#long haired lenore >>>>> | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

maraudersilver · 3 months ago

Text

DOE EYES (Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!Reader) Chapter 1

Summary: No one ever wins the Games. You survive. And that's what you did at the 66th Hunger Games. Years later, you find yourself on an annual routine of mentoring tributes from your district to send them to slaughter, just as they did with your fellow tributes back in your Games. Decaying would have been the option if Finnick Odair hadn't offered his hand as a shield. However, a certain drunkard from District 12 earns your curiosity after judging him for more than a lustrum.

A/N: Hello! I've been missing for a while, but I promise the new Despise You chapter has been half written by now. However, after reading Sunrise on the Reaping, I've been on a Haymitch brain rot that cannot be stopped until I write a whole fanfic for him where he gets his happy ending. In this account we respect and love Lenore Dove, so she'll be honoured as someone who was the most important person for Haymitch for a huge part of his life. Also, the reader is from District 6 and has a very interesting cultural heritage that you'll be learning as the story moves forward. Haymitch loved his Covey girl, so it's natural for him to fall for someone with such a cultural difference for him to learn from.

Warnings: Age gap! 15 years age gap, Haymitch is 40 and reader 25. In this chapter and until we reach the 74th Hunger Games he's 38 and she's 23. Future smut. Alcoholism (is Haymitch, what were we expecting). Hunger Games in general is a warning. Mentions of sexual abuse (we have Finnick here, girls). Future spoilers for Sunrise on the Reaping. Slow burn.

Wc: 4,3K

Blasting through the cannons of sound came the soundtrack of class difference. Ever since you won the Hunger Games six years before, the music had barely changed. Fashion, however, tended to go worse each time you made it to the Capitol under orders of Snow. Apparently, having victors around was la creme de la creme for everyone who was anyone in the rich men world.

Holding a glass of white wine fetched from the waitresses choreographing around the main hall, you made your way towards the only person at that party that could give you enough serotonin to not jump out the roof at that very moment. His blond, curly hair moved in waves that brought in the attention of harpies ready to stab his neck with their fangs. Never getting tired of consuming everything that he was since he won at the age of fourteen.

“Ladies!” you greeted with a wide, fake smile. The same one you had put on since the moment you were reaped. “How lovely you all look. Is that the new Dires’ dress, Miss Seedpipe? No wonder you seem so radiant!”

The bunch of old, decrepit women filled with anti-aging treatments that did little to conceal their ugliness laughed pleased at your compliment. Your friend, on his part, just grinned his characteristic crooked smile, so loved by everyone in the Capitol due to its mischievous implications.

“Always so sweet, my dear,” said Miss Seedpipe with a hand pressed to her heart. “You look rather dazzling yourself.”

“She definitely does.” Finnick raised his glass as if toasting, to which the women followed him like a herd of sheep without critical thinking. “What do we owe the honour of your presence, hotstuff?”

On any other occasion, you would have rolled your eyes. However, you pulled out your white feather fan and giggled dumbly. If you knew this would be your destiny back in the arena, you would have killed yourself in the bloodbath. “I just needed to steal Finnick from you, ladies.” The nosferatu look-alikes booed in complaint, yet your smile stood steady. “Won’t take long.”

“All yours.” Finnick grinned wider if even possible, offering me his left arm to run away in a slow pace from the bunch of vultures.

Once out of earshot and behind a purple, velvety curtain, Finnick sighed in relief. “Thanks for that. Madam Dominatrix wanted to pull at my pants.”

Although the nickname had been incredibly funny to refer to the woman who’s outfit consisted of a red latex body, the feeling of doom at your friend’s fate prevented you from laughing. Silently, you placed a hand on his bicep, caressing in comfort, to which he just gifted you a sad smile.

“Anyway. What did you want?”

“Nothing, I was bored.”

Finnick looked at you with a deadpan expression, huffing in amusement. “Can’t say I wasn’t, either.”

It had become a habit. On your first big Capitol party, while many of the citizens surrounded you and asked you for a ‘chance’ you weren’t quite sure of what they were referring to, Finnick had come to your rescue. The, at that moment, fifteen-year-old had grabbed your hand sweetly and brought you to an adjacent room where you were safe from the critical and lustful looks of the animals that called themselves humans.

You didn’t know it back then, but Finnick had made it his mission to be the person who freed you of as many uncomfortable situations as he was able to, something he had wished he had when he had first appeared at the Capitol after winning. So, what started as a survival relationship in the feisty claws of the most sadistic people to ever exist on Earth, ended up blossoming into the most platonic, meaningful friendship you had ever had. Finnick became your beacon, your lifeline in the moments of darkness that surrounded you whenever you stepped a foot on Snow’s mansion or in any other important building. And, without knowing it at first, you were Finnick’s excuse to disappear from the claws of any rich member who attended the parties.

So sad people only saw him for his looks, because he was definitely the most gorgeous on the inside.

“Have you seen Johanna?” you asked, looking around as if you would find a secret passage from where she could appear.

“No. Thought she would be with you,” muttered Finnick with furrowed brows.

You shook your head, trapping your lower lip between your teeth. “Maybe she’s not here?”

“Lucky bastard, if that’s the case,” laughed him mirthlessly.

Johanna won the games two years ago. She had been the new rising star among the Capitol, and Finnick and you agreed to save her from the awful fate Finnick had been prey to. Maybe you weren’t as close to her as you were to Finnick, but under all that rough exterior and mean words, Johanna had won your trust, something very difficult to gain after your games.

Commotion exploded outside the curtain. Sharing a confused look, both Finnick and you peeked your head out to see Haymitch Abernathy vomiting the rug in the middle of the living room. Couldn’t say you were surprised. After years of roaming around the Capitol, you had been witness to the famous drunk performances of the District 12 sole victor.

The vultures who had been pestering Finnick not even five minutes ago were gagging and gasping in horror as Haymitch fell down on his own puke. Some Capitol staff rushed towards the passed out man and grabbed him down his armpits, dragging him down the hall to where you could only assume was his room. It didn’t take long for the party to resume. They were also used to Haymitch’s shenanigans at that point.

“Well, that was a hell of a way to flee the party. I have to give it to him,” Finnick said, chuckling once his head was back behind the curtain.

“Not funny. He’ll have an awful hangover tomorrow,” you mumbled. However, the pull of your lips upward conveyed the silent laugh that was rumbling your chest.

“He’s never hungover. Can’t be if you never stop drinking.”

By then, both of you were guffawing and trying to regain some composure and breathing. On the inside, you pitied Haymitch. You didn’t really know what happened to him apart from the trauma of his games. If twenty-four tributes were a nightmare, forty-eight was the epitome of horrors. You couldn’t really blame him for his copying method.

“A dance?” Finnick offered, exaggerating a bow that had you snorting while you took his hand.

“Lead the way, fish boy.”

That was the last time you had sight of the victors until the following Hunger Games. The reaping back at District 6 had given you a thirteen year old boy and a fourteen year old girl. Both of them starved to the point their cleavages were visible and as sharp as knives. Another two kids to bring to the slaughter.

“Do not resist the prep team,” you had advised back at the train, while the kids looked at you with terrified eyes. “It doesn’t matter what they do, keep still and be compliant, okay?”

“Okay,” Ruby, the girl, agreed, while the boy just nodded.

“I’ll be able to see you before the parade. We can agree on a strategy once I see how the stylists have dressed you. Until then, rest and try to calm your nerves.” You stood up from your seat to exit the compartment, but stopped when you passed by the snacks. “Oh! And make sure to eat. Some pounds more are welcome in the arena.”

Andromeda, District 6 escort, and you made your way to the Tribute Centre, installing before sending the kids towards the prep team to be showered, disinfected and, well, prepared. You smiled at them softly, both children shaking like leafs as they left with Andromeda in the elevator.

With nothing else left to do, you had three hours for yourself, so you went down to the Tribute Centre bar, placed there for the Mentors and escorts. If you were lucky, you would be able to spot Finnick and Johanna there.

Soft jazz played at the dimly lit establishment. There was not much music left after the rebellion, but those melodies without lyrics were the ones used for occasions. Much to your detriment, none of your friends were yet there, so you made your way to the bar to ask for a non alcoholic beverage. As much as intoxicating yourself to oblivion was a tempting offer, your job was to protect your new kids as much as you could from where you stood as their mentor, and sobriety is the bare minimum requirement for that. It had been years since a drop of alcohol had soaked your tongue.

Yellowish light trespassed the glass bottles behind the barman, and you felt guilty of enjoying the fake cozy feeling settled at the bottom of your stomach. There weren’t many people yet, and the stools were comfortable. How disgusting to be so lightheaded in a place like that while twenty-four kids were being prepared to be sold to sponsors down in the basement. You thought of your Mentors drinking themselves stupid in the bar while you fought for your life at the arena and your stomach crumbled; you hated your predicament as a perpetrator of bad practices.

