#snow!reader

The soft blue lace of her lingerie seemed almost ghostly in the dim light filtering through the windows—the city’s perpetual glow, cold and indifferent, casting long shadows across her bare shoulders. Her hair, once styled into elegant waves, had begun to loosen, strands of pale gold falling across her face like whispered secrets. Her hands rested on her thighs, palms up, fingers slightly curled, the posture of someone who had been trained to wait and had learned, through repetition and punishment, that waiting was all she was permitted to do. Beside her, untouched, unlifted, unbuckled, lay the collar Finnick had dropped there before walking out the door. The soft blue leather gleamed dully in the half-darkness, the silver tag catching the light and throwing it back in small, sharp flashes.

Property of F. Odair.

The words seemed to mock him from where they lay.

Finnick closed the door behind him, the heavy mahogany clicking shut with a soft finality that echoed through the quiet apartment. He stood in the entryway for a moment, his hand still resting on the cool metal of the doorknob, his eyes adjusting to the dimness. The lights he had left on earlier, now seemed too bright, too harsh, their edges blurring and pulsing in a way that made his temples throb. He had drunk too much. He hadn’t drunk enough. Somewhere between the fourth glass and the fifth, the world had gone soft at the edges, losing its sharpness, its clarity, becoming something, he could almost pretend wasn’t real.

He crossed to the wall panel and began switching off the unnecessary lights, one by one, until only the faint glow from the windows remained and the single distant lamp in the hallway that he had forgotten to turn off. The darkness settled around them like a blanket, soft and forgiving, hiding the corners of the room, blurring the lines between what was real and what was merely possible. In the near-darkness, the golden cage seemed less imposing. The briefcases seemed less threatening. And Y/n, still kneeling on the floor, seemed smaller somehow. More fragile. More like a girl and less like a symbol of everything he had learned to hate.

Finnick walked toward her. His footsteps were slow, deliberate, the soft pad of his bare feet against the carpet the only sound in the room besides the distant hum of the city and the whisper of his own breathing. She did not look up as he approached. Her gaze remained fixed on the floor, on a point approximately three feet in front of her, just as the rules had prescribed. Her posture remained perfect—back straight, shoulders back, hands resting lightly on her thighs. She had been waiting for hours and yet she showed no sign of discomfort, no indication that her knees ached or her back protested or her mind had begun to wander through the dark corridors of fear.

Finnick stopped in front of her. Looked down at the crown of her head, at the pale gold hair falling across her face, at the curve of her neck where the collar would soon rest. Then, slowly, he lowered himself into a squat, bringing himself to her level, his sea-green eyes level with her bowed head. He could see the fine tremor running through her body now—the way her shoulders shook almost imperceptibly, the way her fingers twitched against her thighs, the way her breath came in shallow, controlled sips. She was terrified. Of course she was terrified. Anyone in her position would be terrified.

He reached out and picked up the collar. The leather was cool and smooth against his palm, supple from whatever treatment the stylist had applied to make it soft against the skin. He turned it over in his hands, his fingers tracing the edge of the silver tag, reading the words engraved there even though he already knew them by heart. Property of F. Odair. His name. His claim. His responsibility. The weight of it settled into his chest, heavy and cold, like a stone dropped into deep water.

He unbuckled the collar. The leather strap parted with a soft click, the buckle swinging open, the silver catch gleaming in the dim light. He lifted the collar, brought it toward her throat and paused with his hands hovering on either side of her neck. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin, could see the pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat, rapid and shallow like a bird’s heartbeat.

Finnick slid the collar around her throat. The leather settled against her skin like a second layer, cool at first, then warming rapidly to match her temperature. He pulled the strap through the buckle, adjusted it to fit—not too tight, not too loose, just enough to be felt, just enough to remind her it was there—and pressed the clasp closed. The soft click of the lock engaging seemed to echo through the silent room. The leash, still attached to the collar’s front ring, slid between his fingers like a silver serpent, its fine links cool and smooth against his skin.

There, he thought. It’s done. She’s yours now. Officially. Legally. Inscribed in silver and sealed in leather.

It made him sick.

“You know I have to hurt you, right?”

The words came out before he could stop them—low, rough by the whiskey and the weight of everything he wasn’t saying. He hadn’t meant to ask. He hadn’t meant to give her the opportunity to respond, to acknowledge, to participate in her own destruction. But the question had escaped anyway, rising up from some place deep inside him that still believed in choices, still believed in consent, still believed that the person on the receiving end of pain deserved to know it was coming.

Y/n stilled.

Her whole body went rigid, frozen, as though someone had poured ice water into her veins. The fine tremor that had been running through her shoulders stopped abruptly, replaced by a stillness so complete it seemed almost unnatural. She didn’t look up. She didn’t speak. But after a long moment—a breath, a heartbeat, an eternity—she nodded. Slowly. Once. A small, jerky motion that seemed to cost her more than it should have.

She knew her place. She had always known her place, even before the parliament had voted, even before the collar had closed around her throat. She was a Snow and Snows paid for their crimes in blood and silence and the slow erosion of everything that made them human. She knew exactly what was going to happen to her—had known since the moment she stood up in that chamber and offered herself in exchange for Lucia’s safety. The stylist had explained it to her, in clinical, euphemistic terms, during the preparations. The rules had been read aloud to her, line by line, while she knelt on a cold floor and tried not to cry. She knew what Finnick was supposed to do. She knew what the parliament expected. She knew that her body was no longer her own, that her pain was no longer private, that every mark, every bruise, every tear would be documented and submitted and judged.

And she would let it. She would let it all happen, would open herself to whatever they chose to do to her, because this was the only way she could atone for the sins of her family. This was the only way she could ensure Lucia’s safety. Tigris had come to see her before the stylist took her away for preparations—had slipped into her holding cell in the middle of the night, her spotted face creased with worry, her golden eyes soft with something that might have been pity or regret or love. Tigris had taken her hands, had squeezed them tight, had promised that Lucia would now be her ward. That Lucia would be granted mercy. That Lucia would grow up in a world without collars and cages and the slow, systematic destruction of everything that made a person whole.

This is a small price to pay, Y/n had told herself, over and over, as the stylist measured her for lingerie that left nothing to the imagination. This is a small price to pay, she had repeated, as they painted her face and styled her hair and taught her to kneel without trembling. This is a small price to pay, she had whispered, as the collar locked around her throat for the first time and explained that she would never remove it, never touch it, never question it.

She repeated it now, silently, as Finnick squatted before her with something dark and troubled in his sea-green eyes. A small price. A small price. A small price.

Don’t think about it too much, Finnick told himself, the words forming in his head like a mantra, a prayer, a spell meant to ward off the creeping horror that threatened to overwhelm him. She’s a Snow. She’s that man’s granddaughter. She’s the enemy. She’s not a person. She’s a symbol. She’s a punishment. She’s a responsibility. She’s not a person.

He tried to believe it. He tried to let the words sink into his bones, to harden his heart, to turn her from a trembling girl into an abstraction, a problem to be solved, a task to be completed. Perhaps it would be easier if he stopped thinking of her as a person. Perhaps it would ease the repulsion he felt—the revulsion at what he was about to do, at what the parliament expected him to do, at the role he had been assigned in this grotesque theatre of vengeance. Perhaps if he could look at her and see only a Snow, only a symbol, only a vessel for the pain of a nation, then his hand would not shake. Then his stomach would not turn. Then he could do what needed to be done without losing the last fragments of himself that still felt like something other than a monster.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about her. Don’t think about any of it. Just do what they expect. Just give them what they want. Just survive.

He closed his eyes. The darkness behind his lids was soft and forgiving, a temporary refuge from the sight of her kneeling before him, the collar gleaming at her throat, the leash trailing across his fingers. He focused on his breathing—in through the nose, out through the mouth—and tried to empty his mind of everything but the simple, mechanical motions of what came next.

Then he opened his eyes.

And she was looking at him.

Her pale blue eyes—those strange, light eyes that had haunted him since the parliament chamber—were fixed on his face with an expression he couldn’t quite name. There was fear there, yes, and resignation, and a kind of weary acceptance that made his chest ache. Her gaze held his, unwavering, and in that moment, she was not an abstraction. She was not a symbol. She was not a Snow.

She was a person. A person with pale blue eyes so similar to his eyes—to the eyes of the monster who had destroyed so many lives, who had turned Finnick into something broken and reshaped and sold. Those eyes had watched him from across the room during Capitol parties, had followed him with cold curiosity, had lingered on his body in ways that made his skin crawl. Those eyes had belonged to Cornelius Snow too, the man who had taken Johanna apart piece by piece, the man who had designed arenas specifically to prolong suffering, the man who had looked at innocent women and seen nothing but meat to be consumed. Eyes of a monster and eyes of a wolf.

And now those same eyes—or eyes so like them that it hardly mattered—were looking at him with something that might have been trust.

Something inside Finnick snapped.

His hand moved without realizing it—a flash of motion, too fast to track, too sudden to stop. His palm connected with her cheek with a sharp, sickening crack that seemed to echo through the silent apartment. The impact jarred his wrist, sent a shock of sensation up his arm and left behind a burning sting in his palm that he knew would linger for hours.

Y/n let out a sound—a wet, startled hiccup, more surprise than pain at first—as she fell sideways, her body crumpling beneath the force of the blow. Her hands shot out to catch herself, her palms slapping against the carpet, her hair falling across her face in a pale gold curtain. She didn’t cry out. She didn’t scream. She simply lay there, half-curled on the floor, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps, her whole body shaking now with a tremor he couldn’t stop.

Finnick stared at his hand. At his palm, already reddening from the impact. At his fingers, still curled slightly, still ready to strike again. Something dark had glazed over his eyes—a film, a veil, a dissociation that separated him from what his body was doing. He could feel himself pulling back, retreating into some distant corner of his mind where the sounds were muffled and the images were blurred and nothing could touch him. It was a familiar place, this inner fortress. He had built it during his years as Snow’s plaything, had reinforced it during the war, had retreated to it countless times when reality became too heavy to bear.

But even from that distant watchtower, he could see what was happening. He could see his hand raising again. He could see it coming down on her skin—her shoulder, her arm, the side of her ribs—each impact producing a soft, wet sound that seemed to come from somewhere far away. He could see her body jerking with each blow, could see her trying to curl into herself, to protect her vital organs, to make herself as small and unappealing a target as possible.

Instinctively, her hands came up to cover her face—a primal response, the body’s desperate attempt to shield what was most precious, most vulnerable, most easily broken. Her fingers splayed across her cheeks, her palms pressing against her forehead, her arms forming a protective cage around her head. She made herself small, made herself compact, made herself into something that might survive if only the blows would stop.

Finnick’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. His fingers curled around the delicate bones, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath his thumb, the warmth of her skin, the slight resistance as she tried instinctively to pull away. His grip tightened. Squeezed. He could feel the bones shifting under his fingers, could feel the soft tissues compressing, could feel the fine tremors running through her arm as she tried not to fight back.

She whimpered. A small, soft sound, barely audible, more breath than voice. Tears formed in her eyes—pale blue eyes, so like his eyes—and began to spill down her cheeks, tracing silver paths through the soft makeup the stylist had applied. She didn’t sob. She didn’t beg. She simply cried, silently, her body shaking, her breath hitching, her wrist still trapped in his grip.

Finnick looked at her. At the tears on her cheeks. At the reddening marks on her skin. At the collar still gleaming at her throat, the silver tag catching the light, the words Property of F. Odair seeming to glow in the darkness.

