The Couch Comes First
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...My girlfriend makes me write porn sometimes. And then she forgets to prompt it for challenges so I can pretend to have an excuse other than "I want Haymitch to get laid. A lot."
This is one of those fics.
Title: The Couch Comes First
Author: Mithrigil
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Characters: Johanna Mason and Haymitch Abernathy
Words: 2100
Rating: NC-17
Blame: Puel, for not prompting this on Porn Battle and then making me write it anyway.
Spoilers: None, except for Johanna’s existence, in which case, Johanna exists, sorry guys.
Summary: Haymitch is territorial. Johanna is provocative. Both of them are stubborn.
Nobody knows how long Haymitch and that couch have been in a relationship. If you ask Chaff, he can tell you when Haymitch and that couch first met, and if you ask Brutus, he can tell you about the when Haymitch first got possessive and started a fistfight over who can and can’t sit on that couch. But for all anyone knows, Haymitch took that couch to the Justice Building, sat it down in front of a fire and burned a hunk of bread to stuff between the cushions.
Look at him, Johanna thinks. Pathetic piece of shit.
It’s early morning as far as the Capitol goes, which explains why no one else is in the victor’s lounge, and Haymitch is asleep on that couch, hand still loosely curled around the neck of an empty bottle. He sleeps with the lights on, and the televisions, but they’re muted. Onscreen, it’s too early for anyone to bother killing each other. Out here, it’s just the right time.
“You’re stinking up the place,” Johanna says, kicking the bottle out of his grasp. “Wake up, asshole-”
She doesn’t get any further than that before he grabs her by the ankle and throws her to the floor. It knocks the wind out of her and sends a flare up around her eyes and she doesn’t get the chance to breathe again before he rolls off the cushions and pins her. He smells like a distillery and the first air Johanna manages to breathe she chokes on, coughing in his face.
That’s probably what stops him from ripping her eyes out.
“Fuck, Josie, I sleep with a knife,” he snarls.
She rolls her eyes and shoves him off. “Don’t call me that.”
He laughs, probably at her, and sits back on his haunches. “Don’t sneak up on me, we’ll call it even.”
“Fine, whatever,” she says. She’s still a little winded-figures the man weighs as much as a fucking bear, well, maybe a hungry bear-and sits on the edge of the couch, puts her head in her hands and tries to breathe.
“Get off my couch,” he says.
“Last I checked, it wasn’t your property.”
“Then you haven’t gone far enough back in the records, sweetheart. Time out of mind, me and this couch. Promised like the prince and princess in a fairy story. I climbed the vines and slew the dragon and everything.”
“Hate to break it to you, Haymitch, but your princess likes girls,” Johanna says, leaning back on the cushions and stretching out, “not washed-up drunks that look twice their age and smell twice as dead. Look how it’s snuggling me,” she says, wriggling into the backboard and the arm, “like a great big kitty cat. Move over.”
“Like hell. You don’t have couch privileges.”
“Fine, how can I get couch privileges?”
“You can blow me,” he says.
She blinks.
She stares at him and blinks again.
“You actually just said that.”
He grins. He’s not missing any teeth, not that she can see, even if they’re stained to almost the color of his skin. “It was worth a shot.”
“Yeah, I bet it’ll be the first you’ve had in a long, long time,” she says. And she doesn’t budge. It’s not even a nice couch, and it does smell like Haymitch, but it’s the principle of the thing, and besides. Someone has to knock him off his high cushion.
“Hell, you can stay on the couch while you do it,” he taunts, folding his arms behind his head and looking at her sidelong. “Gives you a headstart, Josie.”
“You want my mouth on your cock, you don’t call me Josie,” she says. “My father calls me Josie.”
“I thought your father was dead.”
“Shut up and open your pants.”
He leans against his side of the couch and does, without wiping that grin off his face. She props her elbows in the gap between the cushions, levels her face with this thighs. She’s surprised that he isn’t hard yet, but that’s just another thing to tease him about. “Let’s hope you’re a grower and not a show-er.”
“If you think insulting my dick is gonna get me off, sweetheart, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“No, I think getting my mouth all tight around it is gonna get you off, and then maybe there’ll be another thing coming.”
He laughs, once and low and as bitter as the salt smell on his skin. Johanna looks up at him and smirks, runs her tongue over her teeth and flicks it out, touching the tip to the hair under his navel. “You really want couch privileges that much, don’t you.”
