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dietcane · 11 days ago

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⚢ barbed wire baby - dirty little secret

cw: dead dove, do not eat !!, age gap (ellie is late 30's, reader is 21), elements of domestic violence, toxic relationship, death, themes of organized crime (gangs/mafia/drug cartels), cheating, bribery, abuse (physical, drugs, alcohol), mentioned gambling, bloodplay, strap-on usage, heavy manipulation, dark!ellie, spitting, rough sex, oral sex, depictions of mental instability. more to be added!!

synopsis: as the adrenaline becomes more and more overwhelming, so does the danger. stakes are higher than ever. dingy prison cells, double entendres whispered through jail phones. knowing glances exchanged with prison guards. her modern day bonnie to her clyde. your life weighs in the balance. you know ellie has pull inside and out. you have to decide if you're willing to risk everything for her. are you?

DIRTY LITTLE SECRET

⤷ m.list | a/n: first chapters are soo short. lengthy ones soon!

Time rolled by quickly following the day of Ellie’s conjugal visit. Thirty minutes felt like five, hours felt like ten. Mindlessly slugging around Ellie’s too-big mansion. Cold hallways, impersonal decor, and ceilings that made you feel miniature from the sheer height of them. Following daily routines like second nature- brush teeth, shower, skincare, make-up, fix hair, attend whatever Ellie’s scheduled you for. Meaningless little things. Charity events, small outings so you’re not stuck in the house, fancy dinners with people of her caliber. Dangerous people, that is, adorned in thick Armani suits with glinting watches from brands that you’ve never heard of in your life.

Days become weeks and weeks become months. Life is a blur. Not much to keep in mind when you're being puppeteered from behind iron bars. Ellie has made no effort to get herself out or vy for a retrial. Content with the schedule she’s been abiding by for the last one hundred forty-two days.

Her men aren't dormant, though, despite her absence. Tirelessly working, arranging deals, carrying out hits, the usual. Trudging through the endless, eerie halls covered in blood. Bloody footprints caked into the tiled floors, seeping into the divots of grout and the stark paleness of the slabs of granite. Distinct screams sounding from the basement, the exhale of air from the suppressor and the heavy thunk of cold bodies hitting the concrete floor.

You didn't leave your room most days if Ellie didn't schedule or force you to attend one of her “graciously” planned events or activities for you. Majority of your days were spent in bed, pajama shorts around your ankles and panties long discarded, just trying to alleviate the pent-up arousal impending in your stomach. It didn't work much. Ellie knew your body much better than you did. Couldn't get yourself over the daunting brink while plagued with nausea. Nauseous from the cloying, sterile scent of bleach and hospital grade cleaning supplies. Nauseous from the coil of guilt and disgust roiling in the pit of your stomach every time you walked past the heavily guarded and locked basement door. Trapped away beneath thick deadbolts, nightlatches, and a series of biometric locks. Overkill, you think. One of Ellie’s best guardsmen- her right hand man, honestly- keeps an eye on this door- Abby Anderson. A heavyset blondie with striking blue eyes that tend to wander. Broad arms covered in scars and faint hair. She's not bad-looking. Stark opposite to Ellie, though.

Today, unfortunately, the basement guard has been swapped out with your usual bodyguard- Dina- and now you're under Abby’s watch. She’s gruff when she barges into your room, dress and cardigan clutched into her fist, arm extended. Your skin is sweat slick where you’re bare and naked in the middle of your bed, a spot carved out into the sheets. Knees propped up and spread. Your fingers are curled in between your thighs and they’re dripping with your own slick. She doesn't even look at you.

Your fumble to sit up, blanket pulled over your lower half, plagued with bouts of embarrassment and horror. You drag your dirtied fingers over the comforter, trying to even make yourself look even the closest semblance to presentable. Her eyes don’t even bother to look at you now. Eyes that once trailed over you whole and unashamedly- for a moment that brings you an inkling of comfort. It’s nice to think for a moment that she doesn’t want to see you vulnerable. Not without your permission. But then your brain oh-so helpfully supplies you all of the vague memories of Ellie leaving you out on display for all of her soldiers and men to see. One time? Completely bare with only a thick, leather collar hanging around your neck. Early on into the relationship. Mouthed off at her. Rattling off nonsense with an attitude just to be annoying. To be stubborn. Ellie wasn’t a fan of back talk. Or spunk for that matter. Made you sit at her feet like a dog. Of course you mouthed off about that too. For an entire week, she made you sit with the suffocating leather collar and leash. All while adorning a black eye, of course.

Her nose is turned up like it's inconveniencing her to even be in your presence. You swear that she even wipes her hand on her tactile weapon belt, slung heavy around her hips, when your fingers graze the back of her hand. You feel like you’re beneath her. Her expression is bored and her tongue is prodding into her cheek. You’re staring. Freckles, scarred cheek, blue eyes, pretty lashes. She’s hot. But you keep it to yourself.

“Not sure Els would really appreciate you finger deep with no panties around her guards, yeah? Keep it to yourself, pretty.” Her voice doesn’t sound how you’d expect it to. You expected her to be harsher, more brute-like. It’s slick. Like one of those dommes in videos you’d tumbled over in the depths of the internet- late at night and pent up. Slick with a honey dew seductive caliber. You deduce the fact you definitely want Abby Anderson- your wife’s right-hand man- to jump your bones, even if that’s the last thing that ever happens to you. The thought plagues you with guilt, but you try to mediate it with the excuse of ovulation. Wife is incarcerated, you’re frustratingly warm, and you’re ovulating! You’re clearly not yourself.

Silence has become severely familiar to you. One of your closest adversaries. Bleak nights spent sitting on balconies, silent alongside nothing but the stars and the moon to keep you company. Some nights you lay in bed and just think. Thinking about how life would be if you had heed the warning about Ellie’s bars. Bars tucked into shady, yet so lively corners of New York City. Maybe you’d still be in school, continuing your major. Slumped over psychology textbooks with shitty plastic chicken flavored cup ramen and half melted pints of Ben and Jerry’s- a frivolous purchase for a broke, barely scraping by university student. I mean, come on, nearly five dollars for a pint? Breyers sells the same thing for the same price for way more! But hey, cramming for exams with the bliss of a thirty minute affair with a spoon a five buck delicacy. Burnt coffee from communal coffee pots, sticky countertops and mildewy showers shared with halls of girls and snuck in friends and boyfriends. Truly a romanticized experience for you. Silence always brings you back here. Brings you back to every moment where you’ve dwelled over every decision you’ve ever made. Thoughts of how every single choice you’ve made led to over choices. Butterfly effect and the whole nine yards. The silence is deafening, suffocating and all consuming.