He thought of the counsellor’s words. If they decide you’re not making good use of her, they’ll remove her from your custody.

She thought of Tigris’s promise. Lucia will be my ward. She will be safe.

He thought of his own hands, and all the things they had done, and all the things they were doing now. And he kept squeezing.

“Stop crying.”

The words came out sharper than he intended—edged with irritation, with frustration, with something that sounded almost like contempt. Finnick heard himself speak and didn’t recognize his own voice. It belonged to someone else, someone harder, someone who had been hollowed out and filled with something cold and unfeeling. He stared down at Y/n, still half-curled on the floor, tears streaming silently down her cheeks, and felt a surge of something hot and ugly rise in his chest.

Why was she crying? It was barely anything. A few open-handed strikes. A wrist squeezed a little too tightly. Nothing compared to what he had endured in the arena, in the Capitol, in the dark rooms where Snow’s associates had paid for the privilege of putting their hands on him. Most people—most survivors—had been forced to endure pain infinitely worse than this. What he had given her would barely leave a bruise. By tomorrow, the redness would have faded to a faint yellow and within a few days, it would be gone entirely, leaving no trace behind. And yet she was crying as if he had broken her bones, as if he had torn her apart and left her bleeding on the floor.

But that was it, wasn’t it? That was the heart of it. Her privilege. Her soft, sheltered life in the Snow mansion, where the worst pain she had ever known was probably a stubbed toe or a paper cut. She had never been forced to build endurance the way district children had. She had never learned to bite down on a leather strap while someone carved into her flesh. She had never been taught to dissociate, to float above her body, to become someone else entirely while her physical form was being used and discarded. She had never had to develop calluses on her soul.

The thought should have brought him satisfaction. Instead, it only made him angrier.

Y/n nodded at his command—a quick, jerky motion, her chin dipping toward her chest—but she couldn’t make herself stop crying. The tears kept coming, welling up from some deep, overflowing reservoir inside her, spilling down her cheeks and dripping onto the carpet. She tried to blink them back, tried to swallow the sobs that kept catching in her throat, tried to compose her face into something neutral, something obedient, something that wouldn’t provoke him further. Her breath came in short, hitching gasps, each inhale a battle, each exhale a surrender. She pressed her lips together until they went white, until the taste of copper filled her mouth, but still the tears fell.

Stop. Stop. Stop, she told herself fiercely. You’re making it worse. You’re making him angry. Stop crying. Stop being weak. Stop—

Finnick’s hands shot out and curled around her throat.

The contact was sudden, unexpected—his fingers wrapping around the column of her neck, his thumbs pressing against her jaw, his palms warm and slightly damp against her skin. He didn’t squeeze, not yet. He simply held her, his grip firm enough to keep her in place, to force her to look at him. The collar shifted against her skin, the leather creaking softly, the silver tag tapping against his knuckles.

Y/n’s eyes flew to his face. She looked at him through a veil of tears, her pale blue gaze meeting his sea-green one, her expression a mixture of fear and confusion and something else—something that might have been understanding. Her throat moved beneath his hands as she swallowed, the muscles working against his palms, her pulse fluttering rapid and fragile against his fingertips.

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to feel. The certainty that had propelled him through the past few minutes—the dark, dissociated certainty that had allowed him to raise his hand and bring it down, over and over—had evaporated, leaving behind nothing but confusion and dread and a sick, spiraling sense of unreality. Should he have stopped? Should he have continued? Should he hit her again, harder this time, to make up for the hesitation? Should he let her go and walk away and pretend none of this had ever happened?

He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything anymore. The ground beneath him seemed to shift and crack, threatening to open up and swallow him whole.

His grip loosened on her throat. His fingers slackened, his palms pulled back and then his hands dropped away entirely, falling to his sides like dead weights. He released her as though her skin had burned him, as though touching her had been a mistake he couldn’t take back.

Finnick turned away. His gaze drifted to the windows—the floor-to-ceiling glass that dominated the far wall of the living room, offering an uninterrupted view of the Capitol skyline. The city sprawled before him, a glittering expanse of lights and shadows, beautiful and rotten, indifferent and eternal. He stared at his reflection in the dark glass—a pale, hollow-eyed stranger with copper hair and sea-green eyes that seemed to belong to someone else. He didn’t recognize himself. He didn’t know who this man was, standing in this luxury apartment, putting a collar around the throat of a woman who had been given to him like a gift.

This isn’t me, he thought. This isn’t who I am. This isn’t what I wanted. This isn’t—

Behind him, he heard Y/n gasping for breath. The sound was wet and ragged, her lungs struggling to pull in air after the pressure on her throat had been released. She was lying on the floor a few feet away from where he stood, her body still half-curled, her hands still trembling, her chest heaving with the effort of breathing. The soft blue lace of her lingerie seemed obscene in the dim light, a mockery of beauty, a costume for a role she had never auditioned for.

Finnick looked down at his hands. They were shaking. Fine, rapid tremors travelled through his fingers, his palms, his wrists, as though his body was trying to shake off something that had latched onto him from the inside. The skin of his right palm was still flushed from the impact of her cheek, a faint pinkness that would fade by morning. His fingernails were clean, his knuckles unbroken. There was no blood on him. No evidence of what he had done except the memory, already beginning to blur at the edges and the marks already blooming on her skin.

Then the images came.

They flashed through his mind without warning—not memories, not quite, but fragments, shards, pieces of a life he had tried so hard to bury. The parties, first: chandeliers and champagne and silk-draped rooms where the air smelled of perfume and sweat and something darker. The hands that had touched him, countless hands, grabbing and groping and claiming. The faces that had hovered above him, their features blurred together into a single, monstrous mask of hunger and satisfaction. Then the arena: blood-soaked sand, the screams of dying children, the weight of a trident in his hands, the knowledge that he would have to kill again and again and again just to see another sunrise. Then Snow’s mansion: the cold, sterile rooms where he had been taken after the parties, where he had been made to kneel on hard floors, where a collar had been locked around his throat and he had been told to smile for the cameras.

The images came faster now, overlapping, bleeding into one another, until he couldn’t tell where one memory ended and another began. The laughter of Capitol guests mingled with the screams of tributes. The taste of champagne mixed with the copper tang of blood. The quiet of his apartment—the silence he had always treasured, the silence that meant he was safe, he was alone, he was no one’s property—filled with noise, with voices, with the terrible symphony of his past.

He could hear them. All of them. Snow’s cold, measured tones. The counsellor’s ugly laugh. The stylist’s honeyed voice. The hands that had held him down, the mouths that had whispered filthy promises, the eyes that had watched him and seen nothing but a body to be used.

Stop, he thought. Stop. Please. Make it stop.

But the voices only grew louder.

Finnick curled into himself. His shoulders hunched forward, his head dropped, his arms wrapped around his torso as though he could hold himself together through sheer pressure. His breath came in short gasps, each inhale a battle, each exhale a surrender. Tears formed in his own eyes now—hot and sudden, blurring his vision, spilling down his cheeks in a way that felt foreign and wrong. He hadn’t cried in years. He had forgotten how. And yet here he was, sobbing silently in his own living room, a few feet away from a woman he had just hurt, a woman who bore the marks of his hands on her skin.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. The words were barely audible, more breath than sound, spoken to no one and everyone. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I don’t want—”

He didn’t know what he was apologizing for. For hurting her? For losing control? For being exactly the kind of person he had spent his whole life trying not to become? The words tumbled out of him in a broken stream, each one dissolving into the next, until they became nothing more than a string of syllables, meaningless and desperate.

This isn’t who I am, he told himself, but the voice in his head sounded less certain now. I’m not like them. I’m not a monster. I’m not—

But he had hurt her. He had raised his hand and brought it down on her skin, had felt the impact travel up his arm, had watched her crumple and cry and beg without words. He had done exactly what the counsellor had wanted him to do. Exactly what the parliament had expected. Exactly what Snow had done to him, over and over, until the memory of it had become a second skin he could never shed.

The spiral worsened. The abyss beneath him yawned wider, darker, hungrier. Nothing seemed able to drag him out of it—no rational thought, no comforting memory, no flicker of hope. He was falling, and falling and falling, and there was no bottom to catch him, no ground to break his descent. Just the endless dark, and the voices, and the knowledge that he had become the very thing he had once sworn to destroy.

And then he heard a soft voice call out to him.

“Master?”

The word was tentative, almost questioning, as though she wasn’t sure she was allowed to speak. It cut through the noise in his head like a blade through fog—not silencing the voices, not banishing the images, but creating a small, clear space in the centre of the chaos. A space where something other than horror could exist.

Finnick felt a soft touch on his hand. Light, barely there, the brush of fingertips against his knuckles. He looked down and saw Y/n’s hand resting on his—pale and slender, the fingers slightly curled, the nails bare and clean. She wasn’t gripping him, wasn’t holding on, wasn’t trying to restrain him. She was simply touching him, making contact, letting him know that she was there.

He looked up. Met her eyes.

Y/n was crawling closer, her movements slow and careful, her body still trembling from the aftermath of his hands. The bruises were already beginning to form on her skin—faint shadows on her cheek, darker marks on her arm where he had grabbed her, a hint of purple blooming at her collarbone. Her cheeks were tear-streaked, her makeup smeared, her hair a tangled mess of pale gold. She looked broken. She looked ruined. She looked like someone who had been hurt and was choosing to approach her abuser anyway.

“I know you have to do what you have to do,” she said, her voice soft and hoarse from crying. She paused, swallowing, wincing slightly as her throat moved. “I—I don’t blame you for it.”

She crawled closer still, until she was kneeling beside him, her shoulder almost touching his, her breath warm against his arm. Her hand remained on his, not squeezing, not pulling, just resting there like a small, fragile anchor.

“You’re not them,” she whispered, as though she could hear the thoughts screaming in his head. “You’re not like them. I know you’re not.”

Finnick stared at her. At the bruises already beginning to bloom across her skin—purple and blue shadows that marred the soft, pale perfection of her body. At the tears still clinging to her lashes, trembling there like dew on a spider’s web. At the collar around her throat, gleaming softly in the darkness, the silver tag catching the glow from the windows and throwing it back in small, sharp flashes. Property of F. Odair. The words seemed to burn in the air between them, an accusation and a confession all at once.

She reached up and took his hand. Her fingers were warm and slightly damp from her tears, her grip gentle but insistent as she guided his palm toward her face. He let her, too shocked to resist, too exhausted to pull away. His hand moved through the air as though guided by strings, weightless and disconnected from the rest of his body, until his fingers made contact with her cheek.

The skin there was soft. Warmer than he expected. And slightly swollen beneath his palm, already tender from where he had struck her.

“It’s okay,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, each word a small, fragile thing that seemed to cost her more than it should. Her pale blue eyes held his, unblinking, unwavering. “You can hurt me. You can use me. I deserve it.” It’s a small price to pay.

Finnick’s features twisted in pain. His brow furrowed, his lips pressed together, his jaw tightened until the muscles stood out in sharp relief against his skin. Something cracked open inside his chest—a fissure, a fault line, a wound that had never fully healed and was now bleeding fresh. He stared at her as though seeing her for the first time, as though she were a riddle he couldn’t solve, a language he couldn’t speak.

Why was she doing this? Why was she encouraging her own abuse? Why was she offering herself up like a sacrifice, pressing his hand to her bruised cheek, whispering words of absolution he hadn’t asked for and didn’t deserve? She should have been hateful. She should have been resentful. She should have been spitting venom, clawing at his eyes, screaming for help that would never come. That was what he expected. That was what he understood. That was the language of survivors—the language he spoke fluently, the language of anger and resistance and the desperate, clawing fight to remain whole.

