Gilded Lily | [II]
disclaimer *:シďžâ§*:シďžâ§ dd:dne. heavy disclaimer for dark content. mentions of sexual violence. mentions of prostitution and canon typical violence. physical abuse. angst. psychological trauma and ptsd. pet play dynamics. MDNI.
pairing *:シďžâ§*:シďžâ§ Finnick Odair x fem!Snow!reader
a/n *:シďžâ§*:シďžâ§ Okay so ngl the first part did better than I expected and here's the next part. Also please lemme know your thoughts cuz Iâd love to hear em. (and so i know yâall donât hate me) Comment, Like and Reblog
Comment to be added to taglist.
[I] | [II] | [III] | [IV] | [V] | [VI] | [VII]
âIâll take her.â
The words hung in the air, simple and absolute. No explanation. No justification. Just a statement of fact.
Johanna stared at him as though he had grown a second head. Katnissâs eyes widened, her lips parting in surprise. Tigris leaned forward, her golden gaze sharp and searching. Even Y/n seemed frozen, her pale blue eyes locked on his, her lips trembling slightly.
The counsellor from District 6 scowled, his face darkening with something that might have been disappointment or rage. âAnd why should youââ
âSit down,â Finnick said quietly. He didnât raise his voice. He didnât need to. There was something in his toneâa cold, flat authorityâthat silenced the objection before it could fully form. He turned to face the parliament, his hands resting on the back of his chair. âI am a victor. A senator. A man who has served this Republic since its founding. I have given my blood, my body, my sanity to the people of Panem. If anyone here has earned the right to make this decision, it is me.â
He looked at Katniss. She held his gaze for a long moment, searching his face for somethingâmotive, perhaps, or hidden cruelty. Whatever she found there made her nod slowly, reluctantly.
âThe motion is amended,â Katniss said, turning back to the chamber. âY/n Snow will serve her sentence in the custody of Senator Finnick Odair, subject to parliamentary oversight. All in favour?â
The vote was closer this time. But it passed.
And Finnick sat down, his heart pounding, his hands steady, his mind already spinning with the weight of what he had just agreed to do.
That evening, Finnick returned to his apartment alone, the weight of the day pressing down on him like a physical thing. He had barely registered the drive backâthe familiar streets of the Capitol blurring past the soft hum of the electric engine doing nothing to quiet the noise in his head. Now he stood in the middle of his living room, still in his formal clothes, pacing a slow, restless path from the windows to the fireplace and back again.
He didnât know what to do. He didnât know what to expect. He had volunteered to take custody of Y/n Snow on impulseâa split-second decision born of something he couldnât quite name. Disgust at the counsellor from District 6, perhaps. A flicker of recognition when her haunted eyes had met his. Or maybe just the memories that he didnât want to recall. Whatever the reason, the deed was done. The parliament had voted. And now she was coming here. To his home. To his care.
To his cage.
His stomach turned. He resumed pacing.
The doorbell rang at precisely seven minutes past eight. The sound sliced through the heavy silence of the apartment, making Finnickâs shoulders tense. He crossed to the door in four long strides, pulled it open and found himself face to face with a ghost from a life he had tried very hard to forget.
âSenator Odair.â The manâs voice was smooth as poisoned honeyâwarm on the surface, cloying underneath, with something sharp and unpleasant lurking just below. He was a former stylist from the Hunger Games, one of the ones who had dressed tributes for the cameras, who had painted smiles on frightened children and called it pageantry. His hair was silver-grey and swept back from a narrow face. His suit was immaculate, tailored to within an inch of its life. And his smile, wide and white and utterly insincere, never quite reached his eyes.
Finnick gave him a small, tight nod of acknowledgment. Nothing more. He had learned long ago that men like this fed on warmth; the best defence was to offer none at all.
âIâve brought the goods,â the stylist continued, undeterred by Finnickâs cool reception. He clapped his hands twiceâa sharp, theatrical gestureâand two assistants emerged from the shadows of the hallway, moving with the practiced efficiency of people who had done this many times before. One carried two large briefcases, sleek and black, their handles gleaming. The other wheeled a hanger rod, the kind used by couturiers to transport gowns to fashion shows. But these were not gowns.
Finnickâs eyes travelled slowly along the rod, taking in what hung there. Lace. Silk. Leather. Straps. Cutouts that revealed more than they concealed. Pieces of fabric so small and so strategically placed that they could barely be called clothing at all. Some were transparent. Some were trimmed with fur. One appeared to be made almost entirely of gold chains linked together by tiny rings, designed to cover nothing and accentuate everything. His jaw tightened. His hands curled into loose fists at his sides.
