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haymitchsbunny · 6 months ago

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Sob Story

haymitch abernathy x victor!reader

Series: Hunger Games (Suzanne Collins)

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x F!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (implied), porn with so much plot, smut, vaginal sex, ANGST, alcoholism, brat taming, regret, hair pulling, unspecified relationship, trauma.. stuff?, breath play (unintentional)

Summary: The games were over, everything was over. It's just the four of you in the pathetic remains of district 12 now. You never stop arguing, how could you? But god, Haymitch can be so mean sometimes. Maybe you are too. But the arguments never last too long, and it's always worth it with the way he makes it up to you.

A/N: Sorry I don't write much. Hope y'all can forgive me.. here's my apology piece <3

If you would like to be put on a taglist, reblog or comment <3

"Haymitch, you know how much of a fucking cunt you are?" you hissed at him as he watched Peeta stumble through the snow, yourself glancing back at Katniss storming off in the other direction towards her old house in the Seam.

"You have no room to talk," he practically spat, eyes ripping from Peeta's back to your enraged glare. "You're just as irreverent as she is, you brat."

You felt a twinge in your chest- taken aback by his diligence in simultaneously insulting you and his victor at once. Poor Katniss had recovered from her games, the war, her sisters death, all that trauma as much as could be hoped for and yet still picked fights. You were no better in that sense.

Years of living as a drunken survivor alongside Haymitch should've taught you to withstand his low blows- especially when he was a bottle deep, and yet he still manages to make you want to run off to that hole in the earth. Stare into its depths for hours as you had as a child, as you had for the 5 years after he had led you to victory up until the bombings.

"Fuck you," you managed, suddenly feeling entirely drained. These arguments were so frequent now, you could hardly keep up. Your singing quartet of a symbol, a painter, a drunkard and whatever the fuck you were at this point, all dumbed down to bumbling idiots at the slightest trigger. Setting off landmines so terribly similar to those you had all been surrounded by in your games.

You set off at a quick pace to his home, snatching a bottle of spirits from his counter and practically running towards what used to be the Seam. You heard him yell something that surely would've set you ablaze once more if you had listened, but you were too far enveloped in your thoughts to care.

By the time you reached the softly smoking chasm, you were completely out of breath and exhaling some mix between a wheeze and a cough and a pant. You collapsed on the snow soaked cushions on the black metal bench that you had dragged painstakingly from the square a week or so ago.

You half sat, half lay on your left side. Dry, trembling fingers attempting to open your bottle. Nearly failing but refusing to relent, you finally cracked the cork from the opening. A froth spilled from the top, landing on your hand and sleeve. You sighed, internally blaming Haymitch though he had nothing to do with this particular struggle.

You sit, sipping the vulgar liquid for hours. Til your knuckles were red and puffy and your nose was runny and you were sure your lips were some shade of blue. Every rustle of branches or shift in snow catching your eyes, from any angle or position. Every movement spiking some sort of anxious overflow, hoping that it was Haymitch.

Haymitch isn't the first person you see, though. It's Katniss, emerging from the woods through a decently sized opening in the fencing near your spot. She looks much cozier than you, bringing some minor comfort in knowing she's better off than you at the moment.

She quietly approaches, game bag in hand stuffed with something heavy. You nod to her but she doesn't reciprocate. She stands next to you, glaring down into the mines with you.

"Do you think they're- their spirits, or something- that they're still down there?" You try to speak strongly, but after hours of silence it comes out hoarse.

"No." She says after a few moments, turning on her heel and beginning towards the Victors Village. You sigh, regretting something, but not sure what. Maybe the fact that you stayed as separate as you could from her over the time you'd known her. Maybe the fact that you hadn't tried to relate to her greif from this pit of despair sooner. Maybe none of it mattered.

You wanted to get up- wanted to stumble away and trip through that fluffy, gorgeous snow and back to Haymitch. Beg for forgiveness and plead for him to hold you. But it took you thirty minutes to tear your eyes from the horrible comfort.

When you finally attempted to move, your muscles were so stiff it felt impossible. You flexed each joint independently, pain shooting through your ankles as you bore your weight into them. Still weak in your bearings from the spirits, you took slow, trembling steps in the possibly correct direction.

You took the final swig from the bottle, gait faltering as your head tilted backwards. You flung the carcass of your comfort into a nearby mound of snow and it disappeared, leaving a concave in its wake.

It took you much longer than it had ever to return, at least if felt like it. When you reached the house, you turned the handle without knocking. You fully anticipated a blackout Haymitch, collapsed in a pile of clothes or hunched over his kitchen island. Instead, he sat on his stairs in a rather uncomfortable looking position.

"I'm sorry," you supplied without even a 'hello'. His bloodshot eyes flitted up to your diverted gaze and he stayed silent. An overwhelming feeling of rejection took you over, tears pooling across your waterline almost instantaneously. A stream of incoherent babbles took place of the distasteful silence and you fell to the floor in a heap.

Tears blocked your vision more than the view of your legs as you curled up in a ball on the floor, whispering the things you'd been thinking of saying aloud to Haymitch since you stormed off this morning. You thought he was still seated on the stairs, embarrassment rising to the forefront of your emotions along with regret and longing.

You were about to rise and stumble out of his home when you felt his strong, though shaking, hands on you. One on your back and the other coaxing between your calves and thighs up under your clenched knees. You relaxed ever so slightly and let him lift you.

You expected him to carry you to bed, as he had done so many times over the years, but instead he sat you on his counter in the only clear spot. You slouched, rubbing your eyes. He poured shots for the two of you as you pulled your legs up and rested your head on them. Your fingers toyed with the fluffy hem of your socks.

He threw his drink back without flinching and you attempted to do the same, but you winced as you swallowed, feeling bile rise to your throat then lower slowly. He took your glass and sat it on the counter next to you with his own.

You observed eachother for a moment, saying nothing. You waited. He watched. Your eyes flitted towards his hands, clenching into tight fists then relaxing over and over again. The silence was deafening.

"I was-"

"Do you-"

You brought your gaze back to his eyes, observing the same guilt and shame reflecting in your own. He sighed, stepping forward and pushing your legs apart to stand between them. His calloused hands found their way under your jacket and shirt, drawing patterns in the soft hair on your back. He pressed his lips to your forehead, trailing down until he was at the corner of your mouth.

"You aren't a brat," he whispered. You felt tears begin to well as you leaned up to meet his lips. The feeling was familiar and yet still felt uncertain from time to time. A rhythm always in sync with that of a decades long romance, and yet sensations still as new as young teens fawning over eachother. You loved him.

"You aren't a cunt," you pulled back slightly. Looking deep into his beautiful blue eyes. "Most of the time." You grinned. He chuckled and moved his hands from your back to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze.

"Most of the time?" He questioned, expression matching your own. "Sweetheart, remember who feeds you."

"Uhh, Katniss?" You giggled, snorting softly.