Ellie’s favorite black Mercedes SUV is silent. The interior is cold and dark, windows are up, and the AC is steadily blowing, just at the settings how Ellie favors it. Just enough to prick the hair up on her arms and wake her up when she has to force herself through grueling business proposals at ten in the morning almost every day of the week. The dress and cardigan she pulled for you today doesn’t do much to alleviate the pulsating blow of chilled air throughout the car. A white poplin and lace MiuMiu dress with a boring white shrug and a pair of pale slingback pumps from Dior. The color is reminiscent of what you think a decaying ballet pointe shoe would look like. Reminiscent of pointe shoes that have been carved and shanked and dulled at the platform. Wilted at the wings and vamp. A pale, dusted pink. Pointe shoes that have been on relevé much too long and turned and piqued for years. So much emotion and grace muddled into the color of a pair of bleak pair of heels. You hate it. It’s stiff and expensive, just how Ellie wants you to be.

You’re in the backseat alone, though. Abby driving, gun perched in her lap, clutched with her left hand. Ambidextrous, maybe. Her right hand rests lazily against the bottom of the steering wheel, occasionally steering towards exits and down dirt-pathed back roads. Another guard, Caitlyn, is in the passenger seat. Killer aim from what you’ve gathered amidst brief presences in Ellie’s meetings. Caitlyn wields snipers and shotguns in steady hands trained on frantic targets and never misses. She’s lethal. Ellie’s favorite contract killer- her perfectly trained mercenary for hire. Her eyes are tired and deadpan where they meet you through the rearview mirror. Dark blue hair- odd choice for their field of work- with lighter, yet calculating even more blue eyes. Scanning, analyzing, horrifying.

Prison is not a place you enjoy frequenting. The drive there is tedious and tense, sandwiched between two women with years of experience and blood on their hands. They’re unapologetic with how they presented themselves. Brutish, rough, heavy. While Ellie was purposeful with how she carried herself. Kept home and work separate. Guns and knives tucked away neatly into locked cabinets and drawers, all hidden away in her heavily guarded and locked office room, where her guards were opposites. Constantly in their suits and tactile belts with guns strapped around ankles under slacks and pocket knives hidden under sleeves of custom-tailored and fitted suit jackets.

You’ve learned to dissociate during the drive from Ellie’s mansion to her tucked away hiding spot that she calls her reprieve from her everyday chores. Her reprieve from you, maybe. Your chest burns. The thought is sour and no matter how much you try to swallow, it doesn't let up. It's saccharine, cloying, excessive. Too much.

Your lungs feel like they're contracting faster than they can expand. In, out, out. You're gasping, almost. Silently. Caitlyn’s eyes find yours through the rear view mirror. She's judging you. Unimpressed, like she's shaming you. Furrowed brows pinched together in an expression of utter contempt. She's looking at you like you're a child. Like you're beneath her.

You're not crying, yet.

You're getting worked up over nothing. Rubbing the heel of your palm over your restlessly beating heart and over contracting lungs. Because maybe, just maybe, your wife sees your absence as a reprieve. Sees her heavily scheduled and monitored days and routines as a break from you. Basking in the solace of freedom from you. The solace of having someone so attached and dependent on you. Ellie was probably having the time of her life- her men inside with her, being puppeteered to cater to her whims to let her roam and reign however she’d liked.

You weren’t useful to her. Not like how her guardsmen were. They fought and bled for her. You were just… there.

You don't enjoy that. Jealousy and envy plague you paralyzed. You try to meet her eyes through the mirror again, but her eyes are trained on the street before the three of you. You shift in your seat uncomfortably. Sat in the middle seat of the second row in Ellie’s SUV, you get a clear gaze of them both. Yet, they pay you no mind. Why are you so invisible?

Shaky hands fumble through carved-out compartments on backseat doors. Rifling through pens and paper clips and other meaningless office supplies, your hand drags over one of Ellie’s switchblades she keeps in her truck. It's cold and heavy where it rests in the palm of your hand. Engraved with her initials. Abby and Caitlyn don't notice, don't spare you a passing glimpse, a tiny eye contact. Nothing.

You're alone on the road, no other cars around, only you, Abby, and Caitlyn confined to the SUV. Your hands and body move before your mind does. Before your consciousness.

Your hand wraps around Caitlyn’s head from behind the seat. She grunts in surprise and jolts. A strength in your arms erupts like never before- have you always been this strong? It's a three-second affair. Caitlyn’s head is held starkly against the headrest of Ellie’s Mercedes.

A firm swipe. It's jagged, unconfident. Not a surgical cut. It's done with shaky impulsive hands. A jagged line from the left carotid to her right. Caitlyn’s blood is warm where it trickles over your fingers. She’s not going to make it, you guess. Asphyxia or blood loss. Abby is cursing and trying to swerve to pull over. Caitlyn is gurgling and trying to grasp at her throat, but the wound is far too big and you doubt Abby’s attempt at a half-assed tourniquet will do much.

Abby pushes you back, flat against the seat. You sit there, staring at your hands. Blade flat against your thighs, still extended outwards, covered in maroon shades. Soaking wet. You touch your face gingerly. Trembling fingers drenched in someone else’s bodily fluids. You frown. Wipe your eyes afterwards. Wrong hand, you make the mental note, not to wipe with your left hand. You’re sat in the backseat, Caitlyn’s blood, smeared mascara, and eyeliner smudged around your eyes. Not a pretty sight, you’d bet. Ellie wouldn't like it.

Her blood has stained your sweater. Her blood cascaded down from the silver engraved blade, lacing around your fingers, and dribbling down your arm. There’s a puddle of it in her lap, steadily streaming into the seats. There are flecks of it on your dress. You realize that it’s not just Caitlyn’s blood on your dress.

A steady stream of it dripping onto your dress. Your nose is bleeding.

You’re not mentally present anymore. Your mind lags behind and the world keeps spinning. Why did you do that?

“Ellie’s going to have a time with you later. Can’t imagine how she’d feel when she finds out you ganked the chick she’d been banging for the past year and a half.”