Suddenly, there was movement on your right. Lifting your head from where it looked at the counter, you found the sluggy, yet big form of Haymitch Abernathy. His curly hair was unkempt, and although he was wearing a suit, the state of the collars of his white shirt gave the impression of unlaundered. Even if he had just arrived at the bar, the smell of raw liquor reeked from him. The only clean and tidy part of him was his dove coloured vest.

“Your tributes on prep team already?” you asked, looking for a topic of conversation to clear your troubled mind.

Haymitch lifted his head clumsily, almost disoriented. With furrowed brows, he nodded. Great. A man of few words.

“Yeah, mine too.”

He didn’t even hum to acknowledge your pathetic attempt of small talk, already lost on whatever the barman had served him. Shaky hands gave you the impression that he had been drinking for a while already, and your heart constricted at the thought of the poor angels who had to count on him for sponsors. Irresponsible. That’s what Haymitch Abernathy was.

You observed him. Fine lines covered his forehead, increased by the snarl on his face. He definitely looked older than thirty-eight. Yet he conserved some of the youthful beauty you had heard many Capitol citizens talk about.

After an hour of silence and brooding, and with no signs of Finnick and Johanna, you decided to leave the bar. The grey coloured walls of your Tribute Centre floor was definitely better company than the drunkard victor.

“See you around, Haymitch.”

“Hmm.”

At least he had the decency to give some answer. Without paying no mind to him, you left the confines of the bat to the floor designated to your District, Haymitch’s gaze lost in the grey wall in front of him.

There weren’t seats reserved for victors on the parade; part of the job consisted of looking for the best spot to talk to sponsors since that very moment. Cashmere and Gloss were already roaming the wealthiest of them, all sat together at the centre of the bleachers. Finnick and Mags were talking, mostly Finnick, if you were being honest, to the women who had been fanning over him a few weeks ago. Johanna was somewhere on the other side. Beetee and Wiress lost in the crowd. Funny enough, Haymitch had settled on the left side with a hip flask in hand.

That year you had decided to mentor alone, the mental health of your fellow victor too damaged to be of any help. So you made your way to the sponsors who usually paid attention to your words. Every year it was more difficult to earn their trust on bets, District 6 not having a victor since you won. And, truth be told, this year would be more of the same. Those poor teens would probably die during the first few minutes of the Games. But you had to try. For them.

With a fake, sweet smile you approached the Rainwalls, a couple whom you’d had a fairly close relationship with since you started to mentor. “Would you mind if I take a seat?” you asked with the smoothest of tones.

The old pair looked up with annoyed expressions until their eyes settled on you, and their smiles grew so much you wondered if botox could come out of their pores. “Oh, dear! How are you doing, darling? Of course you can sit with us! Come, come.” Miss Rainwall urged you with her hand to take the place right next to her, and you did with a small nod of gratitude.

“It’s been a while, dear. Are you excited for these games?” she asked, her hands moving in cheerful spams. Your stomach churned in disgust, but you continued grinning and nodding enthusiastically.

“Absolutely! Tributes look very interesting this year.” Both she and her husband nodded in agreement. “District 1 strong as ever.”

“Yes, although District 5’s boy has a je ne sais quoi,” Miss Rainwall said, peeling an orange in the meanwhile. “Let’s see what they pull up at the parade. Do you know anything about your kids’ stylists?”

You shook your head. “Not much. I’m as clueless as the rest of you,” you giggled, and both of them followed you. She placed a hand on her husband's bicep, something she did whenever a District person said something funny. As if you weren’t humans at all and she was surprised at how clever you could be. “Can’t wait to see them, though. Witty tributes I have.”

“Really?” There it is, Miss Rainwall took the bait. You nodded with another sweet grin, and she smiled along. “I prefer them to strong tributes. But don’t let the word spread,” she chuckled in whispers, and you passed your fingers over your lips as a zipper.

“Your secret’s safe with me.” The older woman nodded in agreement.

“They last longer. Don’t look for conflict, which is boring, but if I have to bet, I prefer to do so with those who live more.”

It was upsetting, hearing her speaking so lightly and detached from reality about dying kids. How could she say that kids that look for shelter instead of battling to death were boring?

“I’m pretty sure my kids will get far. At the very least one of them.”

You hadn't even thought about it. Didn’t know their strengths or weaknesses, if they were clever or clumsy, or if they managed any weapon at all. But you would get them sponsors even if you had to lie through your teeth.

“Good to know. I’ll take it into account when- Oh, look! It’s starting!”

Miss Rainwall settled her gaze on the District 1 chariot, and the conversation died completely as her attention shifted from District to District, criticizing the styling, deciding who had her benefit based on their clothes. From afar, you saw Haymitch looking down at his shoes, unable to pay any mind to the Coal Miners that ended the line of chariots parading around. Maybe he was embarrassed of his state, or maybe he was so intoxicated his brain could not even process where he was.

You looked back at your kids, dressed in silver and metallic colours representing manufacturing. It wasn’t the best, but definitely not the worst. However, their terrified gazes did nothing to fuel the entertainment of the Capitol citizens, and you knew you would have a hard time finding sponsors.

“You did great!” you lied to your tributes after they arrived at the apartment once the parade ended. “Now just focus on the training days. I’ll help you come up with strategies and Andromeda will also be here for the interview training, alright? Now go shower. We’ll have dinner and then straight to bed.”

Ruby and Tyler nodded, too tired to pronounce a word, and left in a hurry to the safety of their rooms. You sighed, pressing two fingers to the bridge of your nose. Andromeda placed a hand on your back in comfort, but it did nothing.

“They seemed marvelled by the Capitol!” she cheered, and you kept the temptation of choking her guarded.

“Sure,” you huffed, disappearing in your room once more.

The next few days were tiresome. Ruby knew how to manage a knife, but Tyler barely even knew how to differentiate edible from poisonous plants. It ended up with a six for Ruby and a four for Tyler. You kept your tears for the secluded area of your room, wanting nothing more than to tear the Capitol to shreds. Those two kids who had hoped you could help them would more than probably die within the blood bath. The odds weren’t in their favour.

In the interview, the public was awestruck by both of them. So sweet, so young, so clever and spirited even in their terrified states. And you somehow gathered hope enough for them, because if they survived the blood bath, sponsors wasn’t a deluded idea.

“Remember. The moment the gong sounds, flee from there. You don’t have strength enough to fight in the blood bath. Look for high ground and for water. Water is your new friend, understood?”

“What about food?” Ruby asked, tears gathering at the base of her precious brown eyes. You placed your hands softly on her face, cleaning the tear stained path from her cheeks.

“That’s the next step. In the Cornucopia you’ll see bags. They usually have food, water, and some elements of importance for the nature of the arena. Don’t grab them. Don’t look at them. Only go back if you don’t find any fresh water or food. Get as far away from the other tributes as possible, especially because you don’t have any allies.” The elevator was almost reaching its destination, so you turned to both of them, rubbing Tyler’s head. “That doesn’t mean you won’t find allies once the Games start. But always keep your guard up.”

Tyler leaped on you, hugging your torso with an abnormal strength for a boy his age. Terrified, trembling, and wetting your shirt with his own tears. You were able to pull down the sobs that threatened to come out of you.

“Come here, Ruby,” you called the girl, and she complied. A hug of three. The last one you’d share with them.

“Thank you,” Tyler mumbled, pulling away from you and angrily drying his tears with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Whatever happens, remember I’ll be watching. I’ve been working on sponsors, so I’ll try to send you anything that you need. Stay alive.”

You didn’t have time to hug them one more time, as Peacekeepers grabbed them by their arms towards the train that would send them to the arena. Once they were out of sight, you broke down on your knees, sobbing uncontrollably for you didn’t even know how long. Until someone pulled you on your feet again, placing your head on their shoulder. His smell comforting and familiar.

“They won’t make it,” you sobbed, clenching your fists on his clothes, to which he shushed you and kissed the top of your head.

“You’ve done what was in your hands,” Finnick whispered your name, rocking you from left to right. “Now work hard for sponsors, yeah? C’mon, let’s go to the Headquarters. And clean your face, people won’t do business with you looking like that.”

You nodded against his chest, snorting at his words, and grabbed the arm he offered to walk back up to your floor to change.

Unfortunately, your gut was always right. Your two angels died not far from the Cornucopia, assaulted by the Careers as they tried to flee. At least, it was a quick death. Ruby gor pierced by a spear, and Tyler hit by an arrow. When both cannons sounded, you felt bile rising at your relief. They wouldn't have to suffer in the arena any longer.

