Further context: Durham city council (Reform UK) cut funding and support for Pride. The Durham Miner's Association and other trade unions raised enough money for Durham Pride 2026 to go ahead - a direct call back to when Lesbian and Gays Support the Miners (LGSM) raised money for mining communities when Margaret Thatcher seized union funding during the miner strikes of 1984-85.
At the 1985 Labour party meet, the motion to support LGBT rights as a party was passed due to a block vote from mining unions.
Stephen Guy, the chair of the Durham Miners’ Association, said that when it became apparent Durham Pride was under threat, he took it upon himself to “encourage the trade union movement to step up and do the right thing, and stand shoulder to shoulder with the LGBT+ community […] They not only raised funds for us, but came to our communities, uplifted our spirits when they were down, and showed their solidarity.”
Since you’ve had a rocky pregnancy, Katsuki doesn’t want to leave you and go to Tokyo to help with an emergency villain attack, when you’re due in two weeks. Or alternatively, the one where you wake up in a hospital bed with Mitsuki holding your hand, again.
Tags/CW: pro hero!Bakugo, married couple, disgustingly in love, reader is pregnant, hurt/comfort, mentions of injuries and trauma from past ones, Katsuki cries at the sight of his daughter, momma (in law) Mitsuki is mothering again, fluff fluff and s'more. Pt.1
As of today, the number of times youve woken up in a hospital bed to Mitsuki Bakugo holding your hand has added up to two. It isn’t an odd number, though, for some reason, it’s strange that it’s happened twice.
You knew there’d be complications when you got pregnant. Doctors had told you so, after almost getting split in half during the war in your teenage years. One of the medics had told you it was a miracle you survived at all. Another doctor later explained it in colder terms—extensive abdominal trauma, nerve damage, reconstruction complications. Pregnancy would be difficult. Dangerous, maybe impossible.
You remembered being seventeen when they said it, wondering why you had to care about a pregnancy in your teenage years to even begin with. You had blamed misogyny, fetishisation, anything that you knew doctors operated with in the back of their mind, because surviving what you did, learning to walk and talk again at such a tender age did not align with wanting to rock a baby bump anytime soon.
Years later, and only after your last name had been changed to Bakugo as well, when you actually got pregnant, every appointment carried this awful sense of inevitability. Like everyone in the room was waiting for your body to fail some final exam it had already cheated death to pass.
Bedrest.
Monitoring.
Blood pressure scares.
Pain you pretended wasn’t getting worse because you knew the exact look Katsuki got when he was afraid.
What you couldn’t grasp back then—between extensive physios and two abdominal surgeries to remove scar tissue, you totally understood now.
Your gyno had suggested —no, demanded— you give birth via C-section, and at first you had been adamant about pushing through natural labor.
Stubbornness came naturally to you.
Unfortunately, so did denial.
You remembered sitting in that painfully bright office while your doctor pinched the bridge of her nose hard enough to leave marks.
“You are not understanding me,” she’d said slowly. “Your body has already undergone catastrophic trauma. Labor could rupture the remaining scar tissue internally.”
And you, arms crossed over your swollen stomach, had replied, “Women give birth every day.”
The silence afterward had been horrific. Your doctor looked one second away from sedating both you and your husband.
Beside you, Katsuki had gone deathly still. Extremely quiet. The kind of quiet that only happened when fear lodged itself somewhere too deep for shouting to reach.
He’d nearly crushed your fingers with how tight he was holding them when the doctor informed you it would be life-threatening, mostly because you wouldn’t listen.
You remembered finally glancing at him then.
At the dark circles under his eyes from weeks of sleeping lightly beside you in case your blood pressure spiked again.
At the way his jaw stayed clenched so often lately it probably hurt and the sweat gathered in his palms where they wrapped around your hand like if he loosened his grip for even a second, something terrible would happen.
And then he said it.
So quietly it almost hurt more.
“I don’t give a shit about the birth plan.”
The room went still.
Katsuki stared straight ahead when he spoke again, voice rough and frighteningly controlled.
“I don’t care if they cut me open too while they’re at it. I don’t care if your mom cries about the experience or if extras online say natural shit is more meaningful or whatever the fuck.” His grip tightened. “You dyin’ is not an option.”
You’d never heard him sound genuinely scared before. Not during villain attacks. Not during injuries. Not even during the war.
Fear on Katsuki Bakugo looked ugly because he constantly fought it so hard. It came out clipped and sharp-edged, buried beneath irritation and control until the cracks showed anyway.
And suddenly, sitting there in that office, you understood something horrible. He had already watched you almost die once. He had stood beside your hospital bed for endless nights, skipping studying, pushing through his own catastrophic injuries. He had memorized the sound of machines breathing for you. Already lived through the waiting, even when he had been told you wouldn’t make it, because to him, memorizing your face seemed like a potential relic.
The possibility of doing it again—this time while loving you even more than he had at seventeen—was destroying him slowly from the inside out.
His thumb rubbed absently over your knuckles.
A nervous habit. One he only had with you.
“I can live without being a dad,” he muttered finally. “I can’t live without you.”
After that doctor’s appointment Katsuki almost never left your side during the rest of the pregnancy.
Not in an overbearing way.
But after everything your body had already survived, he operated like someone waiting for disaster even during ordinary moments.
He learned medication schedules better than you did. Timed your contractions during false alarms with military precision. Argued with doctors until they stopped sounding dismissive. Rubbed your feet while glaring at you because your blood pressure was climbing again and you still insisted on folding laundry yourself.
He slept lightly beside you every night. One hand always remained somewhere on you. Your stomach. Your hip. Your wrist. Like reassurance worked both ways.
It got worse during the final months; You caught him staring at you sometimes– Before you went to sleep, or while you were reading a book, tucked carefully under a fuzzy blanket in the living room while he was supposed to be cooking. It felt like he was checking if you’re still breathing.
The C-section had already been scheduled. Your doctors barely entertained alternatives anymore after your last scan. Too much scar tissue. Too much risk. Your body simply wasn’t built to endure prolonged labor safely after the war injuries. And at one point you had reluctantly agreed, because you weren’t a seventeen year old stubborn head anymore, pushing through healing processes just so you could join high school with your classesmates anymore. It was simply because you wanted your baby, you wanted to raise your little girl with Katsuki, because you didn’t want to be the reason he’d be alone in this world.
And most importantly, because you didn’t want to imagine a life where Bakugo got to grow old without you.
Everything was planned carefully.
Controlled.
Safe.
And maybe that’s why the universe decided to ruin it.
-----------
The call came at 3:12 in the morning. Katsuki swore the second his phone rang. Instantly alert, though pushing back the wave of annoyance that washed through him.
Hero work trained people into recognizing certain calls before they even answered them.
He sat up beside you immediately, one hand already reaching for the phone while the other touched your thigh absentmindedly, grounding himself before he even spoke.
“What.”
Silence, then, “What do you mean Tokyo?”
You pushed yourself upright slowly against the pillows, still half asleep. The apartment was dark except for the streetlights bleeding through the curtains in pale orange strips.
Katsuki listened for another few seconds before dragging a hand down his face.
“How bad?”
Your stomach tightened uneasily by pure instinct.
Years of being a pro hero taught you how to recognize the atmosphere surrounding emergencies. Even over the phone, urgency carried differently.
Eventually, Katsuki hung up, leaving you silent on the other side of the bed, groggy eyes that could barely open through the thickness of sleep, desperately trying to watch him and every expression he made.
“There’s been an attack in Tokyo,” he muttered. “Evacuation’s fucked. They need extra hands.”
You frowned immediately. “Then go.”
His expression hardened.
“You’re due in two weeks.”
“Katsuki.”
“I’m serious.” he grunts, sheepishly.
You almost smiled despite yourself.
This had become normal lately—him acting like stepping more than ten feet away from you would cause immediate catastrophe.
And you can’t say you hate it. Because it has turned your Katsuki into a clingy thing. You can’t even lie to yourself and say you don’t enjoy the way he’s always touching you— or cuddling up to you.
Now, much like every other day, he shifts his weight, big arms coming to wrap around your sleepy form, dragging you into a big cuddle in the middle of the bed. Your husband nuzzles his nose to the side of your neck before he lets out a sleepy groan.
You have to fight the bulge of his bicep to even move your lips to speak, “You can’t ignore a city-wide villain attack because I’m pregnant.”
“Watch me.” He says, placing a soft kiss to the curve of your neck.
You snort softly. The words vibrate against your skin, low and rough with sleep.
You huff out another laugh despite yourself, trapped comfortably beneath the weight of Katsuki as he all but folds himself over you. Pregnancy had somehow turned one of the most aggressive men alive into something embarrassingly clingy in private.
Not that anybody would ever believe you.
The Number Two Hero, face buried in your neck at three in the morning, refusing to get out of bed because his pregnant wife looked too comfortable.
You shift slightly in his arms, trying not to laugh when he immediately tightens his hold in protest.
“Katsuki,” you mumble, voice muffled against his shoulder as he kisses exposed skin. “Tokyo is literally on fire.”
“Tch. They got other heroes.”
“You are other heroes.”
“That sounds like a them problem.”
Another kiss.
This one slower, softer.
His large hand slides instinctively over the curve of your stomach beneath your shirt, thumb rubbing absent circles there like muscle memory. You feel him pause for half a second when the baby shifts.
Every single time, his expression changed when that happened.
Still wonder.
Still disbelief.
Still that quiet softness he only ever let exist around you.
“You feel okay?” he asks again, sleep-heavy voice quieter this time.
“There it is,” you murmur. “Question number four.”
“Didn’t answer it the first three times.”
“I was falling asleep, but yes, I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Katsuki.”
He finally lifts his head enough to look at you properly.
Messy hair.
Heavy eyes.
Permanent stress line between his brows that had only gotten worse throughout the pregnancy.
You knew exactly why he hovered so much lately. Why he touched you constantly. Why he checked if you were breathing when he thought you were asleep.
The war had carved fear into both of you differently.
You carried yours internally.
Katsuki carried his like a weapon pointed at the universe, constantly painted all over his body in scars that will never fade.
“You’re overthinking again,” you whisper, brushing your fingers lightly along his jaw.
His eyes narrow immediately. “I’m literally always right.”
“You once tried to convince our doctor you could ‘sense’ if my blood pressure was dropping.”
“I was right.” he grunts.
“You were lucky.”
“I have instincts.”
“You have anxiety.”
That finally earns a reluctant snort from him.
“Katsuki, i’ll be fine. I promise.”
For a moment, neither of you move. Then Katsuki, as if you’ve magically convinced him, loosens his grip around you. He bats the sleepiness away from his eyes with a long blink and sighs as he’s getting his body up from the bed.
He gets dressed in his hero suit quickly, efficiently moving through years of practice and emergency tension that never boils down to anything other than anxiety.
The entire time though, he keeps looking back at you.
“You sure you feel okay?”
“Yes.”
“Any pain?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Katsuki, if you ask me one more time, I’m divorcing you before the baby gets here.”
“That’s not funny.”
And there it is again. Fear. Quick and ugly beneath the irritation. Not even hiding itself when his lip pouts out. Katsuki doesn’t appreciate these types of jokes now anymore than he ever did.
You soften immediately. “I’m okay.”
He exhales hard through his nose, his eyes scrunching shut.
Then he crosses the room, crouching carefully in front of you, and presses his forehead against your knee.
The position alone almost breals your heart.
The Number Two Hero.
Explosions in his palms.
Entire cities trusting him to save them.
And here he is, visibly struggling to leave his pregnant wife alone for a few hours.
His hand slides over your stomach gently.
“Call me if anything feels off.”
“I will.” you hum.
“I mean it, even the Dynamite emergency line.”
“I know.”
Another pause. Then, quieter:
“You’ll be okay without me for a bit?”
Something about that question makes your chest ache.
You threaded your fingers through his hair lightly. “Go save Tokyo, hero.”
His mouth twitches reluctantly against your leg. But he kisses your stomach before standing.
Then he kisses you.
Once.
Twice.
A third time like he still wasn’t convinced.
And when he finally leaves, the apartment feels too quiet afterward.
You try sleeping again. You really do.
But something restless lingers under your skin.
Around four am a storm starts outside. Rain taps softly against the windows. The kind of heavy springtime rain that made the city sound far away. Your mind only travels to Katsuki, the way he’s probably too grumpy over the fact he had to have traveled to Tokyo with Kirishima’s sidekick’s teleportation quirk and how anxious he’s going to be if he hasn’t dealt with the attack by the next few hours.
Your mind travels through every possible scenario. Him getting hurt, what the villain even might be on about; Because things have changed in the past few years. Society had slowly stitched itself back together after the war, scar tissue forming over old wounds the same way your body had. Less villains appear, less catastrophes are caused, but the stakes of collateral damage are always high when city-wide attacks happen.
Eventually, you waddle into the kitchen, mostly because pregnancy insomnia has become your own mortal enemy.
A true hero always has one, but apparently for you, it’s your own daughter these days.
You open the fridge, eager to think of something to cook for breakfast and curse slightly under your breath —That’s usually been Katsuki’s job the past few months, to which you’ve never had any objection, secretly liking the way he spoils you rotten.
However, because you still think of yourself as a fierce woman who doesn’t need to be dependent on her husband for food, you settle for making yourself some rice paired with the sides Katsuki has meticulously meal-prepped in separate containers in the fridge.
The fridge is absurdly organized. Every container labeled neatly in Katsuki’s sharp handwriting. Prepared vegetables. Protein portions. Side dishes stacked with aggressive precision. The top shelf entirely dedicated to snacks your doctor recommended because apparently pregnancy had transformed you into someone capable of crying over strawberries at midnight.
Katsuki loves, mostly, through acts of service and you will not deny him of it, even if right now he’s three hours of driving away.
The rice cooker clicks closed softly while rain continues against the windows. and once you turn your back to the counter, the apartment glows dim and warm in the passage of that early morning darkness that slowly seeps into the orange gleams of dawn, though today, it’s through distant cracks in bruised, rainy clouds.
For a little while, things feel strangely normal. Domestic.
Safe.
You lean with your back against the counter while waiting, one hand absentmindedly rubbing over your stomach when the baby shifts again. Your baby faintly kicks where your hand is, and you come to think that you might miss this once she’s born.
Katsuki speaks to her every chance he gets all day long, and she, simply by listening to his voice, turns and kicks inside your stomach even more so than she does when you attempt to do the same. Unfortunately, you’ve already sensed how much of a daddy’s girl she’s going to be
“Baby girl, you’re just like your father,” you mutter tiredly. “Keeping me awake for no reason.”
Another kick answers you immediately.
You snort softly, then pause entirely.
A strange tightness curls low in your abdomen.
You freeze.
“…Ow.”
The sensation isn’t sharp exactly. Just uncomfortable.
Your first instinct is annoyance more than concern. Pregnancy had become an endless cycle of aches lately anyway—back pain, hip pain, breast pain, pressure, soreness. Existing in your own body felt like a full-time job.
You shift your weight carefully against the counter and the pain fades momentarily.
“Okay,” you whisper to yourself.
False alarm, most probably.
Would Katsuki have scolded you for sitting up while the rice cooker works? Yes he definitely would have, however, he’s not here, and you have the freedom to finally exist in this house without having to lay down comfortably for once.
Go figure.
The rice cooker eventually finishes with a soft click.
You busy yourself plating food, deliberately ignoring the lingering unease crawling slowly up your spine. Katsuki’s paranoia had become contagious enough lately without you feeding into it too. Still… Your hand drifts unconsciously toward the kitchen counter when another tight cramp rolls through you. This time though, it’s stronger.
Your breathing stutters.
The plate clinks softly against the marble as you set it down too quickly.
No.
No, no. Fuck—Not now.
Your C-section isn’t for another —what?— eleven days?
You stand completely still, waiting for the sensation to disappear, thinking that this is too unfair, too cliche; the second Katsuki leaves, after you’ve promised him you’d be okay, things simply go downhill.
Thunder rumbles in muted tones from outside, all while the rain mellows down.
And then, when another surge of pain washes down the cold sweat in your sine, warmth suddenly spreads down your thighs.
Your brain doesn’t process it immediately. Not until you look down, at least, and you see water slowly dripping onto the kitchen floor.
Your entire body goes cold.
“Fuck!”