For good measure (or overkill, honestly) you shiv the blade into the back of the headrest where Caitlyn is sitting. You earn a sickening crack in return. If she wasn't dead before, she is now.

The shower is ice cold. You couldn't move the entire way home. Manhandled by Abby into the house, heavy boot steps followed by meek clinks of heels. She had to undress you since you wouldn't move.

The water going down the drain is a painful scarlet. Swirls around your toes and leaves streaky lines down your body.

The once-white porcelain shower floor is now like a soaking wet canvas. Drenched in water color reds and pinks and faint traces of orange-red variants. Swirled and dragged down to pool around the drain. A faint ring resides there. Mocking you. You killed Caitlyn. In a fit of rage. Like a child. A petulant child so worked up with unbridled rage that they’d resorted to violence. Unstable and unable. It’s embarrassing. You close your eyes. Maybe shutting them out will block out the mockery of the blood drying around the drain, to shield you from the backlash of your actions. To play as a fortress against the impending breakdown festering underneath your surface.

Caitlyn’s dying expression is burned into your retinas. Melded to the backs of your eyelids. You see her when your eyes are open, when they’re closed, even when you try to dissociate yourself out of the world. Out of the world and into the back of your mind when nothing can bother you, just your everlasting state of peace.

Sickly, seeing that excited you. You know it’s wrong. Far more than wrong, really. The smile starts off slow, A small quirk of the corner of your mouth when you start to recount how her eyes glazed over. How her lips trembled and her nostrils flared. How her hands smacked weakly at your right hand over her forehead, holding her still. How she writhed when she squirmed in her seat as you dragged the blade across her neck. How warm her blood felt over your cold hands. The weight of the blade in your palm.

The smile becomes a grin- full teeth, all expression. A quivering smile, canines pointed. Then it becomes a laugh- hysterical, loud, full body. Abby’s large hands are stabilizing your shaking body. You can barely stand. The laugh is all consuming and it throws you off kilter. You’re leaning against her, soaking wet, blood stained face, and you’re laughing!

The tears followed shortly. Hysterical laughter followed by the onslaught of body wracking sobs. Abby’s hand grips your hair tightly, holding your face beneath the steady stream of the shower, You’re still laughing. Laughs and sobs quickly become sobs and chokes and coughs.

Her hand drags roughly over your face, dragging calloused palms over sensitive cheeks and rubs over dried blood in its path. She’s cleaning you- rather roughly, but cleaning you nonetheless. You can’t stop inhaling the water. A steady stream buffing over your eyes, down the slope of your nose and into your mouth. Streaming into your nostrils, settling down your throat. It’s cold water but it burns the lining of your throat like scalding hot water. What drowning feels like, maybe. Like a million tiny shards of glass are trailing down every lining in your body until they’re all covered and bleeding.

Abby yanks you back and you cough pathetically.

“Figured you needed a chaser after all that. Boss won’t like it if I brought her girl to come see her all doped up, hm? It’s not the adrenaline anymore makin’ you laugh. Just pure you. You sick fuck, probably enjoyed it, right? Baby’s first kill?”

Her voice is mocking and doing so much for you. It’s silken and honey-like and it rattles around your brain. Probably affecting the brain chemistry you have up there- or maybe the lack thereof since you just murdered one of your wife’s best workers and laughed about it afterwards. You swallow and adjust your footing. Avoiding eye contact. You decide you’ll jump her bones if you look her in the eye.

The water’s off now. You didn’t notice she did it. Too caught up in the whirlwind of your brain- scattered, messy, unattentive. The blood has long dried around the drain. Ring of Caitlyn’s life crusted around the holed steel circle. Red, blatant, and present. The goosebumps on your arms are starting to bud. Pricking up and spreading. Your fingers graze over your arms, fingertips dragged over soft bumps, almost like braille. The goosebumps aren’t just from the cold. Fleshy braille blossoming from the sheer recount of Caitlyn and the presence of Abby alone.

Your eyes fix on the drain. The smile is bigger than before. Standing in the porcelain shower, dripping wet, arms wrapped around yourself, smile wider than ever. And in that exact moment? You don’t feel an ounce of regret.

Your heels click as you’re walked down the corridor of the non-contact visit room by one of Ellie’s men, Jesse, and Abby. Similar outfit as your one from this morning, long vintage MiuMiu dress with the same dulled out ballerina-destroyed-pointe-shoe pink heels. No sweater this time- the only good one to go with this dress was currently blood stained and being bleached by one of Ellie’s many servants and maids- whole yadda yadda.

Ellie’s the only inmate in there. A row of double ended glass walls with phones haphazardly attached to the walls. She’s manspreading on the other side- hideous jumpsuit unzipped and hanging lowly around her hips, wife beater on display. There’s a cigarette hanging between her pointer and middle finger. She’s staring directly at you, just lazily smirking at you. You stand behind the chair across from her, on the other side of the glass. Abby slides behind you, pulling it out and gesturing for you to sit. Your eye catches the phone to the right of you. Ellie is still staring, analyzing. Looking.

Her right hand finds the black phone to her side and you mirror her action instinctively. Her breaths are light through the phone. You hold it up to your ear and avoid her incessant eye contact.

“Where’s Caitlyn, baby?”

A single eye twitch, barely perceptible if Ellie wasn’t looking at you so harshly. It gives you away instantaneously. Nausea washes over you quickly. Nausea, regret, guilt.

Ellie knows it too. The way she looks right through you. Makes you feel like you absolutely have to tell her every single secret you’ve ever held dear to your heart. Spill every single little meaningless thought you have just to appease her. You’re tense, paralyzed with guilt and everything underneath the sun.

“I don’t know why I did it. The way she looked at me, Els. Made me angry and it happened before I knew why. But, I don’t feel sorry. I can’t feel sorry,”

You tumbled and spewed off like a dam finally breaking. Every single thought streaming out of your lips without much regard. Only impulse. Adrenaline. So many words yet you couldn’t properly deduce it to one feeling. You felt sick.

Ellie takes a drag from the cigarette between her fingers. She doesn’t respond to you, just simply stares. The smirk widens, she’s smiling at you now. She doesn’t express disappointment or contempt. Just stares at you down the slope of her nose. Flicks the ash off the end of the cigarette onto the table beneath the two of you. The smoke warbles into the air, curling and warping in all of its ashen grey glory. You wrinkle your nose at the smell unconsciously and Ellie chuckles. A soft exhale of air. Real quiet. The hair on your arms prick at the sound and you cross your legs.