Finnick caressed your back, while Johanna, who had sat with you both and Mags, grabbed your hand in a white knuckled grip. No one apart from you four mourned the poor kids who had just cruelly died on the projectors, Capitol citizens too preoccupied cheering for the blood bath. It made you sick with fury, wrath running down your veins instead of blood. Harshly than you intended, you pulled your hand away from Johanna’s and stood up. Both of your friends looked at you with alarm.

“I need to be alone.” Was all you said without waiting for a response before storming out of the viewing hall.

Your ears were buzzing with white noise. Blinded by your own tears and consumed by a sadness difficult to explain to anyone who wasn’t a victor. You heard your name being called a few times, not stopping until a hand grabbed your wrist.

“Dear, I’m so sorry about the kids.” Miss Rainwall said, although the lack of grief on her face was telling enough. “Your predictions didn’t aim well this time, though. Such a pity.”

You wanted to rip her face with your nails, but in a controlled sob, you smiled. “Seems like it.”

“How adorable! Your accent’s back!” Miss Rainwall applauded, calling her friends. “Can you repeat that for them? You have such an… interesting accent we haven’t been able to hear since your games!”

She deserved to be punched. She really deserved it. But you didn’t do it, opting for a more friendly approach. “I would, but I really need to- Need to make arrangements. You know, for their trip back home.”

It took everything in you not to whip in front of them, storming away again until you reached the secluded bar. No one was there, not even the barman. Everyone too occupied watching kids battling to death.

It didn’t matter. You served yourself. Again, nothing alcoholic. You didn’t deserve oblivion. Those kids didn’t deserve to be forgotten at all. And you couldn’t bear the voices that would surely plag your mind and tear your sanity out the balcony.

Hours passed, or so you thought until a clock on the far side of the room marked just ten minutes had gone by, when another figure sat beside you on the counter. Sighing, you mumbled, “Not in the mood, Finnick.”

“Good I’m not Finnick, then,” a slurred voice muttered, gripping a bottle of Nepenthe by its neck and chucking it like a thirsty man.

Haymitch Abernathy was already wasted, sweat covering his hairline. How you had ignored the reeking booze of his breath thinking it was Finnick, you were clueless.

“Don’t look at me like that, Doe Eyes, your tributes are as dead as mine.”

Doe Eyes? But what infuriated you the most was the indifference with which he talked about those kids. Your blood was boiling. “You could show a little sympathy to the very least,” you snarled, taking your eyes off him and looking down at your own beverage.

“Oh, but I do. Early death is the best thing that you could wish upon a tribute.”

You had heard people say Haymitch was sarcastic, always thinking it was a trait to be admired. However, your grieven state processed his words as a direct attack. “You’re heartless.”

“Hmm. Absolutely. My heart was taken from me ages ago.” He shrugged, swigging another mouthful of Nepenthe.

“We’ve all survived the Games, Haymitch. Don’t act as if you’re the only one affected by it.”

“But I’m not the one judging others by their stances, am I?”

You opened and closed your mouth like a fish, searching for something clever to counter. “It’s not the same.” It wasn’t your day, that was clear enough.

He snorted, rolling the bottle like you would a glass of wine. “Is it not? And what’s the difference then?”

Stumbling over your words, you huffed in indignation, grabbing your glass and drinking to prevent answering. Although Haymitch didn’t relent.

“For someone who prides on empathy, you don’t apply it on others when it doesn’t fit your narrative.”

“Shut up.”

“Stroke a nerve, Doe Eyes?” He chuckled, emptying another quarter of the bottle.

“Don’t call me that!”

Haymitch snorted, bottle forgotten for a moment on the counter. He looked at you with his deep, grey eyes, which matched the colour of the walls. His dove coloured suit also enhanced the dazzling, yet dull light of his gaze. For a moment you stood breathless. Never had you ever seen such a look on somebody. And then, his rough voice brought you back to the present.

“Not one to obey orders, Doe Eyes.”

Scorching was your skin. He was shameless, ill-mannered, rude and a pain in the ass. Left was the unfinished glass on the counter when you walked past him to leave, only to feel his rough hands grabbing your arm softly.

“I’m really sorry about the kiddos,” he mumbled your name, his look now solemn, though fixed on the counter. It surprised you the fast change between prick to somewhat gentle. But you were too angry at him to indulge, so you just nodded.

“I’m sorry about yours, too.”

And with that, you hoped to see nothing about Haymitch Abernathy until the following Hunger Games.

Back in the confines of your room, tears fell down your eyes to your cheeks. There was no more air your lungs could transform into sobs, too strained by the misery of the last few days to continue working. With a small sigh, a whisper left your parted lips. “Goian bego, Ruby and Tyler.”

Translation - Goian bego: rest in peace.

#haymitch abernathy x reader #haymitch abernathy x you #haymitch x reader #haymitch abernathy x lenore dove #haymitch x lenore dove #finnick odair #haymitch abernathy #katniss everdeen #katniss and peeta #peeta mellark #johanna mason #thg series #sunrise on the reaping #thg sotr #thg haymitch

205 notes · View notes

anginophobia · 21 days ago

Text

ℝ𝕒𝕧𝕖𝕟

𝕊𝕪𝕟𝕠𝕡𝕤𝕚𝕤: Sol never knew what the meaning of life was, but he didn't care much about it. He never thought about his life having any meaning to it whatsoever.

That is, until you showed up in his life. Now he has a new feeling.

𝕆𝕟𝕖 𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕤 𝕥𝕠 𝕜𝕖𝕖𝕡. 𝔽𝕠𝕣𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣.

𝕋𝕣𝕚𝕘𝕘𝕖𝕣 𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: masturbation, obsession, stalking, somnophilia, smut, kissing, manipulating.

𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕕 ℂ𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 4,115 words

𝕊𝕠𝕝 𝕩 𝔽𝕖𝕞!ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕣

𝟙𝟠+ !!ℕ𝕆 𝕄𝕀ℕ𝕆ℝ𝕊!!

Something was wrong with Sol. Something dangerously wrong.

He was always considered to be a quiet kid, usually kept to himself, always either in his book or sketching whatever came to mind, always sitting in the back. Sol was… different from everyone else. He thought differently, felt different emotions than others. Mostly indifference. It wouldn’t matter what it was; whether someone had hurt him for his alternative style, someone had ruined something that took a tremendous amount of effort in making, it didn’t matter. None of it mattered to him.

That is, until the day he met you.

He didn't mean to fall in love, but something about you stood out among everyone else. You were kind, generous, always going out of your way to help others without them asking. He didn’t know if it was the way your hair moved with each step you took, or if it was the way you smiled and licked your lips slightly when someone said something funny to you, or if it was the way your eyes fluttered closed when you eat something sweet, or maybe it was all of it, but Sol did know one thing. He was utterly in love.

He can still remember the day he met you like it was yesterday. He had been in the library that day, standing in line for the coffee station to be free, book in hand, silently reading as he waited. Once the person in front of him had finished ordering and stepped to the side, he closed his book, bookmarking his place, and stepped up, looking up at the menu to see what he had wanted. Probably should have looked at it before stepping up the register.

“Is that Edgar Allen Poe’s book?”

Sol was taken aback by the sudden question from a voice that he hadn’t heard before. He looked in front of him, seeing you standing there behind the registrar, a smile on your face as you looked at him, your head tilted to the side slightly, waiting for his answer. He blinked a few times, trying to process the sudden question.

“What?” He asked, his voice soft yet slightly confused. You raised a finger, pointing to the book he was holding in his hand, the smile never leaving your face, seemingly not to mind his confused question.

“The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe. That’s the book you're reading, right? In your hand?” You asked, your eyes looking at the book in his hand before meeting his gaze. He looked down at the book he was holding, indeed it was “The Raven” by Edgar Allen Poe, one of his favorite authors. He cleared his throat before speaking, nodding and looking back at you.

“Yea, he’s one of my favorite authors. Do you read him too?” He asked, his red-orange eyes scanning your face for any snickers or any hint to show that you were only asking him to be nice, or to get a nice tip from it. You kept the smile on your lips, closing your eyes, as if you were thinking.

“‘Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; but the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, and the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore.” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word “Lenore.” — merely this, and nothing more.’” Once you finished, you opened your eyes, your smile softer now, meeting his eyes. He slowly blinked. Once. Twice. You had just quoted the words of Edgar Allen Poe from the book Sol was now loosely holding.

The surprise was evident on his face, which made you giggle softly from his reaction, covering your mouth to stuff the giggles back down your chest. “Sorry, The Raven is one of my favorites, and I couldn’t resist!” You giggled softly again, placing a hand on your stomach, looking at him with one eye open as you tried so hard to suppress your giggles.