âNow for the fun part,â the stylist said, his voice rising with theatrical excitement. He gestured over his shoulder. âBring her out.â
Y/n stepped forward from behind the assistants, where she had been standing, waiting, in the shadows. She was wrapped in a simple white robe, the kind hotels leave folded at the foot of the bed, belted tightly at her waist. Her hair had been styled into soft, cascading waves that fell past her shoulders, catching the light from the hallway fixtures. Her face was bare of heavy makeupâjust a touch of gloss on her lips, a hint of colour on her cheeks, a subtle smudging of shadow around her pale blue eyes to make them appear larger, more luminous. The stylist had designed to highlight her features rather than transform them. She looked younger than her years. More vulnerable. More breakable.
The stylist beamed. âI took my artistic liberties with this one,â he said, as one of his assistants stepped forward and, with a single, practiced motion, untied the belt of Y/nâs robe.
The white fabric parted and fell to the floor in a soft heap.
Finnickâs eyes widened. His breath caught somewhere in his throat. She was wearing a lingerie set the colour of a summer skyâsoft blue, almost ethereal, made of delicate lace and whisper-thin silk that clung to every curve and hollow of her body. The bra was sheer, the underwear cut high on her hips and the entire ensemble seemed designed to flaunt rather than conceal. Her body was completely on display, from the slender line of her neck to the gentle flare of her hips to the long, elegant length of her legs. She was beautiful in every sense of the word but it wasnât something that would help her now.
Without a word, without meeting his eyes, she sank to her knees on the floor in front of him. Her hands rested palms-up on her thighs. Her head bowed slightly, exposing the curve of her neck. The posture was practiced, preciseâshe had been taught this, rehearsed it, probably until her knees were raw and her back ached. The thought made Finnickâs stomach churn.
âWeâve done her makeup in a softer look, as you can see,â the stylist continued, apparently oblivious toâor delighted byâthe horror spreading across Finnickâs face. âTo accentuate her natural features. Iâve also taught her some basic tips so she can do her own face in the future. Hygiene, maintenance, all of that. Sheâs a quick learner. So very eager to please.â He said the last part with a smirk that made Finnick want to break something.
The stylist glanced at his lead assistant, who stepped forward and opened one of the black briefcases with a soft click. Inside, nestled in a bed of dark velvet, lay a singular collarâmatching the soft blue of the lingerie set exactly, the leather supple and gleaming, the buckle polished to a mirror shine. Attached to it was a silver leash, fine-linked and delicate, the kind one might use for a small dog. The assistant opened the second briefcase as well, revealing more collars in different coloursâblack, red, white, deep greenâsome with matching leashes, others with chains, still others with small padlocks and tiny, delicate bells.
âThe outfit sets are complete with matching collars and leashes,â the stylist said, reaching into the first briefcase and lifting the blue collar out with something like reverence. He held it out to Finnick like an offering. âSome sets include additional accessories as well. Muzzles, cuffs, blindfolds. I included a few âtraining aidsâânothing too severe, of course, just the basics. Reward markers, correction tools, that sort of thing. All very humane.â
Finnick stared at the collar in the stylistâs outstretched hand. It seemed to pulse in the low light, the silver accents catching the glow of the city beyond the windows. He reached out and took it on instinct, his fingers closing around the cool leather, and the weight of itâthe finality of itâsettled into his palm like a stone dropped into still water. His head was spinning. His thoughts were a jumble of images: the arena, the Capitol parties, the hands that had touched him without permission, the collar he himself had worn once, briefly, as part of a âcostumeâ for a private event he had never been able to fully forget.
He looked down at Y/n, still kneeling on his floor, still not meeting his eyes. The soft blue lace of her lingerie seemed almost beautiful in the dim light. Almost innocent. Almost like something a person might choose to wear.
But she hadnât chosen it. None of this had been her choice.
âI went for a nice âpuppy chicâ aesthetic,â the stylist said, breaking into Finnickâs thoughts with his chipper, commercial tone. âPersonally, I would have preferred ears and a tailâto really sell the concept, you understandâbut I kept it intentionally plain. Neutral. A blank canvas, if you will. I thought you might want to customize her in the future. Add your own touches. Make her truly yours.â
He smiled again, that wide, empty smile and gestured to his assistants. They began moving the hanger rod into the apartment, positioning it near the corner where the golden cage now stoodâa detail the stylistâs eyes lingered on with professional appreciation. The briefcases were set down on the coffee table, their contents waiting to be unpacked. And Y/n remained on her knees, motionless, her breath shallow and even, her pale blue eyes fixed on a spot on the floor in front of her.
Finnick looked at the collar in his hand. Then at the cage. Then at the woman kneeling before him, wearing clothes that werenât really clothes, her body already beginning to tremble from the effort of staying still.
âLeave,â he said quietly.
The stylist blinked. âI beg your pardon?â
âLeave.â Finnickâs voice was soft, but there was no mistaking the command in it. âAll of you. Now.â
The stylist opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and closed it again. He snapped his fingers at his assistants and they filed out of the apartment with the quick, nervous energy of people who had just realized they had overstayed their welcome. The door clicked shut behind them.
Finnick stood alone in his living room with a collar in his hand and a woman at his feet.
