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am-i-interrupting · 5 days ago

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lost the original ask but thankfully i screenshot it! @mariechristine00

i know it's from forever ago, but a LOT of you asked for another Haymitch x Reader fic, so here it is! i really hope it was worth the wait!! 😭🙏🏻

Touch - Oneshot

Haymitch x Fem!Reader

Warnings: graphic smut, alcohol use, intoxication, drunk smut, age gap, strong language, su!c!dal ideation

Word Count: 3,310

District 12 had a stillness at night that could either soothe or haunt, the kind of quiet that almost tricked you into believing everything was alright. But for you, who dwelled now in the Victor's Village, the night was when it got bad. Tonight, you’d been pacing your kitchen for an hour, eyeing the pills given to you, courtesy of the Capitol, to help you sleep.

They didn't help much.

You paused in front of the counter, opening the bottle and pouring its contents onto the smooth marble surface. The air felt too tight, too full of memories you didn’t ask to keep, and the silence made it worse. You held a few of the small white tablets in your palm, feeling hollow, then threw them with a frustrated scream.

You grabbed your jacket, stuffing your arms into the sleeves before snatching a mostly-full bottle off the counter and heading for the door.

As you stepped out into the cool night air, your eyes wandered upwards. The stars hung like faint scars across the sky - distant, cold, and beautiful. You could understand why Haymitch liked to drink under them. You knew he would still be awake - he always was, so you walked along the path towards his house, the one farthest from anything.

The bottle in your hand was an excuse, an offering to avoid being alone. You knocked, and a moment later the door opened. He was shirtless, barefoot, already halfway hammered. His eyes were rimmed in red, his hair a mess, mouth set in his usual exhausted frown. You couldn't help but let your eyes roam over his skin, his scars, the way his pajama bottoms hung low on his hips.

"Well," He said, voice low and gravelly, "Look what the Capitol dragged in." He watched as your eyes moved over his exposed skin before meeting his, and the corner of his mouth turned up in amusement. "You gonna keep undressing me with your eyes or are you gonna come inside?"

You blushed and stepped inside. It smelled of woodsmoke, alcohol, and something faintly metallic, like the echo of blood that never quite left you even months after you had left the arena. His home was more cluttered than yours - books stacked on the floor in leaning towers, blankets thrown over furniture like afterthoughts, and an ashtray dangerously close to tipping off the coffee table - but it felt lived in, honest in a way nothing else in the District was.

You sat on his threadbare couch as he closed the door, then handed you a glass without asking.

"To what?" You asked, raising it halfway.

"Does it matter?"

Fair enough.

The whiskey was Capitol-made, smooth and spiced. The first drink burned, the second didn’t. You let the silence settle in between rounds, both of you drinking like it might rinse the Games from your bones. It didn’t.

"You know what no one tells you?" Haymitch muttered after the second glass. "Surviving doesn’t mean you win anything. It just means you live longer, long enough to lose more."

"I keep waking up thinking I’m still in the arena," You reply. "I can hear the anthem, feel the mud under my nails. Sometimes I check for a knife in my belt before I remember."

His lips twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "You get used to that."

"Do you?"

"Hell no," He said. "But you get better at compartmentalizing."

You both laughed, bitter but real, and it cracked something open. Not a wound, but something softer, a place you hadn’t let anyone near in a long time.

"Have you ever..." You hesitated. "Have you ever tried to-?"

"Die?" Haymitch cut in.

Your breath caught. You hadn’t expected the bluntness, but then again, you should have. That was the thing about talking to Haymitch: he didn’t make space for games. Not anymore.

"Yeah," You replied, your voice soft. "It just... It's hard, thinking about... Them. What I had to do to be here." Your eyes couldn't meet his, couldn't betray how close you'd come to it tonight.

Haymitch didn’t say anything at first, just watched you, the flicker of firelight casting shadows across your face. "I know what you mean," He said finally, quieter now. "It’s not the blood that sticks - it’s the begging. The eyes."

You nodded once, lips pressed tight. "I didn’t think it’d follow me out. I thought once I was safe, once it was over-"

"It’s never over," Haymitch interrupted, not cruel, just true. "You come home with your body, but you leave pieces of your mind behind. The Capitol doesn’t care, as long as they can parade you around."

The ache in your chest swelled. You looked down at your hands, the ghost of old wounds mapped across your skin. He looked you over, saw the way your fingers trembled, faint and rhythmic, like the leftover shiver of a body still deciding if it wants to stay. Saw the faraway look in your eyes, relieving things too horrible to say.

His eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but in recognition. "You came close tonight, huh?" He said, voice low.

Your heart lurched. You didn’t answer, couldn’t, but something in your expression must’ve flickered - shock, guilt, grief, maybe all of them - because he exhaled and sat forward.

"I’ve had that look," He said. "Hands shaking, mind racing, staring through things instead of at them. You didn’t come here just to drink."

You looked down at your lap, jaw clenched. "I didn’t mean... It's just that... I just-"

"Didn’t know what else to do," He finished for you.

You nodded, avoiding his eyes. "I didn’t know where else to go," You admitted, barely audible.

"You're always welcome to come here," He said. "When it gets bad, when the thoughts and memories and silence are all too loud, too much. You come here, got it? I’ve been there, too many times. I used to think the only thing worse than dying in that arena was surviving it, until I realized the worst part is surviving it alone."

You didn’t realize you were crying until he reached out, thumb brushing beneath your eye. A soft touch, grounding.

"I’ve got enough ghosts," He said, his voice rough but steady. "Don’t you dare go making yourself another one, okay?" Then his hand was on yours - warm, steady, a little rough, and you looked up.

Haymitch was staring at you, and not like you were fragile, not like you were broken. Like you were real, like something he wasn't about to let go of. You nodded, a silent promise, and he refilled your drinks, looking satisfied.

Sometime after midnight the bottle ran dry, but your conversation didn’t.

"You ever miss it?" You asked suddenly.

"Miss what?"

"Touch," You said. "Being touched. Being wanted."

He didn’t answer right away. He rubbed a hand down his face, the scruff catching against his palm like sandpaper. "I miss... being someone worth touching," He finally said.

Your heart broke a little at that. "I haven’t been with anyone in years," You confessed. "I don’t even remember the last time someone looked at me like they wanted me, and not just like they needed me around."

"I do," Haymitch said hesitantly.

You swallowed hard, meeting his eyes. "Do you?"

His voice dropped to something rougher, less performative. "All the time. You think I don’t see it?" He asked. "The way you avoid mirrors, the way you sleep with the lights on, the way you touch the edge of your scars like you’re reminding yourself you’re real."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Not empty, but thick with something you were afraid to name.

"I think I’m afraid," You admitted.

"Of what?"

"That if you touched me, I’d fall apart."

He set his glass down with a slow, deliberate clink. Then he leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at you with a focus that made your breath stutter. "I'll put you back together."

You swallowed, throat dry. "Haymitch..."

"You want to feel wanted?" He asked, moving toward you, slowly but deliberately, like a wild animal that might spook you. "Then let me. Let me remind you that you still exist, that there’s something in you worth being claimed." His voice dropped lower, a gravel whisper now. "You say you haven’t been touched in a long time? Let me be the one who changes that."

You stared at him, breath shallow, every nerve in your body buzzing. "I don’t know if I’d survive that," You admitted.

"I'll make it worth the risk." Haymitch reached out, slow and deliberate, giving you time to pull away. He brushed a piece of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering, resting on your cheek, and your eyes fluttered shut. His thumb skimmed your cheekbone, not in a rehearsed way or like a man trying to seduce. Like a man remembering what tenderness felt like, slowly, carefully. One breath at a time.

"I don’t know if I know how to be gentle anymore," He admitted.

"You don’t have to be," You whispered.

That shattered something.

In the space of a breath, his restraint crumbled. He surged forward, his hand moving from your cheek to the back of your neck, the other wrapping around your waist like a lifeline, like he needed to anchor himself to something real before he disappeared entirely into the bottle, or the memories, or the echoing grief that had hollowed him out year after year.

His mouth met yours not like a question, but a claim, all teeth and heat and aching want. You gasped into him, a sharp sound punched from your lungs by the sheer force of it. Your fingers scrambled for purchase - his shirt, his shoulders, his hair - anything to keep you tethered to the moment. To him.

Then he pulled away, his mouth hovering just over yours. "I don’t want to hurt you," He said, voice raw now, almost trembling. "Not like this."

"You won’t," You breathed. "Please."

Haymitch searched your eyes, sharp and intense, like he was looking for any doubt, any hesitance, anything to stop him from devouring you. When he found none, he kissed you again.

It wasn’t tentative, it wasn’t sweet - it was hungry. Desperate. Like a man starved of warmth and permission, and you had finally given both. His lips slanted hard against yours, and you didn’t flinch - you broke for him. You leaned in, hands fisting in the worn fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you. The years of pain, of silence, of keeping each other at arm’s length - it all burned away in the heat of the kiss.

His mouth devoured yours like he’d been waiting for this moment since the second he saw you step off that train. Your tongue met his with a sigh that turned into a moan before you could catch it, and Haymitch groaned, low and dark, like the sound had been torn from somewhere deep. "Fuck," He hissed against your lips, eyes squeezed shut like he was trying to rein it in, and failing.

You didn’t want him to rein it in.

Your hands roamed - jaw, throat, chest - needing to feel that he was real, that this wasn’t another Capitol hallucination, another midnight ghost. He pulled back just long enough to stare at you, eyes blazing. "I shouldn’t," He said hoarsely.

"I want you to," You replied, breathless.

Haymitch growled and pulled you into his lap with a suddenness that made your breath catch. Your knees straddled his thighs now, and his hands, rough and trembling, spanned your back, one slipping beneath your shirt, dragging up your spine in a single, fevered line of touch.

You arched into him, the contact too much and not enough all at once. It was clumsy, breathless, devouring, like you were both trying to compress years of loneliness and missed chances into this single night. You pulled away, pressing your forehead to his, both of you panting. Your lips brushed his with every shallow breath.

“I don’t want soft,” You whispered. “I want real, I want to feel."

Haymitch let out a shaky sound - half laugh, half groan. "Real, huh?" He rasped. "You sure? I’ve got years of not touching anyone, pet. I don’t know if I’ll stop once I start."

"Then don’t."

He kissed you again - deeper, slower now, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth, the sounds you made, the way your body molded to his like it had been waiting for this moment just as long. He pushed your jacket off your shoulders, your arms slipping out of the sleeves, the jacket falling to the floor. Your fingers threaded into his hair, his stubble scratching your skin. You tilted your hips, and he groaned low in his chest like the sound was being torn out of him.

He broke the kiss just long enough to look at you - really look at you - and the heat in his gaze almost undid you.

"You’re sure," He asked again, voice a gravelled whisper.

You nodded, one hand on his chest, feeling the frantic thrum of his heart beneath your palm. "I want you to touch me like we’re not gonna survive tomorrow."

His breath caught. His hands tightened on your thighs. Then, in a single fluid motion, he flipped you underneath him, the force of your back hitting the couch knocking the air out of you in the best way. You gasped as he positioned himself between your legs, his hardened length brushing your sensitive core. His hands found the hem of your shirt, lifting the fabric up and over your head, a strangled sound escaping his throat as he took in the sight of you. His lips descended onto your nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, and you yelped in pleasure, your hips bucking to meet his.

He greedily assaulted your breasts, his rough hands groping, grasping, squeezing, like he was trying to sear the feeling into his memory. His lips ventured upwards, kissing and biting your clavicle, your shoulder, your neck, before returning to yours. His hands gripped the waistband of your jeans, yanking them down your legs aggressively, taking your panties with them.