Something inside him shifted, like there was now a spotlight on him, feeling for the first time in a long time that he was seen, that someone had opened a door just to look at him, noticing him for the first time. Before he could respond to your sudden quote of poetry, someone behind him spoke up, irritation evident in their voice.

“Would you hurry up and stop quoting nonsense?” Sol’s eyes slanted slightly by the rude interruption, wanting nothing more than to turn and give the guy a piece of his mind, but instead, you leaned sideways to look at the fellow, giving them an apologetic look, a weak attempt of a smile to them. “Sorry! It’ll just take a sec!” You turned back to Sol, a wide smile plastered on your face as you focused back on his order. “Do you know what you want to order?” You asked, your voice sweet and light.

Ever since that day, Sol had observed you from afar, always around you without you knowing. He had learned of your schedule, knowing that you worked at the Cafe and the library for extra money for your school tuition, knowing your name and address thanks to you accidentally dropping your school ID in the hallway of the college, knowing what classes you have on what days after threatening the student council. Slowly, he has begun to know more and more about you with each passing day without you even realizing it.

He chased after that feeling, the feeling of finally being seen, being noticed. He wanted it. He craved it. He craved you. Your presence, your laugh, your smell. He wanted it all. He had never felt this way before, not to anyone. That is when the obsession began. The obsession of you, it filled the hole that he never noticed was there.

His thoughts of you were innocent—at first. They were pure, daydreaming of walking up to you, talking to you, being friendly, but they soon took a turn for the worse, deepening his obsession. Thoughts of holding you in his arms, kissing your lips, then kissing your skin, which soon turned into thoughts about tasting your skin in his teeth, hearing your moans as he licked your clit, his tongue slipping inside you, desperate to hear his name fall from that pretty little mouth of yours, as his hand groped and squeezed your breasts with such gentleness yet firmness to keep you from going silent, thoughts about thrusting his cock into you hard, the need to claim you overwhelming for him.

He couldn’t tell you how many times he touched himself to those thoughts of you, those filthy thoughts that made him yearn for more of you. He couldn’t tell you how often he’d moan your name as he spilled himself in his hand, imagining it was you he was filling, imagining it was you touching him rather than himself.

Pathetic, right?

He wasn’t subtle about it either. Students would see him around you, seeing as he kept a good distance in between you and him, they see the way he glares at people who come too close to you, who makes you uncomfortable, watching to see who makes you laugh. He is always there, watching among the shadows. You were the only person in the school who was oblivious to his insistent presence.

Which brings him to now.

Sol crouched outside your apartment, outside your bedroom window—to be exact. You always left your curtains open, the window slightly ajar, just enough for him to see everything in your bedroom, letting him believe that you left them open on purpose; just for him. He saw this as an invitation, his sick, twisted mind warping an innocent situation into something it wasn’t. You were pure, the light to his darkness, 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕤𝕒𝕝𝕧𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟.

You had to know about his presence, right? To know about his obsession and devotion to you when you roam the halls? Is that why you leave your curtains open for him? You must, or else you wouldn’t leave them open every time he comes to visit you. Usually when he visits you, you would already be asleep, fully aware of him watching you, wondering if you were dreaming of him.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you came home a bit late, coming back to your apartment after having a night out with your friends. You hobbled your way into your bedroom, tossing a pair of heels you wore on the floor, your hands going to your back, slowly unzipping and peeling away your dress you wore out, the sparkly dress pooling around your feet on the floor.

Sol’s breath hitched slightly from the sight of you. You weren’t wearing a bra, wearing soft baby pink panties that curved your ass, hugging the right places. You stepped out of the dress, trying your best to not fall or trip over yourself as you headed to your closet, picking out a random tight shirt, your peaked nipples poking through the fabric.

Sol’s jeans became tight, awfully tight. His eyes didn’t stray from your figure, his eyes settling on your hard nipples through your shirt as his hand went downward, unzipping his jeans, letting his hand slip inside his jeans. He was hard, precum already leaking from his reddened tip. He slowly started stroking himself, watching you as you climbed onto your bed, reaching into the drawer of your nightstand, retrieving something. Sol looked closely, his face almost pressing against the glass, watching your hand as you took out… a vibrator. His heart caught in his throat from the sight of a pink vibrator in your hand, his mind already going to places he shouldn’t.

Maybe you weren’t as pure as you present yourself to be.

You sat back on your bed, slipping off your underwear and tossing it aside, spreading your legs as you rubbed the plastic tip on your clit, letting out a soft noise, your eyes closed as you slipped it in, another soft moan slipping past your lips. Sol gripped his cock firmly, his cock twitching in his hand from the noises you made, the same noises he dreamt of every waking day and night. Once the vibrator was halfway in you, you twisted the knob at the end of it slowly, a soft hum erupting from it, earning a soft gasp and then a moan that followed after from you. You started moving it in and out of you slowly, more soft moans and whimpers spilled from your lips, your legs spread wide, allowing the pink vibrator to go deeper in.

Holy fuck. You were pleasuring yourself, in front of Sol. He watched as you moved your hips in time with the vibrator, your back slightly arching off the bed, his hand stroking his cock more, fisting it faster, using your moans as leverage for his pleasure. He watched as your breasts moved slightly under your shirt as you rocked your hips against the vibrator, wet sounds and your soft moans filling the room.

He covered his mouth with his free hand, suppressing the pathetic whimpers that fought to escape him as he started thrusting in his hand, chasing his release. He wanted to cum with you, to hear your moans of ecstasy. You gripped your pillow with your free hand, one leg lifting slightly as you felt yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, your hand pushing the plastic dick in and out of you relentlessly. With another harsh push of the vibrator in you, tilting it up slightly, hitting that spot you abused, you let out a sharp moan, feeling your climax escape you, your legs trembling slightly. In that same moment, Sol let out a soft, almost breathless, whimper in his hand, his cum shooting out of him and onto your apartment building wall and in his hand.

He panted softly in his hand as you got up and headed to your bathroom, leaving him alone outside in his own mess. Shit. That was intense. Hearing the water running in the bathroom, he took that as his que to leave, fixing his jeans and standing up, heading down the apartment stairwell. He hated to leave you so soon, but he had no choice. Not unless he wanted to scare you away. And, of course, he never wanted that.

When the next morning came, the school’s bell rang loudly, signaling the next class was going to start soon. Sol hurriedly left his History class, rushing to get to his Art class before you did, wanting to be there first before you could. Once he finally made it to his Art class, he walked to the back of the class; his usual seat. It had a perfect view of the seat you always sat in. Next by the window, where the Sun shone through your hair, the window was a perfect view for you to look out of whenever you were lost in your own thoughts. It was perfect for Sol.

Sol took out his red book, opened it and started to read from it, waiting. A few students had walked through the door, finding their designated seats that they wanted, his eyes occasionally looking up at the door, waiting. After most of the students had been seated, waiting for the teacher to come in, did you finally arrive in the classroom, your eyes looking forward as you headed to your seat by the window. Sol’s heart skipped a beat in his chest at the sight of you, his fingertips gripping his book slightly, as if grounding himself. His eyes followed your every move, taking in the way your hair caught the sunlight streaming in from the window. He felt his heart race in his chest as he watched you sit down at your seat, the sunlight now shining directly on you, almost like a spotlight for the whole world to see you.

You set your bag down beside you under the desk after taking out your sketchbook and a mechanical pencil. You placed a hand on your cheek, looking out of the window, waiting for class to start.

God, you looked beautiful. You always looked beautiful to Sol.

Sol bit down on his spider bites, his eyes staring at you before looking back down at his book, only for him to steal another glance at you a few minutes later. Soon, the art teacher came into the room, the students hushing each other, breaking his gaze from your side profile to look up at the front of the class on the board as the teacher set his bag on his desk, hushing everyone to begin his class.

As the teacher droned on about the upcoming assignment that was due soon, Sol couldn’t pay attention, he didn’t even try to, his gaze fixated on you, watching as you subconsciously nibbled at the end of your mechanical pencil, your eyes focused on the teacher, as if invested in every word the guy was saying. It made Sol a little jealous, if he was being honest with himself.

Sol wasn’t paying attention when the students started to get up and move to different tables, most likely to get with their table partners. He didn’t move from his seat, his usual partner not there today, running off to a “family emergency” or something like that. He sighed softly, closing his eyes, a headache starting to form. Until he heard a voice, the voice he dreams about every night.

“Hey there.”

His heart raced as he opened his eyes, keeping a cool composure as you walked up to his desk, standing right beside him. So close.

He raised an eyebrow at you, keeping his voice cool and calm. “Seems like you’re a bit lost there.” God, he was talking to you! Oh, how his heart leaped in his chest as you started talking to him, a soft smile playing on your lips, the smile he daydreams about.