He did not move.
He did not speak.
The door had barely clicked shut behind the stylist and his assistants when a soft knock sounded again. Finnickâs shoulders tensed. He had been standing in the same spot, the blue collar still clutched in his hand, Y/n still kneeling motionless on the floor before him. The silence between them had been thick, charged with something neither of them seemed willing to name.
He crossed to the door and pulled it open. The stylist stood in the hallway, his smile somewhat diminished but still firmly in place, like a mask that had cracked but not yet fallen.
âApologies, Senator,â the man said, reaching into the inner pocket of his immaculate suit jacket. âI nearly forgot the most important part.â He withdrew a folded sheet of heavy parchmentâcreamy white, edges gilded, the kind of paper used for formal invitations or legal documents. It was covered in elegant, looping handwriting, the letters so precise they might have been printed. âThe rules. For your reference, she is already aware.â
Finnick took the paper without a word. The stylist lingered for a moment, clearly hoping to be invited back inside, then thought better of it. He offered a curt bow and retreated down the hallway, his footsteps fading into the soft hum of the buildingâs ventilation system.
Finnick closed the door and leaned against it, the parchment crackling softly in his grip. He could feel Y/nâs eyes on him nowânot staring directly, but watching from the corner of her vision, her pale blue gaze tracking his every movement. She was still on her knees, still in that soft blue lingerie that left nothing to the imagination, still trembling almost imperceptibly. The white robe lay in a heap where it had fallen, a puddle of fabric on the expensive rug.
He unfolded the paper and began to read.
RULES AND PROTOCOLS FOR THE CUSTODY AND MAINTENANCE OF Y/N SNOW
As decreed by the Parliamentary Oversight Committee on Transitional Justice, in consultation with the Office of Senator Finnick Odair and the former Grand Stylistâs Guild of Panem.
ARTICLE I: GENERAL CONDUCT
1. The ward (hereafter referred to as âthe assetâ) shall address Senator Finnick Odair (hereafter referred to as âthe Masterâ) as âMasterâ at all times when in private quarters. In public settings, she shall address him as âSenatorâ unless otherwise instructed.
2. The asset shall speak only when spoken to, unless granted explicit permission to do otherwise. Permission may be granted verbally or through a non-verbal signal to be established by the Master.
3. The asset shall maintain eye contact only when invited to do so. The default posture requires her gaze to be directed at the floor, at a point approximately three feet in front of her position.
4. The asset shall stay on all fours at all times and rise only when commanded. She shall remain in whatever position she has been placed until explicitly released or redirected.
ARTICLE II: APPEARANCE AND GROOMING
1. The assetâs appearance shall be maintained at all times to the satisfaction of the Master. This includes, but is not limited to: hair styling, makeup application, skincare, nail care and body grooming.
2. The asset shall wear only such clothing, undergarments, accessories and collars as the Master provides or approves. She shall not alter, remove, or replace any item without direct permission.
3. The collar issued to the asset shall remain affixed at all times except during bathing, medical examinations, or when the Master removes it for specific purposes. The asset shall not remove her collar under any circumstances.
4. The asset shall maintain a body weight within ten percent of her current measurements. Weekly weigh-ins shall be conducted by the Master or his designated proxy.
ARTICLE III: DOMESTIC DUTIES
1. The asset shall greet the Master at the door upon his return to the residence. The greeting shall be performed on her knees, with her head bowed, until the Master acknowledges her.
2. The asset shall be responsible for the cleanliness and organization of the Masterâs personal quarters, including but not limited to: making the bed, laundering garments, dusting, vacuuming and the proper storage of all personal effects.
3. The asset shall prepare and serve all meals and beverages consumed within the residence, according to the Masterâs preferences and dietary requirements. She shall not eat or drink without the Masterâs explicit permission.
4. The asset shall retire to her designated sleeping area (the cage) no later than 10:00 PM each evening, unless otherwise instructed. She shall not leave this area during the night without permission.
ARTICLE IV: PHYSICAL CONDUCT AND RESTRICTIONS
1. The asset shall not touch the Master without his explicit invitation. This includes incidental contact, reaching, leaning, or any other form of physical approach.
2. The asset shall not touch herself for purposes of pleasure or comfort without the Masterâs explicit permission. Any violation of this rule will result in immediate corrective action.
3. The asset shall not leave the residence without the Masterâs accompaniment or written authorization. Any attempted departure will be treated as escape and referred to parliamentary authorities.
4. The asset shall surrender all bodily autonomy to the Master upon request. This includes, but is not limited to, the right to refuse physical contact, the right to privacy and the right to determine her own schedule.
ARTICLE V: BEHAVIORAL STANDARDS
1. The asset shall not speak of her former life, her family, her status as a Snow, or her crimes except when directly questioned by the Master. Questions shall be answered truthfully and without embellishment.
2. The asset shall not express negative emotionsâincluding anger, resentment, sadness, or frustrationâunless the Master explicitly requests such expressions. The expected demeanour is one of cheerful compliance.