But she wasn’t giving him that. She was giving him softness. She was giving him forgiveness. She was giving him permission to hurt her and somehow that was worse than any accusation she could have levelled.

Y/n was close to him now. Too close. He could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, could smell the faint, floral scent of whatever products the stylist had used on her hair and body—something sweet and delicate, like night-blooming jasmine, utterly at odds with the violence that had just passed between them. Her breath fanned across his lips, soft and warm, carrying the faintest hint of mint. Her body was curled beside his, her shoulder pressed against his arm, her hip brushing against his thigh. She was a source of heat in the cool darkness of the apartment, a small, living flame that seemed to draw him toward her despite every instinct screaming at him to pull away.

Finnick’s body buzzed with the warmth of the alcohol still swimming through his veins. The whiskey had dulled the sharpest edges of his thoughts, had smoothed the jagged fragments of his memories into something almost bearable. But it had also lowered his defenses, had loosened the tight hold he kept on his impulses, had blurred the line between what he should do and what he wanted to do. His head felt thick and heavy, his limbs loose and uncoordinated, his judgment clouded by the pleasant, numbing fog that had settled over his brain.

His eyes traveled down her body.

He didn’t mean to look. He told himself he didn’t mean to look. But his gaze slipped from her face—from those pale blue eyes, from the bruises—and began to drift downward. Down the milky column of her neck, where the collar rested against her throat. Down the curve of her shoulder, bare and smooth in the dim light. Down the swell of her breasts, barely contained by the soft blue lace of the lingerie, rising and falling with each shallow breath. Down the narrow span of her waist, the flare of her hips, the long, elegant lines of her legs, bare from mid-thigh to ankle.

She looked so beautiful in this light. Almost ethereal. The soft glow from the windows caught the pale gold of her hair, turning it into something that seemed to glow from within. The shadows played across her skin, accentuating the curves and hollows of her body, the subtle architecture of bone and muscle and soft, yielding flesh. Her bruises stood out in stark relief against marble of her skin—dark flowers blooming on a field of snow, evidence of what he had done, what he was capable of.

Johanna had been right. She did look like an angel. A fallen one, perhaps. A broken one. An angel with bruised wings and tear-stained cheeks and the collar of a slave around her throat.

Finnick’s hand rose to her cheek. The same hand that had struck her. The same hand that had wrapped around her throat. Now it cupped her face with something approaching tenderness, his palm moulding to the curve of her jaw, his fingers threading into the soft hair at her temple. The warmth of her skin against his palm was almost shocking—a reminder that she was real, that she was here, that this was happening. He almost flinched at the contact, almost pulled away, almost retreated back into the cold, safe distance he had maintained between them.

But he didn’t.

The voices in his head didn’t quiet. They were still there, a low, constant murmur at the edge of his consciousness, whispering fragments of memory and fear and self-loathing. But they didn’t grow louder either. For the first time in hours—perhaps for the first time in years—they seemed to recede, to retreat, to give him a moment of blessed, fragile silence.

Finnick was too tired. Too tired of pretending. Too tired of being civilized, of holding back, of burying his feelings beneath layers of charm and politeness and carefully constructed composure. Too tired of smiling when he wanted to scream, of nodding when he wanted to argue, of taking the high road when every fibre of his being wanted to burn it all down. Too tired of being the survivor, the victor, the senator, the man who had overcome unimaginable horrors and emerged whole on the other side. He wasn’t whole. He had never been whole. He was a patchwork of scars and coping mechanisms and desperate, fragile strategies for making it through one more day.

And in this moment, in the dim light of his apartment, with a woman kneeling beside him and offering herself up like a sacrifice, he simply let go.

He cupped her face with both hands now—his palms warm against her cheeks, his fingers threading into her hair, his thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. He could feel the tears still wet on her skin, could taste the salt of them in the air between them. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t flinch. She simply looked up at him with those pale blue eyes, waiting, accepting, surrendering to whatever came next.

Then he smashed his lips onto hers.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tender. It was raw and desperate and almost animalistic—a collision of mouths, a clash of teeth, a hunger that had been building for longer than he wanted to admit. He kissed her like a drowning man gasping for air, like a starving man reaching for bread, like someone who had been touched without his permission so many times that the only way he knew how to touch was to take.

There was something in him that wanted to consume instead of be consumed. To touch instead of being touched. To be the one holding someone down instead of the one being held. For years, he had been on the other side of this equation—had been the object, the target, the body to be used and discarded. He had learned to dissociate, to float above himself, to become someone else entirely while his physical form was being violated. But he had never learned to want it. He had never learned to enjoy it. He had simply learned to survive it.

But this—this was different. This was his choice. His desire. His hunger. And for once, he didn’t want to hold it back.

He pushed her down to the carpeted floor. The motion was sudden, almost rough and she let out a small, surprised sound against his mouth as her back hit the soft fibres. He followed her down, his body pressing against hers, his weight pinning her to the ground. The carpet was thick and soft beneath them, muffling the sounds of their movement, cushioning the impact of his knees and elbows as he settled over her.

He hovered above her, his body a cage around hers, his chest against her breasts, his hips pressed against her stomach. She was so small beneath him—fragile and warm and impossibly soft. He could feel her heartbeat through the thin lace of her lingerie, could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse against his chest, could feel the way her breath hitched and stuttered with every movement he made.

One of his hands caught both of hers, his fingers wrapping around her wrists, pinning them above her head. She didn’t struggle. She didn’t resist. Her arms stayed where he put them, her hands open and palm-up, her fingers slightly curled. She looked up at him through the tangled fall of her pale gold hair, her eyes wide and luminous, her lips parted and slightly swollen from his kiss.

His other hand began to trail down her body.

Slowly. Deliberately. He let his fingers trace the line of her jaw, the curve of her throat, the hollow at the base of her neck where her pulse beat rapid and fragile. He let them drift lower, across the soft blue lace covering her breasts, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric, feeling the way her body arched slightly toward his touch even as she made herself small and still. He let them trace the outline of her ribs, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip, until his hand rested on the bare skin of her thigh, just below the hem of the lingerie.

She trembled beneath him. Her whole body shook like a plucked string still vibrating after the note had faded. But she didn’t pull away. She didn’t close her eyes. She kept them fixed on his face, watching him, waiting for him, accepting whatever he chose to give her.

Finnick looked down at her and felt something crack open inside him. Something he had kept locked away for a very long time. Something that might have been hope, or might have been despair, or might have been something else entirely, something he didn’t have a name for.

He wanted to consume her. He wanted to devour her. He wanted to lose himself in the warmth of her body, the softness of her skin, the surrender in her eyes. He wanted to forget—forget the arena, forget the parties, forget Snow’s cold smile and the counsellor’s ugly laugh and the stylist’s honeyed voice. He wanted to be someone else, if only for a few minutes. Someone who took instead of being taken. Someone who chose instead of being chosen for.

So he stopped thinking. Stopped questioning. Stopped trying to be good.

He lowered his mouth to hers again and let himself fall.

╰ ┈➤ A/n: Both y/n and Finnick deserve a hug so bad 😔😔 they’re like wet kicked stray kittens at the side of the road and someone please put them in a lake house away from the capitol’s bs 🙏🙏

╰ ┈➤ Masterlist

╰ ┈➤ Tags: @avantlilies @joekitsu @sarabelllah @lil-mex-child @themischievousher @saoriixbjh @fnimln @gmiasa03 @foulkingtree-101 @doll-parts111 @aaaashiiii @theregoeskittykat @psamathegoesrawr @erisfayred @fgskna @ameliyaroseaster @blackpearlodair @yagiyoshikawa @teenagerunawayangel @aliteralprincess @oursizy @antobooh @readawaythereality2 @imn0t4v4mpir3 @dawnzephyr @redr0sewrites @asterwriter221 @wandressfox

© cheriecelestial - arabelle | 2026

"Y/n..." Nora cried, but you shook your head, stumbling slightly as you walked towards your mother, falling into her embrace.

"It's okay, it's okay..." Nora whispered as her father pulled her and her mother into an embrace.

"Please, don't forget me. I love you, mum." You whispered, closing your eyes as your body disintegrated into pieces, almost reflecting snowflakes as you ceased to exist.

With the timeline changed, you and Nora had been erased.

/// Sometime during Season 7/8 of The Flash ///

"Hey, guys!" Nora and Bart waved as they entered STAR Labs, making a beeline for the latest updates on what Team Flash were fighting this time.

"Uh, I thought you two were heading back to 2049?" Iris enquired, on a break from her work in Coast City with the city's first meta.

"We were, but- uh... it's a long story." Bart rambled, deciding to not reveal the time hijinks that had happened since the two West-Allens left before.

"So what are you guys- oh cryokinetics, sweet, Nora knows all about those!" Bart pointed out, smiling as Nora glared at him.

"Wait, you study cryokinetics?" Barry raised an eyebrow, realising how different that was to the other Nora, who was a CSI like Barry.

"Uh, I don't study cryokinetics, my-"

"Her future wife is getting her bio-engineering doctorate and her study is using cryokinetics and cryotherapy for healing injuries." Bart explained as Barry and Iris paused.

"Wait, hold up, future wife-"

"I haven't proposed yet. Anyway, Bart, stop talking! You're spoiling the future!" Nora explained, her face burning at Bart's teasing at the mention of you.

"Yet?" Iris smiled slightly, watching how her daughter reacted to her brother's teasing.

"Let's be real, Y/n could really help with this, and I know you miss your lover, lover girl!" Bart persuaded Nora, who bit her lip in thought.

"I don't think it's a good idea to bring people from the future-" Barry began to oppose at the idea.

"An expert in cryokinesis like no other." Bart added, nudging Nora in the ribs as Iris quirked a brow.

"Who just so happens to be our daughter's girlfriend?"

"Mom!" Nora yelped, seeing the look on her mother's face as Bart interjected.

"It's actually an adorable love story-"

"Bart!"

"Okay, okay, fine. You go! Go get Y/n from 2049, or, wait, wait, Y/n has one of those handy time watches from-"

"Bart! Zip it, I'm going!" Nora replied, waving her hand around before speeding out, the purple lightning following her as some of the other members of Team Flash arrived.

"What's going on?" Allegra enquired as Chester grinned and waved at Bart, who cheerfully waved back.

"Nora has gone to get an expert in cryokinetics from the future-"

"Did we mention they're a part of the future Team Flash? Another Legacy member, I should add." Bart contributed to Iris' explanation as Barry exchanged glances with Iris.

"Legacy member?" Barry looked intrigued as Bart grinned nervously, realising how much he was saying.

"And that is all I can tell you." Bart concluded, zipping his mouth shut as Nora had told him to when she left for 2049.

"What are you telling us?" Frost enquired as she and Caitlin walked in.

/// 2049 ///

The tapping of computer keys echoed throughout the pristine labratory, the toes of your shoe tapped the linoleum flooring as you read over your research proposal for the hundredth time.

The coffee you'd brought from Jitters was cold as you downed it quickly, grimacing at the temperature before a chuckle caught your attention.

Spinning around in your wheelie chair, a smile graced your lips as Nora grinned, "hey lovely."

"Hey yourself, what's going on?" You enquired, spotting Nora was suited up as XS as she removed her mask to explain.

