#Haymitch Abernathy fanfiction

[nebulablakemurphy]

What’s in a name?

Summary: Haymitch Abernathy x Reader set in the moves & countermoves universe. Y/N is currently pregnant with their second child and they need a name.

Warning: 18+ ONLY MDNI (Smut)

They struck gold with Everest, the child and his namesake. The people of Panem loved the grandiose nature of the name Everest.

The novelty of his existence dwindled over the years, in the public eye. But to his parents, he becomes more perfect each day. By the age of three he possesses luxuries other children his age could only dream of.

Y/N and Haymitch are more than happy with just him. The thought of another child rarely crosses their minds.

Y/N is reading to Everest on the living room couch when Haymitch receives the pristine white envelope stuffed through the mail slot. He skims over the letter three times, painting on a smile as he returns to his wife and son.

Y/N knows him well enough by now that she can feel his distress. Waiting until after Everest is tucked into bed to whisper, “Haymitch, what’s wrong?”

“Snow wants us to have another baby.”

“Ok,” Y/N takes the blow better than she had the first time. “We knew this was coming.”

Haymitch curls his fist around the open bottle of liquor on their bedside table. He gulps it down, unwilling to admit how much he hates the way she isn’t surprised. Even when she cries or screams or throws things, she is fighting. This time she doesn’t fight at all, doesn’t resist in the slightest and it breaks his heart.

He takes it out on her two days later, without meaning to. Instructions from Snow come, sentencing them to the “room” in Y/N’s house with the cameras.

Madge stays with Everest at their house, oblivious to it all.

Before long Y/N is face down, fisting her pretty hands in the sheets as he fucks her.

Haymitch can’t see her face, perhaps that’s why he positioned them this way. He doesn’t deserve to see it.

Her fingers search for his, longing to entwine them, but his mind is far from here, far from his body and her. Going through the motions.

“I love you, Haymitch.”

No, his hips falter. Not that, anything but that. He runs a hand along her spine, her sweat damp skin. “Turn around,” he pulls out, rocking back on his heels to give her room.

Y/N turns to face him, catching her breath. Watching with worried eyes. They don’t switch positions during a recording unless it’s been requested specifically. The goal is always to finish as quickly as possible.

Haymitch closes the space between them, leaning onto his forearms as he eases himself back inside her. “I love you so much.” He murmurs against her ear, causing Y/N to shiver. “I love you.”

Y/N nods, burying her hands in his hair. Understanding how hard those words are for him to speak. “I know.”

“I love you.” A plea, an apology.

“I love you too.” Y/N holds him to her, kissing any part of him she can reach.

————————————————————————-

Haymitch wastes no time, the minute the test is positive, he is on his knees. Talking to their sweet baby, kissing Y/N’s belly, telling them stories. The way he feels about his wife hasn’t changed much since her first pregnancy, he just knows how to communicate it better. He knows what she likes and what she doesn’t, he knows the extent of reassurance she needs to feel safe.

As her belly grows, Y/N comes to him often, seeking comfort in the form of physical intimacy. He welcomes her with open arms, makes her happy. Makes her laugh. Makes her cum. Doing everything he wishes he would have while she was pregnant with Everest.

“Do you think it’s another boy or a girl?” Y/N wonders, watching her husband trace patterns across her belly.

Haymitch smiles, “girl.”

————————————————————————

A few months later his suspicions are confirmed, they are expecting a daughter, announced via Caesar Flickerman and a slew of pink confetti.

Everest squeals in his father’s arms, until Haymitch sets him down so he can dance under the falling pink glitter.

Y/N turns to her husband, with a knowing smile.

“I told you so.” Haymitch cocks his head to the side.

Y/N is in his arms a moment later, silencing him with a kiss.

————————————————————————-

“Is there a name you like?” Haymitch asks; she gets first pick.

Y/N shakes her head, “this one’s all you.”

Finding a name suitable for this child takes months.

“Can’t you just tell me, kid?” He whispers to his unborn child. “What’s your name?”

Y/N chuckles.

“Help me out here.” A swift kick to his nose tells Haymitch that he’ll just have to keep looking.

He searches high and low for a name. In books from the hob and passersby on the street, until finally he passes over the third page of the potential names again.

Arista.

‘The name Arista has its origins in the Greek language and signifies 'Best.’

“Arista,” he murmurs.

“That’s pretty.” Y/N smiles, passing a hand over her belly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

[drfleetflower]

Mislaid Conviction

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Reader

Summary: You're recovering from the Capitol torture in District 13. The only person left to comfort you is Haymitch, which brings up weird feelings you're not able to face yet.

Warnings: Angst, light fluff, mentions of torture, mentions of alcohol/drinking, mentions of medical drugs, self-deprecation, mentions of therapy

This will be a series!

WC: 2.2k

As a victor who was reaped in the 75th Hunger Games and part of the rebellion, the odds were the furthest from in your favor. You weren’t rescued from the arena. Nor were you rescued from the six weeks of torture. But now you were rescued. After the damage had already been done.

Sure, you knew that the goal was never you. Katniss Everdeen was the face of the rebellion and at least you made it out of the arena, right? Many hadn’t. So that was something to be grateful for; your life. Your life was something to be grateful for. 

Did it hurt that the only man- only person that you trusted had left you to die in the Capitol hands? That was what the shrink they assigned to you should have asked. He asked how you felt about not being rescued the day Katniss blew open the arena’s sky. So you answered vaguely about District 13’s need for Katniss in these and those trying times. But the answer to the real question? Yeah. Yeah, it hurt like hell. But you wouldn’t be able to tell the deep need for repair of the relationship with the way Haymitch walked so casually into your hospital room.

His eyes scanned your face, searching for clues to your well-being. "How's the pain, sweetheart?" he asked softly. Softly. Was he pitying you? The thought made your blood boil.

“Painful.” You said quite ambiguously. 

He clearly didn’t appreciate the answer but didn’t make an effort to press, instead looking around the silent, white room. "How about sleep?"

You sighed, but decided to answer the question. "I can only get it with whatever drugs they give me. And usually the nightmares still wake me up anyway."

A deep line formed between his brow. "Have you talked to anyone about them?"

You didn’t even really want to talk in general, your throat sore from screaming, but especially not to a stranger who thinks they can fix you. Hell, you didn’t want to talk to Haymitch. Why were you? “They gave me a therapist but I haven’t said a word to him.”

“Why not?” Haymitch asked, but he clearly didn’t look surprised. 

You shrugged. “I don’t trust him.” Did you trust Haymitch anymore though? 

He seemed to mull over this for a moment. “I guess I can understand that. But… don’t you think talking it out might help?” It sounded forced.

You looked at him like he was insane for suggesting the idea, immediately thinking how hypocritical that was. But you find yourself answering the question earnestly instead of throwing it back in his face. “I don’t know… I get- I just don’t like to think about it.” How did he always seem to weasel some emotion out of you? You’re supposed to be mad at him right now. You’re supposed to hate him right now. Yet, here you are, answering his questions and wondering why he’s asking them in the first place since it’s so unlike him. 

"Can't say I blame you, sweetheart," he admitted quietly, "but at some point you have to face it."

You looked down, not answering. To which he studied your face for a moment before speaking again. "Do you have anybody outside of me to talk to? Friends, family?"

“You know I don’t.” You said, harsher than you intended, but Haymitch didn’t strike back.

He just exhaled quietly. "Yeah, I just thought I'd check." His eyes flicked around the bland hospital room, as if searching for some help.

“It’s just you.” It hurt to say. Because it was true. There was no one else for you except Haymitch and so hating him… Where did that get you? Alone, that’s what.

Haymitch's expression softened a bit more and he looked sad. "Well, I'll be here as long as you need me." 

Who was this man? Sure he had helped you survive the Hunger Games and navigate being a victor afterwards but never had he been so emotional about it. So forthcoming with care and understanding. He always preferred to grunt anytime you said a sweet thing (which wasn’t often but still), or drown in a bottle instead of having a serious conversation about his past. Oh, that was part of it for sure. They definitely weren’t giving him alcohol here. You looked him over, you had seen him sober-ish before but this was different. You realized he looked… Awful.

And despite the twinge of sympathy, you figured you might as well say as much. “You look like shit, by the way.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. You expected some good ol’ banter, ‘you don’t look too hot yourself, sweetheart’, you missed that. Instead, “Thanks.”

You frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”

He looked up at you, someone else might not be able to, but you could tell he was at the very least; annoyed. “What?” The word was slightly snippy.

"Is it because I’m in the hospital?" 

He became more impatient. "What?'"

“You’re not- I don’t know, you.” You tried to explain, your brows furrowed with your own frustration. “It’s weird. You’re so.. docile.” You continue, maybe in order to get a rise out of him.

Haymitch crossed his arms in protest. "Okay, hold on. Don't get used to this, got it? It's only because you need me to be nice to you."

"Yeah, I might just break if you speak too loudly?" You snarked.

"Yeah, pretty much." He snapped back.

"There we go.” You smirked in a way you knew irritated him, finally having gotten something normal out of him.

He still looked annoyed for a moment before he just chuckled and shook his head, giving up the facade. "Alright, well, just so you know… I intend to return to my usual self once you get all patched up."

“I doubt it.” You sighed, folding your hands on your lap.

Haymitch's brows shot up in surprise at another unexpected admission from you. "Oh yeah?" He asked. "You think I've softened?"

You giggled. "Definitely. You're a big softie now."

"A big softie?" Haymitch shook his head earnestly. "You're crazy. I'm still as angry and bitter as I ever was. I’m like this now because...well..." he trailed off, seemingly unable to finish the thought.

"Because... They took away your alcohol?" You brought up.

Haymitch grunted in annoyance which made you smile. "Yeah, I suppose that could have something to do with it," he muttered, still not willing to admit that was the only reason for his newfound care. But you assumed it was. That, and maybe a hint of guilt for leaving you to die.

You decided to play in idle chit chat. "How are you doing with that transition?" 

Haymitch scowled at your question. "It's not been easy," he admitted. "The first long bit, I was the meanest I’ve probably ever been. Good thing you weren’t around, you would've loved that.” You tried to keep from scrunching your nose at that comment. Good thing you were being tortured in the Capitol? He continued, “Not gonna lie, I've thought about breaking the rules a few times, but I've refrained because I don't wanna screw up getting you out of here...or getting myself in trouble."

Your bitterness was quickly thrown out the window for the opportunity to mess with him. Some might call it flirting, but flirting with Haymitch didn’t sound right. It was just harmless… Something-ing. "Awww, you quit for me?" You bat your eyelashes, acting overly affectionate. And when he rolled his eyes, you laughed, bringing on a coughing fit. 

Haymitch's expression shifted to concern as he heard you cough, "Hey, you alright?" He asked, his tone now serious.

You swallowed thickly. “Define ‘alright.’” 

He frowned and you continued to cough, throwing up your hands in exhaustion. "I just want to be out of this place." You groaned. "I'm useless and ugly, I'm all stitched up and bruised, broken." And there you went again, telling him things you wouldn’t anyone else. Letting him see inside your messed up brain because surely he can help? You trusted him to help, not anyone else. No matter how much you desperately try to tell yourself you hate him now. n

Haymitch sighed, his expression reflecting a mix of sadness and understanding. "Look, I know you're in a tough spot right now, but... this is temporary. You’ll be back into action in… Well, at some point." He tried, not actually sure what your recovery time is. 

“I just feel… gross.” You continued to complain anyway. 

Haymitch's frown deepened at your frustrated admission. "Gross?" He asked, genuine concern making way for a bit of humor. "What, because of how you look? Cause I hate to be the bearer of bad news, sweetheart, but you don’t look much different.”

A small part of you wanted to at least give him a smile in appreciation of his attempt at cheering you up, but you didn’t. Instead, you chose to wallow even more in self pity. So, he sighed and went back to seriousness. "Listen, you're not gross just because you've gone through something painful. Healing takes time. You're still..." He trailed off, hesitating before continuing. "...you're still as attractive as ever."

You rolled your eyes, hoping the way your face heated up didn’t show. And why did your face heat up anyway? Sure, you’d gotten flustered around him before but not because he had said something like that. Such a clear compliment, not a drunken observation. The delivery made a shiver go down your spine.

But if he noticed the tint to your cheeks he didn’t comment on it. He just chuckled at your eye roll. "Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking. You're not interested in compliments or reassurances?" he grumbled. "You'd much rather have me back to my bitter old self, snapping at you and calling you stupid."

You firmly shook your head. "No... I like the new Haymitch." Then silence. Then staring. Then more color to your cheeks. Then you coughed again. He handed you a glass of water and you took a sip once you could.

He silently watched you as you took sip after sip, trying to calm your throat. And then, because today was apparently all about emotions, he sighed. “I don’t like seeing you like this.”

You felt more pressure on your throat, an involuntary spasm maybe, that made it impossible to say anything that wasn’t sarcastic. "See? I told you I was all gross and ugly."

Haymitch's expression darkened at that statement. "Hey, don't talk about yourself like that," he said firmly, his eyes locked onto yours. "You're not gross or ugly, got it? You're injured and healing. That doesn't diminish your worth or your attractiveness."

“So I’m just stupid then, huh?” You tried to keep the smile off your face.

He didn’t try. “Yeah, just stupid.” His eyes fell down and he took in a breath. “Now, don’t go actually believing that, okay sweetheart?”

"Well, if I wasn't stupid, I would've been able to get out of the arena too."

Haymitch sighed, clearly frustrated with your flip-flopping emotions. He shook his head emphatically, his expression a mix of irritation and sadness. "No, don't go there," he said firmly. "None of it was your fault. You didn't choose to be in the arena. You didn't choose to get hurt. Blaming yourself for things that are out of your control is just a waste of energy."

"It wasn't out of my control. If I had paid better attention to what was happening, you could've gotten me out too." You insisted. 

“That’s not true. You did the best you could. And, hey, you’re still here. That’s something.” He sounded as if he was now trying to convince himself, his hand gripping the arm of his chair tightly.

You scoffed. "What? So at least I'm not dead? Trust me, there were times when I wished they'd be so kind as to kill me."

Haymitch’s frown deepened at your dark admission. “Don’t-” He sighs. “What happened in there?”

You tilted your head at the question before shaking it, your mouth shut and your gaze away from him.

He abandoned the question quickly, like flicking a switch. “Don’t go there, alright? There are people who care about you.. Who would miss you if you were gone.”

You looked at him and raised a brow, waiting for him to continue but he just stared back at you, making no effort to. So, you held his gaze and now there was a challenge there. You two were unblinking and you wondered who would break first. But you didn’t wonder for long as Haymitch looked away after a surprisingly short time.

You tried to catch his eyes again, smirking. “Come on. Say it.” You said.

"Say what?" He asked, feigning ignorance, knowing precisely what you were insinuating. 

"I dare you..." You replied in a sing-song voice.

Haymitch chuckled at your eager expression, his eyes locked onto yours once again. "Alright, alright," he said, an amused glint in his eyes. "You want me to say it? I will..." He leaned forward in his chair, his gaze intense as he spoke. "I...care about you. You, you stubborn, pain in the ass girl."

You chuckled at his admission. Of course there would be a little insult to act as a barrier. But there it was, so you returned it against your better judgment. "I care about you too. You cranky old man."

