#Maybe even the day of the reaping

[itsajollyjester]

The Victor of the 50th Hunger Games

I've already warned all my family, friends, and coworkers about how insufferable I'm going to be until this book is released

[introspectivememories]

tiktok hunger games fans are like the fucking worst. half of them are so desperate to let people know that there's a Message to the book and that they understood the Morals and Themes and Messages of the book that cant look past book canon or have some fun and the other half is making ocs and slapping katniss and peeta's name on them while making the most outlandish conspiracy theories. you cant fucking do anything on there

[districtone]

hunger games prequels are always awesome (when suzanne wants to write them), not so much to read more games stories, but i just love the worldbuilding. if she wanted to write any more, they dont even need to be about current tributes/victors. i'll read anything suzanne i love you

[yuwuta]

If megumi asked uzhsjdhshd omg I totally see it tbh him wanting you, but I don't think megumi would ever ask yuuji to share you, in any type of way at all. (not trying to push my own hc here!!) I feel like yuuji himself would be the one asking megumi. Yuuji knows that he's yours just as much as he knows you're his. And he loves you too much, a lot, it's purest type of love he has ever felt for anyone. And megumi is his best friend, he loves him just as much, right? Yes, not the same love between you and him ofc but yes. And I have no idea what they were doing but yuuji's just says, kind of out of the blue, that he'd let megumi fuck you. The reason being exactly cause he knows you're his, and you're just so so good that he needs to have someone to talk to (about you and always so respectfully) and who better that his best friend?

you’re opening the pandora’s box that is itfs + reader…. god….. 

okok i agree. if you’re dating yuuji, megumi would never ask, yuuji would be the one to bring all three of you together. definitely because he loves you and you’re his, and he loves megumi too, so it just makes sense that his two favorite people also get to have each other—but also, yuuji can tell megumi likes you, and he can tell you think megumi is attractive and since yuuji’s so nice, what kinder thing to do than to set you two up so he can watch (: he definitely enjoys being the mediator, also enjoys the somewhat awkward air between you and megumi, how yeah, maybe it’s a little taboo that the two of you are about to make out while you’re boyfriend watches, but yuuji likes that too… also he likes knowing that you both like him. like how lucky is he that his best friend and his girlfriend adore him so much :(( you two together makes so much sense in his head, because he talks to megumi about you, and he talks to you about megumi, and now, he can just pour all his love for both of you out at the same time

but also…. i’d like to think that yuuji’s maybe not so nice when it’s the other way around—when he and megumi get together first, and you’re megumi’s best friend. he’s not mean, but he does like to tease... how naughty of megumi to ask out yuuji knowing he’s still got a crush on you, and god does yuuji like to tease him about it :/ jerks him off and taunts about how he knows megumi’s dirty little secret—that he’s in love with his best friend and fantasizes not just about having you, but about watching his own boyfriend fuck you too… 

yuuji knows megumi would take his feelings for you to the grave if he could (he’d have done the same with his feelings for yuuji if yuuji wasn’t the one to ask him out), but where’s the fun in that! you and megumi are sooo cute together after all, so yuuji doesn’t mind trying to get you two to confess to each other too. uses his proximity to megumi to get closer to you, takes advantage of his bubbly disposition to be physically affectionate with you, uses megumi’s feelings to his advantage to tease, to wink, to smirk whenever you and yuuji hug a little longer, when he texts megumi that he’s meeting up with you for lunch, when he gives you his jacket and doesn’t ask for it back… there’s so much fun in watching megumi blush and whine and get off at the thought of his best friend and his boyfriend together. and the thing is, yuuji genuinely does like you, too, he sees what megumi sees in you, and he thinks megumi is crazy to have not asked you out before, but he supposes everything happens for a reason, because now, this way, yuuji gets to be there and watch it all happen under his guidance. there’s something about the power, about being the bridge between you two even though you and megumi have known each other for much longer, about being in control of a dynamic that could have, but wouldn’t exist without him…

[14dayswithyou]

Let's play fuck, marry, kill, make your choices wisely 😉

✦゜ANSWERED: I wasn't sure if you were talkin about me or the main cast, so feel free to clarify/ask again!! Also!! Y'all are welcome to let me know who you'd fuck, marry, and kill in the replies >:3

Kiss: Elanor (on da cheek) Marry: Ren (my pink househusband) or Violet (my cottagecore wife) Kill: your landlord <3

[enterstellars]

been reaaaaaally struggling with the whole disabled thing as of late

[katniss-evermeme]

Would love it if life could just calm down for a hot minute

[supercantaloupe]

trying hard to avoid the kitten this week cause i have to be off my allergy meds until thursday

[besiriusiamwild]

deduced i’ll have to stay off tumblr if i wanna avoid sotr spoilers….😕😕

[broodygaming]

It's the smallest thing maybe but it's funny to me Sunrise on the Reaping has given me another reason to dislike Gale.

Thinking of Madge on reaping day, wearing her nice dress and Gale giving her shit for it. Like she has a choice. Like she has say. Like it's her fault who she was born to. It's such an interesting example of class vs culture wars. This idea that the people up the road who have a nice house are the enemy and not the faceless people thousands of miles away who profit on their poverty.

Thinking of Maysilee who was very conscious of the way she dressed. Who liked looking nice and dressing up. Who is Madge's aunt that she never met. Who Madge heard stories of growing up about her moms twin sister who always loved fashion and knew the importance of masking and the power of how you present to people. Don't let them treat us like animals.

And when Madge lifts her head and says "I want to look my best if I go to the Capitol" and Gale has the audacity to scoff at her.

It also speaks to how quickly history is lost. He probably doesn't even know her aunt died in the games. Doesn't care. You never ever ever know what hurt people are carrying. What their history is. What their familial struggle has been. Don't punch down. Don't punch sideways. Don't even punch up. Break the chain and destroy the person holding the reins.

[asongofashandarrows]

happy first day of training in the Training Center for the 74th Games bc post 10th Games one of the many changes made was a week-long training schedule and now reaping days are the first Tuesday in July after the last Games' winning district's twelfth and final Parcel Day and I'll die on that hill

[tobeholyistobeempty]

husband john price who goes to the end of the earth when his wife gets captured by an enemy group for leverage. husband john price who is still haunted by it, even when you’re back safe in his arms.

He doesn’t hear you come in.

Not over the silence. Not over the creak of leather beneath his elbows or the slow crackle of the fire in the hearth. The study is dim — warm, yes, but not alive. A space that once held meaning. Now it just holds him.

You don’t say a word. Just pad across the hardwood with gentle steps. His eyes are cast toward the fire — half-burnt logs, amber glow flickering across the hard line of his jaw and mingling with the smoke of his cigar. He hasn’t shaved in days. Not since long before he got you back. Hasn’t even thought about it. You know, because you counted each time he moved.

Three. Each to the kitchen, then back.

You pause for a moment, watching the grief calcify in his silence.

He looks like he’s been carved down to bone by fear and sharpened again by rage. The kind of rage only a man like him could carry. Cold. Surgical. The kind that doesn’t explode. It eats.

There’s a bottle of whiskey on the table next to him, half gone. You wonder how much of it he poured into the hollow that had your name carved into it. How many nights he drank your ghost down just to keep breathing.

You stop in front of him. No words yet.

Just you — bare legs, one of his dress shirts curtaining your frame, sleeves rolled up past the elbows. It smells like him. Cologne and smoke and something older. The scent of a man who nearly lost his world and hasn’t quite figured out how to let it back in without crucifying himself with the hurt.

“John,” you murmur softly.

He looks up.

And Christ — you weren’t ready for the way he looks at you. Not because he’s crying. He’s not. He’s past that. But because his expression is starved. Hollowed out. Like he spent every second of your absence chewing through every scenario that didn’t end with you in front of him, wearing his clothes and looking at him like you never left.

“I’m here,” you whisper. “It’s okay.”

He sets his cigar down, hand reaching out — rough palm sliding along your thigh like he’s checking for something, proof maybe, or pulse. You step between his knees without being asked, fingers finding the back of his neck, thumb brushing scruff made coarse by time.

His forehead presses to your stomach. Just rests there.

You can feel the breath he drags in — shaky, uneven, filled with everything he hasn’t said in the seven days he spent chasing hell to get you back.

“I should’ve gotten there sooner,” he says. His voice sounds like smoke and splinters. “I—”

“You got there.” You trace the age on his skin. He holds you tighter for it. “You found me.”

“Not a goddamn thing would’ve prevented that.”

You don’t answer that — just hold his head in your hands, willing your fingers to grow roots. Like the only thing you can offer now is proof of life.

He doesn’t ask you to forgive him for the days it took to reach you. Doesn’t apologize over and over for something he knows you'd never ever blame him for. It’s military. You know the job. The risks that often reap the rewards. And you — you know better than to tell him you’re fine. Because fine is the word people use when everything inside them is still bleeding. And besides, he isn’t really asking if you’re okay.

He’s asking if you’re still his.

So you climb into his lap, straddling his thighs. Not to fuck — not to forget. But to exist. With him. Inside the silence. Inside the ache. Inside the echo of what might’ve been lost if he hadn’t fought like hell to get to you.

“I had plans,” he murmurs, curling his lips into your neck. “For after. For now. Thought about what I’d say when you walked through the door. About how I’d ask if you wanted to get out of this life. Find something quieter. Something that doesn’t strip the good from our skin.”

You shift, press your forehead to his. Let the smoke on his exhales stick to yours. Let the ache burn through your throat.

“And now?”

He kisses you. “Now I just want to feel you breathe.”

[onlybeeewrites]

Finding Magic

Request: May I request a hunger games request Haymitch x wife reader, she is a district 12 victor from the laye 50's games. She is around 4-8 years younger than him. It is set in district 13, we see him with their young daughter named after his fellow 50th game tribute and just fluff, please Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!reader

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x wife!reader

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: SUNRISE ON THE REAPING SPOILERS, characters mentioned

A/N: the first of many Haymitch requests UGH I loved this and seeing soft Haymitch. Enjoy!! <3 ~~~~~~~~

The quarters in District 13 weren’t much—gray walls, stiff bedding, and a distinct lack of anything that could be called personal. Everything was practical, assigned, and strictly regulated, from the meals to the uniforms to the way time itself seemed to tick by in rigid blocks.

But somehow, you had made it feel like home. Haymitch wasn’t sure how she did it. Maybe it was the warmth she carried with her, the way she never let the weight of their reality smother the small joys you still managed to carve out of the days. Or maybe it was the way you saw things—not just for what they were, but for what they could be.

Even here, underground, you made the world seem bigger.

Your ten year old daughter, Louella was sprawled out on the cold floor, utterly lost in the book she held, her small fingers gripping the worn pages as if they contained the secrets of the universe.

Haymitch could see the crease between her brows, the slight parting of her lips as she whispered words under her breath, tasting them as she read. Whatever world she had discovered in those pages had its hooks in her now, and nothing short of an emergency would pull her out of it.

And you sat nearby, your head bent over a needle and thread, patching up yet another hole in your daughter’s jumpsuit. It wasn’t the first tear she’d fixed this week, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

Louella was always running, climbing, sneaking into places she wasn’t supposed to be. She had the boundless energy of someone who had never known anything but motion.

Haymitch liked to pretend he didn’t know where she got that rebellious streak from, but between your quiet defiance and his own tendency to do exactly the opposite of what people expected, the girl hadn’t stood a chance.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, watching them for a moment before speaking. “What’s she reading this time?”

You didn’t look up, but there was a small smile on her lips. “Poetry. About magic.”

Haymitch raised a brow and pushed off the wall, making his way over before flopping down beside Louella. “Magic, huh? Didn’t think District 13 allowed that kind of thing.”

Louella shot him an unimpressed look over the top of her book. “It’s poetry, Papa. Not spells.”

Haymitch smirked, leaning in as if she had just admitted to something scandalous. “Still sounds like nonsense.”

Louella let out a dramatic sigh and held up the book. “Just listen.”

She cleared her throat, straightened her back, and read aloud:

“The wind hums secrets through the trees,

The river sings to passing bees.

The sky bends low to kiss the land,

And leaves spell stories in the sand.”

She closed the book with a decisive little snap and looked up expectantly, waiting for his reaction.

Haymitch tilted his head. “Huh. Not bad.”

Louella beamed, victorious, and turned to her mother. “See? Even he likes it.”

You chuckled, tying off the stitch with practiced ease. “Took him long enough.”

Haymitch rolled his eyes but turned back to Louella. “So, you really think there’s magic in all that?”

Louella nodded eagerly. “Mama says magic is just seeing things the right way. Like when the sun looks like melted gold, or when the air smells different before a storm.”