///

"Wait, so...wow, 2022... Bart's there now? Nora, neither of us are born yet, nevermind Bart... so we should be careful not to introduce any tech that's too advanced, because it would speed up the timeline." You agreed, fiddling with the time courier on your wrist as Nora walked over, leaning into press her lips against yours.

A smile crossed your face as Nora stepped back, watching as you set up the time courier to open a few minutes after Nora left 2022.

/// 2022 ///

"Again, what are you telling us?" Frost folded her arms, raising an eyebrow at Bart who glanced around awkwardly.

"Any time now, sis..."

The wooshing sound of the time courier opening a space-time door from 2049 to 2022.

"Finally! You really took your time!" Bart exclaimed as he zipped over, hugging you in greeting as you glanced around the 2022 version of STAR Labs.

"Oh my god." A voice gasped as she spotted you, Frost at her side as she stepped forwards slightly, memories of the alternate timeline you flickering in her mind.

"Hi, mum." You smiled softly, slightly confused at her glassy eyes as you glanced at your aunt, "Hi, aunt Frost."

"Aunt Frost?" Frost raised an eyebrow, glancing between Nora and Bart and you.

"What in the Anna and Elsa is happening right now?" Chester blurted out as you let out a breathy chuckle, turning to look at your girlfriend in amusement as Bart stammered over his words and Nora sheepishly smiled.

"Y/n?" Caitlin asked, reaching out for you as you softly smiled.

"Wait, wait, Y/n Snow? With the cool ice powers-"

"Ice powers? Oh, you're thinking of the other Y/n. I don't have ice powers. Mum, or mum in the future figured it was because aunt Frost has the ice powers after the split." You explained, carefully stopping Nora from showing an explanation from her gauntlet, in case it revealed too much of the future.

"So, you don't have ice powers, but you're getting a doctorate in cryokinetics?" Barry enquired as your eyes widened, looking at your mother's face as your aunt looked impressed.

"Apple doesn't fall far from the tree then, huh, Caity. Hope your daughter isn't as uptight-" Frost began but Bart beamed with laughter.

"Well, she's dating my sister, so I think out of the two of them, Nora's the uptight one." Bart chuckled until you whirled around at him with a grimace and Nora glared.

"Only when it's about the timeline, which you are hellbent on spoiling apparently!" Nora replied, flicking Bart in retaliation.

"You two are dating?" Allegra enquired as Frost was about to smirk and Caitlin's jaw dropped.

"This got out of hand so quickly..." You whispered as Nora sighed, Bart had gone over to talk to Chester and Allegra as Barry and Iris tried to talk to Caitlin, with Frost secretly watching you and Nora from the corner of her eye.

"I know..." Nora replied, leaning into you as you began to look over the issue of why Team Flash needed an expert in cryokinetics in the first place.

"I love you." Nora whispered into your shoulder as you began to tap your fingers on the screen.

The counsellor from District 6 scowled, his face darkening with something that might have been disappointment or rage. “And why should you—”

“Sit down,” Finnick said quietly. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. There was something in his tone—a cold, flat authority—that silenced the objection before it could fully form. He turned to face the parliament, his hands resting on the back of his chair. “I 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.”

He looked at Katniss. She held his gaze for a long moment, searching his face for something—motive, perhaps, or hidden cruelty. Whatever she found there made her nod slowly, reluctantly.

“The motion is amended,” Katniss said, turning back to the chamber. “Y/n Snow will serve her sentence in the custody of Senator Finnick Odair, subject to parliamentary oversight. All in favour?”

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 back—the 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 didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to expect. He had volunteered to take custody of Y/n Snow on impulse—a split-second decision born of something he couldn’t 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 didn’t 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 Finnick’s 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.

“Senator Odair.” The man’s voice was smooth as poisoned honey—warm 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.

“I’ve brought the goods,” the stylist continued, undeterred by Finnick’s cool reception. He clapped his hands twice—a sharp, theatrical gesture—and 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.

Finnick’s 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.

“Now for the fun part,” the stylist said, his voice rising with theatrical excitement. He gestured over his shoulder. “Bring her out.”

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 makeup—just 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. “I took my artistic liberties with this one,” he said, as one of his assistants stepped forward and, with a single, practiced motion, untied the belt of Y/n’s robe.

The white fabric parted and fell to the floor in a soft heap.

Finnick’s eyes widened. His breath caught somewhere in his throat. She was wearing a lingerie set the colour of a summer sky—soft 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 wasn’t 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, precise—she had been taught this, rehearsed it, probably until her knees were raw and her back ached. The thought made Finnick’s stomach churn.

“We’ve done her makeup in a softer look, as you can see,” the stylist continued, apparently oblivious to—or delighted by—the horror spreading across Finnick’s face. “To accentuate her natural features. I’ve also taught her some basic tips so she can do her own face in the future. Hygiene, maintenance, all of that. She’s a quick learner. So very eager to please.” 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 collar—matching 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 colours—black, red, white, deep green—some with matching leashes, others with chains, still others with small padlocks and tiny, delicate bells.

“The outfit sets are complete with matching collars and leashes,” 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. “Some sets include additional accessories as well. Muzzles, cuffs, blindfolds. I included a few ‘training aids’—nothing too severe, of course, just the basics. Reward markers, correction tools, that sort of thing. All very humane.”

Finnick stared at the collar in the stylist’s 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 it—the finality of it—settled 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 “costume” 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 hadn’t chosen it. None of this had been her choice.

“I went for a nice ‘puppy chic’ aesthetic,” the stylist said, breaking into Finnick’s thoughts with his chipper, commercial tone. “Personally, I would have preferred ears and a tail—to really sell the concept, you understand—but 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.”

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 stood—a detail the stylist’s 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 weren’t really clothes, her body already beginning to tremble from the effort of staying still.

“Leave,” he said quietly.

The stylist blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Leave.” Finnick’s voice was soft, but there was no mistaking the command in it. “All of you. Now.”

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. Finnick’s 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.

“Apologies, Senator,” the man said, reaching into the inner pocket of his immaculate suit jacket. “I nearly forgot the most important part.” He withdrew a folded sheet of heavy parchment—creamy 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. “The rules. For your reference, she is already aware.”

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 building’s ventilation system.

Finnick closed the door and leaned against it, the parchment crackling softly in his grip. He could feel Y/n’s eyes on him now—not 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 Stylist’s Guild of Panem.

ARTICLE I: GENERAL CONDUCT

1. The ward (hereafter referred to as “the asset”) shall address Senator Finnick Odair (hereafter referred to as “the Master”) as “Master” at all times when in private quarters. In public settings, she shall address him as “Senator” 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 asset’s 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 Master’s 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 Master’s preferences and dietary requirements. She shall not eat or drink without the Master’s 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 Master’s explicit permission. Any violation of this rule will result in immediate corrective action.

3. The asset shall not leave the residence without the Master’s 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 emotions—including anger, resentment, sadness, or frustration—unless 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 Master’s 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 asset’s 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 Master’s 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, clinical—bureaucratic 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 was—probably 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 her—a small, careless motion that sent the soft blue leather tumbling onto the rug beside Y/n’s 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 counter—he snatched it up. His car keys were in the bowl by the entryway—he 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 much—the weight of the parliament’s decision, the stylist’s 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 unfold—seeing 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 him—a sleek black sedan, powerful and silent, the kind of vehicle that had once belonged to Capitol elite. He slid into the driver’s 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 fall—too 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 worse—each 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 officials—a 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 soothing—a 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 bartender’s eye.

“Strongest thing you have,” he said. His voice came out rougher than he intended, scraped raw by something he couldn’t name.

The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. He reached for a dark bottle on the top shelf—something amber and expensive, the label written in a language Finnick didn’t 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 didn’t. Not yet.

“Senator?” The voice came from his left, smooth and familiar in a way that made his spine stiffen. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

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 now—a 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.

“I thought you’d be spending the night getting to know your whore better.” The counsellor’s voice lingered on the last word, turning it into something almost obscene. His eyes glittered with a mixture of envy and amusement. “Must be nice, having a Snow on a leash. The rest of us have to make do with memory.”

Finnick’s 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 this—men 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.

“Yes, well,” he said at last, his voice carefully neutral. He shrugged, a small, dismissive motion that he hoped conveyed indifference. “I have time.”

“Of course, Senator. Of course.” 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 Finnick’s. “And make sure that one suffers. Properly, I mean. None of this soft-handed, lenient treatment I’ve been hearing about from some of the more sympathetic members of parliament.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to something almost confidential, as though he and Finnick were old friends sharing a private joke. “If I had it—that creature, that Snow bitch—I’d make sure it paid off its debts in one weekend. One long, hard, memorable weekend. By the time I was done with it, there wouldn’t be anything left but a husk.”

He laughed. It was a thick, ugly sound—the 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 Finnick’s ears like broken glass, setting his teeth on edge.

Finnick’s hand tightened around his glass. The crystal creaked softly under the pressure, a thin, warning sound. Another fraction of force and it would crack—would 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 didn’t. He forced his fingers to relax, one by one, until the glass sat safely in his palm once more.

“I prefer to draw out suffering,” Finnick said. The words came from somewhere dark and hollow inside him—a place he didn’t like to visit, full of old angers and older griefs. He didn’t mean them. He wasn’t 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 didn’t fully understand.

The violence had been the first sign. Small things, at first—a 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 didn’t deserve his anger. A broken nose in a bar fight he couldn’t 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 psychiatrist—a soft-spoken woman with kind eyes and an endless supply of patience—had 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 shame—if 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 wasn’t 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 didn’t like that thought. He tried not to dwell on it. But sometimes, late at night, it came to him unbidden, whispering in the dark.

“It makes sense why they gave it to you, given your history and… experiences.” The counsellor’s 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. “I mean, you understand the, ah, logistics of the situation better than most. The training. The conditioning. The—what did they used to call it? Ah yes. The breaking in.”

Finnick’s blood turned to ice. He knew exactly what this man was implying. He knew because he had lived it—had 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 couldn’t 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 hadn’t been soft blue leather with a silver tag—it 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.

“But I mean, look at it.” The counsellor shook his head slowly, his gaze turning speculative, almost dreamy. He wasn’t looking at Finnick anymore. He was looking somewhere else—somewhere in his own mind, where images of Y/n Snow danced behind his eyelids. “That body was made to be ravaged. You can just tell, can’t you? The way it moves. The way it stands. All that elegance and poise, just waiting to be stripped away.” He took another sip of his drink, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “I wonder how it looks under all that pomp. Under all those fancy dresses and designer gowns. I bet it’s even better than we imagine. I bet—”

“Don’t.”

Finnick’s voice was quiet. So quiet that, for a moment, the counsellor didn’t 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 cold—not 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.

“I said don’t,” Finnick repeated. His voice was still soft, still deceptively gentle, but there was steel beneath it now. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

The counsellor’s smile faltered. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as though he were trying to find a response that wouldn’t make things worse. His eyes darted to the side, gauging the distance to the door, the number of witnesses, the likelihood of intervention. “Her?” he said at last, his voice light, almost playful, as though he were testing the waters. “Oh, we’re using pronouns now? I thought she was just—”

“I said don’t.”

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 didn’t stand. He didn’t need to. The weight of his presence was enough—the reputation that preceded him, the stories people whispered when they thought he couldn’t hear. Finnick Odair. The Capitol’s darling. Snow’s favourite. They say he’s killed more people than anyone in the rebellion. They say he’s not quite right in the head. They say you don’t 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 Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his thick neck. His smile had disappeared entirely now, replaced by something that looked almost like unease.

