile of rope and he has to force himself to pick it up.
“They only grow tighter if you struggle, but by all means, Finn, feel free.”
Straightening abruptly, Finnick nearly drops the rope. Shoving Wellington’s smooth voice into as deep and dark a hole as he can, he shakes the coil out until he can find an end and rewind it, doing his best to think of nothing. But another gust of wind off the water becomes a huff of breath against the back of his neck as Wellington - why can’t I at least forget their names? - pulls Finnick’s arms behind his back, wrapping loops of rope around his wrists.
With a shudder, he pushes that memory down, too, tries to replace it with one more pleasant: sitting on the beach with his siblings, all three of them working on nets and trash talking each others’ efforts, each insult more outrageous - and funnier - than the last. Finnick had been fifteen and doing his best to fit in with his family the way he had before the Games, but even then, before that first patron, when he was still an innocent in so many ways, he had found it difficult.
“Damn it.” Shaking off that memory, too, Finnick slings the newly formed coil of rope over his shoulder and trudges back up to the house. As the rain falls heavier, he picks up his pace, sliding a little in the wet sand. Once safely under the shelter of the porch roof, he drops the rope and shrugs out of his raincoat.
The overhead light is on and he smiles. He’d forgotten it when he went down to the beach, so Annie must have noticed and flicked it on for him. His smile fades quickly, though. She’s worried about him, had asked him twice during dinner what was wrong and if he was okay and he had lied to her, assuring her that he was fine, not wanting to worry her more. But he isn’t fine. Thanks to Snow’s summons, he’s been having sensory flashbacks off and on all day, triggered by an unexpected touch or scent, or a laugh that sounded too much like that of Marcus Wellington.
Pulling his fishing knife from a pocket in his raincoat, Finnick lowers himself to the porch beside the pile of nets. Separating out one of the nets, he pulls it into his lap and reaches for the rope, but stops when he feels another rope, smooth and unyielding, wrapped and knotted around his body, as much a net to hold him helplessly in place as the one in his lap does for the fish they catch or the one he used on the kids he killed in the arena.
Leaning back against the wall, Finnick pounds his head against it. The rope for the repairs remains untouched in front of him; he stares at it as though it were a snake, poisonous and deadly. He shoves the net back onto the pile. If I’m freaking out this badly now, what the hell am I going to do when I’m back in the Capitol with Wellington? At the realization that the memories plaguing him now will be a reality in another twenty-four hours, that he can’t safe-word out, not with Wellington, he leans forward and buries his face in his arms.
It could be minutes or it could be hours later that he hears the back door open. Annie says his name as she steps out onto the porch, but he doesn’t answer, just continues staring at the rope. She walks over to where he sits and kneels in front of him, blocking his view, but she doesn’t touch him and he’s glad. He doesn’t think he could handle it if she were to touch him now.
“Finnick?” she repeats. He raises his eyes, but doesn’t quite meet her gaze.
“I can’t do this,” he whispers without intending to.
“Can’t do what?”
“The nets. I can’t.” Annie gently takes his hands in hers, but slowly, giving him a chance to pull away. He doesn’t. He forces his eyes to meet hers.
“Finnick, what is this about?”
Still not meeting her eyes - another thing he can’t do - Finnick tells her about Snow’s note, about Marcus Wellington, about the humiliation and shame and the things Wellington forced him to acknowledge about himself, things he doesn’t particularly like. By the time he’s finished, he’s shaking. “I can’t do this.”
Annie squeezes his hands and then shifts. Still kneeling in front of him, she weaves her fingers with his as she says, “My gran used to tell me that the best way to stop being afraid of something is to face it and make it back down. That it can only control you if you let it.”
“It’s not that easy.”
Annie laughs, not a humorous sound. “Nothing is ever easy.” Finnick focuses on her, a lifeline. “Let me help you, Finnick. I want to help you.”
xXx
Finnick kneels naked in the middle of their living room. He and Annie are both naked. The curtains are drawn, the table and couch pushed closer to the wall to give them more room. He’s shaking; he knows she can see it, but he can’t make it stop, can’t make the memories stop. They keep coming at him, stronger and faster.
“My name is Finnick Odair,” he mutters, fingers clenched tightly together to still the restless twitching. “I’m twenty years old, the victor of the 65th-”
“Finnick?” Just the sound of her voice sends electricity shooting along his nerve endings, but the want she fires in him is at war with the fear and shame - “Tell me what you want me to do to you, pretty Finn…” - until he chokes on it. Her hands are gentle on his face, but he jumps at her soft touch all the same. “Are you sure you want this?”
“You know you want this.”
“Yes,” Finnick says, his voice barely audible.