You take a pause, setting down the sewing, stretching your fingers before smiling at your daughter. “My family always believed in magic,” you said, voice soft with nostalgia,

“We grew up in the fields, and we saw it in everything—the way fireflies danced like little stars, the hush of the earth before the first snowfall, the way seeds always knew how to find the sun.”

Louella’s eyes widened in that way only a child’s could, full of wonder and longing for things just out of reach. “I wish I could’ve seen all that.”

You smiled fondly, brushing a curl from Louella’s face. “You still can, sweetheart. Magic’s in the little things. You just have to know how to look.”

Haymitch snorted, shaking his head. “That why people used to call your family wild?”

That caused you to smirked at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling with amusement. “Of course. You’d know that. You’d also remember that people often said we were odd for believing in things you couldn’t hold in your hands. But it takes special people to see the magic in little things.”

Louella grinned. “Good thing I’m special, then.”

Haymitch hummed, “yes you are, sweetheart,” he said glancing between the two of them—you, his wife, with your quiet strength and stubborn belief in things bigger than themselves, and his daughter, practically glowing with excitement at the idea of unseen wonders hiding in the world around her.

Louella yawned, rubbing at her eyes but still stubbornly gripping her book. “Can I read one more?”

You glanced at the clock on the wall—lights-out was soon, and rules were strict here. But sighed, a small, indulgent smile on your lips. “Just one more.” How could you deny one of the few pleasures you were able to indulge in?

Louella grinned and flipped through the pages, searching for the perfect poem. Haymitch, meanwhile, leaned his head back against the wall, one arm draped lazily over your shoulders.

He wasn’t much for poetry, but he liked the sound of Louella’s voice as she read, soft and full of belief. Reminding him so much of you.

“The stars will shine beyond the dark,

Their light will never wane.

A whispered wish, a hopeful heart,

And magic stays the same.”

Luella looked up, blinking sleepily. “That means magic is always there, right? Even when we can’t see it?”

You ran her fingers through Louella’s hair. “That’s right.”

Haymitch huffed. “Poetry’s got a lot of nerve making promises like that.”

Louella giggled, pressing her face into his side. “You just don’t get it, Dad.”

He smirked, pulling the blanket up over her. “Guess not.”

She let out another small yawn, and this time, her eyes didn’t open again. Haymitch exhaled, shifting to pick her up. She made a sleepy sound of protest as he scooped her into his arms, but she didn’t fight it, just curled against his chest like she’d done since she was little.

You stood and followed as he carried Louella to the small cot she called a bed. He tucked her in, smoothing down the blanket while you brushed her hair back, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

Haymitch stayed there a moment longer, watching as Louella breathed slow and deep, already lost in dreams. He reached out, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Sleep tight, wild thing.”

She didn’t stir. You slipped your hand into his, lacing their fingers together as they stepped back from the bed.

Haymitch pressed a kiss to you temple as they settled onto their own bed. “You’re gonna turn her into a dreamer.”

You smiled against his shoulder. “Good. The world needs more of them.”

Haymitch didn’t answer right away. He just held you a little tighter, his fingers absently tracing slow, idle patterns against your arm.

Even after all these years, it still felt surreal sometimes—having this family, having you.

He thought back to the first time he saw you, standing on that stage at seventeen, trying to keep your face blank as your name was called. He’d been your mentor then, five years after winning himself. And he had been forced to watch 10 kids die since then. He was sure you would be the 12th.

And so he was forced to watch as you stepped into the arena, as you fought. But this time you proved everyone wrong as you won.

He had known, back then, what kind of person would walk out of that place. What it took to survive.

But you had come back still you, against all odds. You had come back stubborn and sharp and kind in ways the Capitol couldn’t kill. You still held onto who you were. And that alone was the perfect act of rebellion.

And somehow, in the years that followed, through nightmares and rebellion and the slow, aching process of trying to be something more than just survivors—you had found your way to each other eventually. And then became more.

Then two, became three. You had sobbed in his arms when you found out, fearing the day that she too would have to be reaped from the bowl of names. With a high chance of her dying in that god forsaken arena. The guilt, Haymitch remembered, took such a toll on you.

“How could I do this? Bring a child into this world?” You had once said. But after some time you had come to terms with the baby—Luella. Light in the dark. And a memorial name after the one of the tributes from Haymitch’s games. A sweet little girl you remembered from the Seam.

But now, you all were here, in a dimly lit room beneath the earth, with the most incredible daughter who believed in poetry and magic, in a place where hope was hard to hold on to.

And yet, somehow, you still did.

Haymitch exhaled, pressing his forehead against your hair. “You know,” he muttered, “I always knew you were trouble.”

You laughed softly, shifting closer. “Oh? Since when?”

“Since you looked me in the eye after they called your name and didn’t cry.” His voice was quiet, thoughtful. “Since you gave me an attitude that first day on the train. And especially afterward,”

Your fingers brushed against his hand, lacing together. “Guess that means you didn’t do a terrible job as a mentor.”

Haymitch huffed a small, dry laugh. “Didn’t do a great one, either.”

You squeezed his hand, tilting her head at him. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

He didn’t answer, just pulled you against him, pressing a kiss to your hair.

You were here. You were still you. Even after everything you both had gone through.

Maybe that was magic too.

[ama3003]

Silver Springs

Character: Haymitch Abernathy

Requested: No

Type: Angst/ (A bit of Fluff)

Summary: The tragic yet beautiful love story of a District 12 Victor and a Capitol Princess.

Song based fanfiction: Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac

A.N: I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader. Also it's really long lol whoops.

You could be my silver spring Blue-green colors flashin'

Most Capitol kids couldn’t wait for the annual Hunger Games. It was the highlight of the year—dressing up as their favorite tributes, pretending to fight, and cheering on the bloodshed like it was just another sport.

But your family was different. They understood the Games weren’t just about people killing each other. It was the raw, unrelenting violence—too much for children to witness. That’s why your mother and father refused to let you and your younger sister watch, no matter how many times you begged. It was hard, though, knowing your father was one of the arena makers. But even he agreed it was too much for you to see—at least, not yet.

It wasn’t until you were fifteen that you finally saw the Games. Your sister, at thirteen, was still too young in their eyes, but after years of asking, you finally convinced your father to let you watch. Your mother was reluctant, but your father, almost too eager, finally gave in. It was his favorite pastime, after all.

You sat in front of the screen, hesitant, unsure of what to expect. The moment the Games began, you knew you’d made a mistake. The bloodbath at the Cornucopia was enough to turn your stomach.

This wasn’t entertainment. These were children, kids just like you, fighting for their lives. Fighting for survival. The thought of it made you sick. How could anyone watch this, let alone cheer for it?

You hated the Games. Hated how your friends, even your own family, seemed to feed off the violence. The spectacle of it all disgusted you, and for three days, you refused to watch, unable to stomach the brutal chaos. But then, your mother asked you to bring your father a drink—such a simple request, nothing special—until you walked into the room and saw him.

There, on the screen, was a flash of blonde—Haymitch Abernathy, District 12’s tribute. He wasn’t like the others. You could feel it the moment he snapped. The rawness, the desperate anguish in his eyes when his friend died. He wasn’t just surviving the Games. He was broken. And you couldn’t look away.

That was when it happened. A pull, something you couldn’t explain. It wasn’t pity, it wasn’t just sympathy—it was something deeper. His pain, his strength, his defiance against the system, it all drew you in. You found yourself on the edge of your seat, barely breathing, as you watched him fight—not just for survival, but for something far more fragile. Maybe hope. Maybe revenge.

And just like that, you were hooked.

As the days wore on, you found yourself more and more absorbed. Your father noticed, too, but it wasn’t for the reason he thought. It wasn’t because you were becoming one of those Capitol kids, eagerly watching the bloodshed. No, it was because you were clinging to the hope that Haymitch, that broken boy from District 12, might just survive.

You prayed, each day, that he’d make it. You wanted him to win, not because of the Games—but because you couldn’t bear the thought of him becoming just another casualty of the Capitol’s cruel entertainment.

Day six came, and your heart was in your throat. The thought of watching it all unfold was unbearable, but you couldn’t tear yourself away. You needed to know if he made it. Needed to know if he could fight his way out of the nightmare.

And you realized, as the games dragged on, that you weren’t watching to see who’d win—it was because, in that moment, the boy from District 12 was the only thing that kept you from giving up on the Games entirely. The only thing worth watching.

“Father, what are they doing?” you asked, your voice trembling with a mix of shock and fear as you watched the District 12 pair discuss splitting up.

“There’s only five left, my little star,” your father replied, his voice quiet but firm. “Friends don’t want to hurt each other. All we can do is hope that someone gets to them before they do it to each other.”

Hope? That’s all you could do? Hope that the one you’d been watching—your tribute—wouldn’t die? You couldn’t accept that. The odds weren’t in his favor, but you weren’t about to let that be the end. Not without trying.

“Do you think I could send him something?” The words slipped out before you could stop them. You could feel your heart pounding as you spoke, watching your father’s face change.

He shook his head almost immediately, the lines around his eyes tightening. “You know I don’t do that. Not with my position.”

You hesitated, but the urge to help him was too strong. “I know... but he’s my favorite. It’s my first Games... I just thought... maybe it would be nice to give him something, you know?”

Your hands fidgeted nervously in your lap, betraying how much this meant to you. Your father had always avoided sending gifts to tributes—after all, he helped design the arena, and it was frowned upon for him to interfere. It felt like a long shot, but at this point, anything felt better than doing nothing.

He must have seen the desperation in your face because he stared at you for a long moment, his gaze sharp, searching. “I see what this is.” He raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got a little crush on him, don’t you?” You remained silent.

He sighed, rubbing his temples, and then his expression shifted. “I don’t think that little crush is going to win, my dear,” he said softly, almost gently, but there was a sharpness to his words. “So I think you should start looking at others.”

His words stung, but you couldn’t let it deter you. You needed to get this to him. You could feel your face flush with frustration, but you forced a sad smile. “I know, Dad. But I was just hoping I could give him a toy. Something small. Something that could keep him busy before the end. Every kid deserves to be a kid, at least being that close to death.”

He stared at you, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if he would cave. But then he sighed again, resigned, and nodded. “Alright. What do you want to send him?”

You breathed a sigh of relief and quickly whispered the idea in his ear. You wrote a quick note, and then, with all the sincerity you could muster, you looked up at him. “Please, Dad.”

You gave him your best puppy-dog eyes—the same ones that always made him relent—and he finally rolled his eyes with a playful smirk, defeated.

“Fine. I’ll get it sent,” he muttered before walking out.

You waited, heart in your throat, as the camera panned over to Haymitch, perched alone on a cliff, staring into the distance. He looked like he had given up. His posture was slouched, and his eyes were hollow with defeat. It hurt to see him like that.

But you weren’t giving up. Not yet.

And then, there it was—the parachute. You held your breath as it floated down toward him, delicate and slow, carrying your small offering.

He reached for it, opened the package. Your heart raced as he pulled out the small bouncing ball. He stared at it for a moment, annoyance flashing across his face. Clearly, he was expecting something different. Something more useful.

Then, he unfolded the note and read it:

‘Sometimes things just bounce back out of nowhere. Trust your gut – it’s gotten you this far. I believe in you. – Star’

He scoffed, bouncing the ball on the ground in irritation. This was what sponsors thought he needed? A toy?

He sighed, then threw the ball off the cliff with force, clearly hoping to see it disappear into the abyss.

But then it came back. Bounced. Right back to him.

He froze, staring at the ball in disbelief, then threw it again. This time, with more curiosity. It bounced back. Again.

And again. He caught it, his face shifting from frustration to realization.

Looking back at the note, his eyes narrowed. Trust your gut.

And that’s when it clicked.

It wasn’t just a ball. It was a signal. A clue. There was something there—a forcefield. It was the only explanation.

He took a deep breath, nodding to himself. Maybe the odds weren’t so hopeless after all.

I would be your only dream Your shinin' autumn ocean crashin'

The ballroom hummed with the usual crowd—an ocean of glittering gowns and sharp suits. The air was thick with forced laughter, the kind that never quite reached the eyes.

Haymitch was tucked away in a quiet corner, nursing a drink that was far too strong for his age, trying to drown out the noise.

It was his Victory Tour party—supposed to be a celebration. But Haymitch wasn’t celebrating. He hadn’t asked for this. He hadn’t asked to be here, surrounded by people who didn’t have the slightest clue what he’d endured.

His gaze swept across the room, lingering on the faces—smiles too wide, too perfect. It made his stomach twist. This wasn’t his world. None of it was.

He’d survived the Games, sure, but the real battle felt like it was just beginning. He was already dreading the next few months—endless speeches, the same tired handshakes, pretending he wasn’t counting the minutes until he could escape back to District 12.

Survival had a price. And right now, it felt like a cruel joke.