He pulled away for just a moment, a dangerous smile on his lips, his eyes dark. "You sure about this, pet? Once I start, I'm not stopping."

You met his eyes, breathless, the blaze in his mirroring your own. "Take me."

His hands gripped your hips and flipped you around, getting you into position, your back arched and ass in the air. His hands ran over your body, cupping your breasts, pinching your nipples. "You look so beautiful like this, so vulnerable, so willing." You heard him adjust his position behind you, heard the rustle of fabric and heat of his manhood as he lined himself up with your entrance.

"Last chance to back out, pet."

"Not happening."

With a sound like a wild animal he thrust himself into you, hard and fast, burying himself balls-deep and earning a feral scream from you, your fists gripping the arm of the couch. "Fuck," He groaned, not giving you time to adjust to his size, his hips starting to move, his member sliding in and out of your tight heat. "You feel so good, pet. So fucking good."

You cried out as he slammed into you, your body arching as he filled you, stretched you. It hurt, it was too much, too fast, but your body was already responding, your core clenching around him. "Fuck, Haymitch-!"

His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back. "Take it like a good girl, that's it," He muttered, his hips recklessly thrusting to meet yours. "I'm going to worship every inch of you, pet. I'm going to make you come apart all over my cock."

You whine as his cock hit spots inside you that made you see stars, your hands scrabbling at the fabric of the sofa, trying to find some purchase. "You're so tight, pet," He groaned, his fingers digging into your hips. "So fucking perfect. I could fuck you forever." You could feel your orgasm building, your body tensing, your breath coming in sharp gasps. One of his hands moved from your hip to between your legs, his fingers stroking circles against your clit, making you cry out in pleasure.

"You want to come, love?" He taunted. "You want me to let you come all over my cock?"

You moaned, your body trembling, your hips rocking back to meet his thrusts. "Fuck, oh, Haymitch-!"

"Beg for it, pet," He commanded, his voice low and dangerous. "Beg me to make you come."

"Please," You whined brokenly. "Please, make me come."

His fingers moved faster on your clit. "Louder, pet. I want to hear you scream it."

"Please!" You cried, your voice echoing off the walls, desperate and needy. "Please, Haymitch, I need to come, I need you to make me come, please!"

"Good girl," He purred, his thrusts becoming more erratic. "Come for me, pet. Come all over my cock."

And you did, your body convulsing, your lips screaming his name, your warmth clamping down around him like a vice, drawing his own orgasm from him. He groaned deeply as he came, his hips slamming into you deeply, spilling his seed deep inside you, filling you up, marking you as his.

He collapsed on top of you, body slick with sweat, breath ragged. "Fuck, pet," He murmured, his lips brushing against your shoulder. "You're incredible."

You laid still for a moment, your body still humming, every inch of your skin feeling raw and newly alive. His weight on you wasn’t heavy, it was grounding. Real. The warmth of him, the scratch of his stubble against your neck, the way one hand still clutched at your hip like he didn’t quite trust you wouldn’t vanish.

You swallowed hard. "Don’t say that unless you mean it," You whispered, voice hoarse.

He shifted slightly, lifting just enough to look at you. His hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead. There was something wrecked in his expression - something stunned and reverent, like he didn’t know how this had happened but he was terrified of it ending.

"I mean it," He said. "I meant all of it."

You reached up and brushed a thumb along his jaw. He leaned into the touch like it was the first he'd known in years, and then he rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, tucking you into the curve of his body like it was instinct. Like your bodies had already memorized each other and didn’t need permission anymore.

For a while, you just lay there in silence. Your fingers traced idle patterns along his arm; his lips brushed the crown of your head, then he pulled away, just enough to look at you. Something flickered in his eyes - pain, gratitude. Maybe even fear.

"You’ll regret this in the morning," He muttered, voice rough.

"Why?"

"Because I’m not good at waking up next to people. I don’t know how to pretend things like this don’t matter."

You studied him. His expression was guarded again, the old armor climbing back up piece by piece. "You don’t have to pretend," You said softly. "Not with me. This?" You gestured between you. "This mattered."

He searched your face like he was looking for a catch, a sign you didn’t mean it, but all he found was truth. Quiet, aching, terrifying truth.

Haymitch exhaled through his nose, leaned in, and pressed a slow kiss to your collarbone. Not hungry, not desperate. Just real. "I’ll make breakfast in the morning then," He said against your skin.

You smiled into his hair. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But I warn you - I'm a shit cook."

A breathy chuckle escaped your lips. "I’ve survived worse."

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am-i-interrupting · 5 days ago

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Worth Keeping | Haymitch Abernathy x Everdeen!Reader

Chapter 4 | Friends Can Keep

Summary: For the first five years of mentoring, Haymitch was not numb but indifferent to these new tributes, on their way towards death. This year, he's forced to change that approach when his childhood friend's little sibling is called at the reaping.

When you woke, your head was pounding. You don’t recall how you got into this room nor where the clothes you changed into came from.

It took a moment to figure out exactly how the Capitol’s fancy bathrooms worked but you managed without help. You needed all that off of you. What that was, you weren’t sure but it needed to be gone.

“Ah, good morning,” Effie greeted when you came out dressed in the only clothes you could find. “A long day ahead of you but we don’t have time for ideal chitchat. Since last night neither you nor Haymitch decided you wanted to speak of plans, we’ll have to squeeze it into the schedule.”

She adjusted a plate on the table with just a tiny bit of unnecessary force.

“Yeah,” you said dully, “sorry, my first day in the Capitol wasn’t perfect. I kind of wanted it to end as soon as possible. It’s not like he’s ever coherent anyway when he’s so drunk the bottle starts missing his mouth.”

Effie’s hands lifted from the silverware. Her blue eyes stopped on you. Her lips were parted, showing just a hint of teeth that barely bucked.

She shook herself. “No, he’s not.”

That was all that was spoken between the two of you.

That is until Milo wakes and comes into the common areas. He’s dressed in the same boring, dull clothing that you are. It’s devoid of all color and all meaning. Just a blank slab like the two of you are meant to be.

Effie is the one who urges the two of you to begin eating as Haymitch likely won’t be up until someone forced him. She was right and she was the one who did it.

“. . . here. There’s no reason to worry,” Effie said as she marched into the room.

Haymitch was still dawning yesterday’s clothing and rubbing his temples. “Yeah, that may be true for you.”

He squinted his eyes at the two of you. His nose scrunched up at a deep inhale. Then he walked right pasted you. He began to make himself coffee.

“So, are you going to talk to us today or what?” Milo asked, poking some egg with a fork.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m getting to that part,” Haymitch said, waving him off. “Give me a damn minute.”

You’d never had coffee yourself. It was one of those rich people drinks in the districts but it had a nice smell when brewing, you discovered. You felt cleared of the artificial scent which clung onto Effie.

He knocked a couple things down, fumbling around as he looked for something. He grabbed a bottle and unscrewed the lid. His glass filled with the dark liquid of coffee and then the amber of alcohol.

A dash. He began to add another. Hesitated. Then he put the bottle back down.

Milo went to open his mouth. Haymitch held up a finger. He then proceeded to take a rather large sip from the mug.

He sighed. With a wave of his hand, “You may ask your questions now.”

“Are you always this much of an a-hole?” Milo asked.

Haymitch smirked and leaned against the counter. “Too classy to say the actual word?” Milo’s cheeks flushed. “Yes.”

Before either could get out another breath you intervened. “What does the Capitol like that we could present to them?”

“Now that,” Haymitch said, wagging a finger in your direction but looking at Milo, “is an actual question.”

He pushed himself off the counter. Standing at his full height, he looked down at the two of you in your seats. He had something contemplative in his eyes. He took another sip from his mug.

His eyes lingered more so on Milo than on you.

“Lean into that good boy streak. They like people who remind them of them but you’ve just pitiful enough for them to feel better than you,” he said.

His attention turned to you. “Make sure they know you’re adored in Twelve and know how to take care of yourself. I can’t give you anything specific beyond that. It’ll all be up to Caesar and his questions.”

Milo nodded, taking in this information. “What about allies?”

“There are two types—“ Haymitch held up two fingers and bent down one— “the type who leave you alone and the type who kill you quick. Both are equally valuable.

“Making allies is your priority while you are inside the training area. Learning to throw a knife and make a fire are important, but what’s more important is having people on your side.”

Haymitch rapped his fist against the counter. “It’s getting close to time for you to train.”

He downed his coffee and placed it into the sink. He grabbed a bottle by the neck.

“Don’t worry, I’ll try to be coherent when come back. Until then,” and he tilted it back, liquid pouring down his throat.

He grabbed your plate as he walked by. You went to take it back but didn’t get out of your seat to follow him. You shook your head and watched him disappear.

He probably didn’t even realize what he’d done.

It was an old habit. One from childhood. Days that had long since past. When he’d come racing into your home after Burdock who knocked the table as he sat in his seat.

Burdock would make his own plate but as for Haymitch? Well, Haymitch would grab yours and slide it over to himself.

You’d ask him one day, when you were around nine, why exactly he always did that. He just smiled down at you, that charming smile which was normally reserved for Lenore Dove. “Because, you asked me to, darling,” he said.

When you smacked his shoulder he further explained memories you had forgot. Back when he’d first started joining your family for dinner, it hadn’t been a conscious choice. Burdock had just dragged him in. Well, money was tight around the Seams so eating someone else’s food was so foreign and wrong to him but you, young enough that you still struggled to hold a fork properly, shoved it in his face. You didn’t relent until he’d eaten it.

As time passed and he came around more and more, you began to make sure he ate more and more. One day you made him finish off your whole plate, much to the humor of your parents and of Burdock. After this happening multiple times, it just became easier to steal your plate and make you a new one because you had “the good food” and he needed “the good food.”

You remembered being so embarrassed when he told you. You’d covered your red face with your hands and groaned, tilting backward. Haymitch didn’t let you fall but he did still laugh at you.

“How uncouth of him,” Effie said as her hands smacked her thighs. “Let’s get you another plate.”

And another plate was got.

You had a smaller fill. Then you were escorted to the training area.

There were several little sections. One for weapons, one for survival, and one which served as a rest area.

“Where should we go?” Milo asked, as if he knew you’d already teamed up together.

You had. You weren’t going to abandon him but it wasn’t uncommon for people from the same districts to go separate ways, especially when one was so young.

You scanned the room.

Everyone had a number on their back. Districts one, two, five, six, and ten were all at the weapons. Districts three, seven, eight, and nine were looking at survival equipment. Sat together were districts four and eleven at the rest station.

You grabbed Milo’s hand and led him to the last space.

Cordelia sat with her back to you but her curls fell down her back and bounced with each movement. You couldn’t see anything of the boy beside her also sporting a big and bold four on his back except for his tanned skin and bronze hair.

The boy and girl pair across from them seemed to be the same age, in the middle of their teens. The girl had an oval face, dark eyes that fell downward and black hair sectioned into braids but pinned into knots at her scalp. The boy’s face was shorter but no less soft, his eyes were sharper but similarly dark, and his hair was cut close to his scalp. You could still see it was brown though and with the way the light was framing him, it had the tiniest bit of a red hue, reminding you briefly of someone else.

You put on your best charming smile and upped your accent in the way you did to get certain peacekeepers to turn an eye, “Do you mind if we butt in on this conversation because I never did get to finish mine with Ms. Cordelia right here?”

Cordelia’s eyes lit up and she matched you performative smile with a genuine one. She looked over at the boy next to her who nodded.

She patted the seat. “Come here! Come here!”

You sat.