“Do you have a partner?” You asked him, tilting your head slightly, your hair moving slightly with you. God, you smelled good. So fucking good. He shifted slightly in his seat, willing himself to not get hard in this moment, not when he was finally talking to you.

“... No.”

Your smile widened, pointing to the empty seat next to him. “Do you want to be partners?” You asked, your voice light and full of life. He swallowed, looking between you and the seat before waving a hand to you.

“Sure, why not.” He responded, his composure calm despite his racing heart trying to do backflips and frontflips in his chest. You nodded, taking the empty spot next to him, setting your sketchbook and pencil down on the desk. You turned to face him, your head tilted with curiosity.

“I never got to know your name.”

“It’s not important.”

“It is if I’m going to be your partner. And I should at least know what to call you instead of ‘green-streak guy.’” You retorted back. He raised an eyebrow at you, at the nickname you had silently decided to give him. He sighed softly, shaking his head, trying to suppress a smile. A nickname is a nickname. Right?

“Solivan Brugmansia… But just call me Sol.”

“Sol…” You tilted your head up, looking at the ceiling as you tapped a finger on the desk, thinking. Your eyes went back to him, looking him up and down slowly. Fuck, keep staring at him like that then he’ll surely become hard.

“Your name means the exact opposite to what you are wearing if I have got to be honest. Not that you don’t dress well! You look good!” You said, letting out a nervous laugh, afraid you insulted him. He felt his face get hot from your compliment, biting his spider bites and readjusting his collar. Oh fuck. He stood up suddenly, startling you. Before you could ask what was wrong, he moved past you, not sparing you a second glance as he rushed to the nearest bathroom, trying his best to hide the bulge that had started to form in his jeans.

Once he made it to the bathroom stall, locking it, he immediately unzipped his jeans, taking his hard length out, stroking it at a fast pace, a hand covering his mouth to muffle his sounds. Fuck, why can’t he just be normal around you? Why did you have to get so close to him? To compliment him when he tried to hold himself back from getting hard around you.

Why did you have to be 𝕐𝕆𝕌?

He kept pumping his cock fast, muffling his pathetic moans in his hand, imagining it was your hand instead of his. Fuck, he wanted to take you right then and there, not giving a shit if it was in the middle of a classroom full of student. He would’ve let them watch, to see who you belonged to, to watch as he 𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞𝕖𝕕 you.

Another thrust had him moaning in his hand, his cum spilling from him and onto the floor and hand. He panted softly, leaning his head back against the stall, closing his eyes. He desperately needed professional help for the shit he has done. But he didn’t care.

After cleaning up and walking out of the bathroom did he run into you again, your face full of worry as you rushed to him.

“There you are! I was starting to worry if my comment about how you looked made you run away!” You told him once you stood in front of him, looking up at him with an innocent expression. Fuck, even after coming, his dick didn’t know when to stop, did it?

“Sorry, I had to… take care of something.” Yes. Not suspicious at all to say that. You let out a soft sigh, relieved, looking back up at him, a smile on your face.

“Well, you missed the whole class, so I was wondering if you wanted to come over to my place? To work on the project?” You asked him, a slight hopeful tone in your voice as you asked. He blinked, not expecting you to have invited him over to your place. The Gods have chosen him as their favorite.

He smiled softly and nodded, his pupils dilating slightly as he looked at you. “Oh, yes, that sounds good. Do you want my number?” You nodded, giving each other your phones, typing in your phone numbers. His heart pounded in his chest, finally—and consensually, having your number. You sent him a quick message, texting him your address. He already knew what it was though, but he accepted it anyway.

“I’ll see you later, Sol.” You told him, giving him a quick wave goodbye and headed to your next class. He watched you leave, a soft chuckle escaping him once you were far away.

“Oh, Pumpkin… I’ll see you soon.”

And soon couldn’t come fast enough. By the time Sol had made it to your apartment, it was half past five. He hesitated for a moment before raising his hand, knocking on your door. He had waited this long to be invited in.

You opened the door, smiling as you found Sol there, holding his sketchbook in his hand. You lead him inside, sitting on the couch in the living room. As you both worked, Sol couldn’t help but steal glances at you, seeing how your tank top was low, his eyes able to see a bit of cleavage, seeing your thighs pressing together as you continued to sketch him as he sketched you.

After about an hour of working, you yawned, stretching your arms above your head, letting out a soft groan as your joints popped softly. You then turned to him, your eyes half-lidded, getting his full attention now.

“Sol, are you hungry?” You asked him suddenly, making him raise an eyebrow at you by the sudden question.

“Not really. But if you are, I could probably order something for you.” He answered, reaching to grab his phone from the coffee table. Your hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. He turned to you again, a look of surprise on his face.

“Are you sure you’re not hungry?” You asked again, tilting your head slightly to look up at him, your breasts pressing slightly together. He averted his gaze, a faint blush appearing on his cheeks.

“I-I’m really not..” He said, his voice getting quieter. You hummed softly, watching his every move.

“That’s not what your face said last night.” You said, your eyes never leaving his face. He froze, slowly meeting your gaze. Did you see him last night without him knowing?

As if you could see the question in his eyes, you smirked, moving slightly closer to him. “You didn’t think that I hadn't noticed you? Following me around like a lost puppy, peeking through my window at night just to see me? I knew, Sol.” You told him, wrapping your hands around his arm, your breast pressing into him, his body stiffening under your touch.

“You… knew?” He whispered softly, his voice barely a whisper. You just giggled softly, reaching up and poking his cheek. “Of course I did, silly. Why else would I put on a show for you last night?” You asked him, gently cupping his cheek. He subconsciously leaned into the touch, closing his eyes briefly.

“I’m sorry, I hadn’t meant-”

You silenced him with a sweet kiss to his lips. He froze, his eyes snapping open, feeling your lips on his. When you pulled away, you gave him a small smirk, seeing the effect you had on him. “Don’t apologize. If I didn’t want you to follow me around or see me fuck myself with a vibrator, I would have called the cops on you for being a pervert.~” You whispered to him. His breath hitched slightly from the tone of your voice despite the little threat.

Suddenly, you pushed him down back onto the couch, making him lay down as you climbed on top of him, your hands on his chest, feeling his heart beating fast in his chest.

“You can make it up to me, if you do dare to.” You told him, smiling down at him as you ran a hand down his chest to his stomach. He swallowed hard, looking up at you, his hands running up your thighs slowly.

“How would you want me to make it up to you?” He asked softly, his eyes never leaving yours. Instead of answering, you leaned down, kissing his lips again, this time firmly.

A firm kiss to seal a silent vow— 𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕒𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕤.

#tkatb vn #visual novel #literature #tkatb x reader #tkatb sol #solivan brugmansia #smut #the kid at the back smut #the kid at the back vn #the kid at the back sol #anginophobia #long fanfic #enjoy

224 notes · View notes

sweetheartsofpanem · 3 months ago

Text

He Fell Harder - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

🌝🌝🌝🌝🌝

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 4.15k

series masterlist | main masterlist

The wall’s been staring at me for hours.

Or maybe I’ve been staring at it. Hard to tell.

It’s past midnight. House is quiet. The kind of quiet that rings in your ears like an accusation. I’ve been nursing the same drink long enough for the ice to melt and water it down to nothing. Doesn’t matter. Still burns. Still does the job.

Sort of.

My living room’s a mess, but not more than usual. Chair’s got a rip in it I keep meaning to fix. The books are crooked on the shelf. There’s a sock on the floor I swear I don’t remember owning. It’s all the same. Every night. Except lately—

Lately, everything’s felt off-kilter.

She’s in my head.

Y/N. Laughing like the whole world’s worth laughing at. Tossing insults over her shoulder like rose petals. Smiling at me like she doesn’t know better. Or maybe like she does.

I keep thinking about the damn couch. The way she curls into it like she owns the space. Like she belongs here. And the worst part—the part that keeps crawling under my skin—is that it doesn’t feel wrong. Doesn’t feel like an intrusion. It feels… easy.

Natural.

Comfortable.

And maybe I could’ve kept pretending it was nothing—just banter, just teasing, just a kid who didn’t know any better—but then she went and hurt herself.

Sprained ankle. Her dumbass tripped on a root.

When she went down, something in my chest—

God.

I carried her.

I didn’t think. Just picked her up and didn’t stop moving until she was safe and seated and being annoying about it like always.

And it felt different. Holding her like that.

It felt like something I wasn’t ready to name.

I’ve been over and over it in my head. The way she looked up at me. Like she trusted me. And maybe she does. Maybe she shouldn’t.

Because I’ve spent every night since trying to figure out when exactly I started wanting her near me all the time. When I started looking forward to her barging into my house. When I started making excuses to sit beside her instead of just next to her.