For the last fifteen minutes, Haymitch had blended into the background, unnoticed by the crowd, their attention elsewhere. For once, he didn’t feel like a spectacle. But then—tap. A hand on his shoulder.

Instincts kicked in. He grabbed the wrist before he even realized what he was doing, his fingers tightening around it. When he looked up, ready to snap, he froze.

There you were—standing there, a nervous little smile on your lips, already looking like you regretted interrupting him. And something in your eyes made him pause.

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice soft, almost apologetic. “That was really stupid. I hate when people touch me, and I figured… well, I guess I didn’t figure... after everything you’ve been through, you’d probably hate it too.”

He stared at you for a moment, still holding your wrist, but slowly let go, his fingers relaxing. You weren’t demanding anything. You weren’t fawning over him like everyone else. You weren’t telling him how amazing he was for surviving the Games, or how lucky he should feel to be here in the Capitol. You just seemed... real.

You stepped back, folding your arms behind your back, unsure of what to do next. An awkward silence stretched between you until you spoke again.

“I just wanted to introduce myself.” You held out your hand. “I’m Y/N.”

Haymitch stared at your hand for a moment. He hesitated, but there was something about you that made him push aside his usual cynicism, if only for a second. He took your hand, his grip a little rough, a little unsure.

“I’m Haymitch,” he muttered, pulling his hand back quickly. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation. He just wanted to be left alone. The drink in his hand was the only thing that helped him pretend, just for a little while, that none of this mattered.

But you didn’t leave. You stayed there, watching him, waiting. Then, you asked, “Aren’t you a little young to be drinking?”

A bitter laugh escaped him, sharper than he intended. He glanced at you, eyes narrowing, but it wasn’t malice—just exhaustion. “After everything I’ve been through, I doubt anyone’s gonna care if I drink at sixteen.”

“I guess you’re right,” you said quietly, but the words felt heavier than they should have. A beat passed before you hesitated and then asked, “Can I drink with you?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.

You’d never had alcohol before. But tonight, with your father off in his political world and surrounded by people you didn’t care to speak to, you just wanted something—anything—to make you feel less out of place. And Haymitch seemed like he could use someone to talk to, even if he didn’t realize it.

He actually laughed—a sharp, bitter sound that caught you off guard. “You?” His voice dripped with disbelief. “The little Capitol princess wants to get drunk with District 12?” He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “Oh, right. Because I’m a victor.” His eyes met yours, intense, cutting. “Is it to gloat to your friends? Or maybe to get in my pants? Because newsflash, sweetheart, I’ve had hundreds of people coming up to me for everything and more. So no,” he spat, voice low, dangerous. “I don’t need some drunk Capitol girl to go home to Daddy and get me killed for it.”

You blinked, stunned by the harshness of his words. You’d never been spoken to like that before—so blunt, so cruel. It felt like a slap in the face, but worse—because you couldn’t figure out what you’d done to deserve it.

Haymitch didn’t care that you weren’t like the others. He didn’t care that you’d felt a flicker of empathy for him, wanted to reach out, to connect. He was too wrapped up in his own bitterness to see it.

And you… you felt vulnerable, exposed, but you didn’t want to force him into a conversation. You weren’t going to beg for his company.

So you did the only thing you could think of. You swallowed your pride and, with quiet sincerity, said, “I’m really sorry about your friends. I just wanted to tell you that. The Games... they’re horrible. It’s not fair for any of you. That’s all. I’ll leave you to it.”

You turned to leave, but before you could take a step, you heard him speak again.

“Give me a whiskey on the rocks,” he said sharply, voice commanding.

His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist. The grip wasn’t harsh, but it was firm—insistent. You met his eyes, surprised by the sudden shift. His face was unreadable for a moment, then he gave you a half-smirk, something in his eyes that might’ve been humor—or maybe just resignation.

“Let’s drink,” he said, almost like an invitation to something he knew he didn’t want, but couldn’t refuse.

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard him right. But you couldn’t back down now. You gave him a small, almost nervous smile, and after a beat, you sat down beside him.

The bartender placed a drink in front of you, the amber liquid shimmering under the low lights. You stared at it for a moment, unsure of what to do. You’d never tasted alcohol before.

Haymitch raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “You’re really gonna drink that?” he asked, a challenge in his voice.

You gathered every ounce of courage you had and took a sip.

The second the liquid hit your tongue, your stomach lurched. It burned like fire, sharp and bitter. You coughed violently, gagging, your face flushing with embarrassment. “What the hell is that?” you gasped, struggling to catch your breath.

Haymitch’s rough hand landed on your back, giving you a couple of quick, reassuring pats. “Atta girl,” he said, his voice low. For a second, there was something warm behind the edge of his tone. “You’re okay.”

A glass of water appeared in front of you, and you eagerly drank it, trying to wash away the burn. You looked back at Haymitch, still incredulous. “How do you drink that? It’s like drinking fire.”

He laughed, a sharp, mocking sound that was somehow more comforting than anything else. “After you play the Games,” he said, lifting his glass in a half-toast, “this? This is nothing.”

You stared at him for a moment, still catching your breath. "I guess you’re right," you murmured, trying to regain some composure. You’d expected to feel awkward, but now that you were sitting next to him, something about it felt oddly... real.

That’s when you noticed something strange. Haymitch was bouncing a small ball off the space between his legs, the rubber making a quiet, rhythmic sound against his chair.

"You still have it?" you asked before you could stop yourself, your voice softer than you intended, filled with curiosity.

Haymitch looked up at you, and for a split second, there was something flickering in his eyes—something unexpected, almost vulnerable. He didn’t respond right away, his gaze lingering on the small ball in his hand.

“Well, it did save my life,” he said, holding it up between you. “I was mad at first, thought it was stupid... But this little thing... It saved my life.” His voice softened, weighed down by the truth. “I wish I could meet the person who gave it to me. Even just a ‘hello’ and a ‘thank you.’”

You found yourself staring at him, a tightness forming in your chest. There was something raw about his words, beyond the anger he wore like armor. For a moment, the bitterness faded, and you saw the scars beneath it—the real Haymitch.

A pause lingered between you, heavy with unspoken understanding. You felt his eyes on you, the weight of them like a quiet pressure. Then, almost instinctively, you smiled—a small, soft thing that you didn’t try to hide. It wasn’t grand, but it was real.

“Hello,” you said, almost as if offering more than just a greeting.

Haymitch didn’t quite understand at first. His brows furrowed in confusion, but then, slowly, something shifted. His gaze darted from the ball back to you, and the realization hit him with almost comical force.

“You’re Star?” His voice came out incredulous, as though he couldn’t believe it. There was disbelief, yes, but also something else—a warmth, an unspoken gratitude.

You nodded, your smile growing shy, almost embarrassed now. "Yeah. I am. My dad calls me little star. I wanted to stay hidden."

He stared at you for a long moment, the silence between you thick with everything left unsaid. Then, bit by bit, his surprise faded, replaced by something softer, more genuine. A half-smile tugged at his lips as he nodded, accepting something that had been held back for too long.

“Hello… and thank you.” His voice was quieter now, no sarcasm, no bitterness—just the raw honesty he kept hidden beneath his rough exterior.

And in that moment, amidst the noise and chaos of the Capitol, something shifted between you two. The crowd, the flashing lights, the hollow smiles—they all seemed to blur into the background. It was just you and him, two people in a corner, sharing something no one else could understand.

The silence lingered, but it was comfortable now. You found yourself humming softly, the melody flowing out before you even realized it.

“What song is that?” Haymitch asked, breaking the stillness. He leaned in slightly, his brow furrowing in mild curiosity.

"Just something I’ve been working on,” you replied, your tone lighter now.

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "You’re a songwriter?"

You hesitated for a second, then nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Trying to be. I hope one day I can be a famous singer and songwriter.” There was an edge of longing in your voice, a quiet dream that had always seemed out of reach. “But for now, I just need someone to listen to my songs.”

For some reason, those words hit him harder than he expected. Maybe it was the way your eyes sparkled with quiet hope or the vulnerability that slipped through your smile. Maybe it was the way you wore your dreams so openly, like they were part of you.

Without thinking, he said, “I’ll listen.”

His words hung between you, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You weren’t sure what surprised you more—the promise itself or the sincerity with which he spoke. Either way, it made you smile wider, a real, unguarded smile.

You nodded slowly, warmth spreading inside you like sunlight. “Thank you.”

And just like that, in the midst of a Capitol so full of lies and pretense, you found a little spark of something real—something you hadn’t even known you needed until now.

So I'll begin not to love you Turn around, see me runnin' I'll say I loved you years ago Tell myself you never loved me, no

It had been five years since you met Haymitch that fateful night, and in all that time, he became more than just a friend. He was your anchor, your constant in a world that never stayed still.

You were his star in the darkness. A rare gem in a place where everything felt fake. The Capitol was suffocating, and he loathed every moment he spent there, but seeing you—seeing you made it bearable.

For Haymitch, you were the first face he needed to see when he arrived, and the last one before he left. There was something about your presence that steadied him, that made him feel like he wasn’t completely lost, like he could survive the next battle, whatever it was. Being a mentor had taken its toll on him, and he had two things he relied on now: alcohol and you.

And you had become so much more than a friend. You were his escape and his comfort.

At eighteen, you had your first hit song, and since then, your career had skyrocketed. The Capitol adored you. You were their Princess, the one everyone wanted to hear, to know.

You performed regularly, your songs filled with emotion and truth, and people clamored to figure out who you were singing about. But you kept that secret locked away. You couldn’t bear to let the world know the truth—it was your perfect bubble, and you weren’t ready for it to burst.

Haymitch, however, was a different story. He knew everything about you. He was your first fan, your most honest critic, and your confidant. You needed him in ways you never thought you would need anyone. He was always there to listen, to help, and to offer feedback. Your songs were written for him, in a way. He inspired them, made you feel like you could pour out your soul without fear.

You had fallen in love with him long ago, but you’d never said it. You never dared to, because you were certain he didn’t feel the same. He’d been through too much, and you didn’t want to risk losing the friendship you both shared. So you kept your feelings hidden, wrapping them in the lyrics of your songs, in the quiet moments you shared together.

Tonight, you found yourself in your apartment with him again. Your songbook spread out in front of you, and Haymitch was leaning over it, scribbling notes and offering his usual feedback. He was so comfortable here, so at ease with you.

“I like this verse,” he said, his voice low as he underlined the lines in your song. You leaned over his shoulder to see which part he was referring to, your hair brushing his cheek, a closeness that made your heart race, even though you’d been here countless times before.

"Which one?" you asked, a smile tugging at your lips as you poured yourself a glass of wine and handed him his usual drink.

“We’re two broken stars that the world can’t hide,” he read aloud, glancing at you. You nodded, humming the words softly as you sang the line for him.

“I think my favorite is this one,” you said, pointing to another part of the page.

“They’ll never understand, they’ll never see, how your pain is my pain, how you’re saving me.”

Haymitch stared at the words for a long moment, his expression softening. “It’s absolutely beautiful,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “You, sweetheart, are a beautiful genius.”

You smiled at him, warmth flooding your chest at the compliment. “Do you like the song?” you asked, your voice a little unsure.

“Of course I do.” He took a sip of his drink, leaning back in his chair. “This is amazing. It’s going to be a hit.”

He paused, then added with a wry grin, “Though you’re definitely not helping with the ‘boyfriend’ situation you’ve got going on. Everyone already thinks you have a secret boyfriend.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Definitely do not,” you said, nudging him with your elbow. “You would be the first one to know.”

“I really can’t imagine you with someone,” he muttered before he could stop himself. It was true, though. He couldn’t picture you in anyone else’s arms. Not after all these years, not after everything. He’d come to rely on you so much that the thought of anyone else being close to you—really close to you—filled him with something he couldn’t quite name.

You raised an eyebrow. “Ouch. I’m offended,” you teased, though you couldn’t help the slight flutter in your chest. “I get it, though. I really can’t see myself with anyone either…” You paused, meeting his gaze.

“Oh, shush.” He rolled his eyes, though there was a faint blush creeping up his neck. “You have every man at your feet.” You shook your head, letting out a small laugh. “Please. You’re a beautiful and talented woman. Everyone either wants to be you or be with you.”

You stared at him for a long time after that, your heart pounding in your chest. “And on which side are you on?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, Haymitch didn’t answer. He looked at you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips, as if he was wrestling with some unspoken desire. Finally, he shook his head, his voice rough as he replied, “I... I don’t know. I can’t imagine you with anyone else, but I also can’t—”

“Cross that line?” you finished for him, your voice catching in your throat.

He met your gaze, and for a moment, everything around you faded. It was just you and him, the years of friendship, the quiet longing, the unspoken words hanging between you.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I can’t cross that line.”

You swallowed hard, your heart aching in your chest. “But what if I want to?” you whispered.