The boy who sat beside Cordelia, now that you looked at him, reminded you of the merchant kids. If they stayed outside long enough to get a tan and freckles, that was. Bronze hair that had little highlights you could catch now that you were close and eyes that were light, a sort of green you could only guess was sea foam that you’d heard about in songs and stories but never witnessed yourself.

“You came at the perfect time,” Cordelia said. “We were just discussing strategies and I was just telling them how nice you were to me before the chariots.”

“Oh, that was nothing,” you told her and you meant it.

“Maybe anywhere else, but here and now? That means something,” her district partner said before he held out his hand. “Newton, but just call me Newt.”

You then learned that the girl and boy from district eleven were Honey and Yarrow.

“I thought four normally went with the districts,” Milo said.

If you could have, you would have slapped him upside the head.

“That’s been true the past couple of years,” Newt said, “but things change.”

“They don’t want a twelve year old,” Cordelia said. “Plain and simple. You can say it. I know what it is.”

“Well, they’re going to be missing out on some good company while they’re killing everybody,” Honey said, poking her and then Milo.

You rubbed your thumb over the old, smoothed river stone of your bracelet and thought back. You couldn’t agree with her any more.

“We should figure out everyone’s strengths though,” Yarrow said. “I can make a fire. I’m good at cooking. I know how to throw a knife.”

“I’m pretty strong, I think,” Honey continued. “You have to be when you’re hauling around sacks of grain for the Capitol.”

Newt chimed in next, “I can swim. I can fish. I know how to make nets. I’m alright with a fishing spear. That’s about all I’ve used.”

“I don’t have anything,” Cordelia said.

Immediately you jumped on her, “Now sell yourself short. It doesn’t seem to me like Newt was the one who got you both in line with Honey and Yarrow and I know he’s the not reason I came over here. If you can charm people, that’s something. That’s useful.”

Cordelia shrugged but it wasn’t defeated. Just, as she’d been earlier with her age, one of neutrality.

“Most of what I know has to do with tailoring,” Milo said.

“So do you know how to use a needle?” Yarrow asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s good. We may need someone to make some stitches,” he said, clasping a hand on Milo’s shoulder. “What about you?”

“I can hunt,” you told them. “I can use a bow. I know how to identify a lot of different plant life. At least, the kind around Twelve.”

“You’re also a charmer,” Milo said.

Your head whipped around to him. You could feel the furrow build between your brows and the pinch at the edge of your lips.

“What?” Cordelia asked with a growing spark in her voice.

“They go around playing music to the town. On my brother’s birthday last year, Mom got them to come with their uncles or something to play. He’s absolutely smitten with you,” Milo said.

You could recall the party he was speaking of. Clerk Carmine thought it was odd to be requested what was, in your own family, a rather benign thing.

Performances had gone down drastically since Lenore Dove’s passing but occasionally Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber could be convinced to play in public. Then it’d been purely because it’d been some time and money was tight.

A couple coins were thrown your way, of course, but most of it went into their needs and projects. You’d used it to restore the bass which had belonged to your mother but she’d stopped playing almost completely before you’d even been born.

Milo’s brother, Cobalt Declan, had turned eighteen last year. It was a celebration of his last reaping year.

He had the same brown eyes and red hair as Milo but his face was slimmer and he was taller but not tall. He was around the same height as you were.

Now that you thought back on that night, alright, maybe he had stayed most of it seated at the front table close to the stage. So?

“Aw,” Honey said, her bottom lip in a big pout, “that’s so cute and so sad now.”

“You play music?” Cordelia asked.

You felt the cameras on you. You could swear they zoomed in specifically onto you.

“A little,” you chose to say and left it at that.

#haymitch abernathy x y/n #haymitch abernathy x you #haymitch abernathy x reader

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am-i-interrupting · 6 days ago

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#haymitch abernathy x y/n #haymitch abernathy x you #haymitch abernathy x reader

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am-i-interrupting · 7 days ago

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A Pawn Once More (3)

Character: Haymitch Abernathy

Requested: Again Sorta??? Lol I've been seeing all the love it's been getting and had to continue. Plus I love this story.

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: The final moments leading up the 75th Hunger Games.

Part 1: Here

Part 2: Here

I'm not going to lie, this was the most fun I had writing, and I'm lowkey very proud of this. Let me know if you wanna read her her being in the games.

A.N: I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader. Age Gap: Haymitch is 41 and Reader is in her 20s (preferably 25)

***************

Your nerves hit like a wave the second you stepped into the waiting room.

The air was tense—heavy with the kind of silence that only comes when everyone is pretending not to be afraid. The tributes were scattered around the room, each lost in their own thoughts, their own strategies, their own quiet dread.

You felt your stomach twist.

Last time you were in this position, you scored a seven. Clean, precise knife throws. It wasn’t spectacular, but it got the job done—just enough to earn some sponsors without making you a threat. It kept you safe.

But this wasn’t like last time.

This time, you were older. Sharper. Tired in a way you didn’t know how to explain. And despite all of it, you had no idea what you were going to do in there. No plan, no performance. You hadn’t let yourself think too hard about it, because thinking meant caring—and caring meant fear. And you were so tired of being afraid.

The Capitol had already taken everything. Your home. Your peace. Your sense of self. And now they were back for what little was left.

Your gaze drifted across the room and landed on the District 12 pair, sitting quietly in the far corner. They weren’t speaking, just watching. Watching you. Their expressions were unreadable—somewhere between wary and curious. You offered them a small nod and the faintest smile. They didn’t return it, but they didn’t look away either. That felt like enough.

Then, you saw him—Mason, cutting through the room with that quiet steadiness he always carried.

He slid into the seat beside you without a word, his presence warm and familiar.

“Hey,” he said gently, his voice low. “You ready?”

You nodded automatically, but your fingers betrayed you—tapping anxiously on your leg, tense and restless. Mason noticed. He always noticed.

Without saying anything more, he reached over and placed his hand on top of yours. It was steady. Grounding. You immediately stilled.

“You’re going to be alright,” he said, soft but certain. “We both are.”

You looked at him—and just like that, something inside you loosened.

Those eyes. You remembered them. The same ones you met when you were sixteen, standing awkwardly at your Victor’s party, trying not to be seen. He hadn’t mentored your Games, but he found you anyway. Quiet, lost, and not ready for any of it. He’d seen you for what you were—another broken kid trying to survive something you weren’t built for.

He knew that look. He’d worn it once, too.

And from that night on, Mason became something steady in your life. Maybe even something safe. He couldn’t stop the Capitol from throwing you into another nightmare, but if you had to go back in, you were glad it was with him.

“It’s going to be fine,” you murmured, offering a small, tired smile. And for a moment, you let yourself believe it. Mason would follow you anywhere. You didn’t have to question it. His loyalty wasn’t loud or showy—it was just there. Unshakable.

“Y/N. Mason.”

You turned at the sound of your names and saw Cashmere and Gloss approaching, their movements smooth and practiced like they were walking a red carpet instead of waiting to face death again. Behind them, Enobaria and Brutus stood from their seats, joining the group.

Cashmere slipped her arm around your shoulders like it was second nature. “You ready to make some jaws drop?” she asked with that signature smirk. Confident. Stunning. But under it, you could see the flicker of something else. That same tension that lived in all of you now.

“Always,” you said, letting the corners of your mouth lift. “I think I’m just gonna wing it. Do whatever feels right.”

Cashmere raised an eyebrow. “That’s either brilliant or reckless.”

“Maybe both,” you replied.

“As long as you scare them a little, you’ll land at least a nine,” Enobaria said, cracking her knuckles and flashing her sharpened teeth. “I’m thinking of stabbing a dummy and barring my teeth at the Gamemakers.”

Brutus rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and they’ll send you straight to the Capitol psych ward.”

Enobaria grinned wider. “Sounds like a vacation compared to what’s coming.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh before turning to the siblings.

“What about you two?”

Gloss shrugged, arms crossed over his chest. “Spear work. Something fast and clean—show them I haven’t slowed down. I’m not there to impress them. Just remind them what I can do.”

Cashmere spun a knife lazily between her fingers. “Knives, obviously. Hit the vitals, maybe throw in a flip or two if I feel like showing off. Nothing too wild—we’re aiming for tens, not twelves.”

She looked at Mason, nudging his leg with her foot. “What about you?”

Mason tilted his head, thoughtful. “Not much I can do solo. Might ask to use the moving targets—simulate a real fight. Or…” he glanced sideways at you, smiling faintly, “maybe someone here’s brave enough to volunteer.”

You rolled your eyes, smirking. “Keep dreaming.”

But before anyone could say anything else, a sharp voice echoed through the room:

“District One, Gloss Tanner. Report for individual assessment.”

Silence fell instantly. All eyes shifted to Gloss.

He stood slowly, rolling his shoulders once, then turned to his sister. Cashmere reached out and touched his arm, her expression softening.

Gloss gave her a quick squeeze on the shoulder and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Then he looked at the rest of you, smiled like it was nothing, and said, “See you on the other side.”

And then he was gone.

No hesitation. No second glance.

The moment lingered in the air. Thick. Heavy. Real.

Enobaria was the first to break the silence. “We’ll head back to our seats,” she said, giving each of you a quick hug like she didn’t want to think too hard about it. Brutus did the same—no words, just a quiet presence—and then they were gone.

“We should, too,” Mason murmured, giving Cashmere’s shoulder a squeeze.

You turned to her and wrapped your arms around her tightly.

“He’s going to do great,” you whispered. “And so will you. Okay?”

Cashmere gave you a watery smile, blinking fast. “Good luck, Y/N.”

“You too.”

She held you for a second longer, then let go and sat down, folding her hands in her lap, eyes fixed on the door Gloss had disappeared through.

Before heading back to your seat, you squat down in front of Finnick and Mags. Grinning, you greet them with a playful, “Hello, my fishies.”

Finnick rolls his eyes dramatically, but there's a smile tugging at his lips. Mags, ever the nurturing figure, pats you on the head as if you were a child, her touch gentle and warm.

“I swear, before I die, I’m going to need a new nickname,” Finnick jokes, sounding far more serious than he probably intends. “I can’t die with ‘Fishy’ on my tombstone.”

You nudge his knee playfully. “Oh, don’t worry, Finnick. I wouldn’t do that to you. But I would say, ‘Best Swimmer in the Mighty Seas,’” you add with a wink, your tone light.

Mags laughs softly, her eyes crinkling with kindness. You turn toward her. “Ready to blow them away with your rope-tying skills?” You can’t help but tease, excited for the elderly woman you admire so much.

Mags gives you a thumbs up, her smile all the answer you need. Then she points to Finnick, mimicking the movement of a trident with her hands.

“Oh, yes. Finnick and his big fork,” you tease, ruffling his hair affectionately. You and Finnick had always been close—almost like siblings, really. You won your Games right after him, and to say you leaned on each other would be an understatement. There was an unspoken understanding between you two, born from the shared experience of surviving this hell.

You hear Cashmere’s name being called, and as she rises, she shoots you a reassuring smile before heading toward the door.

Turning back to Finnick and Mags, you see the stress hanging heavy on their shoulders. Without thinking, you rise to your feet and give them both tight hugs. “It’s going to be fine,” you say, your voice firm but kind. “I’ve never seen anyone handle a trident as well as you, Finnick. And no one—no one—can tie a knot as tight as you, Mags.”

Both of them smile up at you, their faces softening. They know exactly what you’re doing—trying to ease their tension, give them a little comfort. That’s why they love having you around.

“I’ll catch up with you two after, okay?” You give them both a final squeeze. “Good luck out there.”

They nod, their smiles a little more relaxed now. You return to your seat next to Mason, feeling a brief moment of relief as you settle beside him.

