#Haymitch Abernathy x reader

[haymitchsbunny]

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Haymitch Abernathy x Victor!Reader (smut)

word Count: 4.5k

warnings: Haymitch's perspective, slight angst, porn with too much plot, emotional Haymitch, drinking, overthinking (self deprecating), f/m smut, soft dom Haymitch, making love not fucking (but fucking too)

summary: you're such a little stuck up princess the second the train leaves 12, acting like a capitol girl. Haymitch is sick of it, but with a little coaxing, maybe you arent as bratty as he had thought.

A/N: so sorry for the months since my last fic.. i had one almost finished then deleted it by accident. was genuinely heartbreaking. this is NOT an ask, but ASKS ARE ALWAYS OPEN!! i love any and all feeback + reposts, i look at everything! did i mention asks are open?

have a nice read ♡

The Capitol; beauty, wealth, significance, ease. The definition of luxury. With a simple location change, the district scum could forget their mistreatment in absolutely no time. Just like you did.

Haymitch couldn't help but to judge. Sure, he abused the free selection of drinks, but you? It was like you completely changed when you arrived. Abandoning him every year with the tributes, rarely speaking to him or them.

It was like you wanted them to die on your watch.

Detached behind the scenes, yet when the cameras were on you, you worked them like you had private lessons from Flickerman. All smiles and positivity and, quite frankly, more charm than he had ever managed himself. Selling your tributes to the audience the way you had before your own games.

Some sickly impressive show of survival instinct, such a dramatic shift from your demeanor at home. The sweetest girl turned manic at the sight of gold and cat whiskers. You would get at least three new tattoos every year. You would buy a whole new closet worth of clothes. You weren't you.

So to see you sitting across from him, the pretty little Seam girl he grew to adore, turned complete stranger when you got off that train every year.. He couldn't articulate his true feelings. His bemusement with you back home had begun to turn cold when you behaved so strangely.

Half of him still saw you as the kid you had been the first time you were in the capitol; small but smart, articulated but loud. Admirable.

But the part that was far from sober, the dense and hurt bit that was looking at you now, was disgusted.

He had come with you because you offered, hoping for at least a fragment of your normal self to shine through when you were alone with him. Yet as you lay on your stomach getting a fresh back tattoo, all he could think of was what could be.

You had been so reserved around others, but when you were on his couch, sitting close to his side, you always giggled and joked, squealed and snorted. Encouraged any semblance of humor he could muster. You changed him, transformed him from a bitter, aging man to someone all-together new.

If only you knew that he was putty in the palm of your hand, one of Pavlov's dogs salivating at your attention, confused when it led to nothing of substance or nothing at all. He groaned aloud, placing his empty glass on the table next to him as he stood from the crushed red velvet couch.

He stumbled away from you, thoughts a cesspool of his adoration and contempt for you swirling together into an incoherent dumpster fire he wasn't sure he'd be able to decipher sober.

He wondered if he would ever tell you he loved you. If you would give a damn, if you would say you loved him back. If you would call him a disgusting old man or reject him in a more painful way than he could imagine.

His currently muted rationale was very well aware that you were truly nicer than that, you had always admired him and would never treat him the way his irrational fears were promising you would. He knew your insanity was part of the same defense mechanism you used to win, it was the way you defended yourself from breaking apart every year, but it didn't hurt any less.

He grabbed a whole bottle from the parlor's bar, bringing it back with him. When he entered, you craned your neck to look at him. A confident smile graced your lips and he attempted to reciprocate, but could barely manage.

He was crumbling, overwhelmed and drunken and becoming irritable. Why were you doing this to him? Why was he letting you dominate his thoughts in the way only you could? You were always there for him and he had never been so frustrated with your behavior this year when it had barely been a minor issue in the past?

He knew why, he knew only he had the power to mend this emotional turmoil you had thrown him in. Because in reality, he had reached the apex of infatuation. He had to tell you, and it would either be from you breaking him or on his own terms.

He took his seat back on the couch across from you, allowing himself to take in your form. The current tattoo you were receiving was a pair of angel wings, stretching from your shoulder blades to right above your rounded ass. His eyes traced the shape of your curves, the tight little black thong causing your hips to bulge ever so slightly around the strings.

He felt his blood pumping to his groin in no time and forced himself to avert his gaze, shifting uncomfortably to hide his erection. His awkward shuffle caused your artist to look up, giving a low chuckle that caught Haymitch's attention. He kept his eyes trained away from the two of you, doing his best to distract himself from the crude imagery flowing much too freely through his consciousness.

"What's so funny?" Your muffled voice came from the jacket bawled up under your head. Your artist simply shook his head and dismissed you with a 'nothing'. You persisted though, arching your back and propping your arms beneath you to look around.

"C'mon Cyprus, let me in on the joke," you giggled, his favorite sound in the world breaking through the night's resentment and reminding him that you were still you. Your eyes shifted to Haymitch, and he was lucky as hell that your angle stopped you from glimpsing his hard-on. You flashed him a grin.

"Lay your head back down, pretty girl," the words fell from his tongue smoothly but he felt far away. "Don't want cyprus to accidentally clip your wings now, do you?" He offered you a drunken grimace for a smile, your giggles encouraging him.

"What does that even mean?" You questioned into your makeshift pillow, clenching and unclenching your fists. "You ain't gonna clip my wings, are you, Cyprus? You better not."

Haymitch could barely make out your muffled words, but you were back. The normal you, lying ten feet from him.

Maybe he should have accompanied you to at least one of your last 6 tattoo appointments. Were you always this.. Unburdened? Free from the shackles of fear, needles poking into your numbed skin, beautiful and pain free the whole process with the Capitol's high-tech ointments purely for cosmetics like this.

Bile rose in his throat when he remembered that ink drilled into your skin had you fucking pussywhipped for Snow.

His spiteful glare flickered from the back of your head and up to Cyprus as he let out a finalizing sigh and leaned back, flicking his machine to a halt.

"You're done, angel," He announced. "Take a peek in the mirror, see if you're happy with it." You launched yourself from the table, giddy with excitement. Scampering over to the mirror, you backed yourself up until your ass was nearly touching the surface, pastie clad tits bouncing as you tiptoed back until you had a clear view.

Haymitch should definitely have come with you sooner.

"Ugh," you groaned, face filling with satisfaction. "I look sexy, Cyprus. God himself lent you his hands for this one."

What you did next took Haymitch by such shock, he wasn't sure he would've been able to shield your eyes from his election if he'd tried.

You sauntered over to him, confidence in your stride, jiggling thighs and tits taking every last ounce of self restraint to avoid staring at. When you reached him, you turned your back to him. You placed your palms on his thighs and sat down on his knees, leaning forward to give him a full, perfect view of your back.

"What'cha think, Haymitch?" You crooned, and what he took for pure confidence before became something that felt near intimate, your tone setting his stomach ablaze.

"You make quite the pretty angel, sweetheart." He rasped, voice nearly catching in his throat. When you giggled and shifted your weight from his lap, his first instinct was to pull you back. So much so, that he actually reached for your hips.

The split second he wasted allowed you to stand and look back at him, and of course, your eyes flickered to the noticable arousal in his jeans. You flushed, confidence transformed into something fiercer, something that took more than yourself to exist.

Lust.

All it had taken was that one little touch, your plump ass planted on his knees, and the floodgates burst.

"C'mere, girl, let me get that finished up for you." Cyprus spoke, breaking your wide eyed stare from Haymitch. His neglected bottle took the entirety of his attention now, the lingering, consuming focus on you previously needing a new target.

Yet, as he took a big swig, avoiding letting his eyes even wander within ten feet of your spot, he was scarcely aware of anything aside from your presence.

"All good, love," Cyprus announced, helping you up from the table, the pleather surface sticking to your sweaty skin. You sauntered to Haymitch's side, slipping your arms through the sleeves of your jacket.

"I've got your bill," Haymitch grunted, approaching the register in the parlor. You attempted to protest but he ignored you, paying up and tipping generously as you struggled into your pants. You had just finished knotting your boots as he reached the door to leave. Your long ass Capitol escort limo was faithfully parked aside the sidewalk. Haymitch stepped out the door and held it for you to follow suit.

The drive back was tense. You stared. Unlike he'd ever seen you, something strange in your gaze. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, reaching to pick up the bottle he snatched from the shop. He offered it to you, tensing as your fingers brushed over his.

"Somethin' on your mind?" He questioned lowly, watching the way you shook your head while sipping, eyes never leaving his. "Keep mean-mugging me and I might start feelin' hurt." He rasped, half to himself and half to you.

"'M sorry," You whispered, eyes dropping to the floor. His heartbeat swiftened, what did you mean by that? What could you be apologizing for when you just ruined his entire concept of what you felt for him and made him want nothing but you?

"What're you sorry for, princess?" He questioned softly.

"I pushed it in the shop, that was inappropriate," You sounded guilty. "I know you're not like that."

"Like what?" He asked, pushing off of the seat and turning to sit next to you.

"Uh," You stumbled over your words, unsure of what to say. "Well, I know you aren't one to..." You trailed off, yet he understood what you were trying to say. He wasn't one to sleep around. Hadn't been. He hadn't touched a woman aside from you in years, so of course you'd get that impression.

"One to touch women?" He offered, and you flushed red.

"That's not what I was going to say!" you exclaimed, a giggle breaking through as you smacked his arm.

"But you'd be right," He countered. "Ain't touched a woman in years." He was so close to you, breath fanning your neck, and yet you didn't seem to notice.

"That's.. embarrassing." You grimaced.

"Unless you count yourself," He smiled. "Rubbin' that ass on me like you wanted a little more than for me to just look at that tattoo, huh?"

"Well, that's kinda why I'm apologizing, Hay."

"Uh-huh."

"Uh-huh.."

He grabbed your hip, gently pressing his lips to your neck. He had an arm behind you, supporting himself against the tinted window.

"Mind showing it to me again? Didn't get to look at the details." And there it was. His offer to you, a choice motivated by something he wasn't sure you had. You finally met his eyes, practically cradled in his warmth, nose grazing the scruff on his chin. You sat like that for a moment, the only noise a mix of quiet music about sex and your own breathing.

"Of course. You sat through the appointment, didn't you?" You stood, hunched over as to not hit your head on the ceiling. You moved until you were hovering over his lap and sat down slowly. He didn't hesitate to put his hands on your hips this time. He heard the unzipping of your jacket and watched as you pulled it off. You shrugged it down until the only thing it was covering was your ass on his lap. He swallowed hard as you pulled it away and to the floor.

"It suits you," He was so quiet, as though speaking up would scare you away. "Beautiful angel."

"What?" You craned your neck to look back at him. "What did you call me?"

"Nothin'," He felt a pit open up in his stomach. "It looks good on you." He was gripping your hips tight, tighter than he'd ever dared to hold onto you. You wriggled out of his grip though, and he feared the moment was over, but you turned and faced him, lips brushing against his cheek.

"Say it," You whispered. But instead of obliging you, he roughly trailed his hand up your spine, stopping as he wrapped his fingers around the back of your neck, massaging with his thumb. A light whimper escaped from you as he watched goosebumps rise on your skin.

"Fuck," He groaned, picking you up and pushing you to the floor of the vehicle in one swift movement, pinning you beneath himself. You gasped and he chuckled. "So fucking sick of the games you play, sweetheart." Your eyes widened.

"Huh? What games-" You attempted to speak, but his lips were on yours. Sparks flew as years of quiet glances and deafening laughter collided at last. It took you a moment before you reciprocated, confusion, as you tried to finish your sentence. He kissed you hard, short circuiting your senses with deep love he'd waited to show you for so long.

He could take the distance. He could handle the cold. You could give him frostbite every day of the year, so long as you let him kiss you like this for one more second. And of course, you did. Every moment of uncertainty became a single vision of one thing; he was a fucking idiot.

Of course you felt the same. How could you not, it wasn’t like there was anyone else either of you could even somewhat relate to. You were his lighthouse in the open sea of trauma and fear, and with your lips molding perfectly to his, he knew he was the same to you.

“Don’t listen to me, sweetheart. Don’t listen to a word I say,” He sighed against your lips. “Just let me love you.” You sucked a sharp breath in at his words. He looked in your eyes and watched your irises disappear, watched the smile form, felt the warmth spread from every point of contact he had with your body. He had so much contact with your body. His chest pressing into yours, one hand pinning both of yours above your head and the other supporting himself so he wasn’t fully crushing you. His knee slotted between your plush thighs.

“Am I supposed to listen to that?” You questioned softly. “Should I let you ‘love me’, Haymitch?” And all he could do was smile. Before he could answer you, the limo halted.

He attempted a quick maneuver off of you, but was quickly reminded by oncoming vertigo and aching knees that he was in fact not young enough for that. He pressed a kiss to your temple before rolling onto his back on the floor next to you. You sat up and looked over at him, smiling. As you helped his sorry self from the ground and towards the door just in time for the valet to open it, he saw something shift in your demeanor once more.

Your grin turned bittersweet and your eyes filled with the sort of sorrow he had felt for decades. He wanted to pull you back to him that instant, embrace you with the warmth your smile had given him moments before. But he let you step out, he followed suit, and he wrapped his arm around your waist as two peacekeepers led you to the elevator, swiping a keycard and pressing a button on the outside of the transportation before the doors opened and you stepped in, immediately soaring towards the penthouse.

He somewhat expected tension- for you to pull back and hide from him once more. But instead, he simply felt a sadness he hadn’t truly seen before radiating from you. Your breath, your movements, your goddamned, beautiful eyes, all hurting in a way he knew all too well and wished he could fix. The two of you sat on the loveseat in the lounge of District 12’s annual abode and caught up on the parts of the games you missed while you were at the shop.

He saw you cry. Something you rarely did in front of him anymore. Not since the months after your survival of the Games. With all of your behavior, he knew he should be concerned. Yet, he knew this was nothing new. You had felt this way every waking second of every day, and yet a kiss was all it took for you to finally feel vulnerable enough to show it to him.

With a flicker, the footage on the screen looped. The young boy from your district was standing still, leaning against a black barked tree, until realizing the girl from 9 was quickly approaching. He turned and began running, surely outpacing her by an insane amount, before he stopped and bounced back strangely. As he fell, it became clear he ran into something. Shining tripwire was laced back and forth between two trees. 

Before you could take it all in again, Haymitch flicked a button on the remote and shut the footage off. The blood making the wires visible, the ripped flesh of the boy, his wide eyes, the cannon, seen once and avoided until necessary to be seen again. 

Haymitch looked at you. Watery eyes to the floor with your arms wrapped tightly around your legs. He sighed and pulled you towards him, your strange position causing you to collapse into his lap. He coaxed you to sit up, your knees pressing into his thigh and your forehead to his shoulder. He placed a hand on your hip and with no further urging, you moved until you were straddling his lap.

This wasn't new; you’d sat on his lap before, accepted affection as comfort when words weren’t enough, exactly as right now. But something about it was different. Something in your breath fanning against his neck, the twitching of your hips, as if you were trying as hard as you possibly could to be still. It was a horrible time- you had just sobbed next to him, but you were so close, so pretty.

“Haymitch,” He would’ve never heard you if your lips weren’t so close to his ear. “Can I sleep in your room tonight?” He nodded without hesitation. This wasn’t new, either. Nightmares plagued the two of you constantly, and when it got bad, he was always here, right next to you.

Wordlessly, he stood with you in his arms. You yelped, he almost dropped you, but in a few moments he was walking down the hall with you steady in his arms. You had your arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers intertwining in his hair as he turned and opened the door with his hip after a moment of struggle.