Your body suddenly feels warm. Ellie notices that too. Notices everything.

“Got Caitlyn with my blade, eh? Figured Abs over here told you about me an’ her, too. Did that bother you too? Does it bother you that I went to Caitlyn to fulfill my needs because you’re not enough? She knew how to shut up and take it when I needed it. You’re far too much at times, angel.” Her tone is heavy and brutal. You know it’s true. Your hands are trembling now and tears are pricking at your eyes. It does bother you.

Psychological warfare. One of Ellie’s strong suits. Knows how to build you up and tear you down tenfold. Tells you all the right things, says it how you want to hear it. Whispers those sweet nothings that really mean nothing to her. Nothing to her but everything for you. The ring on your left hand suddenly feels heavier than it ever has. Like it has enough weight to keep your hand flush against the table, paralyzed still. The band feels restricting, contracting and shrinking around the fleshy skin of your finger. It feels impersonal, now. Like it’s not meant to be yours. Like it’s meant to be for another. Maybe like it’s Caitlyn’s.

“Yes! I hurt Caitlyn and in return I feel no remorse.”

“Au contraire, sweetheart.”

You bang your hand against the table. Chest heaving in a fit of frustration. Ellie is looking at you like you’re a child. Just like how Caitlyn looked down at you. A petulant child with a knack for temper tantrums. Contempt. Contempt. Contempt. That’s all they see of you, right? You’re beneath them. Unworthy. Useless. You’re not going to be on their level, ever.

“First kill does that to someone like you, cutie. You’re just a walking pendulum of instability today, aren’t ��ya? Sitting there all wet in your panties thinkin’ about how you hurt Cait. Am I right?”

She’s baiting you. Egging you on for a reaction so she can retaliate, with ease. Waiting for you to hit that brink so she can exploit it over and over and over again. You’re close. Temper rising, pendulum swinging. Rocking between emotion to emotion, each one on two opposite sides of the spectrum. Adrenaline coursing and rampaging to paralyzed with bouts of hysteria. Pendulum. Always swinging, save for the calm-before-the-storm moments. The moments when you remember how well acquainted you are with silence. How a part of you silence truly is. Those brief moments of quiet and solace and tranquility.

Ellie’s steady breathing is grounding you. Your nails have carved crescent-shaped scars into your palm. You rock back and forth in the chair and you’re vaguely aware of where you are. Your trembling hands grasp a little tighter around the jail phone. It’s cold to the touch. Freezing where it presses against your ear. Shaky, unstable, unfit.

But the thing is, Ellie is right. You’re angry and pent up and frustratingly wet in your seat. Your eyes find hers and she offers you a smile.

“‘S just us in here. No cameras. Put your feet up on your chair and give me a show. Show me how bothered you are. Flip the pretty little dress I bought you up so I can see everything, yeah?”

You push back in the chair you’re in. Tug your dress up, tug panties down. You reluctantly spread your legs, completely baren to the guards behind Ellie. The position is awkward. Fingers delving between soaked sticky folds, spreading and displaying, all for Ellie.

Your body is burning hot but your fingers are cold. Freezing, shaky. You’re hesitant. Dragging your fingers through your slick, swallowing back shaky whimpers. Her eyes are on you and that's all you want. It spurs you a little further, slipping the tip of your finger in. You gasp how Ellie likes it. You’re performing for her. A practiced art. Steady pumping of fingers and small drags with the pad of your thumb over your over-sensitive clit.

Ellie’s put out her cigarette now. Burning tip put out on the palm of the guard nearest to her. She’d never believed in ashtrays. More convenient to put it out on the nearest surface. Whether that’d be you, herself, a table, or even her soldiers.

Green eyes laser focus onto you. Unmoving, attentive. Momentarily, her eyes flick up to Abby behind you. In seconds, you’re livid.

You pull back. Fingers wiped haphazardly against lacy fabric. Panties snatched back up your legs in a fit of rage. Standing on your feet. Fists clenched and nostrils flared. Your fingers are sticky against your palm. You're faintly aware of how it feels. It grounds you more. Just slightly.

Ellie smiles, leaning back completely. The chair she’s in is tilting on its two back legs. She looks so fucking good.

She squints at you before clicking her tongue and standing up.

Her voice is loud enough that you can hear her through the reinforced glass.

“God, I’ve got to get you on valium or something. Acting like a fuckin’ baby.”

Your eyes start to prick with tears and you sit back down. You weren't a child. Grown adult. A woman. Who could control her rapidly swinging range of emotions. You were good. Stable.

Not a fucking baby.

A woman saddled with a temper that was kept in check. You could do that, right? Keep it settled and hidden. To appease Ellie. That's all that matters to you.

Validation. One word. Ten letters. Still such significant weight. It's all you want. Not money, not material, not the latest new fad- but Ellie’s validation.

That's what you were going after when you slid Ellie’s favorite blade across Caitlyn’s neck, right? Seeking out validation when you watched her eyes glaze over and the way her shaky hands tried to grasp at the steady bubble of the blood seeping from her carotids.

Seeking out validation when you stood underneath the freezing cold stream of Ellie’s shower. When you stared and watched the blood clawed its way out of your skin in streaky globs and spiralled around the drain. Watched it dry and settle and sink into the textured floor of the shower. Watched the drain pool with scarlet water as it released steadily.

Seeking out validation when you barely struggled against Abby when she held you underneath the water that burned your lungs. When you let her manhandle you under the steady onslaught of ice cold water and you smiled. You let her. Didn't argue, fuss, or fight.

All for Ellie’s validation, right?

She made you act that way. It was all for her. Whether she liked that or not.

taglist: @bambiaches @mabermaple @starrdelight @vahnilla @elliesfavtoy @sulliefimmie @oneinameliann @eriiwaiii2 @azxteria @l0veylace @valeisaslut @slutforabbyanderson @hitmehardmommy @billiegabbysyd @the-sick-habit

cmnt to be added or removed!!

- jadie loves u!

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maysileeewrites · 3 months ago

Text

bittersweet symphony || prologue

Haymitch Abernathy x f!reader || series masterlist

Summary: After being reaped as a Tribute for the 61st Hunger Games, you and your mentor Haymitch Abernathy are off to a rather rocky start …

contents: mentions of canon-typical violence, mentions off death; Haymitch being a drunk, snarky asshole; angst; bantering, Haymitch and Reader having a rather rocky start; gratuitous use of Princess as a nickname (you'd better get used to it); age gap! (Haymitch is in his late 20s, Reader is 18 at the start)

w.c: 5.3k (it's worth it, I promise!!)