“You’re being a great motivator. I’m feeling inspired,” Mason says with a half-smile, his tone teasing as he nudges you lightly.

You can’t help but scoff, shaking your head. “These are our friends. And we’re supposed to kill them like it’s nothing?” You laugh softly, but it’s a bitter sound.

Mason’s smirk fades, and he turns to face you more seriously. “We all know how this is going to play out,” he says quietly, his voice laced with a mix of resignation and practicality. “And we promised we weren’t going to take it to heart. Quick and painless, remember?”

You exhale slowly, your chest heavy. “Doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen. And let’s say… in the off chance that we both make it to the end. Then what?” You meet his gaze, both of you silently acknowledging the truth between you. Neither of you would be able to kill the other. Not after everything.

Mason’s eyes soften, but his voice is firm as he shakes his head. “That’s never going to happen. You know that,” he says, his tone heavy with certainty. “It’ll be someone else, or… it’ll be me.”

You can’t argue with that. It’s the cruel reality you’re both facing, one that feels too dark to even consider. You drop your head into your hands, the weight of it all pushing down on you.

Mason doesn’t have any comforting words—he knows they won’t help. He just reaches over, ruffling your hair lightly before pulling you into his side. His presence, solid and steady, is the only thing that’s keeping you from shattering in that moment.

You watch the District Three pair go, followed by Finnick, and then Mags. Each one of them stepping into their fate, and each one leaving a piece of their heart in the room.

Time passes slowly. Your own thoughts are heavy, weighed down by the same unspoken question everyone in this room is carrying.

And then, you hear it.

“District Five, Mason Cover. Report for individual assessment.”

Your body freezes. Your heart skips a beat.

Mason feels it, too. The weight of the arena, the uncertainty of what’s to come, the fear—it’s all there, hanging between you two.

“Darling, it’s going to be fine,” he whispers in your ear, his voice calm, steady. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, the warmth of his lips a small comfort in the sea of tension.

You try to return the reassurance, offering him a soft smile. “Good luck,” you murmur, even though you’re not sure if either of you believe it.

He meets your gaze, his smile small but sincere. “You too,” he says, his voice softer now. He ruffles your hair one more time before standing up. “See you on the other side.” His words are light, basically mimicking Gloss. But you still teared up.

You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat as you watch him leave. He glances back once, offering you a final wave, and then he’s gone, heading toward the door with that same quiet confidence he always carries.

Now, the fear was real. The anxiety had a tight grip on you, and no matter how hard you tried to steady your breathing, it was a struggle. Your chest felt heavy, each breath an effort.

You closed your eyes, trying to center yourself. Ten minutes. That’s all you had. Ten minutes to somehow find a way to push past the panic, to focus, to prepare yourself.

You were so far inside your head that you didn’t even notice someone sitting down next to you until you heard a soft voice.

“Are you ready for your assessment?”

You jumped, startled, and turned to see Peeta sitting where Mason had just been. He gave you a small, sheepish smile. “Stupid question, I know. I’m sure you’ve been asked by everyone else. Should’ve said something else.”

It wasn’t what you expected—Peeta of all people sitting next to you. You glanced over at Katniss. She was watching you closely from a distance, eyes trained on both you and Peeta, her protective instincts sharp.

You turned back to Peeta, trying to shake off the unease. “I’m ready enough to just get it over with,” you replied, your voice steady, but you could feel the tension coiled deep inside you. “Are you?”

He nodded, though his smile was a little strained. “Yeah, it’s kind of crazy, you know? I was doing this exact thing a year ago. Not much has changed.”

You shook your head slightly. “Everything’s changed, Peeta. You’re a Victor now. That means something.”

Peeta met your eyes, his gaze serious. “We both know I wasn’t supposed to be one.”

“I could say that about all of us,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “None of us were supposed to be Victors, but here we are. And it’s important, Peeta, that you start believing that. It’s the only way you’re going to make it out of the arena.”

He didn’t speak for a moment, just looking at you like he was weighing your words. Finally, he broke the silence, his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on his sleeve. “Haymitch says we should team up. I know enough to sense how important you are to him.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re trying to recruit me?” you asked, teasing but also a little touched by his honesty. You could tell he wasn’t exactly sure where this conversation was heading, but he was trying to find his footing.

He looked uncomfortable but pushed on, “I’m not saying we should be best friends or anything, but you’re important to Haymitch. I think you’re important to Katniss, too, even if she doesn’t show it.” His voice softened. “I’m just doing what I can. You know, trying to look out for her… and for us.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t think your fiancée would agree,” you said, your tone light, but there was an edge to it.

Peeta let out a small, dry chuckle. “And I don’t think your partner would be thrilled, either, but here we are.”

That made you smirk. He had a way with words, even when he was hesitant. “I’ve always been on your team, Peeta. I just need you to accept that you’re on mine, too.” Your voice was quieter now, more earnest. You met his gaze, not backing down. “I’m behind you a hundred percent. And I know Mason will be, too. But you have to trust us. Just like you want to protect Katniss, I do too. I’ll do whatever it takes to see her come out of this alive.”

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. “If you don’t trust my words, trust Haymitch’s. I’m on your side.”

Before Peeta could respond, the loudspeaker crackled, cutting through the tension.

“District Five, Y/N L/N. Report for individual assessment.”

You tensed, your heart skipping a beat, but you tried to keep your breathing steady. This was it. You stood up slowly, then turned to Peeta. With a light touch, you patted his leg.

“I’ll see you later, Peeta. Good luck to you both,” you said, your voice more confident than you felt.

Peeta watched you as you turned to leave, his eyes following you until you reached the door.

Once you were out of sight, Peeta made his way back to Katniss, who was still watching him closely, waiting for him to speak. He sat down beside her, his expression thoughtful.

“I think we should team up with District Five,” he said, his voice low but sure.

Katniss looked at him, skepticism written across her face. “Are you sure about this?”

Peeta met her gaze, his eyes steady. “Trust me.”

After a long moment of silence, Katniss finally nodded, her resolve firming. “Okay,” she said quietly.

************

You stared at yourself in the mirror, your reflection a ghost of someone you used to be. The makeup was heavy, transforming your features, and for a moment, you looked like you did nine years ago—before the Games, before all of this.

Tomorrow, you would be thrown back into the arena. Tomorrow, you’d have to fight your friends, leave your husband behind, and maybe die. And the weight of it made everything seem so much heavier.

You were scared during your first Games, but this fear—it was different. It was paralyzing. It settled deep in your chest, like something solid and cold, and you couldn’t breathe.

The sound of cheers rang out as Caesar Flickerman strutted onto the stage, his perfect, rehearsed smile beaming across the crowd. Your pulse quickened.

"There, absolutely perfection," your stylist said, patting her face to dry the tears you hadn't realized had begun to fall.

"Thank you," you whispered, blinking the haze from your eyes. You stepped onto the line between Mags and Mason, trying to steady your breath, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.

"Breathe," Mason whispered, his voice low but steady. "You look beautiful."

A small, trembling smile pulled at your lips. "Thanks," you murmured, looking at Mags. "You look pretty," you added, hoping it would ease the tension in the air. Mags smiled, a soft, knowing look on her face. She pointed to your dress. "Thank you," you said. "It’s supposed to mimic my first Games."

You swallowed, looking around at the others, trying to block out the tightness in your chest. Nervous energy swirled around you. The others could feel it, too, but everyone was doing their best to keep it together.

You saw Gloss take his turn, then Cash, and then Brutus. One after another, they walked past you, their faces filled with the same mix of dread and determination.

"I can’t believe tomorrow is the day," Mason said, jumping up slightly, the nerves evident in his voice.

"You're telling me," Finnick said, giving a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I’m about to perform my best acting yet—pretend I’m not already dead inside—and then I’m gonna die. Sounds like a real blast."

Mags shot him a disapproving look, but you could see the faintest hint of a smile tug at her lips.

"We just have to get through tonight. Tomorrow’s a whole other day," you said, trying to sound reassuring, though the words felt hollow even as you spoke them. "We’ll figure it out then."

The others fell silent at your words, each one lost in their own thoughts, the realization of what was coming settling in.

Finnick went next, followed by Mags. Then Mason.

"Wish me luck," Mason said, winking at you before stepping onto the stage, the Capitol audience erupting in applause.

"Good luck," you said, smirking, watching him stride out with the swagger only Mason could pull off.

"It’s annoying how charming that guy is," you muttered, half to yourself.

Johanna let out a short, dry laugh. "Do you think, before I die, he’ll grant me a death-wish kiss?" she joked, her usual biting humor still intact.

You nudged her with a grin. "Hey, I think the probability of that is extremely high."

Mason’s interview went off without a hitch. He played the ‘I’m about to die, and I never loved anyone’ card, and the Capitol ate it up. The single women in the crowd swooned as he strutted off the stage, bowing to his fellow tributes.

"And now, for one of the Capitol’s favorite girls, let’s hear it for Y/N L/N!" The announcement was loud, and the crowd roared in excitement.

You took a deep breath, forcing a smile as you walked onto the stage, the eyes of Panem on you. You knew how to work a crowd, how to present yourself as the confident, charming Victor everyone adored. But tonight, it felt like more of a mask than ever before.

Caesar Flickerman’s smile was as dazzling as always, his voice smooth as silk. "Oh, my dear girl, how are you?" He leaned in for air kisses, his theatrics just a little too perfect.

"Well, I’ve had better days," you said, a soft smile curling at the corner of your lips.

"Today is so emotional and hard for all of us, isn’t it?" Caesar continued, his tone dripping with faux sympathy. "But you—good news for you—you scored an eleven! Absolutely amazing!"

"Thank you," you replied, trying to keep the flatness from your voice. "Since I’m probably going to die tomorrow, I wanted to go out with a bang, I guess."

You saw Caesar’s smile falter for a moment, unsure how to handle your bluntness. But he recovered quickly, ever the professional.

"Well, a bang you did," he said, voice still upbeat. "Now, my dear, we’ve heard so much about those waiting for you back at home. Who’s there for you? Anyone special?"

You forced your gaze to drift across the audience, your eyes scanning the sea of faces before finding the one that anchored you��Haymitch. His eyes were locked onto you, steady and unwavering, like a lifeline in the chaos.

"I have my parents back at home, taking care of my younger brother," you said, your voice a little softer now. "It was definitely a surprise when these Games were announced."

"I’m sure they’re watching you now and cheering for you back in District 5," Caesar smiled warmly, his eyes glistening with false compassion.

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening. "I doubt they will. They promised me they won’t watch. Who would want to see their child get slaughtered?" The words left your lips, cold and harsh, but they were the truth. The crowd grew silent, and Caesar struggled to regain his composure.

"Uh…" He coughed awkwardly, glancing toward the camera. "Well, that’s unfortunate, I’m sure they’ll be missing a good game. Is there anyone else waiting for you? Maybe a man? A little boy toy?"

You didn’t even need to think. The words felt right, even as they left your lips. Your fingers moved instinctively to the necklace around your neck, slipping it off with a deliberate motion, and you looked back at Haymitch. His eyes widened as your fingers found the ring you’d been wearing around your neck. The same one you’d both always kept secret.

"I do, actually," you whispered, barely above the noise of the crowd. A ripple of surprise ran through the room. "I have someone waiting for me."

You slowly slid the ring onto your finger, letting it shine under the Capitol lights. For a moment, the crowd was dead silent. The world seemed to hold its breath. And then, the cheers exploded.

You could see Haymitch in the crowd, his expression unreadable at first. But then, something in his eyes softened. He didn’t hide his emotions, even if you couldn’t hear his voice. It was in the way his hand shook as he reached for his flask, eyes never leaving you.