…arms wrenched behind his back, unyielding rope twined around his shoulders, his neck, between his legs until he can’t move, can’t breathe, the vines biting into him with needle teeth…
“Finnick!” He opens his eyes. Annie cups his cheek and he wants to cry at the tenderness of it. “Baby, it’s okay to say no.” He blinks and only realizes that there really are tears when she wipes them away with her thumbs, just before she kisses him. How did it get this bad? he thinks as she starts to pull away. Catching her wrists, Finnick holds her there and opens his mouth to her and the fear recedes with the slide of her tongue along his. He’s never been allowed to say no.
When Annie pulls back a second time, he lets her. He meets her eyes and his voice is steady when he tells her, “Annie, I do want this. With you.” He lets go of her and settles back on his heels, crossing his wrists behind his back and bowing his head.
After a moment, Annie lets out a frustrated huff of breath. “Tell me what to do.” Finnick almost smiles. Feeling more sure of himself in the face of Annie’s uncertainty, he directs her in tying his wrists, in binding his arms, looping the rope so that it’s tight enough to immobilize, but not so tight as to cause pain. As she follows his instructions, she peppers him with kisses and caresses. By the time she’s done, his breathing is harsh, uneven, and he’s so fucking aroused it hurts.
“What now?” Her question and her voice are hesitant, the confidence she pretended to as she tied him falling away.
“Follow your instincts.” He’s sure she’s never done anything like this before, but her improvisations so far have driven a large part of the fear - as well as the memories of Marcus Wellington - from his head. But again she falters and the seconds tick along, his need for release growing.
“Annie, please…” Finnick’s voice breaks on the plea. Annie startles, but then walks slowly toward him, stopping in front of him to stand between his knees. It puts the juncture of her thighs in line with his mouth and right now, he’ll take what he can get; he leans forward to lick into her, salty and slick. Curling her fingers into his hair, she strokes the back of his head and neck with one hand in time with the strokes of his tongue. When he teases her clit with his teeth, Annie hums her pleasure, a tuneless melody, her voice rougher and breathier the longer he plays. As her humming becomes more broken, Finnick’s trembling fades and he strains against the rope, wanting his hands on her, wanting to pull her under him and bury himself inside her.
Annie takes a step back and a wordless sound of protest escapes Finnick as he has no choice but to let her go, his eyes following her. She smiles then steps closer again, but when he leans toward her, she sidesteps his mouth, trailing her fingertips along his collarbones, his shoulders, around to the back of his neck as she moves behind him.
He stiffens when he can’t see her, every muscle in his arms and shoulders, his neck and back tensing. Closing his eyes, Finnick’s fingers clench convulsively, but Annie continues to lightly caress his skin. Sliding her palms over his skull and down his jaw, she exerts gentle pressure until he raises his head, keeps exerting pressure until he tilts his head back and opens his eyes to look up at her.
Leaning down until she can catch his mouth with hers, Annie kisses him; every bit of emotion they feel for each other they pour into that upside-down kiss: longing, trust, need, lust, admiration, respect, but above all, love. He relaxes into it, begins to hum deep in his throat, adding his voice to hers. One of the things he enjoys most about sex with Annie is the unexpected music.
Moving to kneel in front of him, Annie’s knees touch his as she leans in to brush his lips with hers before ghosting kisses over his jaw and chin, along his throat and shoulders and chest. Her hands glide along the same path as her mouth, fingers catching on and tracing along the ropes and Finnick once more pulls against the restraints, wanting more.
When Annie catches a nipple between her teeth, Finnick gasps, but shifts, giving her better access. Following her movements with his eyes, he sways toward her, but doesn’t let himself kiss her again. His muscles strain against the rope, but he’s not trying to escape, to make it stop, it’s simply his body trying to get closer to her. She pulls a groan from him when she brushes the backs of her fingers over his hard cock, rising up past slightly parted thighs. Closing her fingers around him, she squeezes.
“Annie, please…” Apparently those are the only two words he remembers how to say.
Letting him go, she rises higher, bringing her breasts closer to his mouth and he quickly obliges her unspoken demand, nipping and licking and sucking, her nipples hard pebbles against his tongue. Annie abruptly shifts forward and down, takes his dick into her mouth, her teeth scraping along the length of him as she sucks him in. He gasps her name, arching his back when she draws away, leaving him wet with her saliva and unable to remember anything, to think of anything but now now now.
Straddling him, her hands on Finnick’s shoulders, Annie lowers herself onto his erection and hooks her ankles together behind his back. She looks down at him; their eyes meet and then their mouths in another hungry kiss. Then she breaks it off, tries to brace herself with her feet on the floor to either side of his bound hands, but that only stops her from taking him in any deeper and the steady hum of her pleasure turns to a low growl of disappointment.