You stare blankly at the small puddle beneath you like if you wait long enough, reality will correct itself.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Your doctors specifically said this wasn’t supposed to happen. And to top that, they had not prepared you for anything like this happening.
You’ve entered your eight month like, a few days ago, and this. is. not. normal!
Panic crashes into you all at once. You grab your phone off the counter with shaking hands, speed dialing Katsuki’s phone, only for the call not to go through.
You try again. Then again. Then once more.
Fuck, maybe that villain attack has seriously jabbed communication signals.
You wonder if Katsuki has realised by now.
“Shit, what do i do,” you breathe shakily, tears stinging unexpectedly at your eyes.
Another contraction hits before you can think further.
This one hard enough to force you forward against the counter with a broken gasp.
Pain wraps viciously around your abdomen.
There’s only one person you can call that will answer for sure— Mitsuki.
---------
Your eyes drag heavily; the upwards path of grogginess until they’re halfway open. Your loose gaze catches blurs of the room you’re in. The light that casts through what looks like a window, white sheets that rest stiff under your hands that lay still next to your body.
It still feels like you’re positively dreaming.
Your hearing is clearer than your vision for what feels like a moment too long. Birds are chirping somewhere distant, traffic burps and crashes outside, but the loudest sound is the constant, steady beep-beep-beep of what looks like a monitor next to you.
For a few more disorienting seconds, your vision refuses to cooperate with you, everything around you reduced to pale blurs and washed-out light.
There’s a dull ache buried deep inside your abdomen, muted enough that it almost feels distant, like your body is keeping it behind glass for now until you’re awake enough to fully process it.
You blink slowly.
The room sharpens little by little around the edges.
Your eyes shift toward it sluggishly, catching sight of an arrangement of balloons and teddy bears beside your bed before your attention drifts elsewhere entirely.
Someone is holding your hand.
The realization reaches you before recognition does.
Warm fingers wrapped tightly around yours, almost stubbornly so, like whoever’s attached to them had been afraid to let go even for a second. Your gaze follows the arm upward slowly, vision still swimming slightly, until it lands on the figure slumped awkwardly in the chair beside your bed.
Blonde hair slightly flattened on one side.
Reading glasses shoved carelessly into the collar of a blouse.
Arms crossed tightly even in sleep.
Mitsuki.
Your brain struggles to understand the image at first. Not because it’s impossible, but because it feels strangely familiar in a way that immediately makes your chest ache. Your body flashes past images behind your eyes. Images of another time, another day, where Katsuki’s mom was younger, wearing an even more concerned expression on her face.
It’s crazy to think that life has brought you in this same position twice already.
The thought drifts through your exhausted mind sluggishly, almost detached, before memory suddenly crashes back hard enough to make your stomach twist.
The puddle under your feet in the kitchen.
The storm outside, muted by the second.
The sharp, tearing pain in your abdomen.
Then— white walls all blur together with a car ride. In the back of your head someone’s still shouting for blood products.
Your breathing catches.
The movement must tug against Mitsuki’s grip because her eyes snap open almost immediately, years of raising Katsuki apparently training her into sleeping lightly during emergencies. For a second she just stares at you, visibly trying to process the fact you’re awake, before something complicated flashes across her face so quickly you almost miss it.
Relief.
Pure, eye-brightening relief.
“Oh thank God,” she breathes, voice rough and cracked around the edges like she hasn’t spoken properly in hours.
You try to answer her, but your throat burns violently the second you inhale too sharply. The only sound that comes out is embarrassingly weak, more exhale than actual word.
Mitsuki is already moving before you can attempt again. “Easy, honey, don’t try talking yet.”
You chuckle at her, your mouth tugging to the side.
Deja-vu.
This time, you don’t ask for your mom.
Her chair scrapes softly against the floor as Mitsuki stands, reaching immediately for the plastic water pitcher beside your bed. Even half-conscious, you notice little things automatically. The wrinkling of her clothes. Smudged mascara gathered faintly beneath her eyes.
Your fingers twitch weakly against the sheets while she carefully presses the straw toward your mouth. The water tastes cold and metallic and overwhelmingly artificial, but you drink anyway because your body feels scraped hollow from the inside out.
The second your throat hurts less, panic rises all over again.
“Kats-Katsuki?”
The name catches painfully in your throat.
Mitsuki exhales through her nose immediately, already anticipating the question before you even finish asking it. There’s something almost fond in the expression that flickers across her face, despite how exhausted she looks.
“He’s alive,” she says dryly. “I finally got a hold of him a while ago and he’s on his way.”
A weak laugh escapes you before you can stop it, quickly interrupted by the ache in your abdomen. The movement sends a sharp soreness pulling through your middle and suddenly you become painfully aware of your body again. Heavy limbs. Tender skin. The awful, empty exhaustion sitting inside your stomach.
“M’baby—”
The words come out slurred and cracked, but Mitsuki understands instantly.
Her expression changes immediately, softening in a way that almost hurts to look at.
“She’s okay.”
Your entire body stills.
“She’s okay,” Mitsuki repeats more firmly this time, squeezing your hand tighter before you can spiral any further. “They’ve got her in NICU because she came early, but she’s breathing on her own. Doctors said her lungs are strong.”
For some reason, that’s the thing that nearly makes you tear up. You think of your baby, all alone, for god knows how many hours smothered by tubes. Wanting to go see her immediately, your hand instinctively drifts downward beneath the blanket before Mitsuki catches your wrist gently.
“Don’t,” she mutters. “You’ll freak yourself out.”
Which means there is something there to freak out about.
Probably bandages.
Maybe stitches. Not like that’s something you haven’t seen on you before.
Your face must betray some of the panic rising inside you because Mitsuki’s grip softens almost immediately afterward.
“You have to wait for your doctor to come check up on you before you do that. We don’t want you ripping your stitches.”
You hum in response.
“The surgery went fine,” she says quieter this time. “You scared the absolute shit out of everybody in the room, but it went fine.”
Everybody.
Your mind immediately conjures up the image of a seventeen year old Katsuki in a hospital waiting room instead of going to school and somehow that feels more horrifying than any surgery itself.
Still, you nod in response to her, your dry lips transforming into a pout that could only compare to one of her son’s. It looks almost ridiculous on your exhausted face, like your body is trying to remember how to be human again and only managing fragments of personality.
“Can we call Katsuki?” you ask, voice rough around the edges. “I wanna tell him I’m okay.”
Mitsuki doesn’t answer immediately.
That alone tightens something in your chest.
She studies you for a second—longer than necessary, like she’s deciding how much truth you can handle in your current state. Her thumb rubs once over your knuckles, grounding, deliberate.
Then she exhales through her nose.
“Of course sweetheart,” she says finally. “Just know he did get a little hurt during the attack. I urged him to go get checked up before commuting.”
“Hurt?”
Mitsuki nods once, lips pressing into a thin, controlled line. “Yeah. Nothing life-threatening. Before you start spiraling.”
It doesn’t stop the instinctive spike of panic anyway.
Your fingers twitch against her hand.
“Yeah,” she presses her lips into a concerned line “But he’ll tell you all about it after he sees you’re alive and well. He went frantic when I told him what happened.” she sighs “I swear you two—no, three now— are bound to give me a heart attack.”
“But he’s on his way, right?” you repeat.
“Yes.”
The word lands heavy, real in a way nothing else has since you woke up.
There’s a pause. A long one at that.
The kind where your body starts catching up to your brain in uneven pieces. Pain in your abdomen, dull and distant. The IV in your arm. The sterile smell that clings to everything. The fact that you are here, in a hospital bed again, and somehow still alive enough to ask questions.
Your daughter exists.
Your daughter is alive.
Katsuki is alive.
That thought should be simple. But it really isn’t.
Because none of it feels simple anymore. Not when you wanted, no, dreamed of having your daughter with Katsuki by your side. You’ve both already missed her first breath, her first cry, possibly even her first feeding.
Maybe you should have talked Katsuki out of going to Tokyo earlier. Hold him in your arms a little longer before he left. Because Mitsuki makes no actual move to pull her phone out to call him, and your paranoia convinces you she’s positively lying right now about him being okay.
Mitsuki shifts slightly in her chair when a loud sob chokes out of your mouth, watching your face like she’s learned how to read the smallest fractures in it over the years. There’s something exhausted behind her eyes too, but it’s the kind of exhaustion that’s been carried too long to complain about.
“You don’t have to hold it together right now,” she says, quieter.
It shouldn’t make anything break further than what it is already. But it does.
Your breath comes out corrupted, broken.
“I’m not—” you start automatically, then stop, because there’s no point lying to her. Not when she’s sitting there holding you like she already knows every version of you that exists. Not when you start to violently sob on the spot.
A beat passes.
Then you whisper, through muffled crying, smaller than before, “I just want to see him and the baby. I need them to be okay.”
Mitsuki’s expression softens in a way that almost hurts to look at.
“You will, sweetheart" she says simply. “Soon.”
Her hand doesn’t leave yours.
“Let’s call Katsuki, okay? Please don’t cry to him on the phone or his heart will combust.”
_________
By the time the door finally opens, the room already feels like it’s been holding its breath too long.
You’ve drifted in and out of that strange hospital haze where time stops behaving like it’s supposed to—light through the blinds shifting without meaning, machines humming steadily beside you like the only thing in the world that still understands how to be consistent. Your doctor passed by a while ago to check up on you and let you know that everything is going fine, despite the unfortunate turn of events. She answered all of your questions about the NICU patiently and informed you that your baby girl is fine. That other for her premature birth, there’s no other reason for her to stay in the NICU.
When Mitsuki was allowed back into the room, she eventually settled into the chair again, though not quite the same way as before. Less slumped now, more alert, like she’d decided exhaustion wasn’t something she was willing to fully submit to yet.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway, quick but controlled, each one placed with intention that doesn’t quite match urgency, but doesn’t fully escape it either.
The door clicks only a few minutes after. It’s soft, almost carefully reluctant.
Though your body reacts before your mind catches up.
And then he’s there.
Katsuki Bakugo. Your husband.
Clean and out of his hero costume.
That’s the first thing your mind registers, oddly enough.
Not the fact that he’s here. Not the fact that he made it back from Tokyo at all. But that he looks like someone who refused to bring the chaos of that city into this room with him. Hair still slightly tousled from travel, but not matted or wild. Skin washed of soot and debris, loose hoodie that somehow feels too big even over his enormous muscular frame, slouchy joggers. Even the sharp edges of him feel temporarily contained, like he forced himself through a reset somewhere between here and wherever they let him clean up. He’s holding an arrangement similar to the one near your bed. Flowers —roses— in orange and pink tones, the cutest teddy bear you’ve ever seen, and the baby hospital bag you two had already made a week ago.
Still, that put together image doesn’t hide everything.
There’s a stiffness in his shoulders that doesn’t belong to rest. A tightness in his jaw that suggests he hasn’t fully stopped moving since the attack ended. And his eyes—those always impossibly red eyes—snap to you immediately and don’t leave.
For a moment, he doesn’t come closer.
Doesn’t speak.
Just stands there in the doorway like the simple fact of you existing in front of him is something his brain has to recalibrate around.
Like maybe he wasn’t sure you still would be.
Then something in him breaks forward.
Not violently. Not like a rush. More like a controlled collapse of restraint, as if every part of him that was holding distance finally gives up at the same time.
He crosses the room in a few long strides, stopping only when he reaches your bedside. Even then, he hesitates—just for a fraction of a second—like he can’t decide what kind of contact won’t feel like too much or too little.
His free hand finds yours anyway.
Warm. Steady. Real. And then he kneels by your bedside, pushing back the very obvious wince of pain that scrunches up his face. His everlasting steadiness is what almost undoes you.
Because it’s not frantic anymore. Not panicked. He’s just here and he’s anchoring himself through you.
His thumb presses once over your knuckles, subtle, almost unconscious, but his grip tightens immediately after like he’s afraid letting go even slightly would make the entire day collapse again.
“Babe! You’re awake,” he says.
Not even a question, but it still carries disbelief under it, buried so deep it almost sounds like irritation instead of relief.
Your throat tightens as you manage a small, rough breath. “Yeah. Hi!”
The sound is enough to shift something in him.
His jaw flexes once, sharp enough that you notice the faint bruise along his cheekbone move with it. He looks like he wants to say something immediate and sharp and defensive, like anger is the only language his body knows how to start with when fear gets too close.
But it doesn’t come out that way.
Instead, he moves to place a kiss on your forehead, before his voice drops.
“You scared the hell outta me.”
It’s quieter than you expect. Less explosive than usual Katsuki. More stripped down than you’re used to hearing from him.
Your fingers curl faintly against his. “I’m sorry,” you murmur instinctively, tears already taking the form of drops at the ends of your eyes..
His reaction is immediate.
“Don’t,” he cuts in, too fast, then forces a breath through his nose like he’s trying to reset himself. “Don’t apologize for that. It’s not your fault.”
Silence settles between you again, heavier now that he’s here to fill it.
His eyes flick over your face properly for the first time, scanning like he’s checking for damage he can’t quite name yet. Not just injury, but absence. Like he’s still half convinced he’s going to look at you wrong and realize this is some delayed aftermath of a nightmare.
Behind him, Mitsuki shifts slightly, watching without interrupting, arms folded in that familiar posture of someone who’s already lived through too many emergencies to overreact to the current one.
Katsuki exhales once, slowly and controlled, but it doesn’t fully settle.
“I got thrown across the city and impaled on this ruin and they wouldn’t let me go until they patched me up,” he mutters, like the entire sequence of events is just an inconvenience in his schedule. “Kept telling me to wait.”
There’s a beat of silence.
It lands wrong in your brain.
Your grip tightens instantly around his hand.
“Impal—” your voice cracks, half exhausted, half horrified, half already furious. “IMPALED, Katsuki?! How can you say that so casually?”
His gaze snaps back to you immediately, like your reaction is the only thing in the room that actually matters.
“Tch,” he clicks his tongue, almost reflexively defensive. “It wasn’t through anything important.”
“That is not comforting!”
Mitsuki makes a sound behind him—something dangerously close to a sigh of long-suffering resignation.
Katsuki barely acknowledges her.
“I said I’m fine,” he continues, like repetition will make it fact. His thumb presses a little harder against your knuckles, grounding himself more than reassuring you. “They fixed it. I came here. End of story. Your water breaking the second I leave you alone is far more important.”
“End of story’?” you echo weakly, staring at him like he’s lost his mind. “You don’t just say you got impaled and then move on like it’s paperwork.”
His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s offended by your tone more than the injury itself.
“It is paperwork.”
“That is not—” you cut off, breath catching as your body reminds you very abruptly that laughing and yelling are both bad ideas right now.
You wince, hand instinctively moving toward your abdomen.
The reaction is immediate.
Katsuki’s entire posture changes. Just instant recalibration.
His grip tightens, but not in panic—more like instinct, like anchoring you before you can drift too far into discomfort.
“Hey,” he says, voice dropping slightly. “Don’t move like that.”
“I’m not the one who got impaled,” you mutter weakly, still trying to recover your breath.
“Yeah, well,” he shoots back immediately, eyes flicking over your face again in that same careful scan, “you’re the one who underwent birth and surgery.”
Katsuki leans in slightly closer to you now, right until his head rests faintly over your chest. His fingers, thick and scarred and worried, shuffle the lightest touch against yours. You stare at the connection; how your palm fits against his as your hands lay flat against each other’s, how Katsuki smoothly moves and caresses the back of your hand, finally, inside the vastness of his.
Then, after he reaches your face to plant chaste kisses everywhere on your lips, he marks the trails of your palm, tenderly, with his pointer finger.
“What did your doctor say?” he asks, voice dropping. “I still haven’t had a chance to talk to her.”
The shift is subtle, but it changes the air completely.
Your chest tightens—not from pain this time, but something softer, heavier.
“She said I’m alright, that I'm in no danger. And our baby is in the NICU,” you say quietly. “She’s stable. Just… monitoring.”
For the first time since he arrived, something like uncertainty actually breaks through his expression.
Not fear exactly. Something more complicated. It finds purchase in tiny specs of his face; in between the dents in the middle of his furrowed eyebrows, the twitching corner of his lip. You’ve known Katsuki long enough to see the mask he’s put on right now, slipping away from him.
“I wanna see her,” he says immediately.
There’s no hesitation in the words. But there is in everything else.
