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DARK FIC RECS ─ .✦·········───
─── rin’s personal favorites
an archive of fics that i’ve loved ❤︎ i have no words to describe on how immensely grateful i am to these amazing writers here on tumblr. i hope you all the best in life <33
── .✦ HUNTERXHUNTER
guessing game - a/b/o setting and its about illumi?! ughh i love this sm esp how mc correctly guessed that illumi used her shirt as a pillowcase lol AND the line “this is all the space that we need between us”?! im obsessed! (@hypnoswrites)
soulmate au - chrollo soulmate au?!? im sat. another lovely fic by hypno! there’s a lot more amazing fics on their blog so please go to it and show your support ^^ (@hypnoswrites)
30 seconds - another chrollo soulmate au!! imagine finding out that your soulmate is a murderer and on top of that, he’s the phantom troupe leader! (@uvobreakmylegs)
sixth floor game - ok soo i never knew i needed demon shalnark until this came… a must read! (@uvobreakmylegs)
biting people you like - i’m such a sucker for vampire fics,, like just come over and bite me shalnark(@hypnoswrites)
mu heart is in my hand - a feitan soulmate au!! give me a soulmate au and my heart is yours (@after-witch)
chained veils - forced marriage with pariston?! 🤤(@envy-of-the-apple)
── .✦ CORIOLANUS SNOW
the driven snow - my first yandere snow fic that i’ve read! the horror that mc felt when she found out that she’s staying at the capitol (@after-witch)
NDA - hands down the best! poor livia :( her own son doesn’t even recognize her. “no one leaves the president.” trust me, i won’t. snow using mcs brother as a leverage for her to behave. dirty dirty snow (@perlelune)
no body, no crime - all time fav. please read thiss! 😛 (@perlelune)
── .✦ A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS
caged - the BEST dark valarr!! i love love long chapters <3 control freak valarr. i eat up all ur writing (@valarrtheyoungprince)
the favorite - omg aerion and valarr together!? gimme boaf! no words on how amazing this piece is! aerion being the asshole he is and lying to valarr about mc. from ‘valarr’ to its ‘your grace’ after he found out about the betrayal 😳 (@perlelune)
suprise - mmm daddy maekar… and he’s delusional too… this kind of troupe is like my guilty pleasure lol like hihihi, we all love egg! (@mrsdarkandyandere7)
picture-perfect - i wholeheartedly believe that there’s something dark hiding underneath valarr’s picture perfect facade! i mean, look at that man! he’s just better at hiding it than the others (@mrsdarkandyandere7)
distrust - so so good! like yes, valarr, just keep interrogating me like that ughsh. i love your dark valarr fics sssm, you keep me alive 🥺 (@mrsdarkandyandere7)
aerion targaryen - that dick corrupt me 🤤😔 (@beentainted)
valarr baby trapping - ughh ughhh yes! "i don't want any highborn lady, i love you," ok then, im easy, i give you permission to impregnate me! 😂 (@beentainted)
marked up - so what if we all a little into spanking!! let me take care of that for you, valarr 😋 who said thattt?? (@musingsofheaven)
thou shalt not covet - oh yes, daddy baelor and his son!!! baelors so fucking hot that i turn into a river every time i see him. valarrs hatred towards his step-mommy is not because she replaced jena, but something more scary ooooo shiver me timbers (@perlelune)
darling big sister - HELLO?? aerion being creepy as always, selecting whores that looks just like his sister :(( that man fr have a mommy kink anyone who disagrees is wrong (@imeow33)
a starved man is no laughing matter - who doesn’t love a reverse harem 😳 (@valarrswhitestreak)
dragons caught in the storm - honestly, this brings me back to my fifth grade wherein i tried to make a love potion for my crush ugh!! putting that aside, aerion taking the drink from mc that contains the love potion that was meant for valarr cuz yk typical aerion behavior and the horror that mc, daella, and rhae felt!! (@catbayunthestoryteller)
chosen - he hit me and it felt like a kiss 😔 me love love this, very very much!!! im like a wife that waits for her husband to arrive after work, but instead of that, its me on my toes waiting for the next banger of an update (°ロ°) (@loveobx)
── .✦ ROMAN GODFREY
bite marks and bruises - legit cried tears of joy when i saw this! who likes being chased and period sex anyways… its not like, i like it or something! may zeus himself strike me (@cherienymphe)
─── NOTE
legit if i added more like jjk, batfam, hsr, marvel, tua, outer banks, twst, dune, etc.. this would have surpassed hamilton’s essay.
to all authors out there, i love you all 🥺 your writings are all deeply appreciated by us readers and never ever doubt yourself and let the haters get to your mind. ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎
Please recommend angst x reader
I'M TIRED OF SMUT
The Monster and His Wife (Coriolanus Snow x Reader)
Prompt sent in by a friend who got it from a c.ai bot by @myheartbelongs (apparently. That’s what I was told.)
Warnings: heavy emotional manipulation (on both sides), reader is feisty, reader is going through it, kinda arranged marriage, rivals to lovers, reader likes to goad coriolanus, mentions of old paintings to represent relationship, both don’t really know what they want and switch up every now and again, reader doesn’t give a damn about pissing corio off, reader might be going a bit crazy cause if you were married to corio who wouldnt go crazy?, probably already been done, corio nickname not coryo, reader wears dresses sometimes, allusions to sex
Word Count: 7.4k
*dividers made by @enchanthings
The first time Coriolanus met you, he knew you were perfect. You touched his hand and he felt… nothing. It would be a perfect marriage; never being able to be manipulated or vulnerable with you because he didn’t love you. And you knew this, plain as day.
One night, Coriolanus sat up in bed, taking your hand in his. “Something on your mind?” The moonlight cast a dim ray onto his face, his blond hair becoming even lighter.
You were staring off into space when he took your hand. You glanced down at where his strong hand pressed into your palm, fingers forcing their way between yours. “No,” you replied simply. And it was truthful: you were thinking of nothing in particular, the only emotion running through you was the contemplation of another day of being the First Lady.
He hummed in acknowledgment as he ran his thumb over your knuckles, pulling you closer to him. He looked at you intensely, his gaze calculating as if he was analysing you. “You’re sure you’re alright, dear?”
Any other woman would smile up at him, sure that he cared for her. But after being married for almost five months, you knew better. You saw the deeper analysis of his stare, you felt the facet of control he was exerting by holding your hand. So you nodded again, staying silent. Your gaze wandered off again before shaking your head and saying, “sorry, I suppose I’m not being very talkative right now. How was your day?”
Coriolanus let out a soft exhale. He didn't mind that you weren't talkative. He found you easier to manage when you were silent, rather than when you made it your mission to retort to every comment. And in any case, he had no interest in your conversations. Only your arguments. They kept him on his toes and were a good exercise for his wit.
He shifted his position on the bed, sitting with his back pressed against the headboard. “My day was fine,” he replied evenly. “The usual presidential obligations.”
You hummed noncommittally, waiting for him to ask you about your day. When he didn’t, you sucked in a breath and said, “well, then goodnight, I suppose.” Your tone was clipped, and of course Coriolanus knew it, but he didn’t comment as you got under the covers and clicked off the bedside light. He didn’t move to do the same – instead, he remained seated against the headboard, his silhouette rigid in the dim light.
“Goodnight,” he replied smoothly, his voice cool and detached. His hand lingered atop the covers, his fingers tapping idly against the fabric. Your husband made no move to touch you, to offer any semblance of warmth. After a pause, he added, almost as an afterthought, “try not to let your thoughts keep you awake.” The words were clinical, empty, and unnecessary. Not a comfort, just an observation. Then, he turned away slightly, reaching for the book on his nightstand. Another practiced distance between you.
Your brows furrowed together in confusion at his words, but you shook off the uneasiness and tried to go to sleep. It took longer than normal, as if he sadistically knew that planting that fitful seed in your mind would keep you up. Of course he knew. Coriolanus’ mind games never stopped, after all. After a good twenty minutes, you huffed and reached up to turn on the light. “You haven’t turned a page,” you stated, looking over at him.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he heard you. He knew you'd break eventually, and here you were, unable to resist the urge to say something. He let out an exasperated sigh, feigning annoyance at your interruption. Without looking up from the book, he replied dryly, “no, I haven't. Your keen observation skills are truly remarkable.”
You sat up next to him, hands in your lap. “And why haven’t you?”
He closed the book with a soft thud, turning to face you with a slightly bemused expression. It was infuriating. “Because, my dearest,” he began, a hint of condescension laced in his tone, “not everyone requires constant mental stimulation. Some of us appreciate the quiet, the absence of mindless chatter.”
“Then why open the book?” you asked, mimicking his condescending. You suddenly remembered that he wanted this. He wanted to rile you up for whatever twisted reason he had. You took a breath, trying to calm down.
Oh, how he relished this little game of power, the subtle jabs at one another. It was practically entertaining. “Because,” he replied calmly, placing the book in his lap. You could almost detect a hint of arrogance in his voice. “I like to pretend to read. It allows me to appear intelligent without actually having to exert mental effort. Something you wouldn't understand, I assume.”
Your brows curved up and you couldn’t help but snort. “That’s ridiculous! So what I’m hearing is that the President of our nation doesn’t know how to read?” Arrogance dripped into your tone as Coriolanus got exactly what he wanted from you.
His pale eyes gleamed with amusement, though not the warm kind. The kind that made you wonder if he was laughing with you or at you. “Oh, Y/n,” Coriolanus murmured, tilting his head slightly. “Careful now. You forget yourself.” His fingers tapped against the cover of the book. His smile was razor-thin, always giving the impression that he knew something you didn’t. “Are you implying that the Capitol elected an illiterate leader? That would reflect poorly on all of us, wouldn’t it?” How he hoped you pushed further.
“Well, the nation has never asked you to read in front of it before,” you replied coolly. “Perhaps I’ll get a television network to ask you to read stories for the youth and then they’ll see how idiotic you actually are.”
For a fleeting moment, the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying a glimmer of amusement. “You are quite the comedian tonight, aren't you?” His voice was smooth as silk, but dripping with sarcasm. “I'm sure the nation would be thrilled to see their beloved President stumble over a children's book. Such high entertainment value.” His fingers kept drumming against the book, his eyes never leaving you.
Your gaze swept over the room, yet never landed on him. Your bedroom was ornate and perfect, though the two people who inhabited it were anything but. “Hmm,” you mused quietly. “Maybe I’m just frustrated with you is all. Though ‘beloved’ is a high title to place upon yourself.”
His fingers stilled against the book cover. “Beloved is a fact, not a title,” he countered smoothly, his voice laced with quiet authority. “And frustration? I wonder why that is. Could it be that you crave something I simply cannot give you?” His eyes flicked over your face, searching for any crack in your composure. He enjoyed your irritation, your defiance. It was far more interesting than when you were silently obedient.
You were still not looking at him, instead staring at the painting hung opposite your canopy bed. The painting, Venus and Mars, by an old Renaissance painter that somehow survived all those years, ironically expressed the message that love always conquered war. Coriolanus had gifted it to you for your wedding. “Not what you cannot give me,” you corrected him, “though that was a close guess. More of what you took away.”
His gaze followed yours to the painting: Venus and Mars laying languidly after having sex, a display of love and war fused into one. How poetic, he had thought when he gifted it. Not because it reflected anything between you two, but because it amused him – the illusion of devotion wrapped in mockery.
“Took away?” he repeated. “What, precisely, have I stolen from you, dear? Your freedom? Your joy?” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Or is this about something far more trivial?” Obviously, he knew the answer. He just wanted to hear you say it.
You finally turned and looked at your husband. You assumed the same position as him, propped against the headrest. “The ability for someone else to love me,” you told him, no sadness or remorse in your voice; only plain, strict fact. You had come to that conclusion early on the marriage and had come to accept it.