[your-averagewriter]

hi! Would mind writing a part two to your young!Haymitch x reader? Maybe with both of them winning and just developing a relationship through the aftermath.

Summary: Haymitch and (y/n) struggle to adjust after getting out of the Games together but find comfort in each other.

Word count: 1.7K

Warnings: Kissing, swearing, mention of gore (a little at the start, not really though).

-

-

“Are you ready to go home?” Haymitch asks, snapping me out of my frozen state, staring out of the window of the train.

I turn to look at him, seeing the empty train cart, unable to stop seeing the two other tributes from our district, they came with us and now we’re leaving without them. Their bodies lie on the floor and are draped across the table, forcing me to see their mutilated states.

“I’m gonna throw up.” I say after a second, standing up and hurrying to the bathroom on the train cart, my hand covering my mouth.

“(y/n)?” I hear before I fall to my knees in front of the toilet, throwing up into the bowl, gripping the sides to stabilise myself. Haymitch pulls my hair out of the way and rests his other hand on my shoulder. “What’s wrong?” He asks during a break in throwing up.

I lean back, sitting on the back of my feet as I look back to face Haymitch, wiping my face with one of the towels provided.

“I’m just not feeling very well.” I say, standing up slowly and walking back out to the main section of the train cart once I’m sure I’m done throwing up.

“Come on, (y/n), what’s wrong? We both know that’s not it.” He says as we sit down by the window again, I turn to look out the window, staring at the scenery despite the train not moving yet.

“They’re not here.” I say quietly.

“Who’s not here? Do you want me to get the escort lady or shitty mentor guy?” He raises an eyebrow, clearly confused.

“The other two tributes from 12.” I say. “They came but they’re not leaving. They won’t ever leave.” I mumble, resting my head on my hand, wiping away a tear by my eye.

“Don’t think about them.” He says gruffly and I’m slightly appalled by his uncaring statement towards dead children.

“Don’t think about them? Are you telling me you don’t feel bad about any of it, sad, guilty, anything?” I ask, my voice is louder as I get more upset.

“No, I don’t.” He pauses as I stare at him confused and disappointed. “Because if it didn’t happen then you wouldn’t be here and neither would I.”

His response shocks me. “What?” I ask quietly.

“You’re alive, I’m alive, that’s all I care about at the moment and so should you.” He says more softly, opening his arms and offering me a much needed hug.

Shuffling towards him, I wrap my arms around him, resting my head on his chest.

“Let’s just think about getting home first and all the fancy food we can eat on this train.” I chuckle at the end of his sentence and it’s clear he’s trying to distract me. He places a kiss to the top of my head before standing up, taking my hand and leading me after him.

“Come on, let’s cost them some money.” I chuckle again, standing up with him and wiping a final tear from my cheek as we walk to the food carts.

Walking into the next heart lays a table full of fancy food and colourful drinks.

“Oh my god they have whipped cream.” I smile as I quickly sit at the table, Haymitch not far behind, chuckling at my newfound excitement. “I’ve only had whipped cream like…” I pause thinking. “Once.” I reach for one of the deserts covered in whipped cream, placing it in front of me and swiping some of the cream with my finger, lifting it to my mouth and tentatively tasting it. “You need to try it.” I smile, reaching for one of the spoons and scooping a bit and feeding it to Haymitch.

“That is good.” He says smirking.

I turn back to the table, seeing a bowl of strawberries and liquid chocolate to dip them in whilst Haymich grabs his own food.

Dipping a strawberry in chocolate, I taste the delicious combination, making a bit of a mess with the chocolate but enjoying it nonetheless.

“You’ve made it a bit of a mess with that chocolate, it’s all over your lips.” He says and quickly moves towards me pressing his lips against mine, cleaning the chocolate with a satisfied hum. “Delicious.” He pulls back, smirking at my flustered state.

“You caught me off guard, don’t look too proud.” I huff, biting into another strawberry.

-----------

The train pulls up to the station and I’m instantly jumping up from my chair to get to the door, not expecting the crowd that appears in front of me when the door opens.

“Mum?” I ask quietly, my voice being drowned out as I search over the crowd, looking for her.

Haymitch appears behind me after a moment and is blinded by the bright light of the sun and deafened by the sounds of the crowds.

“Fucking hell.” He groans as I look over the crowd, still looking until I see her waving, kept back  by the crowd a little while away.

“Mum? Mum!” I shout as I disappear into the crowd, avoiding the questions as I dart past people and into my mum’s open arms. Upon closer inspection I can see the tears that stain her cheeks and the weight she’s lost whilst I was gone, I imagine she can feel the same has happened to me.

After reuniting with my mother, she heads home to pack herself, ready for us to move into Victors’ Village. Some of the crowds have dissipated so I look around for Haymitch, wondering where he went, knowing he’s not the biggest fan of crowds.

“Haymitch?” I cup my hands around my mouth calling his name whilst looking around. “Haymitch?” I wander around before seeing him leaning back against a tree, eating an apple from the train. “Haymitch.” I smile, walking over to him. “You okay?” I ask softly, sitting next to him and resting my head on his shoulder. “I know you don’t like the crowds.”

“What’s there to like? No one’s even waiting for me.” He grunts out.

“Your dad didn’t come?” I ask gently, knowing his dad is a sore subject as he’s always been a little absent in Haymitch’s life. Actually, him not turning up to meet Haymitch is quite in character for him but Haymitch just shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” I say quietly.

“‘S not your fault.” He mumbles fiddling with a small blade from the train, cutting off bits of an apple.

“They gave me a house, a real fancy one in the village down there.” I point. “You’ve got one too, we can move in when we want.” I try to lighten the mood. “Do you wanna check it out?” I offer with a small smile, trying to distract him a little.

“Fancy houses? Like rewards?” I shrug.

“I guess so.” He chuckles darkly. 

“That sounds about right from the President.” I nod and we both stand up, walking to the village.

Feeling the cold nipping at my skin I walk close beside Haymitch, reaching for his hand in an attempt to warm myself up.

“There’s like ten houses here, which ones do we get?” He asks, looking around.

“These closest ones have name plaques on them.” I say, leading him to one of the houses and seeing my name engraved on a gold plaque. “I guess this is mine.” I quirk a small smile, excited as the door clicks open and we walk in.

It’s silent except the sound of creaking floorboards under our feet as we explore the house, hand in hand still. 

“This house is massive.” I say in awe as we walk around, inspecting the rooms. “There’s like a million rooms.” I chuckle excitedly as he follows me around, entertaining my exploration with a small smile. “Do you think your house is built differently?” 

“I don’t know, love but I’m sure you’re gonna take me to look in a minute.” I nod, a telling smile on my face as we both know it’s true.

“You know,” I pause. “You could stay with us.” I say, turning to face him as we walk down the stairs.

He quirks an eyebrow, looking slightly confused.

“If you didn’t want to stay with your dad, I mean there’s plenty of space in this house, so many bedrooms!” I chuckle. “You don’t have to, but the offer’s there.” I smile softly.

“No, I’d like that.” He says, a smile emerging on his face. “Sounds real nice. It’d do us both some good.” He says and I look at him confused.

“Your nightmares, I know you don’t think I know about ‘em.” He says as I react a little shocked.

“So you’ll help with my nightmares and I’ll help with your antisocial tendencies?”

“Antisocial tendencies?” He scoffs.

“Your habit of ignoring and avoiding people.” I point out and he is forced to conceive. “You won’t be able to ignore me if we live in the same house.” I chuckle.

“Are you trapping me? This sounds like kidnapping…” He jokes.

“It’s not kidnapping because you want to be with me.” I point out with a smirk as we walk into the kitchen, still looking around.

“Goddamn right I wanna be with you.” He says, lifting me up in the air, causing me to shriek slightly in surprise before he presses his lips against mine.

He places me back down on the ground but doesn’t pull his lips away from mine, instead wrapping his arms around my waist leaving my hands free to reach around his neck, pulling him closer to me. 

He pushes his lips against mine, harsh but not too harsh, pouring all the pent up emotions from the last few weeks into the kiss, the passion and fears combined. My fingers tangle in the threads of his hair, the soft curls situated on the back of his head.

“(y/n)!” I hear my mum shout through the house before walking in the door, not giving us time to separate or jump apart before she appears with a few bags in hand. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She says, looking a little embarrassed although not as much as us. “I’ll leave. It was nice to meet you, Haymitch.” She says quietly before walking out the door.

Once I hear the door close, signalling she’s walked out the house, I bury my head in Haymitch’s chest, cheeks burning as he chuckles lowly.

“Your mother seems nice.” He jokes and I groan only causing him to laugh more.

-

AN: I hope you enjoyed reading!

Sorry I'm taking a while to get through requests!

I have rewritten this part two at least four times, I'm glad I've finally got a better version to post.

[elektrantchios]

be enough? | h.a

pairing: haymitch abernathy x gn!reader

summary: Reader watches Haymitch propo

word count: 500 ish

warnings: mentions of what happens to desirable victors, death (what happened to haymitch’s family), swearing, angst and fluff

a/n: written in 3rd person, wanted to try something new 😅 hunger games trending has me really thinking of new fics @nebulablakemurphy haymitch fic also a big inspiration (finnick mini series maybe 👀 been playing with an idea for awhile too) Everyone needs to read it.

Very unsure how to feel about this, feedback is highly appreciated

I saw this prompt and thought it was very haymitch

In the control room they watched the screen nervously, the capital was seeing the same thing but would no doubt they would be watching with interest. That had always been how they viewed the tributes and victors, like they all were animals in a zoo.

Finnick had just finished his propo when Haymitch took stage, with a frown the other district 12 victor looked to a guy working the computer. “He agreed to this?”.

The tech guy gave a shrug, “up top said he had something to say”.

Still worried they looked back to the screen, Haymitch had been sober since reaching 13, it was hard at first for both, having to watch him almost broke their heart. But he had risen through the detox and became an almost new man.

“You’ve already heard what Snow did with the wanted Victors, but what you don’t know is what he does when you say no” Haymitch said. He went on to say how everyone he had loved was taken from him. The small details had been known to them, how the way he had won the games cost him his whole family.

By the time Snow was done he was no one to threaten Haymitch with, so he became an example. This is what will happen if you don’t agree.

His jaw tightened. Something was happening in his head, choosing what words to use. He laughed dryly. For a moment they thought he was having a breakdown live for everyone to see.

“For the last 15 years I have been in love with my fellow mentor” the room fell into a hush, all eyes found them, standing still. “The rebels will win and you will not need to live in fear, stand up and join us”.

Something else played but they couldn’t say what, was he even telling the truth? It wouldn’t be the first time he had come up with a lie to move a crowd. Even themselves weren’t a stranger to lying.

Someone called their name as they turned and ran from the room. They ran up all the stairs until what they guessed was half way when they ran straight into Haymitch. He caught them before they fell.

“Watch it sweetheart,” he laughed.

Eyes wide they stepped back, “was it real or not real?” They asked.

Haymitch nodded, watching them.

Their chest shook. “Why did you never tell me?”.

“It was a personal issue,” he shrugged.

“You being in love with me kind of also involves me." They exhaled. They looked down the never ending stairs, then back to Haymitch. “I wouldn’t have expected anything. Not kissing me, not touching me. Fuck we wouldn’t even have to live together. Just you”.

“What kind of love would that be?” he mumbled, his blue eyes shining.

In return they grabbed his jacket and held up close, “enough. I would have you and that’s all I’d ever need. Wouldn’t that have been enough for you?”. His reply didn’t come come, the tears were slowly starting to fall now. “No don’t answer” you shook your head, “this isn’t easy, i know that I do”.

You brushed away a tear from his face.

“When they war is over and we have nothing to fear, i’ll tell you those three words and eight letters and we’ll go from there, okay?”.

“Okay”

[lesbianjackies]

🍺haymitch abernathy masterlist🍺

key: ❤︎︎ - fluff, ☁︎︎ - angst, ★ - smut

coming soon!

[fclsebnnyodair]

[spencerrsmopbucket]

Tides of Venom | Finnick Odair

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Summary: During the Tribute Parade of the 3rd Quarter Quell, Finnick meets an infamous female tribute from District Seven. She's just as interesting as everyone says.

The people of Panem knew your name as well as, or maybe better than, they knew their own. You were Y/n L/n, or better yet, The Snake of Seven. The victor who had turned the 67th Hunger Games into a masterclass of strategy and survival. At sixteen, you were reaped from the sawdust-strewn streets of District Seven—a girl who looked too small, too quiet, too fragile and too beautiful to survive the bloodbath. But you had fooled them all.

You didn't survive by brute force, God no. You didn't have the size for it. You survived by being smarter, colder, and crueler when it mattered. You waited, watching from the shadows, letting the other tributes tear each other apart. When you struck, it was precise, calculated, and lethal. You weren’t just a fighter; you were a predator. You turned the arena into your hunting ground, weaving snares from vines and luring enemies into deadly traps. When you got them captured, like a rabbit in a trap on the snow covered ground, you quickly and efficiently did away with them.

By the time you’d reached the finish line of success, the area was soaked in blood — close to none of it yours. You had outlasted them all, and not just through skill, but by ensuring that every single thing you did was deliberate. Every alliance you made was temporary manipulation, every smile a well-placed mask. When the final cannon fired, it wasn’t just because you had survived. You had conquered.

The Capitol adored you, of course. They polished your image until you gleamed like the blade that had won you the crown. They said your name with awe and fear: The Snake of Seven. To them, you were the perfect mix of beauty and terror, a creature that captivated even as it threatened. Of course, your biggest fan was President Snow. But for all the Capitol’s praises, you knew the truth. The arena hadn’t just taken your innocence; it had carved out pieces of your soul and left them to rot in the jungle where you’d won. The nightmares came often, visions of the traps you’d set, the image of you slitting a throat, the screams that followed, and the sickening silence afterward.

Even still, you played the role you’d been given. It was that or die. It was that or lose your family (an ultimatum given by Snow.) The Capitol needed you to smile in your interviews, to look stunning in gowns designed to look like snake skin, to sip champagne with Snow’s favorites. You did it without flinching. You’d learned through the experiences of others before you that defiance came with a life ruining price. And so, with snake-like venom aimed inward at yourself, you were poisoned until only steel remained.

The 3rd Quarter Quell was nothing like any previous Hunger Games. It was a reminder of the Capitol's absolute power, and this year, they chose to mark it with a brutal twist: the victors, those who had already been crowned, would now be thrown back into the arena. Every single one of them—a brutal celebration of their own suffering. And you, The Snake of Seven, were no exception. When you'd been Reaped, you stepped forward, ever confident, your e/c eyes the sole vision of determination, focus, and bloodthirst. But you were always so good at keeping people at arm's length, never letting them see how you truly felt.

You were devastated. You felt doomed — but the worst part? You'd always known you were from the start. This was just the confirmation.

Today was the Victor Parade.

The streets of the Capitol buzzed with an unsettling energy. The crowd, with its eager eyes and gleaming teeth, watched as the tribute chariots rolled down the grand avenue, a parade of former winners paraded as if they were just another form of entertainment. The Capitol was reveling in their cruelty, and you knew, deep down, that it was more than just the games this time. The Capitol wanted to break the victors, to make sure they knew they were never free, never truly safe. You had survived the Games once, but this time, survival would come at a greater cost. You were by far the most thrilling tribute to watch, solely because they knew you'd do anything to win.