“Lean back.” His voice is rough with his own need. “Support yourself on your hands.” She does as he suggests and he bucks into her, the ropes that bind him tightening almost to the point of pain as he moves. Just one more thrust as she bears down on him and Finnick cries out with the intensity of his release while Annie continues to fuck herself on him for a little longer until finally sliding from him when her own orgasm takes her.
Uncomfortable from the awkward angle of his body, Finnick rolls until he’s on his side, facing her. All he can see is Annie, all he can hear is her ragged breathing, his own still-racing heartbeat. Slowly, he becomes aware of the rope that still binds him, tightly enough now that he can’t move. The faintest sense of panic begins to rise, but he focuses on Annie, her skin still flushed, her breathing still fast and a little uneven from what they’ve just done together and the feeling fades away. His smile is small, but genuine.
Reluctantly, not wanting to disturb her, Finnick says softly, “Annie? Could you maybe untie me, baby?” Her beautiful eyes fly open.
“Oh! Finnick, I am so sorry!” She scrambles over to him on her hands and knees, fingers skimming over the rope as she looks for the one knot that keeps the whole thing from unraveling. It takes her a few seconds to find it, a few more seconds of picking at it with her nails before she starts making small sounds of distress. Finnick cranes his neck a little and nips at her hip.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t untie it!” It takes effort, but he manages not to laugh in the face of her frustration.
“There’s a knife in my coat pocket,” he tells her. “It’s hanging by the back door.” Suddenly her face is near to his as she all but lies down on the floor beside him.
“I can’t use a knife. The rope is too tight.” Her voice is horrified and Finnick loses his fight against the laughter.
“No kidding. But you can use a knife. Just do it carefully.”
“I’ll cut you.”
He laughs again. “You won’t cut me,” he assures her, but her distress is real. He watches as the panic starts, her own buried fears rising to the surface. “Annie,” he says sharply. “Stay with me. You can do this. You’re not going to hurt me.”
Annie blinks back tears, but then nods. Visibly steeling herself, she rolls to her knees and then to her feet and pads into the kitchen. When she returns, she’s studying the fishing knife in her hands.
“I thought you kept this in the Capitol,” she says as she kneels in front of him once more.
“No, I keep it with me. When I’m in the Capitol, it stays in a drawer. For some reason, they don’t like me having a weapon.”
While Annie drags the short blade back and forth over the rope around his wrists, Finnick holds himself as still as he can. The rope starts to separate on its own as the strands are severed; he flexes his muscles, pulling it even tighter as he increases the tension. It parts abruptly and Annie backs away, knife gripped tightly in her right hand. But then she drops it to the floor as she rushes to help free him. The moment he’s able, Finnick pulls her into his arms and buries his face in her hair.
xXx
Finnick feels her gaze on him as he pulls a plain blue shirt over his head. He doesn’t bother to comb his still damp hair, doesn’t care if the shirt matches the trousers or if his shoes are appropriate to the rest; they’ll shuffle him off to remake as soon as he hits the Capitol anyway.
“I wish you didn’t have to go.” He glances over at Annie, lying on her stomach on their bed wearing nothing but a towel.
“Me, too.” Half smiling at the sight of her, Finnick continues, “I’ll be back in a couple of weeks, though.” It isn’t much, but it’s all he has to look forward to, coming home, and even that’s new. Before Annie, it wasn’t so much coming home that he looked forward to as simply leaving the Capitol.
Annie looks at him sharply. “In time for the reaping,” she says slowly, shadows in her voice. It’ll be the first reaping since she was crowned victor. Meeting her eyes, he nods, but then has to look away from the shadows he sees there, mirror images of his own.
Without warning, she rolls off the bed, leaving the towel behind. Practically running to the bathroom, she rummages through the clothes lying on the floor until she finds what she’s looking for. He can’t take his eyes off her and wonders if she’s even aware that she’s naked.
She carries something over to him where he stands at the end of the bed. “What is it?” he asks and she answers by bringing her body flush with his, reaching up to twine her arms around his neck, pulling his face down to hers.
“Do you remember the token you gave me to take with me into the arena?” she murmurs against his lips. He catches her mouth, kisses her before pulling back a little to search her eyes.
“Just a piece of knotted cord.”
“Maybe to you.” She shifts and, still holding onto his shoulders with one hand, brings her other hand down until he can see what she holds: once white, the cord has long-since gone gray, smudged and worn darker in places along its length. “To me, it was a talisman.” He raises one eyebrow and she continues. “It was the only thing I had that wasn’t filled with pain or fear. The only thing that called me back home.” She kisses him again and steps back, her hand trailing down his arm. She presses her talisman into his hand.
Swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat, Finnick blinks back the tears that form just as suddenly behind his eyes. “Annie…”
“Now it can stand between you what they do to you.” She takes his hand again and where a moment before she had pressed the cord into it, now she opens his fingers. “I know when you gave it to me that you meant for me to work knots of my own, but I didn’t know how. Not like you.” She looks up at him and then quickly away, suddenly shy. “If you work your knots with it and think of me, then they can’t touch you.” Meeting his eyes again, she says, “I won’t let them.”
A stunned Finnick whispers, “I love you, Anwyn Cresta. I don’t know how I survived this before you.” And then he forces himself to walk away, not looking back and not stopping, because if he does either one, he won’t leave and he can’t risk what Snow would do if he were to be so foolish.
Clutching her talisman tightly, Finnick walks out the door, slamming it behind him more forcefully than he intends to, and as he reaches the boathouse, he hears her calling his name. Turning back, he sees her leaning out of their bedroom window, covered only by her hair, both hands gripping the sill.
“I’ll be here when you come home, Finnick Odair!”
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 4,653
Beta: scapeartist ♥
Characters/Pairings: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair
Summary: “My gran used to tell me that the best way to stop being afraid of something is to face it and make it back down. That it can only control you if you let it.”
Warnings: mild bondage, references to past situations of dubious/non-consent
Author's note: Written for trovia as part of the Wicked Winter ficathon to the prompts Finnick, or Finnick/anybody, something about his rope OCD and Finnick(/Annie), just say no. I hope it works. Writing this was way outside my comfort zone, and for that reason alone I like it, because it made me stretch a little. The title of the fic is from Vienna Teng's Harbor.
--------------------
Water runs in tickling, trickling rivulets through Finnick’s hair, dripping into his eyes to blind him, onto his neck to slide under his shirt and making him shiver as he and Corin drag the water-heavy nets to his porch. They drop the piles of knotted rope to the wooden surface with a thud as the smell of fish and rotting seaweed rises in the air. It started raining while they were still half an hour out from Victors’ Island and it doesn’t look as though it’s going to stop anytime soon.
“You sure you want that so close to the house?” Corin asks, wrinkling his nose and Finnick laughs. His mother’s younger brother has always been a fastidious man, but it doesn’t make him any less effective a fisherman.
“It’s not that bad.” Finnick rubs his face in the crook of one elbow, doing little more than smear the water around, but it still clears his eyes so he can see Annie watching them from just inside the door. He smiles at her, his heart beating just a little faster when she smiles back at him. Corin glances over at her and then back to his nephew.
“And will your Annie think it’s not that bad?”
Pushing the door open to join them, Annie says, “She doesn’t mind it so much.” The door slams behind her as she pulls her sweater a little tighter around her torso; bundled up on top, her legs and feet bare beneath a pair of cutoff shorts. It’s the middle of June, but a cold front rolled in, dropping the temperature by twenty degrees since they took the boat out that morning. Corin holds out his hand and takes a step toward Annie.
“I’m Corin,” he says. “Finnick’s uncle.” Finnick holds his breath for a moment, but Annie takes Corin’s hand as though she meets potentially overwhelming strangers on her back porch every day. But then, she survived meeting his own sister and nephew the month before, not to mention his parents; Corin is a piece of cake in comparison. “I’m glad to finally meet you, Annie.” With a sly glance at Finnick, he continues, “Finn talks about you constantly.”
A horn sounds in the vicinity of the pier and all three of them look that way. Saved from dignifying the jab with a reaction, Finnick sees his sister Shandra waving. “Looks like Dad is impatient to be off.” Corin releases Annie’s hand.
“I’d best get down there before he hurts something.” He grins at Annie. “Besides, your boyfriend here has been wanting to cut and run all afternoon. I figured it was because he wanted to get back to you.” Finnick rolls his eyes as Corin jogs down the steps, but then his gaze lights on the pile of nets in need of repair before morning. Something is missing.
“Crap. Corin! Hold on!” he calls even as he turns to tell Annie, “I’ll be right back.” Visibly shivering at a gust of wind that carries with it a spray of rain, Annie nods and goes back inside as Finnick runs down the steps after his uncle.
Seeing Finnick running after him empty-handed, Corin stops and asks, “What did you forget?”
“The rope for the repairs. I don’t have anything heavy enough on hand.”
“Heavy enough, huh?” Corin’s tone is teasing as he starts walking to the pier again. “Just what kind of rope do you have on hand?” He doesn’t mean anything by it and Finnick makes some noncommittal noise in answer, but still Finnick’s step falters and his breath catches in his throat.
Marc Wellington in particular would like to spend some time with you.