"Okay, well, remember who gets you drunk,"

"I do that all by myself." He scooped you from the counter, eliciting a soft squeal. You wrapped your legs tight around his hips, allowing him to carry you. He walked to the couch, letting his knees hit the cushion before dropping you and kneeling over you, elbows on either side of your head.

He gently stroked your hair from your face, observing you quietly. He pressed his lips to yours at last, setting a slow but intense pace, slipping his tongue between your lips and quickly dissapating your thoughts.

He pulled back slowly, looking at you with a ferver you hadn't noticed a few minutes ago. He pushed his knee between your legs, forcing them open as he stroked your jaw and throat.

"Remember who makes you feel better than anyone could." And with that, your body was heaved up, clothes being pulled and tugged and thrown into the piles of everything else he had no use for.

In no time, you were stripped and helping him remove his own garments, leaving you bare and him in his briefs. He slipped down to the ground, pulling you by your knees until you were slouched with your legs over his shoulders.

He wasted no time in eating you out, licking and sucking at your core until you were whining in less than a minute. Your hands found their way to the back of his head, forming tiny fists and pulling him into yourself deeper.

He was sucking at your clit, flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud, doing everything he knew you couldn't stand. He held your thigh with one hand, grazing the underside of the other with his knuckles before reaching to tease your soaked slit.

"Please, please fi- oh my god, finger me already," you cried, and he almost immediately sunk a finger knuckle deep, curling upwards as he increased the intensity of his oral ministrations. "Ohh, don't stop, please." Your words were drawn out and slurred.

He slipped another finger in, setting a brutal pace, your hips rutting against his face. He was abusing that spongey spot inside of you, making you cry out obscenities.

"Haymitch, I'm gonna cu-" you were cut off by him completely withdrawling from your cunt. You gasped, trying to pull him back, but he stood over you, eyes trained hungrily on your figure as he yanked his undergarments from himself, hard cock slapping his stomach before he stepped towards you, bare for your enjoyment.

He grabbed your hair firmly, stroking his cock inches from your face as you tried to reach it, body begging to taste him as you salivated. He pushed your head towards him and you took him in your mouth, gagging hard as he forced it to the back of your throat.

He pulled you off, a string of thick saliva connecting you to his manhood still. He released your hair, leaning down and grabbing you by the hips, nearly throwing you over the armrest of the couch. He was directly behind you, one knee planted on the cushion behind you, one leg on the floor.

He leaned down, his cock aligning with your slit as he pressed his face to your neck, whispering gruffly into your ear.

"I'm gonna fuck the brat out of you if it's the last fucking thing I do, got that, sweetheart?" Butterflies flared in your stomach as you nodded as much as his grip in your hair would allow. He yanked your head back slightly, stubble tickling your throat now.

"I said, got that? Use your words."

"Yes, sir!" You cried, and with that, he straightened himself and thrusted into you. He gave you no time to adjust, setting a vicious pace immediately, causing the couch to shift with every slam of his hips into yours, the wood floor screeching in resistance to the friction.

You screamed, going limp beneath him as he fucked you senseless. He grabbed your hip with bruising force, dragging you back into him with every thrust. There was a puddle forming beneath your head, saliva and tears mixing into a salty mess on the dirty floor.

You were enveloped in pure bliss, barely able to moan due to breathlessness. He was genuinely winding you, lungs compressed between the couch and his chest. You were gasping for air and he was only fucking you harder and harder. The coil in your belly was becoming tighter, pleasure overwhelming your senses.

You were whimpering and he was groaning, he pulled his hand from your hair, leaning into you further as he reached beneath you, pinching your clit and rubbing, sending jolts through your body. You cried harder, pushing back into him as much as you could, you were so close.

"I'm gonna cum, Haymitch, please," it came out hoarse and whispery, throat dry and lungs on low capacity. Then, he rose from his position leaning on top of you, letting you take in your first full breath in ages. You gasped and couldnt stop yourself from coming undone around his fat cock, a scream escaping you.

Your vision went black, your back arched, and he didn't stop. Warmth spread through your body as he pounded you through your orgasm, his fingers never stopping their little pinches and rubs on your clit.

"I'm gonna cum inside of you, sweetheart." He growled, and your limp body shivered with anticipation. You were overwhelmed and fucked out, but you didn't want him to stop.

He grabbed your hips with both hands and pulled you back onto him completely, groaning deeply as he emptied his balls into your wet mound. You couldn't stop trembling, the feeling of being full, fucked out, and overstimulated all at the same time overwhelming your senses.

He groaned, keeping his cock lodged inside of you as he lifted you and lay down on the couch. He squished you between himself and the back cushions, yanking an askew blanket from the top of them and pulling it over the two of you. He wrapped his arms around you tightly and you sighed lovingly.

"Gonna start acting right." He said it like a statement.

"Maybe," you teased, and he squeezed your chest firmly, causing you to quietly gasp. "Yes, I meant yes." You corrected yourself.

"Good girl."

#fanfic #fanfiction #self insert fanfiction #x reader #haymitch abernathy #haymitch abernathy x reader #haymitch x reader #haymitch x you #the hunger games #the hunger games fanfiction

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t1oui · 3 months ago

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i said i was going to talk about why suzanne collins used the raven perfectly in sunrise on the reaping (and i haven’t seen many people talking about this) so here i am to talk about it.

if you don’t know, the poem lenore dove’s name comes from is “the raven” by edgar allen poe. i know the final chapter(s) of sotr include a lot of the poem, but i still suggest that people go and read the entire thing. as haymitch says at some point in sotr, maybe a few times, “the raven” is about a man losing his lover, lenore, and being super depressed about it while a raven shows up to fuck with him. interesting premise, right?

now, we already see some of the poem coming true in sunrise on the reaping, and haymitch acknowledges this: haymitch, acting in the role of the poet, loses lenore dove (who is, of course, lenore). haymitch compares himself to the poet, getting depressed about his lost love. but something i haven’t seen people talking about, and something haymitch himself never mentions, is the fact that some (including me) believe “the raven” is about a man sad about losing his lover who he accidentally killed. see, haymitch hasn’t sat around analyzing “the raven”, but i have, and i am here to tell you about this connection and its relation to sunrise on the reaping.

if you’ve read sotr you probably know where i’m going with this, but before i go there, i want to tell y’all about why i believe that in “the raven” the poet (otherwise known as the man whose perspective the poem is from) accidentally killed lenore. and why do i think this? allusions!

what is an allusion, you ask? according to wikipedia, an allusion is as follows: “allusion, or alluding, is a figure of speech that makes a reference to someone or something by name (a person, object, location, etc.) without explaining how it relates to the given context, so that the audience must realize the connection in their own minds.”

in other words, an allusion is a reference to someone or something specific (you cannot allude to a concept like death, for example) for the purpose of giving readers/viewers a deeper understanding of what they are consuming, should they pick up on the allusion. obviously we are given some context for “the raven”’s presence in sotr — it is lenore dove’s name poem, and it relates to haymitch’s own feelings about losing lenore dove. but there are more aspects of the poem, like that accidental killing thing, that you would not know about if you haven’t read and extensively analyzed “the raven”.