3. The asset shall not cry except in response to physical discipline or when explicitly permitted. Unauthorized crying will be considered a behavioural infraction.
4. The asset shall thank the Master for any punishment she receives, recognizing that such correction is administered for her improvement and the maintenance of order.
ARTICLE VI: CORRECTIVE MEASURES
1. Infractions shall be addressed according to a tiered system:
Minor infractions (tone of voice, slow response, imperfect posture): verbal correction and a period of kneeling on a hard surface.
Moderate infractions (failure to complete a task, speaking without permission, improper grooming): removal of privileges (warm meals, soft bedding, etc.) and/or physical correction not exceeding ten strikes.
Major infractions (lying, attempting to hide violations, disrespect toward the Master, attempting to remove the collar): confinement to the cage for an extended period, restriction of food and physical correction by a method of the Masterâs choosing.
2. All physical correction shall be documented and submitted monthly to the Parliamentary Oversight Committee.
3. The asset shall maintain a log of her own infractions and punishments, to be reviewed weekly by the Master.
ARTICLE VII: ENRICHMENT AND REWARDS
1. The Master may grant rewards for exemplary behavior, including but not limited to: extended freedom of movement within the residence, choice of clothing, preferred foods, time outside the residence, or physical affection.
2. The asset may earn the privilege of sleeping outside the cage by demonstrating sustained compliance over a period to be determined by the Master.
3. The Master may, at his sole discretion, grant the asset temporary relief from any of these rules, for any period of time, for any reason. Such relief shall be documented but need not be justified.
ARTICLE VIII: FINAL PROVISIONS
1. These rules take effect immediately and remain in force until such time as the Parliamentary Oversight Committee orders the assetâs release or transfer, or until the Master formally relinquishes custody in writing.
2. Any ambiguity in these rules shall be resolved in favour of the Masterâs interpretation.
3. The asset shall sign a copy of these rules, indicating her understanding and acceptance. Failure to sign does not constitute grounds for non-compliance.
Finnick read the document three times. Each pass made his stomach sink a little deeper, his jaw tighten a little more. The language was cold, clinicalâbureaucratic euphemisms for something that looked, sounded and smelled like ownership. Asset. Master. Correction. Maintenance. They had packaged the destruction of a human being in legal jargon and presented it to him on gilded paper.
He looked up from the parchment. Y/n was still kneeling, still waiting, her pale blue eyes now fixed on his face. She had seen him reading. She knew what the document wasâprobably had been shown a copy earlier, probably had been made to sign something similar in triplicate before they ever brought her here. There was no surprise in her expression, no curiosity. Just exhaustion. And that same haunted, hollow look he had seen in the parliament chamber.
Finnick dropped the collar next to herâa small, careless motion that sent the soft blue leather tumbling onto the rug beside Y/nâs kneeling form. It landed with a whisper of sound, the silver leash pooling next to it like a fallen serpent. He did not look at her as he stepped past. He did not acknowledge the way her breath hitched, the way her hands twitched as though she wanted to reach for it but knew better. He simply walked, his footsteps heavy and deliberate, carrying him away from her and toward the door.
His shoes were still by the coat stand where he had kicked them off earlier. He bent down and pulled them on with rough, impatient movements, not bothering to lace them properly. His phone was on the kitchen counterâhe snatched it up. His car keys were in the bowl by the entrywayâhe grabbed those too. And then he was out the door, the heavy mahogany closing behind him with a soft, final click, leaving Y/n alone on the floor in her soft blue lace, surrounded by briefcases full of collars and a list of rules she had now live by.
The hallway stretched before him, empty and elegant. The lift arrived with a soft chime. Finnick stepped inside and let the doors close, leaning his forehead against the cool metal wall as the car descended. He could deal with this. He would deal with this. But not now. Not tonight. Everything was too muchâthe weight of the parliamentâs decision, the stylistâs leering smile, the list of rules folded in his pocket, the collar he had just dropped on the floor like an offering he was not ready to make. He knew what he had volunteered for. He had stood up in that chamber and spoken the words with full knowledge of what they meant. But watching it unfoldâseeing it made real, made tangible in lace and leather and card stock, was a horror in its own right. The kind of horror that settled into your bones and whispered that you were no better than the monsters you had helped to overthrow.
The garage was dimly lit, smelling of concrete and exhaust. Finnick walked to one of the cars the Republic had provided himâa sleek black sedan, powerful and silent, the kind of vehicle that had once belonged to Capitol elite. He slid into the driverâs seat and sat for a moment with his hands on the wheel, his breathing shallow, his mind racing. Then he turned the key and pulled out into the night.