He carried you to the bed and laid both of you down gently. He knew it was no different from your own, just as your homes in the Victor’s Village were the same. The Capitol handed you both so much, and if it weren’t so impersonal you could take it as a reward. Never an apology, though. Just a fucked way of keeping Victors complacent after killing other children and having friends die in front of them. Payment for participating in the show, for being an entertainer.

He was brought back to reality as you curled your body into his, forehead to his chest and little hands tracing patterns on his abdomen. He couldn’t help but smile at how soft you looked. He felt bad, but he sat up and slipped his shirt from his back. You stayed curled up, but watched him carefully. When he laid back down, you moved closer. Chin on his pec and temple on his bicep, you ran your fingertips through his chest hair. 

He moved his hand to the back of your head, practically petting you. You gave him a small smile, eyes flickering to meet his. You both sat like that for a moment, methodical movements continuing in a comforting manner. Your eyes began to water and he brought his palm to your cheek, you closed your eyes and he pulled you towards himself. 

Your lips met his, softly melding against his own. He set a slow pace, and you pushed yourself closer to him, clamoring up the bed until you were straddling his stomach. He placed his hand carefully on your hip and wrapped the other around your waist, sitting up and placing you beneath him without breaking your kiss. You pulled back for air, hand bracing yourself on his chest.

“You’ve been so damn good to me, Haymitch.” You whispered. “Thank you for everything.” A tear slid down your cheek and he kissed it.

“Don’t thank me, sweetheart.” He pecked at your neck and you choked up a sob. He felt himself cringe, hurting to see you in pain. He held your jaw between his fingers. “Let me make you feel better, pretty girl. Please?” And you nodded between your tears. He offered you a soft smile.

He made quick work of undressing you, having you fully bare beneath him in a matter of minutes. He couldn’t stop just caressing you, running his fingers from your neck to your breasts, from your ribs to your hips. He watched gooseflesh rise on your skin and began kissing your tits, soft little pecks filled with love and care, tongue flicking at your pebbled nipples, giving you love bites until purple marks covered almost every square inch of your top half.

You laid there, breathing heavy and whining quietly as he entertained himself and pleasured you. His lips began gravitating downwards, and soon enough your bare thighs were sticking to his shoulders as he lapped at your cunt. He had you a moaning mess beneath him, hips twitching and toes curling. Tongue fucking you into oblivion, he brought you to the edge and pushed you right back down. He knew what he was doing and he was relishing in your frustrated pleasure.

“H-Haymitch, stop, just make me- fuck, please?” Your mumbling was barely understandable but he chuckled nonetheless. “I know you’re doing that on purpose, please just-” He began relentlessly repeating all of the little things he had noticed you liked in the short time he had been squeezed between your thighs, holding eye contact as he pushed you over the edge. 

You screamed his name, fists balling up in his hair as you humped his face. He was rock hard against the mattress and let you come down before pulling himself away.

He collapsed next to you and you giggled at him, grinning as you reached forward to wipe your slick from his beard. He stuck his tongue out and tried to lick it from his own face. You blushed and he kissed you once more.

“Do you want to fuck me, Haymitch?” You asked, looking deep into his eyes with such genuine question he wasn’t sure what to say.

“Of course I fuckin’ do, sweetheart,” He rasped, and you smiled, leaning in once more.

“Then what are you waiting for?” 

And quicker than he thought possible, he had your knees hooked over his elbows and his cock dipping between your sopping folds. As he sank into you, he had to stop for a moment. Halfway sheathed in your mound and he was already holding on for dear life. Tight, wet, and pulsing with need, he was halfway to heaven and getting all the way without cumming was a task. 

Over the next minute or so, he took his time filling you and letting you adjust to his size. You were ready faster than he had anticipated and he wasn’t going to keep you waiting. Slow and deep, he had you trembling in a matter of thrusts. 

“You have no fucking idea how long I’ve dreamed of this, sweet girl,” He grumbled. “More perfect than I could’ve ever imagined.” The praise began spilling out of his mouth. He rambled on and on about how good your pussy was, words distracting him from his pacing until he was fucking you into the mattress fast and hard. He was sure you couldn’t hear a word he was saying over your own moans.

“Haymitch, I’m gonna-” You were gasping for air, tears streaming down your face for no reason other than pleasure now. “Faster- fuck, harder!” You cried out, and he obeyed without question. He threw your legs over his shoulders and leaned forward to support himself, your knees to your chest as he plunged into you with more force and speed than he had ever imagined you could take.

“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmy-” Your incomprehensible cries turned to one long, drawn out whine as your whole body tensed, nails digging into Haymitch’s back as you came hard around his cock. Your pussy clenched like a vice around his dick and his hips stuttered. He fucked you through your orgasm before pulling out and finishing all over your belly.

With an exasperated sigh, he fell once more to your side. He pulled you into him, sweaty arms sticking to your back as he held you tightly to him. You said nothing, head resting against him once more as you stared at his face.

“Thank you,” you finally said, face glimmering but devoid of tears this time. 

“No need to thank me, sweetheart.” He grinned.

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know,” His heart raced in his chest, not expecting that response from you. A smile spread across your lips. “I love you, too.”

Moments later, you were drifting off in his arms.

[that-one-fangirl69]

I've seen a lot of ff writers apologize for their fic being "self-indulgent" which baffles me cause like is that not the entire concept of fanfiction?????

SAY IT WITH ME FOLKS, "FANFICTION IS SUPPOSED TO BE SELF-INDULGENT"

[erephene]

— , , 'Summer's Dying Light.'

⤑ Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!Reader. (Drabble)

WC : 1.2k.

Summary : Two days before the 50th Hunger Games, Haymitch Abernathy sits with you in the summer light, the world already mourning him before his name is even drawn. Beneath the sarcasm and stubbornness, he’s scared — and so are you. But fear isn’t the end of the story. Not if you have anything to say about it.

Warnings : Reader takes the place of Lenore Dove in this drabble, some SOTR spoilers, a bit of angst, fluff. Please let me know if I've missed anything else! <3

AO3 LINK HERE!

~

The reaping is two days away.

District 12 is already mourning like it's lost something.

The square is being swept and painted, banners hung like a child’s cruel joke. You hate the silence more than the noise — that suffocating hush that’s fallen over the Seam and swallowed everything golden about summer. Kids aren’t in the streets. Doors are locked earlier than usual. Mothers are keeping their children close, as if any of it matters.

And you—

You’re pretending not to stare at Haymitch Abernathy like you already know he’s going to be taken.

He’s sitting by the fence with his back to it, arms slung lazily over his knees like he doesn’t feel the noose tightening. His blond hair glows in the low light, and a blade of grass dangles from his lips. Smug. Careless. He looks like a boy playing at war.

But you know better.

You walk up without a word, sit next to him, and fold your legs underneath you. The hum of the fence is off, which means it’s safe. Safe to sit here, to pretend. The woods are doused in gold. Crickets sing.

“Sun looks good on you,” he says without looking at you.

“You always say that when you want me to forgive you for something.”

He grins. “Do I need forgiving?”

You pick at a blade of grass, rolling it between your calloused fingertips — hardened over the years by plucking or strumming various string instruments. “Only if you’re planning on leaving.”

He’s quiet for a long time. Almost too long.

You know the odds. Everyone does. There’ll be four tributes per district this year — double the death, double the pain. Haymitch is seventeen. He’s strong. Clever. Already a favorite with the girls and a thorn in the Peacekeepers’ side. That makes him a target. Or maybe just… visible. And visibility kills.

He finally speaks. “I was thinkin’," he says slowly. "If it is me, I don't want you comin' to the train."

You bristle. “That’s not your call.”

“It is if I don’t want to see you cry.”

“You don’t want to see me cry?” Your voice comes out smaller than you’d like. “Too late.”

His head turns then, and he sees it — the sheen in your eyes, the way your jaw clenches like you’re holding back a scream. His smugness drops away like a curtain. There’s just Haymitch now. Raw, real.

“You shouldn’t care this much about me,” he mutters, thumb brushing your knuckle. “I’m nothin’ but trouble.”

“I know,” you say. “That’s why I care.”

He lets out a shaky breath that’s not quite a laugh. “What happens if I go in?”

“If you come back, I’ll marry you.”

He blinks.

“You win,” you say, voice strong now, “and I’ll make you pancakes every Sunday for the rest of your life. I’ll braid your hair when you’re sick. I’ll kiss your scars, all of them. Even the ones I can’t see.”

“That’s an awful lot to promise someone who might not come back.”

You swallow. “Then you better come back.”

Haymitch leans in, rests his forehead against yours. He’s warm. Smells like pine and sweat and something boyish, wild, unruined.

He kisses you, slow and aching. It’s the kind of kiss you give when you’re trying to memorize someone. He tastes like defiance and fear and the end of something good.

When he pulls away, his eyes are glassy.

You’ve never seen him like this — not in the dim corners of the Hob, not under the stars in the meadow, not even on the nights he showed you how sharp his loneliness could be. He blinks once, slowly, like it hurts to come back to the world after kissing you.

“I don’t know how to keep you safe from this,” he says, voice cracked at the edges. “I’ve been running my mouth my whole life, but I don’t have the words for this.”

“You don’t have to protect me from it,” you murmur. “Just let me stay with you in it.”

His jaw twitches. He looks away, toward the fence, toward the woods he’s always talked about escaping to. His throat works around something unspoken, and you see the moment the weight settles — not fear for himself, but for you. For what you’ll carry if he’s gone.

“You’ll remember me?” he says quietly. “Even if they turn me into a monster?”

You don’t hesitate. “I’ll remember who you are. Even if they cut you to pieces and sew you back all wrong — I’ll still know the boy who steals bread just to share it. The one who learned my laugh before my last name.”

His face twists like he wants to believe you but doesn’t know how.

So you cup his cheek, thumb brushing the freckled skin beneath his eye. “Haymitch,” you say, soft and certain, “you’ll come back. And if you don’t, I’ll carry the part of you they couldn’t touch.”

For a moment, he just breathes. Then he leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours again — not with fire this time, but with something quieter. Grieving. Reverent.

“Don’t let them kill the part of you that loves,” he whispers. “Even if they kill me.”

“They won’t,” you promise. “They’re not that powerful.”

He watches you for a long, still moment. Like he’s memorizing you — not your face, but the shape of your defiance. The way you say “they” like they’re something you could one day bury.

Then his lips twitch, just barely. “You always talk like you’ve got a weapon in your chest.”

You nod. “I do. It’s you.”

Haymitch’s smile falters. His breath catches in a way that’s not quite a gasp, not quite a sob. He sits back, elbows on his knees, and stares down at his hands like they’re holding ghosts. Maybe they are.

“You’re too good,” he says bitterly. “Too good to be stuck here. With me. With this whole cursed district.”

“I don’t want good,” you say. “I want real. And I’ve never known anything more real than you.”

He swallows hard. The wind rustles through the grass, the only sound between you for a long, aching stretch. Then, quietly:

“I’m scared.”

It breaks something in you. Not because he said it, but because he’s never said it before. Because he’s always worn his fear like armor — twisted into sarcasm, thrown as barbed wire — and now it’s just here, bare in his lap like something wounded.

You slide closer, curling your fingers into his.

“I’m scared too,” you admit. “But fear’s not the end of the story.”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s just the part where everything starts to fall apart.”

You press his knuckles to your lips, kissing the scraped skin gently. “Then let it fall. And we’ll build something after.”

His brow furrows. “What if there’s no after?”

“There is.” You say it like a vow. “Even if it’s just me, keeping the pieces of you alive. There will be something.”

He closes his eyes.

You think he’s going to cry, but he doesn’t. He just nods, once. Tight. Like that’s all he can manage. And then, in a voice so quiet it barely touches the air:

“Don’t forget me.”

“I couldn’t if I tried.”

Haymitch lets out a breath — broken, grateful, stunned.

Then he leans forward again, resting his forehead against yours like it’s the only place he knows how to find peace.

And in that moment, before the world reaps him, before blood and cameras and Capitol lies, there’s just the two of you. Breathing. Trembling. Alive.

[francixoxoxo]

FRANCI NOO i hope you feel better!! we twinning tho bc i just got my period (the pains of womanhood) and now i can help but imagine haymitch and you gardening together and sitting among the flowers to feel better : ( and it works : (((

awwww thank you and that’s absolute torture 😔

𝒶 𝓂ℴ𝓂ℯ𝓃𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽ℯ 𝑔𝒶𝓇𝒹ℯ𝓃 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 ℋ𝒶𝓎𝓂𝒾𝓉𝒸𝒽

To piggy back off of the one haymitch fic I have under my belt so far, I feel like he’d be so enamored with the flowers once they’re all in bloom, and so surprised. They were barely stalks a few months ago and now his yard is full of yellows, soft pinks and bright reds. You catch him staring out at the plant beds and gently tug him to his feet. “C’mon, we didn’t plant ‘em all just to look at ‘em.” That day had started rough, anyway. Haymitch woke with a dream that felt so real, he swore he could feel the heat from the flames licking at his cheeks. He swore he could hear water splashing onto the wood of the house, the sizzle of fire being put out, but it was never enough. Never could’ve been.

You had rubbed his back as it heaved, his hand over his forehead. Taking greedy gulps of air like he was a drowning man. It took a long time for him to nod, mumble he was alright, turn his cheek and meet your eye. Embarrassed to the bones. While he sat at the kitchen table, his eyes drifted away from your moving about the countertop, making breakfast— they settled on the flowers in the yard. The sun was shining, cool morning mist rolling in from the mountains. You were ever-observant— that’s when you ditched the batter (it had to sit, anyway,) and pulled Haymitch out of the chair. He didn’t complain.

He insisted on planting something to eat, actually got out of the house to buy blueberry bush seeds and planted them along the fence. They’re just about to be ripe. A few are, he finds the darker berries among the leaves and picks them. Offers you a handful and watches you pluck two from his palm, popping them into your mouth with a toothy grin as the juice bursts over your tongue.

Haymitch lays up on his elbows, his gray eyes narrowing as he examines the blooms on either side of the two of you. You insisted that twixt the two planters was the perfect spot, and he couldn’t agree more. “They look pretty good, huh?” He mutters, offering his hand of blueberries to you again, and you pick a few more.

“So are you saying I was right?” You lift your brows as he shoves the last of the berries (well, not the last, he presses the very final one into your palm gently) into his mouth and lays beside you. He shifts on the grass, onto his side.

Haymitch’s brows are drawn and his lips pull into a smile. “I wanted to plant them too,” he huffs, blueberry stained fingertips brushing up and down your forearm.

“Oh, Abernathy, you are such a liar!” You laugh. Something in his smile turns bashful. Haymitch crawls a bit closer over you, smattering a handful of kisses on your cheek and over the bone of your nose, drawing another giggle from you.

You push him a little by the chin but he just rebounds on back to you, grunting, “You were right, you were right.” That changes your tune, you draw him by the collar into a sweet kiss. “Can’t get a moment of peace ‘round my girl,” he mutters against your lips. You pinch his ear, drawing out a little yelp that grows into a laugh coming deep from his chest.

“I think this right here’s a pretty peaceful moment,” you correct. Haymitch chuckles faintly as he lays back beside you, eyeing the flowers blooming over your faces.

Haymitch’s roughened hand furthest from you brushes a soft petal twixt his pointer finger and thumb. He hums softly. “Mm. I think so too.”

After a few beats of silence, and a few brushes of your fingertips over his knuckles in the small distance of grass between you, you mumble, “‘Cause I made you plant these flowers.”

