[Finnick Odair] The Trident and the Book Thief

Tropic of Capricorn

“How do I do that?” She asks. He takes a long swig of whiskey and it burns as it slips down his throat. The candlelight flickers as the idea comes to him. It’s a bad one, poor and half-formed. He licks his lips.

“I’ll show you.” He says. She is silent for a moment, confused. He watches her lips quiver and he thinks they look soft, like the rose-petal’s her grandfather reeks off. He wonders how they might feel on his, if they would mould to him, if they would even yield. He takes her chin between his thumb and he looks at those lips of hers.

She’s a deer in the headlights when he pulls her into him. She’s warm and tastes of wine. His tongue pushes her lips apart and he roams her mouth as if he’s never kissed before. She lets him. She isn’t proactive, but she’s obedient. He isn’t sure she even knows what to do. His arms snake around her back and he bites at her bottom lip as she pulls back. They’re swollen and red when he’s done and she’s wide-eyed, as if her world has come crashing down.

She doesn’t say anything, she stands and slips away. He knows he shouldn’t have done it, even drunk he knows. It was only a drunken kiss. He’d had a thousand of those, and will likely have a thousand more. It strikes him as the door to her and Delia’s room closes shut, that she’s only ever had just the one.