"You’re married?" Caesar’s voice was full of excitement now, a gleam in his eyes. "What a surprise! Tell us, who is this lucky man?"

You met his gaze again, locking your eyes with Haymitch's. "I’m afraid I’m keeping that information to myself," you replied, your voice calm but firm. "Just in case I die tomorrow, I want him to move on, to find happiness. Obviously, without all the cameras and media .That’s all I’ve ever wanted for him."

You glanced down at the ring, your fingers brushing over it gently as you spoke. "My death will not be the end of him. He will mourn, but he will live. Live for me. Live for us. Live for the world. My death won’t erase our love. Our love will live on. These Games may take everything from me, but our love? That’s something that will last forever." You blinked rapidly, tears beginning to blur your vision. "I’ve loved and been loved in these few years more than some do in a lifetime," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly. "I’m one of the lucky ones."

The audience was silent for a moment before an overwhelming wave of applause broke through the air. You could see the tears welling in Caesar's eyes, his voice shaking with emotion. "That… that was beautiful," he said, his tone sincere. "I’m sure he knows how deeply you love him. And he’s lucky to have someone like you."

"Thank you," you said softly, your heart pounding.

The audience cheered again, but you only had eyes for Haymitch now. You blew him a kiss, a simple gesture, but one that felt like it carried everything you couldn’t say aloud.

"That was amazing," Mason said, wrapping you in a tight hug the second you stepped off the stage.

You cried in his arms, the weight of everything threatening to swallow you whole. "It’s going to be okay, darling girl," Mason whispered, his voice warm and comforting. "He knows you love him, and you know he loves you."

Johanna was next to you, rubbing your back. "You really did a good job. I think all of Panem’s crying right now."

You stopped crying, and only the sound of the following interview filled the room until Johanna spoke again, her voice annoyed.

"Really? A wedding dress?" She raised an eyebrow at Katniss’s dress, which looked suspiciously like a wedding gown.

"Snow made me wear it," Katniss said, her tone flat, not caring much for Johanna, but glanced at you. Haymitch trusted you, and so did Peeta.

"Make him pay for it," Johanna smirked, causing Katniss to smile faintly.

"Come on, let’s get you cleaned up," Mason said, wrapping an arm around you, guiding you away. But then Katniss reached for your wrist, stopping you.

Mason tensed but you turned towards her.

"You did good," Katniss said quietly, nodding at your ring. "I know he appreciates it."

"Thank you," you smiled at her, though it was strained.

"Plus, I’m sure you made Peeta cry," Katniss added with a rare smile.

You laughed softly, your heart lighter despite everything. "Good luck," you said, offering her a smile before following Mason out.

"So, we’re really teaming up with District 12, huh?" Mason said, rolling his eyes.

You nudged him, a small smile playing at your lips. "Yup."

*********

You found yourself staring out the window of the living area in your suite, the stars twinkling distantly in the night sky. Mason was sitting across from you, nose buried in a book, but you couldn't tear your eyes away from the vast darkness outside.

After the interviews, you all held hands, the gesture simple but filled with power, as if, for a brief moment, the Games could be stopped. But an hour ago, Abigail had come in and crushed that fragile hope, informing you that the Games would go on as planned.

You sighed, the weight of the news heavy in your chest.

"I know you're not reading," you said, breaking the silence as you turned to Mason. "You've been on the same page for the last six minutes. It usually takes you three."

He looked up at you, a sly smirk tugging at his lips before he closed the book, setting it down on the table with a soft thud. "True," he said, the humor gone from his eyes. "But it's hard to focus on anything when death is looming over us."

You didn’t respond. Instead, you stood and moved to the window, resting your hands on the cool glass. He followed you, his footsteps soft on the carpet.

"Did Cash seem fine when you told her we weren't joining the pack?" he asked, trying to shift the conversation.

Your shoulders tensed slightly, "She wasn’t happy, but she knew," You said with a nod. "They all knew we were going with District 12. Expected it, even." Then you turned to him, your heart pounding slightly. "Are you mad at me?"

Mason shook his head instantly, his expression softening. "No. Never." He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "I just… I just hope we're not making a mistake. That’s all."

You hesitated, then spoke the words that had been in your head. "You could always go with the Careers, you know."

The words barely left your mouth when Mason shot you a glare, his eyes darkening. "Shut up," he said, his voice sharp but filled with the raw edge of care. "I've been saying the whole time—it's you and me, always. If you want to team up with the newbies, we do it. If you want to team up with the Careers, we do it. Hell, if you want us to be on our own, we’ll do that too. I’m with you, partner, okay? You can't get rid of me that easily." He paused, a small, teasing smile creeping onto his lips. "I’ve been taking care of your ass for almost a decade. I’m not about to stop now."

A lump formed in your throat at his words, and you smiled, fighting back the emotions. "You're my best friend," you whispered, and he chuckled.

"Don’t let Cash hear that or she’ll make it her mission to have my head tomorrow." His voice was light, but there was something deeply affectionate in it.

"I’m serious, Mase," you nudged him, a little more forceful now, your voice cracking. "You’re my best friend. And this… this fucking sucks."

Without another word, Mason wrapped his arms around you tightly, his grip firm and warm. "Darling," he murmured into your hair, "no matter what happens tomorrow, know that you're my best friend. You’ve always been. And, I can’t really be mad at you. They're an alright team. The girl is good with those damn arrows. Plus, we get Finnick and Beetee. It could be worse."

You stayed like that for a long while, holding onto each other, the silent comfort of a friendship that had weathered more storms than anyone should ever have to. Then you heard a soft cough from the doorway, and you reluctantly pulled away.

You turned to see Haymitch standing there, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. "Am I interrupting something?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mason rolled his eyes dramatically, his tone mockingly offended. "Dude," he said with a grin, "I just got told I’m her best friend, and you couldn’t wait five minutes to swoop in? That’s crazy."

Haymitch raised his hands in surrender, still grinning. "Ouch, I thought that was me." He turned to you with a feigned look of hurt on his face. "Sweetheart, you wound me."

You shot them both a tired, amused look. "Quiet, both of you." You turned to Mason, giving him a small, pleading glance. "Mase, can you leave us, please?"

He groaned, but there was affection in the sound. "Fiiiiiinnnneeeee." He dragged out the word in a mock pout, but then he wrapped his arms around you one more time, pulling you close. "I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? I’ll find you." He kissed your forehead softly, the gesture comforting despite the weight of everything.

He pulled back, moving toward Haymitch. Before he left, Haymitch stopped and whispered, "Take care of her in there, and I’ll take care of you both out here."

Mason nodded, just slightly, so you wouldn’t notice, before giving Haymitch a firm hug. He stepped back, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before he turned to leave. "Good luck, Mason," Haymitch said softly, patting his shoulder as he went.

Mason gave a small nod, trying to keep the tension from showing, and then he left the room.

The door closed behind him, and for a brief moment, the room was silent.

Haymitch walked toward you, his steps slower than usual, more weighted. You didn’t need him to say anything. You already knew.

This was goodbye.

Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly like he was trying to memorize the way you fit against him. You buried your face into his chest, inhaling the scent of him—whiskey, pine, and something softer, something that always felt like home.

You wouldn’t see him tomorrow. As soon as you woke, the Peacekeepers would be there—no time for goodbyes, no time for holding each other like this. They’d tear you away from your bed, from this room, from him.

So this… this was it.

The two of you settled onto the couch in silence, your body curled into his, your face tucked into the crook of his neck, and his arms wrapped around you like armor. His hand moved up and down your back in a slow rhythm, steady and calming, though his heart beat loud and uneven against your cheek.

You could die like this, you thought.

God, you wished you would die like this.

"You know what I was thinking?" you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Haymitch hummed in response, low and thoughtful, his fingers gently threading through your hair.

"I think we were meant to be with each other. In every universe. It's always you and I,” you breathed. “And I know... I know in another universe, we got to have a beautiful, long life together."

His lips twitched into a smile, pained but sincere. "You think so?"

"Oh, I know so," you said, the corner of your mouth lifting. “We have three kids. Two girls and one boy. They're perfect—just like we always dreamed. We live in this beautiful home with a white picket fence, big porch swing. You finally grow tomatoes that don’t taste like dirt. We grow old together. We see our kids have kids. We'd be cool grandparents."

"The best grandparents," he said quietly, still stroking your hair, his voice strained and cracked with longing. “Is it weird that I'm jealous of that us?”

"No... because so am I." You closed your eyes, the fantasy a cruel comfort. It felt so real. It should have been real.

Your voice broke as the grief crashed over you like a wave. “This isn’t fair.” The words came out as a sob, and you shoved your face deeper into his neck, clinging to him like he was the last safe thing in the world.

"I know, sweetheart. I know," he murmured, holding you tighter. His hand moved slowly over your back, as if he could rub the pain away, ease the break in your heart. "But I'm going to help you. You and Mase. It's going to be alright.”

He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes, his own gaze sharp and urgent. “I just need you to stay with Katniss. No matter what—stay with her.”

You blinked, confused for a moment, but nodded. There was something in his tone, something just beneath the surface. You didn't know the full story, but you trusted him. You always had.

"I promise, Haymitch. I’ll try to protect them... for as long as I breathe."

He stilled. Completely.

His jaw clenched, and his grip on you tightened again.

He hadn’t meant for it to come across like that. God, no. He never wanted you to think you owed him that—your life for theirs. That wasn’t what this was.

"I just need you to breathe," he said, his voice rough and trembling. “That’s all I need, okay? Just breathe. Protect yourself. I’ll take care of the kids. I promise. But you—you look after you. No playing hero. No playing mama bear.”

You lifted your head to meet his eyes, your heart thudding. “You care for those kids, Haymitch Abernathy,” you said, voice firm. “I’m going to protect them as much as I can. Nothing’s happening to those kids if I’m there.”

He stared at you, the pain behind his eyes shining like glass ready to crack.

"And I care about you, Y/N Abernathy." His voice hitched. “So you're going to make sure you survive.”

Your bottom lip trembled. You looked at him—at the man you loved more than anything—and whispered, “Only one comes out alive, Mitch.”

Your voice cracked like a brittle bone.

“I’m not even in the top five of who should win.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, hot and burning, and his face crumpled just slightly as he pulled you back into him, his breath stuttering.

You could see it. The way he was unraveling. The storm brewing behind his eyes. He had been holding something in, and it was clawing its way out of him, ripping him apart from the inside.

You’d been accepting your fate quietly, trying not to make it harder for him. But he needed more from you now.

He needed you to fight.

He needed you to live.

He needed to say the thing that had been killing him since the moment he knew. There was this plan. A plan to get Katniss and all the other victors out of there. A plan that could save your life. And he wishes he could tell you scream it out.

But Plutarch didn’t want you to involved because of your close relationship with the careers. He said it could compromise the whole mission. But he needed to tell you. He needed to guarantee your safety. Plutarch be dammed. You’re his wife. You’re the only thing that matters.

"I—" he started, voice hoarse, his hands twitching at his sides. Just spit it out he thought to himself.

You turned to face him fully, one brow raised. He was spinning in his own mind, fighting every instinct. You could tell he wanted to say it, to scream it but there was something holding him back.

"There's thi—well, there's this... this plan... Plutarch—" Why couldn’t he just say it? His heart was screaming at him to spit it out.

You stepped in before he could finish, your heart stalling. You knew that look, the flickering indecision, the desperation caught behind his teeth.

"You're not supposed to tell me, right?" you asked gently, already knowing the answer.