“You got what you wanted,” Finnick continued, his voice low and even, each word placed like a stone in a wall. “The vote passed. She’s in my custody, not yours. Whatever fantasies you’ve been entertaining—whatever you’ve been picturing when you close your eyes at night—you can put them away. All of them. They’re not going to happen.”

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.

“You don’t get to touch her,” Finnick said. “You don’t get to look at her. You don’t 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 again—if I ever hear your voice in the same sentence as her name—I will make you regret it.” His voice dropped even lower, barely above a whisper. “And believe me when I say that I know exactly how to make someone regret things. I learned from the best.”

The counsellor’s smile flickered, dimming at the edges like a candle caught in a draft. For a brief, fleeting moment, something ugly surfaced on his florid face—a 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 politician’s 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 chuckle—a 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.

“Fair enough, Senator. Fair enough.” He signalled the bartender with a snap of his fingers—a gesture that made Finnick’s 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. “To 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.”

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 waves—the 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.

“But don’t go easy on her.” The counsellor’s voice cut through the fog, sharp and insistent. He had leaned in again, his shoulder almost brushing Finnick’s, his breath sour with whiskey and something else—triumph, perhaps, or spite. “You still have to submit reports each month. The Oversight Committee will be watching. They’ll be reading every word, scrutinizing every detail. And if they decide you’re not making good use of her—if they think you’re being soft, being lenient, being anything less than what they expect—they’ll remove her from your custody.” He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. Then he smiled, slow and unpleasant, his teeth yellowed and uneven. “And 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.”

He clapped Finnick on the back—a hard, patronizing smack between the shoulder blades that made Finnick’s 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 life—for 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 apartment—of crossing the threshold and seeing the cage in the corner, the collars laid out on the coffee table, the woman kneeling in submission—made something else twist inside him. Something darker. Something he didn’t have a name for and didn’t 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 him—the 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 counsellor’s words lingered in his head, burrowing into the soft tissue of his thoughts like parasites. If they decide you’re not making good use of her, they’ll 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 perform—if he failed to hurt her, to use her, to make her suffer the way the parliament wanted—they 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 Finnick’s conscience screamed against.

She would be removed from his custody if he didn’t use her. If he didn’t 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 then—insidious, unwelcome, creeping in from the shadows of his mind—another voice spoke. Not the counsellor’s. Not the bartender’s. Something deeper, something older, something that had been born in the arena and raised in the Capitol’s 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 it’s the alcohol, he thought, grasping for an excuse, for any explanation that wasn’t 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. They’ll read your reports. They’ll check for marks, for evidence, for proof that you’re doing what they couldn’t do themselves. If you don’t give them what they want, they’ll take her away. And if they take her away—

He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t 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 her—whatever the parliament demanded, whatever the reports required, whatever dark thing the counsellor expected—it 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 didn’t 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/n’s face—pale and trembling, her pale blue eyes fixed on his, her lips parted around words she hadn’t been allowed to speak.

He opened his eyes. Finished his drink. Set the glass down with a soft click.

╰ ┈➤ A/n: As for the references, some of ‘em were from handmaid’s 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.

╰ ┈➤ Masterlist

╰ ┈➤ 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

© cheriecelestial - arabelle | 2026

Katniss, practical and weary of the Capitol’s lingering shadows, had chosen to retire to the familiar shores of District 12, to the woods and the quiet life she had always longed for. Finnick, however, had decided to stay. It wasn’t only duty that kept him here, though that was part of it. There were other reasons—more personal, more complicated—that anchored him to this glittering, haunted city. But in the end, it was his choice. He had volunteered for this life. And he would see it through.

“That’s all for today, Susan,” he said, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the bridge of his nose. His voice was calm but there was a thread of weariness beneath it. His secretary looked up from her notes and gave him a small, knowing nod before gathering her things and slipping out of the room. Unlike most days, work had ended early. Not that it made the day any less tiring; the fatigue clung to his bones like salt spray to skin. But at least the evening stretched before him now, dark and open.

His car was already waiting outside the government building, engine humming softly in the cool Capitol air. He slid into the back seat and let his head rest against the window as the city blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow. He watched the lights flicker—advertisements, streetlamps, the glowing spires of buildings that had once belonged to the decadent and the cruel. He hated the Capitol. He had always hated it, even as a boy, even when he had been paraded through its streets as a victor, smiling for cameras that devoured his pain like candy. Back then, he used to return to District 4 whenever he could—to the salt breeze, the wooden piers, the honest, unpolished lives of the fishermen and their families. But as the years passed, those visits grew fewer, then rarer still. The sea began to feel distant, like something from a half-remembered dream. Now, the Capitol was all that remained of his waking life.

The car pulled up outside his building—a towering structure of glass and polished stone, elegant in the way old money often is. He stepped out into the cool night air and walked into the lobby, where the staff greeted him with practiced smiles and murmured welcomes. He returned them with a small, polite smile of his own—a reflex, nothing more—before stepping into the lift. The doors slid shut and he watched the numbers climb in silence. When the lift dinged open, he stepped into a long, narrow hallway, its floor covered in dark marble that reflected the soft glow of wall sconces. At the far end stood the only door: a grand, imposing thing of rich mahogany, polished to a mirror-like shine. The apartment had once belonged to a Capitol noble—a wealthy sympathizer of the old regime, someone who had turned a blind eye to the Games while hosting lavish parties on the upper levels of the city. Now, it belonged to Finnick. A trophy of a different kind. Not the first one he had been given anyway.

The lock clicked open with a soft electronic chime as Finnick pressed his thumb to the sensor. For a moment, he hesitated, his palm still resting against the cool metal of the doorframe. Then he pushed the door inward and stepped across the threshold into the quiet darkness of his home. The silence wrapped around him like a second skin—thick, immediate and deeply unusual. No soft steps padding toward him. No gentle murmur of greeting. Just the low hum of the city filtering through the reinforced windows and the distant whisper of the ventilation system. Without a word, he dropped his bag by the coat stand and kicked off his shoes, sighing audibly as his bare feet met the smooth, cool floor.

He stood still for a long moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. The apartment stretched out before him in shades of grey and shadow. The quiet was almost oppressive—heavy in a way that felt wrong, like a room holding its breath. He could hear his own heartbeat settling into a slower rhythm, could feel the tension in his shoulders beginning to unspool. But still, something was off. Something was missing.

He walked toward the living room, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. The only sources of light were a single distant hallway lamp, its glow weak and amber and the cold flickering of the Capitol’s night skyline pressing against the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sprawled endlessly beyond the glass—a constellation of ambition and excess, beautiful and rotten all at once. Finnick paid it no mind. His attention was drawn instead to the far corner of the room, where a familiar shape waited in the half-darkness.

A cage.

It was a large one, ornate and unsettling in its beauty. The bars were gilded in gold that caught the faint light and threw it back in soft, fractured gleams. Inside, a thick mattress lay on the floor, a little over half the length of a standard human bed. Along the inner walls, were arranged a small collection of plushies: soft, childish things with button eyes and stitched smiles, their cheerful faces at odds with the cold metal surrounding them. And there, curled in the centre of it all, was her.

She was asleep. Or had been. Her breathing was slow and even, her body tucked into a loose curl on the mattress, one hand resting beneath her cheek. The soft glow from the city outside caught the curve of her shoulder, the pale line of her neck, the delicate braid of her light blonde hair swept to one side—exactly the way he preferred it. Even in sleep, she wore what he had chosen for her that morning: a sheer baby doll slip, translucent as morning frost, layered over black lingerie that left little to the imagination. Around her throat sat a matching collar, sleek and dark, with a silver tag that caught the light as she breathed. He didn’t need to read it to know what it said. Property of F. Odair. Attached to the collar was a silver leash, its end coiled loosely on the mattress beside her.

Finnick took a slow step closer, then another. He reached out and tapped his knuckles against one of the golden bars. The metallic rattle cut through the stillness like a bell. She stirred almost immediately—a soft, sleepy sound escaping her lips as consciousness pulled her back to the surface. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then found his face in the dim light. Recognition struck her like a physical blow. She shot upright in a frantic scramble, her head connecting hard with the top of the cage with a sharp thunk that made her wince.

“Master, I—” Her voice was small, breathless, laced with panic. “You’re back? I didn’t hear—I mean, I thought—” She was already crawling out of the cage on her hands and knees, her movements hurried and ungraceful, the leash dragging behind her like a silver serpent. She knelt on the carpet before him, her eyes wide. There was little light in the room, but Finnick could see everything he needed to see: the fear pooling in her gaze, the trembling of her lower lip, the way her fingers twisted anxiously in the thin fabric of her slip. She was terrified. And she should be.

Finnick regarded her in silence for a long moment, letting the weight of his presence settle over her. His expression was unreadable—not angry, not cold, simply patient. As if he had all the time in the world. As if her fear was a slow wine he intended to savour.

“Why weren’t you at the door to greet me?” he asked at last. His voice was calm, almost gentle, but there was no mistaking the expectation beneath it. It wasn’t that he was offended or even particularly angered. It was simply a matter of duty. She had a role to play, a set of responsibilities she had accepted the moment she entered this arrangement. And tonight, she had failed in one of the most basic ones.

“I’m sorry, Master.” The words tumbled out of her in a frantic rush, her voice cracking at the edges. “I thought you’d be back later. You’re usually—I mean, work ended early today, right? I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I was waiting, I swear I was, but it got so quiet and I just—” She was trying to talk her way out of it, weaving excuses like thread through a loom, hoping to stitch together some version of events that would soften his response. Her hands were shaking now, clutching the fabric of her slip until the delicate material creased under her fingers. “I didn’t mean to, I—please, Master, I—”

Finnick bent down slowly, deliberately and took the end of the silver leash in his hand. The metal links chinked softly as he wrapped the length around his palm once, twice, until there was no slack left between them. Then he tugged. It wasn’t a hard pull—not yet—but it was sharp, sudden, enough to make her body lurch forward with a startled squeak. Her knees scraped against the carpet and she caught herself on her hands, her breathing gone shallow and rapid. A soft whimper escaped her throat as more excuses began to form on her tongue, her lips parting to let them spill out once more.

But Finnick was too tired for any of it. The day had been long, the meetings endless, the weight of the Republic pressing down on his shoulders like a stone mantle. He did not have the patience for a litany of pleas and justifications. He silenced her with a single look, a flicker of something cold and unyielding in his sea-green eyes and she closed her mouth immediately, her whole body going still except for the fine trembling he could feel traveling up the leash and into his hand.

“What’s my number one rule?” he asked. His tone carried a note of finality, the quiet authority of someone who expected an answer and would not ask twice.

“Always greet Master when he comes back,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her gaze had dropped to the floor, her lashes casting small shadows on her cheeks.

“And number two?”

“No excuses.” The words came out as a whimper, small and broken.

“And what happens to bad puppies who break rules?” Finnick tilted his head slightly, watching her. The city lights painted silver lines along the edge of his jaw, catching the gold of the cage behind her. He looked almost serene, almost pitying. But there was little softness in him tonight.

She was quiet for a moment, her hands bunching so tightly in the fabric of her slip that her knuckles went white. When she finally spoke, her voice was scarcely more than a breath, fragile as spun glass.

“They get punished.”

The silence that followed her words was heavier than any punishment Finnick could have spoken aloud. It stretched between them like a held breath, thick with anticipation and the faint, electric taste of fear. Y/n remained motionless on her knees, her head bowed, her blonde braid slipping over one shoulder to hang like a pale rope against the dark lace of her lingerie. She didn’t dare look up. She didn’t dare move. The only sign of life was the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath the translucent slip, and the occasional tremble that coursed through her slim frame.