“Maybe I just want to see you sweat,” she says, and lets him feel the words on his thighs. His cock swells next to her cheek, and she lets it press against her but doesn’t push back.
His fingertips tap on her hair. Too tender, she thinks, too nice, too much of something neither of them is supposed to have. “You don’t have to suck my dick to see me sweat.”
“You’re not gonna make me say I want to,” she says, but does it all the same.
He tastes better than she expected, better than he smells, heady and sour and raw. She takes him down to the base while she still can, braces her hands on his hips so he doesn’t get any ideas about going deeper while she pulls back, leaves him slick with her spit. Either he gets her drift or he thinks he’s some kind of gentleman under it all, but even though his hips shudder when she licks under his foreskin he doesn’t strain, doesn’t try to fuck her face. She looks up, as much as she can, and his head’s rolled back onto the couch cushions, pressed in hard just like her elbows and knees.
Johanna has to admit, though, she likes the feel of him getting thicker in her mouth, more than she’s liked a lot of the cocks she’s sucked. And he does get pretty thick, fills her up and shoves against her teeth. She tongues the veins on the underside, feels his pulse getting faster. He shakes. His breath rattles. He still doesn’t thrust, doesn’t grab her, and the way his hand is tracing down the nape of her neck and along her spine is almost like he’s petting her.
Fuck that.
She claws at his thighs, feels her nails scrape on the grit of his pants. So much for him holding his hips back, that gets him to jump, rub right against her hard palate and catch on her teeth. Like it or not, he gets those, gets a scrape of her molars right after a swipe of her tongue and deserves it, and that hand on Johanna’s back isn’t petting her anymore, it’s grabbing her jaw.
She pulls back enough to say, “Bet you can feel yourself there, can’t you Haymitch,” then takes him back down to see if he tries. He does, thumbs her cheek, and she laughs around him, puts her tongue between all the pressure and takes control.
Apparently he likes it. Really likes it. Not just in the desperate, probably-hasn’t-been-blown-in-a-decade way-the hotter she licks and the harder she spears him with her nails, the more those little walls start coming down. He rolls his hips, threads a hand through her hair, drawls something that’s probably her name. She tastes more than just his skin and his sweat now, sourness gathering at the slit, and she drives him nuts going for it, laughs around his cockhead and slinks away until that’s all she’s touching at all.
“Well, I’m done,” she says, sitting up on her knees. “Couch privileges.”
She gets a good look at his face before he bares his teeth and hisses through them like mad dog. “Like hell.”
“You never said I have to get you off.” She smirks. “And I said maybe.”
He’s on her before she can breathe, holding her by her neck and her crotch. His fingers push the seam of her pants into just the right spot on her cunt and it has to be luck, but it’s luck she won’t push. “Oh, we’re far from done, sweetheart. You’re not wet enough to be done.”
And it’s not like she can help writhing against his hand any more than he can help rutting against her hip. His pants slide down and she pushes them off the rest of the way, grabs his ass, and if he doesn’t get her unbuttoned she’ll do it herself but she almost likes it more as just pressure and her own clothes. But there, he does get the button undone with just one hand, and shoves his fingers down as soon as her fly is open, rests them right where she’s slickest, lets her fuck herself. It makes her tip back, makes the arm of the couch dig into her spine.
He pants against her jaw like he wants to kiss her.
“The fuck,” she says, because whatever else she might have meant, she was gonna say fuck anyway.
“Sorry,” he says, lowering his eyes.
She wonders if this could stop right here. Stupid Haymitch, she thinks, trying to make her think he’s some kind of raggedy teddy bear instead of a washed-up pathetic drunk.
Then he spins her around, pulls her pants down to her knees so her ass is in the air. He’s still got a hand on her neck but she’s completely over the arm of the couch. He lines up behind her, rubs his cock along her just like his fingers. “You want me to tease you a little?” he says, his mouth still close to her skin but not close enough to kiss. Good. “Tease you a little and fuck you a lot?”
“You just want me to say I want you.”
“You don’t, I won’t,” he says, and even if he’s not close enough to kiss, she can feel him smirking. “I’ll just jerk myself off and come all over your ass, and your pretty little cunt can play let’s not and say we did.”