“…I think so too,” Haymitch concedes with a bashful smile.

[ama3003]

A Pawn Once More

Character: Haymitch Abernathy

Requested: No

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: For years, Haymitch has kept his biggest secret buried—his love for the one person he couldn’t afford to lose. But when the Quarter Quell announces that tributes will be reaped from the pool of Victors, his worst nightmare becomes reality.

A.N: Scene from Catching Fire. No, I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader.

Age Gap: Haymitch is 41 and Reader is in her 20s (preferably 25)

Part 2: Here

Part 3: Here

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. As you know, in every Quarter Quell, we do things a little differently. To commemorate the 75th Hunger Games, the third Quarter Quell, we have decided to add a new twist to the tradition."

"The tributes will be reaped from the pool of existing victors."

The air was thick with the screams and desperate cries of your family, their voices echoing in your ears as your own face twisted in horror. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

After surviving the 66th Hunger Games, after securing your place in history and your district’s fleeting pride, you were supposed to live out your life in something resembling peace. You’d be called back each year to mentor, yes, but never again would you be dragged into the arena. Never again would you face the bloodbath.

But now? Now you were nothing more than a pawn again.

You had to leave. You had to run. Your little brother’s tiny fingers clung desperately to you, his sobs vibrating through your chest as your mother—your mother—threw things in fury, her heartbreak spilling over. Every instinct told you to stay, to comfort them, but you knew better. You had to leave or you’d lose your mind. Or worse, you’d drag them down into your nightmare.

You ran. The pounding of your feet against the dirt was deafening, a frantic rhythm of escape, but your body couldn’t outrun the reality clawing at your soul. You ran until your legs gave out and you collapsed, crumbling to your knees, gasping for air. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It had to be alright. It had to be. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t.

You wiped away your tears, your breath ragged and uneven, thoughts spinning wildly. Out of the eight victors from your district, only you and one of your mentors were women. And you weren’t about to let your mentor go through the Games again. There was no chance. You knew the nightmares she’d endured, the scars that marked her body. Like you, she had survived, but she wasn’t as capable as she once was when she won during the 47th Games. At least you still had a fighting chance.

Your mind turned to your family next. You just needed them to promise you one thing. They couldn’t watch. They couldn’t watch you die. It was the only mercy you could give them. You couldn’t let them see that.

Your death would rip them apart, you knew it. Your mother would be left without her daughter. Your brother would grow up without his older sister to protect him. Your father, already a shadow of the man he once was, would be broken, lost in the absence of his “princess.” And Haymitch—Haymitch.

The thought of him hit you like a physical blow, your heart constricting in your chest. He’s a victor too. A chilling realization gripped you like ice in your veins. He could be reaped. He could be sent to fight.

Tears spilled freely, hot and relentless, as you gasped, your breath stuttering. The weight of it crushed you. He could be reaped. And that terrifying thought shattered you more than the fear of your own reaping ever could.

You let out a scream—gut-wrenching, heart-shattering—your body shaking as it tore through you. It was a sound so full of anguish, so desperate, it seemed to rip apart the very fabric of the world around you. Haymitch. He could be reaped. And with that, all your nightmares, every awful memory, every twisted fear, came to life.

-----

“Get me that damn tablet,” Haymitch barked, shoving his way through the train car in search of the device. His mind was a tangled mess, his body still buzzing from the alcohol he’d consumed in an attempt to dull the gnawing pain. 

The last few days had been a blur, but he could still feel the sharp sting of the announcement ringing in his ears. The tributes... the victors... and his own twisted fate. He should’ve been focusing on how he’d somehow managed to cheat death. Instead, his mind was consumed with one thing—and one person—from District 5. You.

When the announcement came about the victors being reaped, he hadn’t reacted with surprise. No, he’d gone into a frenzy. He’d torn apart his house, broken everything in sight, and drunk himself into oblivion. His fingers had clutched his most prized possession with a desperation he couldn't explain—a beautiful gold chain, wrapped tightly around his finger, holding the most precious ring. 

The night before, Katniss had begged him—no, pleaded—for him to volunteer for Peeta during the reaping. He had agreed. Not because he wanted to, hell no. But because he had to be there if you were reaped. And now, as Peeta decided to take matters into his own hands, Haymitch found himself thrust into the role of mentor. It infuriated him. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want you in the arena again.

The other districts should’ve already been reaped by now, and his mind was frantic, itching to know if you had been chosen. Unfortunately, he’d been trapped in the mentor role, unable to watch the reaping unfold. Now, though, he was pushing everyone aside, his hands shaking as he aggressively swiped across the tablet screen, searching for answers.

“What's his deal?” Katniss scoffed, watching Haymitch swipe frantically at the tablet.

Effie, doing her best to keep the secret Haymitch had entrusted her with, attempted to downplay his urgency. “Oh, he’s just trying to see which victors got reaped. Don’t worry about it yet.”

“I can’t find it. Turn on the damn video on the TV,” he snapped, his patience gone. Effie scrambled, finally finding the footage and flicking it on.

As the video began, Haymitch subconsciously started playing with the gold band around his neck, his fingers caressing it absently as his heart hammered in his chest. The room fell silent as the broadcast began—District 5’s reaping.

"Welcome, welcome," the escort’s overly cheery voice rang out, her ridiculous outfit blinding in its absurdity. "As we celebrate the 75th anniversary and the 3rd Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games, as always, ladies first…”

Haymitch’s leg started bouncing in nervous anticipation, his pulse quickening. District 5 had eight victors, but only two were women—and you were one of them.

He couldn’t help it. His eyes locked onto the screen, unable to tear himself away. You stood there, dressed in black, your face a perfect mask of stoicism. Your eyes were red, your pain carefully hidden beneath a practiced, blank expression—the one you’d perfected from years of surviving. He’d taught you that. How to hide everything. How to show nothing. How to survive.

He watched you hold hands with your mentor, the two of you standing in quiet solidarity. A tiny part of him hoped that it would be you—the one they called forward, so your mentor could volunteer for you. He knew she would. You just had to let her.

The escort’s voice cut through his thoughts, though he barely heard it now. She gave both you and your mentor a small, sad smile before unfolding the slip of paper. “The female tribute of District 5…” she began, and the words hung in the air like a death sentence, “Abigail Winston.”

Effie’s sigh of relief was audible, probably thinking that you were home free, that everything was going to be okay. But Haymitch knew better. He knew you. And that’s why his entire body tensed in an instant. The anger surged through his veins like wildfire, hot and uncontrollable.

And then he saw your movement. The way you stepped forward. No.

Before your mentor could even make a move, your voice steady but fierce rang out, “I volunteer as tribute.”

Time seemed to slow. Haymitch’s heart stopped, the world around him blurring as he felt everything he’d been holding together shatter. His breath came in ragged, panicked gasps as the glass in his hand fell to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces. The tablet in his hands followed, crashing to the ground in a violent thud.

Katniss and Peeta exchanged confused glances, unsure of who you were or why Haymitch had reacted like that. Effie’s tears fell silently, a mix of sorrow and disbelief. But before anyone could speak, Haymitch turned away, his mind consumed by rage and heartbreak. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

He stormed down the train, away from them all, his hands clawing at the air as if trying to rip the world apart. Every part of him, every inch of his being, was focused on one thought: You. You had volunteered. You had sealed your fate. And now, all of his nightmares were coming true.

-----

Haymitch wished he were drunk. He wished the alcohol could drown out the aching pain of having you step into that arena again. It wasn’t fair.

You barely had two years together. Two years of being an official couple, and yet it felt like it wasn’t enough. He’d first met you at the end of your Victor’s Tour, when you decided to escape the attention and hide at the bar. You outdrank him that night, which, frankly, was impressive.

At first, he never expected to care for you. You were just another survivor, bound to the same cruel fate as him. But then, over time, as you grew up and proved yourself in ways he never imagined, he couldn’t help but fall in love.

You were 15 years younger, and he had always kept his distance, hiding his feelings behind a wall of friendship. But as the years passed, and you all met yearly for the Games as mentors, one thing led to another. A night full of too much alcohol, too many unspoken feelings—and before he knew it, you had shared a night neither of you would ever forget.

The next morning, you confessed what had been lingering beneath the surface for so long. It took him months to work up the courage to ask you out, battling his own demons of self-doubt and guilt.

And then, for two beautiful years, you two had kept it secret. Notes passed in shadows, stolen kisses, quiet smiles, and letters filled with raw emotion. Two years of sneaking around, being completely, utterly in love.

And now, it was all coming to an end.

Effie found him passed out in the train’s aisle, and without hesitation, she put him to bed, understanding that he needed space.

The next morning, Haymitch tried to seek you out. He wanted to see you, to make sure you were okay, but his duties as a mentor took priority. Effie begged him to focus, to speak to Katniss and Peeta first, and then find you. He was torn between his heart and his responsibilities. And in the end, Effie dragged him to the kids.

He spent that day drinking and half-heartedly trying to teach them about the importance of allies.

“Finnick Odair, right?” Katniss asked, as they went through the list of reaped victors.

He nodded, pointing to the screen. “Yes, he won at fourteen—youngest victor ever. Extremely humble.”

“You're kidding, right?” Katniss scoffed.

“Yes, I’m kidding.” He flipped his hair dramatically. “He’s a... peacock. A total preener, but he’s the Capitol darling. They love him here. Charming, smart, and very skilled at combat—especially in water.”

Peeta leaned forward, glancing at the screen. “What about weaknesses?”

“One person, Mags.” A frail, wrinkled woman appeared on the screen. “She volunteered for Annie. Mags was his mentor, basically raised him. If Finnick’s trying to protect her, it exposes him.”

Katniss stared at the screen, watching the woman bravely volunteer for the young girl in tears. “A guy like that has to know she’s not going to make it. I bet when it really comes down to it, he won’t protect her.”

Sadness flickered in Haymitch’s eyes. “Well, Katniss, I just hope when she goes... she goes quickly. She’s a wonderful lady.”

He pressed a button on the tablet, knowing exactly who would appear next, but his body tensed involuntarily as the screen flickered to life.

"District Five: Mason Cover and Y/N L/N." Haymitch stared at the screen, his eyes locked on you, unable to look away.

"She's the girl we saw on the train," Katniss said, sensing the weight of Haymitch’s reaction. "What's her story?"

Haymitch glanced at Katniss before downing his drink. “She won the 66th Games at 16. The last hour of the Games, there were five tributes left. She killed each one of them single-handedly—arrows, spear, you name it. Extremely skillful, resourceful. And beloved by many of our victors.”

He pointed to Mason Cover, “Mason won the 55th Games at 18. Lethal in hand-to-hand combat. The last 30 minutes of those Games were a triple threat match. Those two are close friends. You want them as allies. And if you trust me... trust them. They're who you should be allies with.” He repeated, his gaze locked on Katniss. “Trust me.”

“Who is she to you?” Katniss asked bluntly, her voice cutting through the tension. “We all saw the reaping. We saw the way you reacted. Now you want to team up with her... why?”

Haymitch squinted at her, his fingers subconsciously playing with the chain around his neck. “She's just a friend. I've known her for years. I know both of them. Good people. Trustworthy people.”

“I don’t believe you,” Katniss retorted.

“Katniss,” Peeta interjected, sensing the simmering tension. "Let it go."

But before anyone could speak, Effie burst through the door, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she hurried toward Haymitch. "Haymitch, thank God you're here!" she said, voice strained with urgency. She then saw Katniss and Peeta standing in the room, and immediately faltered. "Oh... uh... Haymitch, you're needed outside of this room." She gestured quickly toward the door, trying to keep the situation under wraps, hoping the kids wouldn't notice.

Haymitch caught the hint, and without a word, he practically flew out of the room. Before the door even clicked shut behind him, he was pulled into an embrace. Your arms.

And for a moment, everything around him seemed to stop.

"Haymitch..." you whispered, your voice trembling as tears flooded your face. After days of terror, the weight of the world finally seemed to melt away in his arms. He was here. You needed him more than anything.

"Y/N..." He squeezed you tightly, his arms wrapping around you like a lifeline. His heart hammered in his chest, sobering instantly from the haze of alcohol. The warmth of your skin, the sweet scent of you, and the soft wetness of your tears soaking through his shirt — this was real. You were here, with him... for now.

He pulled back slightly, needing to see your face, his hands gently cupping your tear-streaked cheeks. He smiled at you, the corners of his mouth trembling with something he couldn't quite control. "Hi, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice breaking.

It hurt him to see you like this—eyes red and swollen, your hands shaking, a look of grim acceptance in your gaze. The kind of acceptance that made his heart shatter. What had you accepted? What were you preparing for? That thought alone gnawed at him.

"It's going to be okay. I’ve got you, pretty girl." His voice cracked with desperation, the words pouring out in a rush. "I’ll get you sponsors, and you'll be okay. Then when this is over, we can go back to my district, or yours, and live the rest of our lives together. I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever." He whispered it, desperate for you to believe him, for you to feel safe, for the horrible weight of your future to somehow lift.

But then, you shook your head, sobbing. "You can't... Katniss and Peeta are your responsibility. You need to help them. You need to save them." The words broke out in a cry, your eyes locking with his in raw, painful clarity. He shook his head, his heart sinking.

"No," he muttered firmly, "I’m not leaving you alone for this." His hands gripped your shoulders, holding you as if he could keep you safe, as if he could protect you from the arena, from everything.

"I’ll be alright," you tried to smile, wiping away the fresh tears that fell. "You don’t need to worry about me." You forced the smile, trying to push him, to focus on the kids, on them. You knew the truth, knew the game was rigged. Katniss needed to be victorious; you were just collateral damage, nothing more.

Your hand reached up to caress his face, your thumb tracing the rough outline of his jaw. "The kids need you, my love. You have to choose them over me. You have to choose Katniss over me. She... she is important."

"You're important." His voice cracked as he tried to hold on to some semblance of control, but it shattered as soon as he looked at you. "You're everything to me. You're my world. My wife... You don’t know what you’re asking me to do..." His voice broke, the words too raw, too heavy. "I can’t leave you in that arena. I won’t. I will save you."

You stared at him, tears running freely down both of your faces. He looked at you in disbelief, his eyes wide with an agony he couldn't hide. You had accepted your death, but he couldn’t. Not now. Not like this. He had already lost so much. He wouldn’t lose you too. Not like this. Not again.

"You don’t understand," he whispered, his voice raw, breaking with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. He shook his head, disbelief flickering in his eyes. "I can’t let them take you from me." His mind was already spinning, heart racing with frantic thoughts—how could he get more sponsors? Who could he talk to in the Capitol? There had to be a way. Anything to keep you alive. "Why the hell did you volunteer? Why—Jesus Christ, why you?" The words cracked through his chest, his heart shattering with the pain of it. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He was losing you, and he couldn’t stop it.

You reached up to cup his face, your thumb gently brushing over the rough, scarred lines of his cheek, your touch a silent plea. You saw the desperation in his eyes—the panic, the fear that he couldn’t hide. Your voice trembled as you whispered, "Haymitch... I promise you, I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine." The words tasted like ash on your tongue, but you said them anyway, because you needed him to believe it. You couldn’t bear the thought of him falling apart, not when you knew what was coming. You had to be strong for him, even if it broke you to lie like that.

And then, with everything breaking inside him, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that spoke of everything: grief, love, fear, and an unbearable desperation. It was rough and frantic, a mixture of tears and longing. The kiss was an apology, a plea, and a final, desperate act of love.

What neither of you knew was that Katniss, Peeta, and Effie were watching from the crack in the door, their eyes wide with shock. 