His grip on your hand tightens again, almost imperceptibly. His gaze flicks briefly toward the door, then back to you, like he’s trying to solve a problem that doesn’t have a clean answer.
“But,” he adds, quieter, rougher, “if your doctor said she’s small. And early. And I’m not—”
He stops.
His jaw tenses hard.
“I’m not good at… that shit,” he admits reluctantly, like it physically pains him to say. “Not like I'll be able to hold her while she’s in there but, y’get me.”
You blink slowly at him.
“Katsuki,” you murmur.
“Babe, it’s my fault, i should have been here and then this wouldn’t have happe—”
“Do you want to go?” you, voice quieter now. “Or should I go first and— and tell you what it’s like?”
The question lands differently. Careful.
Like you’re trying to give him control over something he himself feels completely unsteady about. Your fingers tighten weakly around his. And Katsuki doesn’t feel like he can do that, honestly. Let you go in there alone. You know him well enough that you know what answer he’s going to give you next”
“I want to see her,” he says softly. “With you.”
“But I'm kinda stitched up,” you laugh, muffling a happy cry that escapes you “you’re gonna have to carry me”
That does it.
Something in his expression shifts—just slightly, but enough. You notice his own eyes tearing up. Like that answer was the only one that would’ve held him together.
______
After a full day of spending a ridiculously long amount of time convincing your doctor that, yes, you can get up —because you’re a hero whos gotten up from way worse— a nurse eventually helps disconnect a few monitors while Mitsuki hovers nearby pretending not to supervise every single thing happening in the room.
You settle for a wheelchair since everyone gets in your case about walking.
Katsuki barely leaves your side during any of it. Even when he steps back to let the nurses adjust you carefully upright, one hand stays anchored somewhere against you—your shoulder, your arm, your waist—like he’s terrified you’ll disappear the second he loses contact.
The hospital robe feels too light against your skin.
Your body feels heavier than concrete.
Every movement pulls strangely through your abdomen, soreness wrapped tightly beneath layers of medication and exhaustion. You would never admit this to your doctor but you don’t fully understand how people survive childbirth and then continue existing like normal afterward. It feels vaguely fake. Like your organs have been rearranged by interns.
“You okay?” Katsuki asks for maybe the fifteenth time in the span of ten minutes.
“No,” you mumble honestly.
He snorts quietly through his nose, crouching slightly beside the wheelchair while the nurse locks the footrests into place.
“Good. Means you’re conscious.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
His hand finds yours again immediately afterward anyway.
The NICU floor is quieter than the rest of the hospital.
The lights are dimmer here, voices lower, footsteps gentler somehow. Everything beyond the secured doors feels carefully contained, like the entire wing exists in a state between fear and hope. Through the windows of nearby rooms, you catch small glimpses of incubators, exhausted parents, nurses moving steadily between machines.
The closer you get, the quieter Katsuki becomes.
Not outwardly.
He still answers the nurses. Still thanks people in his own clipped, awkward way. Still pushes your wheelchair himself despite being told multiple times someone else can do it.
But you feel it.
The way his thumb keeps rubbing absentmindedly against your wrist.
The way his shoulders slowly tense again.
The way his breathing has gotten subtly shallower.
By the time the nurse finally stops outside one of the rooms, Katsuki looks more nervous than you’ve maybe ever seen him in your life.
Which is absurd, considering this is the man who once fought the worst villain in history through half a collapsing city with a broken broken body and a destroyed heart.
The nurse smiles softly at both of you before speaking quietly.
“She’s right over here.”
And suddenly your own heart feels too large for your chest.
The room is warm.
Warmer than the hallway.
Machines hum softly beneath the low lighting, steady little beeps scattered throughout the room like artificial heartbeats. There’s a faint sterile smell beneath everything, but underneath that too—something softer. Powder. Clean blankets. New life.
Your eyes immediately find her.
Tiny.
That’s the first thing your brain can process.
Tiny.
So impossibly tiny it almost doesn’t look real.
She’s bundled carefully inside the incubator, wrapped in a soft hospital blanket with little wires attached delicately against her chest. Her face is scrunched slightly in sleep, tiny mouth parted just enough to show uneven little breaths.
Your hair color paints her teeny strands of hair, save for a few platinum patches.
Not much. But enough.
Your breath catches so hard it hurts.
“Oh my God,” you whisper.
Beside you, Katsuki says absolutely nothing.
You turn your head slightly toward him and nearly break apart at the expression on his face.
His expression is unreadable. Like he’s terrified
Of her and just how small she is.
His eyes don’t leave the incubator for even a second, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of her immediately in case the universe changes its mind and takes it all back.
The tiny rise and fall of her chest. The shape of her nose. The little crease between her brows that already somehow looks familiar.
“That’s…” His voice catches abruptly.
You actually see him swallow around it.
“That’s our baby?”
Something hot burns behind your eyes immediately.
You nod shakily, unable to stop staring at her either.
“Chihiro,” you whisper softly. “Right?”
You and Katsuki had agreed on the name years ago.
Back before marriage.
Back before pregnancy complications and surgeries and after war scars and the terrifying realization that loving someone this much could genuinely ruin you if the world touched them wrong.
Then his hand suddenly tightens painfully around yours, like reality hit him all over again at full force.
His other hand drags hard down his face, covering his mouth and nose.Muffling the sound that escapes him.
Not enough that you completely miss it. Just enough that he can pretend you did.
Your chest aches so badly it feels impossible to contain.
You watch his throat work again before he lets out a shaking breath and steps carefully closer to the incubator, movements slower than you’ve ever seen from him before.
And then your daughter stretches suddenly in her sleep, one tiny hand flexing weakly beneath the dim NICU lights.
Katsuki visibly stops breathing.
His eyes widen just slightly.
Like even that tiny movement was enough to completely destroy whatever composure he had left.
“Yeah, fuck she looks so much like you,” he says quietly, voice cracking so roughly it barely sounds like him at all. “Shit, yeah…”
His fingers twitch helplessly at his side before he finally reaches toward the incubator, hesitant in a way that would feel almost unreal coming from him to people who don’t know him.
“…Chihiro, babe.”
Katsuki Bakugo Masterlist
~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2026. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work //
Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3
I love this post so much. “we used to make posts about loki on here” is the gentlest way possible to describe this website’s history. It’s like saying einstein dabbled in science
"I was getting kinda used to being someone you loved."
word count: 4,339.
summary: the aftermath of theo believing you chose cedric over him. as the chapter shifts from past to present, both of you begin questioning the silence and distance between you, slowly realizing that the story behind it may not contain the full truth.
author’s note: trudging along the pain train, but don't worry, it gets so much worse! then finally gets better, I swear lol. don't hate me too much, I promise everything will feel so satisfying in the end. love ya mwah ( ˘ ³˘) ♥︎
♫ someone you loved - lewis capaldi. nav. chapters. more theo.
Past
September 30, 2002
Theo’s Townhome — Rome, Italy
Dear Bella,
I used to think heartbreak would feel dramatic.
Like something violent. Something catastrophic.
A curse to the chest. A broomstick plummeting from the sky. Some grand, terrible unraveling befitting the sheer devastation of loving you.
I was wrong.
Heartbreak, I’ve learned, is much quieter than that.
It is sitting across from you at dinner while another man makes you laugh. It is smiling when you introduce him, pretending my entire world isn’t quietly collapsing beneath my feet. It is realizing that the life I had been too frightened to reach for has continued on without me.
I always knew there would come a day when someone else might hold your heart.
I just never allowed myself to imagine what it would feel like to witness it.
Now I know.
It feels like grief.
Not the sharp, immediate kind. No, this grief is slower. More insidious. A thousand tiny deaths stretched across polite dinners, shared laughter, and every moment I’m forced to watch someone else stand where I have spent years aching to be.
The worst part is that I can’t even hate him.
Merlin knows I’ve tried.
But Cedric is good to you.
He’s steady where I am restless. Safe where I am fractured. Open in ways I have never quite managed to be.
And you seem happy.
You seem beautifully, devastatingly happy that I can’t even bring myself to resent you for it.
So instead, I do what cowards do best.
I love you silently.
I stand beside you as your best friend while every selfish part of me grieves something I never truly had.
I wonder, sometimes, if things would be different had I been brave enough to hand you the letter myself.
Had I trusted you with the truth instead of hiding it between folded parchment and fear.
But I wasn’t brave.
And now I must live with that.
You once told me that healing requires honesty.
I think perhaps that’s why I remain so thoroughly unhealed.
Because I have never been honest with you about the one thing that mattered most.
I love you.
I suspect I always will.
Even if loving you means learning how to survive being left behind.
For Always,
Teddy
There was something ritualistic about this now. Like self-inflicted punishment, torturous and masochistic at its very core.
He stopped pretending these letters were for you.
They were for him.
A way to bleed without making a mess anyone could see. A way to say things he had no right to say out loud, because saying them out loud would make them real in a way he could no longer take back.
And maybe that was the point.
Because in the writing, there was a strange kind of control. If he couldn’t change what had already been lost, he could at least decide how honestly he mourned it.
Even if no one reads it.
Even if it changed nothing at all.
Past
September 1, 2002
Rosemere Cottage — Cornwall, England
When Theo returned from Rome, he already knew.
Or perhaps knowing wasn’t quite the right word.
Hope, after all, had a way of making fools out of people.
Even when your letters had gradually begun mentioning Cedric more and more. Even when your words remained warm but carefully absent of any acknowledgement toward the confession Theo had poured onto parchment with trembling hands.
Still, some deeply pathetic part of him had clung to the possibility that perhaps you simply hadn’t read it yet.
That perhaps life had merely gotten in the way.
That perhaps—
Then Cedric arrived at dinner.
And just like that, Theo’s last fragile delusion died a swift and merciless death.
Your mother, as radiant as ever, welcomed Theo home with enough enthusiasm to almost make him forget the slow collapse currently unfolding inside his chest.
“Theodore!”
Before Theo could so much as set down his coat, Estelle was already pulling him into an aggressively affectionate embrace.
“Oh, look at you,” she fussed, holding him at arm’s length for a proper inspection. “A few weeks in Rome and somehow you’ve come back even more handsome. Honestly, it’s sickening.”
“Careful, Estelle,” Theo drawled, forcing ease into his voice. “Keep flattering me like this and I may become unbearable.”
You nearly choked on your wine. “Too late.”
Theo turned to you with mock offense. “Betrayal. From my oldest ally.”
Cedric laughed lightly from across the table. “He does make a strong case for himself.”
Theo placed a hand over his chest. “Diggory, I’m touched. I had no idea you were capable of such excellent judgment.”
“I have my moments,” Cedric replied good-naturedly.
“Don’t encourage him,” you muttered, already fighting a smile. “Theo’s ego is already unbearable without validation.”
“Unbearable?” Theo echoed, scandalized. “I prefer exceptional.”
“Delusional,” you corrected.
“Gifted,” Theo countered.
Estelle laughed softly into her wine. “Unfortunately,” she said, “he’s been like this since birth.”
“And yet,” Theo replied, grin widening, “you adore me anyway.”
“That,” Estelle said as she rose to retrieve dessert from the kitchen, “is because unlike my daughter, I know how to properly appreciate a menace.”
And there it was again. That warmth. That unshakable, maternal love Theo had clung to for years in the absence of so much else.
Something in his expression softened. “Thank Merlin,” he said lightly.
When Estelle returned carrying her famous chocolate cake, the entire table visibly brightened.
“Well,” you said, sitting up straighter. “Here we are. The true reason Theo came back from Rome.”
Theo grinned cheekily.
“Honestly,” Estelle sighed fondly, slicing into the cake. “I don’t know why I bother cooking actual dinner when this is clearly all any of you care about.”
“Because you love us,” Theo replied.
“Some more than others,” you quipped.
Estelle ignored you entirely.
Instead, with all the ceremony of a queen bestowing favor upon her chosen heir, she placed the largest slice directly in front of Theo.
Your jaw dropped. “Mum!”
Theo looked down at his plate, then back at Estelle with an expression of profound satisfaction.
“Well,” he said, utterly insufferable. “I do believe that settles it.”
“This is outrageous,” you declared.
Cedric laughed softly, shaking his head. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Traitor,” you accused.
Theo took an obscenely smug bite. “Mmm,” he hummed. “Victory has never tasted sweeter.”
“You are the worst.”
“And still the favorite.”
“You’re not even her child!”
“Love transcends blood, bella.”
Estelle was openly laughing now, completely unapologetic.
Cedric watched the ease between you and Theo without interrupting it.
For a while, it was easy. Laughter bounced warmly through the dining room. Your mum looked happier than Theo had seen her in ages. You glowed in that way you always did when surrounded by people you loved.
Cedric fit into the evening like he had been part of it all along.
And Theo…
Theo played his part beautifully. He smiled. Teased. Stole bites off your plate. Let himself exist in the comforting illusion that perhaps nothing had truly changed.
Until, somewhere between dessert and coffee, Cedric’s hand found yours beneath the table.
Like it belonged there.
His appetite vanished entirely. Wine suddenly tasted sour. Cake turned to ash on his tongue. Conversation blurred at the edges.
Two months.
Two bloody months.
Two months of a declaration you never acknowledged.
Two months of hoping. Of rationalizing. Of telling himself that perhaps things were simply delayed, not destroyed.
And all along, you had already begun building something new.
Something that did not include him in the way he had once foolishly imagined.
Theo remained until the end of dessert through sheer willpower alone. By the time Estelle offered tea, he was already pushing back his chair.
“Forgive me,” he said smoothly. “I promised Nonna I’d owl her once I arrived.”
Estelle’s expression softened immediately. “Don’t be a stranger, Theo.”
Theo’s smile was gentler. Realer. “Never, Estelle.”
You stood to hug him goodbye. And that, perhaps, was the cruelest part. Because you hugged him exactly the same. With the same amount of love and care that he knew no longer belonged to him.
As though his entire world had not quietly collapsed over cake and candlelight.
“I’m really glad you’re home, Teddy.”
Theo swallowed the ache rising in his throat and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah, bella,” he murmured. “Me too.”
He stepped back before he could change his mind.
And as he turned toward the door, something small and uninvited surfaced in his mind.
My dad planted the rose garden when I was born.
Your voice, not now, but then. Cornwall sunlight in your hair. Bare feet on warm stone as you led him through the garden paths like it was the most ordinary thing in the world to talk openly about grief while the sea watched from a distance.
“Mum named it Rosemere Cottage after he passed,” you had said. “She said it felt right…like even after everything, this place still belonged to both love and memory.”
At the time, he hadn’t understood why he remembered it so clearly.
Now, he did.
Because as he stepped out into the cool night, he realized with starling clarity that home did not always mean safe.
Behind him, laughter still echoed faintly from the dining room.
Inside was warmth.
Light.
You.
Theo would later think that Rosemere Cottage had been the first place he had ever learned what home truly felt like.
And for the first time in his life, Theo understood that sometimes the thing you love most can become the very thing that ruins you.
Mattheo found him several hours later, halfway through a bottle of Ogden’s and rapidly working toward self-destruction.
“I’m so sorry, mate.”
Theo laughed then.
A broken, splintered laugh that sounded far too much like grief.
“She’s happy.”
It was the only thing he could manage.
Mattheo, for once, didn’t offer wit or teasing.
He simply stayed.
Though the drinking. Through the unraveling. Through the quiet devastation Theo could no longer suppress.
And later, when Theo’s heartbreak had exhausted itself into something quieter but no less painful, Mattheo guided him to bed, left water and potion by his nightstand, and said nothing at all about the tears Theo had been too drunk to hide.
It was, perhaps, the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him.
But heartbreak, unfortunately, did not end there.
Because there were still two weeks of summer left.
And you, blissfully unaware of the destruction Theo was carefully concealing, wanted to spend them together.
Present
June 2, 2003
Madame Malkin’s Robes — London, England
“You’re spiraling,” Padma observed without looking up from the rail of dresses she was sorting through.
Hermione paused mid-step, an emerald gown draped over her arm. “Padma.”
“What?” she asked, entirely unbothered. “She is.”
You exhaled through your nose, smoothing your hand over the silk fabric you had been pretending to examine for the last ten minutes. It didn’t need smoothing. Nothing did. Still, your fingers kept moving anyways, like the action might keep your thoughts from settling too heavily in one place.
“I’m not spiraling,” you said.
Padma finally glanced at you, one brow lifting slightly.
“You’ve been glaring at chiffon for twenty minutes."