so, why do the allusions in “the raven” make me believe that the poet is to blame for lenore’s death? well, first off, let’s identify some allusions. let me just say, there are a lot of allusions, and i am not going to talk about all of them, but i will talk about a few that support my point.

first: stanza 7, line 5, which reads, “perched upon a bust of pallas just above my chamber door”. pallas is most commonly known as another name for the goddess athena, but pallas is also the name of a close friend of athena’s who athena accidentally killed. athena was incredibly sad about the death of her friend, and she ended up creating a statue of pallas in pallas’s honor. that’s not super important, but hey: explicit allusion to a myth of a goddess accidentally killing somebody she deeply cared about. 1 point for the accidental murder of lenore theory.

onto the second allusion that i believe best supports my point. now, i’ll admit, this one is a bit more of a stretch, but stay with me, alright? stanza 15, line 1: ““prophet!” said i, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!”

prophet. now, i may be a bit of a greek mythology nerd (alongside, y’know, a hellenic polytheist), but i saw this part of the poem where the poet addresses the raven as a prophet and immediately thought of apollo. apollo, best known as the greek god of the sun, is also the greek god of prophecy. ravens are one of his sacred animals. well, you ask, what does apollo have to do with accidental murder? even more than athena, in my opinion, at least in the context of “the raven”.

see, here’s a myth many people have at the very least heard of: apollo and hyacinthus. hyacinthus was a spartan prince and one of apollo’s lovers. now, there are a few versions of the myth of hyacinthus’s death, but the most relevant (and well-known, i think) version in this case is the version where, during a game of discus, apollo accidentally hits hyacinthus in the head, killing him. accidental murder strikes once again, and with yet another (possible) allusion to greek mythology.

but, one final allusion. stanza 15, line 5: “is there—is there balm in gilead?—tell me—tell me, i implore!” gilead is a region known specifically for its medicinal/healing balm, which is clearly being referenced here. i, personally, believe that the reason the poet was asking the raven this is because he is wondering if there was a way he could’ve saved (or healed) lenore.

now, let’s connect all this to sunrise on the reaping.

we all know that haymitch didn’t outright kill lenore dove himself, but through both his actions of rebellion and his feeding lenore dove one of the poisoned gumdrops, there is an argument to be made that haymitch is somewhat at fault for lenore dove’s death. as we also know, haymitch — of course — tries to save lenore dove once he realizes she’s been poisoned. he first tries to get her to throw up the gumdrops she had, but when that doesn’t work, haymitch asks lenore dove if she has any charcoal tablets, which saved him when he was poisoned in the arena. in my opinion, the charcoal tablets seem like a reference to that line about balm in gilead. haymitch accidentally has a hand in the death of lenore dove, and — like the poet in “the raven” — he tries to save her, but is ultimately unsuccessful. this sends him into a spiral. now, it does look up for haymitch in the end, as he doesn’t straight-up die like the poet of “the raven” does, but hey. that’s not what this analysis is about.

this analysis is really all here just for me to say that suzanne collins utilizes “the raven” in such an interesting, expansive way that most readers won’t ever fully appreciate or understand, and i want more people to know. (also, while reading “the raven” can give you a better understanding of sotr, i read sotr before analyzing “the raven” and i can report that it works both ways. sotr definitely helped me analyze “the raven” and what it’s about.)

so, yeah. dislike sunrise on the reaping all you want, but you can’t deny all the thought, work, and research that clearly went into it, bc this is 1) super cool and 2) a level of attention to detail that i strive to have as a writer myself.

#can you tell i didnt know how to end this post? yeah. i didn't.#anyway i did this instead of paying attention in history class (which i still feel guilty about tbh 😔)#sunrise on the reaping #sotr #suzanne collins #sotr spoilers #sunrise on the reaping spoilers #haymitch abernathy #lenore dove #lenore dove baird #haydove #thg sotr #the raven #edgar allen poe #the raven edgar allan poe

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911n234 · 7 months ago

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suzanne collins, your work will always be appreciated

Suzanne really had the nerve to make us fall in love with Peeta—sweet, gentle, good Peeta—when everyone was obsessing over emotionally unavailable and mysterious dudes. And honestly, it makes me love Peeta even more now. His character was ahead of his time: a caring, loving partner, the kind of standard we only started to appreciate more recently.

I swear to God, I start tweaking every time I see a TikTok comment about how Peeta will never be able to love Katniss the same way he did before the war. It’s his love for her—and his inner strength—that pulled him out of the trap his own mind set for him. He came back to Katniss because he loves her. But, on some level, these commenters are right. They’ll never have the same love they had before the revolution.

They’ll have a better one.

The love of solitude and peace. The love of understanding. The love forged through war, one that carried them through every torture, every loss, every tear they had to shed. It’s the love that’s stable and strong. The love that’ll make every bad thing bearable. The love that helps you heal. The love that never runs out.

But honestly, you can’t really blame people who fell into the narrative of Peeta “hating” Katniss. We all understand where that idea came from. The older you get, the more you realize how good Peeta’s hijacking arc is. No, he doesn’t hate her. No, it’s not some twisted awakening of sexual desire. And no, Peeta is not a “bad boy.”

He’s a terrified boy. A boy who lost everyone, including himself.

My Roman Empire? It’s Peeta not only being scared of Katniss but also of his own mind. Can you imagine waking up and having no idea who you are? It makes my heart ache for him, honestly.

Suzanne not turning Peeta into a “bad boy” tells us so much about the story. Yes, it’s about love—partially. But on so many levels, it’s a deep exploration of society and the people in it. Katniss, confused by her own emotions, Peeta, terrified of his own mind.

So yeah, miss Suzanne Collins definitely had the nerve.

#everlark #peeta mellark #the hunger games #katniss and peeta #katniss everdeen #thg #suzanne collins

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homano222 · 6 days ago

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No Coriolanus Snow was not “pure evil” from the beginning of the ballad. And yes he was capable of love and empathy. But that makes him so, so much scarier.

LONG time lurker and first time poster here and I’m aware the hype for TBOSAS is wayy past but ive seen a lot of conflicting takes and thought id share what I gathered from not only the books but also an interview Suzanne Collins did about TBOSAS that I dont see many people talk about in their interpretations. Interview is the scholastic interview from 2020.

So yes, Snow is bad, Im a long time book fan so going into the ballad I was fully aware of who he was going into. But something I found really interesting at the beginning of the book was the quote from Mary shelley’s Frankenstein

"I thought of the promise of virtues which he had displayed on the opening of his existence, and the subsequent blight of all kindly feeling by the loathing and scorn which his protectors had manifested towards him."