Snow’s summons, requiring Finnick’s presence in the Capitol tomorrow evening, had come in the post the day before, but Finnick had only read it this morning. It’s the first time Snow has called him to the Capitol since Annie moved in with him. She doesn’t yet know the significance of the cream and blue envelopes with no return address and so she hadn’t thought to give it to him right away. It will be his third time with Marcus Wellington and his ropes and his penchant for domination. Finnick shudders, but Corin, a few paces ahead, doesn’t notice.
Finnick’s uncle takes the rickety steps two at a time up to the communal boathouse and docks; technically, he still has four steps to go when Thomas Odair sounds the horn again. He reaches the top and shouts down to Finnick, “It’s right here, Finn! Catch!”
The coil of new rope, just as waterlogged as the nets themselves, but with rainwater rather than salt so not so heavy or pungent, sails toward him from above, partially uncoiling as it falls. A lucky shot, it heads straight for Finnick’s head; he has just enough time to raise an arm to protect his face. The coil of rope falls around him, tangling his arms and trailing down his back, momentarily immobilizing him.
…hungry vines snake around his arms and legs, tiny barbed teeth digging in as they pull the mutt bodies along…
…hot breath against his hip as the ropes tighten between his legs, around his thighs…
Finnick barely hears Corin’s triumphant laugh, his shouted goodbye, or the pounding of his feet as he runs down the dock. All Finnick hears is the rush of his own blood in his ears and the remembered sound of Wellington’s voice telling him to beg for his release. He can’t move as the light wind continues to blow and the rain to fall, the drops coming heavier and faster as his father’s boat heads back to the mainland.
He has no idea how long he stands there staring at nothing, fighting the demons in his own head, before Annie rescues him. No sight, no sound, no sensation penetrates the commingled memories and nightmares until she lightly touches his arm, says his name, her voice laced with love and concern. At Annie’s touch, Finnick jerks his arm away from her and, with a strangled cry, fights violently against the rope that binds him. For a moment it only draws more tightly around him, but he doesn’t stop struggling. He’s vaguely aware of Annie asking him what’s wrong, of her repeating his name and sounding more and more frightened. After an eternity, he drags the rope over his head and flings it away.
Approaching him cautiously, Annie reaches for his hand. Finnick is breathing hard, taking in great gulps of air as he fights back tears. He can’t stop shaking. When he doesn’t jerk away from another light touch of her hand on his arm, she steps in closer. Trailing her fingers down his wet forearm, she takes his hand. She’s just as drenched as he is.
“Finnick, dinner’s almost ready.” Her voice is carefully neutral, but he can hear her fear underneath and he hates himself for causing it. “It’s nothing fancy.” She lifts his hand and gently pries his fingers from the rigid fist they formed and it’s only after she twines their fingers together, when he feels the ache in his muscles, that he realizes just how tight that fist was. He clutches at her hand almost desperately and she gasps, tries to cover it with a cough. He immediately modulates his grip on her hand, but it’s hard. So very hard.
Hand-in-hand, Annie leads Finnick up the beach to their house, the rope still lying abandoned in a heap on the sand.
xXx
Although he’s still feeling a little shaky, Finnick retrieves the rope he’d left out on the beach while Annie cleans up the kitchen after dinner. He has a good two hours’ worth of work to do on the nets and he wants to get them done before he has to leave for the Capitol. It’s not critical that they be done right away - his father has other nets and other hands who can repair them - but Finnick will be gone for a couple of weeks before the Games, only returning to 4 for a day or two before heading back to the Capitol for the Games themselves. His father already thinks him a flighty slut; he doesn’t want him to think he’s completely useless as well.
A gust of air blows in off the gulf, salty and cool, and Finnick shivers. His steps slow as he approaches the sad little pile of rope and he has to force himself to pick it up.
“They only grow tighter if you struggle, but by all means, Finn, feel free.”
Straightening abruptly, Finnick nearly drops the rope. Shoving Wellington’s smooth voice into as deep and dark a hole as he can, he shakes the coil out until he can find an end and rewind it, doing his best to think of nothing. But another gust of wind off the water becomes a huff of breath against the back of his neck as Wellington - why can’t I at least forget their names? - pulls Finnick’s arms behind his back, wrapping loops of rope around his wrists.
With a shudder, he pushes that memory down, too, tries to replace it with one more pleasant: sitting on the beach with his siblings, all three of them working on nets and trash talking each others’ efforts, each insult more outrageous - and funnier - than the last. Finnick had been fifteen and doing his best to fit in with his family the way he had before the Games, but even then, before that first patron, when he was still an innocent in so many ways, he had found it difficult.