Haymitch has a wife.

And she was about to die.

Next Chapter

[frost-queen]

Peaches in a glass (Reader x Haymitch Abernathy)

Requested by: anon Forever tag:@missmelodramatic, @floatlosers, @alex–awesome–22, @merlieve, @wildiefleur , @meyocoko , @subjecta13-thefangirl , @m-rae23, @melsunshine  , @venomsvl, @evilcr0ne , @vviolynn , @niktwazny303 , @avada-kedrava-bitch-187, @erikasurfer , @slythetic  , @eliscannotdance, @p0nycurtis, @slythetic, @bitchybananaflower, @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr

Summary: You are the capital's beloved escort. One they feel very protective over. So when there outs a scandal about their beloved escort and Haymitch Abernathy, the capital and Caesar loose their minds over it.

Holding out your hand, it got taken. Helping you down the few steps out of the train. The immediate musky smell made you grab for a handkerchief. Keeping it under your nose to muffle out the smell. – “It could use a bit of perfume.” – you mumbled under your breath.

Following a man who gestured for you for directions. You started walking, a trail of soldiers in white behind you. Helmets disguising their faces. Marching in one pace behind you. Thundering boots announcing their arrival. Avoiding most of the dirt, you went inside a building. Several men in suits were waiting.

Bowing upon your arrival. You gave them a respectful nod with a pleasing smile. Some of the men swallowed nervously at the amount of soldiers with you. Noticing it, you waved your hand casually. – “Don’t mind them, They’re here for me.” – giving them some assurance.  

A soldier moved in front of you, holding his arm out to guide you in a direction. Humming softly, you followed. Leading you towards another room. Knowing behind the doors would be numerous boys and girls waiting for the reaping.

Curling a up smile, you couldn’t help but feel a tat exciting. Clearing your throat, you peeked quickly down at your dress for no wrinkles. Hands up, you prepared yourself for presentation. – “Where’s Effie?” – a man’s voice came through. Leading to you turning your head over your right shoulder. A man approaching you, stepping into the lighting beside you.

“Effie is ill.” – you responded turning your head back to the front. Awaiting your moment. – “So they send the capital’s most beloved escort.” – the man responded. Clearly to mock you. For it was as clear as day in his voice. You touched your lips gently with your finger to feel if your lipstick was still alright. – “I see the local drunk is still breathing.” – you answered without a glance at him. – “Now take a few steps back Abernathy, you’ll ruin my entrance.” – adding that extra naïve tease.

Haymitch scoffed loud, eying you up and down. Judging your colourful clothing. The vibrant colours that seemed so outplace in a district as this one. You cleared your throat since he wasn’t moving. Haymitch took a bow with wide arms, making sure to exaggerate to your annoyance. Moving back so he was out of your way.

Moving your hand by your neck, you moved your chin higher up. Presenting yourself with the sweetest smile. Doors opening as you were blinded by the light for a second. Waiting for them to fully open, till you walked out. Stepped further up the platform to gaze upon numerous boys and girls. All their faces dreary and dull. Wanting to give them a wake-up call, you tapped the microphone. That sure got their attention.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome.” – you announced through the microphone. Voice echoing over the courtyard. – “Happy hunger games!” – gesturing with your hands to make it grander. – “May you find the odds in your favour.” – adding with a more serious tone before pulling out a smile once more. The crowd remained silence. Though crowd, you thought. Breathing out a chuckle, you went on.

“Now before we begin, we have a special film, brought to you by the capital!” – clapping your hands together, you turned your posture. Gesturing at the screen at your right to where the film would be played. Whilst watching the film, you kept a hand on your chest. Smile up. Sensing a pair of eyes on you. Not wanting to look away from the film, yet compelled to tear your glance away. Gaze drifting to the other side. Seeing Haymitch stand at the left side of the platform. Hands folded together, watching you with a stern glare.

Smile faltering, your fingers curled inwards to your palm by your chest. Remaining your gaze locked on him. Feeling a sense of discomfort settling in your chest. Hearing the last words of the film, you recovered yourself with a brief flutter of your eyelashes. Breathing out softly into the microphone as you plastered on your smile once more.

Waiting for the soldiers to bring out the bowls. They got placed in front of you. You thanked them with a nod. Stepping up to the left bowl. Coming to face neatly formed lines of numerous young girls. Gaze lowering to the bowl. Clearing your throat softly, you lifted your hand up. Rubbing some fingers together before diving in. – “For the girls…” – you started feeling the papers in your hand. Lowering your gaze before settling on taking one.

Taking in a deep breath, you pulled your hand up. Unfolding the paper in front of you. – “Primrose Everdeen.” – you announced. Soldiers moved in the crowd, grabbing a young blonde girl by her arms. Sudden shouting made you startle a bit back. Catching another girl cause the havoc.

“I volunteer! I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!” – she shouted loudly. You briefly looked over your shoulder to Haymitch at the far side. Never had there been a volunteer. Haymitch lowered his gaze, avoiding to look back at you. – “My, my we have a volunteer.” – you addressed, gesturing for her to join you.

The soldiers let go of the blonde girl as other soldiers guided the brown-haired girl up the stairs. The blonde girl screaming and crying loud. Trying to ignore her cries, you focused on the volunteer. She approached you with shivering knees. – “What is your name, darling.” – you asked quietly.

“Katniss… Katniss Everdeen.” – she whispered nervously back. Her last name made you nearly break a fold in your expression. It was clear they were family. You turned to the crowd. – “We have our volunteer. Katniss Everdeen!” – speaking through the microphone. You then walked over to the boy’s bowl. Glancing up to Haymitch but not receiving a glance back.

This time you didn’t hesitate. Picking out a paper as the nauseating feeling in your stomach swirled up. – “Peeta Mellark.” – announcing loudly. A blonde boy came on stage with you. You took both their wrist, moving their arms up. – “We have our victors!” – letting go of them to clap. Only the men in suits clapped along. Holding them each with a hand on their lower back, you guided the victors away. – “Where are we going?” – the girl asked in a husky voice. – “Well to the capital of course.” – filling in as the doors closed behind you.

Waiting in the corner of the room, it busted open. Victors being embraced by family. You kept staring at Katniss and her sister’s embrace. Primrose whimpering and trembling. Captivated by the scenery, you barely noticed the sudden glass being held in front of your gaze. Blinking surprised, you came back to your senses. – “I don’t drink on the job.” – you spoke batting an eye at Haymitch.

“You look like you need one, peaches.” – He responded offering you the drink once more. – “Don’t call me by that name.” – you insisted upon, getting slightly offended by it. For it was the capital's charmname for you. Haymitch chuckled, bringing the glass to himself. Smiling before gulping the entire content down. – “Forgive me, Y/n.” – he exaggerated once more, setting the glass down. Scoffing loud, you knew he was simply trying to push your buttons.

Noticing the soldiers approaching in the door opening, you removed yourself from your position. Clasping your hands together to rally your victors up. – “Time’s up darlings.” – you spoke, shooing their family away. Katniss and Peeta both followed you out of the room. Silently heading towards the train. All of you took your seats. The train set off, riding towards the capital through all of the districts. You sighed loud, sitting neatly down.

Seeing Katniss and Peeta stare at you and your uniqueness. Peeta then glanced over at Haymitch who simply shook his head to not engage in it. Knowing he might he suspicious of the over-colourfully dressed lady from the capital. An awkward silence bestowed itself upon everyone. For after all you were just a bunch of strangers in a train headed for the same destination.

Haymitch was the first one to break the tension with a clearance of his throat. – “Loosen your corset, have a drink.” – he flapped out gesturing at everyone to just ease up. Nobody moved as Haymitch got up with a groan. – “Then I’ll just help myself.” – he spoke heading up to the bar. – “Don’t you already have enough?” – you questioned, throwing him a glance over your shoulder.

With a glass in his hand, he moved his hands nonchalantly. – “What is enough? peaches.” – he responded getting on your nerves once more. Eying the victors briefly, you got up to reach Haymitch. Pressing your hand on top of his glass before it could reach his lips. Pushing it back down on the table with his hand still around it. – “Should you really be drinking in the presence of these younglings?” – Saying quietly but meaningful at him.

Haymitch’s hands immediately went to your lower back in response. Shoving you closer to him as a soft gasp escape your mouth. – “Don’t take my drink from me.” – he responded with seriousness. Finger up till your nose. Tapping it once before letting go of you once more. Plucking the drink from underneath your palm, he took off. Pressing a hand to your chest, you needed to steady your breathing.

Turning around, you saw Katniss get up to take her leave. Out of distress, you grabbed a glass, lifting it up till you noticed what you were doing. Scoffing loud, you set the glass back down. – “Are you alright?” – Peeta asked, still present. Plastering up a smile, you nodded. Stepping away from the bar, you came sitting with him.

Once Haymitch returned after passing another district, you ignored him for most of the ride. Prepping the new victors for what they could expect. Haymitch took it upon him to educate them more about the games since you had little clues of it. The capital was more your area of expertise. Both victors didn’t feel ready enough when the train arrived at the capital.

You were completely in your element after getting off. From left and right you were greeted by people. Air kissing your cheeks, sending you off with good compliments. Waving at everyone like a celebrity. Peeta followed you on foot, Katniss and Haymitch a bit behind. – “This is ridiculous and pompous.” – Katniss said under her breath. Haymitch grabbed her firm by the elbow.

“Don’t take this lightly Katniss. She’s the best you can have.” – He made clear to her with a stern expression. – “If one can make anything happen here…” – his gaze going up to you further away introducing Peeta to some people. – “it is her.” – hiding a tiny smile, quickly folding for something neutral. Katniss quirked her eyebrow at him suddenly speaking so fond of you in her presence. Haymitch let go of her elbow with a roll of his eyes. – “We have our differences.” – was the only remark he made. Walking off to keep up with Peeta and you.

All of you rejoined in the victors quarters. Going over some last details before releasing your victors for their first appearance to the capital. You stood watching from a balcony oppositely from the judges and president Snow. Wanting to see how your victors were going to do. Watching all the others with a dull expression. It wasn’t until it was Peeta’s turn that you were clapping the loudest.

“My victor.” – you said loudly to make it aware to people with you on the balcony. – “Always with the praising.” – a voice came through. Glancing to your side, you saw Haymitch approach with a glass of scotch in his hand. – “If you’d stop being the drunk, you might get some from me.” – you responded not giving him a glance.

“You break my heart, peaches.” – he spoke. You responded by punching your elbow in his stomach. He doubled over, coughing. – “Y/n.” – he corrected himself with a hoarse voice. Haymitch straightened his posture once more, coming to stand by your side. Watching Peeta’s performance end. You clapped and cheered the loudest, making Haymitch curl up a smile out of your sight.

Peeta turned around, looking up at you. You clapped to him with a proudful smile. He smiled sheepishly back before heading out. Feeling a sudden hand slip in yours, made you gasp soft. Haymitch brought your entangled hand upwards. Giving your knuckles a tender kiss.

You gave him a soft shove on his shoulder for being so jokingly. Haymitch pulled you closer to him by your entangled hand. Before he fully understood what his body was doing with his brain, he leaned in. Pressing his lips against your cheek to kiss them. Catching himself amidst the act, he moved back. Seeing you stare in shock back at him.

Blinking with surprise, you gave him a kiss back on the cheek. Gasps and whispers followed, making it aware to you once more you were not alone. Looking around at the people from the capital throwing judging glances at Haymitch and whispering. For he dared to kiss the capital’s favourite. Someone that belonged to no one but to everyone.

You could barely focus on Katniss’s performance with the fussy feeling dancing within you. Bashful and flushed, you immediately took off after Katniss’s performance. Heading back to your districts quarters. Before you could reach them, you were approached by someone. Guiding you away for the gossip of the capital’s favourite escort was whispering around. Needing answers, you were guided towards a familiar set of stairs. Blinking surprised at the familiar figure.

“Caesar?” – you blurted out. He laughed loud, hurrying over to you. – “You darling rascal!” – he teased with excitement. Before you could say any more, he walked out. Going on stage. In a matter of seconds, you knew what was going on. You were getting interviewed over the scandal. For anyone daring to kiss the capital’s favourite was scandalous.  Without a proper say in it, you got shoved on stage. Greeted by blinding lights and an overwhelming crowd.

Caesar got up, holding his hand out to you. You accepted it with a put up smile. Knowing how to adapt at the capital. – “Our beloved escort!” – he announced cheerful, presenting you to the camera. Your eyes slightly widened upon seeing the camera. Making you look behind you.

Seeing your face being broadcasted behind you and presumably on every other camera. The applause was overwhelming. Caesar led you back to the chairs, helping you settle in. With his microphone, he leaned in to you. – “A little birdy told me something Y/n.” – he said, quirking his eyebrow up. – “That my victors are charming?” – you responded, followed by laughing from the crowd.

Caesar laughed loud as well, turning a bit away. He then got all serious once more, leaning back in. – “Haymitch Abernathy does that ring a bell?” – he asked. You remained silent, knowing to what he was hinting at. Caesar placed a hand down on your knee with a soft sigh into the microphone. – “Tell us, is it true that he kissed you? It’s what the people want to know.”

You swallowed nervously looking back at the camera. From the victor’s quarters, Peeta got up, pointing at the screen. – “Isn’t that Y/n?” – he asked. Haymitch lifted his head up, stopping himself from pouring a drink. Seeing you on the screen with Caesar. Seeing how he was poking about the scandalous kiss.

Haymitch’s expression hardened, throwing his glass at the ground. – “Hay… Haymitch!” – Peeta called out as he rushed out. Peeta looked back at Katniss, who simply shrugged her shoulders. Haymitch hurried through the corridors. Knowing many eyes were on him. Reaching the stage, he grabbed some people by their shirts, shoving them aside. Clearing a path for himself. Running up the stairs to reach the stairs.

Gasps filled the audience at Haymitch stumbling on stage. – “Oh my.” – Caesar said with pleasure. You gasped loud, getting up from your position in shock. Haymitch shielded his eyes briefly from the bright lights before making his way over to you.

“Haymitch what are you…” – unable to finish your sentence. For Haymitch touched your cheek, other hand by your waist pulling you in. His lips crashing on yours. Caesar shrieked with excitement and pleasure at the scandal in front of him. Waving his hand flabbergasted at himself to cool down.

Pressing a hand on his chest, you joined in with the kiss. Moving his hand to your lower back, he pressed you deeper onto him to have you as close as possible. Caesar nearly fainted with excitement. The audience filled with shouts and booing. For Haymitch was stealing the most beloved escort from them.

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

Read more of my fics on my Masterlists!

[maysileeewrites]

bittersweet symphony || series masterlist  

Haymitch Abernathy x f!reader 

“There might be another option, though”, he says hesitantly. “I don’t know whether it’ll work, and you’re sure as hell not going to like it, Princess.” 

You sigh, trying to brace yourself for the worst. “Just tell me.” 

He laughs dryly, avoiding your gaze. “Well, we could get - you could marry me.” 

Or: Eleven years after the second Quarter Quell, Haymitch Abernathy’s life takes a sudden turn for the unexpected when your name is drawn in the Reaping. 

After weathering through a less than ideal start, you slowly start to realize that there’s more to Haymitch than just the drunk, cynical recluse you’ve always known him to be. And though he’d never wanted it to happen, Haymitch starts to feel the walls he’d built to keep everyone away crumbling whenever he’s around you as well. 