I think this quote, paired with Collin’s mention of tabula rasa:

“When I read it, I'm reminded of Locke's tabula rasa, or blank slate, theory, in which all we know comes from experience, as well as of Rousseau's state-of-nature human beings, who were capable of pity and compassion. She seems to be saying that naturally good creatures exposed to an abusive world result in monsters. You can apply that to Frankenstein, Coriolanus, or anyone you choose.”

Allows us to conclude that no, Coriolanus was not simply “born evil” he is instead very much a product of his upbringing. In fact, if we’re going with her thoughts, he like everybody, is “naturally good”. Witnessing horrors in war and also being fed capitol propaganda his whole life has led him to believe that the control and power the capital has over the districts is the only way to ensure order. And that when people are desperate or ungoverned, they will do terrible things. He sees Nero Price cut the leg off a maid to feed his family, and subsequently believes this is humanities natural state. I could go into how Collins works to reject this belief system through the use of Locke and Rousseau but honestly I might make a separate post about that.

Point is, Snow has a very negative outlook on humanity, but he was not born that way. He was made that way.

Now, as Collins states in the interview, upbringing is not an inherit excuse for behavior but it is a good explanation of why he has his initial cynism. You cant completely excuse his behavior because you need to leave room for his actions.

“But given all that, you still need to leave room for Snow's personality. Is a he a product of nature or nurture? Everyone of his generation experienced trauma, loss, and deprivation. And yet Sejanus, Tigris, Lucy Gray, and Lysistrata turned out very differently.”

So from the beginning of the book we are introduced to a young, starving Coriolanus with this viewpoint on the world. So naturally, hes going to be an asshole.

He views vulnerability and empathy as weakness, he is obsessive as states in text. But again I dont think this makes him inheritably evil from the beginning. Yes he has some troubling thoughts, I see this one talked about often:

“He thought of people putting a price on her. With her long, pointed nose and skinny body, Tigris was no great beauty, but she had a sweetness, a vulnerability that invited abuse. She would find takers, if she had a mind to. The idea made him feel sick and helpless and, consequently, disgusted with himself.“

Now, this is not a good thing to think about. But no, i dont think he “wanted to sell his cousin” a take i see mentioned a lot?? Hes disgusted at the thought but because he grew up in a society that he believes takes advantage of those who are “weak” he views his cousins “vulnerability” as something that would cause people to harm her. This is not a good viewpoint by any means and in my opinion it appears he is almost blaming victims for their “weakness” but within the context of his upbringing, this is the conclusion he draws, its not inherently malicious, just merely Collins solidifying that Coriolanus finds empathy and vulnerability to be something that can be used against somebody.

Now despite his beliefs i would argue that yes, he does experience love and empathy throughout the ballad. He experiences conflicted emotions after Arachne’s death:

“In the near scalding water of the shower, he scoured the remainder of Arachne’s blood from his body. For a minute a painful sobbing made his chest ache, but then it passed”

I think this is Collin’s way of showing, that yes, Coriolanus can feel empathy but he untimately chooses to suppress it and instead revert back to his cynical worldview, in which he uses Arachne’s death as a tool to allow himself to look better and ultimately states that her funeral was a “ridiculous and out of proportion”. So yeah he can feel empathy but he chooses to suppress it. This is far more complex and honestly more interesting than the take “Snow has no empathy”

Now on to love:

So of course one of the biggest debates in the ballad is the nature of Coriolanus’s feelings toward Lucy gray. And now i would like to state that like many of you, i found their relationship progression to be deeply unsettling. Yes they have their moments but with Coriolanus’s constant thoughts of possesion and his constant undermining of her culture its a very hard read. (Im not going to quote examples of this bc its everywhere in the book lol). Despite this however, I do think in his own way, he did love her. At least the only way he knew how. Not only is it a key part in understanding the nature of his descent into villainy it is also stated by Collins in her interview:

“For whatever reason, Snow has a very controlling personality. Then he experiences one of the most out-of-control emotions, falling in love. It turns out to be a bad combination.”

This sums up the nature of his feelings for her perfectly. Yes he does care about her, though he himself admits initially her wants her to win so he can succeed. He grows to care for her, though it gets twisted because of his need to control every aspect of his life . He genuinely wants her to win, not just for him, but because he cares about her, at least in his own way:

“I’ll be a wreck tomorrow! When I told you that you mattered to me, I didn’t mean as my tribute. I meant as you. You, Lucy Gray Baird, as a person. As my friend. As my —” What was the word for it? Sweetheart? Girlfriend? He could not claim more than a crush, and that might be onesided. But what could he possibly have to lose by admitting she’d gotten to him? “I felt jealous after your ballad, because I wanted you to be thinking about me, not someone from your past. It’s stupid, I know. But you’re the most incredible girl ’ve ever met. Really. Extraordinary in every way.”

Now again. Not glossing over his need to control her, his constant undermining of her culture, and him objectifying her as “his” but even he admits his jealousy was foolish.

And again his attempt to seperate her from the districts, although indirectly more demeaning, and his need for control both come from his idea that he cannot love someone from districts, who stole his upbringing from him and plunged his world into chaos and misery. Not justifying it but his reasoning is there in the text.

So if Collin’s wrote Snow with the capacity for empathy and love. Where did it all go wrong? And why is he still so evil?

Because time and time again, He is given the opportunity to change, to change is viewpoint, to see that no, love and empathy is not weak. Because if it was, how did it fuel the rebellion that ultimately led to his downfall as president?

Time and time again Snow is given choices, and at every turn he chooses himself, power and ultimately Gauls, Hobbes-like worldview i.e people are evil and must be controlled.

Snow is given three examples in his life. Three people who endured pain and trauma. Three people who did not turn out hateful and resentful. Lucy Gray, Sejanus, and Tigris, who notably endured worse than him and yet still maintained her empathy. And again, these are three people who he, at the least, had relationships with. And while him and Sejanus’s was much more one-sided, thats not up for debate I do think Snow cared about him a little more than he let on:

“There’s an empty seat by me.” The words came unbidden from Coriolanus’s mouth. / The offer distracted Sejanus, and then he seemed to deflate. He took a deep breath, walked back down the aisle, and slid onto the stool.”

As he says himself, those words come unbidden. Almost as if on instinct, as if subconsciously he wants to help him. Again their relationship is very onesided but I do think its more complex than Snow wants to let on. But honestly to unpack all of it is another post in itself and this one is already super long.

So yeah Snow does, at least a little, cares about these people. Its what makes his betrayal of them so much worse. He knows them, he listens to them tell him that the worlds not all evil, that humans have a natural goodness, that they see the goodness, even if its small, in him. And yet he chooses Dr. Gaul. He chooses power and stability over love and nature.

And that is what makes him a monster. Not that “oh hes an asshole in the beginning so surely hes just predestined to be an asshole!” No. He has every opportunity to love, he even understands it! And yet he chooses to cut it out and weaponize it.