AN: Here it is! I’m so excited but also incredibly nervous … Also don’t worry, this is in fact a Haymitch/Reader story, but the lovely @imnotcryingyouare1 suggested a way that wouldn’t make Haymitch the only one experiencing guilt for falling in love again and because I like drama and heartbreak and pining, I took it and ran haha. In other words: I really, really hope that you all like the prologue!!

It’s fascinating how drastically a person’s life can change within just a few seconds.

A few seconds ago, you were standing together with the other seventeen and eighteen year-old girls, desperately hoping against hope that it wouldn’t be your name that would be drawn from the large glass bowl.

A few seconds ago, the bittersweet taste of freedom was right there on the tip of your tongue. This is the last year you’re eligible for the Reaping - you were supposed to come out unscathed on the other side.

A few seconds ago, your heart was slamming against your ribcage and your hands were slick with sweat.

And then, Effie Trinket, your District escort read out your name, and everything changed - all of that within the span of a few seconds.

Numb with shock, you walk onto the stage in front of the Justice Building, trying to keep your head up high. Trying not to cry, trying not to break down in front of the entirety of District Twelve, and - worse yet - all the cameras.

You might be from the poorest District in Panem, but you won’t give the Careers and whoever else may be watching the chance to brand you as a weakling already. Though you know that the chances of you actually surviving the Hunger Games are slim to nonexistent, you can’t allow yourself to give up already.

And so, you take a deep breath, squaring your shoulders as you come to stand next to Effie Trinket.

She’s saying something to you, but her words only register as a light, unpleasant buzzing in your ears. When you don’t respond, she frowns, before plastering a smile back on her face again, walking over to the other bowl of names.

You bite down hard on your lip, and your hands twist into fists behind your back.

Not Felix, please. Not Will, please.

Not Felix, not Will.

Please.

But Effie calls neither of your little brother’s names out. The relief that both your brothers will be safe for at least another year is only short-lived, though.

„Kai Foster! Come on up, come on up!“

Your eyes widen with shock as you watch your best friend walk up onto the stage, coming to stand right beside you.

This can’t be happening. Not Kai. Not your best friend. Not the only other boy besides your brothers you hold so close to your heart.

The only thought that rings through your head as you numbly reach for Kai’s hand is that this can’t be happening.

This can’t be happening. This was supposed to be your last year, you were supposed to get through this final Reaping together. Both you and Kai are already eighteen, in fact, Kai is turning nineteen in just a few weeks.

And now, it seems highly unlikely that either of you will ever get to experience another birthday again.

After the Games, who will be there to look after your little brothers? Ever since your mother died giving birth to Felix, it’s been you and your father looking after the boys, but your father’s a miner and while he’s doing his best to take care of you and your siblings, his work in the mines is already taking a big enough toll on him. Who will be there for your brothers? Who will be there to-

Breath hitching, you square your shoulders. You can’t afford to think like that, not yet.

Not now. Right now, you have to hold yourself together, at least until you’re safely on the train headed to the Capitol. And so, you concentrate on the touch of Kai’s hand, as you’re looking out at the crowd, trying to hold yourself together.

Then the Peacekeepers are ushering you off the stage and into the Justice Building, and then you and Kai are separated and you’re brought into a small waiting room, and before you get a chance to sort your spiraling thoughts and compose yourself, your family’s ushered into the small room.

Your little brother Felix is crying, but Will, who’s only two years older than Felix and yet always trying to act all tough, is trying his hardest to keep himself from crying. He finally breaks when you turn to embrace him as well, begging you not to go, to please come back.

You can’t lie to him, not to your little brother, and so just hold on to him tighter, catching your father’s gaze. He just gives you a sad, pained smile and somehow, that says more than all the words in the world ever possibly could.

And then, the Peacekeepers are back again, ushering your family out and even though Felix and Will both cling to you, the Peacekeepers just drag them away, before ushering you out of the Justice Building and into a car that’ll take you to the train station.

At least Kai is here with you, you think, as he silently reaches for your hand, threading your fingers together. At least he’s here with you as you’re being shipped off to your inevitable deaths together.

The next few moments pass you by in a blur. Kai and you are being escorted onto the train by Effie Trinket. Her chipper, hyper-positive attitude is quickly starting to get on your nerves and so, you excuse yourself, saying that you just need to be alone right now. Kai shoots you a worried look, but you just shake your head, before heading off to your room.

For hours, you just lie on your bed, motionless, staring at the ceiling. Thoughts of home, of your family and friends - all people you’re almost certain you’ll never see again, because while you certainly don’t want to die, don’t want to be just another quick, easy kill for the Career, you just know that there’s no real, tangible chance of you possibly winning these Games - race through your head, spiraling and spiraling and spiraling.

Finally, when you can’t take it anymore, you stand up, feeling dizzy from the sudden, quick motion. You briefly consider going to find Kai, but somehow, you don’t really feel like you could stomach talking to him right now.

And so, you head off to the compartment you were ushered into earlier that day, thinking that after grabbing a bite of food, maybe you won’t feel so bad anymore. You don’t encounter anyone as you walk through different train compartments, which is probably for the better, seeing how you’re still feeling incredibly dizzy and light-headed and the movement of the train underneath your feet isn’t exactly helping.

You finally stumble into the dining compartment, only to freeze when you realize that the compartment isn’t empty as you’d been expecting it to be.

„So, there she finally is.“

The words are delivered in a dry, mocking tone, yet there’s a slurred edge to them. Is he ever not drunk?, you find yourself wondering as you look up into the bright, grey eyes of Haymitch Abernathy.

Haymitch Abernathy.

The only living Victor of District Twelve.

Your mentor - he’s supposed to coach you, to help you and Kai get through the Hunger Games. The only problem is that he’s not even once managed to keep his tributes alive for longer than the first few days of the Games, which, you suspect, has a lot to do with him being constantly drunk out of his mind.

He doesn’t seem to take anything in life seriously, especially not his job as a mentor, seeing how he’s failed to show up to the Reapings ever since you can remember.

He wasn’t there for your own Reaping as well, and somehow, it’s that thought that finally manages to shake you out of your state of numb shock.