“Damn it.” Shaking off that memory, too, Finnick slings the newly formed coil of rope over his shoulder and trudges back up to the house. As the rain falls heavier, he picks up his pace, sliding a little in the wet sand. Once safely under the shelter of the porch roof, he drops the rope and shrugs out of his raincoat.
The overhead light is on and he smiles. He’d forgotten it when he went down to the beach, so Annie must have noticed and flicked it on for him. His smile fades quickly, though. She’s worried about him, had asked him twice during dinner what was wrong and if he was okay and he had lied to her, assuring her that he was fine, not wanting to worry her more. But he isn’t fine. Thanks to Snow’s summons, he’s been having sensory flashbacks off and on all day, triggered by an unexpected touch or scent, or a laugh that sounded too much like that of Marcus Wellington.
Pulling his fishing knife from a pocket in his raincoat, Finnick lowers himself to the porch beside the pile of nets. Separating out one of the nets, he pulls it into his lap and reaches for the rope, but stops when he feels another rope, smooth and unyielding, wrapped and knotted around his body, as much a net to hold him helplessly in place as the one in his lap does for the fish they catch or the one he used on the kids he killed in the arena.
Leaning back against the wall, Finnick pounds his head against it. The rope for the repairs remains untouched in front of him; he stares at it as though it were a snake, poisonous and deadly. He shoves the net back onto the pile. If I’m freaking out this badly now, what the hell am I going to do when I’m back in the Capitol with Wellington? At the realization that the memories plaguing him now will be a reality in another twenty-four hours, that he can’t safe-word out, not with Wellington, he leans forward and buries his face in his arms.
It could be minutes or it could be hours later that he hears the back door open. Annie says his name as she steps out onto the porch, but he doesn’t answer, just continues staring at the rope. She walks over to where he sits and kneels in front of him, blocking his view, but she doesn’t touch him and he’s glad. He doesn’t think he could handle it if she were to touch him now.
“Finnick?” she repeats. He raises his eyes, but doesn’t quite meet her gaze.
“I can’t do this,” he whispers without intending to.
“Can’t do what?”
“The nets. I can’t.” Annie gently takes his hands in hers, but slowly, giving him a chance to pull away. He doesn’t. He forces his eyes to meet hers.
“Finnick, what is this about?”
Still not meeting her eyes - another thing he can’t do - Finnick tells her about Snow’s note, about Marcus Wellington, about the humiliation and shame and the things Wellington forced him to acknowledge about himself, things he doesn’t particularly like. By the time he’s finished, he’s shaking. “I can’t do this.”
Annie squeezes his hands and then shifts. Still kneeling in front of him, she weaves her fingers with his as she says, “My gran used to tell me that the best way to stop being afraid of something is to face it and make it back down. That it can only control you if you let it.”
“It’s not that easy.”
Annie laughs, not a humorous sound. “Nothing is ever easy.” Finnick focuses on her, a lifeline. “Let me help you, Finnick. I want to help you.”
xXx
Finnick kneels naked in the middle of their living room. He and Annie are both naked. The curtains are drawn, the table and couch pushed closer to the wall to give them more room. He’s shaking; he knows she can see it, but he can’t make it stop, can’t make the memories stop. They keep coming at him, stronger and faster.
“My name is Finnick Odair,” he mutters, fingers clenched tightly together to still the restless twitching. “I’m twenty years old, the victor of the 65th-”
“Finnick?” Just the sound of her voice sends electricity shooting along his nerve endings, but the want she fires in him is at war with the fear and shame - “Tell me what you want me to do to you, pretty Finn…” - until he chokes on it. Her hands are gentle on his face, but he jumps at her soft touch all the same. “Are you sure you want this?”
“You know you want this.”
“Yes,” Finnick says, his voice barely audible.
…arms wrenched behind his back, unyielding rope twined around his shoulders, his neck, between his legs until he can’t move, can’t breathe, the vines biting into him with needle teeth…
“Finnick!” He opens his eyes. Annie cups his cheek and he wants to cry at the tenderness of it. “Baby, it’s okay to say no.” He blinks and only realizes that there really are tears when she wipes them away with her thumbs, just before she kisses him. How did it get this bad? he thinks as she starts to pull away. Catching her wrists, Finnick holds her there and opens his mouth to her and the fear recedes with the slide of her tongue along his. He’s never been allowed to say no.
When Annie pulls back a second time, he lets her. He meets her eyes and his voice is steady when he tells her, “Annie, I do want this. With you.” He lets go of her and settles back on his heels, crossing his wrists behind his back and bowing his head.
After a moment, Annie lets out a frustrated huff of breath. “Tell me what to do.” Finnick almost smiles. Feeling more sure of himself in the face of Annie’s uncertainty, he directs her in tying his wrists, in binding his arms, looping the rope so that it’s tight enough to immobilize, but not so tight as to cause pain. As she follows his instructions, she peppers him with kisses and caresses. By the time she’s done, his breathing is harsh, uneven, and he’s so fucking aroused it hurts.