Finnick watched her for a long, deliberate moment. His thumb traced the cool links of the silver leash idly, back and forth, back and forth—a small, almost unconscious gesture that seemed to calm him while it wound her tighter. The golden bars of the cage gleamed softly behind her, their open door a silent reminder of where she belonged. The plushies inside stared out with their blank, stitched eyes, witnesses to whatever came next.

“Look at me,” he said finally. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the stillness like a blade through silk.

Y/n hesitated for only a fraction of a second before lifting her gaze. Her eyes were glassy, caught somewhere between terror and desperate hope. Tears had not yet fallen but they clung to her lower lashes like morning dew, threatening. She searched his face for mercy, for leniency, for anything that might soften what was to come. Finnick’s expression, however, gave nothing away. His features were carved in shadow and moonlight, beautiful and unreadable. He had learned long ago how to hide everything behind a pleasant smile. Tonight, he wasn’t smiling.

“You know I don’t enjoy this,” he said, and there was something almost tender beneath the words, almost gentle. “But you also know that rules exist for a reason. Structure. Order. Without it, there’s only chaos. And chaos—” He tugged the leash again, just a fraction, just enough to remind her of its presence. “Chaos is dangerous for little things like you. Isn’t it?”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered. A single tear slipped free and traced a slow path down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

“Do you remember the last time you broke a rule?” Finnick asked, tilting his head. The question was soft, almost conversational, but his eyes held her captive. “Do you remember what happened?”

Y/n swallowed hard. Her throat bobbed visibly above the collar. “Yes, Master,” she said again, her voice even smaller now.

“And did it help you remember?”

“Yes, Master.” A second tear joined the first. “I’ve never forgotten.”

“But you forgot tonight.” Finnick sighed, a long, slow exhale that seemed to drain some of the tension from his shoulders. He looked tired suddenly—not just physically, but something deeper, something bone-weary. The weight of the Capitol, of the Republic, of all the ghosts that followed him like shadows—it pressed down on him even here, in the sanctuary of his own home. He ran his free hand through his hair, the bronze waves falling back into place almost immediately.

“I don’t want to punish you tonight,” he admitted and the honesty in his voice was startling. “I’m exhausted, Y/n. I’ve spent the entire day listening to people argue about grain quotas and district tariffs and whether the train lines to Seven should be repaired before the winter. I’ve smiled at people I despise. I’ve shaken hands with men who would have watched me die in that arena and called it entertainment.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “I came home because I wanted peace. I wanted you. At the door. Where you were supposed to be.”

Y/n’s lower lip trembled violently now and more tears followed the first two, streaming freely down her cheeks. She didn’t make a sound but her shoulders shook with the effort of containing her sobs. Her hands had released her slip and now lay flat against her thighs, palms down, fingers spread—a posture of utter submission.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, the words barely audible. “I’m so sorry, Master. I’ll do better. I promise. I’ll—I’ll never fall asleep again. I’ll wait by the door every single night, no matter how late, no matter how tired. I swear it. Please—”

“Shh.” He released his grip on the silver leash, letting it fall to the carpet with a soft clink. His movements were careful, measured—like someone approaching a skittish, frightened animal that might bolt at any sudden motion. Then, instead, he reached out and cupped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face upward so that she had no choice but to meet his eyes. His thumb brushed slowly across her cheek, wiping away the wet tracks of her tears with a tenderness that felt almost cruel in its gentleness. His touch was warm, almost tender, a stark contrast to the sharp authority in his voice. “Don’t make it any harder for me, hmm?”

Y/n choked on a sob, her throat tightening around the sound until it came out as a strangled, broken thing. She tried desperately to blink back the tears that kept welling up despite her best efforts, her vision blurring and clearing in uneven waves. But she nodded—a small, jerky motion of her head, submission bleeding into every line of her body. She took a deep, shuddering breath, filling her lungs with the cool air of the apartment and forced herself to steady. Her hands unclenched from the fabric of her slip, then clenched again. She knew what was coming. She had known the moment she woke up to find him standing over her cage. And some part of her, the part that had been trained and conditioned and slowly reshaped, had already accepted it.

Finnick raised his hand. There was no hesitation in the movement, no second-guessing. It was clean, precise, almost clinical. His palm landed against her cheek with a sharp, ringing crack that echoed off the walls of the silent living room. The sound was startlingly loud—a single, perfect note of punishment that seemed to hang in the air long after the impact had faded. Y/n tried her best to stay upright, to hold herself straight and still the way she had been taught, but the force of the blow was a bit more than she expected. Her body twisted sideways, her shoulder hitting the carpet as she caught herself on one trembling arm. A soft gasp escaped her lips, more surprise than pain at first, before the sting bloomed across her cheek like fire spreading through dry grass.

Before she could recover, Finnick’s other hand found its way into her hair. His fingers tangled in the light golden blonde strands, fisting firmly but not cruelly and he pulled her back upright. The motion was neither gentle nor brutal—simply efficient, like a fisherman hauling in a line. She winced as the tension pulled at her scalp, but she made no sound of protest. Her eyes were wide and wet, fixed on his face with an expression that hovered somewhere between fear, pain and desperate, aching devotion.

“What do you say after this?” His voice was calm, almost conversational. As if he had asked her about the weather, or what she wanted for dinner. But his eyes held hers with an intensity that allowed no evasion.

“I’m sorry, Master.” Her voice came out raw and wavering, but she forced the words out one by one, shaping them carefully. “I failed my duty and deserve to be punished.”

It was the right answer. The only answer. She had repeated it so many times now that it had become a kind of prayer—a litany of guilt and atonement that she whispered to herself in the dark hours of the night. The words settled into the space between them, heavy and fragile all at once.

Another slap landed on the same spot. This one was softer, restrained, almost perfunctory. A reminder rather than a punishment. But still, Y/n whimpered—a small, wounded sound that escaped despite her best efforts to stay silent. The lingering tenderness from the first blow made the second one feel sharper than it actually was and her cheek throbbed in dull, rhythmic pulses. A tear slipped free despite her attempts to hold it back, tracing a hot line down her flushed skin.

“This is the last time that I’m letting you off this easy.” Finnick’s voice hardened slightly, the gentleness of before giving way to something sterner. He released her hair and instead raised his hand, tapping her forehead with the middle of his index finger—once, twice, three times, each tap landing with a light but insistent pressure against her brow. “You need to get it through that dumb little head of yours, hmm?” There was no cruelty in his tone, precisely. But there was no softness either. Only the flat, matter-of-fact authority of someone who had repeated this lesson many times before and was growing weary of the repetition.

Y/n nodded solemnly, her chin dipping toward her chest. She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing beneath the dark collar and murmured, “Thank you, Master.” The words came automatically now, ingrained so deeply that she no longer had to think about them. Gratitude for the correction. Gratitude for the punishment. Gratitude for the fact that he still cared enough to discipline her, to shape her, to mould her into something better than what she had been before.

Finnick studied her for a moment longer, his sea-green eyes roving slowly over her body with an intensity that made her feel like she was being taken apart and examined piece by piece. He looked at the reddening mark on her cheek, at the tears still clinging to her lashes, at the way her chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths beneath the translucent babydoll. Then his gaze drifted downward, catching on the silver tag that hung from her collar. The dim light from the city outside caught the engraved letters, illuminating them in soft, ghostly white: Property of F. Odair. He stared at the words for a long moment, his expression shifting through something unreadable—a flicker of possessiveness, perhaps, or satisfaction, or something darker and more complicated that he would never put into words.

Then, slowly, he exhaled. The breath seemed to carry something out of him—tension, maybe, or the last remnants of the day’s exhaustion. He cupped her face again, this time with both hands, his palms warm and dry against her tear-stained cheeks. He tilted her head up gently, forcing her to meet his gaze one more time. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, but she didn’t look away. She never looked away when he asked her to.

Without another word, Finnick’s arm wrapped around her waist, his hand splaying across the small of her back. He pulled her closer, guiding her body between his legs as he shifted and sat down fully onto the floor, his back resting against the cold bars of the cage behind him. The metal pressed into his spine through his shirt, but he didn’t seem to notice—or if he did, he didn’t care. He drew her into the vee of his thighs, her knees bracketing his hips, her body flush against his chest.

He didn’t waste any time. One moment he was looking at her, studying her and the next his lips were on hers. The kiss was not gentle, but it was not harsh either. It was hungry, demanding, a claiming as much as a caress. His mouth moved against hers with a confidence born of familiarity and she responded instinctively, her lips parting beneath his, her body melting into his hold. His hands slipped under the hem of her babydoll, finding the warmth of her bare skin beneath. His palms were rough and calloused in places—remnants of a life lived before the Capitol, before all of this—but his touch was sure, almost reverent. He caressed her waist, his thumbs tracing slow circles against her ribs, then slid his hands higher, then lower, traveling up and down her midriff in a lazy, possessive rhythm. She shivered against him, caught between the chill of the room and the heat radiating from his body.

His hand moved up with deliberate slowness, fingers ghosting over her ribs before coming to rest against the soft curve of her breast. She let out a small, needy whine that seemed to travel straight through him and Finnick smiled against her lips—a slow, satisfied curl of his mouth that held no warmth, only possession. He could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat beneath his palm, the way her breath hitched and stuttered as he applied the slightest pressure. His fingers found her nipple through the delicate layer the lingerie bra, rolling it gently at first, then with a little more intent, just to watch her react. She never disappointed. Her responsiveness had always been one of her most endearing qualities—every touch, every whisper of sensation seemed to light her up from the inside, her body answering his before her mind could even catch up. Her hips twitched involuntarily and a deeper, more breathy sound escaped her throat, swallowed by his mouth.

Finnick exhaled slowly, feeling something shift within him. The tension of the day—the endless meetings, the sterile conference rooms, the weight of a nation pressing down on his shoulders—began to unspool, thread by thread, as her lips left his and began to trail down the sharp line of his jaw. She kissed her way lower, her mouth soft and warm and impossibly eager, pressing small, open-mouthed kisses to the column of his throat. She nipped at the skin just above his pulse point, exactly where he liked it, with exactly the right amount of pressure. Then she soothed the spot with her tongue, a practiced rhythm that spoke of long nights and careful instruction. She knew precisely where to kiss, where to bite, where to linger until his breath caught in his chest. She moved like a creature trained to perfection or perhaps one that had simply learned that her survival depended on knowing every inch of him.

His free hand drifted lower, brushing against the damp heat at her core through the thin lace of her panties. Even through the fabric, he could feel the growing wetness, the unmistakable evidence of her arousal soaking through. His fingertips pressed more firmly, circling lazily, and he felt her shudder against him.

“You’re so wet, puppy,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvet rumble against her hair. “Were you good while I was gone?”

“Yes, Master.” The words came quickly, breathlessly, pressed against the hollow of his throat between kisses. She sounded sincere. Earnest. Desperate to please.

Finnick hummed thoughtfully, his fingers continuing their lazy exploration, teasing at the damp fabric. “Then how are you so wet so quickly, hmm?” His tone shifted into something lighter, almost playful—a sing-song lilt that danced on the edge of mockery. There was amusement threaded through every syllable, the quiet confidence of someone who already knew the answers to the questions he was asking. “Are you sure you didn’t touch yourself while I was away? I know how desperate you get when you’re left alone too long.”

At that, Y/n straightened abruptly, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. Her gaze was wide and imploring, the raw intensity of her need to be believed. Her lips parted as she shook her head with such fervour that a few strands of her braid came loose.