He took note of your cool, collected composure and felt a strange sort of amusement, or maybe almost respect. Most people would be weeping hysterically, begging him for reassurances and apologies. But you? No. That wouldn't be your style. “You miss being loved. You miss being wanted.” He let the words hang in the air between you, his gaze searching yours for any hint of vulnerability. Vulnerability was weakness, but he didn’t know if he wanted you to be weak or not. It would be easier to control you, obviously, but it would be much more fun to chip away at your confidence slowly but surely.
“Once again missing the point, Mr. President,” you smirked. “No, I miss my delusions of grandeur. I miss the thought that maybe someday, I would have been loved. What do you miss?” you asked him in a whisper.
For a moment, Coriolanus’ composure faltered by just a fraction, almost imperceptible. Delusions of grandeur… Was that how you saw your hopes for love? A product of delusions? He almost pitied you. “Miss,” he echoed, his mind working to find a response that didn't feel like an admittance of his own regrets. “I miss nothing,” he lied easily. “I have all I need.”
“Of course,” you whispered out mockingly, eyes turning back to the painting. “Why would the great President ever show any ounce of humanity?”
He knows your game. You're baiting him, trying to provoke a reaction. He wouldn't give in. “You mistake humanity for joy.” His voice was a cool, controlled murmur, now teaching you a lesson like you were beneath him. “Humanity is an exploitable trait. One I cannot afford to harbor. Something you clearly don't understand.”
“An exploitable trait like me?” you replied swiftly, almost as if you had been waiting for him to say it. “One there just for convenience? But that won’t bring any liabilities?” You took in a breath and continued, “yes, my placidity to be First Lady comes and goes, but then I always remember who I actually am. And I find myself wondering why me… out of all the other obedient girls?”
There it is. The defiance he'd been anticipating. He could deal with your sarcasm, your subtle jabs. But this was treading on dangerous territory.
“You were chosen for many reasons, dear,” the President said finally, his tone deceptively calm. “Your obedience was one. Your compliance another. And your... shall we say, 'manageability.' Your family's prestige and your own background made it an easy arrangement.” His gaze locked with yours. “Don't confuse convenience with affection.” His tone was suddenly very harsh.
“Oh, I never did,” you assured him. “But let’s be truthful… am I really obedient? Am I compliant? If I was, wouldn’t I be turned over and asleep right now? No…” you mused. “You wanted someone with just a bit of wit to keep you on your toes. Someone to verbally spar with to keep things interesting.”
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his lips. You'd almost caught him. You were close enough to the truth to be interesting, yet far enough away to remain unharmed. “Is that what you think?” he asked, his fingers drumming lightly against the book again. “That I keep you around for entertainment? Y/n, Y/n... if I wanted verbal sparring, I'd hold another Cabinet meeting.” His gaze hardened just slightly. “No. You're here because you serve a purpose. Whether you're obedient or not is irrelevant, so long as you continue to serve.”
There was a pause. Then, softer, colder: “Do try not to overestimate your importance.”
His words hit closer to home than you would like to admit, but you didn’t let it show. “Isn’t obedience the same as serving?” you asked him lowly. “If I fail to be obedient, then I won’t be serving your purpose,” you rationalised.
“Obedience is blind,” he stated, his voice dropping to something almost intimate, if intimacy could ever be cold and calculated. “Serving is strategic. You don't have to be obedient to serve my purpose, Y/n. You just have to be... useful.”
His fingers stilled, resting against the book's cover. “And right now?” Coriolanus tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “You're very useful.”
The unspoken threat lingered beneath the words. Usefulness isn't permanent.
You blinked slowly, fingers twitching around the duvet once more. “And I suppose you’ll never tell me your… purpose for me?” you asked after a long moment, gears racing in your head as you tried to think of a way to come out on top. But you didn’t think you could. And you detested that feeling.
“No,” he replied simply, his tone almost casual. “I won't.” He leaned back, the cover of the book against his palm. “You don't need to know your purpose, Y/n. You just need to do your part.” The words were cold and unfeeling, serving as a stark reminder of your place in this arrangement.
“And how can I do my part if I don’t know my purpose?” you asked, voice lowering once more. “If I keep ‘disobeying’, then it’s futile. Wouldn’t you rather me know what you expect me to do?”
He exhaled sharply through his nose as a silent laugh, devoid of humor. “Do you truly believe I'd leave anything to chance?” His fingers tapped idly against the book's spine. “You'll play your role perfectly, Y/n. Because the alternative…” He let the threat hang, unspoken. The Capitol didn’t forgive disobedience. Neither did he. “Your purpose,” Coriolanus continued, “is whatever I decide it is. Today, tomorrow – it doesn't matter. You'll adapt.” His smile was slow and undeniably cruel. “You always do, dear.”
After a beat, you said, “you never truly answered my question… why not a more manageable girl from an equally prestigious family? One who wouldn’t even be having this conversation with you because she would roll over and do exactly what was asked? Or are you too afraid to admit that you actually like the way I challenge you?”
His jaw clenched involuntarily. The worst part about you provoking him is that he enjoyed it. Or, at the very least, Coriolanus found your insolence somewhat amusing. He could practically admire the fire that burned inside you even after all he put you through. The moonlight cast long shadows across the room and he didn’t dare look away from you. “Don't mistake interest for affection.”
“Oh, so there is interest,” you muttered, eyes locked on the satin sheets. A very slow smirk pulled at your lips. “And that still doesn’t answer the question.”
Coriolanus had no choice but to answer it now, otherwise risking looking like he hadn’t planned something perfectly. His fingers tightened around the book, just enough for you to notice. “You're right,” he admitted. “I could have chosen someone more pliable. But pliable is boring. And I have little patience for boredom.” He didn’t speak for a moment, a calculated risk that paid off. “Does that satisfy you?” His tone dripped with condescension. “Or shall we keep playing this tiresome game?”
“Hmm,” you whispered out, “and here I thought you liked my games.”
You turned over again and shut off the light. And for some reason, even though he had just been smug a couple moments before, there was now a loathing feeling in him as if you had won that round. Perhaps the war was his, but the battle was yours.
He turned sharply away from you, his back rigid as he faced the opposite wall. Silence stretched between you. But he didn’t retaliate, because you had won. And he would never forget it.
“Sleep well, Y/n.”
The words sounded more like a threat than a farewell.
The next morning you woke just a couple moments after your husband, just in time to see him getting up for the day. It was moments like those when you were able to forget the chasm between you two.
Coriolanus’ movements were stiff as he pulled himself upright, rubbing his temple as if trying to chase away the remnants of sleep, or, perhaps, last night's conversation. The morning light softened the sharp angles of his face, making him look younger. Coriolanus paused when he noticed you stirring, his icy blue eyes flickering in your direction. If you could believe it, there was a fraction of a moment where it seemed like he forgot his hatred towards you and he could imagine you were his wife that he loved.
Then it was gone.
His voice was cool as he stood. “You’re awake.” It was a statement, not a greeting.
You let out a scoff, stretching and turning farther into your pillow. “Astute observation,” you grumbled. From the moment you were awake, your brain had to formulate sharp responses to his own insults. It was utterly exhausting.
He sighed, his jaw tightening in annoyance. Of course. You could never wake without a witty comment, could you? His eyes flitted across your form which was still half-buried beneath the sheets. You looked practically vulnerable. Your eyes were closed as you burrowed underneath the covers again. There were pillow lines on your cheeks and you curled into a little ball to conserve your warmth.
His breath caught…
It was involuntary and something primal and very stupid. He stared at you curled into the sheets, tangled in the sleep-warm fabric. The urge to reach out clawed at him, but of course, he didn't. Instead, he strode toward the bathroom, his voice biting as he said, “you’re impossible.” Coriolanus slammed the door harder than necessary. You could hear the sink running and the sharp rustle of fabric as he prepared for the day and you let out a breath. Finally, the door creaked open again. He stepped out, perfectly composed except for the faint tension in his jaw.
Your eyes raked over him and you commented offhandedly, “you look nice.” Indeed he did – he was dressed in a white button-up shirt and a deep red suit and pants.
Coriolanus adjusted his sleeves, pulling at them sharply. He huffed and turned away, ignoring the way your eyes ran over him like a physical touch. “Flattery doesn't suit you,” he sneered, ignoring the heat creeping up his neck and flicked at his collar.
“It wasn’t flattery, but if you must take it at that, so be it,” you chuckled, turning onto your other side towards where he moved to the door. “And must I remind you, you’re the one who sought after me. All this drama and ridiculousness is something you chose. I could happily be with another man right now who loves me for as is,” you said, something you always loved to remind him of.
His hands, already halfway into tying his tie, halted abruptly.
Another man. The rush of fury through him wasn’t because of possessiveness or jealousy. No, it was the idea that you believed you could escape him. That you could belong to anyone else.
The President forced his fingers to resume their precise movements. "Ah, yes," he muttered, his voice dripping with false amusement. “The man who loves you.” His eyes flicked to you, icy and sharp. “Tell me, Y/n, what kind of pathetic fool would that be? Because whoever he is... he certainly doesn’t exist.”
“He does in my mind,” you said, letting his words roll off you so early in the morning. But, as it often happened, you knew his cruel phrases would come back and haunt you late at night, adding to your own insecurities. Both of you knew that was exactly his intention.
After a short second, he muttered, “shut up.”
One of your eyes peeked open to look at him, unused to his playground taunts. “What?” you mocked. “My imaginary husband is making you jealous?” You chuckled and turned back around.
It was the way you laughed, practically carefree, that made him so pissed. “Your imaginary husband?” he echoed. “How charming, dear.”
“He is, isn’t he?” you yawned, snuggling under the covers again. You even reached across to grab Coriolanus’ own pillow and tucked it next to you as something to hold.
His pillow– that was his pillow! It took every ounce of his willpower not to snap. He wanted to yank the damn thing out of your grasp and rip it in half. Watching you do such a thing, wrapped in his sheets, and smelling like him... it drove him insane. But instead of admitting that, Coriolanus remarked, “you're an idiot, you know that, right?” That was the thing he couldn’t stand about you sometimes: that you didn’t seem to care about his insults.
After a long enough pause, you asked, “I’m assuming we’re still having lunch and dinner together? Our assistants seem to have this idea of attempting to curate a perfect family in their eyes.”
Of course the Capitol needed its perfect First Couple. His image has always been more important than his reality. “Obviously,” he rolled his eyes, already moving toward the door. “Appearances must be maintained.” He didn’t turn back to look at you as he spoke to the empty air between you. “Be punctual.”
Just to spite him, you were fifteen minutes late. You entered wearing a pink dress and chatting with a female advisor. Coriolanus was already sitting at the long table, hands clasped on the table. His eyes were already on the door when you entered, jaw clenched. However, there were servants and guards present, so his voice remained perfectly composed as he interrupted your conversation. “Dearest.”
The room fell silent, all eyes flicking between the two of you. The perfect First Couple.
He smiled and extended a hand toward your seat beside him. “You're late.” His whisper was only for you, venomous and quiet. “And that dress is simply appalling.”
You mirrored his charming smile, sitting down and tucking your dress in. “Shut up,” you scowled at him as you dismissed everyone else in the room.
“Did you intentionally aim to humiliate me?” he hissed, “are you deliberately being late and wearing that ridiculous pink abomination?”
“First off, you were the one who wanted me to wear more red, your ‘colour,’” you taunted. “And secondly, I was quite literally fulfilling my role as First Lady and trying to find more donors for my children's programs.”
“Don't lie to me,” he said. “Your little program isn't a priority. Certainly not enough to justify disrespecting my time.” His fingers tapped against the table.
“I would like to think the future of Pamen is important to you since they will be the ones under your rule,” you countered.