And worse—when I started looking at her like that.

She’s younger. Too young, maybe. Not a kid. But not someone I should be thinking about when I close my eyes.

Except I do.

I think about her laughing. I think about her tucking her hair behind her ear. I think about the way she looked at me that night when I said I wasn’t leaving. Like she believed me. Like she needed to believe me.

I thought I was just being nice. I thought I was just making her laugh because someone ought to. But now I’m sitting here trying to remember if I’ve actually been flirting with her this whole time and just didn’t realize it.

It hits me all at once. And it hits hard.

I like her.

God help me, I like her.

And I can’t. I shouldn’t.

Because there’s someone else who owns the pieces of me that are still good. Someone I already failed.

Lenore Dove.

Her name still feels like a prayer. Like a wound.

I can still see her face—lit up like the sun when she saw me. Still feel her hands in mine. Still hear her voice when she laughed and said she could finally eat the gumdrops I got her before The Reaping.

She’d stashed them at home, saved them like they meant something. I thought it was sweet. Thought it meant she still wanted me even after everything.

And then I realized too late.

And then she was gone.

I held her while she died.

I told her I loved her like all-fire.

And I meant it. I still mean it.

So how the hell can I feel like this about someone else?

How can I want to protect her, make her smile, make her laugh again and again just to see what it does to her face?

How can I look at her and feel something that feels a lot like hope?

I haven’t felt anything like this in twenty-five years.

And it terrifies me.

Because what if this is betrayal?

And worse—what if it’s not?

I press the heel of my hand against my eye socket and let my head tip back against the couch, trying to breathe around it. The ache. The sting behind my ribs.

Not even the drink numbs it tonight.

She’s probably asleep right now, in that creaky little bed in that quiet little house that’s started to smell like mint and cinnamon and summer. Probably dreaming about stars or flowers or whatever soft thing crawled into her bones and stayed there. Probably not thinking about me.

Good. That’s good.

I’m not what she needs. Never have been.

And still.

Still.

When she looked at me like I held the world in one cracked hand after I carried her to the couch—when she touches my arm and smiles like I’m something safe—

I felt it. Like a fuse catching. Like the slow burn of something waiting too long.

And that’s the part I can’t shake.

I look at the wall again like it’s gonna give me a damn answer.

But it’s just silence. Cold and flat.

I close my eyes and see her face—not Lenore Dove’s, but hers.

Y/N.

That stupid wide-eyed smile she gives me when I hand her tea. The way she blushes like it’s a crime. The way she said something ridiculous about me nursing her through fever dreams, and I just—

I pictured her in bed, pale and sick, me sitting beside her trying not to panic. Holding her hand. Stroking her hair. Whispering something stupid to keep her awake.

Why the hell would I think about that?

Why would I want that?

Why would I want—

My throat tightens.

I push off the couch fast like movement will fix it, like pacing will erase the thought, but it doesn’t. It just makes it worse.

Because I’ve been calling her honey for too long now. And maybe I told myself it was a joke. Maybe I thought it was just a word.

But I don’t think it is anymore.

She says sunshine like it’s a challenge. She says it like it’s mine.

And that’s the real problem, isn’t it?

I want her to keep saying it.

I want her to say it when she’s happy. When she’s scared. When she’s old and cranky and teasing me from the other end of a shared porch.

I want—

I press my palms to my eyes until I see stars.

No.

No, this can’t be that.

This can’t be anything.

Because Lenore Dove is dead.

And I promised her forever.

Even if forever got me nowhere.

Even if I’ve been alone since that day.

Even if I’m tired of an empty bed and hollow silences at night and flasks that don’t fix a damn thing.

Even if part of me wants to believe maybe—maybe—it could be different.

I sit back down on the couch like gravity finally won.

And I say it out loud, just to hear how it sounds in the dark.

“…Shit.”

Yeah.

That’s about right.

I drop my head into my hands, let out a breath that rattles in my chest.

I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with this—what I’m supposed to do with her.

And then, a knock.

Soft. Barely there.

I blink toward the door like I imagined it. But it comes again.

Quiet. Hesitant.

I drag myself up and open it.

And there she is.

Haymitch opens the door, and for a second, all you do is look at him.

His hair’s a mess, his shirt wrinkled. He smells like whiskey and sleep and something warm underneath, something familiar. His eyes flicker with something unreadable—surprise, maybe, or guilt, or just the heaviness of being seen at the wrong hour.

You swallow.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say.

It’s not a lie. Just not the whole truth.

Because you could’ve stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling like you’ve done a hundred times before. You could’ve fought it off. Let it rot in your chest.

But something pulled you here.

To him.

To this.

Haymitch doesn’t say anything at first. Just steps aside and lets you in.

You walk past him, into the dimness of his living room, still cold from whatever storm passed through him before you arrived.

And you realize, with a pang that settles somewhere low and soft in your ribs:

You don’t want to be anywhere else.

You settle into the spot on the couch you always seem to gravitate toward. The cushions dip under you with a familiar sigh, and for a few seconds, neither of you says anything.

Haymitch stands near the doorway like he’s forgotten what to do with his hands. Eventually, he crosses his arms. Then uncrosses them. Then scrubs a hand down his face like that might fix whatever’s going on behind his eyes.

You tilt your head. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t meet your gaze. Just grunts, “Yeah.”

You blink. Wait. Watch him pace three steps across the room before turning back.

“You sure?” you ask, more cautious this time. “You seem… I dunno. Weird.”

He flinches like you poked a bruise. “I’m fine.”

The way he says it? Too fast. Too flat.

You squint. “Okay…”

You start to stand. “I can go, if now’s not—”

“No.”

You freeze.

Haymitch’s voice is quiet but too quick, like he didn’t think before saying it. He runs a hand through his hair and mutters, “You don’t have to go.”

Your fingers twitch at your sides. “You just seem upset.”

“I’m not.”

You nod slowly. Weird.

He gives you a look, but it’s not sharp—just tired. Edged with something you can’t quite name.

Still, you don’t push. You just sit back down, legs curled beneath you, pulling one of the throw blankets over your lap like this is just another one of your many late nights.

A silence settles between you. Not heavy. Not yet.

Just enough to make you wonder what’s shifted.

You glance over at him after a beat. “You dying or something?”

He snorts. “No.”

“Possessed?”

“No.”

“Secret twin impersonating you while the real Haymitch is tied up in a closet?”

He shoots you a glare. “Wouldn’t be a very good impersonation, then.”

You grin. “True. That guy would’ve already made me tea, stolen said tea, then called me a menace.”

He sinks down into the armchair across from you and grabs his flask, even though there’s a glass on the coffee table. “You are a menace.”

“There it is,” you say, smiling. “I was starting to worry.”

Haymitch shakes his head but doesn’t hide the small twitch of his mouth. The room feels warmer now, like the storm is passing—like the strange weight between you is softening at the edges.

And still, in the back of your mind: weird.

But you don’t dwell on it.

You just lean back, blanket tucked around your knees, and ask, “So… are you gonna tell me what crawled into your head and died, or do I have to start guessing again?”

Haymitch doesn’t answer right away.

Just raises the flask halfway to his mouth, then pauses—eyes flicking toward you in the low light.

Something unreadable.

Something steady.

And just a little afraid.

Haymitch doesn’t speak for a few seconds. Just taps the side of the flask with his thumb like he’s weighing something in his head.

Then, with a sigh: “You ever just… think too hard and ruin your whole damn night?”

You blink. “Uh, every day?”

He huffs a quiet breath, not quite a laugh, and leans back in the chair. “Right. Forgot who I was talking to.”

You clutch your chest dramatically. “Was that an insult?”

“Observation,” he says, deadpan.

You narrow your eyes. “Careful. I bite.”

“I’m counting on it.”

The silence that follows is just long enough to make you question if he really said that or if your brain made it up to mess with you.

He doesn’t even flinch. Just takes a sip from his flask, all casual. Like he didn’t just drop a line that would’ve sent any sane person spiraling.

Your face is on fire.

“Okay,” you mutter, tugging your sleeves over your hands. “That was either the most casual threat of violence I’ve ever heard or… something else.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You gonna cry about it?”

“Only if you say something nice again.”

“Don’t worry, not planning to.”

You lower your hands slowly. “Is this your version of a love language? Being unbearable?”

He leans forward just enough to rest his elbows on his knees. “If it is, you’re fluent.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Point at him like he personally offended you. “I hate that that was clever.”

He smirks. “That’s the spirit.”

You grumble, but the tension has shifted—lighter now. Familiar. The kind of back-and-forth that’s always been safe ground between you two, even when neither of you would admit how much of it isn’t actually about the insults.