The city lights flashed past his windows in streaks of gold and silver and electric blue. Billboards towered overhead, advertising luxury goods and entertainment complexes, their bright faces beaming down at the empty streets. The Capitol had rebuilt itself quickly after the fallâtoo quickly, some said. The scars were still there if you knew where to look: the cracked facades, the empty lots where buildings had been razed, the occasional memorial wreath tied to a lamppost. But for the most part, the city glittered on, indifferent and eternal, as though the rebellion had been nothing more than a brief, unpleasant dream.
Finnick drove without direction, his hands guiding the wheel automatically while his thoughts churned. The flashing lights did nothing to ease the chaos in his head. If anything, they made it worseâeach flicker and glow a reminder of the world he had chosen to live in, the world he had helped to build, the world that had just handed him a woman on a silver platter and called it justice.
He needed a drink.
The establishment he finally chose was one of the few reserved for government officialsâa private club tucked away on an upper level, inaccessible to ordinary citizens. The doors were heavy and dark, manned by security officers who nodded in recognition as Finnick approached. Inside, the space opened up into something almost beautiful: a high ceiling hung with crystal chandeliers, walls panelled in warm wood, soft amber lighting that made everything look golden and safe. People laughed and talked in clusters around small tables, their voices blending together into a low, indistinct hum. The noise blurred at the edges, becoming something almost soothingâa white noise of human connection that Finnick could hide inside.
He made a beeline for the bar, a long polished stretch of mahogany manned by a bartender in a crisp white shirt. Finnick slid onto one of the leather stools and caught the bartenderâs eye.
âStrongest thing you have,â he said. His voice came out rougher than he intended, scraped raw by something he couldnât name.
The bartender raised an eyebrow but didnât comment. He reached for a dark bottle on the top shelfâsomething amber and expensive, the label written in a language Finnick didnât recognize and poured a generous measure into a crystal glass. Finnick took it, raised it to his lips and downed the entire thing in one long, burning swallow.
The liquid seared a path down his throat, settling into his stomach like a small, controlled fire. He set the glass down with a click and stared at it for a moment, waiting for the warmth to spread, for the sharp edges of his thoughts to soften. They didnât. Not yet.
âSenator?â The voice came from his left, smooth and familiar in a way that made his spine stiffen. âDidnât expect to see you here.â
Finnick turned his head slowly. The District 6 counsellor was sliding onto the stool beside him, his broad frame barely fitting into the space between the bar and the next seat. He was dressed in civilian clothes nowâa dark jacket, an open collar, his face flushed with whatever he had been drinking before Finnick arrived. His smile was wide and genial, the smile of a man who believed he had won something important.
âI thought youâd be spending the night getting to know your whore better.â The counsellorâs voice lingered on the last word, turning it into something almost obscene. His eyes glittered with a mixture of envy and amusement. âMust be nice, having a Snow on a leash. The rest of us have to make do with memory.â
Finnickâs jaw tightened. He could feel the muscles in his neck corded with tension, could feel the urge to say something sharp rising in his throat like bile. But he swallowed it down. He had spent years learning to keep his composure in the face of men like thisâmen who smiled while they dug their thumbs into old wounds, men who mistook silence for weakness and politeness for permission. He would not lose control now. Not here. Not over this.
The bartender appeared again and Finnick gestured for another pour. The amber liquid filled his glass a second time and he downed it just as quickly as the first, feeling the burn layer itself on top of the previous warmth. His head was beginning to feel looser now, the thoughts inside it moving slower, like fish swimming through honey.
âYes, well,â he said at last, his voice carefully neutral. He shrugged, a small, dismissive motion that he hoped conveyed indifference. âI have time.â
âOf course, Senator. Of course.â The counsellor raised his glass in a mock salute, the amber liquid catching the chandelier light and throwing small golden reflections across his face. He took a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving Finnickâs. âAnd make sure that one suffers. Properly, I mean. None of this soft-handed, lenient treatment Iâve been hearing about from some of the more sympathetic members of parliament.â He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to something almost confidential, as though he and Finnick were old friends sharing a private joke. âIf I had itâthat creature, that Snow bitchâIâd make sure it paid off its debts in one weekend. One long, hard, memorable weekend. By the time I was done with it, there wouldnât be anything left but a husk.â
He laughed. It was a thick, ugly soundâthe laugh of a man who had fantasized about this moment for years, who had lain awake at night imagining all the ways he could hurt someone smaller and weaker than himself and who now believed he had been given permission to make those fantasies real. The sound grated against Finnickâs ears like broken glass, setting his teeth on edge.
Finnickâs hand tightened around his glass. The crystal creaked softly under the pressure, a thin, warning sound. Another fraction of force and it would crackâwould shatter in his grip, sending shards slicing into his palm, drawing blood that would mix with the whiskey and drip onto the polished bar. He wanted to let it break. He wanted to feel the sting, the pain, something physical to match the fury coiling in his chest. But he didnât. He forced his fingers to relax, one by one, until the glass sat safely in his palm once more.