His lips curled into a sneer. “Pamen? Is that truly your concern?” He leaned in slightly, voice lowering to a venomous whisper. His eyes flicked over your dress he supposedly hated. “Or is this just another performance? Another way to defy me?” Coriolanus’ fingers drummed faster on the table.
You took some of the food from the table and loaded it onto your plate while his fingers kept drumming. And drumming. “Well I’m sorry that the wife you chose has a personality she’s not willing to give up.”
“Your personality is childish and self-absorbed, Y/n. Stop acting like a petulant little girl.”
“Divorce is always an option,” you smirked, taking a bite of food. His fingers were still drumming on the table and you reached over and placed your hand on his rather forcefully.
The moment your hand touched his, his fingers stilled. How dare you make his thoughts race in a thousand different directions, all centered on you? Above all, he's fuming. You dare to place your hand on his? To touch him in a silent command? He supposed he should rip your hand away. Instead, he let it linger until you took it off.
You placed some food on his plate for him and motioned to it. “You’re hungry,” you stated.
“I'm not a damn child,” he grumbled. “I can feed myself.”
“And yet you wait until I’m here and throw a tantrum because you don’t like my dress.” You rolled your eyes. “Just eat.”
He stabbed at the food. “I did not throw a tantrum,” he retorted, taking an unnecessarily aggressive bite to emphasize the point.
“Uh huh,” you said, clearly unconvinced. After some moments of silence, you asked, “what’ve you been up to today?”
The simple domesticity of the question caught Coriolanus off guard. “Meetings,” he answered stiffly. Then, begrudgingly: “you?”
It was an olive branch. Tiny and fragile, but an olive branch nevertheless. He already regretted it.
You sighed and a little crease appeared between your brows. “Yes, I’ve been trying to negotiate the fine details of some of my programs. It’s been hard to pick the select few I actually want to move forward with, but as of now, I really think the education and women empowerment projects will be beneficial. And of course, the program for impoverished children,” you added, giving him a side eye. You knew of his past, after all, and the dismal conditions he grew up in. Soon after news of your engagement broke to the public, you had received a letter from someone claiming to be Coriolanus’ cousin. The letter detailed everything about their upbringing but encouraged you not to reach out to them again. They did leave a way of contact, however, in direst need.
“The children's program," he repeated after a moment. His lips were pressed slightly together. “That's... still your top priority?” It seemed as if each word was strained to come out. Coriolanus wanted to argue and to tell you to drop the program entirely, but something stopped him. Perhaps memories of cold winters with empty pantries was the thing that made him pause.
“...Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. He didn’t look at you as he spoke again, “just don’t embarrass me.”
“Oh, I'd never dream of it”
He clicked his tongue. “Don't sass me.”
You sighed, your knife pressing down into the plate as you cut up your food. “We just had this conversation last night, Coriolanus,” you said. “You were the one to wed me. You knew the wife you were getting.”
Of course you'd bring up the fact that he chose you, knowing full well the brat he was signing up for. He worked his jaw so he wouldn’t smile. “Trust me,” he snarked, eyes narrowing. “I'll never forget that mistake.”
“Divorce is always an option,” you repeated yourself from a moment ago.
How could you be so naïve? Divorce was out of the question, and Coriolanus knew that you were aware of this. He would never give the Capitol such satisfaction.
But still, to have you make such a casual suggestion about leaving him… He gripped the edge of the table so hard, his knuckles went white. “If you say that again–”
“You need to learn how to control your temper,” you said. “Or am I the only one that upsets you?”
“Yes," he exclaimed before he could stop himself – before he could even think – because it was true. No one else dared provoke him. No one else could. “Happy now?”
And suddenly, your stare fell back down to your plate. In unusual and aching honesty, you whispered out, “no,” between cracked lips.
He blinked. He expected more bantering, more cruelty. Certainly not vulnerability. He tried to maintain his irritation, but his heart betrayed him.
But then you sighed and took another bite, chewing at your food. “I don’t think I’ve been happy for a while now,” you told him, voice steady once more. “Thanks to you.”
His fingers tightened around the edge of the table again, but not in anger. There was something else coiled beneath his ribs, something tight and uncomfortable. He wanted to retaliate and snap back that you’re not the only one unhappy here, but he didn’t. Instead, he exhaled sharply through his nose and turned his gaze back to his plate. “Then we’re even,” he muttered.
It was the closest to an admission you’ll ever get.
But you were on a roll. It seemed like you were just talking to yourself now as you said, “I think what hurts the most is what I spoke of earlier: that you took me away from a life of potential happiness. You’re depriving me of a husband who would actually love me. And for what? So we would both be miserable? I still have yet to understand your mind, Mr. Snow, and why you didn’t choose a prettier girl who would fall over backwards for you.”
His jaw locked but his hands stayed still this time. No drumming. No fists.
Just silence.
Because what could he say? That he chose you for reasons he didn’t fully understand himself? That every time he looked at you, something in him twists violently between want and rage? That the idea of you with another man — loved, happy, and free — made his chest burn with something he refused to name?
No.
Instead, he exhaled a breath, and said, low and final, “you will never understand.” Then, always one to get the last word, he stood abruptly, chair scraping against marble. “And you’ll never be free of me.”
Coriolanus walked out without another word.
Both of you skipped dinner. He spent his evening in his office with a glass and a bottle of gin, seething silently. You’re depriving me of a husband who would actually love me. His mind replayed different versions of your last conversations over and over again. What would be different if he said something else? The President cursed his brain for conjuring images of you with another man. Of you laughing. Of you smiling. The image of another man touching you… taking you…
Coriolanus gripped his glass tighter.
By the time he stepped into your bedroom, tipsy and red-faced, you’re already under the covers, turned away from him. He stood in the doorway, staring. The moonlight cast you in such an innocent nature. His fingernails dug into the palm of his hand, a strange urge to reach beneath the covers and to pull you closer wafting over him. What would it be like to bury his face in your neck, feel your heartbeat, and to know you loved him? He wanted to. He wanted to so badly.
It must be the alcohol talking.
Coriolanus Snow was not supposed to want. He chose you for that exact reason: he didn’t want you. You wouldn’t be a liability or a weakness. And yet, there you were, slowly becoming one without even knowing it. He detested it because it terrified him. So he got ready for bed as loudly as possible, rousing you from your peace. He climbed into the enormous bed designed so he wouldn’t have to touch or look at you. But even then, there was a certain warmth radiating from your body making his skin prickle with awareness. He shifted closer. Just an inch. Just enough to feel the heat of you.
Pathetic.
He knew you were still awake. He could tell by the shift in the sheets. Coriolanus should rip his heart out for it wanting you to turn over and talk to him. He should grind it to dust for being the one to turn over on his side and speaking first.
“Y/n.”
You let out a hum and his hand reached out towards your back, fingers pressing along the bedsheets. You could feel the dip but stayed still, your back still towards him. His lips parted and let out a breath at the small, secret relief that you were awake. He stayed quiet for a while, fingers digging into the sheets. The President’s eyes squeezed shut as the thought of pulling you to him, wrapping his arms around you, and burying his face in your hair crossed his mind. He felt like a little boy again, wanting the safety of a loving touch. He wanted–
He swallowed thickly. “Are you still angry?”
You couldn’t help but let out a low little chuckle. You turned to face him, blankets rustling over you. “You’re still just a man, aren’t you, Coriolanus Snow?” you asked, reaching over to gently brush a lock of his hair away from his face.
He didn’t pull away. God, he should have. Then maybe he wouldn’t be in this mess of aching for you. Instead, his hand slowly rose to cover yours where it lingered against his hair. “Shut up,” he whispered.
When you had first touched him, he had felt nothing. It truly made you the perfect candidate for his wife. But now everything he knew was wrong and maddening.
“I think a small part of me will always be mad at you,” you answered softly.
His fingers gripped yours tighter, bringing your hand down to his lips. “Only a small part?” Coriolanus whispered, the corner of his mouth twitching up. He could live with only a small part.
“Unfortunately, yes. Only a small part.” After a beat, you repeated back at him, “are you still angry at me?”
“I'm angrier with myself,” he admitted suddenly. “Not you.” You could feel the ghost of his breath on the back of your hand.
“Hmm, and why with yourself?” you asked, though both of you know you could see through him. A smug little smile lifted your lips. “Is it because you’re feeling something for me? This wasn’t part of your plan, was it? You weren’t supposed to love your wife.”
How did you always know, even when he refused to believe it himself?
Coriolanus pulled your hand to press his lips against it. He exhaled, surrendering, before he muttered, “no.” His other hand lifted, so slow and even trembling, to ghost along your jaw. He couldn’t remember the last time he trembled. “It wasn’t part of the plan.”
“Ah, dear husband.” You rolled your eyes with affection. “Who could have ever seen this coming?” you couldn’t help but joke. You pulled away from him and turned back around, leaving him cold and empty.
He moved without thinking, reaching out towards you, but then he stopped. Close, so close that he could feel the warmth radiating from your body. It was like his body needed to touch you on its own accord. It craved– no, he craved you. “Turn back around,” Coriolanus demanded.
“No,” you replied quietly to his ragged request. Instead, you shifted back towards him so you were tucked into the crook of his body.
You could hear the hitch of his breath in his throat as you settled against his chest. The tension in his muscles was obvious and it almost felt like your back was to a brick wall. But then, he melted. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, pulling you flush against him, silently thanking you over and over that you were letting him touch you. His lips pressed against the nape of your neck before he tried to compose himself.
“...Fine.”
A little laugh escaped you at his acquiescence. “That’s what I thought,” you teased gently.
His arms tightened around you as you laughed. His breath fanned warm against your neck, slow and steady, matching yours. And when sleep finally pulled him under, his hold didn't slacken.
Not even a little.
Four days later, when Coriolanus was in his study working on long lists of papers and orders and treaties, you opened the door without knocking. His head snapped up but the irritation in his eyes didn't reach his usual sharpness. Not when you were standing there, bathed in sunlight, looking entirely too pleased with yourself, no, he couldn’t be too mad.
He really should’ve reprimanded you for barging in unannounced. Instead, he set his pen down and leaned back in his chair. “Do you ever knock?”
“Not this time,” you said, walking over to his desk.
“You're insufferable,” he muttered. “What do you want?”
“Is it a crime to want to see my husband?”
He exhaled sharply, grumbling, “unbelievable.” He paused and glanced outside to the gardens that sprawled out below his window. “Fine.”
Coriolanus stood, chair scraping back, and rounded the desk, his papers long forgotten. “Come. We're going for a walk.” You looped your arm through his and he had to remind himself to keep walking.
“Oh thank god.” You stepped out into the gardens and you couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. It had been a long day and it wasn’t even half over yet. The gardens were filled with rose bushes, something Coriolanus ordered the moment he stepped foot into the presidency.
His hand slowly ran down your arm until he was holding your hand, fingers curled around yours. It felt different from when he would first hold your hand earlier in the marriage. Back then, it felt cold and boring. Now he seemed to do it with intent.
You strolled along next to him for a while silently and he glanced over at you. “You’re wearing red,” he observed.
“And you’re wearing white.”
Coriolanus hummed.
After a little while more, you admitted, “I quite like your wit, did you know that? I need a partner who can keep me thinking. It’s nice.”
His brows rose up at the compliment. Coriolanus’ shoulders drew back, almost as if he was preening at your appreciation. His grip on your hand tightened as he asked slowly, “is that a compliment?” He shouldn’t care so much about your answer.
You paused and your brows furrowed a touch. “Unfortunately, I think it is,” you sighed out before chuckling. “I can’t think of a reason it wouldn’t be.”
He couldn’t stop himself from murmuring, “disgusting.” He doesn't let go of your hand for the rest of the walk.
Every so often he would ask you another question or you would make a comment on the roses in the garden. As you headed back towards the house, however, you asked him plainly, “I know you’ll never love me, but could you ever imagine us, say, forty years down the line, being friends?”