His eyes darkened, and for the first time, you saw the conflict in them. “Then we’d both have to admit something we’ve been denying for years,” he murmured, standing up and walking over to the window, looking out at the city below.

You stood up too, taking a few steps toward him. “What’s that?”

“That we’re both terrified of what’ll happen if we cross that line,” he said, turning to face you, his voice almost a whisper. “Because if we do, there’s no going back.”

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. You took another step toward him, your heart pounding so loudly you thought it might burst. “Haymitch…” you whispered, your voice trembling with the desire you’d kept locked away for so long.

He closed the space between you in a few swift steps, his hand brushing yours, then cupping your cheek, his thumb tracing your skin. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

And then, slowly, he leaned in.

The moment your lips met, it was everything you’d both been avoiding, a collision of longing and restraint, two hearts breaking through the walls they’d built around themselves.

It was gentle at first, a tender exploration of what you’d both kept hidden. But as the kiss deepened, it became urgent, as if you were both finally giving in to the desire that had been simmering for so long.

When he pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, you were both breathless, both trembling.

“I’ve wanted that for so long,” Haymitch whispered, his voice raw, “but I didn’t know how to make it real. Didn’t know if you felt the same.”

You smiled softly, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I’ve always felt the same.”

And in that moment, everything changed. The line you had never crossed was no longer there. It was just you and him, tangled in a world of your own.

Time cast a spell on you, but you won't forget me I know I could have loved you But you would not let me

It had been a few years since that first kiss—the one that had changed everything. You still remembered the way his lips had felt against yours—hesitant at first, then warm and sure as his arms had wrapped around you. It was the kind of kiss that made the whole world outside disappear, leaving only the two of you. And nothing had been the same since.

You and Haymitch had come a long way since then. The world didn’t know the truth—the truth about the quiet moments, the shared smiles, the stolen touches in the dark corners of the Capitol. They had no idea that Haymitch was even in your life. He was your constant, your anchor, the one person who always knew how to make everything feel okay.

Tonight, you were curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your legs as you looked over the lyrics for your next song. You were on your third glass of wine, trying to find the perfect words for the melody in your head. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t focus. Your mind kept drifting back to Haymitch.

He was in the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets. He’d promised to make you dinner, but that usually meant the whole process involved a lot of cursing and muttered complaints. You smiled to yourself, knowing exactly how the evening was going to go.

“I swear, every time I try to make something, it turns into a disaster,” he called from the kitchen, his voice just loud enough for you to hear.

“You say that every time, Haymitch,” you teased, not bothering to look up from your notebook. “But I’m pretty sure you’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not exaggerating,” he said flatly. You heard a loud clang, followed by a frustrated grunt. “This pan's out for me. I swear it’s cursed. Maybe we should switch. I’ll be the famous pop star, and you can save us from this kitchen disaster.”

You chuckled softly, setting your pen down and glancing toward the kitchen doorway. “You need me to come rescue you?”

A long pause followed, then a familiar, exaggerated sigh that made you smile even before he spoke. “I think it might be beyond rescue at this point,” he muttered, his voice tinged with a reluctant laugh. “But yeah, I’d appreciate the help.”

You stood, the blanket slipping from your lap as you walked into the kitchen. Haymitch was standing by the stove, glaring at the pan as if it had personally wronged him.

The mess around him wasn’t much better—spilled ingredients, an open box of pasta, and the unmistakable smell of something burning. Or maybe it was just the wine you’d been sipping. Either way, it was chaos in there.

You walked over to him, your hand gently landing on his shoulder. “Maybe I should take over before you set the whole place on fire,” you teased, trying not to laugh.

He glanced up at you, his expression softening for a brief moment. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he muttered, leaning back against the counter with a sigh. “If I had to cook for myself every night, I’d probably starve.”

You grinned, nudging him with your shoulder. “Well, lucky for you, you’ve got me. Cooking’s my thing, remember?”

He chuckled quietly, his gaze lingering on you, and for a moment, it felt like the whole world outside didn’t exist. There was just this little space, the two of you, and nothing else mattered. In this tiny corner of the Capitol, you didn’t have to pretend to be anyone but yourselves.

As you started to take over the cooking, Haymitch moved to stand behind you, slipping his arms around your waist. It was the kind of touch that had become second nature, yet it still made your heart skip every time.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice low and warm against your neck, “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

You froze for a moment, your fingers pausing over the counter. You hadn’t expected that. But when you turned to meet his eyes, they were soft, and there was a sincerity there that made your heart flutter.

“What do you mean?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but your voice gave you away.

He didn’t respond immediately, instead meeting your gaze like he was weighing his words. For a moment, he seemed lost, and you could see the vulnerability in his eyes that he rarely let anyone see.

“I don’t deserve you,” he finally whispered, his voice barely audible. “But I’m damn glad I have you.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Without thinking, you reached up to gently cup his cheek, grounding yourself with the warmth of his skin. “You do deserve me, Haymitch. More than anyone I know.”

He held your gaze for what felt like an eternity, his expression unreadable for a moment before he leaned down to kiss you. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t a fiery, desperate kiss. It was slow and soft, like he was savoring the moment. You did the same. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, and you could feel the steady rhythm of his breath.

“I love you,” he whispered, so quietly it could’ve been drowned out by the soft hum of the record player in the background. But you heard it. And you felt it in every part of you.

Your heart stopped for a beat, the weight of his words filling you up. You couldn’t help but smile. “I love you too, Haymitch,” you said, your voice muffled against his shirt. “I’ve loved you since that first kiss. And I’ll love you to our last.”

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through you. “You’re a godsend, you know that?”

You pulled back slightly, meeting his eyes again. His gaze was full of so much love, it felt like it was lifting you off the ground.

“We’ve been hiding for so long,” you murmured, your fingers tracing lightly along the edge of his jaw. “I just want everyone to know how much I love you. How much we love each other. I want the world to know that you, my beautiful District 12 blonde troublemaker, are the muse behind every song I’ve written.”

Haymitch laughed, his expression amused. “Beautiful District 12 blonde troublemaker, huh? You sure know how to flatter a guy.”

You smiled up at him, loving how playful he was, even in moments like this. “Well, it’s the truth. You’re my muse. The reason for every lyric, every note. And everyone deserves to know that.”

His expression softened, and he brushed a lock of your hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your skin. “The Capitol isn’t ready for that, sweetheart,” he said gently. “We can’t let them see this. Not yet. You being with someone from District 12 would start a riot. I can handle myself, but I don’t want you to have to worry about it.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of his words settling in. “I know. But maybe someday, when it’s safe, I don’t want to hide anymore. I don’t want to keep this secret.”

He smiled, his hand gently cupping the back of your neck, his thumb brushing against your skin in slow, soothing circles. “We’ll get there. When the time’s right. I promise.”

You leaned in and kissed him again, this time deeper, more certain. It wasn’t about anyone else right now. Not about the Capitol, or the world beyond your little apartment. What mattered was that it was just the two of you, in this moment, safe and away from it all.

“I love you,” you whispered against his lips, and he smiled, kissing you back with that same quiet intensity.

“I love you too, sweetheart. More than you’ll ever know.”

And in that moment, you realized that this love—the secret, hidden love you shared—was all that truly mattered. Nothing else in the world could compare.

Was I such a fool? I'll follow you down til' the sound of my voice will haunt you Give me just a chance

You were about to turn thirty, and apparently, that meant people had a free pass to get all up in your business about when you were going to get married.

It wasn’t like you could really get mad at them. You found yourself wondering the same thing sometimes. You’d been with Haymitch for almost a decade now, and every time you tried to broach the subject of marriage, he’d change the topic like it was some sort of game.

You didn’t get it. You were secure in your relationship—deeply secure. You loved him. He loved you. What was the hold-up? You didn’t want to be just another Capitol couple with a glittering wedding and a big spectacle, but you also didn’t understand why he kept dodging the conversation. Marriage was a way to make your relationship real in the eyes of the world, something more than just whispers behind closed doors.

But not for Haymitch. And so, you just kept pretending the question didn’t bother you. You smiled through the constant barrage of nosy questions.

“Do you have someone special in your life?”

“When are we going to see little Y/n’s running around?”

“Thirty’s almost here—when’s the wedding?”

It wasn’t that you didn’t want those things. You did. You wanted a future with Haymitch, a life together. The more they asked, the more you felt the pressure tightening, even though you knew it wasn’t something they could help.

And then there were your parents. Especially your mother.

“I don’t get it,” your mom said one night, running her hand through her hair in frustration. “You have so many options, Y/n. So many good men. You could’ve been married years ago, but now? You’re getting older, and the good ones—they’ll be gone soon. I can’t just sit here and wait forever for you to make up your mind.”

You sighed, leaning back into your chair. “Mom, we’ve been through this before. I’m handling it.”

“Handling it?” She gave you a pointed look. “You’ve been saying that since you were twenty-five. It’s not like there’s a shortage of men who’d love to marry you. You could have any of them.”

Your patience was starting to fray. You loved your parents, you really did, but you hated that they couldn’t understand.

“I don’t want any of them,” you shot back, trying to keep your voice calm. “I don’t want some Capitol bachelor with his polished smile and perfect life.” I want Haymitch.

Her eyes softened, but the frustration still lingered. “Look, I understand, but—”

“No, you don’t,” you interrupted. “You don’t get it, Mom. I’m not looking for a perfect life. I’m looking for the one that feels real.”

Your mom opened her mouth, clearly ready to argue, but your father finally spoke up. “What your mother’s trying to say is, maybe you’re not really opening yourself up to the idea of someone else. We’ve been talking with the Crane family, and—”

“I’m not marrying Seneca Crane,” you said before he could finish, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Your father raised an eyebrow, trying to hide his surprise. “Well, not Seneca. His older brother, Cassius. He’s a few years older than you, and he’s been the Head Gamemaker for a while. He’s a good guy, Y/n. We’ve worked with him before. You can trust him. The Crane family is well-respected.”

You crossed your arms, your heart sinking. You’d met Cassius before. He was kind, charming, but he wasn’t Haymitch. He wasn’t the man you wanted to spend your life with.

“No,” you said firmly. “I’m not doing this.”

“Y/n,” your father said gently, leaning forward. “Cassius is a good man. And your marriage would be a big deal. It would bring both our families joy, not to mention the whole Capitol. You’d be the ‘It’ couple, Y/n. Even President Snow would likely attend the wedding. This could be huge for all of us.”

You shook your head, the lump in your throat growing. You didn’t care about any of that. You didn’t care about appearances, about being the Capitol’s ‘It’ couple. You cared about him.

“I don’t want to marry someone for the sake of a good match. I want to marry for love.”

Your father sighed, looking helpless, while your mother was now giving you that look—the one that said she was done.

“Little Star, we’re just trying to make sure you’re not closing yourself off. We want what’s best for you. We just want you to be happy.”

You stood up, the weight of their concern suddenly too much to bear. “I’m not doing this. I’m done talking about it.”

Before they could say anything else, you grabbed your purse and headed for the door. You needed to be anywhere but here, away from their expectations, their pressure. The only place you wanted to be was with Haymitch.

You needed him. His arms around you. His voice, his presence, his unspoken understanding of you.

You kissed your parents on the cheek quickly, not trusting yourself to say more, and walked out without another word. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, you could feel the tension start to ease, knowing that soon, you’d be with the one person who did understand. The one person who made it all feel like it was going to be okay.

Haymitch. Your Haymitch.

When you finally made it to your apartment, you immediately noticed the bag slung casually on the couch and the open bottle of whiskey sitting on the coffee table—his whiskey. He’d arrived. Haymitch was here.

You quickly made your way into the living room, and there he was. Sitting on the couch, bottle in hand, swirling the amber liquid, lost in thought. His weary eyes lifted when he heard your footsteps, and for a second, everything else in the world disappeared.

“Haymitch…” You said softly, a smile creeping onto your lips.

He didn’t speak immediately, just set the bottle down on the table and opened his arms for you. You ran to him without a second thought, collapsing into his embrace. His scent—whiskey and something else that was unmistakably him—wrapped around you like a familiar, comforting blanket.

“I’ve missed you,” you whispered, burying your face in his chest.

Dinner came and went, the two of you falling into the comfortable rhythm you always did. The kind of quiet that spoke louder than words. But after, when the dishes were cleaned and the night had settled into the soft hum of your apartment, you found yourself nestled on the couch again. His fingers gently threaded through your hair as you laid your head on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat grounding you.

This was your place. Your perfect, stolen moments together.

“Haymitch…” you said, your voice quiet, almost tentative. He hummed in response, the sound low and soothing.

“I’ve been thinking,” you continued, lifting your head slightly to look at him. “What if you stayed?”

His hand froze, his fingers stilling in your hair. He didn’t say anything at first, but you felt the tension in his body. He didn’t even need to speak for you to know what was coming.