“What Padma means,” Hermione cut in gently, “is that you seem a little distracted.”
“I’m fine,” you replied automatically.
The response came too quickly, too practiced. Like if you said it enough times you might actually start to believe it.
Padma hummed, unconvinced, but mercifully didn’t press.
Hermione hung the green dress back and moved a little closer instead, her voice softening in that way she had when she didn’t want you to feel cornered.
“You’ve just been quieter than usual,” she said. “That’s all.”
“I’m always quiet when I’m shopping,” you said lightly.
Padma let out a small sound of amusement. “That’s not what Hermione meant, and you know it.”
You huffed a breath, setting the dress aside at last. It slipped from your hands too easily, like everything else in your life lately.
“I’m here,” you said.
Padma tilted her head. “You know, you’re not a very good liar.”
That almost pulled a smile from you.
Hermione shot her a look. “Padma.”
“What?” she repeated. “She isn’t.”
There was something comforting in the way they spoke to you. Direct, but never cruel. Honest in a way that didn’t feel like punishment.
A contrast you couldn’t stop noticing lately.
You adjusted the fabric again, even though it was already perfect.
“How was the fundraiser?” Hermione asked, easing the conversation forward.
You blinked slightly, grateful for the shift.
“Fine,” you said. “Busy. Cedric was there, the team was there. People drank too much firewhisky and pretended it was networking.”
“And Cedric?” Hermione asked again, softer now. “How is he liking the Cannons?”
You opened your mouth, then paused. Because you didn’t actually know. Not properly.
“He likes it,” you said finally. “He’s…busy. They travel a lot.”
Padma hummed again, quieter this time. “That’s it?”
You hesitated.
The silence that followed felt louder than your answer.
Your fingers stilled on the fabric.
For some reason, you thought of Theo. You hadn’t meant to, but your thoughts always seemed to drift towards him, like a reflex your mind hadn’t quite unlearned.
If Hermione had asked you about Theo, you would’ve known everything.
What he was reading. What he was avoiding. What he was pretending not to care about. You would’ve known without asking because Theo never required translation. Knowing him was like instinct. Almost as though you were always meant to be fluent in him.
He would’ve known the same about you.
He always had.
Cedric was kind. He was steady. He made space for you in his life.
But sometimes it felt like you were playing a role rather than being yourself.
Theo had never made you feel like something to display.
He would’ve been proud of you, yes, but not because of what you represented or how good you looked standing next to him. Just proud because he had always been your biggest supporter, even when you had no idea what you were doing.
The thought lodged itself in your chest before you could stop it.
You didn’t say any of it out loud.
But Hermione’s expression shifted anyway, like she had caught something in the silence between your words. Padma, of course, noticed too.
“You’re thinking too hard again,” she said, quieter now. Less teasing.
“I’m not,” you replied, though it sounded weaker than you intended.
Hermione stepped closer and adjusted a mauve dress against your shoulders, her hands careful and familiar.
“You can tell us,” she said gently. “Whatever it is.”
Something in your chest tightened.
“I know Theo needed space,” you said suddenly, voice quieter than before. Your fingers brushed over silver embroidery you hadn’t actually been seeing. “I know that. Merlin, I know him better than anyone.”
Hermione’s movements slowed.
“But everyone made choices for me,” you continued, and now the words were harder to hold back. “They let him disappear. They let me sit there and wonder, and none of them thought I deserved answers.”
Padma folded her arms. “That’s because your friends,” she said dryly, “are emotionally constipated aristocrats.”
A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“You’re not wrong,” you admitted.
Hermione shot Padma a look, though there was no real heat in it.
Then she looked back at you.
“Then maybe it’s time they stop deciding what protects you,” she said simply.
That settled something in you, though not fully.
Not yet, anyways.
Because even as you stood there, surrounded by silk and gold thread and the easy warmth of people who actually listened when you spoke, there was still a missing space inside you that nothing quite filled.
And you hated that you could name exactly who it belonged to.
You weren’t sure how long you stood there after that.
Hermione eventually returned to fussing over fabric choices like the conversation hadn’t shifted something important beneath all of you. Padma moved on to commenting that half the current season’s dresses looked like “they were designed by someone who has never met a human body before,” which unfortunately, you agreed with more than you should have.
It was easier that way.
Easier to pretend that you were just shopping. Easier to pretend that nothing had changed except the dresses on the rack.
But something had.
It stayed with you as you moved through the boutique, trailing silk and lace and too-expensive tags that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.
Cedric texted you once.
Then again later.
You didn’t open either immediately.
You told yourself you were just busy.
It was a little while later, as you stepped out of the boutique with far too many garment bags in hand and Hermione still debating whether she needed a backup gown “just in case,” that Padma suddenly slowed beside you.
“Here comes trouble,” she muttered.
You followed her gaze before you could ask what she meant.
Mattheo was leaning against the edge of a storefront like he had all the time in the world and nowhere particularly urgent to be. His dark coat hung open, posture loose and careless, with that familiar air of someone who was either about to flirt, fight, or do something profoundly reckless.
Possibly all three.
His hair was slightly unruly, his expression rakish, and there was something unmistakably dangerous about the sharp cut of his grin.
And yet, when his eyes landed on you, that grin softened into something far more familiar.
“There she is,” he drawled, pushing himself off the wall.
Hermione smiled politely. Padma looked unimpressed in the way she always did with people she deemed potentially chaotic.
“Riddle.”
Mattheo glanced between them, looking faintly entertained. “Granger. Patil. Always a pleasure being judged by London’s most terrifying intellectuals.”
Padma crossed her arms. “And yet you still insist on lowering the collective standard.”
That made him huff a quiet laugh. “Some of us commit to a brand.”
Mattheo stepped closer then, and whatever teasing edge he carried with everyone else dulled as his attention settled fully on you.
“You look tired,” he said simply.
“I’m fine,” you replied out of habit.
Mattheo’s gaze held yours, sharp in a way that reminded you he missed very little when it truly mattered.
“No,” he said, quieter now. “You’re not.”
Hermione, perceptive as ever, glanced between you both. “We were actually just heading to dinner,” she said lightly, like she was offering an escape route rather than an interruption.
Mattheo nodded once. “I won’t keep her long.”
Padma tilted her head toward you. “We’ll wait a bit ahead.”
Hermione gave your arm a gentle squeeze before following her, the two of them giving you space without making it obvious they were doing so.
Only when they were out of earshot did Mattheo speak again.
“I should’ve told you,” he said simply.
Your jaw tightened. “Yes,” you said quietly. “You should have.”
He nodded once, accepting it without defense. “I wanted to.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
Mattheo exhaled through his nose, gaze briefly dropping to the cobblestones beneath his boots.
“Because Theo asked us not to.”
The hurt that had already been simmering low in your chest twisted into something sharper.
“So he comes back to London after a year and just…what? Pretends I don’t exist?”
“That’s not what this is.”
Your laugh came out brittle. “Isn’t it?”
Mattheo’s expression tightened slightly. “No,” he said firmly. “It isn’t.”
He glanced up, and for once, there was no mischief there. No easy charm. Just the fierce protectiveness that had always existed beneath the sharp edges.
“Y/N,” he said carefully, “Theo coming back here…it’s not easy for him.”
Your hurt flared hotter. “Easy?” you repeated, incredulous. “Mattheo, he left.”
His silence was brief, but telling. “I know.”
“Do you?” you asked, more quietly now. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like everyone’s more concerned with protecting Theo than actually considering what any of this felt like for me.”
That, at least, seemed to hit.
Mattheo scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly looking far less like the effortlessly composed wizard most people saw.
“We handled it badly.”
You scoffed softly. “I'd say catastrophically, actually.”
“No,” he said, more serious now. “You’re right.”
His gaze met yours fully. “We should’ve done better by you.”
The sincerity in it stole some of your anger, though not nearly all of it. Mattheo had always been many things, but disingenuous was not one of them.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
And somehow, coming from him, the words felt heavier. Mattheo never apologized unless he truly meant it. You knew he was being sincere.
You swallowed hard, looking away before the sting behind your eyes could fully betray you. “I just don’t understand,” you admitted.
Your voice came out smaller than intended. “If I mattered so little to him, then why does this hurt so much?”
Mattheo went very still. For the first time since you’d known him, he seemed genuinely caught off guard. Something flickered across his face—uncertainty, recognition, something like a thought he wasn’t prepared to voice.
His brow furrowed slightly. “That’s not…” he started, then stopped.
You looked back at him. “What?”
But Mattheo, for once, seemed to think better of whatever he’d nearly said.
“Nothing,” he replied, though it was far too quick.
Your eyes narrowed. “Mattheo.”
He offered you a crooked smile then, but it lacked its usual mischief.
“Trust me,” he said lightly, though something about it felt carefully measured now. “There are a lot of things in this world Theo considers insignificant, but you aren’t one of them.”
The statement settled strangely in your chest.
Before you could press further, Mattheo gently took one of the heavier garment bags from your hand.
“You should go,” he said, nodding towards the direction Hermione and Padma had headed. “Before Granger starts organizing a full scale search on your behalf.”
Despite everything, you let out a soft laugh. “She absolutely would.”
“Terrifying witch.”
“Why do you think we’re friends?”
Mattheo handed the bag back, his grin returning, though softer this time.
“For what it’s worth,” he said. “I am sorry, Y/N.”
His sincerity, so familiar and warm, nearly undid you.
He stepped back then, returning once more to that dangerous, careless persona he wore so effortlessly.
“Now go,” he added. “Before Patil decides I’ve emotionally compromised you beyond repair.”
“It’s a little too late for that.”
Mattheo smirked. “Please. If I were truly trying to ruin you, you’d know.”
You rolled your eyes, but the affection was there.
As you turned to leave, however, you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something had shifted.
Because beneath Mattheo’s apology…
Beneath his loyalty…
Beneath all his carefully chosen words…
There had been hesitation.
As if he knew something.
Something he wasn’t ready to say.
And for the first time, you began to wonder if Theo’s silence had never been quite as simple as you had allowed yourself to believe.
Past
September 22, 2002
London Floo Station — London, England
Theo made his decision a week early.
He couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t keep pretending that it wasn’t killing him. So he lied.
“Nonna needs me back sooner than I expected.”
It came out steadier than he felt.
Your face changed immediately.
“Oh,” you said.
One quiet syllable threaded with disappointment that somehow made everything worse.
Theo nodded once like it explained anything at all.
It didn’t.
The guilt hit him straight after, sharp and familiar, settling low in his chest like it had nowhere else to go.
But it still wasn’t enough to make him stay.
At the Floo station, everything felt too bright, too loud, too normal for what this actually was.
You stood beside him, fidgeting with your sleeve in a way you only did when you were trying not to think too hard about something.
“Are we okay?”
Theo’s entire body went still.
You looked endearingly earnest.
“I know things have been different,” you said softly. “And I know Cedric’s around more now, but…I just…” You swallowed. “You’re still the most important person in my life.”
Theo thought his heart might actually stop.
“If something’s wrong,” you whispered, “just tell me, Teddy.”
He could.
Merlin, he could.
He could ruin it all.
Tell you everything. Tell you that nothing was wrong between you and that was the problem. Tell you that Cedric wasn’t the issue. Tell you that the issue was him.
That he was standing here loving you in a way that had nowhere to go and no future to land in. That he didn’t know how to stay near you without it hurting. That he didn’t know how to leave without it killing him.
He swallowed it all down instead.
Because that was what he always did when it came to you.
He chose you.
Even when it cost him.
“We’re okay,” he said quietly. “Bella, we’re okay.”
Your shoulders loosened a little, like you’d been holding your breath without realizing.
Theo forced something that might’ve passed for a smile.
“As long as you’re happy,” he added softly, “I’m happy too.”
And you believed him.
Of course you did.
You always did.
That was the cruelest part.
You stepped forward then, like it was nothing, like it wasn’t everything, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
Warm. Familiar. Safe in a way he didn’t deserve anymore.
Theo closed his eyes for half a second too long.
“See you soon—”
“Goodbye, Y/N.”
He said it before you could finish.
Before he could lose his nerve.
It made you pause.
Just for a second.
Like something in the words didn’t sit quite right, even if you couldn’t name why.
Theo didn’t give you time to question it.
He stepped into the Floo before either of you could undo what was really happening.
And the moment he stepped through the emerald flames and arrived back in Rome, Theodore Nott finally shattered.
There’s actually something so sickening about Clark crashing out when Dick takes over as Batman and wears the suit. Dude flipped out and lost it on his favorite Robin, the kid he and Bruce helped raise together. He screams in his face and fucking crashes out because he’s grieving Bruce and here is Batman standing right in front of him but it’s not him. And it should be easier to bear that transition because it’s Dick, but it isn’t.
also this reddit comment I found when looking for additional panels took me out at the knees:
ur haymitch fics r sooo YUMMY !! i desperately need more my beautiful angel writer 🥹🙏🪽 perhaps him having a one night stand with u and then saying ur name during sex with his partner (maybe effie??) 🥹🥹 and then having to go to u and explain why he got kicked out 🥹🥹🥹
hope this delivered!!! req open if anyone (or you) wants to req something else <3
The Wrong Idea
Summary: One reckless night with Haymitch was supposed to stay just that: one night. But when he starts hovering- checking if you’ve eaten, watching you from across rooms, finding excuses to be near you- you mistake it for regret and sympathy. Convinced you were just a drunken mistake, you push him away, while Haymitch fails spectacularly at moving on himself- going so far as to say your name while with Effie. Turns out he isn’t feeling guilty at all; he’s acting like a man who accidentally started caring far more than he meant to.
Warnings: smut, consensual drunk sex, bathroom counter sex, age gap, kissing, making out, mentions of oral f!recieving, mentions of fingering, sex flashbacks/daydreams, a little angst, misunderstanding trope w/happy ending, saying the wrong name, drinking, unprotected sex, riding, creampie, some fluff
It was a horrible idea, fucking Haymitch in the bathroom at a Capitol party. The worst of ideas, you thought as he pushed the skirt of your dress up to your hips and hooked your underwear down your legs until he could pocket them in his suit jacket. It didn’t seem to matter to either one of you what was right, good, bad, wrong, when he kissed you, tongue deep in your mouth as you fumbled with his belt and buttons.
You’d both been drinking; that was what you’d lean on. You were about half his age, but he fucked you like he wasn’t double yours, parting your legs and pushing between with a smug grin on his face. Like he’d been waiting for this. Like he knew this was a bad idea too, but that was half the fun, anyway.
Your vision blurred both from the drinks and from the tears as he filled you completely and perfectly, functioning rather well for a man who drank day in and day out. He was big, thick, stretching you out, calling you pretty names as he thrust in and out of you. It all happened so quickly; all you could remember was that one moment he was fighting with Effie, and the next, he was kissing you as he locked the door to the big porcelain bathroom.
Your hands clutched his clothes, your legs wrapped around him, his eyes gazing down hungrily, watching himself disappear inside of you. It was messy, dirty, blurry, but so good. Too good. He made you come twice just from penetration alone, which was a feat nobody had ever reached with you, not even on your own. But it wasn’t just that, when he’d come on your thigh for safety, he cleaned you himself with the towels in the bathroom, bending to his knees as he did, but then ending up with his mouth to your flesh, then higher, until he was eating you out right then and there. You came twice more on his tongue, and then, he seemed to be finished, finally.
It had taken a while, being drunk made it more effort, but he didn’t seem tired at all, whatsoever. More proud of himself, but still checking to see if you were okay. And you were more than okay. Blissed out, drunk, slightly sweaty. He helped you off the counter, held your hand as you braced the side of it, legs shaking from everything that had just occurred. He could not wipe that smug grin off his face for a second as he did his pants back up.
He left, staggering your exit nonchalantly, while you fixed up your hair and makeup, before you re-entered the party. You’d gotten a good amount of sponsors for the night, which was his cause for such an elaborate celebration. You found yourself still dazed, still high on passion alone. You’d never thought that would happen, but you were now reeling in the middle of the place.
“Y/N, it is not… particularly ladylike to be… off your face at something like this. Thought with Haymitch around you’d know better, but… hm.” Effie chastised you, approaching from behind. “Have you seen… Haymitch, by any chance? We have business to attend to, personal… business.”