And this is what makes him so evil in the original trilogy and SOTR. He knows how out of control love is, he knows how it feels to be vulnerable, to love someone. And yet, because he views it as weakness, he utilizes it as a weapon against Katniss and Haymitch. This is why the ballad is so tragic, he knows what its like to be a lovestruck teen, and yet he goes on to torture people with the same love that could have saved him, had he let it.

TL;DR

Snow is very much a product of his upbringing. It explains his worldview, but it does not justify it. He is capable of love and empathy as stated by both Collin’s in her interview and in the text. But throughout the book, he chooses power and inevitability rejects love, making him evil. This is why hes so evil in SOTR and the original trilogy; he knows what it means to love and fear, he is the original victim of the capitols and Dr. Gauls propaganda, but you stop being a victim once you victimize others. I would also argue that by stating that Snow was “always evil” buys into his and Gauls toxic worldview.

Thanks for reading! Sorry about the long post lol and idk who will see this but these are my thoughts. Im always open to discussion and give me a follow if you want to talk TBOSAS!!

#tbosas #coriolanus snow #the hunger games #thg series #sotr #sunrise on the reaping #katniss everdeen #haymitch abernathy #tbosas meta #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #snowbaird

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nomoredying · 10 days ago

Text

you will never know

hunger games au! tribute!sevika x tribute!reader

tags: reader is from district 10, sevika is from district 12, canon-typical violence, angst a/n: i blame suzanne collins. english is not my first language — please correct me if you find any mistakes, ty. writing this was a torture never doing anything like that again :/

you don’t know what a person actually feels when they’re burning alive. not until the flame reaches you and you jump back in escape but it’s too late. you got hurt and now you’re going to burn too. just like them who you watched from afar.

that’s how you would describe being chosen for the hunger games, held by almighty capitol. or how you like to call it in your district — the topside.

seventeen years you watched the mandatory-to-watch broadcast of the games, where innocent children were killing each other or getting killed. and then how the victor was celebrated by the whole country. by the topsiders especially.

but no child can comprehend the possibility of being chosen to get murdered on the screens of thousands of people just for entertainment’s sake. and a reminder, of course. you can’t overcome the capitol.

despite the nudging voice that tells you this isn’t real and if it is you should flee, you act brave. say all your goodbyes to your parents, your older brother who you know hated himself for inability to volunteer because of his age and to all of your friends. you hope they will actually miss you.

you listen to your mentor leelan who’s a middle aged woman with clever, but beaten look in her eyes and almost dozen ideas for you to win although she knows that you’ll probably die like all the others. you respect her determination. you even laugh at whatever nonsense your escort and the prep team says.

“is there anything you’d like to say to your family, watching this right now?” the host, a man wearing ridiculously bright glasses and blazers asks.

“put the kettle on, i’ll be home in a blink of an eye,” you blink at the camera. “and don’t eat all the cookies, achilles. you think you’re watching me, but i have eyes everywhere,” you narrow your eyes now and hear the immediate laugh from the audience.

“oh, siblings,” the host chuckles, shaking his head.

you’re almost a perfect tribute, it seems to be. appearing to the people as charming, but dangerous and sharp, you win over many hearts soon enough. didn’t even have to be a career. no one except your team knows that you clench your fists until your nails sink into your palms enough to draw blood. no one except an avox, a girl who crossed capitol so they cut her tongue, who came into your room in the middle of a night because you started hitting a wall during your panic attack.

if it wasn’t for that, leelan could almost let herself believe in your win.

you’re excellent with blades and axes, probably won’t have much trouble with finding food and even can make a trap. all the things you’ve learned thanks to your district which specialises in livestock you even score a 10 — 10 for district 10, as someone from your team said.

but if you act like you’re on the brink of a mental breakdown as soon as you’re out of cameras’ reach, how will you act in arena full of poisonous and deadly forces you have to fight against? the boy from your district is in even worse state. he’s a lost cause.

you don’t interact with others much at the tribute center, trying to learn as many skills as possible, even though it’d be nice to have some allies. temporary allies, you remind yourself.

however one girl does catch your attention. she’s tall, dark skinned, her already short dark hair put up and you can see the well-developed muscles in her bare arms. you’re pretty sure it doesn’t end with just the arms. which surprises you because even if you’re the ones growing the cattle and preparing meat in your district, you don’t really get to have much. one would have thought district 12 can’t have it better.

her name is sevika and she’s 18. how devastated must have been her family — getting reaped her last year. you’re not so juvenile yourself too, only a year younger than her.

she’ll definitely be fine on her own, you think, watching her tying knots. you approach her, starting to do the same and thinking of all the ways you could start talking to her. but before you finally open your mouth to say something, she leaves to another section. not today, then.

and not all the other following days too.

sure, you did talk to some other tributes. a girl named mary from 5, kind and quiet. twins from 11, who made you laugh so hard you had to physically stop yourself because you remembered that you’re being watch and a hysterical laugh isn’t really complimenting. but still not to her and now it’s the day the games start.

all this time it’s like you’ve been asleep. now you wake up from the cold before the horn even sounds.the ground is damp and metallic under your back, and for a second you don’t know where you are. it could be a slaughterhouse. maybe it is. it smells like one.

the sky above you is orange, like rust bleeding into sunset. you’re standing in the center of what used to be a processing plant. abandoned, decayed. smoke still rises from some of the towers. steam hisses through broken vents. the ground is cracked cement, sliced with rails, stains and patches that could be oil or blood. doesn’t really matter which.

this is the arena.

you try not to throw up.

they placed you all around a giant broken platform, like a rusted gear in the middle of some long-dead machine.

in its center is the stock — weapons, food, water, gear, traps, maybe even medicine. you can see the outline of a crossbow, a few blades. there’s a black bag. some kind of armor. a bottle glinting under the lights. a lot of seems like a trap, cursed by the gamemakers.

around you, at the edges of the gear — other tributes stand on their plates. all waiting.

and there’s sevika, four tributes away. she’s not looking at anyone. not even the stock. her eyes are low. arms loose by her sides. like she’s waiting for the whole thing to be over.

she doesn’t look scared. just done.

you wish you felt the same.

you breathe in. you don’t have much time. you know what leelan told you: “don’t go to the middle. don’t be a fool.” but leelan’s not here and you don’t think you’ll find an axe lying around somewhere in the arena.

you run before you even realize that you’re running. fast and low. like cutting through a herd without startling them. tributes are screaming already. one falls on the platform. another lunges for a bottle, only to get their throat sliced open. blood sprays across a shattered crate.

you don’t look. you grab the small axe, half-buried under a sheet of plastic. it’s heavy but familiar. your fingers close around the handle like it’s home.

you run again — toward the shadows — and hope for the best. toward the smoke and dust and wreckage beyond the gear. you hide in a collapsed control tower on the outskirts of the plant. its roof is gone, but walls still stand, crooked and blistered by heat. the floor is full of ash. you lie down in it.

your hands are shaking. the axe is next to you, warm from your grip. you think of how are you even supposed to find food or water in a huge dead industrial complex.

you get out of your cover and find that around your collapsed towers are another ash towers. you try to find the highest point and when you do, you finally look around. you think you can see a slaughterblock not that far from you. that’s where you should head next.

you only let yourself to sit, just to wait out whatever’s happening in the gear. you hear the canon and count seven deaths already. seventeen of you left.

that’s when you see your mentor before you. “leelan?” your eyebrows furrow in disbelief “what are you– how are you here?” your hand tries to reach the woman, but suddenly it weighs more than any axe you held in your life so you can’t even lift your arms.

the mentor says something to you and you nod, but something feels wrong..