“…here in the Capitol,” you added, trying to push through the nervous lump in your throat. “You come back every year, and I’m sure if we tell the public, they’ll let you stay. They would. They love you here. You could have your own life—our life. Together.”

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. And in that silence, you felt your heart start to sink. You knew what he would say. You always knew. He couldn’t stay here. Not for you. Not for anyone.

“I can’t see myself living here full-time,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You understood. You did. You always had. He hated the Capitol. He hated everything it stood for. You couldn’t blame him for that. It wasn’t fair to ask him to be part of it.

But still, you couldn’t help but try. “What if I went to District 12?” The words spilled out before you could stop them. “I can always come back here for performances, for everything I need to do, but… I’d be with you. We could be together. I can make it work.”

“I don’t think you’d like District 12,” he said, his voice sounding almost sad as he looked at you.

You looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “Well, I’ve never been. And I want to be wherever you are.”

There was a pause. A long one. He didn’t speak. And you waited, holding your breath.

“And if you don’t want to live here and you don’t think I’d like it in the districts… where do you suppose we live when we get married?”

There. You said it. You let it slip. That word. And as soon as it left your lips, you saw the shift in his expression, the subtle stiffening in his shoulders.

“We are going to get married, right?” Your voice cracked, just slightly, betraying the vulnerability you didn’t want him to see.

The silence in the room felt like it could suffocate you. His eyes were downcast, and you could feel your stomach drop, your heart pounding in your chest, as the weight of the moment settled over you.

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s not that I don’t want to marry you,” he said, each word weighing on him like an anchor. “I just don’t see myself getting married… in general.”

And then it hit you. Like a punch to the gut. You could barely breathe.

“Not even to me?” You whispered, unable to stop the words from tumbling out.

He met your eyes then, and you saw the pain in his gaze, the unspeakable regret. His hand fell from your hair and he looked down at his lap, fingers twitching at his sides.

“I love you,” he said softly, his voice breaking as the words left his lips.

“And I love you…” You responded, your throat tight, tears starting to sting your eyes. “But I want to marry you. I want to have kids with you. I want to be a family with you. And I thought you wanted that too…”

You could feel the tears welling up, but you held them back as best as you could. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask me,” you whispered, barely above a breath, your voice breaking.

His face contorted in a mixture of frustration and helplessness. He closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to make sense of everything. But there was no sense to be made. Not in this. Not now.

“I can’t do it.” His voice was barely a murmur. “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, tears slipping down your cheeks despite your best effort to hold them back. “Cassius Crane wants my hand in marriage,” you said, your voice shaking. You couldn’t stop yourself from adding the words. “I said no. I said no because I want you. I want us. Please don’t take that away from me.”

His eyes snapped open, but they were filled with the same sadness as always. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I can’t give you marriage.”

You stared at him, disbelief washing over you. “Dammit, why not?” You snapped, your voice rising despite yourself. “Am I not enough?”

“God no,” he hissed, his hands suddenly gripping your face with such force it made your breath catch. “Of course, you’re enough. You just… you don’t understand.”

“Then let me understand,” you cried, the words tumbling out of you like a dam breaking. “Talk to me. Stop running away from this.”

But he couldn’t explain it. Not in a way you could understand. Not the way you needed to.

“I can’t!” He yelled back, his voice breaking, the emotion raw. “I just can’t. I can’t let you be part of this world. This world that’ll just take everything from you. You don’t have to face it. You’ll never have to. And I can’t let that happen to you.”

“I want marriage. And I want kids.” Your voice was barely a whisper now, a soft, desperate plea. “I want to share that with you.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice cracked, and it almost shattered you.

“Please,” you whispered, grabbing his face, your hands shaking. “Just talk to me. We can talk about it. What are you scared of?”

You looked into his eyes, searching for something—anything—to give you hope, to give you an answer. “We can talk about marriage and kids later then. But can we at least go public?” You tried, your voice almost pleading.

But you could see his answer in his eyes. You knew. It was a no.

“What does that mean for us then? I’ll do anything to make this work. But how?” You felt your voice quiver as you said the words, the hollow ache in your chest growing by the second.

And then he spoke, his voice barely audible, full of sorrow.

“I think you know what that means for us,” he said, looking down, tears welling up in his eyes.

You shake your head, your breath coming out in broken sobs. "No. Haymitch, no..." Your voice cracks, desperation choking the words as you try to grasp onto something, anything, to stop the inevitable.

He reaches out and gently caresses your face, his touch soft, like he’s trying to wipe away the pain, but it only seems to deepen the ache in your chest. “You deserve to be happy,” he whispers, his voice strained, like the words are as heavy as stones in his mouth.

You look at him, helpless, and your voice trembles with all the emotions you’ve been trying to keep bottled up for so long. “I’m happy with you,” you cry out, the tears flowing freely now, unstoppable. “I don’t need a wedding, I don’t need kids... Hell, we don’t even need to go in public. We can stay like this. Just don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me.” You feel the words spilling out in a frantic rush, your grip tightening on him as if you can hold him together with just your hands. “Please...”

He pulls you into his arms, his embrace tight, almost desperate. But it’s not enough. It never feels like enough. His tears fall too, mingling with yours, his voice breaking as he speaks. “You don’t want that. I know you don’t. And I’m so, so sorry...” His words are a confession, a silent admission of the things he’s never been able to give you. His body shakes slightly, as if the weight of what he’s saying is slowly crushing him, but he can’t stop.

You cling to him, holding onto him like a lifeline. “Please... don’t leave me. We can work it out. We can fix this,” you cry out, the words coming from a place deep inside, where your love for him feels like it could tear you apart if it doesn’t come out. You can't breathe without him. You can't imagine a world where he's not there beside you, where his touch is just a memory, fading with time.

He pulls back, his hands trembling as they hold your face, his eyes full of sorrow. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t have made you wait. I should’ve been honest with you from the start, but I didn’t want to hurt you. And I know I’ve already done that, but... I can’t give you what you need. What you deserve.” He pauses, his gaze distant, almost lost. “You deserve to have the most beautiful wedding, to have a family, to give your children everything you’ve dreamed of.”

The pain is unbearable. You feel it twist inside you, but you can’t stop, can’t let it go. You can’t let him slip through your fingers, not like this. “Have it with me,” you beg, your voice raw with emotion. “Let’s have that life. Together, Haymitch. You deserve that too. We deserve to be happy... We deserve to be a family. Please...”

You see the shift in him, the way his shoulders tense, how his expression softens into something painful, something almost regretful. But it’s too late. His voice is low, barely audible as he speaks again, the weight of his words sinking into your skin. “My family died many years ago,” he whispers, the words like shards of glass against your heart. “And I will not go through that again. I can’t. I won’t.”

You reach for him, your heart shattering. “Haymitch... I don’t want to have that life without you. I can’t...” Your hands tremble as you touch his face, your tears falling onto his skin, but he doesn’t look at you. He can’t.

“You’re going to be fine,” he says softly, almost like he’s trying to convince himself more than you. “You’re going to be happy. You’ll find someone who can give you everything you need. Someone who can make all your dreams come true.”

“But I love you,” you cry out, your chest aching with the rawness of your words. It’s all you have left. You can feel him breaking, too. You can see it in his eyes, the way his walls are starting to crumble, just like yours.

He kisses your forehead, and for a moment, everything feels like it used to—perfect. Safe. But then the moment ends, and reality crashes back in. His voice cracks as he speaks again. “And I love you more than you’ll ever know,” he whispers, his lips pressing against your skin with a tenderness that feels like goodbye. “And that’s why I need to end this. It’s not fair to you, to keep you here, to give up your dreams of being a wife and a mother. You deserve someone who can give you everything you want, everything you need.”

You shake your head, the words sticking in your throat. “I’ll do anything for you,” you whisper, your voice desperate. You feel it—this is the moment. The one where everything changes.

He stares at you, his eyes wet with unshed tears. He needs to be strong. For both of you. And you know that, even as your heart is cracking open. “And I’ll do anything for you too,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, but there’s finality to it. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He pulls away then, and your heart feels like it’s falling to the ground. You reach out, but he’s already stepping back, grabbing his bag. The weight of it is almost too much to bear. His footsteps sound so hollow against the floor. You feel like you’re suffocating, but you can’t move.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, his voice cracking, before he turns and walks to the door. You can’t stop the sob that rips through you, can’t stop the way your chest burns as you watch him go.

You hear the door close behind him, the sound of it echoing in the emptiness of the apartment, and then—silence. The silence that he’s left behind. The silence that feels like a void in your heart.

He’s gone. And with him, a part of you is gone too.

You'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you Time cast a spell on you, but you won't forget me I know I could've loved you, but you would not let me I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice

Haymitch absolutely hated being in the Capitol. He couldn’t stand the fake smiles, the bright lights, or the smell of wealth and excess in the air. He needed to be at least semi-plastered to survive it, but even then, it barely helped.

It had been years since he walked out of your life—since he made that decision to never look back. Walking away was the worst thing he’d ever done. The loneliness that followed was a constant ache in his chest. Life without you? It wasn’t life at all. It wasn’t worth living.

But he couldn’t just leave. Not entirely. He had to stay for District 12. They needed him as their mentor, even though he felt like he’d failed them. He couldn’t abandon them, even if he already felt like he had.

The 70th Hunger Games were upon him, and Haymitch found himself waiting in the crowd for the tribute interviews. His flask was clutched tightly in his hand, his stomach already knotted at the thought of the upcoming disaster. He had seen it all before, and this year would be no different—he’d be cleaning up someone else’s mess again.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the voice of the announcer boomed across the stadium, “Your Master of Ceremonies, Caesar Flickerman!”

Haymitch’s eyes narrowed, and he rolled his own eyes at the sound. He hated these events. He hated the whole thing.

“Welcome! Welcome! Welcome!” Caesar’s voice was almost too bright, too fake. “The 70th Annual Hunger Games! How marvelous!” The crowd roared with excitement. “Are you excited to meet your favorite tributes?” More cheers. “I am too! But before we get to that, we have a very special surprise for you all.”

Haymitch took a long swig from his flask, bracing himself for whatever ridiculous Capitol guest they were about to unveil.

“And now,” Caesar’s voice grew even more enthusiastic, “please put your hands together for the most beautiful and beloved couple of the century, the genius head game maker, Cassius Crane, and the brightest star in all of Panem—Y/N Crane!”

Haymitch froze. His heart hammered in his chest, and the world around him seemed to fall away. He hadn’t expected this. Not in a thousand years. You—you—were here. He hadn’t seen you in years, not since that night. And he had worked hard to avoid you ever since.

When you and he were in the same vicinity, it was like a silent agreement: you went one way, and he went the other. You kept your distance. He kept his.

But now, here you were.

The crowd erupted into applause as you stepped into view. There you were, as stunning as ever. The Capitol lights made your skin glow, and the smile on your face was everything he remembered—warm, bright, perfect. Your hand was firmly entwined with your husband’s, and they looked so... complete. Together.

And then Haymitch’s eyes fell to the ring on your finger. The simple band, a symbol of a life you’d built without him. His throat tightened, his stomach lurching.

“My dears,” Caesar greeted, his voice dripping with his usual fake charm. He shook Cassius’s hand and kissed both your cheeks, pulling you into his world of manufactured affection. “Thank you for joining us.”

“Thank you for having us,” you replied smoothly, your voice calm and collected. You sat down beside Cassius, your fingers still intertwined with his.

“So,” Caesar crossed his legs, settling into his seat with his signature grin. “How’s married life treating you?”

Cassius smiled at you, the picture of a perfect husband. “It’s marvelous,” he said, his gaze never leaving you. “She’s an absolute dream. I thank my lucky stars every day for her.” The crowd melted at his words, a chorus of "Awws" echoing through the stadium.

Haymitch had to fight the urge to roll his eyes, his fingers tightening around his flask. Perfect. That was exactly what you had. The life you always deserved. A life he couldn’t give you.

You smiled, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “It’s amazing,” you added, your voice steady. “We just celebrated our fourth anniversary, and we’re still going strong.”

The words stung. You were happy—with him. And Haymitch had no right to be angry. He had walked away.

But it still hurt. It hurt more than he cared to admit.

“And how are the kids?” Caesar’s voice cut through the haze of bitterness in Haymitch’s mind.

You lit up at the mention of your children, and Haymitch’s heart sank further.

“They’re absolutely perfect,” you said, your eyes glowing with pride. “Cassius Jr. is three, and Aurora just turned one.” You handed a photo to Caesar, who held it up for the audience to see. “Here they are.”

The crowd awed at the picture, and Caesar’s voice grew even more syrupy. “Oh my! Look at these precious babies!” he said. He turned the photo towards the audience, allowing the cameras to zoom in. “Where are our babies? We need to see them!”