âI prefer to draw out suffering,â Finnick said. The words came from somewhere dark and hollow inside himâa place he didnât like to visit, full of old angers and older griefs. He didnât mean them. He wasnât a sadistic person; he had never taken pleasure in the pain of others, had never understood the particular cruelty that seemed to come so easily to men like the counsellor beside him. But the war had changed him. The war had reached into his chest and rearranged his insides, leaving behind a stranger who looked like him and sounded like him but sometimes acted in ways he didnât fully understand.
The violence had been the first sign. Small things, at firstâa door slammed a little too hard, a glass thrown against a wall, a fist driven into a pillow until the feathers burst out like snow. Then bigger things. Shouting matches with people who didnât deserve his anger. A broken nose in a bar fight he couldnât remember starting. The way his hands would shake sometimes, not from fear, but from the effort of holding back, of not reaching out and grabbing and squeezing until something gave way. His psychiatristâa soft-spoken woman with kind eyes and an endless supply of patienceâhad called it PTSD. A natural response to unnatural trauma. A brain trying to protect itself by staying alert, staying angry, staying ready for a threat that no longer existed.
But Finnick sometimes wondered if it was simpler than that. If all those years of smiling, all those years of spreading his legs for people he despised, all those years of choking down his rage and his disgust and his shameâif that anger had been pooling inside him like water behind a dam and the war had simply been the crack that let it start to leak out. Perhaps the psychiatrist was wrong. Perhaps it wasnât the trauma making him violent. Perhaps he had always been this way, deep down and the trauma had simply scraped away the nice, polite veneer and revealed what had been there all along.
He didnât like that thought. He tried not to dwell on it. But sometimes, late at night, it came to him unbidden, whispering in the dark.
âIt makes sense why they gave it to you, given your history and⌠experiences.â The counsellorâs voice dripped with false sympathy, his head tilting to the side in a gesture of mock understanding. His eyes glittered with something that might have been curiosity or cruelty or both. âI mean, you understand the, ah, logistics of the situation better than most. The training. The conditioning. Theâwhat did they used to call it? Ah yes. The breaking in.â
Finnickâs blood turned to ice. He knew exactly what this man was implying. He knew because he had lived itâhad been forced into the same role the counsellor was now gleefully describing, sold to the highest bidder, passed from hand to hand like a piece of meat. President Snow had put him on a leash, both metaphorical and literal, parading him at parties, lending him out to favoured allies, using him as both a reward and a warning. There had been nights Finnick couldnât remember, mornings he wished he could forget, hands that touched him without permission, mouths that whispered things he had tried desperately to bury. The collar around his throat hadnât been soft blue leather with a silver tagâit had been cold metal, unyielding, a constant reminder that he owned nothing, not even himself.
The memories were ones he wanted to bury so deeply that no shovel could ever reach them. But they had a way of surfacing at times like this, rising up through the dark water of his consciousness like drowned things returning to the light.
âBut I mean, look at it.â The counsellor shook his head slowly, his gaze turning speculative, almost dreamy. He wasnât looking at Finnick anymore. He was looking somewhere elseâsomewhere in his own mind, where images of Y/n Snow danced behind his eyelids. âThat body was made to be ravaged. You can just tell, canât you? The way it moves. The way it stands. All that elegance and poise, just waiting to be stripped away.â He took another sip of his drink, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. âI wonder how it looks under all that pomp. Under all those fancy dresses and designer gowns. I bet itâs even better than we imagine. I betââ
âDonât.â
Finnickâs voice was quiet. So quiet that, for a moment, the counsellor didnât seem to hear him. He kept talking, kept musing, his words growing more explicit, more graphic, as though the alcohol had loosened something in him that should have remained tightly bound.
Finnick set his glass down on the bar with a soft click. He turned on his stool, slowly, deliberately, until he was facing the counsellor fully. His sea-green eyes were flat and coldânot the warm, charming eyes he wore for the cameras, not the haunted, weary eyes he wore when he was alone. These were the eyes of someone who had killed before and would kill again if pushed far enough. The eyes of a survivor. The eyes of a man with very little left to lose.
âI said donât,â Finnick repeated. His voice was still soft, still deceptively gentle, but there was steel beneath it now. âDonât talk about her like that.â
The counsellorâs smile faltered. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as though he were trying to find a response that wouldnât make things worse. His eyes darted to the side, gauging the distance to the door, the number of witnesses, the likelihood of intervention. âHer?â he said at last, his voice light, almost playful, as though he were testing the waters. âOh, weâre using pronouns now? I thought she was justââ
âI said donât.â
Finnick turned on his stool fully now, squaring his shoulders, planting his feet on the brass rail that ran along the base of the bar. He didnât stand. He didnât need to. The weight of his presence was enoughâthe reputation that preceded him, the stories people whispered when they thought he couldnât hear. Finnick Odair. The Capitolâs darling. Snowâs favourite. They say heâs killed more people than anyone in the rebellion. They say heâs not quite right in the head. They say you donât want to be alone with him when he gets that look in his eyes.