Effie liked Haymitch. You knew that. She didn’t really hide it all that well, smiling when he acknowledged her, grinning when he made an insulting little quip that he meant lovingly. They had a long-time bond, you knew that too. But you had just had Haymitch inside of you so that you couldn’t find a good enough answer. “Might have turned in,” you hummed, smiling and tucking your hair behind your ears. “I’m about to as well, don’t worry.” You added.
“Good. You do look a little… dishevelled, but I’m sure you’ll sleep it right off!” She did a little clap, glancing around. “How’s my lipstick, by the way?”
She pouted her heart-shaped lips at you. “Stunning, Effie.” You meant it.
You grabbed a tall glass of water on your way out, stopping only for a second to remember where your underwear had gone before you remembered Haymitch slipping them into his pocket. Cheeky.
You and Effie rode the elevator up to the penthouse in silence, as Effie fluffed her hair and blotted her cheeks in the mirror. It was past midnight now, and you wondered why she was putting effort into putting more on, and you had a slight suspicion she might be seeing Haymitch in a similar way that you just had.
You were too drunk to think properly about it, but it did hurt a little that you were a quick, passionate bathroom counter fuck, and that he might very well be in bed waiting for Effie to climb on him for the remainder of the night in his bed. It made your head hurt.
You’d suspected they were together when you met them. That was a good few years ago, and that came with suspicions that doubled on themselves, then thoughts that sometimes ruled the theory out, but if they were doing anything, they were having sex. And as unsafe as that was for you, you trusted Effie wasn’t the type to just give herself freely- they’d known each other a long time.
The elevator doors opened, and you made a beeline for your quarters, throwing ‘goodnight’ behind you as you launched yourself into your room and shut the door. As appreciative as you were for ‘good sex’ and the best sort of bad ideas, it was weird to imagine he needed more, after you. Like that wasn’t enough.
You had a quick shower before getting in bed, sipping more water until the room stopped spinning. A one-night stand was a loose term for what you’d done in that bathroom. He’d wanted you, you’d wanted him, you were drunk, it was easy for a moment. And then he would crawl into bed with Effie, and there was nothing more to say or feel or want.
It hadn’t meant anything, of course not, but it made your heart squeeze just a little. You went to bed feeling a little more disposable than you had that morning prior. If you shut your eyes, you could feel everything all over again. His hands felt as if they’d burned into your skin, leaving white-hot imprints where he’d grabbed so desperately just an hour before.
The rest of your time awake, you spent spinning and trying your best not to ruminate, until you fell asleep.
The morning headache wasn’t as bad as you’d expected. A light pulse in your temples, perfectly bearable and would most likely go away with a bit of food and water. The events of the night slowly flooded back to you before you could lift your head off the pillow, and suddenly, there was a worsened pang at the back of your head.
You’d had sex with Haymitch. Your co-mentor. Haymitch. Who was twice your age. More than sex, actually, you remembered, looking at the hickey he’d placed on your inner thigh. That was right- and then he disappeared, off to a room with Effie.
Ugh.
You pressed your hand to your temple and pulled yourself out of bed. There were tributes to tend to in their desert arena, and you were thinking about this. You turned on the bedside TV, checking the nightly recaps, and sighed when you found that both your tributes were together and alive. Doing well, actually. That was a small relief.
You fixed your hair, got dressed, and headed down into the main space. You were the first up, breakfast laid out by the Avox, which you thanked. You were barely there, though. Replaying. Thinking over every detail. Hot mouths, hot hands, frenzied sex, hands in his hair, his hands in your mouth. And all that, just for… what? To go and sleep with Effie?
You leaned on your hands, shaking your head, trying to get rid of the image. It was good; there was not an ounce of regret to the passion it took. You’d been into him, but he’d never been yours. Never been anyone’s really, just happenstance that you collided the way you did. Passion, drinks, fuelling it. Stupid girl.
It wasn’t long before Effie came trotting down. You blinked a few times. She looked rough- but not ruined. Tiredness beneath powder, lipstick that appeared hastily applied.
Her mouth was pinched the way it was when she was ticked off, but you watched her notice you, then plaster on her winning grin. Had she come from Haymitch’s?
“Morning,” you said, smiling her way.
“Good morning,” Effie said, coiffing her hair, her heels clacking against the steps as she joined you. “You… recovered nicely. Beautiful night, hm?”
There was an undertone to the way she spoke. Sharp. “Mhm.” You nodded back. Breakfast commenced in near-silence; you were too busy trying not to imagine what had happened between Effie and Haymitch, and Effie was too busy with whatever made her so upset this morning.
It was then that Haymitch strolled in, holding a mug he’d most likely forgotten he’d poured. “Morning… ladies.”
Your eyes locked with his as he entered, walking in wearing a vest yet to be buttoned over his usual white cotton shirt. He let that eye contact linger as he walked around behind you, to where the liquor cart was. Blue-grey eyes settling on yours, as he remembered too well what you’d done. Like his gaze itself initialized a new replay in your head of how he’d looked at you in that bathroom- like he couldn’t get enough.
You hated how a horrible heat crept up the sides of your neck and onto your cheeks. You gripped your fork a little harder.
“You alive?” He asked you- you could hear the liquid pour, splashing into the coffee in his mug.
“Somewhat,” you answered quietly.
“Drink water,” he said, pulling up a chair across from you as he settled somewhat triangulated with you and Effie. He moved the jug from where he sat to in front of you. A gesture.
You poured yourself a glass. “Thanks, doctor.”
“I mean it,” he added, a little gruff, but well-meaning.
Effie cleared her throat harshly from the other side of the table. Both you and Haymitch turned to look at her, puzzled as to what the ungodly noise was, but Effie just stuck her nose in the air and continued eating.
The two of them looked the same level of dishevelled. Effie, usually prim and proper, looked wilted, whereas Haymitch looked like he’d missed a night of sleep- more than he usually did. You wondered what led to that. A night of sexual escapades or something different? As if you needed a reminder that you were a quick fuck.
You ate the rest of your meal in silence, then excused yourself as soon as you were done.
You threw yourself into mentor duties as the day went on. Morning into mid-morning, you’d already spoken to a few wealthy Capitol citizens rich enough to agree to supply water and a balm that would protect against the hot desert, a victory. You watched the games for a bit, not long, your tributes were well-hidden, just as you’d advised.
Haymitch seemed to do the same, but there was something different. A way he’d linger. Eyes locking with yours across the halls, leaning up against a doorframe. You didn’t avoid him yet; you couldn’t either way. He swaggered over eventually, sitting next to you as you sorted through some written instructions from a lady with cotton candy-coloured hair on strictly when to send in a gift.
“Doing well, hm?”
“Managing,” you nodded. “What about you?”
“Wrangled two into small sums,” he responded, sitting next to you. “Not much, but it adds up with yesterday’s.”
“Mhm,” you nodded again, like it was all you could do. “Good job.” You bit your lip, not looking up at him. If you looked at his mouth, you could feel it on the inside of your thigh. You didn’t want to. Not if it was nothing.
“How’re you feeling?” He asked.
“Not bad. Sober.”
“Mmm, can’t say the same for me.”
You nodded a third time, “Assumed so. You look tired.”
“I look as bad as I feel, then?”
I hope so, you thought. But then you took it back. It was Haymitch. When did he ever genuinely feel bad? This was a man who lived his life in indulgence. “Worse.”
He chuckled at the slight. “Most likely. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”
You stood up abruptly, everything flashing in your mind again, bringing that terrible not back in your stomach. Disposable, easy, not enough. You couldn’t sit with it, not with his scent in your nose the way it’d been when he was on you, yesterday. “Catch up on it tonight,” you advised bluntly. You glanced at him long enough to watch his brow furrow, understanding your tone. “I'd best get back to this. I’ll see you at lunch.”
You left him there, hearing how his hand hit his knee defeatedly. You knew he remembered last night. You knew he could think back to it if he wanted to. You blinked the imagery away. What did he do with your underwear?
But it kept happening. Two more times, then before lunch, he was lingering nearby, talking to folks around you, making eye contact when you looked over- he was always already looking at you. You tried your best to hide the heat that came back every time, flushing your skin.
“You okay?” He nodded your way.
“Mhm, you?”
“Sure.”
And more interactions like that. Coming over, asking about what you were up to, or where you’d been, or who you’d been talking with and if it had been any sort of success. Caring. Hovering. Asking things.
He came over to you another time, joining in on persuading rich folk, helping, but also talking to you, with the excuse of a group conversation. You tucked your hair behind your ears, feeling his eyes on you. You glanced sideways at him, finding his eyes settled on you. Was he not ashamed? Eyes roving you, a grown man staring with his hand under his chin, set in thought.
Don't look at me like that.
Not if you’re going back to Effie again.
Don’t.
But you couldn’t say that. You just moved on.
Lunch was the same. You, Effie, and Haymitch sat at the long table, the television on in the corner playing the games on mute. You glanced up at it, then back down at your food. The game had been still for a while, which meant they’d send a mutt somewhere soon. You couldn’t watch.
“Gonna eat somethin’?” You looked up at Haymitch as he took another bite of his food, gesturing to you with his fork. “Just… pushing your food around.”
“Thinking,” you replied.
“How was getting sponsors?” Effie asked. “Successes, I expect?”
“Some,” you replied.
“Not sounding very… enthusiastic. Anything is good news, good for our tributes. I’m sure by now you have nearly enough for a full gift.”
“Actually, I managed to get two gifts, and Haymitch has been gunning for enough for a third. Water and sun balm.”
Haymitch didn’t seem to know about that. On a regular day, you’d debrief that with him, but your mind was elsewhere. His brows raised, and a grin crossed his face, “Yeah?”
You nodded, “Mhm.” You pushed your food around more, looking back down at it.
“Nice work, angel,” he tapped his fork on the table twice. “Proud of you.”
Usually, you’d be glad he was impressed. You’d learned from him. You’d leaned on him for that. “Good work indeed,” Effie breathed, a huff a little too strong. Lack of sleep never looked good on her, either. You assumed their late night had something to do with it.
It was hard to read, but you didn’t want to think about it. You looked up at Effie, tight-lipped and watching Haymitch, whose eyes were on you. Did she know where he’d been last night? Or were you just imagining explanations in the complicated, jumbled scenario you were in? That quite possibly made things worse. Effie was older than him by a good few years. You were younger than him by about two decades. Complicated was an understatement.
After lunch, you pretended not to hear the buzz of their conversation. It wasn’t loud, just low enough that you could hear the vibration of their voices back and forth. Something about a tribute, then something about food, typical until it came closer down the hallway.
“Don’t drink when I’m talking to you, please,” Effie sighed, heels clacking after his heavy footsteps.
“You take too long to get a point out,” he responded.
“You’re awful today,” she answered. Harsh. “This is silly. There are tributes to worry about.”
You heard him stop, “Then worry. Doesn’t make a difference for them in there.”
That silenced her. And Haymitch made his way to his own quarters before Effie clicked her way into the room you were working in, writing down stat numbers and running odds. They looked promising, but Effie’s mood darkened the room. She knew exactly how to do so, with a false cheeriness that reeked of a lie.
“Keep at it!” she quipped, manicured hand coming up beside her head, but she herself knew it was fake-sounding, so she hurried away into the elevator. She was back about an hour later with a new hairdo.
The day went on. Mutts were released, as you’d expected, but they’d attacked tributes on the North end of the arena, maiming a career from District One, and killing a smaller tribute from District 4. You didn’t watch, just read the recaps. Your tributes were on the move, which made you anxious, but they were doing exactly as needed, covering their steps in the sand until they reached another patch of cactus to hide in.
Haymitch appeared again. It was beginning to irritate you, the lack of a break you got from him. You’d made eye contact with him and the bruises he’d left on intimate places enough for one day. Your heart picked up as he neared, bringing the scent of apple whiskey and his cologne with him. It made you dizzy, putting you right back on that counter.
“How’re they doing?” He asked, standing above you, closely.
“They’re alive. Both of them. Together.”
“Good, that’s good. Send in the gifts when they go through tomorrow, then?”
“Mhm,” you answered, not looking at him, but at your papers.
He stood there, still. One hand on his stomach, the other cradling the drink he was nursing. You could feel his eyes on you.
“Yes?”
“Hm?”
“You’re staring at me,” you replied.
“Am not,” he shot back.
“You are.”
His mouth pulled upward a little, “Maybe.”
He said it so casually. Was this teasing? Was his intention to make you ruminate, wonder, and think about how it had unfolded last night? He’d been friendly at the party, but his hand was on your back while you talked about your tributes to potential sponsors and by the wall, when he’d gotten close to your face to talk to you, compliment you, you’d kissed him. You did that.
Drunk, but you had done that. You had initiated everything, and then it was a matter of minutes before he pulled you to that bathroom. He was into you; that was obvious.
He’d fucked you so hard, he had to put his hand over and in your mouth to keep you quiet. Even with the music and the buzz of the people out there, if he hadn’t, you were sure they’d have heard how good he’d made you feel.
Your eyes dipped down to his hand on his stomach, just briefly. All that and for him to disappear after, having Effie fix her makeup just so he could fuck it up all over again. He’d fucked up yours. He had glitter in his beard when he went down on you. Lip gloss on his fingers when they’d dug into your hips so he could dip his tongue further inside you. It was all fuzzy, but real. And hot. And he stood next to you as if none of it had happened. So casual, in admitting he was staring.
“You still didn’t eat,” he added.
“Sorry?”
“Lunch,” Haymitch clarified. “Turned your peas to mush, didn’t take a single bite.”
“Lacking my appetite today,” you responded, breathing out, bringing your eyes from his hand up to his face. “I didn’t think you’d care to notice.”
“Course I do,” he said coolly. “Need your energy in a place like this. Drains you.” You hated the heat that kept creeping back, spreading over your skin like wildfire. “Plus, gotta take advantage of it while you can. I asked for some bread and butter, it’s on the table if you feel like it… eventually.”
You dropped your gaze.
Another gesture, sweet. Was this just… pity? Was he sorry he fucked you? All this checking in, gentle praise, pity disguised as care? You wouldn’t put it past him. He was drunk, too, but he did have morals. And Effie. And he knew you knew that. An ache spread through your hands, pulsing in your fingertips. Pity.
It wasn’t even the gesture itself that bothered you. It was the weight of it. His sweetness.
“Thank you,” you said softly, packing up your papers. Your chest lurched.
“For what?” Effie chimed in, walking in unannounced. You hadn’t heard her coming, which you usually did. Her nose was up in the air, her lips pinched into a heart shape again. You took a deep breath.
“Nothing, really,” you said, shaking your head. “Just about bread and butter.”
“Didn’t eat,” Haymitch added.
“Kind of you,” Effie nodded. “Haymitch?”
He didn’t answer. You looked up at him, eyes on you. You glanced over at Effie.
“Haymitch,” you said, lower. That seemed to bring his attention back. “Effie was talking to you.”
He turned haphazardly, “Hm?”
Effie waved her hand, “Never mind.”
The tension in the room was off balance. Unbearably so. You almost winced as they picked up their conversation, feeling how Effie adjusted to the fact that he’d not paid attention to her because of you. What was his problem?
Everything was different now, it felt. The air was thick. It was hard to share a room with the two at the moment, so you excused yourself.
Avoiding them was harder than you’d thought. Effie was in the halls, Haymitch, where there were sponsors and/or drinks. When you’d settled on the couch, he put the basket of bread in front of you before pouring himself another glass of whatever it was he drank past noon.
“You gotta eat somethin’,” he said. “C’mon.”
You grabbed a roll to satisfy him and continued. It was weird not feeling the ability to talk to him the way you were used to. So stupid that he got your heart racing. He was so… casual. “Haymitch.”
“Mm?” He seemed inclined to listen, leaning against the wall. “Tomorrow at dawn, the money should be processed, and we can send the sponsor gifts. I’m writing the notes, sponsors didn’t specify anything- is there anything you wanted to say?”
“Not… particularly,” he responded, pushing off and coming over to you. You almost winced again as he hovered behind you on the couch. He passed his drink forward for you, and you took it, taking a swig. It was bitter and a mistake, because it tasted like him. “Got something in mind?”
You passed him his glass back, his hand brushing yours as he took it back. You didn’t look behind you; you wouldn’t. Couldn’t. The tension was already putting heat in your wrists. “Words of encouragement. Something easy. Short and sweet.”
“You’re better at that than I am,” he said. You could feel his breath on your neck. He was so close, “Trust you’ll think of somethin’.”