Your district partner, a tall, athletic and somewhat shy Victor named Reid, stood beside you. He was a few years younger than you, but his respect for you was evident in every glance. He had a crush on you. It was easy to see in the way his eyes lingered on you, the way his voice caught when he spoke your name. But, much like everyone else in the Capitol, you weren’t here for love or affection. You were here to survive—and if you had to, you’d use Reid’s infatuation to your advantage. But, you’d never admit it aloud.

Reid was a good fighter, but he wasn’t built for the Games like you. His focus was too soft, too sentimental, which made him vulnerable. He wanted you to recognize him as a friend rather than just a district partner. Rather than just an ally that you'd eventually have to turn on. But you? You knew. Reid would have to be the first to go. You'd put him out of his suffering before any other Victor could get their hands on him. In a cruel sense, it was you being kind. If anyone else got him, his death would hurt much more.

Your outfit, designed by Capitol stylists, was as extravagant as it was deadly. You weren’t just a symbol of beauty; you were a living weapon, and your outfit reflected that. The stylists had draped you in a shimmering black gown that hugged your form, slithering down your body like the skin of a serpent. Silver, delicate scales shimmered along the bodice, almost seeming to ripple as you moved. A thin, sharp line of emerald green ran across your eyes, reflecting the coldness that had taken root deep inside you. Your hair was twisted into a sleek, tight braid that framed your sharp features, the tendrils of the braid curling at the ends like snake’s fangs. The design was meant to evoke fear. To show that beneath your beauty was a creature that could and would strike. The Capitol admired you, but they feared you too.

As the chariot lurched forward, your eyes scanned the crowd—thousands of faces staring back at you, each person either adoring or shocked. The screams, cheers, and jeers mixed into a cacophony that only heightened the tension in the air. It was a celebration of blood, and your life was the prize. But you didn’t need their approval. You didn’t need their affection. You were here to survive—nothing more, nothing less. You forced your cold eyes forward, staring at the person that continued to ruin your life, over and over again.

Snow.

He gazed down at you with a lukewarm smile, one to say, 'welcome back, Snake.' You simply glared back, fighting the snarl that threatened to develop on your lip.

As the chariot rolled forward, you could feel Reid’s nervous energy beside you. His hands gripped the edge of the chariot so tightly that his knuckles turned white, his broad shoulders stiff as though he were bracing for an attack. His unease was palpable, and while you could sympathize with it, you didn’t have time to coddle him. This wasn’t his first Games; he should know better than to show fear in front of the Capitol. Weakness was blood in the water, and the Capitol’s sharks would circle the moment they saw it. It would draw attention to the two of you, something you didn't need more than you already had.

“Relax,” you muttered, your voice low enough that only he could hear. Your eyes remained fixed on the glittering horizon, refusing to meet his. “You look like you’re about to jump out of the chariot.”

Reid’s head snapped toward you, his expression a mix of surprise and embarrassment. “I’m fine,” he said, though the strain in his voice betrayed him.

“Sure you are,” you replied dryly. “Just remember, they’re not cheering for you. They’re cheering for the show. Don’t give them a reason to think you’re the opening act.”

Your words cut sharper than intended, but it was necessary. Reid needed to toughen up, and fast. This was no place for soft hearts or shaky hands.

The chariot came to a halt in front of President Snow’s viewing platform, and the crowd’s roar reached a deafening crescendo. Snow himself stood like a vulture on his perch, his thin smile radiating smug satisfaction. His presence was suffocating, a reminder that every move you made was under his watchful eye. You held your head high, refusing to let him see the disgust simmering beneath your carefully constructed mask. If he wanted a performance, you would give him one.

You stared at the other Victors. You knew who they were, of course, since you'd been paraded around with them before. The most notable ones were the ones from the Career districts -- and District 12. You saw Cashmere and Gloss looking disgustingly gleeful. They were District 1 Careers, always loving the attention they were getting and the idea of getting to put up a fight. Brutus and Enobaria, District 2, were the same way.

Your eyes lingered on the Careers for a moment longer, taking in their smugness, their overconfidence. Cashmere’s sharp laughter cut through the murmur of conversation, a high, shrill sound that grated on your nerves. She and Gloss stood close together, their matching golden armor glinting under the Capitol’s harsh lights. Their every move screamed superiority, a reminder that they had been bred for this, groomed for the arena like thoroughbred horses. You didn’t doubt their skill, but you also didn’t fear them. They were predictable, and predictability was a weakness.

Your gaze swept past them to Brutus and Enobaria, whose confidence bordered on feral excitement. Brutus’s bulk made him look more like a battering ram than a man, and Enobaria’s predatory grin, with her infamous sharpened teeth, was a haunting sight. They thrived in the chaos, their bloodlust an edge that couldn’t be underestimated.

But it wasn’t just the Careers you had to worry about. Your eyes flicked to Beetee and Wiress, District 3’s champions. The Capitol often overlooked them, mistaking their quiet demeanor for weakness, but you knew better. Their minds were their greatest weapons, and they could turn the arena itself into a deathtrap.

Then, blurring out the other Districts, there was District 12.

Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark stood together, the Capitol’s golden pair, their unity a sharp contrast to the division around them. Katniss’s stormy eyes locked with yours for a fleeting moment, and you could see the fire smoldering behind them. She didn’t trust you—good. Trust was a luxury none of you could afford. Peeta, on the other hand, exuded a calm that was almost disarming. Almost.

And then there was Finnick.

He sat casually in his chariot, his trident resting at his side, but there was nothing casual about the way his eyes roamed the area, sharp and calculating. His sea-green outfit, designed to evoke the beauty of District 4’s oceans, only served to heighten his allure. Beside him, Mags sat with quiet dignity, her frail form a stark contrast to his vibrant presence. Yet, there was strength in her weathered gaze—a reminder of the resilience that had carried her through her own Games decades ago. The Capitol adored Finnick, just as they adored you, but his charm was a weapon, honed and deadly, and Mags was his anchor, her mere presence a testament to the bond between them and the wisdom she carried into the arena.

His gaze caught yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to still. His lips curved into a faint smile—not the easy, flirtatious grin he reserved for the Capitol’s audience, but something quieter, more genuine. It was unsettling, that smile, because it felt like he saw through you, saw the armor you’d worked so hard to construct.

You broke the connection first, turning your attention back to Reid, who was fidgeting nervously at your side.

“Stop moving,” you muttered under your breath. “You’re drawing attention.”

“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice low and apologetic.

You sighed, the weight of his unexpected inexperience pressing down on you. If he didn’t toughen up soon, he would make you look foolish too. He didn't act like a Victor. And the rest did.

Snow’s voice crackled over the speakers, his tone smooth and syrupy as he addressed the gathered victors. “What a spectacular display,” he said, his words dripping with false sincerity. “You are all reminders of the strength and resilience of Panem. May the odds be ever in your favor.”

The room fell silent as the announcement ended, the weight of his words settling over you like a shroud.

Reid leaned closer, his voice barely audible. “What now?”

You glanced at him, your expression hardening. “Now?” you said, your voice cold. “Now we wait. And when the time comes, we fight.”

Finnick’s laughter rang out suddenly, drawing your attention. He was talking to another Victor, his posture relaxed, but his eyes flicked to you for the briefest moment. There was something in his gaze—challenge, curiosity, maybe even understanding.

You turned away, refusing to engage. Whatever Finnick Odair was playing at, you had no intention of getting caught in his game.

As the outro anthem of Panem played, you felt a shift in the atmosphere. Your gaze flickered to the chariot beside yours, where Finnick Odair stood, resplendent in a sea-green ensemble that glittered like sunlight on the ocean. His golden hair caught the Capitol lights, making him look every bit the god they believed him to be. But his expression wasn’t one of triumph—it was of quiet defiance, a subtle rebellion that only those who knew the arena could recognize.

When the anthem ended, the victors were led to the holding area behind the parade route. The Capitol’s cheers faded into a low hum as you stepped off the chariot, your gown shimmering with each calculated movement. Reid stayed close to you, his presence a reminder of the responsibility you didn’t ask for but couldn’t ignore. Capitol stylists swarmed you both, fussing over stray folds and imagined imperfections. You barely acknowledged them, your focus already narrowing on the other tributes gathering nearby.

"Reid," you muttered under your breath, your tone sharp but quiet enough to keep Capitol ears from catching it. "Stand tall, and stop looking like you're about to bolt."

He straightened, though his hands still twitched at his sides. You suppressed a sigh.

Before you could step further into the mingling chaos of tributes and Capitol elites, a voice laced with sugar-coated steel sliced through the noise.

“Well, if it isn’t the darling of District 7. You’re just as intimidating as they say.”

You turned to see Cashmere gliding toward you, her golden locks framing her face like a halo, though the icy gleam in her eyes was anything but angelic. Her gown shimmered like molten gold, every inch of her radiating Capitol-perfect elegance. But there was no mistaking the predator behind the polished façade.

“Cashmere,” you greeted, keeping your tone neutral, even bored. “You flatter me.”

“Oh, it’s not flattery,” she replied, her smile sharp enough to cut. “It’s admiration. You play your part so well. Cold, dangerous, untouchable—it’s a wonder the Capitol isn’t already throwing parades in your honor.”

Reid shifted uncomfortably beside you, his unease a palpable presence. Cashmere’s gaze flicked to him briefly, her smirk widening as if she found his nervousness amusing.

“Who’s your little shadow?” she asked, her voice dripping with condescension. “Does he speak, or is he just here to look pretty?”

Reid’s jaw clenched, but before he could stammer a response, you stepped in.

“He’s my district partner,” you said coolly. “Focus on yours.”

Cashmere arched an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the tension. “Protective, are we? How sweet. Though I can’t imagine there’s much point. If he’s anything like my dear Gloss’s partners, he won’t last long.”

You took a deliberate step closer, your gaze locking with hers, sharp and unyielding. “And yet, here you are, wasting your time on him—and me. Be careful.”

Her smile faltered for the briefest moment, the crack in her composure almost imperceptible. But then she laughed, a light, airy sound that somehow felt more menacing than genuine.

“Always the sharp tongue,” she said, tilting her head. “I suppose it’s what keeps you alive. Just remember, darling—words can only cut so deep. Out there, it’s the blade that matters.”

“Thanks for the advice,” you replied, your tone as biting as hers. “I’ll be sure to remember it when the time comes.”

Cashmere’s eyes narrowed slightly, the playful mask slipping just enough to reveal the steely determination beneath. “Do that,” she said, her voice a whisper of warning. “I’ll be watching.”

With that, she turned and strode away, her golden gown catching the light with every step.

Reid let out a breath he seemed to have been holding, his voice low. “What was that about?”

“Don't worry about it,” you muttered, watching her retreating form. “Everyone’s playing their own game. Hers just happens to be gilded in gold.”

The energy in the Capitol’s holding area was electric, each victor carefully eyeing the others, feeling the tension rise with every passing second. The air was thick with power and the weight of what was to come—the 3rd Quarter Quell was unlike any other, a twisted reminder of the Capitol’s dominance, and each victor knew they were not only fighting for their lives but for their dignity as well.

Reid stood close, his nerves still apparent, his eyes darting from one tribute to the next. You could feel his discomfort radiating from him, and though you didn’t have time to indulge him, you found yourself slightly irritated by it. This was supposed to be a place for cold calculation, not weakness.

“Take a breath,” you muttered again, your eyes scanning the crowd of tributes. “You’re making us stand out.”

“I—sorry, I can’t help it,” Reid replied, the sincerity in his voice mixed with frustration. “This place... It’s too much. I never imagined I’d be back here, much less be facing them again.”

You took a deep breath, letting the noise of the Capitol’s elites wash over you. It was a dull hum compared to the chaos of the arena, but the stakes here were just as high. You weren’t just a Victor anymore; you were the prey.

“I get it,” you said, your voice colder than before, but not unkind. “But you need to act like one of them. We’re not here for anything other than survival. And in case you haven’t realized, that means playing their game better than they do. Don't let them think you're weak, even if you think you are.”

Reid nodded, his jaw set in determination, though the unease still flickered in his eyes. You didn’t think he’d ever truly understand. His idealism would be his downfall, you could already see it. The Capitol’s games had broken you, stripped away your humanity, and in the end, it had made you stronger. You knew better than anyone that to survive in this world, you had to be willing to kill what remained of your soul.

As the seconds ticked by, the other tributes continued to mingle—some more comfortable than others. A few whispered amongst themselves, their eyes darting in calculated glances, while others stood proudly, basking in their newly cemented fame. You didn’t join them. You had no need to.

A moment later, a voice rang out in the distance, one that cut through the tension in the air like a blade—soft, melodic, but with an undeniable edge.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the infamous Snake of Seven.”

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. His voice was unmistakable, like the sea itself, deep and quiet but filled with a hidden strength. Finnick Odair.

You met his gaze, not surprised to see him standing at the edge of the crowd, his trident at his side, the shimmering blue of his outfit contrasting with his golden hair. His green eyes gleamed, mischievous yet sharp. His dimpled smirk only deepened when he noticed the way you studied him—cold, calculating, as always.

“Finnick,” you replied coolly, your voice betraying no emotion, even as your insides clenched. “I didn’t realize the Capitol was still fascinated by my name. I thought they’d moved on to the next little toy.”

His smirk only deepened, his eyes never leaving yours. “Oh, they’ll never tire of you,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, almost like a whispered secret meant only for you. “Not with your reputation. It’s not every day that the Snake of Seven steps into the arena, is it?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You sound almost impressed.”

“Well, who wouldn’t be?” Finnick’s tone was casual, but there was an edge to it that made the words feel like a challenge. “The odds of you making it this far... I’m curious how you’ve done it.”

You could feel the weight of his words, the curiosity in them. There was something in his gaze that felt like he wasn’t just talking about the Games anymore. His eyes raked over you, not in the way the Capitol admired his victors, but like he was trying to peel away the layers and understand the person standing in front of him.

“Survival,” you answered simply. “It’s not as hard as people make it out to be. If you’ve got the right instincts, the right drive, you can make it through anything.”

“And you’ve got both,” he said, his voice quiet but unmistakably admiring. “I can see it. But I think there’s more to you than that. More than just the survivor everyone sees.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response, just holding his gaze as the crowd around you continued to buzz with their typical Capitol energy. There was something about the way he looked at you, though. Like he wasn’t just sizing you up as a potential ally or foe, but like he was seeing through to something deeper. And it unsettled you.

“You’re not one to mince words, are you?” you asked, your voice sharp, trying to redirect the conversation, but you could feel the pull of it all the same.

“Why bother?” Finnick’s expression softened just the slightest bit, his eyes glinting in a way that made you wonder if there was something he wasn’t saying. “This game’s already full of lies. We don’t need to add to it.”

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. “And what would you suggest, Finnick? That we just lay it all bare? Is that what you think is needed to win this?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Maybe. Or maybe the truth is the only thing we’ve got left.”