“are you okay?” your brother asks.

“are you here too? i don’t get it,” you mumble and that’s when you notice the blue gas you’re breathing all around you.

you’re hallucinating. you close your eyes, still hearing their voices. not the worse way to spend you first night, is it? your stomach disagrees.

your eyes open wide just a moment before they start showing the dead tributes in the sky. both from 6, 8, 9 and a boy from 12.

at the early morning the gas disappears, and that’s when you leave the tower and head to your new destination.

the slaughterblock smells worse than anything you’ve ever smelled before. it clings to the walls, seeps from the floor. old blood, rot, bile — all of it baked into the steel and concrete. the heat makes it worse, like someone turned the whole place into a slow cooker for ghosts.

you try to breathe through your mouth, but that just makes you taste it.

the room stretches into darkness, full of rusted hooks hanging from chains, swinging slightly in the stale air. gutting tables still sit in rows, some flipped over, others stained black. broken knives, meat saws, bones — so many bones.

your boots click once on the slick floor, and you freeze. you didn’t mean to make a sound. but it’s not just you. you hear it — screaming. no, not quite human. a pig. and it’s not dying quickly.

you follow the sound, stepping slow. between metal slabs and dripping pipes. the ceiling above you groans. you peek through the gap between two cabinets.

they’re there — two tributes from district 7.

you recognize them. the girl with the long scar down her chin. the boy with unrealistically crooked teeth. they’re butchering a pig they must’ve found somewhere deeper in the block. it’s alive. was alive. they’re laughing.

you grip your axe tighter, but you don’t have a plan yet. until your foot knocks into an empty metal bucket. it clatters like a gunshot. they freeze.

the girl turns first. “who’s there?”

you don’t answer, why would you? but she sees you anyway and lunges.

your axe meets her before your brain even catches up. the impact jolts up your arm — you feel bone snap, skin tear, the wet thud of meat. she hits the floor, twitching once. doesn’t get back up. you hear the canon.

you don’t stop. you can’t.

the boy’s next. faster than she was, not even stopping to look at his dead ally. he’s yelling something, but it doesn’t matter. you swing — he dodges. he slashes with a blade and slices your arm. again — your thigh. you gasp and stumble. he grabs your collar, grinning.

you grab his face. the two of you struggle — crash backward — into an old meat grinder.

it groans under the weight.

your fingers find a button. you kick him and press it as quickly as possible and then..

you watch.

the room is quiet again. except for your breath. and the flies. you stare at what’s left. then at your shaking hands.

“disgusting,” you whisper at yourself and hope that this might be to the sponsors’ liking. a terrible thought, but so isn’t everything?

you tear a piece of fabric from the dead girl’s shirt. wrap your bleeding arm. then your thigh. it’s not pretty, but it’ll do.

you take their bag which they must have taken from the stock. inside: bandages, antiseptic. painkillers, some kind of sunglasses.

the pig they were butchering is half-dead.

but you know what to do with that. you know where to cut. what to keep. what not to touch. it takes you twenty minutes to break it down. maybe less. your axe is sticky. your hands — slick.

you cook a few pieces over a pipe that still leaks fire. it’s dry, but warm. then you pack the rest in cloth, shove it in the new bag. and you leave.

you walk deeper into the structure, the walls closer now, darker. you’re so thirsty it makes your head pulse. no water at all. but it has to be somewhere, right? instead, you find a room in the back. some kind of office, long since emptied. the desk is broken. the windows cracked. but there’s a corner. dry and covered in dust. you sit there. you unwrap your arm. it’s bleeding again. you clean and bandage it, as best as someone who who has very basic knowledge of healing can do.

thirteen of you left.

you stay there for few nights, eating your pig, until the thirst becomes unbearable and water fills all your thoughts. not you, unfortunately.

you’re going to die of thirst before anyone gets the pleasure of killing you. that’s the thought that’s been gnawing at your spine for the past two hours you’ve been walking. the meat from the slaughterblock is still warm in your bag, your wounds are holding. but your lips are cracked. your head swims. everything is too loud.

that’s when you see it. the pit.

it’s not really a lake. not even a pond. it’s an open crater so wide you can’t see the other side through the smoke. the ground falls away in uneven steps of clay and metal and bone, and at the very bottom, there’s water — sort of.

it gleams in the toxic light, thick with rainbow shimmer, like someone spilled oil across a graveyard. you know that smell. sharp. chemical. like bleach, rot, ammonia.

and the bones. some old, some not.

you swallow hard. you need water, so you find a path — half-collapsed service scaffolding, mostly rust and wire. it takes almost twenty minutes to get down safely. you slip twice. once nearly fall. but your grip holds.

the deeper you go, the hotter it gets. the air sticks to your lungs.

you step through the bottom of the pit like moving through glue. you hold your breath when the fumes spike. the water’s close. but you’re careful. you know better.

and then you see her.

sevika.

standing by the edge of the chemical pool like it’s a mirror. her back to you. muscles tense. blade slung low, but not drawn. she crouches and pulls a bottle from her belt. dips it low toward the surface—

“it’s poisoned,” you call out, louder than you meant to.

she straightens. turns. her eyes find you — sharp, wary. in less than a five seconds she’s ready to attack.

but the air shifts and that’s when you know something’s coming. you feel it first — the way your teeth hum. then the tremor beneath your feet. then the shriek.

a shape erupts from the other side of the pool, tearing through bones and rock like they’re paper. a mutt. at least eight feet tall. boar-like, but deformed, furless, parts of its flesh replaced with glowing panels. its eyes flicker red. its tusks drip acid. it charges.

you draw your axe.

“allies?” you shout.

sevika nods once. “just don’t get in my way.”

the beast hits like a train. you dive left — sevika goes right. you slash its leg and sparks fly, it screeches and backhands you into the dirt. sevika climbs its back, driving her blade between its shoulder plates. it throws her off.

you roll. blood in your mouth. the mutt lunges at sevika — she dodges — you bring your axe down on its exposed jaw. it turns on you.

you think: this is it.

then sevika rams her knife straight into its eye socket. you don’t waste the opening and drive your axe into its throat, both hands, full weight. it collapses.

you both stand there for a second, chests heaving.

“that thing better not come back,” you mutter and slump onto a rock, your whole body’s shaking. sevika wipes blood from her face and walks back toward the water.

“you were serious about the poison thing?” she asks, finally.