The President stopped dead in his tracks before turning to face you fully. His expression was unreadable but his voice was soft when he finally spoke, “...Friends?” He decided he now had a personal vendetta against the word. It just felt so small. So insignificant. His thumb pressed into your pulse point before he muttered, “no. Not friends.”
You didn’t dare to break eye contact even as your breaking heart beat pitifully. The blue in his eyes was so striking but you forced yourself to stay steady. “Good to know,” you said honestly. “Thank you.”
For a moment, neither of you breathed. His hand lifted, ghosting over your jaw and tilting your face up higher. “You’re welcome.”
Truthfully, he didn’t know what you would be in forty years and that terrified him. Coriolanus Snow was a planner who had his life down to a science. You were an unidentified element he hadn’t equated in.
“Coriolanus,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You’re being dramatic and we both know it. Where’s the stoic witty man I know and hate?” you asked jokingly.
Is that what you truly wanted? Did you want him to go back to that evil man? Should he shape himself into what you were expecting if it led to more affection from you? You wanted the stoic, detached version of him — the version that didn’t feel — when all he could think about was the way your skin felt beneath his fingertips.
He hated that he couldn’t give you what you wanted. “You want that man? Fine.” He stepped back and straightened his jacket with deliberate precision. His stare was ice. “There. Happy?”
Underneath his composure, his fingers trembled because he wasn’t that man anymore.
Finally, you paused and looked back at him. “Well, are you that man?” you asked quietly. “Or did the great President of Panem change?”
“Does it matter?” he snapped without meaning to. “Isn't this what you want? For me to be the phlegmatic bastard, just as you always call me?” He scoffed, lips twisting into a cold smirk. “So be it.” Yet, behind his eyes a thousand different emotions burned. Anger, despair, rage, grief, loss, desire, and something else. Something terrifyingly human.
He began to stride back to the palace and you picked up your skirts to jog after him. “Coriolanus,” you huffed before realising he didn’t plan on turning around. “Coriolanus!” you exclaimed again. You followed after him, all the way until he reached his study. “Stop acting like a child and speak to me like a man!” you shouted.
His hands slammed down on his desk, papers scattering, and he whirled around, eyes burning with fury. “Speak like a man?" he repeated, voice shaking. “What would you have me say, Y/n? That I loathe this? That I hate feeling anything for you? That I hate how you look at me, how you touch me, and yet I still crave it?” His chest heaved before he snapped, “is that man enough for you?”
Suddenly, he was still. He should not have admitted that.
Now you knew.
His eyes slowly lifted to your face. Your eyes were wide and your chest rose and fell. Then, you took a step closer to him. Then another. And then you were hurrying to close the distance and you slammed into him, wrapping your arms around him in a hug.
Every movement, every muscle, every nerve went rigid as your body pressed against his. His hands lifted as if to push you back to protect himself, but they instead dug into the fabric of your dress, clutching at you like a lifeline. His throat tightened and his breath turned ragged against your hair.
God, he hated this. He hated you. He hated how much he needed you. But he didn’t pull away, not even when the first crack splintered through his chest and not even when his heart shattered in his ribcage. Because finally… he felt human. The great President of Panem, the monster in the dark, reduced to a man. A man desperately grasping for something more. How ironic that love was all that was needed to break him fully.
“Damn you,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Damn you, dear.” For the first time since he could remember, Coriolanus yielded. His body bowed and his forehead pressed against yours. “Damn you,” he whispered again. He sounded weak and broken, but he didn’t pull away. For all his hatred and rage… he loved you.
And he hated that too.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this, hmm?” you finally murmured, repeating yourself from four days ago. “I was supposed to just be here. Someone you didn’t care for so there wouldn’t be any vulnerability?”
The laugh that ripped from him sounded more like a strangled sob, his entire body sagging towards you and his head buried into the crook of your neck as he whispered, “yes.” This was never supposed to happen. You were never meant to mean something to him. Nothing should’ve been able to break down the walls he had so carefully built. “You weren't supposed to matter.”
“I know,” you said. “Neither were you.”
“You're an insufferable woman.”
“Says the man who wanted to manipulate me into a boring wife,” you chuckled, because even in your vulnerable moments, you couldn’t help but tease him. “You know I’ll never let that go, yes? I’ll lord it over you forever. Until our dying days.”
His voice had lost its edge, replaced instead with a strange warmth. “You're the worst, you know that?”
“That’s what everyone says,” you sighed, rolling your eyes jokingly. “I really am a terrible choice for First Lady, hmm?”
“Absolutely awful,” he agreed quietly. “Completely insufferable.” Even as the words left his lips, his hands were sliding against your waist, drawing you closer. Your mouth opened to retort something, so instead of dignifying your jokes with another response, he leaned down pressed his lips against yours in a kiss that said everything he couldn't put into words. His hands slid up, rough and desperate, one tangling in your hair, and the other clutching your waist. When he finally pulled back, breathless and aching, his voice was raw. “Happy now?”
“Very.” For after all, the line between love and hate was only obsession.
hi!! could you write something about r and finnick in the quarter quell and they are in an established relationship? maybe j how they are with each other in general, and how others perceive them? hope that makes sense xxx
hi lovely, you requested this forever ago but I hope you’re still around to read it!! thank you for your request x
finnick odair x tribute!reader (quarter quell)
“It’s so hot.”
Finnick hums beside you. You’re both stretched out on the damp jungle floor, sweat shining on your foreheads. It’s so sticky in here. Peeta’s alseep a little ways to your left, and you and Finnick are supposed to be asleep too, but it’s much too hot for that. Katniss is perched on a rock keeping watch.
Your boyfriend props himself up on one elbow. Despite the heat, despite the frankly terrible day you’ve had, despite everything, he’s still so pretty. And he’s still yours. For as long as you can both stay alive, at least.
“Do you want me to get you some more water?” He asks. The tips of his curls glow in the soft white moonlight. He brings a hand to your face and brushes some hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear. “Might help.”
You nod, turning your head to the side to kiss his palm. You think it’s sweet that he’s still trying to make this okay for you, even though it’s far from that. “That would be nice.”
“Alright. I’ll be two seconds, okay? Don’t go anywhere.”
He squeezes your shoulder before getting up and moving away. You hear him ask Katniss for the spile, hear the thud thud thud as he knocks it into a tree.
A few quiet moments pass, and then there’s a soft rustling to your left. You startle, but it’s just Peeta, rolling onto his back. Apparently the heat’s keeping him up, too.
“He’s different to what I expected,” he says quietly.
You roll onto your side. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know. I guess I just … didn’t expect him to be so nice. He’s really lovely to you.”
You hum. You get what he means. Finnick might put on a show of arrogance, but it’s nothing but that. Just a show, for the Capitol, for Snow. Alone with you, with the people he cares about, he’s the sun, warm and bright.
“Yeah,” you agree softly. “He’s lovely.”
Heavy footsteps crunch towards you and Finnick appears out of the half dark, a leaf cupped in his hand, water sloshing inside of it.
“Hey.” He kneels next to you, grinning, his dimples sinking into his tanned cheeks. “What’re we talking about?”
You lift yourself onto your elbows and smile at him. “Just you.”
“Oh, really?” Finnick raises his eyebrows as he gets one hand behind your back, helping you sit up properly. He brings the leaf to your mouth and helps you drink, his hand steady at the small of your back. “Were you telling Peeta how good of a boyfriend I am?”
Peeta audibly sighs, but you just smile at Finnick, properly lovelorn.
“Uh-huh,” you nod. “Something like that.”
Finnick grins wolfishly and presses a chaste kiss to your mouth.
A Pawn Once More
Character: Haymitch Abernathy
Requested: No
Type: Angst/ Fluff
Summary: For years, Haymitch has kept his biggest secret buried—his love for the one person he couldn’t afford to lose. But when the Quarter Quell announces that tributes will be reaped from the pool of Victors, his worst nightmare becomes reality.
A.N: Scene from Catching Fire. No, I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader.
Age Gap: Haymitch is 41 and Reader is in her 20s (preferably 25)
Part 2: Here
Part 3: Here
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. As you know, in every Quarter Quell, we do things a little differently. To commemorate the 75th Hunger Games, the third Quarter Quell, we have decided to add a new twist to the tradition."
"The tributes will be reaped from the pool of existing victors."
The air was thick with the screams and desperate cries of your family, their voices echoing in your ears as your own face twisted in horror. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
After surviving the 66th Hunger Games, after securing your place in history and your district’s fleeting pride, you were supposed to live out your life in something resembling peace. You’d be called back each year to mentor, yes, but never again would you be dragged into the arena. Never again would you face the bloodbath.
But now? Now you were nothing more than a pawn again.
You had to leave. You had to run. Your little brother’s tiny fingers clung desperately to you, his sobs vibrating through your chest as your mother—your mother—threw things in fury, her heartbreak spilling over. Every instinct told you to stay, to comfort them, but you knew better. You had to leave or you’d lose your mind. Or worse, you’d drag them down into your nightmare.
You ran. The pounding of your feet against the dirt was deafening, a frantic rhythm of escape, but your body couldn’t outrun the reality clawing at your soul. You ran until your legs gave out and you collapsed, crumbling to your knees, gasping for air. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It had to be alright. It had to be. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t.
You wiped away your tears, your breath ragged and uneven, thoughts spinning wildly. Out of the eight victors from your district, only you and one of your mentors were women. And you weren’t about to let your mentor go through the Games again. There was no chance. You knew the nightmares she’d endured, the scars that marked her body. Like you, she had survived, but she wasn’t as capable as she once was when she won during the 47th Games. At least you still had a fighting chance.
Your mind turned to your family next. You just needed them to promise you one thing. They couldn’t watch. They couldn’t watch you die. It was the only mercy you could give them. You couldn’t let them see that.
Your death would rip them apart, you knew it. Your mother would be left without her daughter. Your brother would grow up without his older sister to protect him. Your father, already a shadow of the man he once was, would be broken, lost in the absence of his “princess.” And Haymitch—Haymitch.
The thought of him hit you like a physical blow, your heart constricting in your chest. He’s a victor too. A chilling realization gripped you like ice in your veins. He could be reaped. He could be sent to fight.
Tears spilled freely, hot and relentless, as you gasped, your breath stuttering. The weight of it crushed you. He could be reaped. And that terrifying thought shattered you more than the fear of your own reaping ever could.
You let out a scream—gut-wrenching, heart-shattering—your body shaking as it tore through you. It was a sound so full of anguish, so desperate, it seemed to rip apart the very fabric of the world around you. Haymitch. He could be reaped. And with that, all your nightmares, every awful memory, every twisted fear, came to life.
-----
“Get me that damn tablet,” Haymitch barked, shoving his way through the train car in search of the device. His mind was a tangled mess, his body still buzzing from the alcohol he’d consumed in an attempt to dull the gnawing pain.
The last few days had been a blur, but he could still feel the sharp sting of the announcement ringing in his ears. The tributes... the victors... and his own twisted fate. He should’ve been focusing on how he’d somehow managed to cheat death. Instead, his mind was consumed with one thing—and one person—from District 5. You.
When the announcement came about the victors being reaped, he hadn’t reacted with surprise. No, he’d gone into a frenzy. He’d torn apart his house, broken everything in sight, and drunk himself into oblivion. His fingers had clutched his most prized possession with a desperation he couldn't explain—a beautiful gold chain, wrapped tightly around his finger, holding the most precious ring.
The night before, Katniss had begged him—no, pleaded—for him to volunteer for Peeta during the reaping. He had agreed. Not because he wanted to, hell no. But because he had to be there if you were reaped. And now, as Peeta decided to take matters into his own hands, Haymitch found himself thrust into the role of mentor. It infuriated him. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want you in the arena again.