“I’ll brainstorm,” you bit your lip and gestured for the drink back again. You took it again, finishing the rest of it. Maybe it’d make it all easier if you ignored the intimacy of the action. No.
Misjudgement, Effie walked in again. And theAnd then she put her hands up and walked right back out. Haymitch didn’t even see her, it seemed. Usually, he’d make a ‘hm’ noise or something of the sort, but there wasn’t any acknowledgement. Her heels today made little to no noise, you were finding out. This wasn’t good.
Haymitch took his glass back and refilled it at the small bar behind you, and before he left the room, maybe after Effie, after all, he placed it down beside your papers. “Eat first,” he said, then left. This care, the extra effort, rubbed you wrong. If it were genuine, you’d want it, welcome it, reciprocate it. Guilt was an awful fabrication of him.
He wasn’t Effie’s. They were friends with benefits at best, not even all that often, you reckoned. But he was much less yours.
You’d thought about it before, which made the sex so easy. Who wouldn’t think about Haymitch like that? He was witty, smart, and a pretty big man, loaded with a quip or a compliment and a sense of humour. He had his flaws, but then again, which victor doesn’t?
He was hot, very. With nice hands, too. You blinked away the imagery again, then sipped the drink he’d poured, which he’d added a mixer to this time, for you. Sweet. Quite literally. Sex was sex to him, you assumed, or he’d have brought it up by now. You knew him well enough to know that. Effie or you, both, if you were right about last night. Your stomach churned at the thought. And again, at the reminder that he was being so nice because he felt bad.
You jotted down the best notes possible before packing everything up for the day before dinner. You checked the games once and downed your drink before going to lie in bed for an hour. They were safe; that was all that should matter.
Dinner was quiet, at first. Effie and Haymitch were already seated by the time you arrived, and there was a noticeable air to the room that alluded to something happening before you’d arrived.
“Nice of you to join us,” Effie quipped, lips pursed.
“She’s two minutes late, Effie, hold your horses,” Haymitch said, putting up a hand. A defence you didn’t need. “Not like we were waiting to start.” He gestured to Effie and the meat she’d cut into tiny pieces on her plate. She stabbed one, making a small screeching noise on the plate.
“Sorry,” you said, taking your seat.
“No, don’t be sorry. Not a big deal.”
Effie made a little noise of disapproval, but you didn’t listen to it; instead, you served yourself and began to eat. You could feel Haymitch watching you, still. “How’s your head?”
“Fine,” you replied. Another short answer when your head buzzed with words.
“Keep drinking, and you’ll never be hungover, the key.”
“Oh, Haymitch,” Effie reached over and rapped his knuckle with her fork like a scolding mother. “Not everyone wants to be as miserable and drunk as you.”
Her words had bite, but they rolled off him like water. You nearly choked on the food you ate. She could be nippy at times in a bad mood, but that was particularly vicious from her. You just watched his jaw tighten as he pulled on a sardonic smile and nodded back, “Kind of you, Effie, thank you.”
Your eyes darted between them as she tipped her nose up further and ate another bite. The silence was louder than the harsh words. Just the three of you eating. To make things worse, before you could even ask for the pepper, Haymitch was already handing it to you, like he’d read your mind. Your heart beat fast in your chest, pulse jumping to pressure points. He just met your eyes, with a look you wanted to be yours alone.
His eyes wandered to you, wondering how to fix a mistake he’d made. That he felt responsible, that he was at fault, that he crossed a line.
You kissed him. You’d wanted him so badly you took what you wanted, and he gave it to you. Hard. You physically shook the thought out of your head.
Haymitch looked up at you. “You alright?”
“Mhm. Caught a chill.”
“You’re cold?” He asked. He reached around himself to grab his jacket off the chair, and you stopped him, putting your hand out gently.
“I’m okay, truly. Came and went.” You didn’t mean to sound so alarmed. “Thank you.”
“You sure?”
“Haymitch.” This time, you didn’t mean to make it sound like a warning. But it was. It would make the tension worsen. “Please.”
Do not do this for me. You don’t have to.
Your eyes met again. Differently. Aligned in a way that almost made your head spin again. He backed off, shaking his head. And the rest of the dinner was avoiding Effie’s glare and Haymitch’s pitiful eye.
And you wanted him. Which was the ache that began to fill your chest again. At the fact that there was pity. That he regret it. You were too young, too inexperienced, too… stupid. Drunk making bad decisions based on bad ideas. It was always going to be just sex, you couldn’t let yourself think otherwise.
You finished your food, picked up your things and brought it to counter yourself, beginning to wash things out of the sight of both of them. Best to get away from it all. Maybe in a week this would pass over. You and Haymitch could forget all about it.
You retreated to your room after that. Which would have been a nice escape if not temporary. A few hours to yourself, without the face-to-face worry about the whole mess of it. The want. The ache. The way you so desperately needed it all back.
A knot tied itself in your stomach. Unsettling. It was evening when you’d had enough and decided to get some air. You put on a sweater and took the elevator up to the roof, taking slow, paced breaths as you did your best to keep your mind off of it.
And you were still alone, up there. But the air was more breathable. You took time looking out over the city, keeping your mind focused on a plan for the next day, then the beauty of the city, then the softness of the breeze. It was cleansing.
It blew your hair around your face. The city was so colourful, so beautiful. Shame it wasn’t full of anything good.
You were up there thirty minutes when the silence broke. Elevator doors. You jumped, pressing your hand to your chest. But it was just Haymitch.
Your stomach fell to your feet.
“Scare you?” He asked, eyes landing on you.
“Something like that,” you said. You turned back to the city. This wasn’t happening. He’d found you again, and this time there was no escape but jumping off the roof, and that would be no use.
“You came up here a bit ago,” he said, strolling over. You could hear his soft pace. “You doing okay?”
No, I’ve been thinking about you all day. And against my will, I can’t stop thinking about how it felt to be yours, even for a second.
“As much as I can be,” you answered him.
“Left dinner pretty abruptly,” he remarked. You stayed silent. He continued to approach. “You shouldn’t listen to Effie when she’s in a bad mood. You heard what she said to me.”
“It’s not Effie.” Well, not all of it. “Just not feeling particularly… social.”
“You’ve not been feeling ‘particularly social’, a good chunk of today.” He moved closer. Too close. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d been trying to avoid me.”
He stepped beside you, hands on the edge, patting it twice. He looked out for a moment with you, then turned and again, you could feel his eyes. Roving. Checking. Wondering. Picking apart your expression. You didn’t want to be short with him, but it was all so overwhelming, hard to avoid the pressing words on your tongue and the weird urge to cry from frustration.
You put your fingers to your temple. “Haymitch.”
“Hm?”
“I don’t want this. I can feel you hovering around me all day.”
“Hovering?”
You shook your head, looking out at all the buildings around you, “Checking if I ate, had water, if I’m cold, about… sponsors. Following me around, looking at me like-”
You stopped yourself, looking at him. He was quiet, nodding, listening.
“You don’t have to do all that.”
He ran his tongue over his teeth as his eyebrows knit, like he was trying to decipher you.
Your voice shook and you hated it. It was so embarrassing- the whole thing was. “You don’t have to feel bad about last night.”
You watched his face change completely. His eyes widened gently, his jaw clenched, and everything softened. The words bouncing around your head all day had let themselves out and into the air between you. You couldn’t take them back or rephrase them. They were laid out, plain for him.
“Feel bad?” He questioned, setting his drink on the ledge.
“It happened. And it was fun, but you don’t need to check on me all day. There’s nothing I want you to feel guilty about. I wanted it.”
He interjected, holding out his hand, “Guilt? That’s what you think this is-”
“What else?” You laid on top of that. “I was drunk, but I’m not mad at you or the fact that it happened. I wanted it. I started it.”
“You think I-”
“Haymitch,” you stopped him before you broke further. “It was sex.”
“No,” he shook his head. “You’ve got the wrong idea-” he stopped himself this time, seeming to be lost for words. “You make things way harder than they have to be, you know that?”
You bit your lip, fighting the horrible pit that was turning itself into nausea in your stomach. The city blurred gently in your sight as you looked away from him. “It was a bad idea. Don’t think I don’t know better, Haymitch, I know bathroom sex isn’t a ‘forever’. I’m not that naïve, I promise.”
An ache flooded your body. It made you cold and hot at the same time, made your palms sweat. Your head spun again, and not in the good way. His jaw shifted when you looked back at him. You wondered if he could read your mind.
I know what I was to you. I won’t ask for more.
Silence.
You expected him to say something. A joke, maybe. Some smart little comment to smooth over the embarrassment of it all. Nothing came. Haymitch had gone still. His eyes weren't on you anymore. They were fixed somewhere out over the city, jaw tight enough you could see it shift.
“Right,” he said, breaking that silence. It was laced with defeat. “Sure, then. Sure.”
“Okay,” you nodded meekly. “Just didn’t want you worrying about it.”
“No, you’re right.” He said, picking up his drink again. “Though you really don’t get it.”
You sighed heavily, blurting from frustration and discomfort, “What is there to get? It was nothing. Meant nothing. I get that.”
“Yeah, okay,” he grit. Your stomach dropped again, the confirmation pulling on your heart, too. “Right, then. You’re right. Bad idea.”
Your voice cracked unwillingly. You didn’t really believe that, so it was hard to hear it back from him. “Then go?” You said incredulously, “Effie is probably wondering where you are.”
“Effie?”
Your eyebrows furrowed. You knew how hurt you looked; your expressions betrayed you. “Don’t think that I don’t know what happened. There’s no use in it. We can move on with our lives; meaningless is meaningless.”
“Angel.” He softened for only a moment. Like he wanted to explain.
But you couldn’t let him. “Don’t.”
Your fingertips hurt with the pressure of the ache.
“Fine.” He said, retreating. “Fine, then. Bad idea.”
And he walked away, just as you’d asked him to. You pressed your hands to your face, eyes blurring again. Your chest was tight, and your stomach churned heavily. He’d agreed with you. And that was that.
Guilt no more, but now there was nothing else. Just a horrible memory of something good making a mess of everything.
Haymitch took the elevator back to the penthouse with a heart full of guilt that had not been there before he’d been accused.
He shook his head to himself and downed his drink. Effie would be waiting. And that would be easier. Less thought and effort needed. He was defeated and full of regret for the way he’d handled things on the roof. He was a liar, and once again, his avoidance had gotten the better of him. It was not easy, even finding the emotion to label it for himself, let alone you.
He poured himself something stronger. Drank it all in a matter of seconds, slugging off to his room to sulk and let the drinks hit him well. He would follow orders, yours. It wasn’t a pretty situation, but he was used to ugly.
Last night’s fight with Effie had been hours of going in circles, but he was confident enough that she’d pass the time. Take his mind off of you. If that was awful of him, so be it. Wasn’t anything new.
Effie knew he was complicated- and it’s not that she was incredibly lonely, he just happened to be a casual enough person to give her what she needed, time and then. Last night wasn’t that, though. And tonight, he needed it to be, or he might never get the images of you on that counter out of his head.
Two dizzy hours passed, the evening pushing into late night. He found Effie exactly where he thought, reading a Capitol magazine on the couch, the games on the TV. He checked the stats: one death, from District 7, then cleared his throat. “Busy?”
She ignored him.
“My room, 10 minutes?”
That perked her head up. “Really, Haymitch?”
“Askin’,” he replied. “Can say no.”
“You really think after spending your day orbiting your former tribute, barely casting a glance my way, I’m going to get into bed with you?” She shut her magazine.
“Won’t you?”
“Maybe.” She said, a little weaker. “If you’re not too busy being oddly invested in the livelihood of Y/N.”
Haymitch huffed, imagery burning hot in his mind at the mention of your name. In his hands, too, if he focused. Fuck.
“‘Oddly invested.’ When’s the last time you’ve seen me invested in anything but the location of a strong drink?”
“Don’t lie to me, Haymitch Abernathy,” she tsked. “I don’t know what that’s about, and quite frankly, I don’t think I want to. That’s your mess.”
Mess, it was. What was he about to do with her, with you in his head? “She had a rough night.” That was a half-truth, if you focused hard on the adjective.
“And you suddenly care ten times more that she’s eaten? I don’t think you’ve cared about my meals in the decades I’ve known you. And it’s more than meals. Waiting hand and foot to supply what she needs, Haymitch, it’s… something else.”
He looked away, tensing his jaw. “-And who is it I’m asking for right now, hm?”
“Well, me,” she blinked.
And Haymitch accepted the answer like he hadn’t asked the question. He was cruel tonight. Effie was just… easy, in ways that his life was never. A familiar thing, and now a familiar distraction. It was really only her he could disappear on, return worse to, and still have something to do with himself. This was always easy for him, because she understood that what they were doing together was just to keep him company without the intimacy of much real conversation.
So why did this feel so hard to do? Like he was standing in shoes that didn’t fit, all of a sudden. This easy, this company, was not truly what he wanted. It was what he needed to cleanse his palate. Of you. Your taste, your scent, your sounds. You talked nicely, and you never took his rough edges personally. And you were year-round company, so maybe this was different because it was you. And maybe those usual shoes of cruelty and true meaninglessness had shrunk because they’d narrowed themselves to fit something else. Someone else.
Effie was a broad-scale thing, but you, you were pointed. As was his focus on you all day, which was new and different. An urge he’d not had in many years, to care more, was born from some flood of emotion like you’d broken every dam that held him to himself and his bad habits. And in the grand scheme, no, it wasn’t a good idea to do what he did, but you were right. You had pulled him in first. And good company became great company when he realized he wanted you to come more than he wanted to finish himself off, to be crude.
“Haymitch,” Effie yanked him back from his thoughts, snapping her manicured fingers.
“Mhm?”
“Well, come on then. Before I change my mind.” Her voice and face still held irritation, but she stood and smoothed her skirt as the edges of her tone softened. They always did. And he should have felt relieved. But no, instead, his stomach sank.
And he just followed her down the hallway, using the wall to prop himself up. What else was there to do? You, yourself, had told him to go. You looked at him with eyes that held hurt, despite what you said with your voice shaking like it was. You weren’t jealous or even fully angry, it seemed.
You looked at him as if you’d already pushed yourself aside before he could.
He wouldn’t have.
He followed her into her room, locking the door behind himself, as if that was a problem. He couldn’t remember when he’d poured what he had, but he drank it anyway. Effie moved around naturally in her quarters, heels getting set to the side, wig off to a mannequin head, lipstick wiped away.
And he just stood there. If this were maybe four years prior, he’d be helping. Strategic with his kisses, but he just stood at the door, like he would find it in him to unlock it and leave. He couldn’t do that now. He’d have to drown out the thought of you with liquor and really meaningless sex.
He wasn’t even looking at Effie, now. Just dead ahead.
Your voice had been so shaky on the roof. And you’d been so determined on thinking he was feeling guilt or pity that he’d done what he’d done with you. He let you believe it, in the end. Despite how wet your eyes got, reflecting the thousands of city lights. Your hair had blown around your face, and he wanted to push it away, tuck it behind your ears like you always did when you were nervous.
He had also wanted to kiss you up there, which was strange, because Haymitch hardly kissed anyone. Not even Effie. Usually, it was a few pecks and diving into the need portion. And yet last night, you’d kissed him against the wall at the back of that party and all good sense was thrown out the door. All normalcy with it. At least, what was normal for him.
He was made cold by pain and time. So to feel warmth… it spawned a new sort of addiction in him. And he’d chased it all day.
Effie’s room was cold. It pricked up the hairs on his folded arms.
Effie took a seat on her bench, taking off the bright blush that painted her cheeks. His eyes darted to the clock. How was it almost midnight, already? Time passed strangely when you spend it all drunk off your ass.
He’d remembered the clock from last night, glancing at it before and after being in that bathroom with you. An hour and twenty minutes that he would not forget until he buried it under the rest. Your hair had fallen in your face then, too, but it stayed that way because your hands were too busy rooted in his.
Your eyes had been glassy, then, too, but not with any sadness. All of it came back in flashes: your smile, the giggle that slipped out when he’d picked you up to put you on that counter in the first place. Warm, all warm.
“Haymitch,” Effie’s voice was cold, sharp, cutting into his daydream.
“Yeah?”