“yeah. the fumes alone almost knocked me out.”

“so what now?”

you look at her. “we filter it.”

she raises an eyebrow, sceptical. “you know how to do that?”

you nod. “i think so. we used to filter rotwater at home. for the pigs. same principle, right?”

“you filtered water for pigs.” sevika snorts.

“and for us, sometimes.” you stand. “you need: cloth, rocks, sand. charcoal. some kind of container.”

“charcoal?” she raised an eyebrow.

“burnt cloth’ll do.”

“you’re full of surprises, 10,”

“shop kid,” you grin. “axes, knives, smoke filters. we sold them all.”

you spend the next hour gathering parts.

you build the filter from a broken pipe, with layers of sand, gravel, burnt scraps, and a ventilation mesh sevika pulled from an old cooling unit.

you watch the first drops trickle through into a cracked bowl. you both stare at it in silence.

“first sip’s yours,” sevika mutters.

you smile. “scared?”

“you built it,”

well, can’t argue with that. when you drink, it tastes like ash. definitely not that fancy water that comes in all flavours (you didn’t even know water could be flavoured before), but not deadly too. you don’t have any signs of being poisoned, so sevika takes a sip too. and then another. and other.

“so what does your family do?” you ask out of curiosity and because you don’t like silences.

something in her expression flickers.

“my mother was a medic. my dad’s got a hardware stall,” sevika replies shortly, and you decide not to push. why would you want to know all about her family if later? to face that very family after you kill her or someone else does?

“i was hoping we’d at least get a beautiful arena,” you sigh playfully, after getting a look around

she grins. “yeah? so you could at least die somewhere beautiful?”

“something like that,” you roll your eyes.

after filling your bowls and bottles with water you get out of the pit, thinking where you should head next.

“wait,” you say and perform a shushing gesture to silence her. something’s wrong. as if the ground is shaking. “do you feel it? it’s like an earthquake—“ and the surface under your feet collapses right at that moment, sevika’s strong hand preventing you from falling, but the ground she’s standing on also starts shaking.

so you run with ground sunk down behind you.

“hey-hey!” you hear two familiar voices, male and female, from both of your sides. twins from 11. “we were thinking of going into the pit when we saw you two running. what’s happening?”

“game makers are expanding the territory of the pit,” you reply, smiling at them and glance at sevika. oh, she doesn’t trust them.

“can we join you?” they ask.

their bags catch your attention. must’ve gotten them from the stock. they’re quick, clever, funny and you like them. so before sevika says no, you say yes and she glared at you.

“great! follow us, we found something like control rooms,”

“control rooms?” you repeat, curious.

and you still feel her piercing gaze.

“they’re smart!” you whisper at her and she rolls her eyes.

the control core is deeper than you expected.

you follow the twins through a narrow hallway half-collapsed with rusted panels and ash. above your heads, wires dangle like vines. it smells like electricity, dust, and something else — old blood maybe. the deeper you go, the colder it gets.

the twins are chatty. you like that about them. it makes you feel, for a moment, like this isn’t real.

when you finally reach the room, it’s massive. high ceiling, metal walls, rows of broken monitors and blinking consoles. the control core must’ve once powered something big. the lights flicker on and off. it hums, almost alive.

you all sit in a circle. the twins pull food from their bags — sealed packets, dried fruit, bread. you offer them water in exchange. the deal is silent, natural. survival.

they talk about the games, previous ones, things they saw from the sidelines. the girl twin says she thinks the mutts are more unpredictable this year. the boy twin jokes he’s waiting for the flying leeches. you all laugh. even sevika smirks.

then you go deeper.

you slip on the glasses you found in district 7 boy’s bag, that are apparently made for the night vision. so do the twins. sevika takes the flashlight, checks its battery with a tap of her palm. works.

you move in a line. twin-boy in front, then his sister, then you, sevika watching the rear.

the corridors tighten. the temperature drops again. dust floats in the air like snow. pipes run along the ceiling. you check every side door. most are sealed. some open to reveal broken desks, shattered bulbs, spilled tools. in one room you find an old firebox and a control panel half-lit. in another — something you think is a ventilation map. sevika studies it while chewing dried fruit like it’s jerky.

then you see the first snake. it slithers from behind a console. only about the length of your arm. quick. sharp scales. sevika steps forward and crushes its head with the heel of her boot.

you look at the twins. they look at each other.

“weird,” you say. what would a snake be doing in here?

more steps. more snakes. you find another. and another. before you say you should head back, it happens.

the metal grates beneath your feet rattle. you freeze. a low sound starts building, like whispering steam.

and then — a wave. a swarm of snakes floods the corridor from every direction. tiny ones, red-eyed, fast. not natural.

they’re coming.

“run,” someone screams.

you scatter. the hallways twist and split and you take turns blindly, dodging through narrow gaps and hopping over pipes. the air is full of hissing. you swing yat anything too close.

the boy twin stumbles. a snake latches onto his leg. he goes down. his sister screams. no — she runs back, tries to pull him up.

more snakes pile on him.

you stop running. your body wants to go back. but sevika grabs your wrist.

“not now,” she growls.

you turn and the last thing you see is the girl dropping to her knees and swinging wildly with a blade as they swarm them both.

you don’t look again and you keep running. when you finally stop, your lungs burn. your skin is marked with shallow cuts and dried blood. the snakes aren’t following anymore. you collapse against a wall. sevika crouches near you, breath sharp.

“they’re gone,” you whisper.

she nods.

“we should’ve taken their bags,” sevika says.

you look at her and she sighs.

“don’t give me that look. it’s awful. but it’s the games. you survive or you die. nothing in between,”

you say nothing because you know she’s right. and that’s worse.

you find a hidden crawlspace near the end of the control core. small enough to feel safe. you both squeeze in. you rest in shifts, but neither of you actually sleeps. you sit back-to-back, watching the same crack in the wall.

at some point, sevika says, “they reminded me of someone. the twins,”

you don’t answer.

she continues anyway. “when i was little, there was this pair in our street. always stealing apples. always climbing shit. i think about them sometimes,”

you shift, “i have a brother,” you say, “older. wanted to volunteer for me. couldn’t. he watched the reaping with his fists clenched”

“did he say goodbye?”

you nod, “told me to break their rules. and their teeth,”

sevika chuckles. a quiet, worn-out sound. “maybe you will,”

“maybe we both will, you say,”

and for the first time since the games started, you think maybe you’re not entirely alone.

then you both watch the faces of dead appear in the sky. it’s only 9 of you left. you and sevika, both tributes from 1, 2 and 3. and the boy from your district. the one you nicknamed the lost cause.

“i don’t know how he’s doing it,” you say, furrowing. “he’s so unstable,”

sevika shrugs, assuming that maybe it plays in his advantage.

“do you think it’s been suspiciously easy or we’re just lucky?” you ask her and she raises an eyebrow to see if you’re serious. you are. she’s confused, so you are to elaborate, “well, i feel like thirst was the one thing that could actually kill me. there was some gas on my first day, but it wasn’t poisonous. were you injured physically?”