He faltered, looking at you like you’d read the last page of a book he hadn’t finished. He wanted to tell you. So badly. And that’s what terrified you.

"There's this plan—"

"Stop." You raised your hand, voice quiet but firm. A small, tired smile tugged at your lips. "Don’t tell me."

He stared at you in disbelief, his brows furrowed like you’d just spoken in a language he didn’t understand. "What...?"

"There's a reason why you can’t tell me, right?"

He hesitated… and nodded.

"Then it’s probably a good reason.”

"It can save your life," he whispered, and that was when the first tear slipped from his eye. He was screaming at himself to tell you to save you. Why the hell isn’t he saying anything?

Your chest tightened, but you held your voice steady. "But it jeopardizes Katniss, doesn’t it?"

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence was loud enough.

"Then don’t tell me."

"Sweetheart..."

"Don't tell me, Haymitch." You stepped closer, looking up at him with as much reassurance as you could muster. "I’m telling you not to tell me. You were going to—and now I’m saying no. So if anything happens, it’s on me. Not you. Never you."

You could already see it in his eyes—the guilt building like floodwater behind a dam. You couldn’t let it break him.

"You need to protect Katniss," you said softly.

His expression cracked as tears finally spilled freely, his voice breaking under the weight of his helplessness. "I need to protect you."

And that nearly broke you.

You had to look away, just for a second. "You’re putting her first," you said, your voice catching. "And that’s okay. You need to put her first. Always. You and I both know that. It’s for the greater cause—something bigger than just you and me."

He clenched his jaw. You both knew it was true. If the rebellion was going to work, it had to be Katniss. It had to be the Mockingjay.

"I need you safe," he said again, like if he repeated it enough, the universe would listen.

"And we need her alive." You were already shifting, already planning. Your voice quickened, desperate to be useful, to give him something to hold on to. "Both of them. Without Peeta, Katniss won’t want to do anything for the rebellion. Okay, I’ll look after Katniss and Mase can look after Peeta. Well of course I’ll also look after Peeta, but—"

You rambled, words spilling from you as your mind raced, building walls to keep the fear from crashing in. And he just looked at you.

God, he looked at you—like you were made of light and heartbreak and everything he could never deserve.

Then suddenly his hands were on your face, steadying you, grounding you. He needed to tell you. It was eating him alive.

You froze under his touch, your voice softening to a murmur. "Don’t tell me, Haymitch. I’m not mad. I won’t be mad. I’ll never make you choose between them or me. I care about them too."

He pulled you close, resting his forehead against yours, his breath trembling.

"It’s always been you," he choked, tears falling freely now. "It’s always going to be you."

You closed your eyes. If you could bottle this moment—this closeness, this certainty—you would have. You’d carry it into the arena like armor.

"This is more than just us, Mitch," you whispered. "If she survives… the districts' hope still lives."

He let out a bitter, shaking breath. "Damn it, woman, I want to tell you. I need to tell you."

You touched his cheek gently, tears stinging your eyes. "But you're holding back for her. And I'm telling you it’s okay."

You swallowed the lump in your throat and straightened your shoulders. "I told you since the beginning—I’m getting her out of that arena. Now you need to promise me you will too. Over Mags. Over Beetee. Over me."

Your voice didn’t shake this time. Not when it mattered most.

You looked into his eyes and saw the war in them—saw him silently screaming I can’t lose you.

But he knew you were right.

"I promise," he whispered, barely getting it out.

"It's going to be okay. We're going to be okay," you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears as you pulled back, giving him a smile that trembled with hope and heartbreak. "And then one morning, you’ll wake up back in District 12… and you’re going to look out at the sky and feel it. Feel the peace. The Games will be gone. The children will be able to be children again. It’s what we’ve always wanted."

You smiled as you spoke, but he could see it—you weren’t just comforting him.

You were saying goodbye.

And Haymitch felt it. In the hollowness in his chest. In the way your voice cracked just slightly when you talked about a future you didn’t believe you’d see. You were accepting your death. Quietly. Gracefully. Willingly.

Even when the cause didn’t trust you enough to let you in.

And yet, here you were, dreaming about a life beyond the war—knowing you wouldn’t be part of it.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“I feel like I’m making a mistake,” he said, voice raw, like it scraped his throat on the way out. Damn the cause. Damn Plutarch. Damn those District 12 kids. Damn this plan.

“You’re not,” you said gently. “You’re a mentor. We give our lives for those children. If I could’ve saved my tributes, I would’ve.”

You smiled through your tears, and it wrecked him.

“You’re the best mentor known to man. And an even better husband.”

That was the final blow.

“I love you,” he whispered like a confession, like a prayer. “So, so much. More than the moon loves the stars. More than the sun loves the ocean. I love you, Y/N.”

You cupped his face like he was fragile, precious. Like he wasn’t the broken man the world always thought him to be.

“And I love you, Haymitch,” you murmured. You nestled yourself back into his chest, fitting there like you were made for him. And maybe you were.

You both stared out the window as silence wrapped around you. Not a single word for an hour—just hearts beating in sync, like this moment could stretch forever.

But it couldn’t.

Eventually, you sat up slowly, blinking back the heaviness in your eyes. “You have to go check on the kids. The elevator locks soon… and I doubt you want to walk up seven flights of stairs.”

He clung to you a little tighter. “I’ll be fine. Come back here.”

You gave him that look. The one that always shut down every argument. Soft, patient, immovable.

He sighed. He knew. You were doing it for the kids. For him. If the Peacekeepers found you both here, alone, asleep—it would be over for him. You’d never let that happen.

“Fine. Fine.”

You walked him toward the elevator slowly, each step a thousand pounds heavier than the last.

Then you paused.

“Tell Effie I say that I love her… and that she needs to take care of you. No more than three whiskey bottles a week.”

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even smile.

He just pulled you into his arms like he was afraid you’d disappear the second he let go.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and he meant it for everything—for the plan, for the Capitol, for the years wasted, for the future he couldn’t give you.

“I’m not,” you said softly, holding his face like a lifeline. “I lived a beautiful life… with amazing friends and a perfect husband. I meant what I said. I felt more love in the years with you than most people ever feel in a lifetime. You made me happy. You make me proud. After everything you’ve been through, we’re finally going to be at peace.”

He was breaking. He didn’t care how pathetic it looked.

“I need you,” he choked, like the words themselves were ripping something loose in his chest.

“And you have me,” you whispered, “forever.”

You kissed his cheek, pulled him close again, memorized the shape of his body, the weight of him in your arms.

“I’ll be fine,” you lied. “Remember your promise.”

You stepped back, slowly pushing him toward the elevator. Your hands were shaking, but your face was steady. Because if you faltered—if you gave in—he would stay. And that was too dangerous.

The doors slid open.

And he didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

But you gave him a little push.

Because you had to.

He stepped inside. And as the doors started to close, you saw the panic take over his features.

"I love you," he said, the words tearing from his chest like a final breath. His heart physically ached. Like it was collapsing in on itself. Like maybe, just maybe, a person could die from a broken heart.

"And I love you too," you replied, the softest smile breaking through your tears. How could you smile when you were walking into your death?

Haymitch didn’t know.

But you always found light, even at the end of the world.

“I’ll see you in the next lifetime,” you said, and your voice cracked on the final word.

The doors slid shut.

And as the elevator descended, the last thing he heard was the sound of you sobbing.

And that was it.

That was the sound that shattered him.

This felt extremely long lol anyways thank y'all for reading! I also live for your comments they actually make my day.

Let me know what you want to see!!!!

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am-i-interrupting · 7 days ago

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You'll Always Find Your Way Back Home - Prologue

Summery: Leading two lives is complicated, but when Haymitch Abernathy enters the picture, it becomes trickier than you could've ever imagined.

Haymitch Abernathy x Reader

TW: Check Series Masterlist

Minors DNI - series masterlist | comment to be added to taglist |

Pink

Everything in the closet was varying shades of pink, everything was pink - except your wigs. Well, different versions of the same wig. It was a beautiful shade of lavender mixed with some hot pink tinsel woven through, and most importantly, it matched every shade of pink in your closet.

A colour chosen for you to wear since you were a child, exclusively. It was odd only wearing different shades of pink, one time you had questioned it, but a firm voice said that the colour served a purpose, and you’d forever be associated with pink, and wasn’t that exciting.

It wasn’t.

Blue and green were your colours, but the weight in their tone stopped you from expressing that, but you always believed they knew that. They knew everything, and eventually, they would also become your colours, and you’d long for the days when pink was your only colour.

“Dear!” A voice called out. “I know you’re looking in the closet, but please don’t forget to wear the dress on the bed.”

"Don't worry, Mom!" you called out. Considering everything, she was a great mother who was always there to guide and help when problems arose. Maybe it was because you were her miracle. A child born out of love, a child doctors had told her was never possible.

It could also be why she was unlike every other mother in the Capitol that you'd encountered, who ignored their children unless they needed something from them. While she needed things from you, it was in different ways than the. Sometimes she told you to hang in there and not openly question things, something she had drilled into you when you were old enough to speak - that she and my father were the only ones to express those thoughts and ask those questions to.

Pulling your eyes away from the pink fabrics, you look at the garment bag on your bed. On top was a single white rose and a note, one you probably knew by heart by now — but this time it only had a time written down.

The rest wasn’t needed. It never was with him. Over the years, you’d come to learn quite a bit about the man, whether it was through gossip, observation, or just knowing the man.

The pink tulle flowers brushed the ground gently as you made your way through the maze of President Snow’s residence. It was lovely, but the outdoor rose garden is what truly holds all of the beauty in the residence. Roses were everywhere you looked - they were arched over the walkway, beautiful bushes along the pathway.

President Snow sat on the grey stone bench surrounded by blue roses. His suit stood out amongst the flowers.

Directing his attention to you, he asked, "Do you remember the first time you visited the garden?"

You let out a faint smile at the memory, "I do." Despite the charming view, it was the place where you first realised something was wrong.

"Remind me again, what was it you said?"

"I told you how it was one of the most magical places I'd ever seen, but I have a feeling you want me to tell you, it was the day I saw the flower that inspired this beautiful dress," you said, lifting the floor-length ball gown up a bit to show the intricately sewn-on flowers.

Nodding, he smiled, "I had a feeling you would enjoy the dress, despite your love of pink roses and pink dissapating."

"They're beautiful, sir," you started, as he turned back to the flowers, only to be cut off by a hand gesture. "I'm aware you're much more taken with the blue roses now, but it's not possible."

"Then what is?"

“Volunteering for the games,” he states, turning his attention away from the roses to meet your eyes.

“Volunteering for the games?” you stutter.

“The arena won’t be rigged, you will not receive an upper hand from me or the gamemakers," he continued. "It is your last year after all, you should be pleased that I waited so long."

“President Snow, what about my obligations here?” You asked, gesturing to your appearance.

Ignoring your words, he continued, “It will be difficult, but there is a way to succeed, so do be sure to do your best. I’ll be watching.” He nodded, “As for now, continue to flutter around the party - have fun. Perhaps if you win, you’ll be playing two roles instead.” He smirked.

His words had your spine stiffening. You'd done everything he'd asked... then it hit you, it was a reminder. A reminder that he could take everything in a moment. What did that mean to your parents if you didn't make it out?

“What if I don’t win?” you asked hesitantly.

“It truly would be dreadful if a distinguished member of the Capitol and a beloved victor were to fall ill,” he paused, “Let’s hope it won't come to that.”

“But you’ll leave my parents alone while I’m in the arena?”

“Yes, I’ll even allow your mother in a limited capacity to sponsor you for what it is you may need," he paused.

"In a limited capacity, of course," he nodded.