But the Capitol, and especially President Snow is always watching, and soon enough Haymitch finds himself faced with an impossible choice …

contents & t.w.: mentions of canon-typical violence; angst!!, arranged marriage; slow-burn with a sprinkle of enemies to lovers; age gap! (Haymitch is in his late twenties, Reader is 18 at the start of the story); mentions & discussions of alcoholism; mentions of trauma; eventual smut in later parts; lots and lots of pining and mutual notions of unrequited love; spoilers for SotR (we’ll be encountering many familiar faces throughout the story - also there will be some canon-divergence concerning Haymitch’s arc post-SotR)

AN:I will try to do my best to honor his love for Lenore Dove in a way that doesn’t disregard his growing feelings for Reader. Yes, she’s is an incredibly important part of him and he’ll always love her, but he also deserves some happiness.

key: 🦋 fluff || 🪷 angst || 💫 smut

Prologue 🪷🪷 || After being reaped for the 61st Hunger Games, you and your mentor Haymitch Abernathy are off to a rather rocky start …  [5.1k]

Chapter 1 🪷🦋 || Surviving the Hunger Games was only the beginning. As you try to navigate through this strange, terrifying new life, you find comfort in someone you least expected it from, but new threats are already rising … [4.7k]

Chapter 2 🪷🪷🦋 || After your interview with Caesar, Haymitch starts to distance himself from you. What will it take for him to let you in again? [5.3k]

Chapter 3 🪷 || Being back in District Twelve isn’t at all the silver lining you’d imagined it to be [4.9k]

Chapter 4 🪷 || After making it through your victory tour, new threats arise back in the Capitol … [coming early July!]

Chapter 5 🪷🦋 || In the midst of desperation, you and Haymitch strike a deal [late July!]

uploaded: 4/16 [chapter count may change]

taglist: @sundawn1990 @star611 @psychicfartvendor @madz22 @pervigilatrix @bemissconstrued @neonawax @not-the-teen-witch @luvlyluxx @cocastyle @mannythemunchkin @alitaar @juiceboxfullofslime @imonmyvigilanteshh @queenofnightdreamland @chenellearose @bluecookies08 @laramcflyyyy @nikki-is-a-nerd @jaybbygrl @face-the-grace-blog @knights-of-ni @mel3484 @heidiland05 @qtkarma @things-i-will-never-say-to-you @nyra-42 @eatmyheartdear @jarofshells @fanfiction-she-wrote @dreamer0903 @bfintaks @marissa8208 @milesdrift @iamkookiesforyou @milliesslibrary

[mannequinreligi0n]

Stay

you’re haymitch’s co-mentor - on the train ride to the capitol, you comfort him after a nightmare

pairing: haymitch abernathy x reader (fem)

wc: 2.6k

warnings: alcohol consumption, nsfw! - fingering, vaginal sex

notes: no one asked for this, and i’m sorry. i just wanna fuck this miserable old man. after finishing sotr, I’ve been temporarily back on my hunger games bullshit. planning on writing some dmc stuff soon tho !!

ao3 link

Sleeping through the night was near impossible for Haymitch, and even more so with the constant rattle of the Capitol train. His cabin thrummed and shook as the speed demon slid along the old tracks enroute to the city where children and dreams die. His trusty knife in hand, he finally managed to drink himself to sleep late in the night with half a handle of distilled whiskey - courtesy of the Capitol, of course. Naturally, though, his dreams were just as pleasant as his life. Nightmares of screaming children, consuming fires, and that godforsaken gumdrop make Haymitch shift uncomfortably under the imported sheets, sweating through his nightshirt.

It was too much, it was always too much. He was a failure - a disgusting coward with nothing to live or die for.

A scream pulls you from your own slumber down the hall, making you sit up with a gasp for air. After years of mentoring at his side, you were all too familiar with the sounds of Haymitch’s sleepless nights. With a sleepy sigh, you kick the covers from your bed and slide the cabin door open, waddling down the dim train hallway to his room. Pushing his door open, you find him whimpering and muttering under his breath, unable to wake himself from the horrors. You gently rest a hand on his arm, giving him a soft shake to rouse him.

“Haymitch, it’s me…Hey, Ham, it’s alri-”

With a hoarse growl, Haymitch wakes in a daze and swings the knife your way, startled and disoriented. Thankfully, his aim is shit like this and he misses you, stabbing into the mattress. Lucky (or unlucky) for you, you were quite acquainted with his odd sleeping habit, not really bothered by the near accident.

“It’s just me,” you murmur into the dark, gently prying the knife from his clammy hands. Haymitch turns his head and blinks at you, taking a second to recognize who you were and the train cabin he was in. His brain still half-stuck in the nightmare, he pushes himself to sit up, rubbing his scruffy face with trembling hands and letting out a weary sigh.

“Sorry, sorry…drank too much again,” he mutters out, letting his hands flop back down to the covers pooled around him.

“I figured. It’s alright.”

Dejected gray eyes manage to flit up to meet yours briefly in the weak light coming in from outside before he quickly looks back down, shame and discomfort squeezing his lungs. You carefully hand his knife back to him, not bothering to question him about the nightmare. He takes it from your smaller hand and clutches onto the hilt anxiously, fingers clenching and unclenching around the weathered leather. This was always the worst part for him, having to face you after having been woken. The guilt of imposing, along with the embarrassment, made him feel even more pathetic, if that was even possible. He didn't understand why you even bothered. Perhaps it was the bond you two had formed silently over the years - an unhealthy attachment formed from trauma that festered under the skin.

“I’ll, um…get going. Get some sleep.”

You start to stand, ready to shuffle back to your own bed, when he does something you weren't expecting, breaking the usual routine of waking him and never speaking of it again. Haymitch catches the back of your shirt with a loose, but needy grip, tugging you back down. He moves his hand away and hovers it over your arm, fingers a hair away from touching skin.

“I-...,” Haymitch swallows down a wad of saliva down his dry throat, those somber eyes finding yours again in a moment of vulnerability. “...Stay.”

A look of confusion crosses your face and you can’t seem to find your voice. This was…new. A part of you knew that this was a long time coming between you two, aching for a stepping stone to face your feelings for him. But at the same time, fear and doubt paralyzed you. Seeing your lack of response, Haymitch visibly wilts and takes the plunge, calloused fingers shakily wrapping around your wrist.

“Please. Don’t…don’t go.”

You let him tug you back to the bed, his hand on you pulling til you were back at his side. He leans into your space, whiskey wafting from him as he slides his hand up to cup your face, a rough thumb caressing your jaw. He stares at you in a tired haze, the remnants of liquor in his blood making him hyperfixate on every wrinkle and groove of your face. Before he can stop himself, he’s bridging the gap and pressing a limp kiss to the base of your neck, his breath warm and thick on your skin. The sensation makes a spark shoot down your spine, a woozy flutter forming in your chest. Stubble scratches at the thin skin of your throat as he kisses a line down to your shoulder, inhaling your scent deeply with weighted breaths.

“Wha-, what are you doing?”

“Kissin’ you,” he mumbles into your skin, face buried away to avoid your questioning look. “Don’t hurt your head thinkin’ about it.”

And with that, he goes right back in - hesitant lips mapping out the bit of flesh he had access to. Despite your reservations, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop him, even letting out a weak hum of content as his teeth brush against your neck. Deciding to take his advice, you pry his head up with nervous hands and close the space with a chaste kiss, seeing if he’ll reject the advance. Instead, he parts his lips with an indignant moan and dives in for a second, more purposeful kiss. Sloppy and fatigued, the kiss drawls out with languid movements. He pushes away the covers from himself, knife clanking to the ground, and crawls over you, broad frame caging you down to the pillows. Desperate hands snake under your shirt and palm at the impossibly malleable flesh, grasping at your stomach like a stress ball. Your own hands thread through his hair, fingers clasped around the stringy strands as your tongue lassos his. Breaking the kiss with a gasp for air, he untangles one of your hands from his head and leads it down between you two to palm at the half-hard boner starting to tent in his sweats.

“I need you,” Haymitch breathes out, pushing his hips into your hand to alleviate some of the pressure. “Need you so bad, sweetheart. Have for a while.”

You swallow down a moan of your own, tangibly feeling his want for you in your hand making your heart rate spike embarrassingly so. You nod against his face, nose brushing against his crooked one.

“Yeah, yeah…me, too,” you manage to murmur in response, pulling your head back to meet his eyes. You’re surprised by the distress and desire in his eyes, looking down at you like he’ll die right then if you don’t touch him. The countless unspoken feelings you both had been shoving down for years seemed to be communicated in that exchange of looks, and you find the courage to push on.

In under a minute, clothes have been recklessly stripped and he’s got a hand over yours as he guides it on his cock with steady, long strokes. With every pass, he twitches against your palm, the occasional shudder or breathy whimper coming from him. His thumb rubs into the back of your hand as you move along with him, his tender side peeking through the moment of desperation.

“Easy, darlin’. Nice and easy for me,” he sighs into your neck, head fallen to nip at your shoulder. His free hand slithers up your thigh, kneading into the muscles until he can reach your heat, flattening his hand over it. Feeling him so close, your breath stutters and you hike your hips up against his palm, trying to satiate your own lust. The smell of whiskey permeates your nose again as he rumbles out a laugh at your reaction, head shaking against you. He dips two thick fingers against your folds, sliding them down to get them slicked before back up to circle your clit. The moan of appreciation that leaves your mouth was enough to dispel any lingering thought of his nightmares, making a lopsided grin spread on his face.

Haymitch pries your hand away from his cock and entwines your fingers together, kissing his way back up to your mouth. His occupied hand plays with you cunt in a thoughtful rhythm, the pads of his fingers going round and round almost soothingly on the perked sex. Despite the starving need beating its head inside his brain, he didn’t want to fuck this up. He couldn’t. He’s lost every good thing in his life, and ruining this would be his breaking point. Everything in his life was miserable and depressing, but the few weeks he had the honor of spending with you during game season made him feel a little less alone. Even when you two were filling rooms with angry shouts or taking jabs at each other over meals, it gave him a reason to wake up. And now, he had your beautiful body writhing beneath him, making his chest bloom with more and more hope and purpose with every little sound you made.

“Hey, look at me,” Haymitch whispers delicately, trying not to pierce the veil of intimacy between you two. He watches your heavy eyes flutter back up to him and hummingbird heartbeats fill his chest. “There she is, there’s my girl,” he practically coos down at you, dropping your hand to hold your face up by your chin. “You keep those pretty eyes on me and I’ll make you feel real good, alright? Can you do that, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, I can,” you nod faintly against the pillow, the words weakened by the groan that follows. At your confirmation, he releases your jaw and sits back a little, watching his fingers slip down and disappear into the tight hole between your legs. He darts his eyes up to make sure you’re still looking, and sure enough, he meets your eyes as a silent ‘oh’ forms on your mouth, brow knit together as he curls the fingers in and out. Haymitch could’ve died a happy man then and there, mesmerized by the look of uninhibited pleasure on your face. Can’t die yet, though - he had to get his fill in first.

After a few more pumps of his hand, he withdraws, his large hand wrapping around his shaft to slick it with your arousal. With heavy lids, he locks eyes with you as he jacks himself off, deep breaths filling his lungs. He tears his eyes away to bow his head down, spitting a gob of spit right onto your heated pussy. Latching one of you legs around his hip, he moves closer, but holds off on going in, rubbing the head of his cock against your clit. The friction earns a whine from you, pelvis rocking into his movements as he runts against folds.

“Haymitch, don’t be a damn tease…put it in,” you mumble out, hands grabbing hold of the sheets in an attempt to calm the storm brewing in your body.

“Always so bossy,” Haymitch huskily chuckles back, flashing you a crooked smile. “Wouldn’t hurt ya to say please, would it?”

“I swear to god, you-“

“Hey! Hey! Kidding!”

He leans over you to press a kiss or three on your face, smiling against your warmed cheeks as he continues, ”Have a little faith in me.”

Positioning himself better between your legs, he holds down the back of a thigh to keep the leg up to your chest, spreading you open. He probes at your entrance for a moment before spearing ahead, pushing the first few inches in with a deeply satisfied groan. Your own delighted moan mixes with the muted rattle of the train, eyes rolling back for a second. Haymitch keeps his forehead to yours as he bottoms out, eyes searching yours with a quiet need for validation. As he starts to move, thrusts deep and a little out of practice, your eyes are locked together, sharing air as you both suck in shallow breaths and moan in sync. Your hands find their way back to his hair, clinging to the waves at the base of his neck as a blissful fullness encompasses you.

With the assistance of you rolling your hips from below, Haymitch manages to find his bearings, the pace increasing. The wet sounds of coupling mingle with the occasional swear or moan from either of you, completely lost in the moment. Haymitch runs a hand up to your face, thumb feeling the plushness of your bottom lip with a worshipping gaze. Parting your mouth, you take it in and suck on it with a fair amount of pressure, tongue lapping at it like a sucker.*

“Jesus, you’re gonna break this old man,” Haymitch laughs out, trying to keep his hips from stuttering too much. The sight and feel of you, surrounding him in the best ways, is too much to handle, and he feels his cock throb inside of you with the threat of spilling out.

“Good,” you smile around his thumb, the happiness on your face earning a whimpered moan from him. He hooks his thumb into your cheek, keeping it snug in your mouth and the smile in place.

“You evil little thing…,” he shakes his head down at you with a blissful smile of his own. “I’ll give you somethin’ to really smile about.”

Haymitch’s thrusts suddenly quicken, hips slapping against your skin as he digs himself deep into you with newfound purpose. A jagged cry leaves you from the change in pace, his thumb holding your mouth ajar. Drool leaks down the side of your face as he fucks into you, joyful giggles and moans filling the once silent room. It’s not long until you’re seizing around him, walls milking the seed out of him. You come together in a long awaited moment of unity, minds blank save for the feeling of one another.

As Haymitch comes down from his high, he slips his hand away from your lips and brushes away the streaks of drool, sweat on his brow as he takes in your ruined state. He’d never seen anything so beautiful before - and all for him to enjoy.

“You okay, honey?” He murmurs down to you, watching your cheeks rouge and breathing try to calm.

“I’m okay,” you blink hard a few times, trying to get your vision to focus as you look up at him. “You?”

“Yeah, good…I’m good.”

He slowly empties himself from you and rolls to his back, taking you along with him to rest in his arms. He can’t count how many times he’d imagined you like this - sated and sleepy in his arms from lovemaking. Haymitch contemplates vocalizing something sentimental, maybe even sharing the depth of his feelings for you, but he withholds. Instead, he turns and presses a kiss to your temple, combing damp hair away from your forehead gently. The monotonous motion is calming, the smell of sex and him preventing you from thinking about anything but. In a matter of minutes, you’re asleep against his chest, soft puffs leaving your nose. Haymitch stays up for a bit longer, just to make sure you’re still there, before he succumbs to sleep, too.

Haymitch doesn’t have any more nightmares that night.

[sweetheartsofpanem]

Twenty-year-old Y/N returns to the ruins of District 12, seeking something—anything—of the life she lost. Grieving, self-contained, and carrying the weight of a brutal past, she finds herself quietly drawn into the lives of Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch. As unexpected friendships form and long-buried parts of herself begin to resurface, Y/N starts to wonder if it’s still possible for something soft to survive the wreckage.