“Master, I would never,” she said, her voice steady despite the quiver in her chin. “No matter how desperate I get—no matter how much I ache, or how long the day feels—I always wait. I always wait for Master to come back so he can touch me. I would never break that rule. I promise. Please, you have to believe me.”

Finnick studied her for a long moment, his sea-green eyes unreadable. Then something in his expression softened—not with mercy, exactly, but with something that looked almost like approval. He tilted his head, his lips curving into a faint smile.

“My, my,” he said softly, almost affectionately. “You really are such a good puppy, aren’t you?”

She nodded eagerly, a small, hopeful sound escaping her throat. And that was all the confirmation he needed.

His hand moved with sudden, deliberate purpose. He shifted the damp lace of her panties to the side—just enough—and shoved two fingers inside her without any warning, without any preamble, without even the pretence of gentleness. Y/n let out a sharp, startled squeak, her entire body jolting as her hands flew to his shoulders for purchase. Her nails dug into the fabric of his shirt as her thighs began to tremble violently. She gasped, her mouth falling open in a silent O and Finnick watched her with hooded eyes as he began to move.

He pumped his fingers in and out of her heat with a steady, unforgiving rhythm—deep, deliberate strokes that left no room for doubt about who was in control. The sounds that spilled from her lips were obscene filling the quiet apartment like a confession. She was no longer trying to hide her reactions; there was no point. Her head fell back, exposing the pale column of her throat and the dark collar wrapped around it, her silver tag catching the distant city lights and throwing them back in fractured gleams.

“That’s what I like about you,” Finnick said, his voice low and nonchalant, as if he were commenting on something casual rather than the way she was falling apart around his fingers. He curled them suddenly, mercilessly, against a particular spot deep inside her—one that made her entire body arch like a bow and her head snap back even farther, a broken cry tearing from her lips. He smiled then, slow and satisfied. “You’re a dumb, dirty little pup. But you’re willing to learn. And you’re,” he curled his fingers again, harder this time, pressing and rubbing in tight circles against that devastating spot, watching her eyes roll back, watching her mouth hang open on a soundless scream, “so responsive.”

Her nails raked down his shoulders—sharp, desperate crescents of sensation that left pale trails blooming into red. Her thighs clenched tight around his hand, a reflexive, involuntary grip, as though she could anchor herself to him and keep from being swept away entirely. Her whole body bowed to the rhythm he set, arching and trembling and yielding all at once, a creature of instinct now rather than thought. Every breath she drew came in ragged gasps. Every muscle in her frame quivered with the effort of holding on. And Finnick simply watched. Patient. Unhurried. His sea-green eyes never left her face—the flush spreading across her cheeks, the way her lips parted around sounds she couldn’t suppress, the flutter of her lashes as she fought to keep her gaze on his. He controlled everything: the pace, the pressure, the very air between them. And she surrendered to it because surrender was all she had left.

Outside, the Capitol glittered on, indifferent and eternal. A thousand lights flickered across the night skyline—buildings that had once belonged to Snow’s allies, streets that had once run red with the blood of tributes, now polished and pristine and pretending at innocence. The city never slept. It simply reinvented itself, shedding old skins like a snake, forgetting as easily as it breathed. But Finnick did not forget. Even now, with her soft sounds filling the quiet apartment and the weight of the leash still coiled loosely in his free hand, his mind drifted backward. Not to the arena. Not to the ocean. Further than that. To the chaos that had followed the fall.

The old regime had crumbled like a rotten pillar, finally unable to support the weight of its own cruelty. Coriolanus Snow was dead. The rebellion had swept through Panem like wildfire and from its ashes, the New Republic had risen, still unsteady on its feet, still learning how to breathe without tyranny strangling it. The parliament had set to work immediately on two fronts: reform and the punishment of those who had committed crimes against the people. Tribunal after tribunal was convened. Names were dragged into the light. And among the accused, one name stood out not for what she had done, but for who she was.

Y/n Snow.

The prized granddaughter of the late President. Something of an “it-girl” in the Capitol’s glittering, poisonous social scene—though that phrase hardly captured the truth of her existence. She had worn the finest dresses, yes, silks and velvets that cost more than a District 12 family earned in a year. She had eaten the finest foods, had been photographed at every pompous event with her grandfather’s cold hand resting on her arm like a brand. She had smiled for the cameras, had recited the gracious, empty pleasantries expected of a Snow. But had she ever been free? Had she ever been anything more than a decoration, a prop, a pretty thing to be displayed and discarded at the former president’s whim?

“She should be executed!” The memory of that voice still echoed in Finnick’s mind—sharp, furious, a District 7 representative whose family had lost someone to Snow’s machinations. “Are we forgetting all that she did? She stood beside him. She smiled for him. She wore his jewels and ate his food and never once lifted a finger to stop any of it!”

The chamber had erupted into chaos, voices overlapping in a storm of anger and grief. Finnick had sat in his seat, silent, watching. He had seen the girl in question seated in the defendant’s alcove, her hands folded in her lap, her face pale as marble. She had not spoken. She had not defended herself. She had simply sat there, waiting, as though she had already been sentenced a thousand times in her own mind.

“I must remind you,” another voice cut through the noise—softer, but no less firm. Tigris. The former president’s own cousin, her face altered by years of self-inflicted surgeries, her loyalty to the rebellion unquestioned. She had harboured fugitives. She had fed the resistance. She had risked everything to help bring down her own family’s terrible legacy. “That my grandniece was used by that man to better his reputation. The girl had no part in the atrocities that he committed. She was a child—a pawn—no different from any other tribute paraded in front of cameras to make Snow look magnanimous.”

A murmur rippled through the parliament. Some nodded. Others scowled, unconvinced.

“And what of her brother?” A District 1 representative rose to his feet, jabbing a finger toward the defendant’s alcove. “Cornelius Snow knew. His list of crimes wasn’t short either—in fact, it was longer and more grotesque than most. Shall we pretend she knew nothing of that as well?”

Cornelius Snow. The name alone was enough to darken the room. Unlike his sister, Cornelius had been no decoration. He had been an active participant in the regime’s ugliest excesses—a notorious rapist and abuser, known for assaulting female tributes and district women alike with impunity. Rumour had it that he would take women from the districts in small groups, keep them in his private wing of the Snow mansion and use them for his pleasure until he grew bored. After that, they were either killed—silently, without record—or tossed out into the streets with nothing but the clothes on their backs and scars that would never fully heal. He had also served as a Game Master, designing tasks and arenas for the Hunger Games with particular sadism. The traps he created were not designed simply to kill, but to prolong suffering, to turn death into performance art. Few tributes who entered one of Cornelius Snow’s arenas died quickly. And none died kindly.

“He is dead,” Tigris replied, her voice cool but strained. “Cornelius is dead. His crimes died with him. Why do you want to punish a girl for her brother’s sins? For her grandfather’s sins? Y/n Snow was kept in that mansion like a caged bird. She was rarely let out unless Snow needed her for his schemes—a smile here, a wave there, proof that the Snow family was civilized, cultured, worthy of power. She was not given a voice. She was not given a choice. She was as much a prisoner as any tribute.”

The chamber fell silent. Finnick remembered the weight of that silence—how it pressed against his ears, how he had shifted in his seat, how his gaze had drifted back to the pale girl in the defendant’s alcove. She had finally looked up, just once, and her eyes had met his across the room. There was no defiance in them. No pride. Just exhaustion and something else—something that looked almost like relief. As though she had been waiting, for years, for someone to finally see her for what she was.

Not a predator. Prey.

“Then what do you propose?” another voice asked. “We cannot simply let her walk free. A Snow is a Snow. Her name alone is a weapon.”

The chamber erupted again before Tigris could form a reply. Another man shot to his feet—a broad-shouldered counsellor from District 6, his face flushed with the particular righteousness of someone who had waited a long time for vengeance and could taste it now on the back of his tongue. His voice boomed across the hall, carrying a rawness that silenced the murmurs around him.

“I suggest we make a whore of her. The way her brother and grandfather did to so many of our sisters and daughters.”

A ripple went through the room—shock, yes, but also something uglier. Approval. Men began thrumming their hands against the heavy wooden tables, a low, rhythmic drumming that built like thunder before a storm. The counsellor, emboldened by the response, pressed on, his words growing sharper, more vicious with each syllable.

“Put her in a brothel. For any man to fuck as they please. She wants to atone for her family’s crimes? Fine. Let her do it in the only fucking way she knows how. The Snows took our bodies for generations. Let theirs be taken in return. That’s justice.”

“Mind your words, counsellor.” Tigris’s voice cut through the din like a blade—low, dangerous, barely contained. Her features twisted into something almost feral, her golden eyes glinting with a cold fury that reminded everyone present that she, too, had once been a Snow. That she had turned against her own blood at great personal cost. That she had earned the right to speak. But her voice was drowned almost instantly beneath the rising tide of agreement—the thrumming of hands, the shouted approvals, the ravenous sound of a crowd that had found its scapegoat.

Y/n did not look up. She couldn’t. Her eyes remained fixed on the polished floor, tracing the patterns as though it might open up and swallow her whole. How could she lift her gaze? How could she meet the eyes of people who had already decided she was a demon to be exorcised, a stain to be scrubbed away? They did not see a girl, raised in gilded captivity, fed poison disguised as privilege. They saw a surname. They saw a symbol. They saw all the pain the Snow family had inflicted and they wanted to return it tenfold. There was nothing she could say. Nothing she could do. Her words would be ash in their mouths before she even spoke them.

Beside Finnick, a familiar figure shifted in her seat with an exaggerated groan. Johanna Mason—former victor, former tribute, former prisoner of the Capitol’s darkest chambers—rolled her eyes so hard it was almost audible. She had suffered more at Snow’s hands than most people in this room could imagine. Her family had been slaughtered. Her sanity had been stripped and rebuilt into something jagged and sharp. And yet, even she seemed weary of the bloodthirst filling the chamber.

“Ugh. I can’t believe this,” she muttered, loud enough for half the row to hear. Then, without waiting for a response, she leaned forward, tapped her microphone with a fingernail and began to speak.

The parliament fell silent the moment her voice cut through the noise. Johanna Mason had that effect on people. She was not beloved—she was too raw, too honest, too sharp-edged for that but she was respected. Feared, even. Because she had survived things that would have broken anyone else and she had emerged not softer, but harder. An axe honed by fire.

“Why can’t we just kill her and put the other one in the Capitol Hunger Games?”

A murmur rippled through the chamber. The “other one.” Lucia Snow. Y/n’s younger sister, barely fourteen years old, still a child by any measure. She had been found hiding in a servant’s quarters during the fall of the mansion, trembling beneath a bed, clutching a tattered stuffed fox to her chest. Unlike her older sister, Lucia had never attended the galas. Never posed for photographs. Never been paraded on her grandfather’s arm. She had been kept hidden—some said because she was shy, others because she was illegitimate, others still because even Snow recognized that one innocent granddaughter was useful, but two was a liability. Now, she sat in a separate holding cell, her fate tied inexorably to Y/n’s.

Johanna, of course, had her own reasons for suggesting the Capitol Hunger Games. She had been one of the loudest voices advocating for a reversal—Capitol children in the arena, district children as spectators. An eye for an eye. A taste of their own medicine. But Katniss had refused to endorse it and without the Mockingjay’s blessing, the proposal had died stillborn.

Y/n looked up.