„You were supposed to be there“, you say, the words tasting bitter on your tongue, „you were supposed to be there - you’re our mentor and yet you can’t even give us the grace to show up to our Reaping?“

Your voice has gotten louder with each word, and your hands are shaking with anger.

Your eyes find Haymitch’s grey ones again.

For a second, you think you see something akin to hurt flash in his eyes, but it’s gone in an instant, and his features twist into a scowl again.

„Well Princess, I’m sorry for not clearing out my entire schedule for you“, he says, his tone sarcastic and mocking.

Trying to suppress your anger, you bite down hard on your lip, shaking your head in disbelief. „Really?“, you grit out, „I can’t believe that there would’ve been much to clear.“

In reply, Haymitch just laughs.

He laughs - he actually laughs in your face.

„You’re unbelievable“, you seethe, not at all caring that he’s your mentor and nearly ten years older than you.

He’s only twenty-seven - you’re not quiet sure, but you think that he was sixteen when he won his Games eleven years ago -, and while you have to admit that even with all the damage he’s done to his own body with all the drinking, he’s still fairly good-looking, with his short dark curls, tall stature and distinct features, yet the look in his eyes tells you that in his twenty-seven years he’s seen and experienced far more than most people do in a whole lifetime.

Haymitch’s eyes find yours again, and something he sees in your gaze must get through to him, because he finally stops laughing, his expression turning serious again.

„I don’t really see that it would’ve made much of a difference either way“, he says, shrugging. „You and that boy would’ve still been reaped.“

„His name’s Kai.“

You expect another condescending reply, but when you look up at Haymitch again, he’s looking at you with a thoughtful expression.

„Tell me something, Princess - why are you here?“

You frown. „Because I was reaped for the-“

„No“, he interrupts you, shaking his head, his gaze locking onto yours, „why are you here?“

„What - I don’t …“, you stammer, backing away from Haymitch , who, even though he’s still standing a few feet away from you, is too close, too close, too close. You feel as if even through his drunk stupor, he sees you, really sees you. He sees too much, way too much, and you just want him to stop looking at you like that.

But, of course, he doesn’t. „Why are you here?“, he repeats his question again, „why are you here - why are you not in his room, pouring your heart out to your boy- Kai, right?“

At your sides, your hands clench into fists, but Haymitch continues talking, not giving you the chance to say anything. „Finally couldn’t take it anymore? Finally caught up with reality, did you now?“

„You’re one to talk“, you grit out through your teeth, angrily shaking your head.

He’s unbelievable. He doesn’t even know you, and yet he just attacks you with all of these presumptions of his. He’s twisting the knife right where it hurts, and you hate him for it.

For a moment, Haymitch just looks at you, his bright grey ares boring into yours. Then, his lips curl into another crooked grin, and he raises his glass, as if to toast you. „Touché, Princess.“

It’s disorienting, the way he’s switched from condescendingly provoking to a twisted, almost sarcastic kind of genuinety in just a few seconds.

„Stop calling me that, just because you can’t be bothered to remember my name“, you snap, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

Haymitch chuckles, before saying your name. At that, you quickly turn away from him, trying to hide your surprised expression. „I do know your name“, he says, chuckling again, „it’s just that I think Princess seems much more fitting for Your Highness who demands that I schedule my whole day according to her, wouldn’t you agree?“

And just like that, he’s managed to destroy the small inkling of sympathy you might’ve felt for him in these last few seconds. „Well, seeing as you’re supposed to be our mentor, I’d say that it’s not that outrageous a request.“

Haymitch doesn’t immediately answer you, instead, he takes another swig of his drink, then swirls the remaining liquor around in the glass. Finally, his eyes find yours again.

„You really want my advice, Princess? Stop wallowing, and embrace the very unfortunate, very likely possibility of your imminent death once that gong sounds.“

You scoff. „Wise words, truly.“

Haymitch just shrugs. „You asked for advice, you got it.“

You roll your eyes, scoffing again. It seems pretty clear that there’s not much more you’ll get out of Haymitch, at least not right now. Whatever his deal is, you won’t get through to him by trying to appeal to a conscience he may or may not have.

Normally, you’d up more of a fight. He’s your mentor, and whatever else he may be - a sarcastic, drunken asshole right on top of that list - he’s probably the best chance you’ll get at trying to survive in that arena, like it or not.

But right now, you don’t particularly feel like trying to crack to complex riddle of Haymitch Abernathy. Right now, you’re just glad that your anxious thoughts have finally stopped spinning and you’re really looking forward to truly lying down in your bed and to finally just fall asleep.

Your father always says that things look brighter in the morning, and maybe that’s true.

Tomorrow, you promise yourself, as you walk towards the table holding all of the fancy liquor bottles. Tomorrow, you’ll talk to Haymitch, really talk to him.

And so you take a glass, before reaching for a bottle on the table. You can feel Haymitch watching you, his own glass still between his long fingers, as you open the bottle.

„So, I take it that you’re not in the mood for advice anymore?“, he asks you dryly.

You laugh darkly. „No. I’ve had a shitty day, and right now, I just need a drink.“

Haymitch considers you for a second, before waking closer towards you and setting his glass down right next to yours on the table. „Well, there’s something I can help you with.“

You don’t bother with a reply, instead only rolling your eyes, trying to fight off the smile that’s tugging at the corner of your lips.

Once you’ve finished pouring both glasses, you take yours, watching as Haymitch takes his as well. For a moment, you consider him, then you hold out your glass towards him.

Haymitch raises his eyebrows at you, but then there’s that crooked grin of his again and you almost feel like grinning as well. „Well, what are we toasting to?“

„Staying alive“, you say, shrugging.

Haymitch considers you for a second, then clinks his glass against yours. „Well, I’ll drink to that.“ He downs the contents of his glass in one swig. The same definitely can’t be said for you. Even before actually drinking the liquor, your eyes start burning. Then the sharp, almost acidic taste hits your tongue, and you immediately start coughing. How Haymitch willingly chooses to drink that stuff with abandon is beyond you.

Haymitch watches you, chuckling. When you shoot him a dark look, he only shrugs, but his expression quickly turns serious again.

He clears his throat. „Listen, Princess. If you stay off my case, I’ll - I’ll do my best to help you.“

You raise your eyebrows, looking at him. His expression’s sincere, his grey eyes are searching yours. He really does seem to mean it.