Pairing(s): Haymitch Abernathy x Female!Reader (romantic), Katniss Everdeen x Female!Reader (platonic), Peeta Mellark x Female!Reader (platonic)

Warnings: themes of grief, past emotional and verbal abuse from a parent, past physical abuse from a parent, past self-harm (cutting), past alcoholism (Y/N) / ongoing alcoholism (Haymitch), references to non-consensual sexual experiences (no explicit scenes), PTSD, mental health struggles, age gap romance between adults (20s and 40s), eventual smut, death, descriptions of death/gore, mentions of bombing, descriptions of district 12 after the bombing, might be slightly divergent from canon, peeta was not hijacked

All heavy topics are treated with care, but reader discretion is advised.

this is basically just a suuuuper long slow burn friends to lovers. Y/N’s backstory is very detailed but i have not and will not describe her appearance. the first 5 or 6 chapters are basically just providing Y/N’s background and building a foundation for the rest of the story.

Shadows of the Past - Six months after the Second Rebellion, you return to the ruins of District 12. Haunted by memories and loss, you wander through the wreckage—until a flicker of light draws you toward something, or someone, unexpected.

Fragments of Home - In the unfamiliar stillness of Victor’s Village, you find yourself cared for by an old friend and a stranger. As wounds are tended to, new connections begin to take root—quiet, cautious, and strange in their kindness.

The Space Between - You move through the stillness of what remains, caught between memory and reality. In the space left by loss, something quieter begins to grow—unspoken understanding, and the first fragile steps toward connection.

The Club - A nightmare drives you outside in the dead of night—and you’re not the only one who couldn’t sleep. An unexpected conversation beneath the stars begins to chip away at the walls you’ve built.

The Quiet Shift - You wake to a new day and begin to settle into your new reality. A simple visit turns into something more, as laughter and conversation spark the beginnings of something long forgotten: friendship.

Porchlight - Three months into your return, you’ve slipped into a quiet routine—baking with Peeta, trading late-night banter with Haymitch. But comfort doesn’t come easy, and even the smallest moments of ease shine like a porchlight in the dark.

The Shape of Warmth - You spend the day with Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch—what begins with a truth leads into something softer, steadier. Something that feels almost like belonging.

Shoulder to Shoulder - The weight of your thoughts pulls you under, but an unexpected knock reminds you that not all doors stay closed. Some nights don’t feel as heavy when you’re not alone.

Dust and Danish - The distance between you and the people around you is starting to shrink. Not all at once—but in the soft space of banter, taste testing, and old memories that still ache. You don’t trust it yet. But you’re trying.

Mint and Memory - You spend the morning in the woods learning the quiet language of herbs, your scars aching in more ways than one. In the comfort of kitchen light and soft laughter, something fragile and steady begins to form. But even in the warmth, some voices still echo.

What’s Waiting Inside - You leave with a smile that doesn’t quite reach, and a voice in your head that cuts too deep. But when you ask not to be alone, you’re met with quiet understanding—and something steady enough to lean on.

Something Real - As summer settles in, so do you. What once felt unfamiliar begins to feel like home. You spend a day with Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch—harvesting herbs, sharing dinner, teasing each other in the living room. And somewhere in the middle of the quiet laughter and small comforts, you realize you’re not surviving anymore. You’re living.

Almost Subtle - A quiet afternoon puzzle turns into something softer—shared teasing, easy silences, and the kind of presence that lingers longer than either of you mean it to. When Katniss and Peeta suggest a trip to the lake, you drag Haymitch along, sun and sarcasm pulling something looser from him. You see him—truly see him—and say something you didn’t mean to. Maybe he doesn’t mind. Maybe neither of you do.

She Fell First - You wake up with one goal: figure out what the hell is wrong with you. Why does your heart do gymnastics every time Haymitch talks? Why do you want to be near him 24/7 like some kind of emotionally confused barnacle? Naturally, you barge into Peeta’s house to demand answers and are promptly diagnosed with a crush. Disgusting. Mortifying.

Totally Chill - You’re totally fine. Completely normal. Not at all losing your mind over accidentally massaging mint balm into Haymitch Abernathy’s scarred, shirtless stomach. Nope. Nothing to see here. Except maybe the part where you sprint to Peeta’s house afterward to dramatically declare your emotional demise. Totally. Chill.

Paper Spine - The sharpness guts you like it always has—like it did before anyone ever said your name gently. You fold, crumple, unravel. And when the panic finally breaks you wide open, all you can do is hold your chest and hope it doesn’t stay like this forever.

Back to Steady - A few days after everything cracked open, you find your way back to normal—soft sarcasm, warm tea, and limbs pressed a little too close on an old couch.

Pinecone Problems - You spend the day with Katniss and Peeta, basking in cinnamon bread, emotional whiplash, and whatever flavor of denial you’re currently fermenting. Feelings are talked about. Trauma is unpacked. And Haymitch—unfortunately—still exists, looking unfairly good doing absolutely nothing. You’re not in love. You’re just dramatically inconvenienced.

Pinecone Emergency - You’re pretty sure spraining your ankle after dramatically chasing Haymitch through the woods wasn’t part of your character arc, and yet—here you are, face down in the grass, in pain, in denial, and in love. Probably. Unfortunately.

He Fell Harder - Haymitch starts the night in a classic spiral—staring at a wall, brooding about feelings he definitely didn’t mean to catch. Then Y/N shows up at his door (again), and things only get worse. Or better. It’s hard to tell when she’s stealing his couch, insulting his snacks, and looking entirely too good while doing it. He’s not in love. Definitely not. He just… likes her a little. A lot. Maybe forever. Who knows.

Storm Spirit and Sunshine - You feel the storm coming in your knees and immediately decide it’s your entire personality. Haymitch thinks you’ve lost it—until the sky starts throwing tantrums and the power goes out. Cue unexpected darkness, shared candlelight, emotional trauma bonding, and accidental (but very intentional) hand-holding. Turns out, thunder’s not so scary when you’ve got a grumpy ex-victor and his veiny arms beside you.

Tension? What Tension? - You go to the lake to cool off, not to feel warm all over. But between the splashing, the teasing, and a few glances that linger a little too long, things start to shift. It’s just a normal day with friends. Nothing’s different. Nothing’s changing. Except maybe it is. Not that you’ll admit it.

Don’t Ask Me How I Slept - Something wakes you in the dark. You follow it upstairs and find more than you expected. A name, a moment, a quiet unraveling. You stay. And when morning comes, everything feels a little different—though no one says it out loud.

Just One Good Day - It starts with laughter and leans too close to something real. For a moment, it almost feels safe—almost. But soft things are fragile, and you learn again how quickly warmth can vanish. When the silence finally breaks, it leaves you reaching for someone who’s still here.

One Good Day, Gone - You try to hold onto something soft. He tries to push it all away. But some silences say more than words, and when the quiet settles, it leaves you both with nothing but the truth—and the space where one good day used to be.

As Long As It Takes - You don’t expect to see him. He doesn’t expect you to stay. But when the night unravels and the ghosts are named, you offer him the one thing he’s never been able to ask for—time. You don’t know what this is. You just know you’ll wait. As long as it takes.

Casual, Right? - You and Haymitch are fine. Totally normal. Just two emotionally stable people moving a table and not at all panicking about how close you’re sitting. But when the teasing turns soft and the space between you disappears, you start to wonder if pretending it’s casual is getting harder to believe. Especially when Peeta and Katniss walk in and feel every inch of tension in the room.

This Year is Different - On the day before his birthday—and what would’ve been another reaping—Haymitch starts to unravel. You stay. Through the silence, the memory, the ache. And by the end of the night, with moonlight on the sheets, something shifts. He lets you in. You let yourself stay.

I Hope It Keeps Becoming - On the morning after everything shifts, you wake to the warmth of something you’re scared to name. There’s laughter. There’s teasing. There’s a quiet moment where something almost happens. And later, after the chaos settles and the kitchen quiets, you let yourself hope this softness might stay.

What We’ve Been Becoming - A quiet day drifts into something warmer, softer—something that feels a little too good to question. You spend it in good company, with laughter and teasing and quiet truths. But when the evening settles and it’s just the two of you again, something finally shifts in the stillness you’ve both learned to trust.

Now, Not Then - You wake up from the past like it never left you. But this time, you’re not alone. And even when the words won’t come, he stays—gentle, steady, and real. This is now. Not then.

Without Needing to Say It - You end the night wrapped in warmth, in quiet, in something that feels a lot like love. You both haven’t said the words. But you don’t need to. Not when it’s already there—in the way you touch, the way you stay, the way you keep choosing each other. Again and again.

Clinginess Is a Symptom - He’s got a minor fever and a major case of “don’t leave my side.” You make the tea, the soup, the rules—and he, apparently, makes whiny affection into an art form.

The First Time It’s Safe - In the quiet before sunrise, wrapped in shared breath and steady hands, you and Haymitch finally speak the truth that’s been living between you for months.

Soft Things Stay - You and Haymitch settle into something slow and safe—until Katniss and Peeta burst in, convinced you’re dead. The rest of the day is filled with teasing, toast, and sunlight, the four of you slipping into a rhythm that feels like home.

Soot Sprite - You return to the ruins of District 12 for the first time since coming home, with Peeta beside you. The walk is harder than you expect—but softer, too. Just as the past begins to settle, a reminder of the settling past latches to your leg.

Did You Just Whimper? - With Soot spending the night at Katniss and Peeta’s, you and Haymitch finally get the alone time you’ve been craving.

We Are Not a Normal Family - Soot causes chaos. Peeta makes up a game with no rules. Haymitch suffers. You laugh until it hurts. And for a moment, under stars and mismatched blankets, you remember what it feels like to belong.

I’ve Been Yours

Epilogue

[alixandra-multifandom-version]

It's me, my daddy issues, and my father figures against the world

[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!!!

[that-one-fangirl69]

if you ever see me reblog your fic twice, no you didnt. ignore the first one. i was just saving it for later. either as a lil snack or i wasnt ready for a full meal at the time

[alloftheimagines]

haymitch abernathy | no peace

words: 1.7k warnings: 18+, hurt/comfort, public punishment (inspired by gale's whipping in catching fire), mentions of alcohol and drugs, pain, pain, pain, blood, injury, just a lot of whump description: Disobeying the Peacekeepers comes with punishment. Haymitch is the one to protect you, sitting at your bedside and helping you through the agony.

You kneel because it’s all you can do, just as all the residents of the Seam can do is watch it happen. Beside you, the little girl who you’d leapt in front of just a moment ago sniffles and cries for her mother. You think you know her as the daughter of one of the coal miners, but you don’t see either of her parents anywhere now. Likely, they’re at home, waiting for her to bring that stolen wedge of cheese before they starve. Now, it lies on the floor at the Peacekeeper’s feet, dirtied by the sooty ground and laid to waste. 

“She’s just a girl,” you say again — plead. You’re met with a blow across your face, one that knocks you to the ground. Though it steals your breath, you only grunt, determined not to show weakness. It’s what they thrive on, but you are not weak. Not for this. 

The crowd gasps in shock, but nobody steps in. Nobody can, not without twice as terrible a punishment. 

When you rise onto your elbows, the Peacekeeper grabs your chin, teeth bared. “Well, I sure hope she was worth the twelve lashes you’re about to get. Let’s see how heroic you feel with your back in tatters, shall we?” 

He drags you over to the whipping post, your knees scraping against the cobbles, heart pounding in your ears. The girl is crying, but you glimpse a neighbour pulling her away. Good. His focus is on you, and that means she’ll get to go home today — without food, but safe. Perhaps one of the onlookers will take pity, find something to fill her belly. God knows she looks like she needs it, joints jutting out of grimy, freckled skin. You know that hunger; the type that aches in every bone, burns right through your insides. Her tiny frame wouldn’t survive the lashes, but you will, so you let the Peacekeeper rip off your shirt and bare your back to him when he asks, another of them approaching to tie you up with rope that immediately chafes your wrists. 

“Please,” the little girl is shouting, but she’s far away. 

You grit your teeth when you hear the whip crack against the floor. Focus on the rows of feet surrounding you, as though counting the holes in the miners’ boots might be enough of a distraction and you won't feel it. 

Except it isn't and you do. The whip tears over your spine and you can’t keep from letting out a scream this time, entire body shuddering as though it can’t quite settle into this new pain. The Peacekeeper counts with every lash: one, two, three. By the fifth, you can’t hold yourself up, slumped against the pole as hot blood trickles down your skin and gathers at the waistband of your trousers. The shoes blur and tilt with the rest of the world, and you wonder how you’ll work tomorrow, or the next day, or the next day. You hope the girl isn’t looking. You wish nobody was looking. 

Before the seventh, a new voice chimes in, footsteps scuffing against the stone behind you. You don’t need to see him: his voice is enough for you to recognise who is trying to rescue you. 

Haymitch. 

“All right, all right, don’t you think you’ve proved your point?” he’s saying with that usual hint of a slur, because you can’t remember the last time he wasn’t drunk. It’s the only reason you’re friends. He buys your liquor, enough that you started watering it down a while back both because you don’t want to enable his addiction and because it gives him reason to come back more often, even if it’s to yell at you about the quality of your booze. 

“The sentence for attacking a Peacekeeper is twelve lashes. Step aside, or join her,” the Peacekeeper warns. 

Attacking a Peacekeeper. You barely touched him, only pushing him back before he could hit the girl. 

“Leave it, Haymitch,” you manage to force out. You taste blood and realise you’ve bitten through your tongue, but it’s impossible to feel it with your back on fire. “Let the man finish. No Peacekeepers, no peace, right?”

Your sarcasm is rewarded with another whip, right across both shoulder blades. 

Seven.

“Stop it!” Haymitch orders. There’s something rich and husky in his voice. Desperation. There you were thinking he didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything. You'd be surprise if you could muster the energy. “You wanna punish someone, punish me. How about we see what happens when one of the Hunger Games victors gets all bloodied up in the street, huh?”

Silence. Likely, the Peacekeeper realising who he is. District 12's only victor. You squeeze your eyes closed, dreading that Haymitch might actually take the lashings for you. The only thing you could bear less than this.

“Victors aren’t exempt from the rules,” the Peacekeeper decides, but his voice is no longer as stiff and certain as before. “And Seam scum like her certainly aren’t.”

“Maybe not, but what would everyone think, seeing Panem’s hero at the hands of a Peacekeeper? You sure that’s an image Snow would want associated with his precious Games?”

A scoff. “I don’t care about Panem’s heroes. You have nothing to do with this, so step aside.”

“She’s my wife!” Haymitch claims, causing another wave of shock to rattle through the crowd. And through you, because like hell you are. But he’s lying to save you, and you don’t know why. “I won’t let you do this to her. So whip me, or let us both go. What’ll it be?”

The moments that follow are excruciating, and you can do nothing but pant as the cool air hits your ruined skin. Finally, a Peacekeeper comes before you to cut through your bindings. You’re about to fall back onto the stone when two arms wrap around you, your soft whimpers landing in their chest. 

“All right, sweetheart. I gotcha now.” He picks you up, then whispers an outpouring of sorries when his arms scrape against your wounds, drawing another agonised keen from you. The sky is cloudy and grey above you, and it’s all you can do to stare at the clouds as he walks with you, each step jolting another rush of pain through your body. 

“Gonna getcha all cleaned up,” Haymitch soothes. And then he’s shouting for someone, for Asterid, and the sky is replaced by the wooden beams of an old house. 

Immediately, orders are shouted: clear the table, get the morphling, lots of gauze. You’re set down on something hard and clutch at Haymitch’s shirt desperately. His face swims over you, blue eyes glassy yet alert. More alert than they’ve ever been before. 

“Can you roll off your back for me, sweetheart? That’s it.” His hands are at your sides, anchoring you as you try to take the weight off your injuries. Everything is slippery with your blood and you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t anything, because it hurts. You must say as much, because his hand smoothes over your hair. “I know. I know. Gonna get you something for it, okay?”