The words hung between you, a quiet tension settling in. His gaze didn’t waver, but something in his stance softened, almost imperceptibly. For a moment, you saw past the Capitol’s golden boy, the victor who had charmed his way into the hearts of millions. You saw the man who had fought in the arena, who had survived the same twisted game that you were now part of. And for a fleeting second, there was a vulnerability in his eyes, something raw and unspoken.

“You know the game better than anyone,” you said quietly, your tone softer now, the challenge gone. “But we’re not all playing by the same rules, Finnick. I don’t think you understand that.”

His smile faded slightly, and he tilted his head. “Oh, I understand more than you think. But you’re right. Not everyone is playing by the same rules. And that’s why I’m curious about you.”

You didn’t respond immediately, the weight of his words sinking in. There was something in the way he said it that made you feel like a puzzle he was dying to solve. But you wouldn’t make it easy for him.

“Curious about me?” you repeated, stepping closer to him, your voice low but firm. “Why? Because I’m a challenge? Or because I’m something you can’t control?”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t back down. If anything, he took a small step forward, closing the gap between you. “I don’t want to control you,” he said, his voice steady. “I want to understand you.”

The words were simple, but they carried an undertone of something that felt more intimate than anything you’d heard in a long time. His eyes searched yours, the playful mischief replaced with something darker, something more serious.

You almost faltered. Almost.

"Then understand this," You lean in, boring your eyes into his. "When you lean into the face of a snake, it sinks it's teeth in."

Finnick’s eyes gleamed, a flicker of admiration dancing in the depths of his gaze. His smirk only deepened as you leaned in, the challenge clear in your words and your posture. He didn’t flinch, didn’t back down—if anything, the tension between you only seemed to grow.

He paused, taking a slow breath before responding, his voice low and even, carrying a hint of something darker beneath the surface.

“Well, I’ve always been a fan of a good bite,” Finnick said, his tone smooth, but there was an edge to it now, like the words themselves were an invitation, a dare. He stepped just a fraction closer, narrowing the distance between you with a kind of quiet, deliberate confidence. “But don’t mistake my curiosity for weakness. If you sink your teeth in, be sure you’re ready for what comes after.”

His eyes never left yours as he said it, the unspoken challenge hanging heavy in the air, and for a moment, you could almost feel the pulse of something dangerous, something thrilling, between the two of you. Finnick Odair wasn’t afraid of a fight. But neither were you.

Finnick’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer, his lips curving into a more playful smirk as he took another slow step back. But the mischievous glint in his eyes told you that he wasn’t done with you yet.

“I have to admit,” he said, his tone lighter now, but no less charged. “You’ve got grit that I wasn’t expecting. Most people would’ve backed down by now, but not you. No, you’re… interesting.”

He took another step, the air around you thick with an undeniable pull. “You know, I like a good challenge. But you,” Finnick continued, his voice dropping an octave, “you’re something different. Something… unpredictable.”

He leaned in just slightly, his breath a faint whisper against your ear. “I’ll admit, I’m curious to see what else you’re capable of.”

You glare at him as he leans away.

"Curiosity killed the cat, now didn't it?"

Finnick’s grin only widened at your sharp retort, the gleam in his eyes turning into something almost predatory. He didn’t seem offended—if anything, your challenge made him more interested.

"Maybe," he mused, his voice soft, playful, but still with that underlying edge. "But I’ve never been one to shy away from danger. And I’m not the type to get caught in a trap either." He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the game between you two.

He tilted his head, studying you for a moment, his green eyes flickering with amusement. “You’re quick with your words, but I have a feeling you’re not just all talk.”

His gaze traveled from your eyes to your lips, lingering just long enough for it to be obvious, before returning to your gaze, the tension between you thick enough to slice. “Tell me, what else do you have up your sleeve, hmm? Because I’m starting to think you’re not just some venomous snake. There’s something else there… something more.”

He stepped closer again, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, but not quite enough to touch. The space between you seemed to shrink with each word, with each look, and it was becoming increasingly clear that Finnick wasn’t just teasing anymore. He was genuinely intrigued.

"You’re right," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "Curiosity might’ve killed the cat, but satisfaction, well, that’s what makes it all worth it, don’t you think?" He let the words hang in the air between you, daring you to respond, to challenge him once more.

Finnick was getting closer to you now, but there was no rush in his movement—he was taking his time, savoring the moment. The air between you felt charged, a magnetism that was impossible to ignore.

“Just remember,” he added softly, his lips yet again dangerously close to your ear, “you started this game. And I’m not the type to lose."

With that, Finnick Odair strode away, looking over his shoulder to give you one last dimpled smile.

[cece693]

My Safe Place (Finnick Odair x M! Reader)

Going back to my Hunger Games phase and not enough fics for male/gender neutral readers can be found for him. So, I aim to fix it :) Hope you enjoy!

Summary: Finnick was known for his conquests whenever he traveled to the Capital, however, you were his main client—a man who didn't exactly act like the rest of the Capital society.

tags: mention of sex working, Finnick deserves better, reader is a safe place for him, President Snow being a dick, reader is different, Annie (unfortunately) is dead

The arrangement between you and Finnick was dangerous, but you didn’t care. All that mattered was giving him some semblance of safety, a fleeting escape from the nightmare President Snow had trapped him in. You never liked interacting with people, much less in the manner Finnick’s arrangement with the Capitol required. But when the murmurs began—stories of the young victor's so-called "conquests" echoing in the opulent halls—you couldn’t ignore the tug in your chest.

You weren’t foolish. You knew how Snow operated. Finnick’s dazzling smile was just another weapon in the Capitol's arsenal, a weapon honed through coercion and manipulation. Then you overheard a conversation at a party: a woman bragging about "paying" to spend time with him. Her words were dripping with self-satisfaction, as though exploiting someone so clearly tormented was a badge of honor. It made your stomach churn.

It was easy to connect the dots. Too easy.

The first time you reached out to Finnick, it had been awkward. Not for him—he was all smooth confidence, his charm slipping into place like a second skin. But you? You couldn’t keep still, looking around the suite for cameras or hidden microphones. You didn’t trust the Capitol, and Finnick was bound to be under constant surveillance, his every move scrutinized.

Sensing your nervousness, Finnick took control of the situation, his practiced mask of seduction sliding into place. He began unbuttoning his shirt, moving toward you with a deliberate air. After all, wasn’t this why you’d invited him here? Another Capitol indulgence, another client eager to own a piece of him.

“No!” Your voice cut through the tension as you stepped back, your hand flying up to stop him. The disgust on your face was immediate and unfiltered.

Finnick froze, his hands mid-motion, and for a moment, genuine confusion flickered across his face. “Then what do you want?” he asked, clutching the throw you’d hastily handed him.

It had taken everything in you to hold his gaze. "A safe place. For you. No strings attached."

For a long, tense moment, Finnick didn’t respond. He studied you, his sea-green eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to find the trap in your words. Then, to your surprise, he laughed—a bitter, hollow sound that didn’t suit him at all.

"Safe places don’t exist in the Capitol."

"Maybe not," you admitted. "But I can try."

From then on, it became a routine. You’d send the payment—an obscene amount, just enough to satisfy the Capitol’s watchful eye—and Finnick would arrive at your apartment late at night. He always used the private entrance to avoid prying eyes. At first, neither of you talked much. Finnick would sit stiffly on the edge of your luxurious couch, his shoulders tense, his hands fidgeting with the sea-green pendant around his neck.

You ignored his discomfort, going about your nightly routine as though he wasn’t there. You’d clean the dishes left on the counter, read a book with a steaming cup of tea, or sometimes sit at your piano and let your fingers wander across the keys. You never pressed him to talk, never demanded his attention. You simply let him exist in the quiet safety of your home.

When the time was up, Finnick would stand, his expression often a mix of confusion and gratitude, before slipping out the same way he came.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Months into the arrangement, Finnick began to open up. At first, he stuck to safe topics: the ocean breeze in District 4, the salty tang of the air, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocky shore. His words painted a vivid picture of home, a place you could tell he missed deeply.

You didn’t press him for more, content to let him share whatever pieces of himself he felt comfortable giving. But then, one evening, as you were reading, Finnick spoke a name that hung heavy in the air. “Annie.” The sound of her name made him freeze for a moment, as though he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. You looked up from your book, startled by the weight in his tone but careful not to push. You simply set the book down and waited.

Finnick’s gaze fell to the pendant he always wore, his fingers tracing the smooth surface of the shell. “She was my first love,” he said quietly. “She was different from everyone else. Quiet, kind, but strong in a way most people didn’t see. She didn’t care about the Games or the Capitol. She only cared about people.”

The smile faded from his lips, replaced by a shadow of grief. “But Snow couldn’t allow that, could he? He couldn’t let me have something that made me resist.”

Finnick’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the pendant, his entire frame trembling with suppressed rage and sorrow. “He killed her,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t quick, and it wasn’t painless. He made sure I knew every detail, made sure I understood that her death was my fault."

You watched as his grief and anger boiled over. With a sharp, guttural sound of frustration, Finnick stood abruptly, grabbing a vase from a nearby table. Without hesitation, he flung it at the wall, the porcelain shattering into a million jagged pieces. The crash echoed through the room, but you didn’t flinch.

Finnick’s chest heaved as he stood there amidst the broken shards, his tear-streaked face turned toward you. The raw vulnerability in his sea-green eyes was almost too much to bear. His lip quivered as though he was fighting a battle within himself, one final attempt to keep the walls he’d built intact.

But then, those walls crumbled.

Without warning, Finnick took a shaky step forward and collapsed to his knees before you. His head fell into your lap, his arms wrapping loosely around your legs as though anchoring himself to something—anything—real. The dam inside him burst, and his sobs came in great, shuddering waves, his entire body trembling with the force of his anguish.

You froze for a moment, startled by the intensity of his collapse, but quickly recovered. Gently, you rested a hand on his head, your fingers threading through his golden tousled hair in slow, soothing motions. Your other hand settled lightly on his back, offering a steady, grounding presence.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, your voice soft but firm. “Let it out, Finnick. You’re safe here.”

His sobs grew louder, his pain pouring out in every ragged breath, every muffled cry against your knees. His tears soaked through the fabric of your pants, but you didn’t care. All that mattered was being there for him, letting him release the emotions he’d kept locked away for so long.

“I couldn’t save her,” he choked out, his voice muffled against you. “I couldn’t…I wasn’t enough.”

“Finnick, stop,” you said gently, your voice breaking with emotion. “You were enough. You loved her, and that was more than enough. What happened to Annie wasn’t your fault. Snow…Snow took her because he’s a monster, not because of anything you did.”

He didn’t respond, but his grip on your legs tightened, his trembling body pressing closer against you. You continued to stroke his hair, murmuring soft reassurances, letting him pour his heart out in the safety of your presence. As the minutes passed, his sobs began to subside, the storm of emotions giving way to quiet, exhausted tears. His breathing slowed, though his face remained buried against your knees, as if he couldn’t bear to let go just yet.

“Thank you,” he whispered hoarsely, the words barely audible, yet they carried the weight of his gratitude and trust.

From that moment, something fragile yet beautiful began to bloom between you. Finnick grew comfortable in your space, his presence no longer guarded or wary. He started accepting small gestures of care—a cup of tea, a plate of fresh fruit—with a smile that wasn’t the polished charm he wore in public, but something tender and genuine.

His smiles were rare but transformative, softening his features in a way that felt almost sacred. It wasn’t the grin of a Capitol heartthrob or a victor playing his part. It was Finnick. The real Finnick. And it was in those moments you saw him as the man he was, not the mask he was forced to wear.

Finnick’s feelings for you deepened with every visit. At first, it was subtle: the way his eyes lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, the way his laughter grew warmer and more frequent when you were around. But over time, it became undeniable.

He found excuses to stay longer, to ask you questions about yourself—your favorite books, your childhood memories, your thoughts on the world beyond the Capitol. His curiosity was genuine, his attention focused solely on you, as though you were the one piece of sanity in his life.

And you noticed. Of course, you noticed. You weren’t blind to the way his gaze softened when it met yours, the way his voice grew quieter when he spoke your name. You weren’t stupid—you knew what it meant.

But you didn’t give in.

It wasn’t that you didn’t feel the same way. You did. Finnick had become more than a presence in your life; he had become someone you cared about deeply, someone you wanted to protect, someone whose laughter felt like sunlight breaking through a storm. But you didn’t want him to think that was all you were after. You didn’t want him to believe, even for a moment, that your care for him was tied to his charm or his body or any of the things the Capitol exploited. Finnick deserved better than that.

So you kept your distance, at least emotionally. You treated him as you always had—with quiet kindness and unwavering respect. Even as your heart ached to reach out, to tell him how much he mattered to you, you held back. Because Finnick’s worth was so much more than he realized, and you refused to let him think otherwise.

And then the 75th Hunger Games was announced.

The moment the words left President Snow’s lips—this year, the tributes shall be reaped from the existing pool of victors—you felt your chest tighten. You knew what it meant. Finnick would be going back into the arena.

When his name was called at the reaping, you watched from your apartment, your hands trembling as you gripped the armrest of your chair. Finnick’s face was calm, but you knew the storm that raged beneath the surface. You knew him too well to be fooled by the mask.

Days later, during the interviews, you sat in the same chair, your eyes glued to the television. The Capitol was abuzz with excitement, the crowd roaring with approval as Caesar Flickerman welcomed the victors one by one. And then it was Finnick’s turn. He stepped onto the stage, his signature charm firmly in place. The audience adored him, their cheers deafening as he waved and smiled. But when Caesar asked him the question that had been on everyone’s lips—is there someone special he's fighting for?—something shifted.

Finnick’s expression softened, the mask slipping just enough to reveal the man beneath. “There is,” he said simply, his voice steady but filled with emotion. The crowd erupted in gasps and murmurs, looking at each other as if he was speaking about one of them, but Finnick ignored them. "And I would like to tell them something, if you don't mind."

Caesar, ever the showman, gestured grandly for him to proceed but not before hushing the crowd.

"Though I cannot promise forever, Though the storms still rage around me, I leave my heart to you, And hope you’ll remember me kindly."

No one else knew who the poem was for. But you did.

And in that moment, it was both everything and not nearly enough.

[thesmallestgir1]

“In another life, I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you”

[x-gabrielle-x]

Tides Of Survival | 1

Pairings: Finnick Odair x Reader.

Warnings: Blood, gore, violence, murder, swearing, major and minor injuries, death, (eventual) smut, mentions of forced prostitution.

Summary: The white swan of the Capitol; gracious, elegant, and innocent. You catch many of the Capitol's attention in your games, whether that was due to your agility, cleverness, or looks in all, even managing to capture the gaze of your young mentor and old friend, Finnick Odair.

Series Masterlist | Pinterest Board

Although most days in District Four were hot, today was definitely one of the most. The sun blared down on your back and sweat lined your forehead, creased with dedication and concentration. You swore that if it were to get any hotter than this, your skin might as well be melting off.

The breeze did little to cool you down, the wind hitting your face as your fingers worked at the knots in your aching hands. You could conclude now that you were miserable at knot tying.

Frowning, your smaller hands lifting the mess of a rope up to your father's gaze, you called him.

"I still can't do it, Pa" you whined, gaze trained on him as his fingers worked effortlessly at his now half-finished net.

He glanced down, brown eyes flicking between you and the disaster held tightly in your smaller grip. He smiled, though his fingers remained at his work.