“You haven’t moved,” she pointed with her comb as she unpinned her hair. So begrudgingly, Haymitch moved slowly to sit on the edge of her bed. He could feel Effie watching him. “What is this, Haymitch?”
“I don’t know,” he deflected. “Tired, I guess.”
“Too tired for this?” She quipped. He didn’t even look at her. “Haymitch.”
“Sorry,” he tsked, letting the ice in his glass numb his hands. “No, no, I’m not. You done undoing yourself?”
That made her lip twitch, “Might need some help on the upper half,” she said, quieter. “Care to lend a hand?”
He was nauseous, but he set his glass aside and crossed the room to her, his feet feeling like they’d each had a bag of bricks attached. The same feeling he’d had leaving you on the roof, so pretty and so ailed by his ways. Did you think that you were just a… stray in his path of destruction?
Did you think of yourself as just another woman to have? Not that Effie was- it was more so that this was friends with benefits. Nothing serious. Is that why you thought it was meaningless? With drinks mixed in, it wasn’t exactly thought out. It was frenzied, almost. He’d never been so turned on in his life. The way you touched him, like his age and his body, were not the ugly things he thought them to be. The way you let him touch you, so soft and delicate, so wet for him before he’d even touched you.
When his hands unclasped Effie’s necklace from around her neck, he was hard. Undeniably so. But it wasn’t for her, which disgusted him. He was yours, even here, with someone else, he would sink himself into to drown out the way his mind only thought about you, your lips, your waist, your smile. Fuck.
Effie’s pink nails slid up his forearm, accidentally pulling the hair on it. “What should we do first?” She asked, like she knew this was transactional. It always was. There was no real heat. Just bodies doing what they’re meant to with their anatomy. The opposite and complete contrast to how fucking you felt. “I’ll be yours tonight.”
“Good,” he said, low, his hand sliding over her shoulder. She shut her eyes and tilted her neck as if she expected him to kiss it, but there was no natural progression in this. Erect, but without any present emotion. It was completely deranged and revolting of him. Like every time he blinked there was you, flashes from home, flashes from the party, before you’d even kissed him, even today, when he’d stood behind you like this, and watched you drink from his glass.
Against everything in him telling him not to, he did lean to kiss Effie’s temple, then the place beside her ear, then her neck, as she’d wanted. Once, twice, slowly, so that maybe he could wade into the life he wanted to get back to before you’d pulled him in and into another version of himself. She smelled powdery, and when he used his teeth, he could taste the chemical of where she’d applied it. This was all wrong.
Her hand curled around his wrist as the kiss made it to her mouth, once, twice, and in between, he had a glance out the window. And that was all it took. A look at the city, the same skyline that had fuzzed behind you when you had looked straight into his eyes and had said, ‘It was nothing. Meaningless. I get that.’
And he didn’t reply with anything he wanted to say. Just shut down in the face of vulnerability.
He kissed Effie, and she pulled him in closer, with wide gaps between kisses, her eyes roaming his face, as if still trying to decipher him. And he said her name, softly, willing himself to want.
But she went stiff, under his mouth. Froze, like she’d turned to ice.
“Effie,” he repeated as she pulled back, blinking. Her eyelashes hit his cheek; she hadn’t removed the false ones yet.
“What did you just say?”
“Didn’t say a thing,” he replied.
“No, you-” he put her hand between them, forcing Haymitch to rise to his height and step back. “You did, Haymitch. You just did.”
“What happened?”
She looked at him incredulously, “You really have no clue?”
“Not a clue. Care to drop a hint while I stand here, guessing?”
“You are unbelievable, Haymitch Abernathy.” She laughed once, but it lacked amusement. “And to think, for a moment, I believed that maybe I was just imagining things, but you… You are different, and it is all about her.”
“Who?”
“Y/N,” she responded sharply, glaring at him. “I don’t believe it. You really have made a mess, haven’t you? Calling me by her name, Haymitch. I know you’re drunk, but what a stupid, stupid mistake you just made.”
That stopped him in his tracks. He understood now. And fuck, it was those intrusive replays that had screwed him over. “Effie,” he started, but what would come after that? He couldn’t apologize. Explaining would make things worse if he admitted he needed this to forget about you, for a moment. So he was quiet. And that also made things worse.
“Wanting my company, things I have to offer, but not wanting me, Haymitch, it’s low, even for you.” She said. “Don’t try to lie your way out of this.”
She pointed to the door, “Out.”
“Effie,”
“No. No Effie here. I won’t have it. Get out, Haymitch.”
“C’mon,” his heart pulled, not at the exile, but at the fact that you were present in this room, even when you physically were not. And at the impending doom that was knowing you had ruined him for his old ways, and he may never be able to forget a single thing. There would be no getting out of this, or away from this, if he were completely honest with himself.
“Take your glass with you.”
And he didn’t fight that. He did what he was told and left with a simple, “Goodnight.”
If his liver failed him tonight, he wouldn’t be angry; he understood.
You had come down from the roof about forty minutes ago. You’d had enough time to shower, brush your hair, and check in on the games. Most were sleeping soundly, and your tributes were okay. Time on the roof had allowed you to decompress, but his words echoed gently around your head. It was much worse than having the replays of the night flash in and out of your head.
You lay on your back, hand on your stomach, wondering if anyone would ever make you feel the way he had, so effortlessly. Your heart continued to ache, despite the amount of time that had passed. It was a dull pulse in your system, soft, but there.
You wanted him. How unfortunate. You rolled onto your side, hands under your head, as if to roll from the thoughts. He’d denied you knew the answers. He told you that you had it wrong. But he’d gone to Effie, for sure, as you’d said.
You rolled back onto your back, your hand dipping toward your thigh, where you could see the now-faded love bites he’d left between them while his fingers coaxed your hips to the edge of the counter with a gentle, curling pump. In and out. Messy. Loud. Obscene, really. He’d already made you come twice at that point.
It was addictive, almost, to hear the slap of his skin against yours as he fucked into you the way he did. Angled, holding a leg of yours so he could bottom out and fill you as much as possible. You’d clutched his shirt, absorbed his every heavy breath. It was hot, so very hot, so incredibly, overwhelmingly hot. Every second of it.
You stopped your own hand from rising higher. It wouldn’t compare. It was all silly. There would be no distraction from this for a while. For now, it was just a mess of feelings and understandings and-
There was a knock at your door. It was quarter-past midnight, now, an odd time to call on you. Part of you worried it had to do with a tribute, so you stood quickly in your cotton nightgown and opened the door to face Haymitch.
He looked rougher than usual. Worse than you’d seen him before, on the roof. His blue-grey eyes met yours and settled, while he ran his hand over his beard and gestured to you, loosely. Like he’d meant to say words, but nothing came out.
His eyes dropped to your nightgown as your heart began to pump hot blood through your body. His shirt was wrinkled. His vest was undone. He had no drink in his hand. Just himself, standing outside your door, shifting his weight from heel to heel.
You tucked your hair behind your ears and folded your arms over your chest. You were mildly aware that your nightgown, though white, was see-through. Not that he hadn’t seen what was underneath, already.
You just stared at each other for a moment.
“Effie kick you out?” You asked, blinking a few times, attempting to stand your ground.
He ran his hand over his facial hair again, and the silence came thick, heavy. You turned, scoffing.
“No, it’s not…” he jumped in, clearly unsure of what to say. “Not like that. Don’t-“
“No?”
His jaw tensed, “No. Never was.”
You hated how his words softened you. You didn’t want to avoid him or hate him or what had happened. “Well, then… what?”
“Gonna let me explain this time?” He looked at you through his brow.
You hadn’t earlier. You were too frustrated with him to listen, and you knew that. It was hard enough to get the words out then that you couldn’t take his in. “Are you going to be honest with me?”
He nodded once, mouth pressed in a line. He looked just as defeated as he had on the roof, but also as if he’d been battered around for the past three hours. You moved out of the way for him to come in. He didn’t go far, just far enough to help you shut the door behind him, eyes not leaving yours.
“If you’re here because she cast you away, then that’s fine, but I don’t want any details. My imagination has been filling in the gaps just fine.” You said. “And I will listen to you otherwise, but no excuses. I know what I was to you.”
“Clearly, you don’t,” he cut you off, looking around your room casually. “Got anything to drink in here?”
“Haven’t had enough?”
“Liquid courage, angel,”
You laughed, but it was kept short, “That’s new.”
“All is,” he agreed with you, eyes dragging up your body to get back to the eye contact that seemed to bore holes into your mind. “I’ll do without.”
“Good.”
His shoe scuffed the ground, “It’s not all what you think it is.”
“What isn’t?”
“Will you let a man talk?” He huffed, but it was not unkind. The room was growing hotter by the second, it seemed. It was familiar, how he spoke to you, but there was an undertone that laced you with that urge to lean in and listen. To soften further, to him. You just nodded as he continued, “With Effie. And with you.”
You nodded again.
“Wasn’t hovering today out of guilt. I’ll say that much.”
“Then what?”
“Patience, woman,” he tsked, getting just the slightest bit closer to you, like he hadn’t meant to. He smelled good, still. Your eyes flickered over his hand, eyes subconsciously tracing the veins on the backs of them, the one that travelled up his pointer finger to his mid-knuckle. “I did hear you, on the roof. But I don’t know how much of it you meant.”
A panic rose in your chest now. Caught. If your blood could pump hotter and faster, it did. You wished you had something to drink in your room right now. “Is that a question for me? I feel I… was pretty clear on how I felt.”
“Meaningless is meaningless,” he quoted. And it stung, hearing it from him, so you knew it was fake on both ends, “I tried, you know. Following that advice, you ended with.” He wagged his finger as he spoke; his expressions were all his own, casually, but his eyes swept the floor.
“Tried what?” You whispered now, chest tightening.
His expression changed, softening with yours, but his jaw hardened like the words were fighting against leaving his tongue. Steely-eyed, rugged, and raw, he looked at you in a way you could only describe as aching. He’d always looked tortured, but this was a look that carried something for you only.
You’d seen it last night in flashes, between looks of hunger and desire. You’d seen it when you looked into his eyes as he thrust into you, whispering your name. You bit your lip then, as you did now.
You knew that Haymitch struggled with laying emotions out. He rarely did. He just let them come and go, splash across his face and move on, ignoring any questions about it, but he put his hands up as if to surrender.
“Went back down here. Tried pretending that this-” he gestured between the two of you, “-really was nothin’. Drunk mistake.” Your chest swelled, and your breath hitched. You hoped he wouldn’t notice, his eyes on the floor between the two of you.
Your arms gently unfolded. “And?”
“Found Effie. Like you said.”
Your body winced, bracing for him to get the words out. “And? Haymitch, please.”
“And couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.”
His eyes found yours, no doubt reading the second hitch of breath as well as how still you went. He nodded once and looked off to his right, away from you. Your lips parted gently, unsuspecting of the confession. Your head swam with questions.
Then he laughed under it, as if he was ashamed of himself, “Wanted to put you out of my head. Almost succeeded, to tell the truth, but hell, I walked into that room with you on my mind. And it was all day, too.” He stopped himself there. “Honest enough for you?”
You blinked quickly, trying to wrap your head around that perspective. “All day?”
“And all night. Since it happened, essentially. All last night, through to tonight.”
“With Effie?”
“Fought with her, nothing else, then a sleepless night of just… you. Tonight was… different.”
For some reason, you couldn’t wrap your head around it. This rewrite. The hovering was for the same reason as your avoiding him- The inability to get last night out of your head. You wondered if he’d been having flashbacks the whole day, the same way you were. “And she did kick you out? Just now?”
“Yes.” He admit, jaw clenching. “Thirty minutes ago, not that it’s important. Didn’t make the decision to come here lightly.”
“Why?” You pressed, eyes wide, heart pounding.
“To which?”
“Why did she kick you out, Haymitch?”
He swallowed hard, sliding his finger under his nose casually, as if the gesture would bring less impact to his next words.
“Said your name before I even touched her,” he deadpanned, letting his eyes find yours again.
It was like the floor dropped out from under you. That was grave, a good mistake, a heavy one, one you hated that you loved. He and Effie hadn’t had sex last night. Only you and him, which was a relief by itself, but also meant you were not just a meaningless fling for him. He’d chosen, and from what he was saying, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.
Haymitch Abernathy. Thinking about you. That was so… Your eyes fell to his mouth, unconsciously. In the same way it had the night prior. Something warm bloomed under your ribs, watching his tongue dart out to sweep his lips, waiting for you to say something. He had said your name while with Effie. He was waiting for you to say something.
“I’m…” you pushed your hair behind your ears again. His eyes were soft as he waited. “Really?”
“Mhm.” He nodded, swaying gently, not from nerves but his usual imbalance. “Wasn’t a mistake, to me, angel. Was hovering because I couldn’t stay away from you- Not my… usual way about things, but just… somethin’ in me wanted to.” He admitted, eyes falling on your form as you leaned on the foot closer to him and moved closer, just a little.
“Yeah?” A smile tugged on your lips, a wave of relief washing over you again, warmer. Forgiveness, with it, possessing you to reach for his wrist. “Haymitch.”
“Didn’t mean to hurt you, earlier.” He replied, coming closer to you as well. Your skin burned hot, a flush crossing your shoulders, a blush crossing your face. “I don’t think… either of us meant much of what we said. Would I be…” he took a sharp inhale, “-Right?”
“It wasn’t meaningless to me if it wasn’t to you,” You answered, voice quieting as his hand slid across yours gently, so that his large hand wrapped around your wrist. His skin was so warm, it was almost like it melted you. Misunderstanding… “I just said that so maybe it’d be less… embarrassing.”
“Wasn’t embarrassing.”
He wanted you. Then, now.
And it couldn’t have been easy for him to admit. Wasn’t like him, not that you’d foreseen. Yes, you knew bathroom sex was never forever, but there was no confirmation that it was ever his intention to have it be a one-time thing. He wouldn’t say he was sorry, because he wasn’t.
You breathed out, hard as he pulled your wrist to his mouth. You could feel his facial hair graze it, tickling, as he pressed a tender kiss to the pulse at your wrist.
“Said my name?”
“Pointless to try and bury you when I still can’t stop thinking about the way you sound when I…“ he kissed your wrist again, eyes flickering upward to watch your lips part. “And how it feels to…”
You bit your lip, which made him smile against the soft skin of your wrist, “-Kiss you.”
“Haymitch,” you whispered, letting yourself get closer. “You thought about me because the sex was good, or thought about me because-“
He kissed your palm, then your curled fingers, “You. Just you. All you.” You breathed out shakily as he pulled you toward him, slow, steady, hot. “I’m not all that good at the… romantics, of it. But it’s there, against my will.”
You smiled gently again, “What changed?”
“You opened a door and… I haven’t felt this way in a long time, angel. I don’t take it lightly.”
Which made your smile widen. “I’m just that good?”
“Whoa, woah, woah-“ he teased back, your regular groove and banter beginning to return. The wall of ice and assumed regret had melted. He didn’t feel bad for what he’d done; he had no reason to. He was coming back for more. Not just of your body, but you. “Not an implausible theory. Enough to have my mind wrapped around your pretty-“ he kissed your knuckles again, “-little-“ another kiss, “-finger.”
You couldn’t breathe. Being drunk yesterday had made it all so much easier, the eye contact, the pressure and the graze of his mouth on your skin. It’d all been so quick, too. No time to think about anything but what I want.
This was, in many ways, the same. The same heat, same desire, same intimacy, just painfully drawn out so that you could feel every single prick of his beard as he kissed down to your wrist again. “Wanted to… be around you, today. It’s a strange thing to feel the pull of a magnet at just the sound of your laugh. Sight of a smile.”
“Poor Effie,” you sighed, letting him pull you closer.
“She’s got better prospects,” he mumbled.
You should have felt more guilt, but the gentle kisses were just… completely wiping your brain clean of anything from today. “Thirty minutes…” You whispered.
“Hm?”
“If she kicked you out thirty minutes ago… Spent the time practicing, then?”
His mouth twitched, fending off a smile as he looked over your face now, low-lidded. His hand came up your arm and gently cupped the side of your face. The gesture dizzied you, and you felt yourself melt into it. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Maybe,” you hummed, his knuckle then gently grazing your cheek, then your jaw, then the underside of your lower lip, eyes not leaving you once.
“Cruel thing,” Haymitch muttered.