“It’s going to be worse, just for a moment. We need to clean your wounds,” a kind voice, Asterid, warns, and then it is. You imagine fire all around you, and somewhere distant, hear your own screams. Haymitch’s hand stays in yours as he holds your convulsing body down.

“Can’t you get the damn morphling first?” Annoyance bubbles in Haymitch’s tone. 

“I can’t find it!” a younger, more flustered voice says, the sounds of riffling breaking through the cotton wool in your ears. Must be Asterid's daughter, Prim. She's barely younger than the girl outside; she shouldn't have to see the mess the whip has made.

And then you must pass out, because suddenly, you’re rising from fog, body heavy and pain dulled, and Haymitch is in a chair by your side. Your blood is on his shirt, you notice, and his hand is still holding yours on the table, thumb smoothing over your knuckles in a way that is both gentle and rough. 

“Hey. There y’are. Welcome back.” 

Moving makes you hurt again, and he shushes you when you cry out. “Stay put for now, okay? Wounds are still open.”

“Where are we?” Your voice is almost as hoarse and slurred as his. 

“Asterid’s house. She’s getting you all cleaned up.” 

“Did… did they stop? Did the girl get away?” 

He brushes the hair off your forehead. “She did. Made sure she got some food in her belly, too. Jesus, what were you thinking, getting in between a fight with a Peacekeeper like that?”

“Wasn’t a fair fight.” 

“Never damn well is.” 

“She was just a girl, Haymitch.” Anger rises to the surface, breaking through layers and layers of pain and sedation. 

Haymitch sighs. Leans his elbows on the table so his face is inches from yours. You wonder why it brings you comfort to smell his alcohol-laced breath, to feel it across your skin, to have his crooked nose graze yours. So gentle compared to the whip and yet it still leaves you shuddering. 

And yet his words are serrated as ever. “I know. But if you could find some sense of self-preservation, that’d be great.”

You shake your head, lids growing heavy again. You’re still conscious enough to point out, “You didn’t seem to have much of any, either, jumping in front of me like that. Calling me your wife. How long ‘fore they realise that’s a lie?”

His brows knit together, fingers drawing absent circles into your arms. “Shut up and get some sleep.”

Somehow, you find it in you to smirk. “‘Cos I’m right?”

“‘Cos the morphling’ll wear off soon, and it’s gonna hurt like hell.” Then, he softens. "And because you're a little right."

And you dread it, that first part. You can already feel the flames charring the edges of your consciousness, trying to take over again. Chin dipping back onto the table, you squeeze Haymitch’s hand tighter. He’s all you have here. No family to come sit with you, no friends who’ll take care of you the way he has. He's stupid for it, for putting himself in the crossfire, but it means something. Right now, you don’t know what, but you’ll figure it out. Maybe. If he’ll let you. 

“You gonna leave?” You sound so small, and it leaves you regretting asking at all. This isn't you. You get by on banter and jabs, not... this. Not vulnerability. The scars might heal, but you won't be able to take back the things you've given to him today. Shreds of yourself you didn't know existed.

He shakes his hand; strokes your hair again. “Gonna be right here when you wake up, sweetheart. Not going anywhere.” 

With the morphling humming through your veins and his gentle, soothing touch taking your mind away from the pain, you drift back into a restless, uncomfortable in-between. 

One where he is here, and for that alone, the agony is almost worth it.

[nebulablakemurphy]

The Star-Crossed Lovers Of District 12 (Part 1)

Prologue

Summary: Y/N returns to district 13 with the rebel who claims to be her husband. All hell breaks loose. SoTR Spoilers!

Haymitch Abernathy x Wife!Reader

Y/N wakes to the lights of the hovercraft, she’s upright, resting against something soft. Fingers card her hair, muttering against her ear, though she can’t make out the words. Her head throbs, she needs her medicine. She can’t get her medicine, because they took her. The rebels.

She pushes against the gentle hands that restrain her. He’ll kill her…unless…

“It’s alright.” The man clears his throat, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m your husband. You remember me telling you that, don’t you?” He’s still attempting to assess the damage.

“I remember you telling me that, but you could tell me anything, you’re a rebel.”

“And who are you?” He challenges.

“Well, I’m the victor of the sixtieth hunger games.” Y/N says, “I’ve lived in the Capitol ever since, designing clothing and-” oh no. There’s a hole there. A detail missing. The doctors warned her not to lose herself searching for it, brings on the headaches tenfold.

The man grabs her skull, turning her head from one side to the other. Tugging at her ears as he peers down the canal toward her eardrum.

“What the hell are you doing? Stop!” Y/N pushes away from him.

His eyes are stern, mouth set in a scowl as he pulls her back into his lap, on the floor of the hovercraft. “Is there something in your ear?”

“I don’t think so,” Y/N shakes her head. “Even if there was, I’m sure all the yanking shook it loose.” She massages the tender shell of her ear.

“Sorry,” he grimaces. “So uh, how long had you been down there? In the tribute center?”

“Since the Quarter Quell, I think.” The rebels blew up the arena and took a bunch of tributes, to do God knows what to.

The man nods, “that’s actually impossible.”

“Why?”

“You weren’t in the Quarter Quell.”

“I’m the only living victor from district twelve, of course I was.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he huffs a laugh, “you’re one of four, angel. You didn’t go to the Quarter Quell because Katniss took your place.”

“Katniss?” Who’s Katniss and, “why would she do that?”

“Because you were-”

“Was I sick?” Y/N looks to him with renewed interest. This must be it. The hole, the gap between what she remembers and the memories she lost in the explosion caused by the rebels.

The man opens and closes his mouth, gaping at her.

It is not uncommon for our minds to try and fill in the blanks. We see this often in patients with head trauma.

“Please, I need to know.”

“That’s enough for now, we’re landing.” A second rebel reveals himself. Dressed in all black like his counterpart.

“Boggs, do you think you could keep an eye on her? I have to go tell-”

“You can’t just leave me,” Y/N protests. “I mean, you’re my husband. Alleged, but still. Don’t leave me to the wolves.”

The man exhales, “think of all the trouble I went to, to get you here. You really think I’m gonna leave you somewhere it isn’t safe?”

Her eyes search his, who are you?

“My name is Haymitch, down here, they refer to me as Soldier Abernathy. They’ll probably call you the same until we get this sorted. If you need me, have someone from your med team page me.”

Haymitch. The name feels familiar to her, as though she called for him often, in another life. Y/N blinks at him, “down where?” The hovercraft jostles, taking its place on the landing pad.

“Welcome back to district thirteen.”

The underground lights are disorienting at first, Y/N steps off the hovercraft, hoping to get her bearings. She has about ten seconds before her vision is clouded by a tuft of dark brown hair.

“Y/N.”

There’s a girl in her arms, nearly as tall as her, not her sister, Madge. Or anyone she would recognize at a glance. Y/N brushes the wayward locks from her face.

“I thought you were dead.” The girl says, tightening her hold.

Is it you? Y/N wonders, do you fill the holes?

“Katniss,” Haymitch interrupts, putting some distance between them. “She isn’t herself.”

“What do you mean?” The girl, Katniss, holds Y/N at arms length to examine her.

“She doesn’t remember who you are.”

Y/N is equally devastated at the look on her face. “You’re the rebel girl, the mockingjay.” Katniss! “The boy used to scream for you.”

“Peeta?” Her voice breaks over his name. “Is Peeta here?”

“We had one medic on standby, they’re working on him now. Making sure he’s stable to transfer down to the hospital.”

“I need to see him,” Katniss insists, breaking away from Y/N and Haymitch to rush up the loading ramp.

Something collides with Y/N’s back, again with the hugging. For a bunch of blood thirsty lunatics, they sure don’t seem to be in any rush to take her out.

“Mom!”

“Mom?” Y/N grips the little hand around her waist. There is another just beneath it, belonging to a younger child.

“Mommy.” A second voice says.

“I’m mom?” Y/N mouths to Haymitch, who stares back at her in horror. This must be who he’d needed to warn about her…condition.

Finally the man nods. Hoping beyond hope that the woman before him won’t shuck them off.

Y/N pats at the arms, slowly turning to face them. “And you’re dad.” Her laughter verges on hysteria. The boy is his, through and through.

Haymitch comes around to the opposite side, standing with a hand on each child’s shoulder. “Alright you two, mom needs to get check out by the doctors.”

“Are you ok, mommy?” The little girl, wearing her face, asks.

Did they make you from my DNA? Grow you in a lab? “Yes I’m…ok.” Y/N lies. “I just have a headache.”

Haymitch’s tiny clone releases her first. “Come on, Arista. Let’s go find, Aunt Madge.”

Madge? “You have my sister here?”

“Where else would they have me?” Madge smiles, rounding the corner with an infant in her arms.

“You had a baby?”

“What?” Madge peers down at the child in question, “no. She’s yours.”

Y/N’s knees buckle, “oh no.” Her vision spotty, tunneling into darkness, “mommy’s gonna pass out now.” Grown in a lab or not, she doesn’t want to crush these children.

————————————————————————-

She startles awake to the familiar beep of bedside monitors. Am I home? Back in the Capitol? What happened to the rebels? What happened to- “Haymitch?”

“I’m here,” his chair screeches against the floor as he springs to his feet, rushing to her side. “I’m right here.” Haymitch’s hands are carding her hair again, staring down at her with the softest look in his eyes.

Oh, you poor man. “I’m sorry, I still don’t remember anything.”

Haymitch shakes his head, “that’s ok.”

“No I-“

“If nothing else, you know that I’m not gonna kill you now.” Haymitch hushes her, “it’s important to build a foundation of trust.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” Y/N wonders.

“That’s what I’d like to do.”

“Ok, well…ok.” If he’s not going to kill me, this may be my best chance at freedom.

“And I want to say thank you for what you did yesterday, with the kids.” Haymitch clears his throat, “that must’ve been a lot for you.”

“I’ve been out for a day?”

A slight bob of his head confirms it. “They were able to run most of their tests.”

“Where do they think I am? The clones.”

“Our children?” Haymitch chuckles, “they think you’re having tests run.”

“Good.”

“We had them the old fashioned way, just so you know. No cloning or laboratory needed.”

Y/N nods.

“Aren’t you gonna bite my head off and call me a lying rebel?”

Y/N sucks in a breath, “I am incredibly attracted to you, Mr. Rebel. And of all the things you’ve told me in the past twenty-four hours, I find that the most believable.”

“Good thing you didn’t lose your sense of humor.” Haymitch retorts, “that’d be a deal breaker.”

“You said um-” damn you, stop looking at me like that. “They ran tests?”

“Yeah, I asked the doctor to come back once you woke up to discuss the results. I’ll go see if I can flag down one of the nurses.”

“Thank you, Haymitch.” Y/N tries to relax into the pillows, but her head is pounding something awful.

When the door opens again, it is Haymitch who asks, “can you give her something for the pain?”

“Of course,” the doctor smiles, filling a syringe and injecting it into Y/N’s IV port.

Relief is near instant, allowing her to focus as the team of doctors and nurses fill the room.

“Upon reviewing your scans, there is clear swelling along the anterior lining of the brain. Indicative of a severe head injury.”

“Will it heal?”

“In time, yes.”

“Given the extent of the injury and the progress she’s already made… we have reason to believe that Y/N may have spent a month or more in a medically induced coma; attempting to speed up her recovery.”

“Why?”

Johanna stumbles into the room, crossing both arms over her chest. “Because she did it to herself.”

“What?” Haymitch blanches.

“Snow wanted to use her to get to you but,” Johanna lets out a low whistle, “she bashed her pretty head against the table, until it was lights out. Best he could do after that was subliminal messages and of course tossing in a few of your propos. God, that stupid voice would play on a loop all day and night.”

‘My name is Y/N Undersee. I’m the only living victor from district twelve. I live in the Capitol, designing clothing, I am very happy here. The rebels are after me. The rebels destroy everything that is good. The rebels are coming to kill me.’

‘My name is Y/N Undersee. I’m the only living victor from district twelve. I live in the Capitol, designing clothing, I am very happy here. The rebels are after me. The rebels destroy everything that is good. The rebels are coming to kill me.’

“I’d probably believe you were there to kill me too,” Johanna admits.

Part 2

[ama3003]

A Pawn Once More (3)

Character: Haymitch Abernathy

Requested: Again Sorta??? Lol I've been seeing all the love it's been getting and had to continue. Plus I love this story.

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: The final moments leading up the 75th Hunger Games.

Part 1: Here

Part 2: Here

I'm not going to lie, this was the most fun I had writing, and I'm lowkey very proud of this. Let me know if you wanna read her her being in the games.

A.N: I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader. Age Gap: Haymitch is 41 and Reader is in her 20s (preferably 25)

***************

Your nerves hit like a wave the second you stepped into the waiting room.

The air was tense—heavy with the kind of silence that only comes when everyone is pretending not to be afraid. The tributes were scattered around the room, each lost in their own thoughts, their own strategies, their own quiet dread.

You felt your stomach twist.

Last time you were in this position, you scored a seven. Clean, precise knife throws. It wasn’t spectacular, but it got the job done—just enough to earn some sponsors without making you a threat. It kept you safe.

But this wasn’t like last time.

This time, you were older. Sharper. Tired in a way you didn’t know how to explain. And despite all of it, you had no idea what you were going to do in there. No plan, no performance. You hadn’t let yourself think too hard about it, because thinking meant caring—and caring meant fear. And you were so tired of being afraid.

The Capitol had already taken everything. Your home. Your peace. Your sense of self. And now they were back for what little was left.

Your gaze drifted across the room and landed on the District 12 pair, sitting quietly in the far corner. They weren’t speaking, just watching. Watching you. Their expressions were unreadable—somewhere between wary and curious. You offered them a small nod and the faintest smile. They didn’t return it, but they didn’t look away either. That felt like enough.

Then, you saw him—Mason, cutting through the room with that quiet steadiness he always carried.

He slid into the seat beside you without a word, his presence warm and familiar.

“Hey,” he said gently, his voice low. “You ready?”

You nodded automatically, but your fingers betrayed you—tapping anxiously on your leg, tense and restless. Mason noticed. He always noticed.

Without saying anything more, he reached over and placed his hand on top of yours. It was steady. Grounding. You immediately stilled.

“You’re going to be alright,” he said, soft but certain. “We both are.”

You looked at him—and just like that, something inside you loosened.

Those eyes. You remembered them. The same ones you met when you were sixteen, standing awkwardly at your Victor’s party, trying not to be seen. He hadn’t mentored your Games, but he found you anyway. Quiet, lost, and not ready for any of it. He’d seen you for what you were—another broken kid trying to survive something you weren’t built for.

He knew that look. He’d worn it once, too.

And from that night on, Mason became something steady in your life. Maybe even something safe. He couldn’t stop the Capitol from throwing you into another nightmare, but if you had to go back in, you were glad it was with him.

“It’s going to be fine,” you murmured, offering a small, tired smile. And for a moment, you let yourself believe it. Mason would follow you anywhere. You didn’t have to question it. His loyalty wasn’t loud or showy—it was just there. Unshakable.

“Y/N. Mason.”

You turned at the sound of your names and saw Cashmere and Gloss approaching, their movements smooth and practiced like they were walking a red carpet instead of waiting to face death again. Behind them, Enobaria and Brutus stood from their seats, joining the group.

Cashmere slipped her arm around your shoulders like it was second nature. “You ready to make some jaws drop?” she asked with that signature smirk. Confident. Stunning. But under it, you could see the flicker of something else. That same tension that lived in all of you now.