Haymitch tilts his head slightly. “Why’d you come?”

You blink. “I said I couldn’t sleep, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You also show up here when you’re pretending not to need something.”

You hesitate, eyes flicking toward the window. “Maybe I just didn’t want to be alone with my brain tonight.”

He watches you for a beat, eyes narrowed in that way that usually means he’s trying to see more than you’re saying.

“You always show up when that happens?”

You shrug. “Only for people who make fun of my tea.”

He smirks. “Lucky me.”

And then, a pause. One of those ones where the words are still sitting between you, tangled and half-shaped, not quite ready to be said.

You speak first, because someone has to. “You’re acting weird tonight.”

His smirk fades a little. “Guess I’m just tired.”

“You’ve looked worse.”

“Thanks.”

“Just being honest.”

He glances at you, then looks away again like he’s afraid of what your face might say if he keeps looking too long. “You’re the one who’s weird,” he mutters finally.

Your mouth twitches. “Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Wow. Compelling argument. What are you, six?”

He shrugs. “Mentally? Probably.”

You laugh softly, and his eyes flick toward you again—so fast it’s almost nothing. But it’s not nothing.

You feel it.

You shift where you’re sitting, tugging the blanket a little higher. “Well. As long as we’re both being weird, I guess that’s balance.”

He adjusts in his chair, looking at you like he wants to say something else. But instead, he leans back, lifts the flask, and mutters, “Guess so.”

The room settles again. You stare at a patch of moonlight on the wall, soft and white where it filters through the curtain. You think about offering another joke, something to pull the air back toward comfortable again, but it doesn’t feel necessary right now.

Not everything needs fixing.

Sometimes just being here is enough.

And so you sit like that—the quiet stretching thin between you, but never snapping.

After a while, he shifts in his chair, finally glancing your way.

You don’t meet his eyes. Just offer a soft, “Thanks for letting me in.”

His voice is rough but gentle. “You don’t have to thank me, honey.”

You nod, once. A small smile pulling at your lips despite everything.

“Still,” you say, “it’s nice.”

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “It is.”

You stretch your legs out a little, the blanket slipping from your knees as you shift. “So,” you say, casually, “on a scale from one to cryptid, how weird am I for showing up in the middle of the night again?”

Haymitch lifts his brows. “Bold of you to assume I don’t prefer cryptids to people.”

You grin. “Flattered.”

“Shouldn’t be.”

You shrug. “Still am.”

He exhales through his nose, and it’s almost a laugh. He leans forward to set the flask on the table, then stands with a quiet groan and walks across the room, pretending to inspect something on the shelf like it’s of vital importance. You know that move by now—it’s his favorite when he’s trying to avoid saying something out loud.

“You pacing for fun now?” you ask, stretching your arms overhead.

He glances over his shoulder. “Just stretching my legs. You try sitting in that damn chair and see if your spine survives.”

“Then switch,” you offer, patting the empty space on the couch beside you. “I promise it won’t bite.”

He eyes the spot like it’s a trap. Which, fair.

You raise an eyebrow. “Scared?”

He rolls his eyes and crosses the room without a word, dropping down onto the cushion next to you. The couch dips under his weight, shifting you just enough that your knee brushes his.

Your heart stutters, but you keep your face neutral, your voice light. “See? Not so bad.”

Haymitch doesn’t answer right away. Just reaches for the throw blanket you kicked aside and tosses it back onto your lap without looking at you. “You’re cold,” he mutters.

You blink. “Are you… fussing?”

“I’m keeping you from whining later.”

“Wow,” you say. “So generous.”

“Tell the press.”

You bump your knee lightly against his. “This is peak hospitality.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t shut the door and lock it after you saw me.”

He snorts. “You’d break the window.”

“Not wrong.”

“Besides,” he adds, quieter, “you’re not exactly hard to make room for.”

That gives you pause. You blink, not sure how to respond, and your brain short-circuits just long enough for your foot to slide a little—closer than you meant. You catch yourself too late, your ankle brushing against his. Your whole body stiffens.

But he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t flinch or shift or make a joke out of it. Just stays there, still and steady beside you.

You glance at him, expecting some kind of comment. A jab, a quip, anything.

But he’s looking at the wall again, quiet. Calm. And—if you didn’t know better—you’d think he looked… content.

Your stomach flips. You pretend it doesn’t.

You shift your focus back to the window, where the moonlight spills in pale and soft across the floorboards.

“Bet you’re regretting this decision now,” you say, voice light.

Haymitch doesn’t look at you, just lifts an eyebrow. “Letting you in?”

“Sitting next to me. You could’ve had your grumpy little chair and peace and quiet.”

He snorts. “You talk too much for peace and quiet.”

“You love it,” you say, bumping his leg again—just barely.

He hums like he’s considering it. “I tolerate it.”

“Which is Haymitch-speak for deep emotional affection.”

“That’s a stretch.”

You pretend to be deeply wounded. “I bare my soul to you every Tuesday and this is the thanks I get?”

“Bare your soul?” He glances at you now, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “You came over last week just to complain that your strawberries didn’t taste ‘emotionally satisfying enough.’”

“They didn’t! They had weird vibes.”

“You have weird vibes.”

You gasp. “Wow.”

He just sips from the flask again, like your offense is routine at this point.

“Okay,” you say, shifting slightly to face him more, arms still wrapped in the blanket. “If we’re gonna hurl insults all night, I demand snacks.”

He raises an eyebrow. “It’s two in the morning.”

“So? You’ve definitely eaten worse things at worse hours.”

He opens his mouth, pauses, then shrugs. “Fair.”

You grin. “You got anything?”

“Kitchen’s a mess,” he mutters. “I think there’s bread.”

“Ooh. Stale or fresh?”

“Your standards are too low.”

“They have to be. Look who I hang out with.”

That gets a huff out of him, almost a laugh. He leans back, arm settling along the back of the couch—and you do not look at it. Not even a little. Definitely not.

You tilt your head, still watching him. “You gonna get up or am I supposed to hobble in there on one leg and risk death by loose floorboard?”

He smirks. “You’ll survive.”

“Rude. I’m injured.”

“You’ve been milking that ankle for days.”

You gasp again. “I sprained it!”

“You limped for sympathy.”

“It hurt!”

“It got you out of cleaning the pantry.”

“That was a coincidence.”

“Mm-hm.”

You jab him in the side with your elbow. He shifts, just slightly, and doesn’t move away.

“I’m going to tell Peeta you mocked my pain.”

“He already knows.”

“Katniss will destroy you.”

“She’ll help me alphabetize the herbs while you fake cry on the porch.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re lucky I like you.”

That makes him pause.

Just for a second.

He doesn’t reply with a quip. Doesn’t tease or deflect. Just breathes out slowly, eyes flicking toward the floor.

And you suddenly feel like maybe you said something too loud, too honest.

So you clear your throat, shifting again, trying to brush past it. “Anyway. Snacks. Come on, sunshine, let’s see what horrors your pantry holds.”

He rolls his eyes—thankfully back to banter. “You’re the horror.”

You grin. “You say that like it’s not your favorite genre.”

His mouth twitches.

And then, quietly, “You’re not that hard to like, you know.”

You blink.

But before you can say anything, he’s already pushing himself up off the couch with a muttered grumble and heading for the kitchen.

You sit there for a second, blinking at the spot he just left.

Your chest feels like it’s got too many heartbeats crammed into it.

And still—you follow him.

You end up with a package of half-stale crackers, a bowlful of walnuts, and what might be the last edible apple in his house. Haymitch claims it’s “plenty”.

Still, it’s enough to bring the two of you back to the couch, settling into your respective spots like you didn’t just spend the last five minutes arguing about whether the apple “smelled suspicious.”

Now the room is quiet again. Not uncomfortable—just soft around the edges. The kind of quiet that fills in between laughs.

You glance sideways.

Bad decision.

Haymitch is leaned back, snack bowl balanced on one hand while the other rests over his thigh—long fingers curled loosely, veins standing out under the skin in a way that should not be allowed. His shirt is wrinkled, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and the collar’s hanging just crooked enough to show the line of his neck, collarbone shadowed in the dim light.

You look away.

You look back.

Mistake.

You should not be thinking about his thighs. You should not be thinking about his hands. You should not be noticing how the apple looks ridiculously small in his palm or how he just cracked a walnut open with a twist of his wrist like it was nothing.

Your brain is melting.

You reach for a cracker and miss your mouth entirely.

Haymitch watches you do it. Doesn’t say a word.

You clear your throat and pop it into your mouth like nothing happened. “Bold of you to hoard all the decent snacks in your apocalypse pantry.”

He hums. “Better than your tea drawer.”

“You don’t deserve my tea stash.”