For the first time since the proceedings began, she raised her head and let her gaze sweep across the room—the rows of representatives, the judges, the spectators, the victors, the rebels. Her face was ashen, her eyes red-rimmed, but there was something else there now. Not defiance. Not pride. Something fragile. Something more desperate.

“Please,” she said, and her voice cracked on the word. “Please, no. I—I’ll do it. Anything. Whatever you want. Just don’t—”

“Silence, girl.” Tigris’s voice was sharp, but there was something beneath it—fear, perhaps. Or pity. She knew what her grandniece was about to do and she knew it would not help.

But Y/n shook her head, a small, frantic motion. Her hair came loose, strands of pale blonde hair falling across her flushed cheeks. She was trembling visibly now, her whole body vibrating with the effort of staying upright.

“No. I know I am at fault. I know that my ignorance came from a position of privilege that most people my age were never granted. I know that I ate while others starved. I know that I smiled while others screamed. I know all of it.” Her voice grew stronger as she spoke, though it never lost its tremor. “And I will pay for my family’s crimes. For all of them. For my grandfather’s. For my brother’s. Even Lucia’s share. Please. I accept whatever punishment you see fit. Just don’t harm her. She is a child. She didn’t know anything. She never even left the west wing. Please. Please grant her mercy.”

The chamber fell silent. Not the angry silence of before, but something deeper—a held breath, a collective pause. People had expected arrogance. They had expected a Snow to scream, to curse, to demand better treatment. They had expected pride, defiance, a refusal to bend. They had not expected this. A broken girl, offering herself up like a sacrifice, asking only that her sister be spared.

Johanna rolled her eyes again, though there was less venom in it this time. More exasperation. She didn’t like being made to feel things. She leaned back into her microphone, her voice flat and tired.

“Okay, so what will it be? Whore or death? Cast your vote.”

The chamber moved to vote before Tigris could refute, before anyone could call for a recess, before cooler heads could prevail. Paddles rose. Counts were taken. Voices called out yea or nay. And through it all, Y/n Snow stayed in her alcove, hands clasped in front of her, eyes fixed on the floor once more. Waiting.

In the back of the room, Katniss watched it unfold. Her hand found Peeta’s under the table—his warm, solid, scarred fingers interlacing with her own. She didn’t like this. None of it. Her jaw was set, her grey eyes stormy. She had not fought a war, had not killed Coin, had not sacrificed so much, only to watch the new government turn into the old one by another name. But she was one voice among many and the people wanted vengeance. They would accept payment only in blood.

She had suggested house arrest with monitoring. Life imprisonment. Even exile. Each proposal had been voted down with increasing hostility. The parliament had decided that mercy was an insult to the dead. And that was the horror—and the boon—of democracy. Once the mob decided on something, innocence became subjective. Truth became flexible. Justice became a word you used to dress up revenge in nice clothes.

Finnick sat beside Johanna, his expression unreadable. He had not voted yet. His hand hovered over his paddle, his gaze fixed on the her. She looked so small from here. So fragile. Like a bird that had flown into a window and was still trying to understand how the sky had betrayed it.

The vote was cast. The numbers flickered across the large screen at the front of the chamber—a cold, digital verdict that carried the weight of a life. Death had been swift and brutal, a simple matter of a firing squad or a hanging, a clean end to a dirty legacy. But the other option had won. Not by a landslide, but by enough votes to matter. Enough to seal her fate. Enough to condemn her to something far worse than death in the eyes of those who had cast their ballots.

“Whore” had beaten “death” by a margin of seventeen votes.

“I knew it.” Johanna shook her head slowly, a bitter, knowing smile twisting her lips. She didn’t bother to hide her disgust—not at the decision itself, but at the predictable hypocrisy of it. She turned to Finnick, her voice low enough that only he could hear over the murmurs rippling through the chamber. “Of course they’d pick that option. Have you seen her? Looks like a fucking angel, that one. Golden hair, doe eyes, that whole innocent, untouchable thing she’s got going on.” She gestured vaguely toward the defendant’s alcove, her hand slicing through the air with dismissive disdain. “Who wouldn’t want to put their hands on her? They’ve been thinking about it for years. Now they’ve got permission.”

Finnick said nothing. He simply looked back at Y/n Snow, still in her alcove with her hands clasped in front of her. And Johanna wasn’t wrong. The girl was extraordinarily beautiful—the kind of beauty that stopped conversations, that made people forget what they were saying mid-sentence, that lingered in the mind long after she had left a room. She had what the Capitol commentators used to call “Snow features”: high cheekbones, a delicate jaw, skin that seemed to hold light rather than reflect it. Her hair was the colour of spun gold, so pale it was almost white in certain lights, falling in soft waves around her shoulders. Her eyes were pale blue—the colour of ice melting in spring or of a sky just before dawn. And her proportions were the stuff of classical sculpture: slender but not fragile, curved but not overstated, every line of her body suggesting grace and carefully cultivated perfection.

It was no accident. President Snow had ensured that whenever his granddaughter appeared in public, she was dressed in the most flattering garments imaginable—custom pieces designed to appeal to both men and women alike, to make her seem desirable and untouchable in equal measure. She was a tool of propaganda, a living symbol of the Snow family’s refinement and benevolence. Look, the Capitol could say. We have such beautiful things. Such civilized people. We are not monsters. We are patrons of beauty. We are worthy of power.

The thought made Finnick’s stomach turn. He had seen that same machinery at work in his own life—the way the Capitol had dressed him up, preened him, sold him to the highest bidder. The way they had made him into something desirable and then punished him for it. He looked at Y/n now, truly looked at her and saw that she was not staring at the floor anymore. She was staring at Katniss.

Tigris stood beside the Mockingjay, her spotted, weathered face close to Katniss’s ear, whispering urgently. Whatever she was saying, it seemed to be having an effect. Katniss’s expression shifted from grim resignation to something harder—something more determined. She straightened her shoulders, pulled her hand free from Peeta’s grip, and rose to her feet. The chamber quieted almost immediately. Even Johanna leaned back in her seat, arms crossed, watching with narrowed eyes.

“I acknowledge the decision of this parliament,” Katniss began, her voice steady and clear, carrying to every corner of the room. “On humanitarian grounds, however, I do not approve of it. What will make us any different from Snow if we do this? What separates justice from revenge if we stoop to the same tactics he used?”

“So what? We let her go?” Johanna interrupted, her voice sharp as shattered glass. She didn’t bother to wait for an acknowledgment before pressing on. “Just because she begged for her sister’s life doesn’t make her innocent. She’s still a Snow. Tears don’t wash that away.”

A chorus of voices rose in agreement—some from District 2, where families had lost daughters to Cornelius’s appetites; others from District 11, where Snow’s agricultural policies had starved entire communities; still others from the Capitol’s own reformists, who wanted every trace of the old regime scrubbed clean, no matter the cost. The chamber buzzed with anger, with grief, with the particular ugliness of people who had been hurt and were now lashing out at the nearest available target.

Finnick understood Johanna’s ferocity better than most. He knew what Cornelius Snow had done to her—not just the public humiliations, but the private ones. The ones that left scars on the inside. Cornelius had developed a “special liking” for Johanna during her years as a victor and whatever that had entailed, it had left her with a hatred so deep it could never be fully excavated. Unfortunately, in the absence of Cornelius—dead by his own hand during the fall of the mansion—that hatred had found a new home. Y/n was close enough. Y/n shared his blood, his features, his last name. And for Johanna and many more, that was enough.

This was a dangerous moment for Katniss and she knew it. The Mockingjay’s power had always been symbolic, not political. She could inspire but she could not command. If she appeared to sympathize too openly with Y/n Snow—a woman the people had already convicted in their hearts—she risked losing the fragile authority she still held. And yet, Katniss had never been one to back down from an impossible position.

“No,” she said, raising her voice over the noise. “I know that I alone cannot single-handedly overturn a decision taken by this body. I am one voice among many and I respect the will of the parliament even when I disagree with it.” She paused, drawing a breath, steadying herself. “So, I propose a condition. An amendment, if you will.”

The chamber settled into wary silence. Even Johanna stopped fidgeting.

“She will still be punished. The parliament’s decision will be carried out. But not in a brothel.” Katniss’s eyes swept the room, daring anyone to interrupt her. “She will be bound to the service of a single individual. One keeper. One master. Someone appointed by this body, subject to our oversight and approval. She will still serve her sentence. She will still atone for her family’s crimes. But she will not be passed from hand to hand like—like meat.”

She stumbled over the last word, her voice catching slightly. But she recovered quickly, her jaw setting in that familiar, stubborn line that had carried her through an arena, a war and the murder of a president.

Behind her, Tigris bowed her head in a small, grateful nod. The Republic had wanted her grandniece punished. The districts had wanted Snow blood. Tigris had wanted the girl saved. This was not salvation—not really—but it was something. A reprieve. A crack in the wall. She would take it.

“And who exactly will take her?” Johanna asked, her tone dripping with skepticism. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin propped on her hands, playing along for now. “Who gets the honour of owning a Snow? Drawing straws? Auction? Or should we let her choose her own master like some kind of twisted dating game?”

A few people laughed—nervous, uncomfortable laughs. Katniss’s expression did not change.

Before she could answer, the counsellor from District 6 rose to his feet. He was a broad, thick-necked man with calloused hands and a florid face, the same man who had first proposed the brothel solution. His eyes were fixed on Y/n with an intensity that made Finnick’s skin crawl—a possessive, hungry look that had nothing to do with justice and everything to do with lust and appetite.

“I’ll put my name forward,” he said, his voice thick with barely concealed eagerness. “I proposed the punishment. It’s only fitting that I should be the one to—to administer it.”

He smiled. It was not a kind smile. His gaze roamed over Y/n’s figure—the curve of her hip, the slender line of her neck, the way her hands trembled at her sides and Finnick felt something cold settle in his chest. That man would not keep her as a servant. That man would not treat her with even the barest shred of dignity. That man looked at her the way a predator looks at prey it intends to eat alive, slowly, savouring every moment.

Finnick wanted to believe the counsellor wasn’t a bad person. Perhaps, in another life, he had been a decent man—a father, a husband, a worker who simply wanted justice for wrongs committed against his district. But the glint in his eyes told a different story. It was the same glint Finnick had seen in the eyes of Capitol patrons who had purchased him for the night. The same glint he had seen in Cornelius Snows eyes when the man had looked at Johanna. It was the glint of someone who wanted to tear another person apart and call it punishment.

Finnick looked back at Y/n.

She was staring at him.

Not at the counsellor. Not at Katniss. Not at the floor. Directly at him. Her pale blue eyes—those strange, light eyes that seemed to hold whole worlds of sorrow—were fixed on his face with an expression he couldn’t quite name. It was haunted, yes. Sad, certainly. But there was something else beneath it, something that looked almost like recognition. As though she was trying to reach out to the version of him that existed in a dream long ago. As though she was asking him, silently, without words: Will you let them take me?

His breath hitched. His chest tightened. And suddenly, without fully understanding why, he was standing.

The chair scraped back behind him with a sound that echoed through the suddenly silent chamber. Every head turned. Every eye fixed on him—Finnick Odair, the victor, the senator, the man who had been sold more times than he could count, who had worn the Capitols chains and learned to smile through them. He stood tall, his sea-green eyes clear, his voice steady despite the hammering of his heart.

“I’ll take her.”

╰ ┈➤ A/n 2.0: I took a bunch of references from real life events and people for this fic and do let me know if you wanna know about it. And this Finnick is very ooc ik but it'll be explained better in the coming parts, trust.

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