So you nod, allowing a small smile. „Deal. But only if you stop calling me Princess.“

Haymitch just chuckles. „I fear it’s far too late for that, Princess.“

🏹☀

The next few days pass you by in a dizzying blur of differing impressions. It seems that at every corner you’re meeting new people.

First, the morning on the train after your nightly run-in with Haymitch, there’s Effie Trinket, your District Escort. Of course, you’ve already met her the day before, but you weren’t really paying attention then, only registering that her forced positive attitude gets extremely annoying really fast. You still find her forced brightness and her constant exclamations of it being a ‚big, big, big day! for you and Kai‘ incredibly irritating, but you soon realize that underneath that flashy Capitol accent and all her twisted beliefs of the world of Panem, there’s actually a genuinely kind soul underneath.

Even more surprising is the fact that Haymitch seems to know her. Of course, with him being Twelve’s only living victor and her being your District’s escort, he has to know her, but these two seem to know each other in more than just a superficial way.

When you try to ask Haymitch about it, he avoids your searching gaze, only saying that him and Effie do indeed go way back.

You want to press on the subject, but with the way he’s crossing his arms in front of his chest and still refusing to look directly at you, it’s clear that he’s not willing to say more on the subject. So, you just sigh, before walking back towards the breakfast table.

At least Haymitch actually showed up to breakfast. You’re pretty sure that you’ve seen him spike his juice earlier, but still, he’s here. And he’s actually making an effort with both you and Kai, asking you about your strengths and skills and warning you that the Games don’t just start in the Arena - they’ll start the minute you get off this train. In fact, they’ve already started the moment you were reaped. From here on out, every single move either one of you makes will be watched, studied, analyzed. Public perception is key and public goodwill an advantage not to be underestimated.

After breakfast, Haymitch’s the first one to excuse himself from the table, leaving the train compartment - not before picking up another bottle of liquor and winking at your irritated expression.

You don’t have time to dwell on his behavior, though, because Kai’s already turned towards you. „Glad to see that you’re feeling better. Not to say that this doesn’t suck immensely, but, well - you know …“, he trails off, smiling sheepishly.

You can’t help but grin as well, feeling blood rush to your cheeks when Kai continues to look at you with a soft, warm look in his eyes.

„I know“, is all you say. Really, it’s all you need to say, even though the words somehow feel like both too much and not nearly enough all ot once.

You’ve known Kai practically your whole life. He’s been your best friend for as long as you can remember. What else is there left to say, really?

For a short, fleeting moment, doubt creeps into your mind.

The truth is that there are things you could talk about. Things still left unsaid.

Like how you’re not all that sure anymore whether what you feel for him is really best described as friendship. There’ve been those moments - moments where you’ve felt breathless just from the way he was smiling at you. Or when he’d gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear and your heart would start beating wildly in your chest.

You’re not really sure whether those are normal things to feel when in the presence of your best friend, but the thing is that there’s no point in dwelling on these thoughts, not now.

Just as you’re most likely never going to see your family ever again, you’re also most likely never going to have a chance to explore those new feelings.

„- hey, you still with me?“

Kai chooses that moment to break the silence and you’re glad to have your thoughts interrupted.

You blink, forcing a pained smile on your face. „Yeah, it’s just - I … I ..“, you trail off, unable to put your thoughts into words.

But Kai only nods, reaching for your hand and squeezing it. „Yeah, I know.“

Your eyes lock and when he squeezes your hand again, you somehow feel less awful. Kai’s always been that for you - a bright, hopeful spot in your otherwise dreary world.

And he continues to be that for you during the next few days in the Capitol.

He’s there for you, all the time. He never lets go of you, his hand is always there to catch you.

When you stop off the train and are swarmed by Capitol citizens who all want to get to know this year’s tributes. He guides you through the crowd of eager, overbearing Capitol citizens, never once letting go of your hand.

Then, before you’re both sent off to your prep teams, he hugs you, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, promising you that it’s going to be alright, somehow.

With his words in mind, you manage to get through the grueling procedure - you’re washed and scrubbed and cleaned until your entire skin feels irritated. At least your prep team isn’t so bad. Sure, they’re self-absorbed, somehow managing to make everything about the Hunger Games about themselves, but at least they treat you with some respect. Your stylist’s alright as well, though she puts you in the same baggy miners outfits the District Twelve tributes have been put into during these last few years.

After being deemed as presentable for the parade, you are reunited with Kai. There’s no time to talk though, because you’re already ushered into your chariot, surrounded by all the tributes from the other Districts.

To you, the parade’s a blur of faces and voices and your heart beating wildly in your chest, but through it all, Kai is holding your hand, steadying you, grounding you.

„Nice touch with the hand-holding“, Haymitch tells you, as soon as you’re all back in your rooms above the training center. „The people loved it.“

You just nod, though you could swear that Kai’s cheeks are turning rather pink. When you try to catch his gaze, though, he turns away, excusing himself and saying that he needs to go to the bathroom.

Then, it’s just you and Haymitch. For a moment, neither one of you says anything.

Haymitch’s eyes find yours. He looks as if he’s debating whether to say something, but then he just sighs, and that crooked grin of his is back. „Well, you should get some rest, Princess. The next few days are going to be crucial.“

And with that, he leaves you as well.

For a moment, you just stand there, looking at his retreating form, but then you decide to heed his advice and to try and get some rest.

Only that sleep evades you for hours. That first night in the Capitol you lay awake for hours, tossing and turning. Several times the thought of going over to Kai’s room, seeking his comforting presence, crosses your mind, but you decide against it every time. He’s got enough to deal with on his own, you don’t want to distract him as well. And, if you’re being completely honest with yourself, you’re also afraid of what might happen if you decide to completely let your guard down around Kai.

Like that one evening in the woods, some months ago, when -

No, there’s no point in thinking about that now. Not when come morning you’re both going to be prepared for you own death.

So, you turn over, but still, sleep evades you. You lie awake for the better part of the night, only dozing off for a few minutes at a time, until thoughts about the fate of your family or what might await you in the arena rouse you with a chilling clarity.

The following days, it’s the exact same thing every night.