“Is that what you’re calling it now? That one drawer with four dusty bags and something that smells like soap?”

You gasp. “That soap is lavender and peace, thank you very much.”

“It smells like regret.”

“You smell like a crypt.”

“And you keep showing up here. Makes you the cryptkeeper.”

“I hope your next biscuit turns to dust in your mouth.”

He looks over, grinning slightly. “God, you’re dramatic.”

You shrug. “You bring it out in me.”

That shuts him up for a second.

He doesn’t look away this time. Just shifts his weight a little, shoulder brushing yours.

You very, very intentionally do not react.

Instead, you pluck a walnut out of the bowl and mutter, “This one better be good or I’m declaring war.”

“You declared war three snacks ago.”

“Well, now it’s personal.”

You crack it open and, of course, it’s perfect. You pretend it’s not.

Haymitch smirks. “Satisfied?”

“I’ll never admit it.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

He glances at you, quiet for a second. Then, “Yeah. I am.”

You freeze just a little. Bite the inside of your cheek. Try not to let it show.

Because he’s sitting too close, and he looks too good for someone who’s allegedly grumpy and emotionally constipated. And his hands are right there, and he’s warm, and the room smells like him and apples and something deeper and you are losing your mind quietly, internally, respectfully.

“I should go,” you say—too quickly, too unconvincingly.

He tilts his head. “No, you shouldn’t.”

You blink.

“Your ankle,” he adds, like it’s obvious. “Can’t have you hobbling home and falling into a ditch.”

“Wow. So noble.”

“I try.”

Next Part

169 notes · View notes

evilmagician430 · 1 year ago

Text

MONSTER HIGH DID IT AGAIN AND ON A COLLECTOR DOLL??? which fucking designer is responsible for this

tf is this teal color. are they scared of green?

#monster high #dollblr #evilmartin430.txt #beyond pissed at lenore loomington. besides the teal thing her design isnt even good #unstyled long hair... girl who is buying this doll to play with the hair. do something.#someone said she looks G2 in a bad way and i gotta agree #atleast her mug is pretty but who the hell is paying that much just for a pretty face w an ugly outfit and color scheme

37 notes · View notes

k3yboi · 11 months ago

Text

long hair lenore part 2 bc someone asked to see their reactions- i would’ve added more but i got sleepy

#nevermore webcomic #nevermore webtoon #nevermore fanart #annabel lee nevermore #annabel lee whitlock #ada nevermore #lenore nevermore #annabel lee x lenore #lenore vandernacht #lenore x annabel #white raven #duke nevermore #montresor nevermore

949 notes · View notes

mirixmoya · 3 months ago

Text

my initial first-read thoughts for SOTR PART I: THE BIRTHDAY obviously there will be MAJOR SPOILERS under the cut but i hope u enjoy :)

chapter 01;

laundress Mrs. Abernathy i knew u were real. i felt u in my soul

“woah, a promotion!” he’s such a dick (affectionate)

i know white liquor has been mentioned in previous books but i find its’ emphasis here as a part of district 12 culture (especially for the labouring class) to be really interesting. it feel analogous to the rise of drinking culture amongst working-class britons amid the industrial revolution.

“I’m not much of a drinker myself,” suzanne im gonna kms

lenore dove having a fancy for colourful things... there are haydove / hayffie parallels everywhere for those with the eyes to see

the change in the Covey culture between tbosas and sotr feels very poignant

i predicted hair ribbon lenore dove idc

haymitch thinking clerk carmine hates love only to find out the man is secretly in a long-term relationship for fear of persecution... don't u worry baby that's gonna be u in a couple decades.

i am also taking credit for predicting pocketknife haymitch

another M name for maysilee's sister... i'm basically a prophet

"you two didn't have to dress up for me" he's a comedian ladies and gentlemen

AN ESCORT!!!!!!

haymitch not being the original draw... suzanne do u want me dead.

chapter 02;

i find haymitch's reluctance to act when faced with things he knows are wrong to be really interesting, especially compared to lenore dove's insistence on action. it's something that sets them apart from one another, whereas i've always felt the hesitation to act was something that haymitch and effie had in common.

parallels between haymitch putting himself between lenore dove and the peacekeeper vs. haymitch putting himself between katniss and the peacekeeper... that's sick.

plutarch appearance? these two divas and their generational beef.

"or some extra-horrible snappy way to die" literally the worst thing in the world is happening and this boy is doing his tight ten standup.

i think drusilla vs. effie could be an interesting study in the de-escalation of the escort role. drusilla's persona is overtly and pointedly hostile compared to effie's put-on benevolence.

"the Capitol rigs the reaping!" gang we may have lost the battle (online discourse) but we have won the war (canon material)

"Not from her and not from me" haydove is absolute gas and i knew it would be

bruise-knuckled haymitch i loved u first

chapter 03;

“will she be able to make ends meet without my wages from hattie? she will, or she’ll die trying.” Mrs. Abernathy i love u so much.

him mourning the life he should have had… my shayla.

haymitch’s resentment for uptight frilly spoiled maysilee… haymitch eventually coming around to maysilee by way of forced proximity and circumstance. haymitch’s resentment for uptight frilly spoiled effie… haymitch eventually coming around to effie by way of forced proximity and circumstance. interesting.

Lucy Gray mention who else cried

putting money on mags being the twelve mentor rn

i know drusilla is the bad guy here but unfortunately i am predisposed to have a latent affection for snobby escorts “Daylight is murder!” is soooo effie.

chapter 04;

haymitch thinking about that cake the same way katniss thought about the chicken with oranges in thg that's my fatherdaughter duo

"don't let them paint their posters with your blood" okayyy mr. abernathy the poet

maysilee donner diva of all time i knew i would love her

i also like that the luxuries given to the tributes is a slow build up from snow taking power rather than going straight to the level of luxury we see in the og series. it feels indicative of the capitol's need to continuously justify the taking of tributes. the hunger games is not stagnant, it is a machine that is constantly in motion, constantly building upon itself lest it fall. it's interesting.

chapter 05;

"seems the capitol has to convince its own citizens, too" and y'all KNOW i love that shit.

something something haymitch's first token from lenore being a fire starter something something haymitch's second token from effie being patterned with fire

"i need to take a piss" olivia wilde nodding gif that's MY haymitch

haymitch judging the crowd for being drunk made me insanely sad like omg he doesn't even know what's coming...

chapter 06;

haymitch rearranging louella's braids and wiping the blood from her face... he's just a baby boy ur honour

"our eyes meet, and a smile plays on his lips. no anger, no outrage, and certainly no fear. i have not impressed him with my performance." suzanne im literally shitting bricks don't scare me like this.

them calling eachother Miss Donner and Mr. Abernathy... haysilee u ate that one lil thing i will not lie

WIRESS APPEARANCE I CHEERED!!!!

i would literally bet money on wiress being the one to teach haymitch how to spot the forcefield just like she did with katniss... my tethered fatherdaughter

MAGS!!! MY DIVA!!!

chapter 07;

"and while lenore dove will forever be my true love," i need every hayffie fan who freaked out at that line to relax, take a deep breath, and to never take a 16-year-old's word on love at face value.

haymitch having very realistic / literal dreams means haymitch having very realistic / literal nightmares for the rest of his life :(

"nice outfit" the world could literally be ending and this man would still be doing his standup.

"the arena's just a machine really. a killing machine" banger.

maysilee giving very Eyes Bright, Chins Up, Smiles On in this moment i have no choice but to stan

miss suzanne introducing the children to the idea that the Labouring Many will always outnumber the Owning Few and that it isn't for the Few to rule over the Many everyone say thank u suzanne

chapter 08;

plutarch and haymitch having a decades long beef might be the best lore drop of this book

why is plutarch that trust fund kid in ur first year polisci class who read marx once but has literally never had a conversation with anyone who went to high school next to a corn field.

his stressed out ass tryna get maysilee and wyatt's act together... welcome back Mentor Haymitch!

BEETEE APPEARANCE!!!!

beetee's son is gonna die :(((((

chapter 09;

"i don't drink" my babyyy my baby ur my baby

haymitch calling The Raven lenore dove's poem... baby that is Sir Edgar Allen Poe u are quoting rn.

snow being visibly unwell during the 50th i know his ass was RANCID by the 74th.

also also snow being a miserable old cotcher about the fact that he lost a bad bitch like fourty years ago damn take a hike peepaw.

ANYWAY some intelligent thoughts, mostly unintelligent rambling. i hope u enjoyed all the same! i'm so so excited to continue reading tomorrow and get back to y'all with more thoughts :)

#sunrise on the reaping #sotr spoilers #haymitch abernathy #lenore dove #effie trinket #seph thoughts #more tomorrow!!!!

104 notes · View notes