“What now?” Her question and her voice are hesitant, the confidence she pretended to as she tied him falling away.
“Follow your instincts.” He’s sure she’s never done anything like this before, but her improvisations so far have driven a large part of the fear - as well as the memories of Marcus Wellington - from his head. But again she falters and the seconds tick along, his need for release growing.
“Annie, please…” Finnick’s voice breaks on the plea. Annie startles, but then walks slowly toward him, stopping in front of him to stand between his knees. It puts the juncture of her thighs in line with his mouth and right now, he’ll take what he can get; he leans forward to lick into her, salty and slick. Curling her fingers into his hair, she strokes the back of his head and neck with one hand in time with the strokes of his tongue. When he teases her clit with his teeth, Annie hums her pleasure, a tuneless melody, her voice rougher and breathier the longer he plays. As her humming becomes more broken, Finnick’s trembling fades and he strains against the rope, wanting his hands on her, wanting to pull her under him and bury himself inside her.
Annie takes a step back and a wordless sound of protest escapes Finnick as he has no choice but to let her go, his eyes following her. She smiles then steps closer again, but when he leans toward her, she sidesteps his mouth, trailing her fingertips along his collarbones, his shoulders, around to the back of his neck as she moves behind him.
He stiffens when he can’t see her, every muscle in his arms and shoulders, his neck and back tensing. Closing his eyes, Finnick’s fingers clench convulsively, but Annie continues to lightly caress his skin. Sliding her palms over his skull and down his jaw, she exerts gentle pressure until he raises his head, keeps exerting pressure until he tilts his head back and opens his eyes to look up at her.
Leaning down until she can catch his mouth with hers, Annie kisses him; every bit of emotion they feel for each other they pour into that upside-down kiss: longing, trust, need, lust, admiration, respect, but above all, love. He relaxes into it, begins to hum deep in his throat, adding his voice to hers. One of the things he enjoys most about sex with Annie is the unexpected music.
Moving to kneel in front of him, Annie’s knees touch his as she leans in to brush his lips with hers before ghosting kisses over his jaw and chin, along his throat and shoulders and chest. Her hands glide along the same path as her mouth, fingers catching on and tracing along the ropes and Finnick once more pulls against the restraints, wanting more.
When Annie catches a nipple between her teeth, Finnick gasps, but shifts, giving her better access. Following her movements with his eyes, he sways toward her, but doesn’t let himself kiss her again. His muscles strain against the rope, but he’s not trying to escape, to make it stop, it’s simply his body trying to get closer to her. She pulls a groan from him when she brushes the backs of her fingers over his hard cock, rising up past slightly parted thighs. Closing her fingers around him, she squeezes.
“Annie, please…” Apparently those are the only two words he remembers how to say.
Letting him go, she rises higher, bringing her breasts closer to his mouth and he quickly obliges her unspoken demand, nipping and licking and sucking, her nipples hard pebbles against his tongue. Annie abruptly shifts forward and down, takes his dick into her mouth, her teeth scraping along the length of him as she sucks him in. He gasps her name, arching his back when she draws away, leaving him wet with her saliva and unable to remember anything, to think of anything but now now now.
Straddling him, her hands on Finnick’s shoulders, Annie lowers herself onto his erection and hooks her ankles together behind his back. She looks down at him; their eyes meet and then their mouths in another hungry kiss. Then she breaks it off, tries to brace herself with her feet on the floor to either side of his bound hands, but that only stops her from taking him in any deeper and the steady hum of her pleasure turns to a low growl of disappointment.
“Lean back.” His voice is rough with his own need. “Support yourself on your hands.” She does as he suggests and he bucks into her, the ropes that bind him tightening almost to the point of pain as he moves. Just one more thrust as she bears down on him and Finnick cries out with the intensity of his release while Annie continues to fuck herself on him for a little longer until finally sliding from him when her own orgasm takes her.
Uncomfortable from the awkward angle of his body, Finnick rolls until he’s on his side, facing her. All he can see is Annie, all he can hear is her ragged breathing, his own still-racing heartbeat. Slowly, he becomes aware of the rope that still binds him, tightly enough now that he can’t move. The faintest sense of panic begins to rise, but he focuses on Annie, her skin still flushed, her breathing still fast and a little uneven from what they’ve just done together and the feeling fades away. His smile is small, but genuine.
Reluctantly, not wanting to disturb her, Finnick says softly, “Annie? Could you maybe untie me, baby?” Her beautiful eyes fly open.