"You'll get it, Princess. You've only been practicing for a few hours," he tried, but you were determined.

"All the kids at school can make them now, I don't want to be left out." Twisting the rope between your hands, you undid the poor knot before aimlessly placing it down on the wooden work bench, fingers raw from the rough material.

He hummed, picking up a weight that laid off to his right and tying it to his work. "Sometimes it's just harder for others to learn. Thats why we practice, so that we become better."

You huffed when he turned away, though you weren’t able to avert your gaze from his hands. They worked effortlessly with the small rope, weaving and pulling into patterns. Though District Four was full of different kinds and styles of nets and knots, your fathers were some of their proudest works.

"How about this," he started, eyeing you at his side as you sat atop the table boredly, legs kicking back and forth. "When we get home, I have some old rope in my bedroom. We can practice together when I'm off work. Does that sound good?" He asked, and like a switch your smile was gleaming back up at him.

He laughed, a solemn look flashing over his features when he went to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. "You smile just like your ma, Princess." He pressed a quick kiss to your head.

Whilst he continued his work, you allowed for your gaze to wonder. The docks of District Four were crowded with workers; some actively catching a variety of fish and others weaving and knotting nets at the benches like your father. The air lingered the smell of salt and seaweed with every crash of the waves against the shore. The heat blaring down at you made you ache for the feeling of the cool water surrounding your body, and you watched on as sunlight danced across the water like ribbons of gold, as if taunting you to give in.

"How much longer?" You asked. The sun had yet to set, and you knew that would mean a few hours at the least.

Your father let out a breath, and you didn't miss the way his hands trembled and flexed with exhaustion. "Still got a few hours, Hun. I need to go and grab something off Matt, so stay put here, alright?"

Once you nodded, he was already walking a few tables down and disappearing into the crowd of people. Now alone, your gaze caught onto the rope beside you, fingers etching out to grab the rough material when a voice piped up from behind you.

"Maybe I can help you."

You turned, startles to see a young boy stood behind you. You recognized him as one of the boys from the year above you, though you didn't remember his name. His sun-bleached blonde hair was pushed around from the salty ocean breeze, and his green eyes sparkled with mischief. He stood with a certain confidence that you admired, his gaze trained on the untied knot at your side.

You hummed in question, and seeing your confusion he picked up the rope you had previously discarded, twirling it in his palm as if he was dissecting it.

"I've already tried," you told him, though you were quite embarrassed admitting it. A District Four girl couldn't even tie her own net.

He raised a brow. "Can you tie shoelaces?"

Taken aback, you frowned at him, slightly offended. "Yes, I can tie shoes. I'm not that bad."

"Can you tie any knots?"

"Only a few my Pa taught me."

His lips quirked into a grin. "Great! Then you won't have a problem."

He handed you the rope before fishing around in a nearby crate of ropes. Finding what he was looking for, he turned to you and set the rope out flat.

"All you need to do it watch carefully, and if you're stuck ill help you."

You didn't answer, only watching as he slowly began to explain to you between weaving and pulling. He kept it at a slow pace so that you were able to follow along easily, and though you messed up a few times, he was quick to correct you. Your movements were hesitant and slow as you tied your knot, and you noticed Finnick pause at your side.

"You know," he began. "You make fumbling around look kind of fancy."

You wrinkled your nose into a scowl. "Thats not a compliment."

He laughed, and you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. "I promise it is," he said.

A pause.

"What's your name?" He had asked, watching you closely. He noticed that you barely were watching him work now, instead getting the hang of the knots yourself.

You glanced at him, smiling brightly. "Y/N."

He nodded. "I'm Finnick."

After some time, you couldn't help but to smile down at the finished net in your hands. It was only small and still poorly done, but it was better. Better than any progress you'd made so far. You held it up to Finnick, gleaming brightly.

"See? You did it!" Finnick smiled, though he let out a small laugh when you eyed the net wearily with a grimace. "Not bad for somebody who can't tie shoelaces."

You shot him a look, though the corner of your lip tilted into a smile. "I told you I could tie laces?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Just better now."

You lifted the net so that it was eye level with the both of you. Some of the knots were better than others, and half the net hung lower than the other, but nevertheless it was yours.

"Should we test it?" Finnick questioned, and you eagerly nodded and jumped off the bench.

The planks creaked beneath your feet as you ran to the end of the deck, Finnick hot on your trail. The net was practically tangled around your arms, and you shrugged it off with excitement, gazing down at the water below. You noticed some of the Peacekeepers leant up against the wooden railing, and though their helmets concealed their expressions, you knew they were watching. They always were.

"Let's hope your throwing is better than your net making," Finnick joked, but you ignored him, finally getting the newly made net untangled and throwing it as far out into the water as you could.

"Imagine how good I'll be in a few weeks," you thought, but Finnick was quick to nudge you.

"Not ever as good as me, though."

You opened your mouth to retort but were cut off by a gasp when a splash in the water caught your attention. Finnick helped to pull your net back up onto the doc, the both of you noticing it had come back empty.

"I definitely saw something," you murmured, though there was no upset in your tone. You were eying the net carefully, gaze practically burning.

Finnick shrugged. "Next time, we can make the-"

"Wait!" You suddenly squealed, digging around into the wet net. It was then that Finnick realized the subtle movements from under one corner of the net. You dug around, hand finally clasping around the fish.

"I got one!" The words caught in your throat with excitement, and you watched entranced by the scales of the fish that shimmered like treasure. Perhaps it was treasure to you.

The moment was short lived when the fish in its mighty attempt flapped its fins, slipping from your grasp and falling back into the water. Finnick was prepared to assure you that you could always try again, but when you turned to him, bright smile on your face, he swore he'd never seen anybody happier. Your smile was contagious to him.

"I caught a fish in my own net!" You jumped up and down, and you noticed your father back at the work bench from the distance. You turned to Finnick, E/C eyes sparkling with pride. "Next time we will catch more fish together." It was a promise.

"Thank you, Finnick," you gleamed, before running back to your father with the soaking net, telling him about the exciting news and practically shoving your new net in his face.

Your words echoed in his mind. Next time, he thought, the smile lingering on his face at the promise of many.

©x-gabrielle-x. Do not steal, copy or translate my works.

[nebulablakemurphy]

Moves & Countermoves (Part 23)

Summary: No one ever wins the games, even fourteen years later, Y/N is still playing.

Part 22

Y/N is just about to sleep when she hears it.

“We have to move now! They’ve released the mutts!” Peeta warns, calling the rest of the squad to action.

Down the tunnel, damp at their feet. Creeping quietly as not to attract unwanted attention. The space before them is dark, gut wrenchingly so and the howls of muttations draw closer.

Gale fires one of the incendiary arrows into the walkway ahead, there’s nothing there.

Cashmere is behind Y/N, gripping her hand firmly. Don’t you dare let go.

The flashlights help, they keep moving, trudging through the water, through a crawl space and onward. Jackson is about to come through, she’s the last of them; the mutts get her instead. Fighting their way into the crawl space.

Katniss fires an explosive arrow, the force of it throwing her back into Castor.

“Pollux, get us out of here!” He yells over the chaos.

Y/N and Cashmere separate.

“Katniss,” Y/N says, hauling her to her feet.

“I’m ok,” a little shell shocked, but Katniss marches on.

“Peeta?”

“We’ve got him, come on,” Finnick replies.

They’re getting out of this, all of them, together. They’d suffered enough. They’ve earned it.

Down the pipeline farther, running faster-

“Ahhh!”

“Castor!”

The mutts got him too. Pulling him down into the water, sinking in their ragged teeth.

Pollux can’t even scream, for his brother, mouth open in a silent cry.

Cressida tugs him forward. They have to keep going.

Gunfire holds off the mutts for only a second, they just keep coming. Hundreds. Thousands. Their skin slick and reeking of roses.

A ladder is finally within view, one that leads up into the capitol.

They have to go, one at a time.

Y/N rains steady fire from her gun.

Pollux is up. Homes is up.

Cressida is next.

Gale.

Peeta.

Katniss.

Leaving only Finnick, Cashmere and Y/N. Fighting the creatures off as best they can.

“Finnick, go now.” Cashmere calls.

“No, you.” He fires back.

Y/N hesitates, starting up the ladder, hanging one arm off to fire at the mutts. “One of you come on!” She drops her empty magazine into the water, loading a fresh one with her arms looped through the rungs. She nearly loses her footing.

“Y/N!” Katniss calls, staring down at her, with worried eyes.

“I’m fine.”

Cashmere is behind her then, patting her bum playfully. “Giddy up.”

Y/N focuses, moving faster, making room behind Cashmere for Finnick. Still kicking off the occasional mutt attempting to scale the ladder.

They’re finally nearing the top when a Capitol creation latches onto Cashmere’s leg, sinking it’s teeth in deep.

Y/N reaches back for her, but it’s useless. She digs her heel into its skull.

Finnick, runs it through with his trident. Now coated in its blood and Cashmere’s.

“Keep moving.” They have to keep moving.

Once they’ve cleared the ladder, Katniss uses the hollow to blow it up.

Y/N removes her belt, knotting it tightly around the top of Cashmere’s thigh, above the wound, to slow the bleeding. “Can you walk?”

Cashmere presses her lips together, allowing Finnick to help her upright. “Yeah.”

————————————————————————

“Haymitch, it’s happening.” Madge makes her way to him, through the slew of bystanders, in front of the broadcast screen. “Snow called for all Capitol citizens to come to his mansion. This is it!”

Haymitch nods, numbly. Everest and Arista are still in school. Daisy is strapped against his chest, sleeping through the yelling and premature rejoicing of those around them.

“Have you heard from her?”

Her.

Y/N.

“No,” Haymitch admits. Not since two nights ago. She would call if she could. He doesn’t dwell on what might be keeping her.

“She’s coming home, Haymitch.” Madge says, with childlike glee. “She’s going to end this and then she’s coming home.”

————————————————————————-

Y/N gives Peeta her nightlock pill, just incase Snow sends peacekeepers to search houses. One of Cressida’s friends and former stylist for the games, Tigris, has taken them in.

It is decided that Y/N, Katniss and Gale are the ones going for Snow, while the others hang back.

“Thank you for everything.” Peeta captures his mentor in a long hug.

I would do more for you, if I could. “I love you, Peeta.” Y/N tells him, “and I am so proud.” She smooths a hand over his hair.

He buries his head in her shoulder, “I love you too.”

“I’ll see you soon, yeah?” Y/N pulls away slightly, so he can say his goodbyes to Katniss. Who is waiting anxiously behind Y/N.

Cressida is nearest the door, waving Y/N over. “They will have disarmed the pods to ensure the safety of Capitol citizens, just get yourselves into the crowd and you should be able to walk right in. You’re not all glammed up and you’ll be wearing hoods, chances are no one will recognize you.”

Y/N nods, not caring if she’s telling the truth. She has to see this through. For Katniss, for Peeta. For Haymitch and their children. For herself.

The three of them open the door, marching out into the streets, becoming one with the crowd.

Among the sea of bodies is a girl. A little girl, held in her mother’s arms, wide blue eyes staring back at them. Her blonde curls peeking out from the hood of her yellow coat. She couldn’t have been more than four.

Just a couple years younger than Arista.

Y/N has to get home to Arista.

The palace guards are checking civilians as they line up at the front gates. One of them will surely recognize them. They try to turn back, to regroup and make a better plan.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The world around them explodes.

“It’s the rebels!” One of the men cries out.

Bullets rain down. From above and below, all around.

“Mama!” The girl in the yellow jacket is crouched over her mother’s lifeless body. “Mama.” Her mother won’t wake up. There’s screaming, there’s so much noise and she’s all alone.

With one last nod to Katniss, Y/N takes off. Trying to reach her. Because she has to try, if it were one of her children, she hopes someone would try.

“Mama!”

Y/N sweeps the girl up into her arms, searching for Katniss and Gale. The child screams in protest. Y/N understands, she is not her Mama. “Shh, sweetheart. I know you want your Mama.”

“Mama!”

“My name is Y/N,” Y/N says, against her ear. “I’m going to be your friend for a little while, would that be ok?”

The girl keeps crying, but no longer screaming.

“What’s your name, hmm?” Y/N continues rushing them through the crowd.

From the corner of her eye she makes out Gale, being dragged away by peacekeepers.

Where is Katniss?

The girl mumbles out something through her sobs.

“Tell me one more time, honey.” Y/N says, rubbing circles into her back.

“Poppy.”

Y/N pulls back slightly, blinking at her. “That’s a pretty name.”

She nods.

“One of my daughters is named after a flower too. Her name is Daisy.”

When the crowd comes to a standstill in front of the mansion’s still sealed gates, Y/N manages to find Katniss. She’s just a few feet away.

One of the palace guards calls for the children to be brought forward, Y/N doesn’t hesitate to let the little girl go. She will be safe. Snow is smart, calculated and there is no reason for him to kill Capitol children.

“Be brave, Poppy. You’re going to be safe now.” Y/N gives the girl one last squeeze before handing her over to the outstretched arms in front of her. She then begins forging a path to Katniss.

A hovercraft flies overhead, dropping parachutes to the children, being moved towards the mansion.

“Gifts.” The Capitol citizens marvel and little hands reach up to catch them in wonder.

Boom!

Screaming. Running.

The parachutes exploded.

Not parachutes, bombs.

Everyone rushes in to help the wounded. Y/N looks for her, for Poppy. Medics from district thirteen have arrived.

“Prim. Prim Rose.” Katniss recognizes her sister among them.

Prim looks to her sister. Sees that she is alive.

Boom!

What happened to the little girl in the yellow coat?

What happened to Katniss?

Oh. Y/N realizes.

Oh.

More bombs, the fire. It took the little girl in the yellow coat.

It took the medics from thirteen, including Prim.

It took Katniss, blowing her back, setting the jade green cloak ablaze.

Death takes everything. Her Aunt, her father, her tributes, her district.

Everyone but her.

She always tries to save them.

She always tries.

————————————————————————

Y/N startles awake, jerking upright in the hospital bed.

“Hey, hey, gentle. You’re still healing.”

Haymitch.

She’s in thirteen, she made it back to thirteen. Her skin burns, across her chest, down her arms. She glances down at herself, finding the reddened inflamed skin.

“Lie back.” Haymitch soothes, fluffing her pillow before her head comes to rest on it. “You’re alright, no permanent damage.”

“What happened?” She can’t remember.

“Second round of bombs blew you back, knocked your head. Doc says it might be a little fuzzy for a while.”

“Katniss? Peeta?”

“Both safe.” Haymitch assures her. “Katniss has some burns, same as you, but she’ll pull through.”

“Cashmere? Finnick?”

“Cashmere’s leg is healing up nice and Finnick is fine. Back with Annie. The kids are good, they’ve been asking for you.”

“Can I see them?” Y/N’s eyes well with tears. “Please, Haymitch.”

“Of course,” he pats her cheek. “Madge will bring them down after school.

“How are you?” Y/N asks, reaching out for his hand.

“I’m still kicking.” He squeezes their entwined fingers.

“Will you lay with me for a while?” It’ll be cramped, but she needs him close.

“The doctors won’t approve.”

“Please?”

Haymitch sighs, as if he could ever say no to her. “Scoot over and be careful.”

