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The first thing Haymitch grasps as he claws his way back to consciousness is the seeping, sweet syrupy feeling of pleasure. The morphling pump is doing its job and it is doing it well, it greedily devours up his pain, making everything feel blissful and warm...But there is something else there too. A burning arousal that is slowly gathering up inside him. His cock is hard and leaking, rubbing tantalizingly against his stomach and the soft fabric of his clothes. Low moans of pleasure escape his mouth, adjoining the cacophony of the ones breathing heavily into his ear and the rhythmic slapping sounds of flesh echoing in the room.
What happened to the party? To his cage?
His memories of before slip through his fingers like a sieve.
He feels both hot and heavy. Sweat is soaking into his clothes. There are lips at his jaw trailing wet kisses down to his neck. The heat in his gut is an inferno begging to be tended to and Haymitch tries to touch himself, desperate to put some much needed friction on his cock but his hands are bound behind him.
What is happening?
Haymitch brows furrow in confusion. His eyes refuse to obey him and there is something definitely wrong happening, a part of him that is slowly waking up from this drug fueled slumber is screaming at him to do something. Anything. He should be worried but….
He lets out another small moan.
It feels…good?
The lips at his neck pulls away suddenly.
“Say that again.” A horribly familiar voice orders into his ear, it sounds absolutely delighted by what it had just heard.
Haymitch shudders at the voice, fear dripping down his spine along with the sweat. The voice was dangerous. Instinct howls at him to answer it. To obey. “It feels good.” Haymitch manages to repeat in a slurred voice.
The voice laughs, gratified.
“Good girl.” it breathes into his ear before leaving a lingering kiss on his cheek.
Haymitch’s mind stalls at those words as a sudden feeling of dread begins to bubble within him. That part of him that is screaming that something is wrong is getting louder and louder. Before the panic can consume him, another slow thrust hits something deep inside him and a burst of heady pleasure throws Haymitch’s thoughts into disarray. He keens loudly and arches his back at the intense electric feeling.
Haymitch’s eyes snap open and he tries to figure out where he is and what is happening but his head feels like it's made out of lead and lulls to the side, refusing to move where he wants it to. Haymitch grits his teeth, and lets out a frustrated whine about his inability to control his own body.
“Would you like to see?” the voice asks softly. There is a false sweetness to it that reminds Haymitch of the flowers of the arena. Pretty, but hiding something terribly poisonous. And, helpless as he is, Haymitch has no choice but to rely on the voice.
It takes a few tries before Haymitch can struggle out a response. “P...please”
A hand snakes up his body and grasps him by the jaw, forcing him to look directly in front of him. Haymitch blinks as he takes in the sight in front of him. He thinks he must be back in the tribute apartment. Has to be. Because that Covey girl is on the screen again.
He watches as she stares back at him with glassy grey eyes, her face flushed a deep red. She writhes with pleasure on President Snow's lap, moving sluggishly in tandem with every slow roll of the president's hips. She is wearing that same colourful dress, that same style of long hair, albeit disheveled, and oddly enough, she is also wearing his flint striker. It hangs heavily off of her neck, swaying with each thrust.
Haymitch feels his face grow hotter in embarrassment as he watches them. Thankfully, they're both still clothed and the skirt of her dress modestly covers where she’s seated on him. One of Snow’s arms is coiled possessively tight around her waist, keeping her still as if she’d fly away, the other is holding her head up. Forcing her to look directly at…
“Look at you. Enjoying yourself.” President Snow murmurs into his ear. Haymitch can hear the pleased smile on his face.
In the reflection, Snow’s blue eyes are gleaming with mirth as he greedily drinks in the expression of dawning horror on Haymitch’s face as his drug-addled mind finally connects to what is happening to him.
That’s him. That's him dolled up in a wig and a dead woman’s dress moaning on Snow's cock. Haymitch isn’t looking at a television screen but a mirror.
Haymitch recoils at the sight and tries to turn away but Snow’s grip on him is like steel and he cannot look away. He pants harshly as he uses all of his remaining strength to try and push off the engorged cock thrusting up into his ass, but all he can manage to do is arch his back awkwardly.
To make things worse, the older man is barely even holding him down. Snow is letting him struggle and wriggle pathetically on his lap, no doubt enjoying the pleasant sensations Haymitch is giving him. He hates this. Loathes how truly helpless he is. Haymitch feels tears welling up in his eyes in frustration.
“Are you finished?” Snow says, because the man can’t help but twist the knife.