The other districts should’ve already been reaped by now, and his mind was frantic, itching to know if you had been chosen. Unfortunately, he’d been trapped in the mentor role, unable to watch the reaping unfold. Now, though, he was pushing everyone aside, his hands shaking as he aggressively swiped across the tablet screen, searching for answers.
“What's his deal?” Katniss scoffed, watching Haymitch swipe frantically at the tablet.
Effie, doing her best to keep the secret Haymitch had entrusted her with, attempted to downplay his urgency. “Oh, he’s just trying to see which victors got reaped. Don’t worry about it yet.”
“I can’t find it. Turn on the damn video on the TV,” he snapped, his patience gone. Effie scrambled, finally finding the footage and flicking it on.
As the video began, Haymitch subconsciously started playing with the gold band around his neck, his fingers caressing it absently as his heart hammered in his chest. The room fell silent as the broadcast began—District 5’s reaping.
"Welcome, welcome," the escort’s overly cheery voice rang out, her ridiculous outfit blinding in its absurdity. "As we celebrate the 75th anniversary and the 3rd Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games, as always, ladies first…”
Haymitch’s leg started bouncing in nervous anticipation, his pulse quickening. District 5 had eight victors, but only two were women—and you were one of them.
He couldn’t help it. His eyes locked onto the screen, unable to tear himself away. You stood there, dressed in black, your face a perfect mask of stoicism. Your eyes were red, your pain carefully hidden beneath a practiced, blank expression—the one you’d perfected from years of surviving. He’d taught you that. How to hide everything. How to show nothing. How to survive.
He watched you hold hands with your mentor, the two of you standing in quiet solidarity. A tiny part of him hoped that it would be you—the one they called forward, so your mentor could volunteer for you. He knew she would. You just had to let her.
The escort’s voice cut through his thoughts, though he barely heard it now. She gave both you and your mentor a small, sad smile before unfolding the slip of paper. “The female tribute of District 5…” she began, and the words hung in the air like a death sentence, “Abigail Winston.”
Effie’s sigh of relief was audible, probably thinking that you were home free, that everything was going to be okay. But Haymitch knew better. He knew you. And that’s why his entire body tensed in an instant. The anger surged through his veins like wildfire, hot and uncontrollable.
And then he saw your movement. The way you stepped forward. No.
Before your mentor could even make a move, your voice steady but fierce rang out, “I volunteer as tribute.”
Time seemed to slow. Haymitch’s heart stopped, the world around him blurring as he felt everything he’d been holding together shatter. His breath came in ragged, panicked gasps as the glass in his hand fell to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces. The tablet in his hands followed, crashing to the ground in a violent thud.
Katniss and Peeta exchanged confused glances, unsure of who you were or why Haymitch had reacted like that. Effie’s tears fell silently, a mix of sorrow and disbelief. But before anyone could speak, Haymitch turned away, his mind consumed by rage and heartbreak. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.
He stormed down the train, away from them all, his hands clawing at the air as if trying to rip the world apart. Every part of him, every inch of his being, was focused on one thought: You. You had volunteered. You had sealed your fate. And now, all of his nightmares were coming true.
-----
Haymitch wished he were drunk. He wished the alcohol could drown out the aching pain of having you step into that arena again. It wasn’t fair.
You barely had two years together. Two years of being an official couple, and yet it felt like it wasn’t enough. He’d first met you at the end of your Victor’s Tour, when you decided to escape the attention and hide at the bar. You outdrank him that night, which, frankly, was impressive.
At first, he never expected to care for you. You were just another survivor, bound to the same cruel fate as him. But then, over time, as you grew up and proved yourself in ways he never imagined, he couldn’t help but fall in love.
You were 15 years younger, and he had always kept his distance, hiding his feelings behind a wall of friendship. But as the years passed, and you all met yearly for the Games as mentors, one thing led to another. A night full of too much alcohol, too many unspoken feelings—and before he knew it, you had shared a night neither of you would ever forget.
The next morning, you confessed what had been lingering beneath the surface for so long. It took him months to work up the courage to ask you out, battling his own demons of self-doubt and guilt.
And then, for two beautiful years, you two had kept it secret. Notes passed in shadows, stolen kisses, quiet smiles, and letters filled with raw emotion. Two years of sneaking around, being completely, utterly in love.
And now, it was all coming to an end.
Effie found him passed out in the train’s aisle, and without hesitation, she put him to bed, understanding that he needed space.
The next morning, Haymitch tried to seek you out. He wanted to see you, to make sure you were okay, but his duties as a mentor took priority. Effie begged him to focus, to speak to Katniss and Peeta first, and then find you. He was torn between his heart and his responsibilities. And in the end, Effie dragged him to the kids.
He spent that day drinking and half-heartedly trying to teach them about the importance of allies.
“Finnick Odair, right?” Katniss asked, as they went through the list of reaped victors.
He nodded, pointing to the screen. “Yes, he won at fourteen—youngest victor ever. Extremely humble.”
“You're kidding, right?” Katniss scoffed.
“Yes, I’m kidding.” He flipped his hair dramatically. “He’s a... peacock. A total preener, but he’s the Capitol darling. They love him here. Charming, smart, and very skilled at combat—especially in water.”
Peeta leaned forward, glancing at the screen. “What about weaknesses?”
“One person, Mags.” A frail, wrinkled woman appeared on the screen. “She volunteered for Annie. Mags was his mentor, basically raised him. If Finnick’s trying to protect her, it exposes him.”
Katniss stared at the screen, watching the woman bravely volunteer for the young girl in tears. “A guy like that has to know she’s not going to make it. I bet when it really comes down to it, he won’t protect her.”
Sadness flickered in Haymitch’s eyes. “Well, Katniss, I just hope when she goes... she goes quickly. She’s a wonderful lady.”
He pressed a button on the tablet, knowing exactly who would appear next, but his body tensed involuntarily as the screen flickered to life.
"District Five: Mason Cover and Y/N L/N." Haymitch stared at the screen, his eyes locked on you, unable to look away.
"She's the girl we saw on the train," Katniss said, sensing the weight of Haymitch’s reaction. "What's her story?"
Haymitch glanced at Katniss before downing his drink. “She won the 66th Games at 16. The last hour of the Games, there were five tributes left. She killed each one of them single-handedly—arrows, spear, you name it. Extremely skillful, resourceful. And beloved by many of our victors.”
He pointed to Mason Cover, “Mason won the 55th Games at 18. Lethal in hand-to-hand combat. The last 30 minutes of those Games were a triple threat match. Those two are close friends. You want them as allies. And if you trust me... trust them. They're who you should be allies with.” He repeated, his gaze locked on Katniss. “Trust me.”
“Who is she to you?” Katniss asked bluntly, her voice cutting through the tension. “We all saw the reaping. We saw the way you reacted. Now you want to team up with her... why?”
Haymitch squinted at her, his fingers subconsciously playing with the chain around his neck. “She's just a friend. I've known her for years. I know both of them. Good people. Trustworthy people.”
“I don’t believe you,” Katniss retorted.
“Katniss,” Peeta interjected, sensing the simmering tension. "Let it go."
But before anyone could speak, Effie burst through the door, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she hurried toward Haymitch. "Haymitch, thank God you're here!" she said, voice strained with urgency. She then saw Katniss and Peeta standing in the room, and immediately faltered. "Oh... uh... Haymitch, you're needed outside of this room." She gestured quickly toward the door, trying to keep the situation under wraps, hoping the kids wouldn't notice.
Haymitch caught the hint, and without a word, he practically flew out of the room. Before the door even clicked shut behind him, he was pulled into an embrace. Your arms.
And for a moment, everything around him seemed to stop.
"Haymitch..." you whispered, your voice trembling as tears flooded your face. After days of terror, the weight of the world finally seemed to melt away in his arms. He was here. You needed him more than anything.
"Y/N..." He squeezed you tightly, his arms wrapping around you like a lifeline. His heart hammered in his chest, sobering instantly from the haze of alcohol. The warmth of your skin, the sweet scent of you, and the soft wetness of your tears soaking through his shirt — this was real. You were here, with him... for now.
He pulled back slightly, needing to see your face, his hands gently cupping your tear-streaked cheeks. He smiled at you, the corners of his mouth trembling with something he couldn't quite control. "Hi, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice breaking.
It hurt him to see you like this—eyes red and swollen, your hands shaking, a look of grim acceptance in your gaze. The kind of acceptance that made his heart shatter. What had you accepted? What were you preparing for? That thought alone gnawed at him.
"It's going to be okay. I’ve got you, pretty girl." His voice cracked with desperation, the words pouring out in a rush. "I’ll get you sponsors, and you'll be okay. Then when this is over, we can go back to my district, or yours, and live the rest of our lives together. I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever." He whispered it, desperate for you to believe him, for you to feel safe, for the horrible weight of your future to somehow lift.
But then, you shook your head, sobbing. "You can't... Katniss and Peeta are your responsibility. You need to help them. You need to save them." The words broke out in a cry, your eyes locking with his in raw, painful clarity. He shook his head, his heart sinking.
"No," he muttered firmly, "I’m not leaving you alone for this." His hands gripped your shoulders, holding you as if he could keep you safe, as if he could protect you from the arena, from everything.
"I’ll be alright," you tried to smile, wiping away the fresh tears that fell. "You don’t need to worry about me." You forced the smile, trying to push him, to focus on the kids, on them. You knew the truth, knew the game was rigged. Katniss needed to be victorious; you were just collateral damage, nothing more.
Your hand reached up to caress his face, your thumb tracing the rough outline of his jaw. "The kids need you, my love. You have to choose them over me. You have to choose Katniss over me. She... she is important."
"You're important." His voice cracked as he tried to hold on to some semblance of control, but it shattered as soon as he looked at you. "You're everything to me. You're my world. My wife... You don’t know what you’re asking me to do..." His voice broke, the words too raw, too heavy. "I can’t leave you in that arena. I won’t. I will save you."
You stared at him, tears running freely down both of your faces. He looked at you in disbelief, his eyes wide with an agony he couldn't hide. You had accepted your death, but he couldn’t. Not now. Not like this. He had already lost so much. He wouldn’t lose you too. Not like this. Not again.
"You don’t understand," he whispered, his voice raw, breaking with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. He shook his head, disbelief flickering in his eyes. "I can’t let them take you from me." His mind was already spinning, heart racing with frantic thoughts—how could he get more sponsors? Who could he talk to in the Capitol? There had to be a way. Anything to keep you alive. "Why the hell did you volunteer? Why—Jesus Christ, why you?" The words cracked through his chest, his heart shattering with the pain of it. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He was losing you, and he couldn’t stop it.
You reached up to cup his face, your thumb gently brushing over the rough, scarred lines of his cheek, your touch a silent plea. You saw the desperation in his eyes—the panic, the fear that he couldn’t hide. Your voice trembled as you whispered, "Haymitch... I promise you, I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine." The words tasted like ash on your tongue, but you said them anyway, because you needed him to believe it. You couldn’t bear the thought of him falling apart, not when you knew what was coming. You had to be strong for him, even if it broke you to lie like that.
And then, with everything breaking inside him, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that spoke of everything: grief, love, fear, and an unbearable desperation. It was rough and frantic, a mixture of tears and longing. The kiss was an apology, a plea, and a final, desperate act of love.
What neither of you knew was that Katniss, Peeta, and Effie were watching from the crack in the door, their eyes wide with shock.
Haymitch has a wife.
And she was about to die.
Next Chapter
୨୧ WE’LL BE ALRIGHT ✧ HAYMITCH ABERNATHY
───── IN WHICH 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝟧𝟢𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗒𝗆𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 !