“no. were you?”

“yes, when i was fighting with tributes from 5, but it’s not much,” you reply carelessly, because you almost forgot about those.

you agree when sevika says it’s time for new bandages, and when you unwrap the old one on your hand, you see that your wound has festered and wrinkle your nose. ugly. sevika doesn’t look away but sighs. right, her mom was a healer.

“did you even clean it?” she asks but doesn’t bother with waiting for an answer and takes the antiseptic and bandages out of your bag.

you bite your lips, watching her hands work deftly. “do you have any other wounds?” you nod and tell her about the one on your thigh. “take it off,” sevika demands, talking about the bottom of your suit.

“aren’t you gonna buy me a drink first?” you say resentfully but before she says something insulting you slide your bottoms down enough for her to get access to your thigh. it’s cold — that’s all.

you both fall asleep. not intentionally and definitely not responsibly.

maybe it’s something about the warmth of someone nearby who doesn’t want to slit your throat — at least not now.

but you two jump wide awake when you hear screaming. loud and coming at you.

your axe is already in your hands, just like sevika’s blade in hers.

the careers. two from district 1, two from 2 and the last one from 3 — the so-called golden pack. tall, sculpted, polished like statues.

they weren’t running at you, but from someone. or something. that’s when you see them. two mutated tigers, striped in glitching patterns, like static crawling on their skin. their jaws stretch too far, and their claws spark on contact with stone. they’re playing and their favourite game involves tearing someone apart.

you and Sevika exchange one glance. then it’s chaos.

the careers don’t hesitate to turn on you — the girl from 1 nearly slices your cheek open, the boy from 2 screams something incomprehensible while flailing his blade.

you swing your axe. she ducks. sevika’s elbow meets her nose. it’s a war on two fronts.

the tigers circle.

they pounce and crush the boy from 3 in a snap of spine and spray of red. another screams. the tigers chase him. sevika watches. calculating.

they’re not attacking randomly. they’re actually toying.

you slash at the girl from 1 again, landing a deep cut to her ribs. she backs off, wheezing. sevika moves behind her. and then grabs and throws her straight into a tiger’s open jaws. bones snap like twigs.

you almost freeze, but she doesn’t. she grabs the next, taking them by surprise — the smaller tribute from 2 — and repeats it. the last tribute — girl from 2 — sees what sevika’s doing.

she lunges with a roar and stabs her deep, right under her ribs.

sevika screams. you turn just in time to bury your axe in the girl’s neck. she goes down.

while tigers play with very dead tributes, you two run as fast as possible before mutts turn their attention to you. when it seems like they’re not following, you finally let sevika sit and fall next to her.

your hands are already covered in blood. she’s breathing, shallow and sharp.

“that bitch,” she mutters.

“you’re okay. you’re okay,” you lie.

nothing in your packs can help her and you know that next day you have to go and find the careers’ pack, maybe they’ll have something. you press her wound, trembling. her blood soaks into your palms.

“sleep,” you whisper.

the next day when sevika assures you she’s fine — another lie — you quickly approach the area where your nap was interrupted yesterday. take all the food you see, which careers’ve got enough, but nothing of the medicine. you sigh.

sevika doesn’t even need you to tell her about that when you come back, your desperate eyes tell her everything. when she doesn’t resist eating, you can’t help but think that this might be her last meal.

then you start rambling.

about the first cow you ever helped deliver. about the time you and your brother painted axes with bright pink paint and your father got mad.

you keep talking until something heavy lands on your head. you look up, taking it into your hands.

a silver parachute. medicine.

your heart jumps, but you don’t hesitate.

you pour the contents over her wound, hands shaking.

sevika flinches. then gasps. you try your best and she tries to talk you through it. you wrap her tight. close the gash. press your forehead against hers.

you did it. you saved her.

a sigh of relief and joy and happiness escapes your lips when comes the realisation. it’s only three of you left now. the boy from your district, you. and sevika.

that’s when you hear the gamemaker’s voice that sounds almost amused. three tributes remain, they say. one final event. a gift for each of you, waiting in the heart of the arena. come claim it.

you and sevika don’t speak. you just nod once, gear up, and walk.

it’s inevitable anyway. if you don’t go to this feast now, they will still make you face each other, fight and die.

you walk through smoke and ruin, past twisted metal and the remains of places you used to hide. it’s almost poetic that the center is the gear — the giant rusted cog that once turned something important but now just rests in the earth like a jaw waiting to close.

you arrive first. he’s already there. the boy from your district.

he doesn’t look like he used to. he’s thinner. twitchier. eyes wild, too wide. his shirt is stained with blood that’s not his. he holds the knife like it’s part of him.

you open your mouth to say something, but he doesn’t wait.

sevika moves first — throws you behind a pile of rubble and blocks his blade with hers. they crash against each other, metal biting metal, and he’s stronger than you remember.

not skilled. just unhinged.

you scramble up, your axe in your hands, heart pounding. you circle. he throws a punch at sevika and she stabs at his leg — he dodges, growling.

then he sees you.

he drops from aevika’s line of sight and charges at you. too fast. your axe swings wide. his knife is already in motion.

it sinks into your chest. not fully in the heart, which would be faster, but close. you stumble back and he gasps.

his eyes meet yours, and suddenly he drops his weapon. stumbles away from you like he’s waking from something.

“no,” he says. “no, no, no — i didn’t mean— i thought— i—“ he falls to his knees, his hands are shaking and he starts crying.

sevika catches you before you hit the ground.

her arms wrap around you roughly, one hand pressed hard over the wound.

“what the fuck did you do,” she hisses — not to him. to you “you idiot. you stupid, reckless idiot,” she repeats, over and over, “you were supposed to win,”

you were supposed to win.

you can’t breathe properly. your fingers tremble, “shut up, sev,” the only words you can squeeze out before you you lift your hand and cup her face, making her lean in. her face is all angles and fury and grief.

your lips barely touch. a breath. a tremor.

then stillness. you’re gone in her arms.

sevika doesn’t cry. she lays you down gently, like something she carved with her own hands. then she stands. her gaze finds the boy still kneeling. he raises his eyes to her. and for a second, it looks like he’ll say something.

he never gets the chance.

viewers are not sure if what happens next is vengeance or instinct. but when it’s over, there’s only one name left to announce.

sevika.

you will never know that sevika won the games. you died, thinking it, but you’ll never know for sure.

you will never know that every month your family receives sevika’s winnings.

you will never know that the only family sevika has left — her father — gets killed by the capitol three weeks after her win because she refused to play by capitol’s games.

and you will never know that when twenty years later a pink haired girl sparks a revolution, she helps adding the fuel to the fire with you in her mind.

tags: @riotstemple29

#sevika #sevika arcane #sevika x you #sevika x reader #sevika my love #arcane au #wlw

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