Cassius grinned like a proud father, looking down at the photo with a soft smile. “Well, funny you should ask,” he said, his voice filled with pride. “Because we have some very special guests for you all.”

And with that, the nanny walked on stage, carrying both of your children. The crowd went wild, and even Caesar seemed overwhelmed with excitement.

Cassius Jr. was placed in his father’s arms, and Aurora was handed over to you. You smiled at her, holding her with tenderness.

“Can you say hi, Junior?” Cassius asked, holding the little boy up for the crowd.

“Hi,” the boy said, and the crowd erupted in cooing sounds.

Haymitch’s chest tightened painfully, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away from you. From your perfect life. From your perfect family. He never should’ve walked away.

Caesar, still fawning over the family, turned to the crowd. “What a surprise! These children are so beautiful. Obviously, they come from the most beautiful parents. I really should be thanking the gods for putting you two together—our Head Game Maker and our beloved Pop Princess!”

The crowd laughed. The cameras flashed. You smiled. And Haymitch... well, Haymitch was dying inside.

He should’ve been the one standing beside you. He should’ve been the one holding your hand. But he wasn’t.

And that, more than anything, felt like the hardest part to bear.

“So, what comes next? Should we expect a new album soon?” Caesar asked, his voice practically bubbling with excitement.

You laugh softly, the sound genuine and warm. “Actually, I think the new album will have to wait for a little while longer. I’m sorry.” A playful glint flickered in your eyes as you turned to your husband, smiling brightly. “Because…” you said, your hands gently resting on the curve of your stomach, “I’m pregnant.”

The words sent the crowd into a frenzy, their cheers so loud they seemed to rattle the very air around them. The lights above seemed to shine even brighter as you spoke, as if the Capitol itself was celebrating this new chapter in your life.

“Are you trying to kill us?” Caesar exclaimed dramatically, throwing his hands in the air with a wide grin. “How far along are you?”

“I’m about three and a half months,” you replied, your voice calm and steady, but there was a joy in it that couldn’t be hidden. As you sat back down, Cassius immediately took your hand again, his fingers wrapping around yours possessively.

“Well, congratulations are definitely in order,” Caesar said, his voice full of warmth. “I love having new babies to love. Don’t you?” He turned to the audience, inviting their enthusiastic response.

Haymitch’s heart clenched in his chest, but he didn’t look away. Cassius—your husband—seemed so perfectly at ease, as though he had everything figured out.

He was the man you had chosen, the man you had built this life with. The thought of you raising children with him, his children, twisted something inside Haymitch. And yet, here he was, an outsider, holding a flask instead of his family.

Caesar turned back to Cassius. “So music is clearly on the back burner for now, but what about you, Cassius? You’ll still be the head game maker, right?”

Cassius squeezed your hand, his voice deep and full of care as he looked at you with a soft, loving gaze. “Actually, I’m planning on bringing my little brother Seneca into the role. This is our third child, and I want to be there for my wife.” His hand briefly brushed over your stomach, his eyes filled with affection. “We both want our children to be raised with both parents in the household, so I’ve decided that this role can be split. I trust Seneca completely. I can promise you that the future Games will be even better than before.”

Haymitch’s grip tightened around the neck of his flask, his hand shaking ever so slightly. He stared at the two of you, the image of the perfect family.

You, so radiant, your life so beautifully mapped out, and Cassius—Cassius—the man who had everything Haymitch had once dreamed of. The love you shared, the life you built, it was all so perfect. And Haymitch was nothing. Not to you. Not to anyone.

And then the children. They were perfect, too. Cassius Jr. looked like a miniature replica of his father, with that proud, confident smile, but your features were there too—the nose, the smile. And little Aurora. She was the image of you, small and delicate, with your sparkling eyes and soft skin. It was everything you’d ever wanted, everything you deserved.

And Haymitch had let you slip through his fingers. He had ruined it.

He should have fought for you. Instead, he pushed you away. And now, here you were, with everything you ever wanted… without him.

Haymitch felt the weight of his decision crush him all over again. He knew, as he sat there in the back, nursing his flask, that he had failed you. And no matter how many years passed, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, it would always hurt. The ache in his chest never went away. Not even after all this time.

But then, as if the universe itself wanted to rub salt into his wounds, your eyes found his.

The breath left Haymitch’s chest in a strangled gasp. He saw it—the moment your body stiffened, just the slightest, your smile faltering as your gaze locked with his. The recognition. It was there, in your eyes. He could see the way your heart gave a little lurch, the way your face softened ever so slightly.

You hadn’t forgotten. You never had.

For a long moment, neither of you broke eye contact. Haymitch couldn’t read your thoughts. And, in some strange way, he didn’t want to know. Because if he did, if he truly understood just how much you still carried for him—he might lose the fragile control he had left. You had moved on. You had built a life without him. And as much as it hurt, that was the reality he had to accept.

You broke eye contact when your son reached out for you, his tiny hands stretching towards you. You immediately pulled your eyes from Haymitch’s and went to him, your arms instinctively wrapping around the child. The bond between you and your son was undeniable, and Haymitch couldn’t tear his eyes away.

He watched as your fingers gently played with your son’s hair, his content little face snuggling into you. For a brief, bitter moment, Haymitch smiled—though it was more out of sorrow than anything else. He had lost. He had lost you, and now, there was no going back.

Caesar’s voice interrupted the fragile moment. “Thank you to the Crane family for joining us tonight. It’s been an absolute pleasure. To close this segment, would you two be so kind as to share a kiss with us?”

Cassius and you stood together, your children in your arms. Cassius’s free hand wrapped around your waist, his palm resting on the curve of your stomach. He pulled you into his arms, and in front of millions, he kissed you—a soft, tender kiss that was filled with a love Haymitch could never understand.

The crowd erupted in applause, but Haymitch barely heard it. He only saw you. Your smile. Your joy. And the knowledge that it wasn’t for him.

As you pulled away from the kiss, your gaze didn’t even flicker back in his direction. It stung, but Haymitch accepted it. You had moved on. He had no place in your life anymore.

What he didn’t know was that, even as you smiled at Cassius and turned your attention back to your family, you watched him. You watched him as he slowly turned his back on you once more. It was subtle, but the familiar ache tightened in your chest, too. You told yourself, over and over, that you had made peace with the life you had. You had built it, you had chosen it. And yet, as he walked away, it felt like another part of you slipped away with him.

He drained the rest of the flask, the burning liquid doing nothing to ease the ache in his heart. Turning away from the stage, Haymitch made his way to the exit, the weight of the decision he had made years ago pressing down on him with crushing force.

He had told himself time and time again that never turning back had been his biggest regret, but now he knew it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Because, in the end, it had led you to this. It had led you to happiness.

And, for that, he could never regret it.

With a final glance at the memory of your smile etched in his mind, Haymitch walked away—away from you, away from everything. His heart shattered with every step. And for the first time in years, he knew what it truly felt like to lose you.

Forever.

But as he walked, he knew deep down that he’d never truly escape you. The haunting image of your smile, the sound of your voice, the way you had looked at him that night, would linger in his mind like a shadow.

Even as he tried to drown it with another drink, the memories would cling to him, relentless and unforgiving. Every corner of his mind, every moment in the day, would be haunted by you—by the love he once had and lost. And for the rest of his life, no matter how much he tried to move on, he would carry you with him.

You were the one thing he could never outrun.

[evesbookshop]

𝐌𝐢𝐱𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐬 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞 ❤︎︎

✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿

Izuku Midoriya who starts knitting as physical therapy after his last battle. Who by the time he’s a teacher has insane hand dexterity and is ambidextrous. Whose friends all have their own knit versions of their own merch. Who knits both you and himself little braided rings you both use as place holders until you marry. Which is extremely helpful cause he can just keep remaking his when it falls off without his knowledge or breaks

Izuku Midoriya, who always feels absolutely horrible when he does loose or damage one of these knit rings. And so he spends a few hours when he gets home wrecking you on extremely skilled fingers while whispering compliments and apologies in your ear. “You forgive me don’t you, baby?” Knowing you can’t see straight let alone form works.

Katsuki Bakugou, who despite being an absolute monster with Spicey food , cannot handle even a little sour. Who claims it’s just nasty , and won’t touch one with his friends around. Who falls victim when you give him a war head in place of a regular hard candy and whole face turns red just to twists in shock and betrayal before running out the room to spit it and and definitely not puke.

Katsuki Bakugou who’s a spiteful bastard, and so the next time you have sex, in the middle of moan you find lemon juice being squeezed into your mouth. Shock causing you to yelp and the juice to leak out your mouth. It’s okay though because despite hating the taste, he finds that it’s not so bad when he’s licking it off your throat.

Shoto Todoroki, who’s dense but not nearly as much as people think he is. It took a him a while to figure out he didn’t just really want to be your friend, and then stop ignoring you after the fact. But otherwise very aware of social ques and habits. Who was literally media trained as a child, but he just thinks it’s funnier to blurt things out that should probably stay private. Who acts very lost sometimes but only when it’s beneficial and gets people to leave him alone. And who after getting into a relationship doesn’t do it in private, because he refuses to lie or anything close to you.

Shoto Todoroki who despite not liking to play dense with you in day to day life is more then willing to use it against you in bed “oh right here ? Did that feel good? I’m sorry I can’t quite understand you , love?”

Eijiro Kirishima, who’s a tank of a man , the epitome of typical masculinity out side of his tender personality. Who also eats up trash reality television. Big brother, real house wives, keeping up with the kardashians, toddlers and tiaras, and the holy grail- Jersey Shore. He who has matching meatball shirts with you and that same pair of studded out sunglasses. And who because of said tv shows, has the nastiest reads in the book. A list shit talker when no one’s looking.

Eijiro Kirishima, who comes home one day to see you in the skimpiest outfit known to man, covered in leopard print. And finds himself more horny than he’s ever been in his entire life. Who is in the apartment for maybe 2 minutes before he has you face down, bent over the couch arm.

Denki Kaminari, who’s is actually a little dense and struggles with numbers and letters, due to dyslexia they caught late, but loves to consume literature. Who is might as well be a walking audible commercial. Who is an avid Colleen Hoover hater. Who eats up all sorts of books from biographies to the most jaw dropping smut books ever. Who because of his vast online book collection, is actually really smart just about oddly specific things and people.

Denki Kaminari who drags you into the bedroom because he’s trying to figure out a really oddly worded position in a book, and lets you reap the benefits of his confusion.at least when he gets it right, for the first half it’s mostly maneuvering around each other while listening to the same part of the book in utter confusion.

✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿

𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 ❤︎︎

[niccolites]

febrile (or; input vs output)

simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader

He expects some kind of betrayal, for you to hiss and snap at him. Image of the NCPD, accepting your cyberware one week and raiding your clinic the other.

Instead you stand to the side and watch with him as the other officers dig through your stuff. They’re a bit too enthusiastic, your tray gets flipped over and your bench kicked over to check underneath and it isn’t righted again.

Simon watches you, uncaring that he should be watching his men. You tilt your head back and look up at him, you aren’t half his size but it’s a close thing. He thinks he likes that, watching the top of your spine disappear into your neck just to look at him, the arch of your throat. Traces his eyes over it, tendons and a vulnerable jugular, pushed out for him.

-

or: Simon is a member of the Night City Police Department and you're a ripper doc. It is his job to catch criminals, but even he can admit, he's taken a different approach for you. CYBERPUNK!AU

TAGS: Dubious Consent, Power Imbalance, Size Kink, Unhealthy Relationships

read here on ao3

Simon’s got a bug in his system that is turning his vision white at the edges when he finally visits you.

Not that he has much of a morality regarding visiting ripperdocs. Sure, they’re criminals and as a member of the NCPD, it is his job to arrest and charge criminal activity, but that was a rigid rule set decades ago. These days, the split between the NCPD and a common gang is that the rules the gang lives by aren’t written into the law. But, allowances are allowed on both sides.

Simon has never cared much to think about it. He sees some other officers have that blank look in their eye after they finish a shift, others who seem to revel in being able to do whatever it is that they want. Simon just does as he’s told. If he’s told to save the woman who survived a cyberpsycho attack then she is tossed over a shoulder and brought to the ambulance. If otherwise, a nod is all he needs to know that there are no witnesses. Finger, gun, trigger. The explosion in the palm of his hand, kicked back and caught. Delivered.

Maybe it has left a screw loose in his head. Not his job to analyse that.

Flouting the law as and when it suits the law is a part of the job. Not one that Simon has much indulged in, he must admit. Any murder, extortion, crime that is involved in the ‘etcetera’ part of his work, has been asked of him. His fellow officers flout the law as and when it suits them. Illegal weapons, killing a perp who gets too mouthy, maybe getting a bit too handsy with a victim. Simon hasn’t been much interested in the ‘benefits’ he can reap with his badge.