𝗌𝗈𝗍𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗆𝗒! 𝗁𝖺𝗒𝗆𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝓍 𝒻! 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝟣.𝟥𝗄 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍, 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗈𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽, 𝓅𝟤 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 ♡ ⎯⎯ 𝖠𝖱𝖢𝖧𝒾𝖵𝖤
THE CAPITOLS ANNOYINGLY bright city lights shine through the penthouses windows, preventing you from getting the much needed sleep you need before you’re sent off to your death, the hunger games tomorrow morning.
you can’t sleep and pretend like nothing terrible is coming, you’ve been pacing the room for what feels like hours, barefoot against the freezing floor, disheveled, tears brimming in your eyes, heart pounding as if you might as well already be in the arena.
and you find yourself where you least expect yourself to be—your hand shakes when you lift it to knock on haymitch abernathy’s door.
you stop yourself twice, you try to convince yourself you don’t need anyone. especially not him.
you and haymitch have spent your whole lives bantering childishly, arguing like your lives depended on it—all of district 12 probably knew about your rivalry. —READ MORE!
he would tease you, you would tease back angrily, he smirked in arrogance, you glared.
that was your banter.
now here you are, needing him more than you have ever needed anyone. you finally bring yourself to knock, softly, as if it’s hesistant and unsure.
the door opens almost immediately, as if he was standing right behind it. he looks startled at first. his golden hair damp from what looks to be a shower, the same curly hair you have recognized your whole short life.
his eyes are blue. they’re tired, exhausted, just like the others— just like maysilee, lou lou, and wyatt—fearful, they widen when he sees the grim expression you are failing to hide.
“hey,” he whispers quietly. no teasing tonight. no insufferable smirk. just concern. “you okay?”
for a second, you consider lying. you try to put on the mask you’ve been wearing since you’ve been reaped.
but your voice breaks, and you know there’s no going back. “can i please come in?” he steps back, making room instantly, holding the door open with no hesitation. “please— i mean yes—of course.”
his room is dark, lit by the small yet expensive lamp that probably goes for thousands near the bed, lightening the room barely, reflecting on the messy bedsheets.
he’s been sitting there, you realize, unable to rest just like you. maybe pacing too. maybe utterly terrified too.
you stand in the middle of his room, arms wrapped around yourself, doing anything you possibly can to keep the panic at bay.
haymitch watches you with a careful—almost fragile expression.
“what’s wrong?” he mumbles.
you almost laugh. what’s isn’t wrong? instead, you let out the smallest shaky breath.
“i… i don’t wanna die,” you whisper, the words clawing your throat raw for hours. “i’m trying so so hard to be brave and believe i can do this but i can’t. i’m not ready, i don’t want this.”
your chest tightens as the tears finally roll down your cheeks, glistening in the dim light.
you try to wipe them away, embarrassed, but your hands shake too much. haymitch is in front of you before you even finish trying to hide your face.
he cups your cheeks so gently it almost breaks you, his thumbs brush your tears away with carefully, softly, as if he’s afraid of hurting you.
“please,” he says, voice cracking. “don’t do that. don’t give up now.”
you choke on a breath. “everyone expects me to be strong.”
“i don’t,” he whispers.
that makes your eyes instantly snap up to his.
he swallows, thumb brushing the softness of your skin. “i don’t expect anything from you, okay?”
you blink, more tears breaking free from the restraint you’ve been holding onto the last couple days, he wipes those too.
“nothing is going to happen to you,” he says quietly, so surely, as if it’s a vow he’s carving into the world. “not while i’m still around. not while i’m breathing.”
“haymitch…” your voice breaks again, softer this time. “you can’t promise that.”
he steps even closer, foreheads touching. “i’m promising it anyway.”
something within you stirs—this aching, tender thing that’s been buried under the fake rivalry and childish arguments and years of pretending you didn’t notice the way he looked at you when he thinks you aren’t paying attention.
you look at him, really look at him, you notice the shaking breath he’s trying to hide, the way he holds your face as if he’s terrified you’ll disappear, the softness in his gaze that no one else ever gets to see, just reserved for you.
you lean in before you can second guess yourself.
your lips brush his softly—barely a kiss, more like a test.
haymitch inhales sharply, and then he melts into you, kissing you back with a gentleness you’ve never seen from him.
his hands move slowly, sliding to the back of your neck, then your waist—warm and promising, pulling you closer.
the kiss deepens, it’s not rushed, not desperate, it’s purely soft and tender, like you’re both trying to memorize the feeling.
you’re breathing each other in between the kisses, the sweetness of his breath mixing with your shaky breaths.
his forehead comes to rest against yours again, noses nudging against each others, lips close enough to brush again when he whispers,
“you have no idea how long i’ve wanted to do that.”
your breath hitches, and you want to cry again. “you… what?”
he lets out a soft yet heartbreaking laugh. “you really think i tease you because i hate you?”
you rest your forehead harder against his, heart racing in your chest. “i tease you back.”
“i noticed,” he whispers, his fingers curling gently in your hair. “i adore it.”
heat rushes to your cheeks, and he smiles, and it’s ridiculous. an actual, soft, happy smile. as if tomorrow doesn’t exist. as if you both aren’t being sent off to die.
you find yourself kissing him again, hands sliding to the nape of his neck, this kiss is slower, more desperate, harder.
you taste the fear on his tongue, the years of longing, the hope he’s holding onto for dear life.
his thumb strokes your cheeks as he kisses you, like he’s trying to comfort you even in the unfortunate circumstances.
when you finally pull back, your lips hover over his, breaths mixing.
“i wish we had more time,” you whisper, tears brimming in your already glassy eyes.
the words carry between you in the silence, its fragile, vulnerable, and unfair.
haymitch presses a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your temple, each kiss careful, filled with meaning, love, it’s tender, undeniable. “there will be,” he promises. “i’ll make sure of it.”
“you can’t—”
he cups your face again, guiding your gaze to his.
“i will find a way,” he whispers so surely, as if he already has a plan set in place. “for you, for us.”
the word us shatters something so warm and deep and aching inside you.
you press yourself to him again, kissing him with all the fear and hope mustered in your chest, and you believe him.
his arms wrap around you fully this time, shielding you, holding you so tightly, so protectively, as if he’s memorizing the shape of you. you sink into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your own.
for a while, the two of you sit on the edge of his the capitol bed, tangled together, soft, affectionate kisses, gentle touches, quiet breaths shared in heavy silence of the night.
you rest your forehead on his shoulder, his hand finds yours, a desperate attempt to stop your trembling.
“i love you,” he whispers, “that’s all that matters…”
you smile, genuinely. “i know..” you meet his eyes, “i love you to the moon and to saturn.”
the world may not exist tomorrow, you two may just be an old story someday, forgotten, like the rest of the tributes.
but in this night, he holds you like he won’t let it.
tonight, you will let him.
and you finally allow yourself—although it may just be false hope, you believe in the future he’s promising.
𝖱𝖤𝖡𝖫𝖮𝖦𝖲 𝖠𝖯𝖯𝖱𝖤𝖢𝖨𝖠𝖳𝖤𝖣 ૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა
© blairenqs 2025 do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.
✧ 𝑓. SOTR TEASER WAS ABSOLUTELY LETHALLL. it bought me out of my slump aarghhh. the book is so devastating i know the movie is going to be so so painful 😭😭💔 and can we pls talk about joseph zada?? he is soooooooo good in we were liars like i am not ready for his performance in this damn movie. white boy of the month edits r gonna go to crazy next year </3
𓂃ㅤ 𝓉𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 ୨୧ @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat @lcvealwayss @viennasolace ♡ thank you so much for joining !
HARDER TO BREATHE [H.A.]
pairing: (young) haymitch abernathy x fem!reader
word count: 6.1k (she's a longer one)
content warnings/contains: slight spoilers for sotr, angst, fluff, ptsd (from the games), Capitol pigs being disgusting, graphic talks of death, suicide and violence, swearing, classic hunger games stuff, mentions of forced prostitution, canon divergence, not everything i write makes sense, use of y/n, maybe ooc Haymitch (?) - i fear i'm not very good at portraying a character's personality accurately, reader is supposed to be 18 in this and Haymitch around 21, reader is the winner of the 55th games, let's pretend Haymitch's drinking problem wasn't as bad yet during that time
a/n: second story, whoo :) and i'm actually quite proud of this. I'm currently reading sunrise on the reaping and i'm just beginning to love haymitch even more than I already did before (and i got fully thrown back into my thg phase), so i just had to write for him. and i fell hopelessly in love with joseph zada, so here we go. hope you enjoy :)
playlist: burn alive - the last dinner party / bishops knife trick - fall out boy / we'll be young forever - denmark + winter / home - good neighbour / softcore - the neighbourhood
link to masterlist
God, how you abhorred Capitol parties.
On one side, it felt like you’d already attended a thousand or more of these gatherings. On the other hand, it sometimes felt like one big party without a break. Because honestly? Each and every single last one of these idiotic festivities was the same as the others. Stupidly large amounts of sizzling food and especially alcohol, consumed by the oh so great and elegant people of the Capitol. Mindless chatter about the newest fashion trends, everyone thinking their extraordinary dress was the most eye-catching. Absolutely unnecessary discussions, in your opinion. They were all hideous anyway. And of course, the gawking at the most recent victor of the Hunger Games.
You wanted to drive a spear through all of their obnoxiously decorated heads.
Obviously, at a classic Capitol party, a handful of victors couldn’t be missing. The Capitol favourites. The ones that those pigs in their bright suits and dresses loved to drool over, about how strong and intimidating they were, staring at them and touching them like they were caged animals in a petting zoo.
And this year, you had the honour of being the special guest at every party. You were the main event, the newest and most exciting addition to the zoo At least until a new victor would take your place in a year, only lessening your suffering in the slightest. The people you had met before your games – the one’s who had told you that winning the games was a curse rather than a blessing – they had been right. Oh, how right they had been. That exact thought ran through your head as you walked towards the double-doors that would lead you to yet another horrible evening of feeling like an exposed object, exhibited for everyone to observe and touch. Because in their minds, that’s exactly what you were. Through their eyes, they didn’t see a person – a human being – when they looked at you. No, they gazed upon you as if you were a precious diamond necklace or a golden ring, something they could possess. Something they could own.
Your arm was linked with your mentor’s, bare skin brushing against the soft fabric of his suit-jacket. The dark grey dress your stylist had forced you to wear was tight, scratchy and rubbing the skin beneath it raw. And they said everything in the Capitol was supposed to be comfortable and luxurious. As if. You would’ve scoffed at the thought, if you’d had the energy. The countless pins holding your hair together in a ridiculous updo stung and pulled at your scalp, making you want to rip your entire hair out in one go. And those damn shoes – the height of the heels bordering on stilts, if anyone were to ask you – it would prove to be a miracle if you’d able to walk in them without the support of the arm currently linked with yours. But the worst part had to be the corset, the fabric adorned with an incredible amount of cheesy embroidery that was supposed to represent your district. Your stylist had decided to bind the thing so tight, that after spending less than fifteen minutes in it, you already felt nauseous. It was putting entirely too much pressure on both your stomach and your lungs, making it difficult to breathe.
They way your breathing grew shallow, your lungs trying to preserve as much air as possible, did not go unnoticed by the taller figure next to you. Just before you both reached the double-doors, separating you from the misery looming behind them, he stopped. He untangled his arm from yours, turning you to face him with a gentle yet firm grip on your upper arms, just below your shoulders. You were so focused on trying to breathe normally and calm your racing heart that you barely noticed how his pale blue eyes roamed over your face and body, observing every inch as if it would grant him with all the answers to the reason of your distress.
When he felt your breathing become more erratic, your chest rising and falling in short and fast intervals, his eyes snapped back up to your face. He took in the distant look in your eyes, the way your stare seemed to go straight through him, as if your pupils were clouded over by a thick fog. When he realized you weren’t going to snap out of whatever prison your mind had locked you in anytime soon, he let one of his hands wander from your bicep to the side your neck, gently resting it there as his thumb softly ran over your jawline to try and ease you back to reality.