The counsellor must have heard those stories too, because he swallowed, his Adamâs apple bobbing visibly in his thick neck. His smile had disappeared entirely now, replaced by something that looked almost like unease.
âYou got what you wanted,â Finnick continued, his voice low and even, each word placed like a stone in a wall. âThe vote passed. Sheâs in my custody, not yours. Whatever fantasies youâve been entertainingâwhatever youâve been picturing when you close your eyes at nightâyou can put them away. All of them. Theyâre not going to happen.â
He paused, letting the silence stretch between them. The noise of the club seemed to fade, the laughter and conversation receding until all that remained was the space between two men and the weight of everything unsaid.
âYou donât get to touch her,â Finnick said. âYou donât get to look at her. You donât get to talk about her. Do you understand me? She is not yours. She was never yours. And if I ever hear you speak about her like that againâif I ever hear your voice in the same sentence as her nameâI will make you regret it.â His voice dropped even lower, barely above a whisper. âAnd believe me when I say that I know exactly how to make someone regret things. I learned from the best.â
The counsellorâs smile flickered, dimming at the edges like a candle caught in a draft. For a brief, fleeting moment, something ugly surfaced on his florid faceâa flash of anger, perhaps, or the sting of humiliation. His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightened, and for an instant Finnick saw the man beneath the politicianâs mask: someone petty and vengeful, someone who would remember this moment and nurse it like a grudge, someone who would look for opportunities to pay back the slight. But the counsellor was a politician first and foremost and politicians learned quickly how to swallow their true feelings, how to choke down the bile of wounded pride and smile through the bitter taste. The mask slid back into place with practiced ease.
He raised his hands in mock surrender, palms out, fingers spread, his expression shifting to something almost jovial. He leaned back on his stool, putting a few inches of distance between himself and Finnick, and let out a chuckleâa sound that filled the space around them but never quite reached his eyes. Those eyes remained cold, calculating, already cataloguing this encounter for future reference.
âFair enough, Senator. Fair enough.â He signalled the bartender with a snap of his fingersâa gesture that made Finnickâs hackles rise and ordered another drink. The bartender poured quickly, efficiently, and the counsellor wrapped his thick fingers around the fresh glass, raising it in a small, sardonic toast. The amber liquid caught the light, throwing tiny golden pinpricks across his knuckles. âTo your new ward, then. May she serve you well. May she suffer well. May she give you everything you need to keep those parliamentary reports satisfying.â
Finnick did not raise his glass. He did not acknowledge the toast. He simply stayed there, his body still, his gaze fixed on the polished surface of the bar. The amber liquid in his own cup caught the light of the chandeliers above, refracting into small pools of gold and honey that seemed to shift and dance with every subtle movement of his hand. The noise of the establishment washed over him in wavesâthe laughter, bright and brittle; the clinking of glasses, sharp as little bells; the low, indistinct murmur of conversations he was not part of, would never be part of, could not bring himself to care about. He felt very far away from all of it, as though he were watching himself from a great distance, through the wrong end of a telescope. There was a man at the bar, a man with sea-green eyes and copper hair, a man wearing an expensive suit and a carefully blank expression. But that man seemed like a stranger. That man seemed like someone Finnick had known once, a long time ago, and had since lost touch with.
âBut donât go easy on her.â The counsellorâs voice cut through the fog, sharp and insistent. He had leaned in again, his shoulder almost brushing Finnickâs, his breath sour with whiskey and something elseâtriumph, perhaps, or spite. âYou still have to submit reports each month. The Oversight Committee will be watching. Theyâll be reading every word, scrutinizing every detail. And if they decide youâre not making good use of herâif they think youâre being soft, being lenient, being anything less than what they expectâtheyâll remove her from your custody.â He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. Then he smiled, slow and unpleasant, his teeth yellowed and uneven. âAnd of course, I always have a spot free in my kennel. Just in case. The offer stands, Senator. For whenever you tire of her. Or whenever they tire of you.â
He clapped Finnick on the backâa hard, patronizing smack between the shoulder blades that made Finnickâs entire body go rigid. Then he slid off his stool, straightened his jacket and walked away without another word, disappearing into the warm amber crowd like a shark slipping beneath dark water. Finnick watched him go, watched the other patrons part around his broad form, watched until the crowd swallowed him completely and there was nothing left to see.
Then he turned back to the bar and stared at his reflection in the dark wood.
He should go home. He knew he should go home. Y/n was still there, still kneeling on the floor where he had left her, still wearing that soft blue lace, still surrounded by briefcases full of collars and a golden cage and a list of rules she had to follow. She would be waiting. She had been trained to wait. She had probably been waiting her entire lifeâfor permission to speak, for permission to move, for permission to exist in spaces that were not already occupied by someone more powerful than herself. The thought of her there, alone in his apartment, her knees probably aching against the hard floor, her arms probably trembling from the effort of holding the same posture for hours, made something twist inside his chest. Something that might have been guilt. Something that might have been pity. Something that might have been the ghost of an emotion he had tried very hard to not feel.