Every evening, after a grueling day of long training sessions with the other tributes, followed by private sessions with Haymitch and Effie - Haymitch does his best to give you and Kai strategy pointers for the Games and your interview, whereas Effie concerns herself with preparing you and Kai for your interview, teaching you important Capitol manners - you’re beyond exhausted. Your head feels fuzzy and there’s barely any strength left in your body to step underneath the shower and then out of the bathroom and into your bed. But the moment your head hits the pillow, you suddenly feel wide awake, plagued by anxious thoughts of what-ifs about the Games and your loved ones back at home.

It’s the worst the night after the interviews - the last night before the Games.

You toss and turn for hours, scenes of the last few days replaying in your mind over and over again.

The way Kai always encouraged you during training. The way Flora and Dalton, the tributes from District Eleven - both only twelve, so incredibly young - started following you and Kai around during training. How you eventually agreed to an alliance with them, even though Haymitch tried his hardest to convince you otherwise. But you and Kai stayed strong, wanting to protect the little ones, as Kai soon took to calling them. Soon enough, the tributes from seven and nine had joined your alliance as well, their tributes not as young as Flora and Dalton, but all still younger than you and Kai. When you’d told Haymitch about Cassie, Finn, Sarah and Lucas joining your alliance, he’d only sighed, shaking his head at you.

„Well, I guess that no matter what I’ll say, you’re not going to reconsider?“

„Definitely not“, you’d replied, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

Haymitch had sighed again, though this time it sounded far more weary than just simply frustrated. „Well, I did try to warn you“, was all he’d said, before pouring himself another drink, effectively signaling the end of that particular conversation.

Remembering that conversation with Haymitch has doubt creeping back into your mind. What if he was right in trying to discourage you from forming that alliance? What if, if it comes down to it, you won’t be able to protect all these kids? You’re fast and aced the edible plants station at training, and though you’re not entirely useless when it comes to throwing a knife, when it really comes down to it, you’re not much of a fighter.

Kai, having had to learn how to hunt illegally to in the foods to provide for his family years ago, is good with a bow and arrow and with setting traps, but who’s to say that the arena will even have a bow and arrows?

What if it’s like that arena a few years ago, when the whole place was a desert? What if there won’t be any weapons at all? And even if there were, there’s still the biggest question of all that’s gnawing at you - would you actually use a weapon to end another life, even if it’s self-defense or to save someone else?

Because no matter how you might try to spin it, telling yourself that you swore to protect those kids, that you want to protect Kai or that you just want to survive - in the end, it’s still another life you’re taking, just to preserve another one.

Suddenly, you can’t take it anymore. Your thoughts are spinning and you feel too hot underneath your sheets, so you throw them aside, standing up and leaving your room in a split-second decision.

You have no idea of where you want to go, you just know that you can’t spend even another second in that room right now.

In the hallway, you cross your arms in front of your chest, trying to fight off the chilly night air. Where just seconds ago, your hands were sweating and you were feeling way too hot underneath your sheets, you’re starting to freeze in your thin, satin nightclothes. They’re pretty, the fabric’s incredibly soft and they’re probably more expensive than all the clothes you own back at home put together, but they’re doing nothing to ward off the chill you’re feeling. You really should’ve grabbed a sweater to throw on over your night clothes.

Uncertainly, you turn towards Kai’s room.

„Can’t sleep either?“

You freeze. Even without turning around, you know that it’s Haymitch standing in the Hallway with you, not Kai.

„I mean, I get it, last night before the Games and all …“

Slowly, you turn back around. Haymitch is standing just a few feet away from you, arms crossed in front of his chest, a small bottle of liquor in his right hand, like always.

He looks like he’s about to say something more, but before he gets the chance to, you quickly say: „Please, not right now Haymitch.“

Your voice sounds raw and uncertain, not exactly the strong, defiant tone you were aiming for. But you really can’t handle another one of his signature sarcastic remarks, not right now, not when thoughts about what awaits you in the Arena and what might happen to your loved ones back at home have been plaguing you for hours already.

Haymitch looks ready to retort something, but then his eyes find yours, and his expression seems to soften. „Don’t worry Princess, I was just going to say that you should really get some rest … you know, get your beauty sleep and all that.“

Somehow, you find yourself laughing dryly. „Beauty sleep, yeah, right.“

Haymitch’s eyes widen when he hears you laugh and he grins as well, but then his expression turns serious once more. „I mean it, though. Adrenaline’s only gonna get you through everything for so long.“

You sigh tiredly. „I know, it’s just - I can’t stop thinking about … about … about-“

„About what the arena might be like?“, Haymitch interrupts you, a knowing look in his eyes. „About how your family and friends back home are doing? What you’ll do if one of your allies doesn’t make it out of the bloodbath alive?“

He trails off, and for a moment, neither one of you says anything. Haymitch’s grey eyes find yours again, and suddenly his eyes seem to be full of guilt and regret.

He sighs deeply, running a hand through his dark curls. „Look, Princess, I know that that’s not the answer you want to hear, but I don’t have the answer to any of these questions, and neither do you. And driving yourself crazy over all of the what-ifs isn’t going to do you any favors.“

You nod, sighing. „I know. I - I know that, I - it’s just … “

„You can’t help it“, he finishes your thought, and you nod again.

You look at him again, and something in his expression seems to shift then. There’s a dark, heavy look in his eyes, and his lips quirk into a twisted grin. „Look, I won’t - I can’t make any promises, because who knows what these Gamemakers might have up their sleeve, but trust that I’ll be looking out for you and these kids, alright?“

You want to say something in reply, but suddenly your throat feels all chocked-up. There’s pressure behind your eyes as well, and you blink heavily. Haymitch thankfully doesn’t comment on it, instead averting his gaze, as you try to compose yourself again.

„I - thank you, Haymitch really“, you finally manage to say, your voice sounding small.

Haymitch just nods, still avoiding your gaze. „Don’t thank me just yet, just - try to stay alive, because that would make my job a whole lot easier, you know?“

You can’t help but roll your eyes at his words, scoffing. „I’ll try my best.“

„Good. And now try to get some rest, you need it“, he says, his gaze serious once more.

You nod. „Yes, I will - I - good night, Haymitch.“

„Good night, Princess.“

For a moment, he looks at you, but then he turns around and starts to walk away.

„Oh, and Haymitch“, you say, causing him to turn back around to look at you again, „any last advice?“

His grey eyes find yours, an emotion in them you that can’t quite decipher. For a moment, you find yourself unable to look away from him and you can feel your heart starting to beat faster in your chest.

Haymitch holds your gaze, nodding, a sad smile on his lips.

„Stay alive, Princess.“

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