His weight shifts the mattress as he sides in behind her. His arms wrap around her, so softly. As if she’ll break.

“We did it.” She forces her lungs to expand, willing away the pain.

“We did it.” Now they get to live. Now they’ve earned it.

Part 24

Series Taglist: @praline357 @flowercrowns-goodvibes @justheretoparty420 @avocadotoastwithegg @treehouse-mouse @emo-markie @spilled-mi1k @magical-spit @greaser9902 @jessicamellarky @yourebuckingkiddingme @smuha2004 @sendhelplease @ninimackbrews @wittiestrain184 @r1dd1kulus @erenluvr69 @helpimhyperfixating @jackierose902109 @jellybear455 @dreammgc @dadbodfanatic-x @ftdtcmlovr @inky-sun @ms-brek-ker @undercover55655 @mischiefmanaged21 @avoxrising @koiphisch @drwho-ess @daisydaisybilly @misfits1a @nj01 @eruannaaa-blog @thatkindofgurl @solikeapparently @innercreationflower

[haymitchsbunny]

Drink Me Away

dividers by @anitalenia

Series: Hunger Games (Suzanne Collins)

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x F!Reader

Warnings: Age gap, porn with so much plot, smut, vaginal sex, daddy kink, slightly weird dynamic, traumabonding(?), underage drinking/alcoholism in general

Summary: You were never more than just drinking buddies with Haymitch, until you came to him for consolation when your parents disowned you. He never planned to make a move, but you couldn't handle it. He was your favorite person- but that could never progress, right?

A/N: Absolutely no writing of the actual Games- just there for plot reasons. I've loved Haymitch for so long and theres absolutely no xreader fics with him, so I wrote my own.

Please let me know if i missed any warnings! happy readings ☆

You came from a well-off family, one that had never had to put their children in danger with tesserae, one that got the freshest bread, one that had no idea about their eldest daughter's after-school activities; heading to the hob as often as possible, paying anyone she could for a bottle of spirits. You began when you were 16.

Your only true drinking competition was Haymitch Abernathy- he had known your family for years, but as close as he was with your father, he had never known you. You never cared to approach him when he entered your house or when your parents spotted him in the square.

When you became a regular Hob attendee, you saw much more of him. Drinking competitions became a regular occurrence between the two of you when you were 17, praises of your tolerance always boosting your ego at 18. This lasted until you were 19.

Your father had a rough day at work. He had visited the Hob for the first time in year, accompanied by Haymitch. He had come to try and spot you before your father could and tell you to book it. It didn't work out that way.

Haymitch spotted you two seconds too late, after hearing the deafening screech of your father yelling your name across the Hob. You froze in place, glass in hand and arm on a man who's name you couldn't remember. The sounds around you died around somewhat, all eyes on the father-daughter exchange.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He hissed, approaching rapidly.

"I'm 19, dad, I'm allowed to have fun," you huffed.

"Since when is 'fun' illegal drinking in the black market?"

"A while now, actually."

"You're grounded."

"I'm 19."

"Then get your shit," he snatched the drink from your hand, throwing it back like water. "And get the fuck out of the house." He slammed the glass against the table, turning tail and leaving.

You sat, stunned at the confrontation. You slipped off your barstool and followed your father's path in a haze. You jumped when a hand clamped around your wrist, eyes flickering to Haymitch standing there, concern splashed through his features.

"What happened, sweetheart?" He questioned genuinely.

"Nothing, Haymitch, don't worry about it," you sighed, trying to pull away and not drag him into family business.

"I said 'what happened', kid. Not 'do you want to tell me'," he demanded.

"I- nothing," you stopped yourself. It was none of his business!

"I want to help you, let me, please." Well you never thought you'd hear him say please.

"My dad kicked me out- happy?" You fumed, a sudden rage building in your belly as you yanked your wrist away from him with all your might and began stomping off.

"You can stay with me," he called after you. "The couch is comfy." You turned on your heel back to him.

"You're kidding," you blanched. "Seriously? You'd let me stay with you? Why?" The questions spilled out, confusion and appreciation mingling.

"Because I care about your wellbeing, kid," he chuckled. "And if you're living with me you ain't gotta head all the way to the Hob for a drink or two."

And so began the complicated relationship between the two of you. Two unemployed day drinkers with no hobbies, no friends, and no family. You found out that your mother wanted nothing to do with you, and they wouldn't allow your siblings to see you. Haymitch had no family left alive. You were both stuck drinking away your sorrows together.

He didn't make you get a job- just run errands. Get food, get living supplies, relax. He got the liquor. He kept you from drinking too much, usually limiting you to three glasses at a time. A good majority of your time was spent cuddling. It wasn't weird. It was just.. comforting. For the both of you. Nothing weird.

The night you had moved in with him was the first time. You were vulnerable, and ended up sobbing on the floor with a bottle in your hand. He slipped it out gently, setting it on the ground next to you. He leaned down and picked you up off the ground with ease, your legs wrapping around his waist and your arms around his neck. He laid down on the couch with you in that position, letting you blubber and yap until you fell asleep.

When you awoke, you were squished between the back cushions and his body comfortably. His arms laced around your waist, holding you to his chest, his face in the crook of your neck. You dozed back off and when you awoke he was sitting at his armchair, unphased and watching the news.

it had been 6 months since that night. You drank with him almost every day, had two friends which were men you had drank with at the hob, and had hobbies and a black cat that roamed freely through Haymitch's house. Things were.. good.

And you were falling for your housemate.

He was nothing more than someone who you cared for. You were legal, yes, but he was so much older than you. He was a respectable man- sure, drinking the days away with a friend's disowned daughter wasn't exactly mature behavior, but at least he held you close every time you cried. But that was purely platonic affection, him caring for your well-being and holding you through the night being the only way he knew to comfort you.

That night, you drank your feelings away with him. He was getting louder and you were getting quieter, watching him carefully. Trying not to expose the vile thoughts running your mind into the dirt as he blabbed about his favorite liquor.

The heat in your tummy only got worse as you drank more, giving him professional fuck-me eyes by your 4th. If he noticed, he didn't say anything. But by the way his eyes never left yours, even when you looked away, you were sure he had.

"H-Haymitch," you hiccuped, certain you were bordering alcohol poisoning. You never drank this much- either you had enough or he stopped you. Not tonight. "I'm not, I'm really, uh," you couldn't get your thoughts straight. "Take me to our room, please." You managed to get out.

"Our room?" He questioned, brighter than you'd ever seen him. "Last I checked, we've never slept in it at the same time. If anything, the living room is our room." He sauntered over to you slowly, placing his bottle on the table in front of you. You reached for it and got your hand smacked. You were already feeling a little green.

"Just take me," you groaned, choking back a gag. "I'm sleepy." You whined at him.

"Sure you don't need to vomit, sweetheart? Do it before I tuck you in, if you would be ever-so-kind," you shook your head no, but then stood swiftly and shook your head yes. He guided you to the sink as you emptied the contents of your stomach in it. He held your hair. You tilted your head back up and turned the water on, washing the liquid away.

"Atta girl, let's get you some water, why don't we," you groaned and nodded, washing your hands and turning back to him as he handed you a bottled water. You chugged it, feeling a tad more sober, and you began to walk to the bathroom. Haymitch sat back down and swirled his finger around the lip of his cheap whiskey bottle.

You brushed your teeth and tongue thoroughly. You wouldn't have cared, you didn't. But something in the way Haymitch's fingers continued to linger on your skin made you start to. You exited the bathroom, swishing a bit of mouthwash through your teeth before walking to the kitchen sink and spitting it out there.

"Take me to bed." You requested, standing in front of haymitch in your big tee-shirt and shorts.

"Awfully bold now, aren't you sweetheart?" He rasped, standing almost as soon as you had asked. He walked towards you, leaning down and scooping you up bridal style. You were not expecting this- a belly laugh escaping from you as he began to walk you up the stairs.

You were drenched. Absolutely soaked through your panties. You just prayed he wouldn't notice anything off about your demeanor- maybe he would just chalk it down to the abundance of alcohol in your system?

"Haymitch! Do you have to be so rough?" You gasped as he nearly threw you and himself onto the bed. As you recollected yourself, he stood. "Leaving so soon?" You whined playfully.

"Not if you don't want me to, doll," he chuckled. His raspy voice sent a chill down your spine.

"Well, I mean," you sputtered. "I would- I don't, no. I don't." You finally got your words out, pursing your lips and peering up at him through your lashes as he laughed at you.

"God, you're a mess, aren't you sweetheart?" He mocked, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to you. "I would almost think it's more than just the alcohol at this point, wouldn't you?" You inhaled sharply through your nose at the insinuation.

"What? No, I'm just really drunk, that's all-" he pressed his thumb to your lips.

"Quiet," he whispered, leaning closer to you. "Lying won't get you anywhere in life, sweetheart." God, he was so close. You could smell him, more than usual. Pine and whiskey, mingling into the sexiest thing you had ever had the pleasure to smell.

You whimpered out loud when he pulled away. He smirked at you. Your eyes went wide as he began stripping. "Wh- why, what-" You tripped over your words, nearly beginning to crawl towards him. He was clearly relishing in your newfound behavior.

"Calm yourself, doll," he chuckled, flopping down next to you on his bed. "I'm just getting comfortable- you wanted to sleep after all. Right?" He was asking for your honesty.

This was the make-it-or-break-it of the night- he was giving you the chance to tell him what you were feeling. "I, uhm," you began with so much confidence and hope. But then, your critical thinking kicked in. He didn't actually want you to respond like that! He was warning you not to act on your obvious desires.

"Yes, just want to sleep," you muttered, beginning to pull your shirt from your body. You stood before you could finish. "I'll go to the bathroom, sorry." You apologized, melancholy. He grabbed your wrist.

"You're fine, sweetheart," he was serious. Your heartbeat increased and you suspected he was feeling at your pulse with the way he was squeezing. "Lying won't get you anywhere." He intentionally repeated his words from earlier. A shiver ran down your spine and settled in your bones. You were on edge and dripping wet. You whimpered.

"Haymitch, please," you whispered. "Don't make me say it." You pouted at him with glazed eyes and he pulled you back onto the bed in front of him. You were looking at him with need in your eyes, and he nearly matched your expression.

"Well, if you're so tired, you'd better get ready for bed, right, sweetheart?" He rasped, and you felt disappointment settle in your gut.

"Oh, uhm, yeah, I guess," you spoke quietly, scooting yourself to be more comfortable as you reached under your shirt to unclasp your bra. You were looking away from him, trying to avoid facing the cause of the weight on your chest.

A featherlight touch on your abdomen drug your attention away from your failed attempt, arms falling to your sides as he replaced your hands, unhooking the garment with ease. The straps fell from your shoulders as he reached to the bottom of your shirt. You raised your arms and let him lift it, leaving you in nothing but shorts and your loose and unsecured bra.

You looked at him in curiosity. He noticed and smirked. "You have to be comfortable to sleep, don't you, sweetheart?" His gentle grip turned demanding and you gasped as he snatched the only thing covering your breasts. Your arms flew to cover yourself and he slowly reached to restrain your wrists, shifting his weight so he was holding himself over you, pinning your wrists into the mattress.

"H-Haymitch," you whispered, barely audible.

"Yes, love?" He matched your volume, leaning so close that you could taste the whiskey on his breath.

"Kiss me," you asked. "Please." He looked from your eyes to your lips, silent for a moment.

"There's no going back if we do this," he warned, staring into your eyes for any tell of your thoughts. All he could see was desire. The same burning desire that fuelled the hard-on in his briefs. "I won't pretend anymore, especially not if you let me do what I want right n-"

"Shut up and kiss me, Haymitch," you groaned, bucking your hips up and rubbing yourself against his clothed erection. "Before I change my mind." You giggled.

He pressed his lips to yours fervently, touching you in a way that all the hours you had spent together could have never prepared you for. His hands flew from your wrists and his weight shifted to his knees, pressing your heat to his cock as he practically dry-humped you through your makeout. He was rubbing his thumb into your hip, squeezing it so tightly but you relished in it. His other free arm was pressed into the pillow next to your head, keeping him from crushing you under his weight.

"Good God," he groaned out needily, pulling away from your lips to begin kissing and sucking on your throat. He threaded his fingers through your hair, tilting your head for more access to your quickly purpling neck. "Sweeter than candy, you know that?" He grumbled against your skin. Your hands were settled in his hair and on his broad shoulders, taking in every sensation.

"There's something I would like to taste," you smirked slyly, pushing at his shoulders gently, sitting up with him.

"Oh, really? And what might that be, darling?" He reached up and held your hands as they sat on his shoulders. You reached down to his briefs and pulled them until his cock sprung from the waistband. You gasped at the size of it, watching it slap against his stomach with a soft sound.

"Y-You're so," you stammered. "I'm not sure I can take all of that, Haymitch.." He chuckled, replacing his hand in your hair as he pushed you towards his cock, pulling you with him as he readjusted against the headboard.

"You'll learn." Was all he said as he pulled you until your lips were wrapping around his broad head.

"You're so," you spoke around his tip. "So girthy, Haymitch.." He laughed at your muffled words, spoken with his cock bumped against your cheek. You began to swirl your tongue around his tip and he sighed, letting his laughter die down. He shifted his hand and shoved his dick straight into the back of your throat. You gagged and sputtered, pulling off and coughing with your cheek against his rigid member.

"It ain't Haymitch to you anymore, sweetheart," he growled. Your eyes widened, not sure what his next words would be. "It's daddy. Got that, doll?" You gasped- how vulgar, why would he ever think you would call him something so, so-

"Yes, daddy," your own words caught you off guard. You picked your head up and proceeded to gag on his cock until you felt as though you could throw up. A few times, you were enveloped in pure bliss. Those were the moments when he groaned and shoved your head down so far that your nose buried in the thick hair at the base of his cock. You felt so used and proud of yourself.

"Atta girl," he praised, lifting your head off his cock and smirking at you. You were panting, saliva and precum coating your chin. "So gorgeous like this, should get you drunk like this more often." He kissed you gently, contrasting the roughness of which he just fucked your throat.

"Please," You begged quietly. "Please fuck me." Haymitch chuckled at you.

"Say my name, darling," he growled. You began to say Haymitch, but he interrupted you. "Not that name, doll." He corrected, grabbing you and pulling you on top of himself until you were straddling him. You were slightly caught off guard, grinding down on him and moaning. You were still clad in your shorts and panties.

"Please, daddy," you whimpered. He chuckled, gripping your hips and pressing you harder against him. "Please fuck me, daddy!" You cried out, throwing yourself forward into a kiss. He flipped you over, pressing your back into the mattress. He sat up and yanked your shorts down before ripping both sides of your underwear. You yelped in surprise and scolded him.

"Consider it a souvenir, sweetheart," he chuckled at you. "A souvenir from the first time you're getting fucked by me." You gasped, feeling him begin to align his thick head with your entrance. He pushed in slowly, and you cried out.

"Daddy! Be gentle, plea-" You were cut off by a silent moan getting caught in your throat as he bottomed out. "Mmhm, please wait a- a momen- mm." You could barely speak, he wasn't thrusting but he was circling his hips ever so slightly, giving you friction in parts of your pussy you didn't even know you had.