“Y/N…” he paused. “Hey, look at me.” You didn’t budge, so he tried again, his grip on you tightening, trying to ground you. “Sweetheart, look at me.” He tried again, voice soft, deep and laced with a slightly pleading tone.
Your eyes seemed to flicker as you registered his voice, lashes fluttering rapidly before your gaze finally settled on him, eyes meeting his. He let a small breath of relief leave his chest, one corner of his mouth twitching up the slightest bit. “There she is.” He whispered, more to himself than you. One of your hands – which was previously hanging limp by your side – came up, your fingers curling around the wrist of the hand that still rested on the side of your neck. “The corset.” You muttered, voice coming out raspy and quiet due to the lack of oxygen in your system.
“It’s too tight, Haymitch.”
His eyes dropped to your midsection, only now seeing how impossibly tight the corset wrapped around your upper body, cutting off your airflow. His hands detached themselves from your neck and arm, falling to your waist instead, slowly turning you around so your back faced him. He took a hold of the laces tying your corset together, beginning to untangle the bow. While his fingers worked on the strings, his voice met your ears once more. “I’ll loosen it up, okay? Just hold still for me, sweetheart.” He said in a low tone. You only gave him a nod as a response, a small shiver running down your spine from feelings his knuckles graze your lower back and his breath hitting the back of your neck.
After a few moments, he had untied the bow at the lower end of the corset. Haymitch then began to pull at the laces, loosening each of them as he worked his way up until he stopped at the top end of it, just between your shoulder blades. “Better?” he questioned as he leaned down so his face hovered slightly beside yours, searching for any sign of discomfort in your facial expressions. Your eyes flickered to the side, just able to see him in your peripheral vision. You nodded once.
Haymitch then proceeded to tie the loose laces of the corset back up, securing it in place, this time leaving enough space for you to breathe. He tapped the side of your hip once when he was finished and you turned around to face him again. “Thank you.”
The silence that followed lingered between the two of you. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Quite the opposite, actually. Just two broken souls finding a moment solace in each other before the inevitable downfall that was to come when they stepped through the grand double-doors to their side. You kept your eyes locked onto each other’s, taking each other in.
Ever since you had been reaped and he assigned as your mentor for the games, there was an unspoken and unaddressed connection between you and Haymitch. A tension that slowly grew stronger as time progressed. But it wasn’t the electrifying and wanting feeling that you had read about in a novel once or twice before. It felt calmer, deeper and stronger. More like a warm blanket that wrapped itself around you, sheltering you from the cold und the numbness that threatened to seep into your bones.
You had first met Haymitch on the train to the Capitol. You had reluctantly stepped into the wagon just behind Jason, your district partner – flanked by a handful of peacekeepers. It was then your eyes landed on his rather lanky but lean form, slumped one of the velvet cushioned seats, a half-empty glass of some alcoholic beverage dangling from his fingers. Effie Trinket – the escort for district 12 – had pointed to him with one of her hands, long nails painted a bright pink and sparkling.
Effie had let out a high-pitched yet sorrowful sigh as she gestured to Haymitch in the chair, the corners of her lipstick-stained lips downturned just the slightest. “This is Haymitch Abernathy. He will be your mentor for the games. He will give you advice on how to survive in the arena and how to get sponsors.” She had started explaining in her high voice as she waltzed over to him, her heels clicking on the floor of the moving train. When she reached him, she wrapped her long fingers around the glass that was still tightly clutched in his grip, taking it and setting it on the table before him. This seemed to rouse him as he lifted his head, blinking heavily.
“Your tributes, Haymitch. Don’t let them down.” Effie had murmured to him, squeezing his shoulder before straightening her back again and making her way to the exit of the wagon that led to the next. She turned back to face you and Jason, giving you a smile.
“May the odds ever be in your favour.”
Then she left, leaving you two alone with Haymitch.
Jason had been furious at first, already angrily muttering about how you both were going to die within the first hour if this was how Haymitch was going to act. All the while, the latter had been shaking his head back and forth, trying to gain back full consciousness, blond curls falling over his face. You had to admit, you were worried first as well. But somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to be angry at him for hanging onto the bottle of whiskey like it was his lifeline. You had seen his games. Snippets of it, anyway. Had seen how Maysilee, Wyatt and Lou Lou had died. And others he had seemed to be close to. You also hadn’t been oblivious to the fire that had burned down his house, his family with it. No doubt a warning from president Snow himself.
He had helped you and Jason as much as he could. Told you all the ways you could woo the Capitol and the gamemakers to be in your favour. All things he didn’t do back then, earning him a total of one point in his individual assessment with the gamemakers. He never made any of you two any hopes. Said that the chances of your survival could be sky-high and lower than the earth all the same.
You had been lucky enough to earn an eight in your assessment, impressing them just enough with your skills with an axe. When they started to drift off, their attention wandering, you had smashed the axe right into one of the metal tables displaying various knives. The sound of the impact had echoed throughout the whole room and their eyes had snapped straight back to you. You had let the axe stuck in the table and bowed your head once before wordlessly leaving the room.
All of those memories that ran through your head all day long – paired with the horrors of the arena – seemed to wash away when Haymitch looked at you like he did now. With a soft and gentle understanding. With this intensity that suffocated you in the best way possible. At this point, he was the only one that treated you like a human being. And you ate it up like you were starved, which honestly, you were.
After what could’ve been mere seconds, minutes or even hours, Haymitch let out a small breath. “Let’s get this over with, shall we? The president wouldn’t appreciate us being too late.” His tone clearly expressed that he couldn’t care less about being late. Or about displeasing the president. But unfortunately, it would only lead to punishments neither of you would be pleased about. So wordlessly, you linked your arm back with his and with that, you made your way through the double-doors.
The sight you were met with wasn’t anything you weren’t used to by now, but it overwhelmed you each time nonetheless. The countless colours were entirely too bright the endless smells of various foods and drinks paired with too many strongly-scented perfumes making your nose itch and your head ache. And of course, the eyes that immediately landed on you as soon as the doors opened. The stares were something you were never going to get used to. You wished the carpeted floor beneath your feet would swallow you whole and never spit you out again. Almost anything was better than having their greedy and wanting eyes on you.
Haymitch led you over to one of the long tables that served drinks, knowing you could need one as well. The short journey to that table took way longer than necessary, having to stop every few steps to smile brightly at yet another Capitol inhabitant and tell them how honoured you were to be here. How grateful you were to have returned victorious from the games, as if you wouldn’t have rather died a gruesome death by some mutts than stand here and let them run their hands over your arms as they told you how absolutely marvellous you were.
When you finally stopped in front of the mahogany table, covered in a pristine white clothe, Haymitch grabbed one of the many glasses and took a big swig. In the process, he reached over and handed you one of the glasses as well. Just like him, you let the alcoholic – yet still way too sweet – beverage run down your throat, the burning sensation feeling oddly pleasant in this situation.
Before you knew it, you were being whisked away by various journalists, aspiring stylists and other political figures in the Capitol. They treated you like a sensation, a spectacle they could feed off of.
The journalists asked you about the most horrific happenings in the arena. The one’s still stuck in your head. The one’s you still saw each time you closed your eyes. Like seeing your district partner, Jason, get killed during the bloodbath after barely making it out yourself.
As soon as the gong sounded to announce the beginning of the games, everyone bolted. Straight for the Cornucopia. You remembered Haymitch telling both you and Jason it was basically suicide. That a lot of tributes never made it out of the bloodbath that occurred at each start of the games.
So, you didn’t. You sprinted forward with the intent on grabbing one of the backpacks strewn a bit farther around the Cornucopia before running to the forest on your left side. That plan was interrupted, however, when you barely managed to dodge the blade of a sword that was swung at you, sending you stumbling and landing on the damp and muddy ground with a thud.
You rolled to the side just in time as the same sword came down upon you once more, lodging itself in the ground where you had been mere seconds ago. You were breathing heavily, the adrenaline pumping through your veins like electricity through a wire. While the tribute that had attacked you – the girl from 5 – was occupied with pulling her sword out of the ground, you were trying to pull yourself to your feet again. That was when a hand appeared in front of your eyes, outstretched in a silent offer to help. You had looked up and sighed in relief when you saw Jason, a backpack slung over his shoulder and already covered in grime. You placed your hand in his, letting him pull you up into a standing position.
You were just about to thank him as you heard a wet sound that sounded scarily like something sharp lodging itself into flesh. You stared at Jason in shock, seeing how the life slipped from his body in seconds. He dropped to the ground in a heap, dead. Behind him stood the girl from 5, bloody sword clutched tightly in her hand. It seemed she had also just realized what she’d done, staring at the glistening red liquid on her blade in horror.
Her stunned form gave you enough time to escape. You ran away from them as fast as you could, ignoring the screams of the other tributes around you. When you caught sight of another backpack that hadn’t been claimed yet, you bent down just enough to lift it up mid-run, swinging it over one of your shoulders and taking off towards the forest.
The sight of the light leaving his eyes would forever haunt you. You saw it every night in your nightmares, the ones in which he reminded you that it was your fault. That you should’ve seen the girl approaching him before she could stab him.
They also loved to ask you about your first kill. The very same girl from 5 that had murdered Jason.
You had stumbled upon her by pure coincidence. You were crouching by the river bank that ran through the arena, letting the water run over your hands and dragging them over your face, trying to calm your racing thoughts and heart. It had been almost seven days in the arena. 7 fucking days in this hell.
16 tributes had already fallen, leaving 8 remaining. It would only be a matter of time now until that number would drop and drop until only the victor would be left. And you were still convinced it wouldn’t be you. You closed your eyes, taking in a deep yet shaky breath, willing to calm yourself down. Your thoughts strayed to Haymitch then. How he had tightly gripped your shoulders, staring deep into your eyes as he told you to fight. To fight and survive for your family, for yourself. And for him.
That’s when you heard the scrunch of boots meeting gravel, coming closer and closer. You had whipped around, on your feet in seconds and knife clutched tightly in your hands, prepared to strike if you had to. Though you didn’t know if you could bring yourself to. You hadn’t killed anyone yet – and you weren’t sure if you’d be able to.
Your eyes met those of the district 5 girl, Ronya, if you remembered her name correctly. Her eyes widened upon seeing you, remembering you from the bloodbath. Remembering that she had been the one to murder your district partner in cold blood. For what seemed like an eternity, you two simply stared at each other. Then, she bolted. But not to attack you like you’d expected. She ran away from you, as if you’d kill her if she didn’t – as revenge for Jason.
You could’ve let her run. You could have just continued on without getting blood on your hands. But this time, you didn't. Without thinking, you took off after her, sprinting as if your life depended on it. Or well, hers.
It didn’t take you long to catch up with her, grabbing the back of her jacket and pulling her back. It sent her tumbling to the ground immediately. You went right after her, setting your body atop hers, digging your knees into the forest-ground on each side of her body. You were just about to move your knife to her throat when you felt pain explode in your thigh, spreading through your whole body. You looked down and saw a small dagger buried deep into the side of your upper leg, Ronya’s hands still holding onto the handle.
She took advantage of your frozen state, rolling you both over so she was hovering above you now. She ripped the knife out of your leg, a pained cry leaving you. She knocked your blade out of your hands, going to plunge hers into your chest. Your hands flew up to stop her, gripping her wrists and strenuously holding the knife at a safe distance from your body. You were both trembling, scared and desperate to survive. Using all of the strength you had left, you managed to push her off, her body slumping to the floor next to you.
Your hands blindly scrambled for your knife as you kept your eyes on her quickly recovering body. As you fingertips touched it, you leaned a bit farther, taking a hold of the blade and turning back to Ronya. She was almost back on her feet now. Before you could think about what you were doing, you lunged over and stuck the blade into her calf.