The way he’s holding his cock, all set up and hard from her mouth and ready to push in, there’s no point in turning it down.
It’s not like Johanna’s made a choice of her own in a long time either.
“Go ahead, Haymitch,” she says, rolls her hips and spreads her legs so he can see everything. “Can’t you see how much I want you to fuck me?”
He laughs, and he fills her up slow, slides in so she’s grinding her hips long before he’s deep. She hears him bracing a foot on the carpet but when he thrusts the couch moves with it, and no matter how hard she pushes back it only scrapes his way along the floor. He does it hard enough to make her scream, fast enough that she wishes she weren’t screaming because she’d tell him he’s desperate. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It’s good, good and hard and brutal and, luck or not, just the way Johanna likes it best, when she knows how little they care.
“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he asks, bowed over her back, still holding her neck down and her legs spread as he plows in and out. She can hear how wet she is even over the scrape of the couch on the floor. “Plan on getting off before any of the other early risers get here? Or do you want them to see how they can get couch privileges too?”
She could say, And how many of them have you fucked?
She could say, And since when do you care if I come, is that gonna stop you?
She could say, Yeah, now, if you do that again.
She doesn’t.
She comes so hard it scares her, hard enough that when she gets over it she’ll blame the angle or the girth or anything but Haymitch actually being good in bed, hard enough she’ll remember it the next time she doesn’t get off the way she wants to. Fine. Whatever. He’s allowed to understand, it’s even good if he understands, so long as he doesn’t care. So hard that she’s not sure when or why he comes, just knows that he does when it fills her up deep and leaks out when he pulls away.
He heaves out a breath, plunks back down on the couch hard enough to shake it. She takes a little longer to catch hers, draped over the arm of the couch almost to the floor, reaching back to rub herself and trace through the wetness between her thighs. That good. Too good.
“You want to put that away before anyone else gets here?” he asks, tapping her ass, too light to be a slap but too hard to be a pat.
She laughs. “Do you?”
“Nothing I haven’t seen,” he says. “Besides, they’ll know. You’re on my couch. Now come down here and sleep, you interrupted my nap.”
When he pulls her down to the cushions, he’s still being too tender, but rough enough that Johanna can ignore it.
-
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...My girlfriend makes me write porn sometimes. And then she forgets to prompt it for challenges so I can pretend to have an excuse other than "I want Haymitch to get laid. A lot."
This is one of those fics.
Title: The Couch Comes First
Author: Mithrigil
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Characters: Johanna Mason and Haymitch Abernathy
Words: 2100
Rating: NC-17
Blame: Puel, for not prompting this on Porn Battle and then making me write it anyway.
Spoilers: None, except for Johanna’s existence, in which case, Johanna exists, sorry guys.
Summary: Haymitch is territorial. Johanna is provocative. Both of them are stubborn.
Nobody knows how long Haymitch and that couch have been in a relationship. If you ask Chaff, he can tell you when Haymitch and that couch first met, and if you ask Brutus, he can tell you about the when Haymitch first got possessive and started a fistfight over who can and can’t sit on that couch. But for all anyone knows, Haymitch took that couch to the Justice Building, sat it down in front of a fire and burned a hunk of bread to stuff between the cushions.
Look at him, Johanna thinks. Pathetic piece of shit.
It’s early morning as far as the Capitol goes, which explains why no one else is in the victor’s lounge, and Haymitch is asleep on that couch, hand still loosely curled around the neck of an empty bottle. He sleeps with the lights on, and the televisions, but they’re muted. Onscreen, it’s too early for anyone to bother killing each other. Out here, it’s just the right time.
“You’re stinking up the place,” Johanna says, kicking the bottle out of his grasp. “Wake up, asshole-”
She doesn’t get any further than that before he grabs her by the ankle and throws her to the floor. It knocks the wind out of her and sends a flare up around her eyes and she doesn’t get the chance to breathe again before he rolls off the cushions and pins her. He smells like a distillery and the first air Johanna manages to breathe she chokes on, coughing in his face.
That’s probably what stops him from ripping her eyes out.
“Fuck, Josie, I sleep with a knife,” he snarls.
She rolls her eyes and shoves him off. “Don’t call me that.”
He laughs, probably at her, and sits back on his haunches. “Don’t sneak up on me, we’ll call it even.”