But then again, the thought of walking back into that apartmentâof crossing the threshold and seeing the cage in the corner, the collars laid out on the coffee table, the woman kneeling in submissionâmade something else twist inside him. Something darker. Something he didnât have a name for and didnât want to find. The weight of it pressed against his ribs, made it hard to breathe, made his hands shake slightly as he reached for his glass.
So he stayed.
He ordered another drink. The bartender poured without comment, his face professionally neutral, his eyes carefully averted. Finnick wrapped his fingers around the fresh glass and lifted it to his lips, letting the liquid burn its way down his throat, welcoming the heat, the sting, the temporary numbness that spread through his limbs like slow poison. The club continued to hum around himâthe laughter, the clinking glasses, the low murmur of people who had never worn a collar, never knelt on a cold floor, never been sold to strangers by a man in a white rose-scented suit. They laughed and talked and pretended the world made sense and Finnick sat among them like a ghost at a feast, unable to join in, unable to leave, simply there, taking up space, breathing air, existing.
But the counsellorâs words lingered in his head, burrowing into the soft tissue of his thoughts like parasites. If they decide youâre not making good use of her, theyâll remove her from your custody. I always have a spot free in my kennel. The threat was clear, almost naked in its transparency. If Finnick failed to performâif he failed to hurt her, to use her, to make her suffer the way the parliament wantedâthey would take her away and give her to someone else. Someone like the counsellor. Someone with hungry eyes and wandering hands and a kennel waiting in some dark corner of his estate. Someone who would not hesitate, who would not flinch, who would do all the things Finnickâs conscience screamed against.
She would be removed from his custody if he didnât use her. If he didnât hurt her the way they wanted.
The thought made him sick. His stomach churned, his throat tightened and for a moment he thought he might be sick right there at the bar, in front of all these laughing, talking, pretending people. The whiskey sat heavy in his gut, a leaden weight that seemed to grow heavier with each passing second. He set his glass down before he could drop it, before his trembling fingers could betray him.
But thenâinsidious, unwelcome, creeping in from the shadows of his mindâanother voice spoke. Not the counsellorâs. Not the bartenderâs. Something deeper, something older, something that had been born in the arena and raised in the Capitolâs pleasure houses. The twisted, war-bruised part of him that he tried so hard to ignore. The part that had learned to survive by any means necessary, that had learned to smile through pain, that had learned to hurt before being hurt.
Or perhaps itâs the alcohol, he thought, grasping for an excuse, for any explanation that wasnât the truth. Just the alcohol. Just the whiskey talking. Just the exhaustion and the memories and the weight of everything pressing down.
But the voice persisted, soft and insidious, whispering in the dark corners of his consciousness. She has to suffer. The parliament demands it. The Oversight Committee will be watching. Theyâll read your reports. Theyâll check for marks, for evidence, for proof that youâre doing what they couldnât do themselves. If you donât give them what they want, theyâll take her away. And if they take her awayâ
He didnât finish the thought. He didnât need to.
Because he knew, with a certainty that sat like stone in his chest, that his hand would be much kinder than the others. Whatever he did to herâwhatever the parliament demanded, whatever the reports required, whatever dark thing the counsellor expectedâit would be gentler than what awaited her in that kennel. Finnick had been hurt. Finnick had been used. Finnick knew what it felt like to be held down by hands that didnât care, to hear laughter while he bled, to wake up in strange rooms with no memory of how he had gotten there. He would not wish that on anyone. Not even a Snow.
So maybe, the voice whispered, maybe this is mercy. Maybe this is the kindest thing you can do for her. Take her. Use her. Hurt her just enough to satisfy them. And keep her safe from everyone else.
Finnick closed his eyes. The chandeliers blazed orange against his eyelids. The noise of the club faded to a dull roar. And somewhere, in the dark behind his eyes, he saw Y/nâs faceâpale and trembling, her pale blue eyes fixed on his, her lips parted around words she hadnât been allowed to speak.
He opened his eyes. Finished his drink. Set the glass down with a soft click.
â° â⤠A/n: As for the references, some of âem were from handmaidâs tail and also the horrible treatment of Louis XVII after the French Revolution. And how he was given to a person who was named his guardian by the Committee of Public Safety.
â° â⤠Masterlist
â° â⤠Tags: @avantlilies @joekitsu @sarabelllah @lil-mex-child @themischievousher @iloveyou3000morgan @saoriixbjh @fnimln @gmiasa03 @foulkingtree-101 @doll-parts111 @aaaashiiii @theregoeskittykat @psamathegoesrawr @erisfayred @fgskna @ameliyaroseaster @blackpearlodair @yagiyoshikawa @teenagerunawayangel @aliteralprincess @oursizy @antobooh @readawaythereality2
Š cheriecelestial - arabelle | 2026