"Oh, I'll be gentle for now, sweetheart," he groaned, beginning to thrust gently. "But I can't promise that'll last." He kept a slow and rhythmic pace, bottoming out with every lingering thrust. You let out a sharp breath every time.

He picked up his pace, your breath hitching with every thrust. You did your best to hide any moans, but could barely contain yourself. He began suckling on your neck and unintentionally digging his fingers into your hips.

Then, he pulled out. You whined at the unwanted emptiness, but then he grabbed your hips and flipped you onto your stomach. He began pounding into you, faster and harder and deeper than before. You became a slurred, moaning mess. He didn't stop, ignoring all of your moans and pleas of pure pleasure.

He had already begun to bruise your hips, squeezing and pushing and pulling to fuck you oh-so-nicely, penetrating you over and over.

He started getting rough, leaning over you and removing his hands from your hips. He started fucking you with the force of his whole body weight, leaving you moaning like a whore underneath him.

"I'm close, sweetheart," he growled. "You?" Not taking a break to let you answer, if anything going faster.

"Ah, uh, mm-mhm!" You cried. "K-keep, nn, going! Please daddy!" and with that, he lost all tempo and fucked you ruthlessly. He picked you up, put you on your back, pressed your knees into your chest, and slid back in one smooth motion.

This new angle was so deep, hitting your G-spot with every thrust. You cried out, reaching to Haymitch and gripping your hands in his hair.

"Daddy! Please, please, please, PLEASE," you screamed, begging for release with all your might. He reached down, playing with your clit for a moment, and you burst.

You felt the heat in your tummy rush to all your pleasure points, overwhelming you. Haymitch didn't slow down, but when you began to squeeze his cock like a vice, he pulled you close and started with short, deep thrusts.

You fell asleep immediately.

When you awoke, you were alone in the bed. You looked around groggily, no sign of your newfound lover. You slipped your feet to the side of the bed, attempting to stand. Your knees gave out, but you caught yourself on the bed.

You noticed that there was no trace of your earlier activities- a clean bed that you had just been tucked nicely into, your legs had no residue of either yours or his juices. Your hair was neatly combed.

You heard the sound of water shutting off, and figured Haymitch had been showering. A few minutes later, he exited with damp hair and a towel around his waist. You were intrigued.

"Good mornin', darlin'," he chuckled at the way you were looking at him. "Looking so eager for another round, huh?" He teased. You settled back into bed.

"Soon," you told him. " But for now, come lay with me." You smiled, scooting further into the bed to give him space. He dropped his towel and walked towards you. You dampened at the sight of his semi-hard cock.

He slipped into bed next to you, flipping you over so your back was to his chest. His cock rested between your legs, the head bumping your clit.

"Go back to sleep, sweetheart," he whispered, moving his hips and making his cock bump your sensitive nub. "That's what you wanted, right dear?"

A/N: hope you enjoyed! please leave asks/requests! BEGGING YOU!!!

[your-averagewriter]

Hi,

Can I please request a young!Haymitch x reader where they’re both in the 50th Hunger Games and they team up and there’s like romantic tension (+ some rivals to lovers) and they end up having a steamy make out please?

Word count: 3.4K (I got so carried away here.)

Warnings: Blood, weapons, murder, death, usual Hunger Games warnings, kissing, make out session.

“I think we should work together.” I say, planting myself down on the seat in front of Haymitch.

“And why would we work together?” He says, bringing the fork full of food to his mouth.

“There’s gonna be 48 kids in that arena, do you really want to go in there alone?” I ask him.

“Why would I team up with you?” He asks as if I’m disgusting.

“You know me.” He looks at me unconvinced. “Well, sort of know me. Know of me then.” I correct. “We’re from the same district, similar age and I’ve got a good set of skills. I could be a good asset to you.” I say, with less confidence than I intended as this boy towers over me, even sitting down.

“What skills do you have?” He asks, still doubtful and rightly cautious of me.

“I can track, animals or people. I can identify most if not all plants and roots and I can prepare them for eating. I can also hunt with minimal tools, I only need a blade, the size doesn’t matter.” I say with a smile, content with my pitch.

“And you want to be allies?” He asks.

“Yes. You and me until the final five or six.”

“If we get that far…” He chimes in.

“Yes… If we get that far.” I sigh. “So, what do you think?”

“I’ll work with you but I’m not gonna put myself in danger for you.” He says, with a dark, snarky tone.

“Okay.” I say and chuckle slightly nervously. Having Haymitch with me not only offers me a bit more protection but company and companionship.

“In training tomorrow we can figure out more of a strategy and how this is gonna work.” He says signalling to the two of us. I nod, happy that he’s changed his mindset.

“I’ll see you then.” I say, hopping up from my seat, grabbing a bread roll and leaving the room but not before Haymitch stops me.

“Also, this is exclusive.” He signals to us again. “Don’t go partnering up or inviting other people.” He says and I nod before leaving the room.

------------

“(y/n).” I hear someone whisper as I enter the training room. Slightly overwhelmed by the sight of masses of armed kids in the room and the loud noises they’re all making I turn around, slightly stressed looking for the voice. “(y/n).” I hear again although slightly louder this time and I manage to clock the direction of the voice. Turning to face the voice I’m met with Haymitch sat on one of the benches sharpening a set of knives.

“Hey.” I say quietly, walking over with a smile and sitting next to him. “What are these for?” I ask.

“You. I wanna see how good you are with them.” He says, focusing on the blades.

“I thought we were going to plan a strategy.” I say, confused.

“We can’t plan a strategy if we don’t know what each others’ skills are.” 

“Okay.” I say and he stands up, gripping the knives.

“C’mon.” He says and I follow him blindly towards one of the stations. We move to stand by the throwing mark, luckily the station is unoccupied. “Go on then.” He says passing me three blades for the three targets.

I step forward to stand on the throwing line and take a deep breath before preparing the blades. Each one I throw hits right in the centre of the target (the meaning on the target has taken on a much darker meaning after being thrown in these Games). I turn around to see Haymitch with a small smirk on his face causing a hint of a smile to emerge from mine.

“I told you I could hunt.” I say and tries to suppress his smile.

“You did. Okay, you’ve held up your end of the deal, my turn now.” He says and I follow him again through the training room to the weapons rack. Collecting an axe he walks over to a different station to present his skills.

He prepares to throw and hits the bullseye quite impressively and I cheer for him despite him looking back at me with a scowl which only makes me chuckle. It’s funny how an action so small can make you forget about having to fight to the death. 

“That was impressive, where’d you learn that?” I ask.

“I didn’t ask where you learnt to hunt in a district lacking in nature so don’t ask me where I learnt my shit.” I’m taken aback by his response and the abrasiveness of it.

“Sorry.” I say quietly and trail behind him again, suddenly all too aware of the eyes following us.

“It’s fine.” He says reluctantly, the depth of his voice finally revealed. “Let’s just get on with the strategy.”

The next few hours were spent either eating (lunchtime) or spent planning for the arena: tactics, plans, strategy, weapons, everything. Luckily during our planning session he relaxed a little and we ate lunch together (separate to the other tributes, there’s no point getting to know people who we’re gonna kill or will get killed).

-------------

Today’s the interview day which means a day packed full of fancy clothing and fake smiles. Every year we’re forced to watch the Hunger Games and nothing feels more fake than the interviews. This year because it’s a Quarter Quell and there’s double the number of tributes we’ve been paired with another from our District so Haymitch and I are getting interviewed together. 

I’m smothered in perfumes and fragrances and a dress is fitted to me, needles prodded in me on multiple occasions. It’s a fairly horrendous dress - it’s black and form fitting with trails of rock  like material symbolising the coal mines of District 12. I’ve got red lipstick and a fairly generous amount of blush.My hair is pulled back and pinned as tight as they could without pulling it and similar black “gems” are dotted on my head.

Rolling my eyes, I walk out of the dressing room to go and meet Haymitch (who is hopefully dressed better than me but I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re matching) in the tribute queue. I walk through the corridor and curse the black gems stuck to my eyelid preventing me from blinking without them irritating me.

I find the queue and look for Haymitch.

“Haymitch?” I question, craning my neck to see down the line.

“Down here!” I hear him say, sticking his hand out from the line, waving.

I make my way down the line, careful to look out for Haymitch as I trail past the districts, a slight wobble in my step because of the unnecessarily large heels.

“Hey.” I say, finally reaching the end of the line, tripping slightly at the end on my dress but mostly because of my heels.

Haymitch reaches his arms out grabbing onto my hands so I don’t properly fall over. I feel his warm palms against mine and manage to restabilize myself.

“Thanks.” I say, letting out a sigh of relief.

“You look… beautiful.” He says, looking up at me and still holding onto my hands just a little more gently.

“Really? I hate the dress.” I say looking down but luckily the excessive blush covers my natural blush. “The lumpy bits are so tacky.” I say, looking at the things that are meant to represent coals.

“Okay, maybe not the rocky parts…” He says trailing off with a chuckle.

“I can’t believe you don’t have these stupid rock things on your suit, that’s so not fair!” I say and he finally releases my hands to straighten his tie. “You’ve only got the little gems on your tie!” I point out and cross my arms in frustration.

“It’ll be fine. We’re last anyway so most people will have stopped paying attention by then so no one will even care.”

“You don’t think anyone will watch?” I ask, slightly down about it and he seems to ponder the question. “How will we get any sponsors?” I say, disheartened.

“I’m sure our scores of 9 and 10 will help there.” He says with a small smirk referencing our private training sessions that were assessed.

“We did pretty well.” I say.

“Now, you’ve just gotta look pretty and answer their questions with a smile. Shouldn’t be too hard.” He smirks.

“Only if you turn on the charisma and show everyone your dashing smile. Maybe then we’ll get sponsors.” I already have a smile on my face.

“You’re making this too easy to win.” He replies, a smirk planted on his face.

-----------

After a successful interview filled with smiles and sponsors and small flirtatious comments we finally got to sleep, ready for what the next day had coming: The 50th Hunger Games.

I wake up the next morning and after choking down some bread and butter we’re all sent straight to our prep teams then off to the arena.

I get to talk to Haymitch once more before we’re thrown into the arena so it’s our last chance to finalise our plans.

“As soon as we get in the arena you don’t go for the Cornucopia - I’ll grab what I can from the outskirts before meeting you by the edge of the forest or whatever it is, the edge of the Cornucopia. Got it?” He asks, holding onto my hands and emphasising the plan. I try to listen to him but the nerves make it harder and harder by the second.

“Y-yeah.” I manage to breathe out but I can feel my heart thumping in my throat.

“You sure?” He asks, aware of what I’m feeling, at least partially.

“I’ve got it. Basically run.” I say trying a smile but only managing to upturn the edges of my lips. He nods and grips onto my shoulders grounding me before we’re separated.

In my tube (separate from Haymitch) I can’t help a hopeless feeling overwhelm me before we start rising. Finally in the arena, I survey the area, it’s woodland which optimises both our skill sets and offers us resources. My eyes scan across the tributes, searching for Haymitch, he’s a little less than half way around the circle of tributes meaning our positioning could be better but it could be worse.

Looking behind me I check for possible meeting points before spotting a backpack which we were told includes a water bottle, rope, a small weapon (likely to be a knife) and possibly a sort of medicine, bandages or food. My mind replays the conversation I just had with Haymitch about running but the bag is so alluring. Our chances could be greatly increased by the contents of that bag so I make the decision as the countdown starts to race to grab the bag before running.

The clock is counting down and as it reaches the lower numbers I prepare to launch myself off the podium but I’m careful not to step off before the countdown is up.

As soon as I hear the gun fire I dart off of the podium towards the bag keeping an eye on the tributes around me. A lot of them ran but because there’s a greater number of tributes a greater number ran towards the Cornucopia including, surprisingly, me.

Sprinting across the field I feel my heart thumping in my chest, terrified of the prospects of a battle but desperate for the chances the backpack could provide. I get to the bag and reach for it, wrapping my fingers around the straps and hoisting it onto my back before shooting back away, towards the treeline but I feel someone’s hands on my shoulders pushing me to the ground. I fall and knowing it’s not Haymitch I try to roll over and squirm away only to be met with the smirking face of one of the District 4 boys. My chances at life diminish as time goes on and I feel the tears fall down my cheeks as he makes mocking remarks and motions, shoving a knife in my face - playing with me. I try to move out of his way but he has me pinned down by my shoulders and he’s sat on my torso, legs around my waist.

I try to push him off and when he budges, falling off of me I know that it can’t have been because of me. He’s at least twice the size of me, at worst three times.

I look around and shuffle backwards hurriedly trying to remove myself from his grasp. Once I’m out of his reach I turn around to see him being tackled by another boy who then knocks him out but I’m not sure whether he’s dead or not as there’s so many cannons going off it’s hard to tell who's is who's. Now scared of this unknown boy who just beat up my attacker I shuffle further, stumbling as I try to get to my feet but he turns around to reveal a familiar face. Haymitch. I let out a small sigh of relief before he’s running back towards me, grabbing at my arms and yelling at me to run.

I shake my head, slightly, snapping back into the Games realising that these moments define our lives or our deaths. He grabs hold of my arm and I’m careful to grip onto the bag as we run. We make it to the treeline and I watch him turn his head quickly, looking for the other tributes but he makes sure to keep it brief and turns, pulling me into the woodland with him.

We run for what feels like forever but could’ve only been a matter of minutes. There’s no noises other than that of the cannons and our fast breathing, and I swear that I can hear his heart beating over mine. His hand remains securely lodged in mine, careful not to release me as we make our way further into the forest, for I’m not sure how much longer.

After a few more minutes, Haymitch’s pace slows down and I’m glad it does because my lungs feel like they’re gonna explode.

He slowly lets go of my hand as we draw to a stop in a grassy, wooded area. Immediately, I fall to the floor, on my hands and knees to try and catch my breath whilst he stands leaning over, his hands on his knees, gasping like I am. Whilst I can run, I’ve never run like that before.

Dumping the backpack beside me I notice that Haymitch has a large cut on his calf. I quickly open the backpack, desperate to see that it was worthwhile running for the bag. I start pulling items out of it: a rope, water bottle, small set of knives, a bundle of bandages and a wound cleaning kit. I sit back on my heels and feel a sense of relief as I make my way towards Haymitch. 

“S-” I swallow, clearing my throat. “Sit down, please.” I say quietly, still struggling with my breath.

He sits down on the grassy floor and I shuffle towards him, preparing to clean and bandage his wound. “I’m sorry.” I say, quietly, ashamed that my quick thinking got him hurt. “I’m so sorry.” I say and I struggle to focus on the medical equipment in front of me when my tears blur my eyes.

He doesn’t say anything so I move to clean his wound.

“I thought I was gonna die.” I say, my voice cracking slightly. “He was mocking me, had his knife in my face and that.” I say, finally in control of my breathing, my heart rate still too high. “He would’ve killed me if you weren’t there.” I say and pause looking up at him even though he’s not looking at me. “Thank you.” I wrap the bandage around his leg, careful to tie it tight enough but not too much. “I owe you my life.” I say. “I hope I can repay you one day.”

“I hope you can’t.” He says and I look at him, confused but also happy that he’s talking.

“What? Why?” I say getting up after finishing with his leg.