“Thank you.”

Nodding, he gestured to the spot next to him. Shaking your head, you said, "As much as I would love to sit, I'm afraid I'll tear the dress. Tulle is beautiful and delicate, but it can tear easily."

"We wouldn't want that now, would we?" he said. President Snow gestured to the garden around him, "Please stand then, the flowers are in full bloom, who knows if you'll see these roses in bloom again."

The roses were beautiful, but beneath the surface were thorns hidden in plain sight that could draw blood and cause infection with just one small prick. At first glance, they appeared delicate and pretty, but they were dangerous and overlooked.

Chapter 1

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am-i-interrupting · 8 days ago

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Parker x someone named Simon and bY GOSH GOLLY GOD PARKER CANT NOT DO WHAT SIMON SAYS

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am-i-interrupting · 8 days ago

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Seven Minutes in Heaven, (Kind of?) ~ Parker Bradley (Date Everything) x Reader

Note: This is my first real fanfic ever. So, uh, be prepared for that. And my first piece of fiction I’ve posted publicly, and my first nsfw fic (obviously). So, yes, feedback is appreciated ;-; Sorry if this is out of character I at least tried to make the dialogue Accurate to what he’d say and how he would talk

ALSO I AM TAKING REQUESTS!!! You can ask them in comments or on my blog directly

Summary: For your third game with Parker to decide the odds of your love, you decide to switch things up a bit–with your own sort of game.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, (both characters are adults of course), 2nd person pov, Fem reader (use of she/her, p in v), Biting/marking, kissing, riding, missionary, slight dryhumping, brief mention of pregnancy (READER DOES NOT GET PREGNANT LMAO), both you and Parker kind of dom depending on how you look at it, semi aggressive fight for dominance, cbt (knee to the groin), fucking the tension out, they’re both control freaks + reader is a VERY VERY VERY slight sadist maybe, both are very clearly unexperienced, PARKER DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO BE SEXY WITHOUT SAYING WEIRD SHIT LIKE “OH FIDDLESTICKS"

Word Count: ~ 4,300 (I got carried away at the beginning)

Note: This is my first real fanfic ever. So, uh, be prepared for that. And my first piece of fiction I’ve posted publicly, and my first nsfw fic (obviously). So, yes, feedback is appreciated ;-;

Also, this fic takes place during the fourth interaction with Parker in the game, so spoilers for that.

!! 18+ BELOW THIS POINT !!

It was time for your third–and last–game to determine the odds to win the love (or hate!) of Parker Bradley, the… humanized version of your board games.

Now, board games might have not necessarily been your thing–after all, they were in the attic, dusty and untouched for so long. But something about this guy drew you in. Maybe, it was the way he snapped his teeth at you at your first meeting, like a feral (or perhaps just giddy?) little dog.

But, more enticing than that, was the nervous demeanor hiding under his overexcitement. When you found the right buttons to press to that round little brain of his, Parker would be shaking like a rat caught in a cage, face as red as the hat atop his head. Like when you suggested the two of you undress for a beach themed boardgame, or when your hand “accidentally” brushed against his while you two played chess blindfolded.

Both of those times, you won–but that wasn’t what you were really after. You won, because he clammed up, because he became a nervous mess that revealed something nobody had ever seen before.

THAT’S what you wanted.

When you meet him again, he immediately goes off about today’s game–not giving you a chance to speak. Not even a twinge of nervousness from this guy, just pure, unadulterated enthusiasm.

“Today we will be playing a popular–and COMplicated game! This is a game in the ‘euro-game’ tradition–one of resource allocation, worker placement, and cooperation between players!” He continues, “It’s based on the 20th Century Dairy Wars between England, France, and Belgium, called Cream Capitalist. We will both attempt to outproduce the cream that the other is trying to ma–”

Cream capitalist? Really? While you’re fairly certain you can make a game where the objective is to OUT-CREAM each other into something that turns Parker into a puddle, you have had enough of not being in total control of the situation.

“Why do you get to pick all the games, Parker?”

He pauses. Then, just when he’s about to speak, he pauses again, in much deeper contemplation, hand on his chin. You take the once in a lifetime chance of Parker finally being quiet to continue.

“You said, at the beginning, that the outcome of three boardgames will decide the odds of our relationship, right?”

Parker removes his hand from his chin, looking at you suspiciously. “Yessssssss? Of course I remember! I don’t just forget rules. Especially not ones that I MAKE!!! Soo, what’s the problem?”

He seems more than eager to just get to playing his freaky cream game, but you stand your ground. “But you never said you’d be the one to decide what games we play. It’s not in, the, err–rules. So, logically, because you picked the first two, I should, at the very least, pick the third.”

Parker freezes, seemingly caught off guard. Not in a flustered way; this time he’s genuinely dumbfounded. “But I… I had planned these all along! I…” He trails off, unable to defend his own logic. “Fine. You’re… right. I should have explained every aspect of my plan in full detail. It is absolutely unacceptable for the rulemaker to leave anything out!” He looks at you with a new… admiration in his gaze. For a man so consumed by rules, he seems proud of you for pointing out a flaw in his own design. If only he knew you weren’t doing this for the love of the craft. “You get to choose the third and final game. What’ll it be?!”

You respond immediately. “Seven minutes in heaven.”

Parker stares at you blankly.

“That is not.

His face grows red.

“A fucking.

“BOARD GAME.”

You wrack your brain for what to say next. You didn’t expect him to have been so strict on the whole it-needing-to-be-a-board-game deal, but, you guess that makes sense–he is a board game. “Did you know, Parker, that twister is considered a board game?”

He stands up straighter, hands now placed on the straps of his backpack. “Yes! It may not be… a traditional board game, but it is played on a large, foldable mat, which can be considered the board, in a sense.”

“Then consider the closet to be a board. That’s what everyone does, where I’m from. We consider it a board game.” Holy shit, it feels really bad to lie to this guy. But it’s not like you cheated in any of the other games! Plus, if he really doesn’t want to, you suppose you can stomach playing cream with Parker.

“Okay, that’s bullshit.”

You sigh, clearly defeated by his stubbornness. It’s hard to reason with a guy who wants to decide his REAL LIFE relationships based on a dice roll. And, maybe there’s a chance he really just doesn’t like you at all. Maybe every time you brushed his hand, or when you got undressed, he could have been… uncomfortable. Not interested, or even flustered by your actions. A pit grows in your stomach at the thought. “Okaythatsperfectlyfinewedontactuallyhavetoplayitifyoudontwanttoitwasjustasuggestion.” Anxiety claws at your chest at the thought of having made him actually dislike you.

He returns your gaze with a determined grin. “I know it’s totally bullshit. But I… I still feel bad about the mix-up with the rules. It was… like I said. Unacceptable.” He says that last word with a disgusted shudder. “You have never cheated once, even though you had every opportunity to… while I was flushed by your SILLY TRICKS. I was the only one who made a mistake. So, in return, for me attempting to brush past MY OWN RULES, I will allow you to pick a non-board game game.” He pauses, cheeks growing pink. “Including–BUT I WILL SAY, NOT LIMITED TO–sevenminutesinheaven.”

You’re conflicted. “But, you know what that entails, right? I mean, we can still play the cream game, if that’s what you’re more comfortable with. I don’t want to force you to play this game, with everything involved…”

“HA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I know EXACTLY what it entails!” His excitement is more unnerving than anything. Even though it seems like you’re getting what you want, it feels like he has more control of your emotions than you do of his at this moment. “And I… accept your challenge. To play this… I must say, rather exciting, non-board-game-game.”

“O…kayyy…” You’re certainly caught off guard, but not like you can complain... Fuck, pull it together. The whole point of this was to get Parker just where you wanted him–and now he’s acting like you’re where he wants you.

You both move to the closet right by the attic. The stuff on the floor, you carefully pick up and move… out. In the hallway, just for now. No time for any of that. He just watches you as you get everything, almost proudly, as if he’s handed the gamemaster’s baton to you. No, not proudly. Parker is fucking amused. He knows you’re out of your element, and is just watching you fall over yourself like an idiot. You step inside, and he follows.

You’ve never been this close to Parker before. Despite not being… fully human, you can feel his warmth, and there’s no doubt there is an entire full flesh and blood man just a few centimeters away from you. This closet might have been the worst choice in your entire house–no doubt it's the smallest, but it was the closest, and with the way Parker is looking down at you… you can’t… r,reallyy…

“Soooo, are you gonna be a good player? Are ya gonna start the timer now, or what? And, most importantly, what decides the winner?” He says the last part with an excited giggle, as if you’re playing go-fish together.

You rub your eyes, leaning your head against the wall as discreetly as you can to avoid your nose bumping against his chest. “Um… whoever steps out first loses.”

Parker puts his hand up to his chin once more. “Buuuuuut, what about the seven minute timer? What if we’re both in here when the seven minutes are up?”

Fuck. You genuinely don’t know. The whole point of seven minutes in heaven being a game is the random aspect of who you spend time with in the closet. Doesn’t really work with two people. “Alright… so, uh… if the seven minutes is up, and we’re both still in there… whoever is the highest in the air wins.”

Parker pauses, befuddled. “Highest… in the air?” His face lights up. “Ohhhh, whoever’s on top! Oooohhhohooohooo,...ho…hah.” the longer he drones on, the redder his face seems to grow, before finally stopping, staring at you with an expression you have no idea what to call.

It is clear to see, however, that at the very least, both of you are very fucking nervous.

But this is your chance! This is literally, EXACTLY what you want! But now you aren’t sure. Well, mainly you aren’t sure if he’s sure.

Parker starts again, this time in a much more… contemplative tone. You’ve never seen him so serious. “You know… you… you’ve done so much shit to throw me off my game. Don’t think that I’ll become a mess the second that timer starts. Because ohhhh, I ABSOLUTELY FUCKING WILL NOT!!! I won’t let you win this time. You may think I only play board games.”

Apparently he’s waiting for a response, so you just shake your head, mentally clocked out of whatever rant he’s gonna start this time.

“You… may NOT think I only play board games, but I will assure you, once again, that I can put up a fight in anything you give me! So come at me.”

“Parker, are you sure… you’re okay, with the contents of this game? I don’t want you to feel pressured to–”

He cuts you off in a frenzied yelp, balling his fists in the air. “HOLY MOTHER OF GOD I AM READY!!! I AM SOOOO READY!!! I AM READY TO KISS OR WHATEVER ELSEEE!!! ENDS UP MOTHERFUCKING HAPPENING, ALRIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!”

In his excitement, he accidentally shuffles a few inches forward.

“BECAUSE I WILL NOT, I MEAN ABSOLUTELY WILL NOT, LET YOU GET THE BEST OF ME–euh”

He’s cut off by his own choking-sighing sound that seems to have come from somewhere deep inside his throat, and you feel something poke your stomach.

He looks down, horrified, at his own very obvious proof of arousal, and then back to your face, his jaw dropped.

Despite your surprise–(and nervousness that could even be called REAL FEAR THAT THIS IS HAPPENING)--you manage a faint, but jittery grin up at him. “...I didn’t know playing games made you this excited.”

He looks like he’s going to move, but he stays still, bulge still pressed against you.

“Why–why am I GETTING A BONER?! Jeez louise, this is embarrassing! Worst o-of all, I HAVEN’T EVEN ROLLED TO SEE HOW I FEEL ABOUT YOU YET! How is this even p-possible?!”

You slide the door closed. The only light comes from your phone as you pull out the clock app.

Parker steps closer, fully pressing you into the wall, his bulge shoving itself needily into your stomach, close to your hip bone. One hand slides to the back of your neck, underneath your hair, and he dips his head down to be more level with yours. His nose brushes against yours, his breath cast against your lips so heavy that it’s suffocating. You drop your phone.

