Work Text:
It was... different, walking into a room and knowing what awaited him.
Technically, this wasn't his first client, but his second. The man in the hovercraft had stolen his virginity, brutally and efficiently, leaving Finnick smeared with blood and cum and mud before he finally passed out.
That had been what Finnick had expected, when it came to rape. Ugly, messy, frantic, quick and hurried.
This was different.
The hotel room Finnick had been frogmarched into was clean. He didn't know why they had felt the need to force him in there, as Finnick was so shell-shocked by this situation that he didn't really think it was necessary. He just did what he was told, at this point. Either way, the room was painted a soft pink, the bed plush and comfortable. White furnishings adorned the remainder of the room, elegantly designed. It almost distracted from the fact that there were no windows, or visible cameras.
A room designed for the ultimate privacy.
He caught sight of himself in the mirror, and he could barely recognise himself. His wavy bronze hair had been painstakingly curled, framing his face in a way that emphasised his features. Copious amounts of blush had been applied down his cheeks and over his nose, and glitter had been painted over his lower lash line. Eyeliner gave him a doe-eyed look, emphasising the size of his eyes.
Couple the makeup with the soft pink jumper and white jeans he'd been styled with, and he looked adorable. Almost cherubic. The effect was only ruined by his drip-white face and the tears gathering in his eyes. Finnick sniffled, looking away from the mirror, and that was when she entered.
Bellona Wildfell, was her name. Apparently she believed she was taking his virginity. Finnick could imagine that his private clients until he became public property would all believe the same - especially since they were forbidden from talking about their conquest.
"Hello, Finnick." She smiled, painted purple lips stretching over blinding white teeth. Objectively, she was pretty - sure the purple wig was overkill and her skin looked whiter than the shells Finnick would collect in 4, but her features were well proportioned and her eyes were a piercing blue colour. But Finnick couldn't bring himself to think of her as attractive, all too aware of what awaited him.
"Hi, Ms Wildfell." He responded, averting his eyes. He didn't even need the blush on his cheeks, feeling a fiery red burning over his cheeks, spreading up to his ears and down to his neck. The tears struggled to be set free, Finnick's tentative hold on them faltering before he reigned himself back in.
"So polite!" Her voice was chirping, grating, like a songbird in the early hours of the morning. "I like you, Finnick."
Of course you do, he thought miserably, you wouldn't have bought me if you didn't.
"Do you know why you're here, Finnick?"
"... Yes."
"Good boy. Now," she knelt in front of him, taking his face in her hands. "I know you're probably very scared," her touch was deceptively kind, her voice soft and soothing, "but there's nothing to be afraid of. Mommy's gonna go nice and slow, and we're gonna teach you how to serve her, ok?"
Fuck. Finnick wanted to run far away - run to his actual mother, back in Four, fling himself in her arms and let her protect him from this woman. This woman who called herself mommy, with her white skin and purple hair and soft white hands and purple nails digging into his cheek. He wanted his mum's hands on his face, with callouses from handling rope in her youth and stubby nails that never grew out, her reassuring smile far more comforting than this woman's shark-like grin.
But he couldn't. His mum was back in Four, and if he dared to go against Ms Wildfell, she and his family could get hurt. So he swallowed brokenly, tears slipping out of his eyes against his will even as he responded.
"Yes, Mommy."
"Good boy," her hands wiped away his tears, before she patted his head like a dog. "Can you strip for Mommy? Mommy wants to see her little boy."
Mommy wants a fucking trident protruding out of her head. Even as he did as he was told, Finnick imagined killing her. Maybe it was fucked up, maybe the arena had done more damage to his psyche than he realised, but the only thing stopping him from breaking down here and now was imagining his golden trident slamming down on her head, damaging it beyond belief. Maybe she'd still be alive when he dealt the blow to sever her head from her slim neck...
He didn't want to think about what he had done. Didn't want to think about Mommy's hands traversing his body, didn't want to think about her leaving the room and an Avox coming in. He didn't want to think about the Avox's tender hands picking him up, cradling him to their chest as they carried him into the bathroom. He didn't want to think about the droplets falling onto his naked skin as a bath was run, occasionally slipping into his open mouth and tasting salty. He didn't want to think about the warm sponge carefully cleaning his body, before he was practically swaddled in towels and placed back on that bed.
He didn't want to think about Mags and Haymitch talking outside, trying to decide how to get him to his room without the press seeing him.
He imagined his mother was there, having wrapped him in warm towels. Maybe he'd swam in the ocean in bad weather, and was now cold. Bless your cotton socks, she'd sigh, perching on the end of the bed and pressing a warm hand to his forehead. You're burning up something chronic, Finny. You don't do things by halves, huh?
Someone was picking him up again, the pink jumper being gently placed back over his body. He didn't know if it was Mags or Haymitch dressing him, just desperately trying to imagine his mother in their place. Dark brown curls, tanned skin with freckles, sea green eyes looking down at him warmly. The white jeans weren't placed back on his body, instead a pair of too-large sweatpants wrangled over his limp legs. The white cotton socks that had been abandoned on the floor were carefully placed back on his feet, and he was scooped up and carried out.
He knew it wasn't her. He knew it wasn't his mum, or his dad, or even his brother's come to rescue him. But in a moment of weakness, he couldn't help but whisper.
"Mum?"
A deep sigh greeted him, and Haymitch's voice responded.
"Sorry kid. Not by a long shot."