“Oh! Finnick, I am so sorry!” She scrambles over to him on her hands and knees, fingers skimming over the rope as she looks for the one knot that keeps the whole thing from unraveling. It takes her a few seconds to find it, a few more seconds of picking at it with her nails before she starts making small sounds of distress. Finnick cranes his neck a little and nips at her hip.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t untie it!” It takes effort, but he manages not to laugh in the face of her frustration.
“There’s a knife in my coat pocket,” he tells her. “It’s hanging by the back door.” Suddenly her face is near to his as she all but lies down on the floor beside him.
“I can’t use a knife. The rope is too tight.” Her voice is horrified and Finnick loses his fight against the laughter.
“No kidding. But you can use a knife. Just do it carefully.”
“I’ll cut you.”
He laughs again. “You won’t cut me,” he assures her, but her distress is real. He watches as the panic starts, her own buried fears rising to the surface. “Annie,” he says sharply. “Stay with me. You can do this. You’re not going to hurt me.”
Annie blinks back tears, but then nods. Visibly steeling herself, she rolls to her knees and then to her feet and pads into the kitchen. When she returns, she’s studying the fishing knife in her hands.
“I thought you kept this in the Capitol,” she says as she kneels in front of him once more.
“No, I keep it with me. When I’m in the Capitol, it stays in a drawer. For some reason, they don’t like me having a weapon.”
While Annie drags the short blade back and forth over the rope around his wrists, Finnick holds himself as still as he can. The rope starts to separate on its own as the strands are severed; he flexes his muscles, pulling it even tighter as he increases the tension. It parts abruptly and Annie backs away, knife gripped tightly in her right hand. But then she drops it to the floor as she rushes to help free him. The moment he’s able, Finnick pulls her into his arms and buries his face in her hair.
xXx
Finnick feels her gaze on him as he pulls a plain blue shirt over his head. He doesn’t bother to comb his still damp hair, doesn’t care if the shirt matches the trousers or if his shoes are appropriate to the rest; they’ll shuffle him off to remake as soon as he hits the Capitol anyway.
“I wish you didn’t have to go.” He glances over at Annie, lying on her stomach on their bed wearing nothing but a towel.
“Me, too.” Half smiling at the sight of her, Finnick continues, “I’ll be back in a couple of weeks, though.” It isn’t much, but it’s all he has to look forward to, coming home, and even that’s new. Before Annie, it wasn’t so much coming home that he looked forward to as simply leaving the Capitol.
Annie looks at him sharply. “In time for the reaping,” she says slowly, shadows in her voice. It’ll be the first reaping since she was crowned victor. Meeting her eyes, he nods, but then has to look away from the shadows he sees there, mirror images of his own.
Without warning, she rolls off the bed, leaving the towel behind. Practically running to the bathroom, she rummages through the clothes lying on the floor until she finds what she’s looking for. He can’t take his eyes off her and wonders if she’s even aware that she’s naked.
She carries something over to him where he stands at the end of the bed. “What is it?” he asks and she answers by bringing her body flush with his, reaching up to twine her arms around his neck, pulling his face down to hers.
“Do you remember the token you gave me to take with me into the arena?” she murmurs against his lips. He catches her mouth, kisses her before pulling back a little to search her eyes.
“Just a piece of knotted cord.”
“Maybe to you.” She shifts and, still holding onto his shoulders with one hand, brings her other hand down until he can see what she holds: once white, the cord has long-since gone gray, smudged and worn darker in places along its length. “To me, it was a talisman.” He raises one eyebrow and she continues. “It was the only thing I had that wasn’t filled with pain or fear. The only thing that called me back home.” She kisses him again and steps back, her hand trailing down his arm. She presses her talisman into his hand.
Swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat, Finnick blinks back the tears that form just as suddenly behind his eyes. “Annie…”
“Now it can stand between you what they do to you.” She takes his hand again and where a moment before she had pressed the cord into it, now she opens his fingers. “I know when you gave it to me that you meant for me to work knots of my own, but I didn’t know how. Not like you.” She looks up at him and then quickly away, suddenly shy. “If you work your knots with it and think of me, then they can’t touch you.” Meeting his eyes again, she says, “I won’t let them.”
A stunned Finnick whispers, “I love you, Anwyn Cresta. I don’t know how I survived this before you.” And then he forces himself to walk away, not looking back and not stopping, because if he does either one, he won’t leave and he can’t risk what Snow would do if he were to be so foolish.
Clutching her talisman tightly, Finnick walks out the door, slamming it behind him more forcefully than he intends to, and as he reaches the boathouse, he hears her calling his name. Turning back, he sees her leaning out of their bedroom window, covered only by her hair, both hands gripping the sill.
“I’ll be here when you come home, Finnick Odair!”