She cried out, stumbling and tumbling down once more. This time you didn’t let her overpower you. You pulled the knife out of her leg and pinned her to the floor again, like you had done when you first caught up with her. She started crying then, tears streaming down her face and leaving traces in the dirt that covered her face. She cried and begged, pleading with you not to do it. That she was sorry for what she did to Jason. After all, she wanted to survive just as badly as everyone else in here did.
You stared down at her with wide eyes, hands trembling around the tight grip you had on your knife, raised just above her chest. But in that moment, you only saw Jason’s dead body dropping to the floor and the girl now beneath you standing behind him, her sword soaked in his blood. And so you ignored her begging, bringing the knife down. Over and over again.
By the end you were sobbing as well, flinching when the cannon echoed through the arena, sealing her fate.
It had taken everything in you not to break down in sobs and cries during your victory tour in district 5. Seeing the girl’s family standing on one of the pedestals, looking at you with nothing but hatred and grief.
And oh, how those journalists thrived off the last hour of the games. Their questions were endless. How you felt, what it was like – wanting you to repeat what happened, as if they couldn’t watch it on recording.
Only three tributes left after eleven days. You, the boy from 1 and the girl from 4. So it came down to you, a lowlife tribute from district 12, against two careers. You reluctantly approached the Cornucopia, blood dripping down your arm where the mutt that had chased you here left its mark. Your thigh was still throbbing from the stab wound you’d gotten four days ago from the district 5 girl – though the bandages you’d gotten that night as a sponsor gift had helped immensely. With the bandages, there had come a small note. It would’ve been a lie if you said that damned note wasn’t the reason you were here now, not having let the mutt take you.
“Survive for me, sweetheart. – H”
The small slip of paper was still in the inner pocket of your jacket. Maybe it was pathetic, but it had kept you going for the past four days. After killing Ronya, you’d been just about ready to let hunger and thirst take you, ending it once and for all. But that note. That fucking note. Silent sobs had started escaping you when you read it, clutching it tightly in your fingers.
And now here you were, trudging the rest of the distance between you and the Cornucopia. You knew what the Capitol wanted now. They wanted the final fight. The final battle of a district 12 tribute against two careers, one from district 1 and one from 4. The axe you had found laying next to the dead body of the boy from 3 dangling from one of your hands.
The two careers had apparently seen you approach as they left the Cornucopia, heads held high and staring straight at you. Cora, the girl from district 2, with her trident thrown over her shoulder, regarding you with a murderous glint in her eye. And Locke, the boy from district 1, his sword clutched in his hands, grinning at you like a predator flashing its teeth at his prey.
They came running at you – both at the same time. Weapons raised, they sprinted straight towards you. Thankfully, Cora was a bit faster than Locke, leaving you with enough time to dodge both attacks. You sidestepped just in time, causing Cora to bury the tips of her trident in the ground. Right after, you raised your axe, blocking Locke’s sword from finding its target – you.
You stepped around them, rushing for the Cornucopia. You knew you had to get some kind of leverage, some kind of higher ground. Otherwise you had no chance in surviving this. They had trained their whole life just for this. You were basically thrown in at the deep end without knowing how to swim.
You scrambled, pulling yourself on top of the Cornucopia. Climbing was thankfully one of your strengths, having had enough practice climbing trees back in 12. You raised your axe, ready to attack should one of them make it up. They reached the bottom of the Cornucopia just seconds after you made it to the top. Locke immediately crouched and locked his hands together, helping Cora by launching her up onto the surface.
A mistake. While she was trying to regain balance and stand up straight on her feet, you attacked. Your axe wedged itself deep in her shoulder. Cora had stared at you with wide eyes, not expecting your sudden attack. You pulled the axe out and without further delay, let it lodge itself in her neck, separating her head from the rest of her body seamlessly.
You didn’t even look at her dead body. The adrenaline running through your veins was too strong, the will to survive overtaking your senses. Jumping down from the Cornucopia, you barely registered the pain the impact of your feet meeting the ground sent through your legs. You swung at Locke without hesitation, the blade of your axe stuck in his side. He let out a pained grunt, but he didn’t give up yet. His sword cut a clean gash across your hip, leading you to stumble the slightest bit.
You pulled the axe from his side and before he could think, you struck again, this time sinking the sharp edge of the axe straight into his chest. Like you did with Jason, you watched as the life drained out of Locke’s body before it crumpled to the ground like a sack filled with stones. Two more cannons fired. One for Cora, one for Locke.
And with that, you’d won the 55th hunger games. Standing in the middle of the arena, axe still clutched in your hands, entire body covered in blood, grime and dirt.
They loved to hear the story of how you killed the two careers. It was a miracle to them. A tribute from district 12 killing two careers. It seemed almost impossible to them. And yet, here you were.
By now, you were used to all of these questions however, to their greedy and insensitive curiosity. Their desire for anything slightly exciting. You answered them just like you always did. With a smile playing at your lips, always putting emphasis on how glad you were that you were the victor. That you were honoured and thriving in this role when in reality, you wanted to curl up into a ball on the floor and cry until there were no more tears left in your body. But you handled it, swallowed it all down – just like you were told to do.
That changed when you got strung into a conversation with a middle-aged couple, Capitol people no doubt, the matching rings on their fingers implying that they were married. The woman, hanging onto her husband’s arm, grinned at you in a way that made an uncomfortable shiver run down your spine. Like bugs crawling their way all over your skin. Her husband, a man of average height and on the thicker side, let his eyes rake over your entire body, an almost hungry look in his eyes.
The woman leaned over, as if to whisper in her husband’s ear, but she purposely spoke loudly enough for you to hear her words as well. “Isn’t she even prettier up close, my love? Such a precious girl our victor is this year.” She almost purred, her tone sultry as she looked you up and down. Her husband answered immediately, a short but loud laugh escaping him.
“Indeed she is. But she’d look even prettier in my bed.” He muttered, eyes not leaving you – who was now frozen in place. With his next words, he directly addressed you, rather than his wife. “Wouldn’t you, dollface? I’d pay a good fortune to get you beneath my sheets for a night, looked so pretty every time you cried in the arena. I can practically imagine how much better you’d look with tears of pleasure running down your face.” He drawled, his lips spreading into a wide and disgusting smile as he reached out, running his thumb across your cheekbone in what was probably supposed to be a gentle manner.
It made you want to recoil and put as much distance between you and the man as you could. You had heard of it before. Whispers among fellow victors. That president Snow picked the prettiest and most desirable one’s to sell to the people of the Capitol, forcing them into prostitution. They couldn’t refuse, the lives of their loved one’s one the line.
Until now, the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind that Snow could possibly see this kind of potential in you. But now, as this repulsive couple gawked at you with nothing but burning thirst and need in their eyes, their words still echoing in your head, it dawned on you that it wasn’t impossible. It made you nauseous, terrified. You could handle anything. Their questions, their stares, being treated like a puppet at these events. But having to give them your body and let them live out their sickest fantasies? You’d rather jump off the nearest building.
You took a step back, the man’s hand falling from your face, his smirk faltering a small bit. “I… excuse me, just one moment” you sputtered out through the panic rising in your chest. You turned on your heels, speed-walking off and as far away as you could from the couple. Unbeknownst to you, Haymitch had seen almost the entire interaction. He had searched the whole ballroom when he lost sight of you. Ultimately, his eyes landed on you just as the man put his hand on your face. Haymitch didn’t hear what he had said to you, but even from the distance, he could see the wanting look in the man’s eyes.
He had begun rushing over, rage clouding his mind. He wouldn’t let this happen to you. He refused. Anything but this. He wouldn’t let those Capitol pigs put their filthy hands on your body, shattering you even further. When he was just seconds from reaching you, from ripping the man’s hands off of your body, even if it would cost him his life, you’d turned and darted off into the crowd. This time, Haymitch was hot on your heels, pushing past all the people to keep sight of you, occasionally uttering a quiet apology under his breath he didn’t mean.
He found you in one of the far corners of the gigantic room, back pressed flush to the wall and hand over your stomach, trying to slow your erratic breathing. The second you saw him, you felt tears welling up in your eyes – relief washing over you – knowing you were not alone. Not anymore.
Haymitch took a quick look around, seeing that right now, everyone was too occupied to keep their eyes on you. He took your hand into one of his, pulling you along with him. He waltzed over to the nearest door that lined the walls of the room, and opened it just enough for both of you to slip through. The room was rather small, lined with various bookshelves and a table on one far end of it, no windows. A bright red carpet decorated the floor, complimenting the colour of the wooden floor beneath it.
He closed the door behind you, his reflexes just fast enough to catch you as you crumpled to the floor. Your side was against his chest, both his arms wrapped around your upper body as he sank down to the ground with you. The sobs wracked your body, your smaller form shaking and trembling in his arms. Your face was buried into the fabric of his suit-jacket, your tears leaving wet spots he couldn’t care less about.
At first, he didn’t say anything. He simply held you, feeling his heart break in his chest as he listened to your pained and guttural sobs. You practically curled up in his arms, making yourself as small as you could. Eventually, your voice broke through your sobs, weak and stuttering:
“I- I wanna go home. Please, I just w-wanna go home. Please, Haymitch”
Your words, desperate and broken, shattered him even further. He tightened his hold on you, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your hairline. “I know, sweetheart, I know.” Haymitch muttered, lips still pressed to the top of your head. He closed his eyes, blinking away the tears that threatened to escape him as well. “Just breathe for me, alright?” he added in a whisper, one of his hands coming up to stroke the side of your face in a soothing manner, shielding you from the world around you.
He continued this motion for what seemed like hours, until your sobs had turned to smaller whimpers, the tears finally seizing. When you had calmed down for the most part, you rested the side of your temple on his shoulder, gazing up at Haymitch with a look in your eyes that filled his entire chest with warmth. You looked at him as if he was your entire world. And no matter how selfish, he wanted it to stay that way.
Your voice eventually cut through the comfortable silence that had settled itself over both of you, lost in each other’s eyes. “Haymitch?” you whispered softly. His response was a gentle and deep hum, letting you know he was listening as his blue eyes didn’t stray from yours.
“I need to tell you something.”
“What is it?”
“I.. I love you.” What?
It was as if his brain stopped working in that moment, his heartbeat stuttering in his chest. You loved him? It seemed that the shock and confusion was rather clear on his face, because you swallowed hard before breaking into a nervous ramble.
“I know we haven’t known each other that long. Only since – well – since after the reaping. B- but it was the thought of you that kept me going in the arena. I don’t think I would’ve made it without you. Knowing that if I made it out of there alive, I’d come back to you, it kept me from giving up. And I know love is a big word – and that you might not feel the same, but I just had to –“ You were cut off by the sensation of soft and slightly chapped lips meeting yours, a hand settling itself over your cheek, pulling you even closer. You closed your eyes and melted into the kiss straight away, wrapping your arms around Haymitch’s neck and pressing yourself flush against him. The kiss was passionate, filled with emotion. But it wasn’t needy or even remotely sexual. It was a simple and strong expression of love.
Haymitch was on cloud nine. No drunken rush he’d ever experienced could compare to the high he felt right now, his lips on yours and you in his arms. Knowing you loved him. The kiss said more than a thousand words could. But still, he reluctantly broke away from the addicting feel that was your lips, muttering a breathless “I love you too.” His mouth brushing against yours in the process. Hearing his words, you pulled him back in, planting a gentle kiss on his lips, losing yourself in him once more.
Snow had taken a lot from both of you – too much. But this was something he couldn’t take. This moment. The sensation of your joined lips, of your arms wrapped around each other. The passion and happiness that coursed through your bodies even for just these few minutes you had with each other.
This feeling of love that burned bright in your hearts – like all-fire.
song: harder to breathe - h.e.a.t