“Fine, whatever,” she says. She’s still a little winded-figures the man weighs as much as a fucking bear, well, maybe a hungry bear-and sits on the edge of the couch, puts her head in her hands and tries to breathe.
“Get off my couch,” he says.
“Last I checked, it wasn’t your property.”
“Then you haven’t gone far enough back in the records, sweetheart. Time out of mind, me and this couch. Promised like the prince and princess in a fairy story. I climbed the vines and slew the dragon and everything.”
“Hate to break it to you, Haymitch, but your princess likes girls,” Johanna says, leaning back on the cushions and stretching out, “not washed-up drunks that look twice their age and smell twice as dead. Look how it’s snuggling me,” she says, wriggling into the backboard and the arm, “like a great big kitty cat. Move over.”
“Like hell. You don’t have couch privileges.”
“Fine, how can I get couch privileges?”
“You can blow me,” he says.
She blinks.
She stares at him and blinks again.
“You actually just said that.”
He grins. He’s not missing any teeth, not that she can see, even if they’re stained to almost the color of his skin. “It was worth a shot.”
“Yeah, I bet it’ll be the first you’ve had in a long, long time,” she says. And she doesn’t budge. It’s not even a nice couch, and it does smell like Haymitch, but it’s the principle of the thing, and besides. Someone has to knock him off his high cushion.
“Hell, you can stay on the couch while you do it,” he taunts, folding his arms behind his head and looking at her sidelong. “Gives you a headstart, Josie.”
“You want my mouth on your cock, you don’t call me Josie,” she says. “My father calls me Josie.”
“I thought your father was dead.”
“Shut up and open your pants.”
He leans against his side of the couch and does, without wiping that grin off his face. She props her elbows in the gap between the cushions, levels her face with this thighs. She’s surprised that he isn’t hard yet, but that’s just another thing to tease him about. “Let’s hope you’re a grower and not a show-er.”
“If you think insulting my dick is gonna get me off, sweetheart, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“No, I think getting my mouth all tight around it is gonna get you off, and then maybe there’ll be another thing coming.”
He laughs, once and low and as bitter as the salt smell on his skin. Johanna looks up at him and smirks, runs her tongue over her teeth and flicks it out, touching the tip to the hair under his navel. “You really want couch privileges that much, don’t you.”
“Maybe I just want to see you sweat,” she says, and lets him feel the words on his thighs. His cock swells next to her cheek, and she lets it press against her but doesn’t push back.
His fingertips tap on her hair. Too tender, she thinks, too nice, too much of something neither of them is supposed to have. “You don’t have to suck my dick to see me sweat.”
“You’re not gonna make me say I want to,” she says, but does it all the same.
He tastes better than she expected, better than he smells, heady and sour and raw. She takes him down to the base while she still can, braces her hands on his hips so he doesn’t get any ideas about going deeper while she pulls back, leaves him slick with her spit. Either he gets her drift or he thinks he’s some kind of gentleman under it all, but even though his hips shudder when she licks under his foreskin he doesn’t strain, doesn’t try to fuck her face. She looks up, as much as she can, and his head’s rolled back onto the couch cushions, pressed in hard just like her elbows and knees.
Johanna has to admit, though, she likes the feel of him getting thicker in her mouth, more than she’s liked a lot of the cocks she’s sucked. And he does get pretty thick, fills her up and shoves against her teeth. She tongues the veins on the underside, feels his pulse getting faster. He shakes. His breath rattles. He still doesn’t thrust, doesn’t grab her, and the way his hand is tracing down the nape of her neck and along her spine is almost like he’s petting her.
Fuck that.
She claws at his thighs, feels her nails scrape on the grit of his pants. So much for him holding his hips back, that gets him to jump, rub right against her hard palate and catch on her teeth. Like it or not, he gets those, gets a scrape of her molars right after a swipe of her tongue and deserves it, and that hand on Johanna’s back isn’t petting her anymore, it’s grabbing her jaw.
She pulls back enough to say, “Bet you can feel yourself there, can’t you Haymitch,” then takes him back down to see if he tries. He does, thumbs her cheek, and she laughs around him, puts her tongue between all the pressure and takes control.