Those words set off another surge of helplessness and fury. Haymitch wants to snarl at him, to scream. To free himself from the soft manacles binding his hands and claw his eyes out. Haymitch wants to hurt him so badly. His eyes flicker to the hand gripping his jaw and, without thinking about the consequences, tries to bite.
It was a worthless endeavor. The hand holding his jaw swiftly moves out of reach and down to grab his throat. Not enough to choke him completely but enough to slightly constrict his air. Haymitch wheezes and feels his already racing heart beat faster.
“If you don’t behave, I’ll add a muzzle.” Snow warns, his voice low and dangerous but by the look on his face in the mirror, he seems to be genuinely considering the idea.
Haymitch remembers the birdcage and swallows down his anger. He hopes that the pleading look he gives Snow through the mirror is enough to beg him not to.
Snow merely smiles at him and releases his grip on his throat somewhat, allowing Haymitch to breathe more clearly.
The hand at his hips reaches to hike up the skirt of the dress, exposing Haymitch’s leaking cock to the cold air. Haymitch can’t do anything but watch as Snow slowly traces the ragged, healing scar on his stomach before finally taking him in hand. Haymitch hates himself, loathes himself for how easily his body submits to Snow’s touch. For the small noises of pleasure that slips out of his mouth. The older man looks so smugly pleased as Haymitch’s body continues to betray him and leans further into his hand, begging for more.
Snow has to have given him something. Something other than morphling for his body to react like this.
As Haymitch feels himself reach his climax, he shuts his eyes, unwilling to watch himself be unraveled by Snow. He feels his body clench tightly around Snow’s cock and his head spins from the bliss of the orgasm.
Haymitch is breathing heavily, trying to recover when the hand at his throat pulls away to join the one at his hips. Snow grips him in a bruising hold so he can slam into him harder at a harsh pace satisfying only for him. At least with Snow’s hands preoccupied, Haymitch is no longer forced to watch himself get fucked. He closes his eyes tightly and hides his face in Snow’s neck, hoping it might drown the world out. The overwhelming stench of roses and blood is almost as bad as looking in the mirror.
Almost.
Haymitch can hear Snow panting heavily now, his thrusts growing increasingly erratic, slamming into him brutally. It’s too much. Haymitch lets out a low whine at the overstimulation but Snow ignores him, too focused on chasing his own pleasure. Finally, Snow lets out a small hiss, and then a content groan as he slams Haymitch’s hips down and shoves his cock deep inside him, painting his insides.
They’re both breathing heavily. The only sound filling the room.
Haymitch opens his eyes, tears still streaming down his face. It’s over. It’s finally over. But it’s too early to feel relief because Snow’s hand is back again. It lazily grips the wig pinned to his head, forcing him to look at himself in the mirror one last time.
Humiliation and shame mars his tear stricken face. His eyes are red from crying and his cheeks are still flushed from the awful cocktail of emotions and pleasure. Haymitch shivers at the feeling of come leaking out of him and of his own coating his stomach. Displaying the cruel evidence of his own pleasure.
He looks ruined.
Haymitch does not know how he’ll ever face Lenore Dove again.
Snow makes an appreciative hum as he looks at him. Cold blue eyes watching him intently. “Now, you look like a true victor from District 12.” He whispers in Haymitch’s ear.
Haymitch shudders at his words. They seem almost wistful. Did he do this to her? His Covey girl? Does Snow wish he had? He feels sick at the thought and forces himself to stop thinking about it. He’s tired. So tired of Snow and his games.
Through the fog in his mind, Haymitch blearily watches as Snow reaches for something on the side table next to them. It's some sort of small device with buttons. A remote? But for what?
Haymitch gets his answer when another heavy dose of morphling invades his blood stream. Pleasant. Syrupy sweet. A welcome reprieve. Haymitch hesitates for a moment before submitting to the drug. Best not to fight it. He lets it smother the horror, the humiliation and his mind like a heavy blanket of snow.
Haymitch can only hope it’ll also bury the memory of this nightmare as well.
The world begins to blur again. Haymitch’s breath evens out, his heart beat slows. He feels his body relax against the monster beneath him as if he’d just stepped into a hot bath. Snow’s cock, still inside of him, has gone soft now and Haymitch can feel his hands still roaming over his body. Can see it reflected on the mirror. The victor enjoying his spoils.
Haymitch cringes and closes his eyes.
Yes. Best to let the morphling anesthetize this.
The last thing Haymitch registers before the sedative reclaims his cognizance is the overwhelming taste of blood as Snow pulls him into a suffocating kiss.