“Couldn’t last a day…” You teased him now, partially to mask how heavy your breathing had become under his gaze. “You like me then, hm? I changed you, this is
“Unfortunately,” he smiled, teasing you back with a tap under your chin. The tension was almost unbearable. The pace he was going, the prolonged eye contact that only broke when his eyes dipped down to your mouth. It was tantalizing, torturous, almost. You’d both spent the day all wrong- or at least you had, with the wrong idea in your head. It seemed now, at this moment, he was determined to undo every negative thought that had bounced around in there today.
You blushed hard, having to break eye contact yourself. “Funny,” he added, turning your head back to him by a gentle push of your chin. “Don’t remember you being this shy last night.”
Your knees nearly gave out. “... Or quiet,” he added, with a smug grin.
You rolled your eyes, deserved, but still bashful. “Shame the day was spent on silliness,” you said, quieter. His fingers and eyes traced your lips and a hot ache spread through your stomach. You knew what both your minds were on, having spent the past 24 hours ruminating, remembering, replaying…
It was intense, how quickly they all came flooding back, all-consuming- the memory. The imprint of his hands on you, the scent, the heat. “Could spend the night differently,” you added, looking for his reaction.
“Not expecting a thing from you,” he added, voice gruff and firm.
“Just gonna stare at me?”
“If you let me,” he reasoned. “Busied by it, actually. But you’re feeling okay, now? … Wanted?”
“Yes. Though I could do with some proof.” You shrugged, easing a smile from him again.
You watched him run a hand over his beard again, and drop it to his side, like he was debating. “What kind?”
“i think maybe you could kiss me, to start,” you said, despite your nerves, despite how your pulse jumped and your heart thumped harder by the second. He raised his eyebrows, again pretending to debate, which you tapped him on the arm for. “If that’s something you want.” You added, shaking your head.
“Should definitely… check,” Haymitch answered. And Haymitch himself had you on the mind, thinking about how strange it was to want to kiss and the notion that just kissing you might be enough for him. His hand settled at your waist, his hand gently slipping over your hip until he had a good grasp on you, two of his fingers finding a place to rest just under your shirt. “You sure?”
“Don’t joke,” you tsked, grinning. “The whole day goes away if you kiss me now. Here.”
“I kiss you?” He teased, drawing it out.
“It’s your turn, isn’t it?”
“Mmm, guess so, then,” his tongue gently swiped his lips as his hand slid back over your jaw, and to the back of your neck. “Might be rusty.”
“We kissed last night,” you giggled gently, pressing against him now purposefully. You stood right under his nose, trying to out-smug him. “That wasn’t rusty.”
“No, far from,” he agreed. “Though it wasn’t me who kissed you first, was it?”
You rolled your eyes again, “Are you stalling?”
“Told you I was busy looking at you.”
“So you don’t want to kiss me?”
“Never said that,” he quipped, fingers gently digging into your hip. The hand at the back of your head lightly curled into your hair. “Occupied is all.”
“Mhm,” you smiled, pulling him impossibly closer by the loop of his belt. “Kiss me, please.”
His smirk was devastatingly attractive, weakening your knees as he looked over your face. “You sure?”
“Mhm,” you nodded.
He leaned in, but you were too busy studying his eyes to notice. “Completely sure?”
“Yes,”
“Really sure?” His low-lidded eyes flickered over your eyes and mouth.
“You are such an assh-“ and he kissed you. Not hard, like yesterday. Just enough to quiet you. Was just like him to, anyway. But this was slow, still. Impactful, but slow. Soft.
Your hands immediately grabbed at his vest, his shirt as he kissed you. It was completely perfect, mouthes meeting like you’d known how to forever. It melted you, open-mouthed kisses and perfect alignment. His hand slid around to your back, pressing you close, keeping you close.
You moaned softly, tasting the drink on his tongue as it dipped gently into your mouth. Your hand slid up his chest, feeling what was familiar to a drunken memory, this time- sober. There was time to take in how opposite this was to the frenzy of last night, how the heat lingered, and goosebumps spread over your skin when his hand slid back over your neck to the front of it, just placed there to hold you where you were.
Poor Effie, you thought for a moment. But then his other hand lowered down your shoulder, and another wave of goosebumps washed away the thought.
Your hand moved up his chest and to his jaw, grown-out stubble against your hand and mouth. It shouldn’t have been so addictive, but it was.
His hand began to travel down to the top of your dress, fingers gently running over your collarbone. You kissed him harder, the slightest bit faster, and he matched your pace with ease. You angled your hips against him, and he breathed hard into your mouth, reactive in the best way.
“You want that?” He asked, between kisses as they became increasingly fervent.
“Please,” you breathed, grinning against his mouth.
He let out a sound like a sigh, tongue slipping over your lower lip, intoxicatingly. And you kissed him again, hard. Harder, tilting your head as you curled into each other. Both his hands braced your back as your arms came up around his neck, the two of you stumbling back a few steps.
His hands roved up your back, your nightgown rising up your thighs. You’d not been expecting company, let alone an apology- there was nothing underneath, and he knew that. Unfair.
Your hands came down his chest, and he shrugged off his vest and tossed it while you started on the buttons of his shirt. This would be new. Last night, you’d only undone the top few before immediately, desperately unbuttoning his pants, but this was different.
He kissed you, then the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, distracting you while you undid the buttons over his stomach. You grinned, breath hitching, “Haymitch-“
“Hm?”
He turned his head, and you kissed him again. This time, he groaned into your mouth, succumbing to it like he’d been starved. Your fingers brushed the hair on his stomach as you finished the last of his shirt buttons, but he didn’t take it off.
You grabbed him by the open shirt and used it to pull him close again while he undid his belt. You kissed and kissed and kissed, like there was nothing more you both could ever want. It was such a trap to fall into, the sound just as sweet as the taste.
You slipped from him now, out of his full grasp, but enough to keep him chasing, large hand keeping at your waist as you pulled him toward the end of your bed.
He pulled his belt off as he followed, eyes hungry and dark as you sat on the bench at the end of your bed. “You are…” he groaned as you pushed your hair behind your shoulders, hissing in a breath at the sight of you perched for him. “-Much too beautiful for me.”
“No,” you hushed, watching him undo the top button. He was hard; you could see it before he even opened it. The way it bulged and gently imprinted the fabric. You bit your lip, looking up at him and raising your hand. Pure want pulsed hot in your veins. “Can I-“
“Mmm, no,” he said, shaking his head. Your eyes traced his open dress shirt, over the dark hair that spread upward of his boxers, the shape of him, the size of him in his pants. You almost giggled, but bit your lip a little harder. “What’s funny?”
“Can’t believe you fit in me,” you confessed, reaching out despite his ‘no’. He didn’t fully mean it- he knew you knew that too.
He chuckled, “Oh, yeah. Tight fit though.” He teased back, tapping the underside of your chin again. Fuck, it was dirty. He was dirty. It was all dirty. Except this time, the only logical answer would be to double down on what was previously a bad decision. Now… you couldn’t want anything else. There was a pulse where he should be, throbbing and in need of contact, friction, anything.
“Haymitch,” you stood up, still under his gaze as you turned around him.
His smirk stayed, unsuspecting, but still knowing. “Yeah?”
“Fuck me.”
He arched his brow, “Big ask.”
“It’ll fit,” you replied, walking him backward until the backs of his knees hit the bench again. “You want me, I want you. Seems… logical.”
“Mhm,” he answered, quiet as you backed him into sitting on the bench. Now he looked up at you. It was reverent, his look. The look of a man newly opened by feeling, after repressing for so long, after burying what felt like inappropriate attraction at the bottom of a bottle or in another. There was a need, in both of you, to prove that the other was wanted. Beyond some drunken fling.
“Will you?”
“And more,” he answered, two large hands slipping over the silk of your nightgown, down your hips and over your ass. “Tell me again.”
You whispered, cusping confidence, “Need you to fuck me. Here. Now.”
He groaned again at the words, fingers dipping into the flesh through the thin layer of clothes. “C’mon,” he pulled you closer, and you ran your hands over his shoulders, squeezing gently as he pulled you onto his lap.
Your nightgown rolled up at your thighs, high enough that his hand could follow and nearly touch where you needed him. But it didn’t. Not yet.
He kissed you again. And it was hot, so hot. Like an explosion, like rough impact, but all wrapped up in a slow, hungry kiss that made you feel more than devoured, but savoured.
And his hand dipped between your legs, but only to grab himself. To move things out of the way enough to pull out his dick as you kissed him, his head tilted back to meet you at your perch, now on his lap. This would be new, but you ached for it, already more than soaked.
“You want this, angel?”
“So badly,”
“Familiar phrases,” he teased, still, though it was breathless. His hand stroked himself about three times before he raised himself higher to gently tap the tip against your clit. It sent more goosebumps over your skin, eliciting a sharp breath shared from both of you as you attempted to keep kissing through it.
He tapped it there a few times, testing, oddly gentle. And then he began to drag it through your folds, so slowly you almost lost your mind at the anticipation. “Your turn,” he said, almost a callback to your quip about kissing first. And it was true. He’d fucked you last night. “And I’ll do whatever you want me to, after.”
You nodded and grinned against his mouth, squeaking as he teased you with it, getting closer to slipping inside every time. The sound it made was vulgar, wet on wet. “Oh my god-“
“All for me, angel? This wet before I’ve even laid a finger on you. What ruminating does to you…”
“You were, too. Come on,” you tried to taunt back, but your voice was too shaky. “What caring does to a man.” You added.
He tsked, “True.” Then paused, voice gruff, “Gonna show me how it feels?”
You kissed him again, and that’s when he positioned himself exactly at your entrance, letting you sink down on his length. Both of you moaned, his more of an impressed hiss as he pushed into you, filling you to the hilt. “Oh, fuck,” you whispered, kissing him again.
His tongue ran over your lower lip again, “C’mon now, pretty girl.” Hands returned to your waist, starting to guide you as you moved up and down on him, slow, steady. “You feel so good. So good.”
“Uh-huh?”
“Taking me well, princess. So good for me.” You barely remembered how he spoke to you last night, drunkenly focused on the action rather than this, but combined- felt like a climax already. “That’s it.”
He helped you gain pace, “That’ssss it, pretty girl. Just like that.”
You moaned, the sound taken by Haymitch’s kiss, facial hair rough against your open mouth. He held you close, deep, one hand coming up behind you to grab your ass again as he coaxed your hips to roll against him as you rode him.
He groaned every time you sank on him. Deep, guttural, stronger than you’d remembered from the night before. You’d ached to have him inside you all day, but this was much more intimate. You could feel every inch of him as you picked your pace up gently, working to earn the sound of his approval, starved for more.
You kissed the best you could, still seeking each other's mouths, despite how messy and sloppy it was beginning to get. He felt good, thick, stretching you, hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars. You ground against him, making him moan, breathing heavy into your mouth.
You picked up the pace, softly moaning, but starting to bounce a little, between grinding on him, finding an alternating pace that made him grip you harder. “Fuck, babygirl. So good at this- too good at this- gonna make me come like this.”
“Yeah?” You grinned, biting his lower lip and pulling softly on it. He groaned louder than he had the whole time, so you ground on him, deep.
“Trying to kill me, too,” he huffed, kissing you again, before diving into kissing your jaw, ear, and neck. Every little action was compulsion to keep rocking on him, keep pressing, keep pushing, keep- “Fuck, angel.”
“Fuck,” you echoed. “Haymitch-“
A sweat pricked your skin, passion overtaking stamina. He kissed your skin, and you were going blind from pleasure alone. “Gotta ease up, angel, or I’m not lasting long-“ he gruffed. Voice low. “Gonna come.”
“Come, then,” you whispered.
“Mmm- too- fuck- dangerous, sweet… girl.”
“I need it,” you whispered, bouncing harder. There was nothing between you now. No misunderstandings, no one else, just everything you’d both been thinking about all day. “Please.”
His hands grabbed your ass so hard they were sure to leave fingerprints for bruises, but you just kept going, unrelenting, just as he’d been for you. “Mmm- Fuck. Can you take that?”
“Uh-huh,” you moaned, kissing him messily. It was wet, sticky, warm; his tongue back in your mouth made you dizzier and dizzier.
“Pretty little slut,” He mumbled against your lips. The words were sharp, but landed with a kiss and a sweet, soft, new wave of pleasure. You hummed, rolling your hips so you took him as deep as he’d go. “Yeah, you like that?”
“Mhm.”
“Never used that one-“ he managed, groaning through the sentence. “Slipped out.”
“Never?”
“All yours,” he said, too focused to be smug. The way his body tightened as you rode him was telling. “Fuck, I’m close. You sure you can take it?”
You just kissed him, hearing his breath shake through his nose, the heat of it on your skin. “Take all of it like slut you are, then, hm? You have no… idea… how badly I wanted to last night.”
You grinned, “Wanted you to, then, too.”
“Yeah? Been thinking about me fucking you raw, all day?”
“Again,” you rolled your hips, making him wince and coil further. “I know you have, too.”
“Oh, yeah,” his smirk only half-returned as you kissed him, feeling how close he was. “You feel so good, I’m gonna come, angel.”
“Uh-huh,” you squeaked, putting all the extra effort you had into fucking him harder, faster, grinding low, feeling him deep inside you.
“Such a pretty little…” He couldn’t get it out, which made you smile, endeared and enthralled, “Slut. Fuck- I’m coming, angel- I’m-“
It was with a deep grunt that he pulled you close to him, only making so that you could grind against him, see him through it. You felt him coil as if to wind up before you felt it seep, deep into you. His groan was broken and beautiful, breathless, and followed by a string of breathless pet names. You remembered that from the night before.
It was hot, hearing and feeling every detail instead of having them all blur together. You just grinned, kissing the corner of his mouth sweetly as you ground him through it.
His left hand moved upward, just to brush the hair from your face, then cup your cheek. “You are…” he trailed off, eyes meeting yours. “All I’ll ever need.”
You just smiled, looking down between the two of you. “So I was that good, then, hm?”
“Oh, better,” he huffed, kissing your jaw, neck, making you giggle softly. “You are… life-changing.”
You smiled widely, both of you gasping as you pushed off of him, but he had hold of your waist, so it was easy for him to rise with you, pick you up off the ground and put you down on the bed. “Round tao?” You asked, laughing.
“Mmm, no,” he replied, tucking himself away. “Round one, for you.”
“For me?”
“Of many.”
You bit your lip as he gently moved onto the bed, hand at your knee, before parting your legs, “Haymitch…”
“Well-deserved, I feel. Plus, not sure you’re all good on ‘proof’ yet.” He joked, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. Then slowly, pulled your nightgown up as he kissed down your thighs. “Mm- already been here, I suppose.” He mumbled, referencing the love bite left on your thigh. “This okay?”
“Please…” was all you could make out as his mouth connected with your clit. Hot. Hungry.
And it was round one of many, in fact, it was your turn for a sleepless night with Haymitch- by the time you’d both been completely satisfied with what you’d given and taken, the sun was already rising.
You smiled, head on his chest, after taking a brief shower with him. You’d denied temptations, though he’d almost gotten his way there, too. He was always so warm.
“Should probably check on our tributes… have breakfast,” you said, hand tracing the hair on his stomach.
“Five more minutes,” Haymitch said, pulling you just a little closer. “The day can do without us five more.”
“What about Effie?”
“She’s done fine without me before. I’m not the only one she lets visit for company.” He assured you. “And I won’t go back, I want you to know.” His hand smoothed over your arm, up and down.
“Aren’t you romantic?” You smiled. “Five minutes, starting now.” You grinned, turning to cup his jaw and kiss him. “Six more.” He mumbled against your mouth, kissing you back.
He was a little awestruck by the way a single person could make him feel. The shift was warily welcomed, but overtook him slowly. There was nothing sweeter, and he wouldn’t give it up, now that it was found. In you, he hadn’t expected. There was a shift, welcomed. Nothing between the two of you but a sheet, now. No words or actions.
This could be something worth getting used to. As long as communication was kept wide open.
Thank you soooo much for the request, I love writing what I know you guys want to see! Thank you for reading, as always. REQUESTS OPEN! In need of some new ones now lol <3
The level of mental hoops that guy had to jump through to say to his wife, "No, honey! Of course I wouldn't be cheating on you! Sex during gaycations doesn't count!"
Don't worry honey, all the other men on gaycation aren't real people and they stop existing after. Hey, where's all the homophoboa coming from suddenly?