“Do you have annnnyyyy idea how worked up those stupid fuckin’ tricks of yours had me?”

Both of his hands slid up to your cheeks, squeezing them. “Do you–do you have any fucking IDEA? I could have asked you to play another game, and we would have. But do you know why I let this happen?”

You try to shake your head, but his grip is firm. You manage out a “m’noo…?”

“Because I need to get back at YOU! YOU… SLIMEBALL! Nothing you can do to me right now, is unpredictable! S-Stripping down to your underwear… during a board game… IS UNPREDICTABLE! Playing freaky blindfolded chess!”--he steps back to wave his hands around at this, as much as he can in the cramped space– “IT’S UNPREDICTABLE.”

His eyes narrow in on you. “But here… you’re all mine.”

You grab his waist, pulling him as sharply as you can into you. His bulge slams right into your stomach.

“N–ghuh, f-fuck!” Parker’s whimper, or groan, or whatever, was… a much higher pitch than you had expected. Not like he had an intensely deep, brooding voice to begin with, but this time it sounded like he was a lady squealing at the sight of a spider. Jesus fucking christ if it doesn’t make you wet. He’s so twitchy and sensitive–he rests his hand on the wall behind your head, not to get leverage over you like he was trying to before, but to steady his wobbly legs.

“Y-You…” pant ”o-oh, fiddlesticks”... “y-ya got me there, fair and square, missy.”

You grab onto his hand, as if to help him back up, but your grip is loose, and you let him wobble. Now that he’s more on your level, you bring your face close to Parker’s, and your other hand on his cheek.

Despite your own perspiration, your hand is a cool balm on his red-hot skin. You intertwine your fingers on the hand that you hold, and the hand on his cheek grips the back of his hair. Parker lets out a comical “YEOWCH!” and his hat falls to the floor.

You stare at him for a moment. He stares back, wincing and panting. God, too aggressive. It’s too aggressive for the first time, but it feels like neither of you have it in you to hold back. Maybe he does? Maybe, if you just…

You loosen your grip on his hair, pulling him up to his full height. Parker grabs your neck with both of his hands and kisses you. You place your hands on his neck–gently, this time, and melt into it. But it doesn’t last long–nothing does, with him, it feels like (though you hope at least one part of him does), and in an instant he’s on. Your neck. Well, he did warn you.

Parker sinks his teeth into your neck the moment his lips meet it, and you whimper in shock, grabbing the back of his head, and his arms move to wrap around you. Neither of you are focused on staying upright anymore, and you slam forwards with his back against the wall. His mouth peppers down kisses that often turn into mean bites all the way down to your collarbone. You stumble backwards, and slam onto the floor, with him on top of you, his arm softening the blow.

You can’t see his face very well, but a bit of the light trickling from underneath the door reflects on pearly white teeth, and the leer Parker gives looks almost animalistic for a moment. “WOW! You are SUCH a good sport! Gee, y-you even gave me the chance to get on top! And here I thought I was gonna be your BITCH for the day!”

You struggle underneath him during his gloat, but he quickly leans back down to continue his painful (but not unpleasant) ministrations on your neck, his hands sliding under your shirt to grab your waist. You attempt to reach up to shove him off, but his hands make quick work of that, leaving your waist and moving to pin your arms above your head.

You can feel the upward curve of his lips on your collarbone at your helpless whimpers. To him, it’s like winning. Or maybe he just likes the sound of you.

But his cock is still unattended to. With the desperate, jerky movements–you just know it’s aching. But so is your ego, so you lift your leg up and knee him in the groin.

He falls on top of you, but that just makes it worse for him. Now his groin is right next to your crotch, and he brings his hands back to your sides, pushing himself forward in some sort of pathetic, shaky attempt to dryhump you. His sweaty face rests against your neck, muttering intelligible pleas through his pain and arousal that makes your stomach flip. That is, until you make out what it is he’s actually saying; “I-I am… Parker… UNSHAKABLE… BRADLEY!!! Y-You… will nott…” Ugh. He’s still trembling like a leaf, and when he bites you again, you suck in your teeth and shove him off you with all your might.

He lands right next to you with an oof, and you climb on top of him, straddling his hips. His large hands move to the space on either side of him, and he pulls himself upwards, so that he’s now sat fully upright and nearly eye-level with you.

His hands, shaky, leave the floor, but instead of pushing you off so he can get on top, (which he very well could, he’s definitely at least a little stronger than you), they move to unbuckle his belt.

Your eyes meet his face. Parker is spent. He’s tired of fighting–he’s tired of playing around. And god, that’s saying something. His eyes are half lidded, and you can faintly make out the crooked smile and redness on his face. His dick aches so bad he’s forgotten you’re even in the middle of a game. One of his hands aggressively palms himself through his pants–(wait. Is he wearing tights? Wow it is really fucking embarassing that you’re going to fuck this guy)--and the other slides the belt off. It’s not long before his cock is out, fully erect and swollen. Parker hisses at the cold air that hits it. His hand wraps around the shaft, thumb circling the tip, which twitches in response.

All you can do is freeze, your eyes flickering back and forth to his aching, needy cock to his face with eyes that are clearly begging you to do LITERALLY ANYTHING. But there’s a very easy way to cover your embarrassment.

“What do you want me to do to you, Parker?”

He may be able to feel your legs shaking. Or maybe you’re so wet Parker can feel it pooling on his thigh. But his dick is out. And you swear the way he’s looking at you would make any sane person tear him to shreds if it was directed at them.

“I… I w-want…”

He tears his gaze away, his free hand covering his mouth. You grab his chin and make him face you. “What do you want? You still want to win? Is that what? You wanna win with your cock out and begging like that?” It may not be wise to challenge him, because he really could flip you over and fuck you if he ignored the aching of his dick for a little bit longer, but it was clear lust had fogged his brain past the point of reason. Plus, it was hard to resist teasing him when he had been so confident a minute ago. Wait. Wait, it’s been way longer tha–

“I w-want you to fuck me. Please?”

“I d-don’t even care about winning right now, heh… he.. U-um… ohhh boy… it just aches, really b-bad, and I’m so e-erect. And I can’t stop thinking about y-you fucking me. Right now.” The last part barely came out, his voice descending into pathetic whimpers the longer you stared at him.

You stood up, sliding your pants off. Then, your panties. You were still for a moment–both genuinely scared of ACTUALLY FUCKING YOUR BOARD GAME COLLECTION, as much as you were in, what was, at this point, a sort of sadistic pleasure of Parker’s helpless whimpers as he wordlessly begged you to just sink down onto his fucking cock already.

You crouched down, falling onto your knees, hovering just above the tip of his cock. Parker’s eyes were on you fully now.

“P-Please–oh, god, please don’t make me wait any longer.”

His hands go to your face–not to your body, your waist, or your thighs to pull you down. Your face. His hands, not too soft or rough, but a real man’s hands, a touch you haven’t felt in so long, caress your cheeks gently as he begs you to do something not nearly as innocent to him.

With an aching slowness, you sink down onto his dick, and Parker lets out a deep, breathy groan, but his voice is high and shaky. “O-Ohh… ohh fuck…” His hands move right to your waist, gripping it with a bruising strength that reminds you of how strong he might be–even if he himself doesn’t really know it. “Oh… oh dear. I’m inside you now, that’s just–FUCK”

You slide up quickly to shut him up, but it has both of you sputtering. When you fall back down, with him balls-deep in you once again, you can’t help but moan, your head falling into the crook of his neck, knees giving out completely.

You can feel him anxiously twitching inside of you, and you squirm around him, which only makes you and Parker gasp for air. You aren’t going fast enough, and it’s killing both of you–but you’re too dizzy and overwhelmed to keep up with the pace you know he needs.

“A-Aww, geez, if you keep teasing me like this, I’m gonna come without having been fucked properly… or is it just taking you this long to adjust to my cock?”

You grind onto Parker with him fully inside of you, desperate for friction. “Parker, I-I’m not trying to, I’m not trying to tease you–I’m trying t-to fuck you!” Your voice comes out in a pitiful squeal. God, saying you’re trying to fuck someone is probably the worst thing you can say during sex.

His gaze softens, and he looks up at you with a smile, though his eyes are still foggy with lust. “Here.” He places his hands under your thighs. “I’ll help you, alright? It’s not fair if you’re doing all the work.” Parker’s hands guide you with surprising ease up and down his cock. “See? I’ll help you fuck me. This is a two player game, remember?”

You can’t help but let out a squeal at the sudden and surprising loss of control as you’re lifted up by Parker’s hands, and down… and up again… “M-Mhm…” you wordlessly nod into his neck, as if he cares for a response right now. He answers your confirmation with a satisfied groan as your walls stretch around him over and over again.

You lean your head back, taking his face in the palms of your hands as he continues to lift you up and down his cock. He returns your gaze, and through the limited light you can see his cherry-red face, and blissed-out, almost… stupid expression, with Parker biting part of his lip, giggling to himself in ecstasy. Man, you just have to kiss him.

But when you do, he lurches his head away in a panicked frenzy. “STOP! STOP! I AM GOING TO EJACULATE!”

…so?

Oh.

He can’t really pull out when you’re, uh, sitting on his dick. And you aren’t wearing protection. Okay, to be fair, you didn’t think in a million years you’d end up fucking Parker today. Wait, would it matter if he came inside you? Can your board games get you pregnant? Oh, fuck, I mean, he is your stash of board games, but he also… definitely feels like a full flesh and blood man. Maybe best not to take that risk. “J-Just set me down and you can u-uh… try and pull out.”

He leans forward, carefully laying you on the ground with a gentleness you never thought possible for the overexcitable Parker Bradley, with him still inside of you. Shakily, he takes a moment to thrust into you a few more times, his hands roughly secured on your hips. “Hghh–fuck—” he pulls out, and shoots his load directly onto the closet door with something between a roar and a laugh. “T-Take… thaat…”

He collapses right onto you, and then stiffens. “Oh, shoot! You shouldn’t have let me forget!”

“Parker?” You look up at him, dazed.

“If you make me cum, I have to make YOU cum! The golden rule!”

“That’s not the–”

He shoves his still-hard cock back into you, fucking you with a new, relentless, but now calculated rhythm. “The golden rule of **FUCKING**, that is! What, you thought I’d leave you hanging?! NO! I d-don’t know how much longer I’ll be hard, but if I’m not, and you still have–”

“Parker, sh-shut the fuck up and take your shirt off.”

He immediately does as he’s told, first slipping off his vest and then removing his shirt with it. “L-Like this?” He returns back to hovering over you, thrusting, but his movements are shakier now that he waits for your approval.

“Y-Yes, Parker, that’s good. T-That’s so.. Mmh..”

He muffles your voice with a kiss, one hand on your cheek and the other beside your head as he fucks you. And, god, you’re so close now. Your walls start fluttering in an impending release, and he must notice too, because Parker grows more aggressive with his thrusts by the second–maybe in an attempt to hold on as long as he can, or maybe because of how badly he needs to please you at this moment.

“P-Parker, Parker, fuck, cover my mouth.”

“But I want to hear you! I–”

It’s already too late. Your nails dig into his back, and you let an embarrassingly loud moan that devolves into whimpers as your orgasm ebbs away. He collapses on top of you. Again.

You haven't fully ridden out your orgasm, and he’s still inside you, so your walls milk his cock for nothing, as you both lay tangled up, panting and sweaty. Parker, however, can find it in himself to speak.

“Oh, geez. Y-You… uh…” he pants. “You never started the timer.”

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