However, after a job where the NCPD took down a group of scavengers, Simon’s vision starts getting spotty. He’d had to jack into one of the victims to see if they were still alive. Horrible static, bad channel. They hadn’t been. And seemingly willing to haunt him from the afterlife, leaving a pesky virus in his system.

There are NCPD designated docs that he could go and visit, but the idea of letting one of their starched, freshly pressed hands go worming around in his cyberware makes his skin crawl. Years before his official service, he’d had all his kit installed by a ripperdoc, and he hadn’t had an issue he couldn’t fix himself since.

He spends a few days just trying to deal with it, still able to hit his shots using the noise that all criminals insist on making. He can still mostly see, even a few days in. Maybe not make out features, but people are blurry and morphed shapes that approach him and he puts them down with the same accuracy as before.

It’s not long before his captain pulls him up, though. Forces him to admit the bug, and issues a new command. Sort it out.

Standing in the doorway of your clinic, hidden in his civvies, here he is. Sorting it out.

You’re in the middle of muddling around with some of your equipment, humming to yourself before you must catch sight of him. The blur of your figure jumps, as your face comes into profile. You must be intimidated by the sight of him, something that he registers with a cool type of pleasure. Even not in his uniform and clearly strapped with all of his weapons, he blocks the light coming in from your doorway. You must see the metal of his left arm, nothing human left there. The gas mask that covers half of his face, black and stark against the pale of his skin.

“Hello. How can I help?” you ask, shifting something up your forehead. It distorts ths shape of your head and he realises that they must be massive goggles. Ridiculous, he imagines you must look like the image of the crazy scientist from old stories; you probably have a lab coat on. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your reputation, known as one of the best ripperdocs in Watson, even if you are as cheap as they say.

Ripperdocs are the gray area in Night City. Criminals, yes, but the hassle of actually taking down ripperdocs is more than it’s worth. Not that Simon tends to give a fuck about the politics, or the give and take of crime vs law. He is a bullet, pointed in a direction and shot out.

“I got a bug in my system,” he says, taking another step into your clinic.

You nod, gesture for him to take a seat on your bench. Something out of a dentist’s nightmare, he imagines, but he takes a seat nonetheless. Despite lying down, everything in him is as tense as a straight line. Gaze landed and caught on you, lazy as he watches you drift around your clinic. His vision is filtering your clinic as starkly white, the outline of your light grey. You both may as well be in void, he can only see the outline of objects as they get close to him.

You swing your chair around and pick up a wire. “You cool if I take a look?” you offer, gesturing with the wire. His forearm is already tense with the instinct to catch your hand before you can plug that into the side of his neck. His metal gasmask covers the slot anyway.

A beat, in which you look back at him. He considers making it awkward, telling you no or something. Settles on nodding and watches the way you flounder for a moment when you realise you can’t reach the slot. You’re paused, flatering in the space between the two of you.

“Can you take off your mask?” you ask. Your voice is deliberately light, but he can hear the catch of annoyance underlying your tone. It makes him want to grin, wonders how you look right now, if you’re frowning at him or trying to hide it with a smile.

“No,” he tells you. A beat. You don’t move or attempt to say anything else. Stalemate, when he can’t see how you look. “There’s a catch on the side, you unlatch that to reach the slot.”

You don’t say anything else, and he’s irritated by that. Relying on noise when the other individual doesn’t want to make any noise just leaves him listeless. You reach up, click open a section of his mask and plug in. You turn away, pull what must be a tray towards yourself. You must have plugged him into your laptop, your figure hunched towards it.

You cluck your tongue, goggles shifting across your brow as you gaze at your screen. “This is a nasty one, how’d you catch this?” He decides that’s not relevant and watches you instead. You give him a quick glance, head tilting his way, but decide to shrug off his strange silence. “I’ll just be a moment while I clear it. Seems to have caught onto a lot of your neural sensors, I’m surprised you can still walk.”

His chest doesn’t puff out with pride, but it’s a close thing. You tinker away at it, finally clearing it from his system. The whites that had clouded his vision clears, and he can see you in high definition finally. Can see the pores next to your nose, the frizz around the strap of your goggles as it disappears into your hair. You’re giving him an evaluating look, your eyes intent even as the rest of your body is deliberately loose. You don’t seem to have much chrome on you, thin lines of metal around your eyes, and a scanner on your right palm. He doubts you have much more.

“There we are, good as new,” you tell him, leaning back in your chair with a pleased huff. You give him another long look, but this time he can see the widen and pinprick of your retina. He wonders how he comes up in the scan that you must’ve pulled up the second he was in your doorway. Cop, ex-army, de-commissioned, KIA but here, in the (mostly) flesh. You don’t give any of it away, just shut your laptop and unplug him.

You hadn’t asked for payment upfront, and he imagines just walking out. Wonders if you would scowl at him, if you would expect it, maybe scowl for once. Drop that calm look on your face in exchange for something a bit uglier.

There is a long beat that he draws out to see what you will do, but you only sit patiently. You turn back to your laptop, tapping away on something else now. It’s not fun if you’re not biting, he sends you what he decides must be your standard fee, watches you tilt your head to the side at the chime of money exchanged.

He doesn’t thank you, just gets up and leaves. You didn’t close the latch on the side of his mask, and he considers marching back and making you do it, but decides to save it for another day. He closes it himself for now, and fancies that he can feel the finger print that you left behind on it, evidence.

-

The first warrant he comes back with is legitimate. Cyberpyschos are going mental over the bridge, and they have a faint enough lead that shows some of the cyberware tracing back to yourself. He knocks on your door and watches your face when he presents it to you.

He expects some kind of betrayal, for you to hiss and snap at him. Image of the NCPD, accepting your cyberware one week and raiding your clinic the other.

Instead you stand to the side and watch with him as the other officers dig through your stuff. They’re a bit too enthusiastic, your tray gets flipped over and your bench kicked over to check underneath and it isn’t righted again.

Simon watches you, uncaring that he should be watching his men. You tilt your head back and look up at him, you aren’t half his size but it’s a close thing. He thinks he likes that, watching the top of your spine disappear into your neck just to look at him, the arch of your throat. Traces his eyes over it, tendons and a vulnerable jugular, pushed out for him.

He imagines reaching over and holding his hand over the soft column of your throat. You’ve left it bare, you’d likely barely have any time to start flailing before he’d squeeze with intent and you’d drop, caught in the palm of his hand. If you can sense his thoughts, you don’t give it away, just watch him in return, blinking like a stray cat. Curious but wary.

“You know, Officer Riley, if you wanted to see me again, you didn’t have to bring the official signed document,” you say, gesturing with the hologram that was on the chip he presented to you. It’s slightly flirty, but cautious, like you’re padding around an interrogation room, but you don’t know what he’s done yet.

He doesn’t say anything. You smile back, as if he had responded, and let it lie. Your eyes are sharp, he imagined he could hear the whir as you scanned each of his men as they came in, but your smile and limbs are loose, like you are unaware of everything. Your teeth are blunt, but he imagines the cut of one against the metal of his forearm.

They don’t find anything, and one of his men huffs, giving you a dirty look. You’re asked what you work as and your smile doesn’t slip. “I help those with addiction, this is a place for them to speak, to be treated,” you answer.

“Treated?” one of his men pushes, giving Simon a look. It’s a terrible lie, so bad that Simon reckons they’ll have a hard time proving it’s not true. This is a shitty area, there’s likely 3 gonks in the alleyway outside lying in the gutter, high. You’re also liked enough that they could grab a random off the street and they’d lie for you easily enough.

“Simple brain dances, meditations,” you explain, rolling your head back to give Simon another look. The smile is gone, eyes gone guileless. He squints at it, suspicious and the corner of your mouth gives the faintest twitch. “Honestly, officers, whatever it is that you’re looking for, I’m sure I would not be of any help.”

One of his men steps forward as if to grab you by the arm but Simon barks at him to step back. You haven’t looked away, but you look analysing again, like you had looked at the virus in his system. “We’re done here,” Simon announces and steps back before you can say anything else. Leaves you with your trashed clinic and his warrant on the chip he gave you.

Simon falls asleep later and dreams of you with a scalpel in your hands, and when you cut into him, there is no blood.

-

Simon sees you again, but this time you’re outside. It bristles him, seeing you standing on an open street. Your sides are bare and before he can think about it too much, he’s cut his eyes around every alleyway around you. Making sure that there is no one on the rooftops. Traffic roars past and he grits his teeth. There's been a spike in drive-by shootings, gangs nipping at each other’s heels in a show of territory.

He’s over to you before he can stop himself, a hulking mass at your back, shielding you from the view of the road. He would tell himself that he is doing his duty as an officer, but he has always been a self-interested man, and never cared much to lie to himself. 

You startle as his shadow swallows you up, turning around to blink up at him. You squint at the sight of him. “Officer,” you greet. He grunts in response, which makes you almost roll your eyes.

You turn back to the stall you were standing at, humming over some mods for sale.

The man at the stall is terrified at the introduction of Simon, pale and nodding mindlessly as you start to barter. Simon imagines if he flashes his holster then you would even get the mod for free, a thought which amuses him. You'd likely get even more annoyed, which he does want to see.

As if you can sense his thoughts, you wrap up the exchange quickly and step away, Simon following at your back. “There something you want from me, officer?” You ask, giving him a look over your shoulder. He stares back at you, unyielding.

He’s unsettled suddenly, imagining how often you must be outside of your clinic. He hadn’t thought of it, had only imagined you were constrained in those four walls. The door had shut behind him and he had left you there, a still picture until he would return eventually. Waiting, like a good girl, sat by the door.

“You going home?” he asks you. Tells you.

You give him another look. He wants the crack of your skull in his palms, like the clean split of a watermelon. Wants to parse through your thoughts, wants to have them before they even fully form on your own.

“Yeah, I got what I needed,” you reply. He grunts, follows you until you tilt towards the side streets that lead back to your clinic. Barely any safer, but at least it’s not the open street, and he has his orders to patrol here. He watches you as you disappear around a corner. His gums itch, his tongue flexes in his mouth. He is a wild dog held back with a tattered leash, but he respects it all the same, heads back to his post, but keeps his ear tilted in the direction you went in.

-

He comes back again, and the warrant isn’t even real. He stares you down, wants you to open it, wants the reaction to his baldfaced lie. You take the chip and step aside to let him in. There’s a cut across your brow, purple bruising around it and he can’t look away from it. White in his vision again, he’s starting to suspect you’ve put another virus in his system, infecting him. He blinks and it clears, but the distrust stays like a rotting in his core.

He wants to dig his teeth into the edge of the metal in your palms and peel it up, wants the imprint of his teeth somewhere on you that you couldn’t replace with technology. He thought about you while he fucked his fist in the shower, and you had been beneath him, teary-eyed as he broke you in on his cock. He wants to fuck you until you drop that questioning look in your eye and bare your throat for him again.

“Look at the warrant,” he tells you. You smile up at him, like he is someone charming. He’s not, and he wants the reaction that he has sought out of you.

“Won’t it just say what all of them say?” you point out, leaning back against your desk. “Something that may have something to do with me, and here you are.” He stays silent, stares you down. “Do you want me to be a criminal?”

“You are one,” Simon rebuttals. That’s why he’s here. You need to be, he needs to catch you. He dreamt of chasing you down a network, jumping between wires and static until he caught your hips in his hands and crushed them. His desire for you is entwined with the dichotomy of your identities. He isn’t much interested in forcing you to become a legal law-abiding citizen, as he is pushing the two of you further into the roles that you are in.

“You know what I mean,” you add, pushing off of your desk and stepping towards him. A step away and he reaches his metal hand out, clamps your jaw in his palm. You let him, like you always seem to do, and it’s like pure heroin, lights something up in him.

“Who did this?” he asks, your chin in his palm, his thumb on your eyebrow. Right on the cut. He thinks if it was him that put it there, he might dig in a little, but he wasn’t. It’s hidden from view like this, with the edge of your eyebrow, disappeared behind his ugly, metal thumb.

“Got jumped by some asshole who thought he was hot shit,” you say, easily. The way you say everything, no pit-stop between your brain and your mouth. He wants to dig his tongue into the back of your throat and catch the words there, drink them down.

“Who?” he asks. You shrug and he shakes your jaw like a bad dog. “Who?” he repeats, tone biting. There’s a twitch in your eye at being roughhoused but you don’t step back.

You give a name, raising an eyebrow at him. He vaguely recognises it, some asshole who’s been causing trouble in Watson. Some wannabe gangbanger. He butts his head against yours, too hard to be truly affectionate before he leaves. His gas mask bumps against your cheek, leaves a red mark on your jaw from where his metal fingers dug in.