Apparently he likes it. Really likes it. Not just in the desperate, probably-hasn’t-been-blown-in-a-decade way-the hotter she licks and the harder she spears him with her nails, the more those little walls start coming down. He rolls his hips, threads a hand through her hair, drawls something that’s probably her name. She tastes more than just his skin and his sweat now, sourness gathering at the slit, and she drives him nuts going for it, laughs around his cockhead and slinks away until that’s all she’s touching at all.
“Well, I’m done,” she says, sitting up on her knees. “Couch privileges.”
She gets a good look at his face before he bares his teeth and hisses through them like mad dog. “Like hell.”
“You never said I have to get you off.” She smirks. “And I said maybe.”
He’s on her before she can breathe, holding her by her neck and her crotch. His fingers push the seam of her pants into just the right spot on her cunt and it has to be luck, but it’s luck she won’t push. “Oh, we’re far from done, sweetheart. You’re not wet enough to be done.”
And it’s not like she can help writhing against his hand any more than he can help rutting against her hip. His pants slide down and she pushes them off the rest of the way, grabs his ass, and if he doesn’t get her unbuttoned she’ll do it herself but she almost likes it more as just pressure and her own clothes. But there, he does get the button undone with just one hand, and shoves his fingers down as soon as her fly is open, rests them right where she’s slickest, lets her fuck herself. It makes her tip back, makes the arm of the couch dig into her spine.
He pants against her jaw like he wants to kiss her.
“The fuck,” she says, because whatever else she might have meant, she was gonna say fuck anyway.
“Sorry,” he says, lowering his eyes.
She wonders if this could stop right here. Stupid Haymitch, she thinks, trying to make her think he’s some kind of raggedy teddy bear instead of a washed-up pathetic drunk.
Then he spins her around, pulls her pants down to her knees so her ass is in the air. He’s still got a hand on her neck but she’s completely over the arm of the couch. He lines up behind her, rubs his cock along her just like his fingers. “You want me to tease you a little?” he says, his mouth still close to her skin but not close enough to kiss. Good. “Tease you a little and fuck you a lot?”
“You just want me to say I want you.”
“You don’t, I won’t,” he says, and even if he’s not close enough to kiss, she can feel him smirking. “I’ll just jerk myself off and come all over your ass, and your pretty little cunt can play let’s not and say we did.”
The way he’s holding his cock, all set up and hard from her mouth and ready to push in, there’s no point in turning it down.
It’s not like Johanna’s made a choice of her own in a long time either.
“Go ahead, Haymitch,” she says, rolls her hips and spreads her legs so he can see everything. “Can’t you see how much I want you to fuck me?”
He laughs, and he fills her up slow, slides in so she’s grinding her hips long before he’s deep. She hears him bracing a foot on the carpet but when he thrusts the couch moves with it, and no matter how hard she pushes back it only scrapes his way along the floor. He does it hard enough to make her scream, fast enough that she wishes she weren’t screaming because she’d tell him he’s desperate. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It’s good, good and hard and brutal and, luck or not, just the way Johanna likes it best, when she knows how little they care.
“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he asks, bowed over her back, still holding her neck down and her legs spread as he plows in and out. She can hear how wet she is even over the scrape of the couch on the floor. “Plan on getting off before any of the other early risers get here? Or do you want them to see how they can get couch privileges too?”
She could say, And how many of them have you fucked?
She could say, And since when do you care if I come, is that gonna stop you?
She could say, Yeah, now, if you do that again.
She doesn’t.
She comes so hard it scares her, hard enough that when she gets over it she’ll blame the angle or the girth or anything but Haymitch actually being good in bed, hard enough she’ll remember it the next time she doesn’t get off the way she wants to. Fine. Whatever. He’s allowed to understand, it’s even good if he understands, so long as he doesn’t care. So hard that she’s not sure when or why he comes, just knows that he does when it fills her up deep and leaks out when he pulls away.
He heaves out a breath, plunks back down on the couch hard enough to shake it. She takes a little longer to catch hers, draped over the arm of the couch almost to the floor, reaching back to rub herself and trace through the wetness between her thighs. That good. Too good.
“You want to put that away before anyone else gets here?” he asks, tapping her ass, too light to be a slap but too hard to be a pat.
She laughs. “Do you?”
“Nothing I haven’t seen,” he says. “Besides, they’ll know. You’re on my couch. Now come down here and sleep, you interrupted my nap.”
When he pulls her down to the cushions, he’s still being too tender, but rough enough that Johanna can ignore it.
-
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