“I don’t want you to die for me.” He stands up a mere moment after me and finally looks me in my eyes.

“You just put your life on the line for me. You could’ve died.” I point out even though it’s obvious. “Because of me being stupid and not following the plan.” I say with a frown. “You said you wouldn’t do that.” I say, remembering the conversation we had when we first became allies. “You said you weren’t gonna put yourself in danger for me.” I repeat his earlier words.

“Yeah, well, things change.” He says.

“What changed?” I ask, my hands threaded in my hair, stressed out by both the conversation and the situation we’re in.

“I changed.” He says before leaning in towards me and tentatively placing his lips against mine, it’s experimental and he pulls back after a few seconds, nervously. My eyes are wide and my mouth lies open, confused but also in awe of what just happened. It takes me a few moments to process what just happened before I see Haymitch staring at me, looking slightly disheartened by my reaction.

“Forget about it-” He starts and turns to walk away but my hands reach for the sides of his face and I pull him back round so his lips meet mine again. This time more fervently and with a sense of desperation and longing. Now it’s his turn to look confused but he quickly gets into it and his hands move to find their place on my waist. He deepens the kiss, his lips desperate against  mine, determined to make the most of these moments. One of my hands stays cupping his face whilst the other moves to the back of his neck where I find myself playing with the tufts of his hair.

After a few more seconds I pull away, needing to breathe but I place my forehead against his as we both breathe in unison. There’s a smile on my face, the feeling of stress has now been replaced by a warm, fuzzy feeling in my stomach - butterflies as some would say.

“You do seem to have changed…” I say with a quiet laugh.

“Shut up.” He says, suddenly embarrassed by his previous words before pushing his lips against mine harder than before,

The force sends me back a little bit due to my surprise but his hands on my waist reassure me of my safety as he pins to a nearby tree. The bark is rough against my back but I can’t say that I care when his lips are on mine. His lips move roughly against mine and I gladly allow his tongue entrance as it presses against my lips. Mingling with mine, his tongue pushes through my lips and seems to search through the corners of my mouth. His lips are dry but so are mine after our run. He pulls away only for his lips to meet the skin of my jaw, he peppers kisses along my jaw but makes sure each kiss has all his attention and care. 

I tuck my head to the side, embarrassed at how bare I am, standing, pinned against a tree by a boy I only really met a week ago.

“Don’t hide your face, love.” He says and the pet name at the end makes me feel weak and my knees suddenly become wobbly which doesn’t seem to bother Haymitch as he just holds us both up - one of his knees pushed against the tree, between my legs to keep me up. I look into his eyes as he’s focused on my jaw, making his way up my face to my lips once again with nothing but desire consuming his eyes.

“They’re watching.” I say quietly, indicating with my eyes towards the cameras hidden amongst the arena.

“I don’t care.” He says between kisses. “Fuck them.” He breathes out as he presses his lips against mine with one of his hands trailing down my torso to my leg, stroking the plush skin of my thigh causing me to feel hot and flustered, the feeling tingling and travelling through my veins and making my body hot.

“Fuck them.” I say, quietly against his lips, feeling him smirk against mine.

-

AN: I really enjoyed writing this, it was such a good request and I loved it so I hope you do to! Thanks for the request!

I got a bit carried away with this piece, I only intended it to be about 1,000 words but it turned out at three times that much.

[elektrantchios]

to love is to destroy | h.a | prologue

Paring: Haymitch x Giselle Carmine (oc)

summary: the games don’t end at the sound of the last cannon, they don’t end at all

word count: 672

warnings: a lot of talking about what happens to victors after the games, mentions of death and injury, mentions of vomiting, drinking and mentions of drug use, angst, fluff (very small). All warnings will be mentioned before each part

a/n: Again I was inspired by @nebulablakemurphy and they’re amazing Haymitch fic! There way of expanding the world is mind blowing and I can’t recommend it enough, divider by @cafekitsune

This may or not be deleted and rewritten as an x reader. I wanted to try out an old so i can be more descripted about the MC

HUNGER GAMES MASTERLIST

Ladies and gentlemen The winner of the 55th hunger games, Gisella Carmine

She woke up gasping, the now cold bath water splashed onto the tile floor, the sun was high in the sky, afternoon, the reaping. Swearing she climbed from the tub and wrapped herself in a towel. The night before the games always left her with little sleep, at one point she gave up and ran a bath. 

It wouldn’t be long until the cameras and the people arrived in the square, Haymitch would need waking from his white liquor induced sleep. 

Reaping days were the hardest days to get through, for both of them. Haymitch drank and forgot. She cooked and she baked and she tried to forget.

A dress had been sent days before, every year a new dress would come and once she reached the capitol, a whole closet  awaited her. The dress hung from the curtain rail in her room. A golden collar embedded with gems and diamonds looping to make open shoulder sleeves, the dress was made from red velvet and hit the floor.

She ran her fingers through her hair, detangling the curls until they looked good enough for all the eyes of the capitol to see. The bags under her eyes disappeared after she rubbed some of the magic cream the capitol sent. 

As she passed the downstairs toilet, she heard Haymitch heave and cough, his skin was pale and wet. Carefully she knelt beside him, even more careful not to get anything on her dress. She laid her hand on his forehead, “It’s almost time”.

Haymitch wobbled back on to his ass, his back against the wall, he reached inside his dressing gown pocket for his flasks, he took one big gulp, “nice dress”.

Gisella rolled her eyes, taking the flasks from him, swallowing a mouthful, it burnt all the way down and sat in her empty stomach unhappily, then she took another drink. Normally she never drank, but when the games began things were different.

“How long do we have?” he asked, slowly standing. “Five minutes maybe? Not long enough to shower” she laughed, standing too.

“Enough to drink” he smiled sluggishly and took the flask back. 

She went into the kitchen and made herself eat some bread she had brought from the baker the day before, it helped settle the nervous waves cursing through her body.

It would be a waste to try and get Haymitch to eat so she left him be and waited.

Haymitch was late.

Mayor Undersee and Effie Trinket, murmured to each other, worried about the missing mentor. Gisella kept her eyes forward, blocking them out. Looking to all the faces of the children dreading the moment she would send two in the games. 

The clock hit two and the mayor began his usual speech, about the history of panem and how things ended the way they were today. From the uprising, to the fighting and finally ‘the peace’. The peace of course being the games. Then he reads the list of district 12 winners, only two are living. To her right, Gisella hears Haymitch mumble and wobbles up the steps. She fixed on her seats as he fell into his.

He looked confused when the crowd applauded at his name,he threw his arms around Effie, who barely managed to get away from him. All of Panem will carry on seeing 12 as a laughingstock. Haymitch as the same old drunk and Gisella as the one who does all the work.

Mayor Undersee took his seat again, then the pink haired Effie rose and took to the centre of the stage. If Gisella had to guess, Effie was looking to step up to bigger and better districts, 12 is the bottom of the pile. 

Old memories flash in her mind, wishing she drank more in the morning, she looked past the square, past the people and to the green hills outside the districts and remembered happier times with her grandfather.

“I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute”

two

[nebulaafterdark]

Exile (Part 4)

Summary: Y/N Undersee thought the games were over after becoming a victor. Unfortunately, life outside the arena has become just as dangerous. Prequel to Moves & Countermoves

Trigger warning: forced prostitution, explicit sexual content, alcohol/drug use and other mentions of trauma. 18+ ONLY

Part 3

The reaping for the 64th hunger games, brings forth their tributes, Denali and Maximus. The girl, is sixteen and her little brother, only fourteen. Orphans, surviving solely off of tesserae and profits made from pedaling contraband at the hob.

When Y/N comes to greet them on the train, Denali has her brother tucked behind her protectively, near the table of food. “Hello.”

Denali watches her with wary eyes.

“You should eat.” Y/N tells her. “Both of you. Get your strength up for the arena.”

Maximus reaches out for a dinner roll, but his sister slaps it from his hand.

“You first.” Denali demands. She needs to be sure it’s not poisoned.

Y/N closes the space between them, taking the abandoned bread and tearing off a piece. Placing it into her mouth, she chews and swallows.

Maximus presses his lips together, gulping hard. He can almost taste it.

“My name is Y/N. I’ll be your mentor-”

“Where’s the other one? The man?”

“Haymitch is down in the bar car.” Y/N tells them.

“He’s been doing it longer, we want him.” Denali says.

“Fine.” Y/N crosses both arms over her chest, toying with the bracelet on her left wrist. “But the two of you stay here, and eat. Please eat.”

The girl narrows her gray, seam, eyes, watching the woman leave. She’s seen her before, sneaking around where she didn’t belong. The man, Haymitch, was from the seam, before he won the games. He still comes down to the hob, Denali’s sold to him a couple times. Most recently, a bracelet, woven from stitching scraps. For his wife, he’d told her…and the woman, Y/N, is wearing it.

The victors return after a long moment, their hands intertwined. Y/N appears to be leading Haymitch toward them, against his will.

Maximus and his sister stare at him, expectantly.

Haymitch smiles, “I heard you wanted to see me.”

“Y-yes. You’re our mentor and we need strategy and-”

“Woah,” Haymitch stops the girl’s train of thought, “you’re barking up the wrong tree, sweetheart.”

“What?”

“That’s her department,” Haymitch jerks his chin toward his wife.

“Then what do you do?” Denali asks.

“Enjoy the refreshments,” Haymitch lifts his glass.

————————————————————————

Upon arriving in the Capitol, Y/N and Haymitch are collected to film interviews. Caesar always finds a way to make the most of their time here. But over the years, it has proven useful in gaining sponsors for their tributes.

“We’re happy.” Haymitch reminds Y/N. “We’re in love and so glad to be here.”

Y/N nods, blinking up at him through obscenely long lashes. Vanity has done a number on her this time. Y/N is her muse, the one who inspired her to leave her position as stylist for the games and design pieces for her victor full time.

The people of the Capitol cannot get enough. Anything Y/N wears, they want to wear. Tonight is a cotton candy pink dress.

“For the first time, on this very stage, we will be joined by Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy.” Caesar announces, riling the crowd into a frenzy.

Last time they were here was their wedding day and Snow obviously had better things for them to do afterwards than gossip with Caesar Flickerman.

“Please give our newly weds a warm welcome, Y/N and Haymitch.” Caesar motions toward them from the stage, their queue to join him.

Haymitch reaches back for her hand, waving out at the crowd as they cross the floor.

Y/N greets Caesar first. He likes her better than Haymitch anyway, most people do.

————————————————————————

“Where’ve you been?” Maximus asks his mentors, after the tribute parade.

“Clearly they have more important things to do than help us.” Denali turns up her nose in their direction.

The tributes are dressed as coal miners…again.

“Do you have any idea how much a bottle of water goes for in the arena? A loaf of bread? Medicine?” Haymitch cuts in. “Those things don’t come cheap, sweetheart.”

“So what?” Denali doesn’t understand how their absence would change that.

“There’s people here with a lot of money.” Y/N explains. “The more time we spend with them, the more money they’re willing to provide our tributes. I’m sorry that we had to step away, but that’s why I supplied you with the tablets. Did you have a chance to look over the strategy files?”

Denali shakes her head of dark curls.

“That’s ok, we still have time.” Y/N assures her, “let’s go up to our floor. We can discuss it over dinner.”

————————————————————————-

The district twelve escort, a woman named Cordelia Walters, who desperately hopes to be reassigned to another district; holds the elevator for them. “Chop, chop.” She claps her hands together. Like herding animals in a zoo.

“Always a delight.” Haymitch snarks, as they step into the confined space.

Y/N huffs a laugh, pressing her lips together. Their escorts seem to have a high turnover rate. She hopes that holds true.

Dinner is tense, Cordelia can’t be bothered with listening to defense strategy details. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Oh, sure!” Y/N pipes up, “let’s discuss the up in coming fashion for the spring. I have all of Vanity’s sketches.”

“Really?” The woman squeals, “you don’t think she’ll mind?”

“Not at all.” Y/N lies, “here, take it. You can bring it back in the morning.”

“Thank you.” The Capitol woman races away, closing the door to her suite behind her.

“That’s one way to do it.” Haymitch lifts a shoulder, poking at the peas on his plate.

“Now we can talk?” Maximus asks, shoveling another spoonful into his mouth.

“Yeah,” Y/N smiles. “You can start by telling me what you’re good at.”

“I’m a fast runner.” The boy tells her.

“Had to be, we’ve been running all our lives.” Denali adds, still unsure if Y/N can be trusted.

“And what about you,” Y/N asks, “what are you good at?”

“I’m strong and good with a knife.” The girl tells her. “We just need you to give us a chance.”

Y/N leans in, across the table, “we can train you, separate from the other tributes. We can supply you with anything you might need from a sponsor. We can prepare you for your interviews. No one is rooting for you more than we are.”

The four of them talk late into the night, answering questions. Exchanging stories and discussing useful weapon tactics.

Haymitch’s number one rule is not to get attached. However his wife, either cannot or will not follow it.

When they finally retire to their room, Y/N makes a mad dash for the white pills, on the bedside table. The contents rattle in her shaking hand.

“Here, angel.” Haymitch takes it from her, “that won’t help.”

“But you said-” White is for pain.

He reaches for another bottle. “Take this.” He deposits a yellow pill into her hand. Then a blue. For her nerves and to help her sleep.

Y/N swallows them down, attempting to catch her breath.

“Come here.” Haymitch wraps her up in his arms. Placing a hand over her heart and rubbing gently, “that’s where it hurts, huh?”

She nods, praying that the pills take effect soon.

“The white ones can’t help with that.” He continues, attempting to soothe the ache.

“How do you do this?” Y/N leans into him. “It’s only been four years and I feel like-”

“Before you, those ten years after I won….I drank until I blacked out and I can still see their faces. I remember their names. I see their families, back home and it never gets easier. It never gets better. But you find ways to live with it.”

Y/N lets out a sob, “I can’t. I can’t.”

“I’ll help you.” I’ll do whatever it takes.

“I want to go home.”

“I know,” Haymitch breathes. “But the pills are gonna kick in soon. Then you’ll feel better.”

“I don’t want to feel better. I want to save those kids!”

“We can try.” Haymitch says, somberly.

“If I overdose, what happens to my family?” Y/N wonders, eyelids growing heavy as Haymitch shuffles her toward the bed.

“Snow wanted to have them executed after your games. As punishment for you not killing Tyson. He was only willing to negotiate a deal, in exchange for my…work. If you kill yourself, I have nothing else to offer him. No leverage. He’ll kill them and sell me; again.” Haymitch explains, pulling off her shoes. “But I wouldn’t blame you.”

Y/N sucks in a breath. She has something to live for. Her sister, her parents and him. She has Haymitch to live for. Therefore she cannot die. “It was only a hypothetical question, I wasn’t- I wouldn’t-” leave you.

Haymitch pats her cheek, the drugs have kicked in and her tears have subsided. “Goodnight, angel.”

Taglist: @spideysimpossiblegirl @ancientbeing10 @1-800-styles @l3xi3luv @lam-ila @druby2011-blog @liballer @readinginthe-am @rae-11 @champomiel @mariechristine00

[billydunneapologist]

girlhood is starting and ending the day reading fanfics ab ur fictional crushes. i swear it’s apart of my routine now.