He shoots the fucker who jumped you, and dumps his body in the river. He watches it float, knowing it’ll be found. When they see the NCPD bullet extracted from his brain, he’ll be dumped back out again. Simon thinks about allowances, thinks about ropes of wire and how they snap. Rubber ripped, coil exposed.

-

He comes to see you again, this time in the middle of the night, wanting to see what you look like when you’ve just woken up. He imagines you’ll be pliant, let him shift you around as he wishes, sleep in your eye and a dream still dragging on your limbs.

You open the door and rub your eyes. Your hair is a little ruffled from your bed, blinking up at him with thick-cottoned eyes. He smiles with teeth beneath his gas mask at how awareness flickers into your eyes before you force a yawn. You’re so quick, which is why it’s always so satisfying to catch you.

“Something I can help with, officer?” you ask, leaning against the doorframe.

“Let me in,” he tells you. Demands it of you. It would be so easy to force his way in, but he likes it when you do as he tells you to.

“You got a warrant for that?” you ask, scrubbing a hand over your jaw. Eye him like he’s your patient again, like you’re finding that virus in his system and cutting it out.

“No,” he replies. Watches your expression, the subtle tick of your brow at his bold-faced honesty.

He wonders if you’ll shut the door on him. Make him peel the metal back to get in anyway. He would, he’s saved up his allowances and he plans on cashing them out on you.

You give him another long look before you step to the side and let him in. The door slides shut with a wheeze and a soft thunk.

“Is there something that you would like to say, Officer Riley,” you say, as if it’s a question but your voice doesn’t lilt at the end. He wants to catalogue every one of your reactions and keep them to himself, squirrelled away, out of the sight of anyone else. That is something beyond liking you, beyond attraction. Simon feels possessive of everything about you, like he might cave someone’s skull in if they saw too much of you.

Simon’s never been too much of a talker, he steps forward and crowds you into the desk that has all of your equipment on it. You blink up at him, perfectly still in the way that prey animals are, when they know they’re caught. The rabbit-like flutter of your heart, caught in the palm of his hand as he cups your neck. Thumb against the soft give just beneath your chin. “Simon,” he tells you, although he knows you already must know. He never told you he was Officer Riley, knows that you must have pried your way into whatever confidential information that you could find on your scan of him.

“Well, that doesn’t feel appropriate, Officer Riley,” you point out. Your calm tone is undermined by the kick of your pulse. His fingers flex, held back with a trained restraint. He likes knowing you’re afraid of him, like that you talk back to him anyway. Like watching a kitten yowl at a beast. Cute.

“Simon,” he repeats, bending his head closer to you, A hunch in his shoulders, and his face still isn’t that close to yours.

A quiet beat. “Simon,” you repeat. Your voice is flat, as if you’re trying to take the enjoyment out of it for him. He huffs with something like amusement. He gets his rocks off here, having his way in your clinic, the feel of your skin against the scar tissue of his human hand. You could be scowling or smiling, and he’d like either once he’s got his fingers in your mouth.

He reaches his other hand up and undoes his gas mask, lets it drop off and sets it on the desk next to your hip. Hoists you up, catches the kick of your leg, steps into the cradle of your thighs. “There we go,” he tells you. Your eyes have taken in the exposed section of his face. Ripped skin, some replaced by chrome, most of it left to heal as is. He knows that he is an ugly sight, a hulking, horrible man, hunched over you. He doesn’t care much what you have to say about it.

He ducks his head and looks you in the eye, even playing ground. You glare back at him and he grins with teeth. He hopes that you bite him, seals his mouth over yours. Your tongue is wet and he tilts your head back, wanting to get into your throat. You bite his tongue and he groans, his other hand pushing your hips into his. He grinds into you, huffing into your mouth. He memorises each point of your teeth, sucks your tongue into his mouth and blinks at you with half-closed eyes.

He pulls back with a wet smack, which leaves your cheeks flushed. “Show me your tits,” he tells you, hands flat on your desk, framing your hips. You don’t move, glaring up at him again. He gives you a lazy look, like you’re boring him now. If anything, the hateful look in your eye has made him even harder, if it were possible. “Now.”

“Such a dick,” you mutter to yourself, reaching for the buttons of your pyjama shirt and slipping it off. There’s a fine tremble in your hands before you still them with a calming breath. He was right on his first impression of you - that you barely have any chrome on you. Your skin is soft looking, no harsh metal on your torso. Restricted to the framing of metal around your eyes, your right palm. 

He smooths his metal hand up your side, watches gooseflesh and vellus hair raise in its wake. Cups one of your breasts in his cold metal palm. Almost coos at the sight of your nipple pebbling as his thumb swipes over it. Restrains himself at the last second, but gives into the urge to give you a mean pinch as retribution for your filthy mouth. You jump, a hitch in your breath. He smirks at you, hopes you can see the chip in his canine. “Behave,” he tells you, reaching for the waistband of your bottoms. Maybe once he’s drunk his fill, he can indulge the bite of your mouth, but his skin feels stretched thin over chrome and bone, and he wants what’s his and he wants it readily.

There’s a jump in your abdomen as his hand dwarves your hip, tugging your pyjama bottoms off and tosses them behind him. He spreads your thighs, peaks at the curls the cover your sex. All of the dolls in Night City are clean shaven. He likes this better, likes that you hadn’t been expecting him, and here he is anyway. He makes a mental reminder to bin all of your razors if he gets a chance.

He parts your sex with two fingers, huffing at the sight. So sweet, even with your strange looks and your filthy mouth. Sweet as sugar down here, your hole fluttering, your clit hidden under its hood like it’s shy. His hands are a cage around the span of your waist, squeezes in warning before he thuds to his knees and flattens his tongue against you. You whimper at the contact, manage to strangle the noise just barely. When he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, you yowl, thighs kicking out. He squeezes them in place over his shoulders, barely jostled.

He brings one hand down from your waist, lifts his head, a string of saliva connecting him to your clit. It’s out now, throbbing and awake. He spits on it, watches you flinch with it. Spittle drips down, sits on the slick that has gathered at your hole. He feeds you one finger, groans as he watches your flesh part for him, and feels how hot you are inside. You're tight, he can feel muscle clamp down around his index, clinging to him. “Need to relax, sweetheart, or my cock’s gonna break you,” he tells you. It almost feels like a struggle to even feed you one finger, something that leaves a strangled feeling in his chest.

“Do one,” you reply, eloquently. But you don’t kick him off you or anything, so he just gives you another look. He’s being too indulgent with you, he knows. But, it’s better to let a puppy misbehave so they know what’s not tolerated. Training for another day, he lowers his head and licks at the stretch of your pussy around his finger.

He slides his finger in and out of you, gives you another when your panting starts to hitch up, rubbing his thumb over your clit when you whine at the stretch. You start whining out swears, hips jolting forward and then back again as if you want to come, but don’t want him to give it to you.

His third finger is pushing it, he knows because you start clawing at his scalp, sharp little nails. He groans hot onto your clit, which has you shaking. You’re wet with sweat, he can see the shine of it on the curve of your belly, on the strip of skin between your tits.

He slows the pump of his fingers, idly toying your clit with his tongue. He debates if you should be allowed to come. He doesn’t want you knowing that he finds your pissy words amusing, doesn’t want to overly encourage it. However, you haven’t tried to run, or punch him or anything of that ilk. He knows that you can’t help the kick of your hind legs. He pinned you down with teeth at your throat, and he knows that you’re trying so hard to behave. Besides, sinking his cock into you is already going to be a struggle, nevermind if you aren’t loose and pliant for him.

He curls his fingers, sucks your clit, chasing your orgasm like it’s his last meal. A test in his restraint. He thinks that he wants this more than you do. Your lungs stutter, shaking as your hands cradle his head. You’re muttering to yourself, ‘please’ spilling out of you, again and again. Another mean suck and your shriek, back bowing and he feels the clench of your cunt around his fingers.

He fingers you through it, until you are almost sobbing, trying to crawl away from him, but held in place with his metal hand that has slipped to the small of your back. He gives your clit a kiss, mean and hard just to watch it throb before he gets up off his knees with a groan. He;s getting too old to be kneeling on tile like that. He’ll fuck you in a bed next time, if you’re good.

He slides his fingers out of you, unbuttons his trousers. You stare at him, vaguely out of it as you try to catch your breath. Awareness seems to slam back into you as he fishes his cock out. He’s big, he knows this, but the way your eyes widen like he’s pulled a gun on you has him chuckling to himself. “That’s not going to fit,” you tell him, tone dead.

“Enough flirting,” he tells you, catching your legs over his forearms and dragging you to the edge of your counter.

“You’re deranged,” you snark. He’s amused, watching the anger tugging at your scowl, naked beneath him, and your slick caught in the curls between your legs.

He gives the side of your thigh a firm smack, catching the jump of your body. “Watch that mouth, or I’ll put it to use,” he warns you. You glare up at him, but don’t say anything else. A shame, but he does have to have a firm hand with you.

He takes his cock and grinds it against you, parting your curls to get to the hot, wet flesh beneath. He catches the head of his cock against your clit, slicks himself up, knowing that he’ll need it if the greedy suck of your cunt around his fingers is any indication. He pulls back and lines himself up. He understands what you’re saying, the mushroom shaped head dwarves the small hole that flutters as he presses against it lightly. It’s hard to imagine fitting in there, even given that he has tried to prepare you.

You don’t seem to understand how bullheaded Simon is, though. He hasn’t chased anything that he hasn’t caught yet. A tense of his wide bicep and he starts to push into you, metal hand on the base of his cock, the other lightly rubbing your clit in circles to get you to give way.

There’s a moment where he thinks it might not happen, you’re starting to flush, face shining with sweat. Then there’s a shudder and your cunt parts, splits, sweet fruit halving and the head slips inside. You both groan, his head dropping onto your collar as he pushes further into you. You’re slick, he can feel your cunt sucking at him.

You start to whimper as he pushes further into you. His thumb rubs up and down on your clit, insistent even as if you try to cringe away from him. Shallowly thrusts, keeps pushing until you start to give way. You thump your fist against his chest, the impact bouncing off of chrome. He barely acknowledges it, and continues grinding into you.

He bottoms out, groans into your collarbone. “There we go, there we are, sweet girl,” he tells you. The muscles in your back loosen at the praise, feels tense flesh give out into his metal hand.

He pulls fully out and slams into you, and you whine, hands on his shoulders and clinging. “Simon -” you start, but he shifts both his hands onto the back of your knees and pushes them up to your shoulders. He can see the stretch of your cunt around him like this, the spread of your legs for the monstrous size of him. He feels dizzy with it, can’t stop himself from pulling almost all of the way out of you before slamming inside. His eyes almost roll back into his head, and you sob, nails digging into the flesh that he has on his back.

Your knees over his forearms, he braces his hands on your hips and he starts thrusting into you, pleasure zipping up his spine. Breathy sounds are punched out of you each time his thighs slap into yours. There’s a heat rising in him, catching and flaming.

He lifts his torso up, looks down on you. It’s like he thought, the prick of tears in the corner of your eyes, the swollen spread of your pussy around him. He drops one of your legs in favour of flattening his palm against your throat. Your pulse is fat in his palm. He catches it there, feels the ricochet into the meat of his hand.

You clench down on him and he groans, bares his teeth at you. “You like that, huh?” he asks you, flexing his fingers over the tendons of your neck. Your mouth is open, he can see the pink flash of it in your mouth. You try to shake your head but another hard thrust just sends it rocking back instead, another moan gritting through your teeth again.

He digs into you, flexes the metal in his legs to thrust into you hard and fast. Exertion is an old friend, and he takes it into his stride. He is only starting to pant a little, but you’re running hot and have been for a while.

Pleasure is molten hot at his pelvis, and each time his hips meet yours, cock kissing your cervix, his vision whites out at the sides. The virus that you must have planted in him is deteriorating in his system, leaving him almost mindless. He’s chasing you, still, even with you caught between his body and your desk. Breath like steam pouring out of his mouth, saliva pooling under his tongue as he realises that you’re within reach.

You stare up at him, eyes wide. The vision of your head held up by his hand is enough to finish him off. He slams into you a few more times, groaning deep in his chest while you squeak, spills hotly in you, grinds to draw out the spark that glares in his vision until he stills.

A moment of quiet, air thick with sex and sweat. He drops his head against yours with a thunk as your skulls collide. Feels the buzz of your grunt in your throat with his hand still nestled there.

“You got a bed back there?” he asks, temple against yours.

“Not telling you,” you mutter, sounding wrung-out and gutted. He snorts, scoops you up in his arms, stepping back from your desk, holding you up. Still have a smart mouth. But, he has the patience to get that out of you. Not all of it though, but he won’t tell you that.

-

A week later, a missing report for a ripperdoc in Watson hits Simon’s desk. He shreds it, and it sounds like the chime of an allowance, cashed in.