“Always,” you said, letting the corners of your mouth lift. “I think I’m just gonna wing it. Do whatever feels right.”

Cashmere raised an eyebrow. “That’s either brilliant or reckless.”

“Maybe both,” you replied.

“As long as you scare them a little, you’ll land at least a nine,” Enobaria said, cracking her knuckles and flashing her sharpened teeth. “I’m thinking of stabbing a dummy and barring my teeth at the Gamemakers.”

Brutus rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and they’ll send you straight to the Capitol psych ward.”

Enobaria grinned wider. “Sounds like a vacation compared to what’s coming.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh before turning to the siblings.

“What about you two?”

Gloss shrugged, arms crossed over his chest. “Spear work. Something fast and clean—show them I haven’t slowed down. I’m not there to impress them. Just remind them what I can do.”

Cashmere spun a knife lazily between her fingers. “Knives, obviously. Hit the vitals, maybe throw in a flip or two if I feel like showing off. Nothing too wild—we’re aiming for tens, not twelves.”

She looked at Mason, nudging his leg with her foot. “What about you?”

Mason tilted his head, thoughtful. “Not much I can do solo. Might ask to use the moving targets—simulate a real fight. Or…” he glanced sideways at you, smiling faintly, “maybe someone here’s brave enough to volunteer.”

You rolled your eyes, smirking. “Keep dreaming.”

But before anyone could say anything else, a sharp voice echoed through the room:

“District One, Gloss Tanner. Report for individual assessment.”

Silence fell instantly. All eyes shifted to Gloss.

He stood slowly, rolling his shoulders once, then turned to his sister. Cashmere reached out and touched his arm, her expression softening.

Gloss gave her a quick squeeze on the shoulder and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Then he looked at the rest of you, smiled like it was nothing, and said, “See you on the other side.”

And then he was gone.

No hesitation. No second glance.

The moment lingered in the air. Thick. Heavy. Real.

Enobaria was the first to break the silence. “We’ll head back to our seats,” she said, giving each of you a quick hug like she didn’t want to think too hard about it. Brutus did the same—no words, just a quiet presence—and then they were gone.

“We should, too,” Mason murmured, giving Cashmere’s shoulder a squeeze.

You turned to her and wrapped your arms around her tightly.

“He’s going to do great,” you whispered. “And so will you. Okay?”

Cashmere gave you a watery smile, blinking fast. “Good luck, Y/N.”

“You too.”

She held you for a second longer, then let go and sat down, folding her hands in her lap, eyes fixed on the door Gloss had disappeared through.

Before heading back to your seat, you squat down in front of Finnick and Mags. Grinning, you greet them with a playful, “Hello, my fishies.”

Finnick rolls his eyes dramatically, but there's a smile tugging at his lips. Mags, ever the nurturing figure, pats you on the head as if you were a child, her touch gentle and warm.

“I swear, before I die, I’m going to need a new nickname,” Finnick jokes, sounding far more serious than he probably intends. “I can’t die with ‘Fishy’ on my tombstone.”

You nudge his knee playfully. “Oh, don’t worry, Finnick. I wouldn’t do that to you. But I would say, ‘Best Swimmer in the Mighty Seas,’” you add with a wink, your tone light.

Mags laughs softly, her eyes crinkling with kindness. You turn toward her. “Ready to blow them away with your rope-tying skills?” You can’t help but tease, excited for the elderly woman you admire so much.

Mags gives you a thumbs up, her smile all the answer you need. Then she points to Finnick, mimicking the movement of a trident with her hands.

“Oh, yes. Finnick and his big fork,” you tease, ruffling his hair affectionately. You and Finnick had always been close—almost like siblings, really. You won your Games right after him, and to say you leaned on each other would be an understatement. There was an unspoken understanding between you two, born from the shared experience of surviving this hell.

You hear Cashmere’s name being called, and as she rises, she shoots you a reassuring smile before heading toward the door.

Turning back to Finnick and Mags, you see the stress hanging heavy on their shoulders. Without thinking, you rise to your feet and give them both tight hugs. “It’s going to be fine,” you say, your voice firm but kind. “I’ve never seen anyone handle a trident as well as you, Finnick. And no one—no one—can tie a knot as tight as you, Mags.”

Both of them smile up at you, their faces softening. They know exactly what you’re doing—trying to ease their tension, give them a little comfort. That’s why they love having you around.

“I’ll catch up with you two after, okay?” You give them both a final squeeze. “Good luck out there.”

They nod, their smiles a little more relaxed now. You return to your seat next to Mason, feeling a brief moment of relief as you settle beside him.

“You’re being a great motivator. I’m feeling inspired,” Mason says with a half-smile, his tone teasing as he nudges you lightly.

You can’t help but scoff, shaking your head. “These are our friends. And we’re supposed to kill them like it’s nothing?” You laugh softly, but it’s a bitter sound.

Mason’s smirk fades, and he turns to face you more seriously. “We all know how this is going to play out,” he says quietly, his voice laced with a mix of resignation and practicality. “And we promised we weren’t going to take it to heart. Quick and painless, remember?”

You exhale slowly, your chest heavy. “Doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen. And let’s say… in the off chance that we both make it to the end. Then what?” You meet his gaze, both of you silently acknowledging the truth between you. Neither of you would be able to kill the other. Not after everything.

Mason’s eyes soften, but his voice is firm as he shakes his head. “That’s never going to happen. You know that,” he says, his tone heavy with certainty. “It’ll be someone else, or… it’ll be me.”

You can’t argue with that. It’s the cruel reality you’re both facing, one that feels too dark to even consider. You drop your head into your hands, the weight of it all pushing down on you.

Mason doesn’t have any comforting words—he knows they won’t help. He just reaches over, ruffling your hair lightly before pulling you into his side. His presence, solid and steady, is the only thing that’s keeping you from shattering in that moment.

You watch the District Three pair go, followed by Finnick, and then Mags. Each one of them stepping into their fate, and each one leaving a piece of their heart in the room.

Time passes slowly. Your own thoughts are heavy, weighed down by the same unspoken question everyone in this room is carrying.

And then, you hear it.

“District Five, Mason Cover. Report for individual assessment.”

Your body freezes. Your heart skips a beat.

Mason feels it, too. The weight of the arena, the uncertainty of what’s to come, the fear—it’s all there, hanging between you two.

“Darling, it’s going to be fine,” he whispers in your ear, his voice calm, steady. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, the warmth of his lips a small comfort in the sea of tension.

You try to return the reassurance, offering him a soft smile. “Good luck,” you murmur, even though you’re not sure if either of you believe it.

He meets your gaze, his smile small but sincere. “You too,” he says, his voice softer now. He ruffles your hair one more time before standing up. “See you on the other side.” His words are light, basically mimicking Gloss. But you still teared up.

You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat as you watch him leave. He glances back once, offering you a final wave, and then he’s gone, heading toward the door with that same quiet confidence he always carries.

Now, the fear was real. The anxiety had a tight grip on you, and no matter how hard you tried to steady your breathing, it was a struggle. Your chest felt heavy, each breath an effort.

You closed your eyes, trying to center yourself. Ten minutes. That’s all you had. Ten minutes to somehow find a way to push past the panic, to focus, to prepare yourself.

You were so far inside your head that you didn’t even notice someone sitting down next to you until you heard a soft voice.

“Are you ready for your assessment?”

You jumped, startled, and turned to see Peeta sitting where Mason had just been. He gave you a small, sheepish smile. “Stupid question, I know. I’m sure you’ve been asked by everyone else. Should’ve said something else.”

It wasn’t what you expected—Peeta of all people sitting next to you. You glanced over at Katniss. She was watching you closely from a distance, eyes trained on both you and Peeta, her protective instincts sharp.

You turned back to Peeta, trying to shake off the unease. “I’m ready enough to just get it over with,” you replied, your voice steady, but you could feel the tension coiled deep inside you. “Are you?”

He nodded, though his smile was a little strained. “Yeah, it’s kind of crazy, you know? I was doing this exact thing a year ago. Not much has changed.”

You shook your head slightly. “Everything’s changed, Peeta. You’re a Victor now. That means something.”

Peeta met your eyes, his gaze serious. “We both know I wasn’t supposed to be one.”

“I could say that about all of us,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “None of us were supposed to be Victors, but here we are. And it’s important, Peeta, that you start believing that. It’s the only way you’re going to make it out of the arena.”

He didn’t speak for a moment, just looking at you like he was weighing your words. Finally, he broke the silence, his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on his sleeve. “Haymitch says we should team up. I know enough to sense how important you are to him.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re trying to recruit me?” you asked, teasing but also a little touched by his honesty. You could tell he wasn’t exactly sure where this conversation was heading, but he was trying to find his footing.

He looked uncomfortable but pushed on, “I’m not saying we should be best friends or anything, but you’re important to Haymitch. I think you’re important to Katniss, too, even if she doesn’t show it.” His voice softened. “I’m just doing what I can. You know, trying to look out for her… and for us.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t think your fiancée would agree,” you said, your tone light, but there was an edge to it.

Peeta let out a small, dry chuckle. “And I don’t think your partner would be thrilled, either, but here we are.”

That made you smirk. He had a way with words, even when he was hesitant. “I’ve always been on your team, Peeta. I just need you to accept that you’re on mine, too.” Your voice was quieter now, more earnest. You met his gaze, not backing down. “I’m behind you a hundred percent. And I know Mason will be, too. But you have to trust us. Just like you want to protect Katniss, I do too. I’ll do whatever it takes to see her come out of this alive.”

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. “If you don’t trust my words, trust Haymitch’s. I’m on your side.”

Before Peeta could respond, the loudspeaker crackled, cutting through the tension.

“District Five, Y/N L/N. Report for individual assessment.”

You tensed, your heart skipping a beat, but you tried to keep your breathing steady. This was it. You stood up slowly, then turned to Peeta. With a light touch, you patted his leg.

“I’ll see you later, Peeta. Good luck to you both,” you said, your voice more confident than you felt.

Peeta watched you as you turned to leave, his eyes following you until you reached the door.

Once you were out of sight, Peeta made his way back to Katniss, who was still watching him closely, waiting for him to speak. He sat down beside her, his expression thoughtful.

“I think we should team up with District Five,” he said, his voice low but sure.

Katniss looked at him, skepticism written across her face. “Are you sure about this?”

Peeta met her gaze, his eyes steady. “Trust me.”

After a long moment of silence, Katniss finally nodded, her resolve firming. “Okay,” she said quietly.

************

You stared at yourself in the mirror, your reflection a ghost of someone you used to be. The makeup was heavy, transforming your features, and for a moment, you looked like you did nine years ago—before the Games, before all of this.

Tomorrow, you would be thrown back into the arena. Tomorrow, you’d have to fight your friends, leave your husband behind, and maybe die. And the weight of it made everything seem so much heavier.

You were scared during your first Games, but this fear—it was different. It was paralyzing. It settled deep in your chest, like something solid and cold, and you couldn’t breathe.

The sound of cheers rang out as Caesar Flickerman strutted onto the stage, his perfect, rehearsed smile beaming across the crowd. Your pulse quickened.

"There, absolutely perfection," your stylist said, patting her face to dry the tears you hadn't realized had begun to fall.

"Thank you," you whispered, blinking the haze from your eyes. You stepped onto the line between Mags and Mason, trying to steady your breath, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.

"Breathe," Mason whispered, his voice low but steady. "You look beautiful."

A small, trembling smile pulled at your lips. "Thanks," you murmured, looking at Mags. "You look pretty," you added, hoping it would ease the tension in the air. Mags smiled, a soft, knowing look on her face. She pointed to your dress. "Thank you," you said. "It’s supposed to mimic my first Games."

You swallowed, looking around at the others, trying to block out the tightness in your chest. Nervous energy swirled around you. The others could feel it, too, but everyone was doing their best to keep it together.

You saw Gloss take his turn, then Cash, and then Brutus. One after another, they walked past you, their faces filled with the same mix of dread and determination.

"I can’t believe tomorrow is the day," Mason said, jumping up slightly, the nerves evident in his voice.

"You're telling me," Finnick said, giving a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I’m about to perform my best acting yet—pretend I’m not already dead inside—and then I’m gonna die. Sounds like a real blast."

Mags shot him a disapproving look, but you could see the faintest hint of a smile tug at her lips.

"We just have to get through tonight. Tomorrow’s a whole other day," you said, trying to sound reassuring, though the words felt hollow even as you spoke them. "We’ll figure it out then."

The others fell silent at your words, each one lost in their own thoughts, the realization of what was coming settling in.

Finnick went next, followed by Mags. Then Mason.

"Wish me luck," Mason said, winking at you before stepping onto the stage, the Capitol audience erupting in applause.

"Good luck," you said, smirking, watching him stride out with the swagger only Mason could pull off.

"It’s annoying how charming that guy is," you muttered, half to yourself.

Johanna let out a short, dry laugh. "Do you think, before I die, he’ll grant me a death-wish kiss?" she joked, her usual biting humor still intact.

You nudged her with a grin. "Hey, I think the probability of that is extremely high."

Mason’s interview went off without a hitch. He played the ‘I’m about to die, and I never loved anyone’ card, and the Capitol ate it up. The single women in the crowd swooned as he strutted off the stage, bowing to his fellow tributes.

"And now, for one of the Capitol’s favorite girls, let’s hear it for Y/N L/N!" The announcement was loud, and the crowd roared in excitement.

You took a deep breath, forcing a smile as you walked onto the stage, the eyes of Panem on you. You knew how to work a crowd, how to present yourself as the confident, charming Victor everyone adored. But tonight, it felt like more of a mask than ever before.

Caesar Flickerman’s smile was as dazzling as always, his voice smooth as silk. "Oh, my dear girl, how are you?" He leaned in for air kisses, his theatrics just a little too perfect.

"Well, I’ve had better days," you said, a soft smile curling at the corner of your lips.

"Today is so emotional and hard for all of us, isn’t it?" Caesar continued, his tone dripping with faux sympathy. "But you—good news for you—you scored an eleven! Absolutely amazing!"

"Thank you," you replied, trying to keep the flatness from your voice. "Since I’m probably going to die tomorrow, I wanted to go out with a bang, I guess."

You saw Caesar’s smile falter for a moment, unsure how to handle your bluntness. But he recovered quickly, ever the professional.

"Well, a bang you did," he said, voice still upbeat. "Now, my dear, we’ve heard so much about those waiting for you back at home. Who’s there for you? Anyone special?"

You forced your gaze to drift across the audience, your eyes scanning the sea of faces before finding the one that anchored you—Haymitch. His eyes were locked onto you, steady and unwavering, like a lifeline in the chaos.

"I have my parents back at home, taking care of my younger brother," you said, your voice a little softer now. "It was definitely a surprise when these Games were announced."

"I’m sure they’re watching you now and cheering for you back in District 5," Caesar smiled warmly, his eyes glistening with false compassion.

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening. "I doubt they will. They promised me they won’t watch. Who would want to see their child get slaughtered?" The words left your lips, cold and harsh, but they were the truth. The crowd grew silent, and Caesar struggled to regain his composure.

"Uh…" He coughed awkwardly, glancing toward the camera. "Well, that’s unfortunate, I’m sure they’ll be missing a good game. Is there anyone else waiting for you? Maybe a man? A little boy toy?"

You didn’t even need to think. The words felt right, even as they left your lips. Your fingers moved instinctively to the necklace around your neck, slipping it off with a deliberate motion, and you looked back at Haymitch. His eyes widened as your fingers found the ring you’d been wearing around your neck. The same one you’d both always kept secret.

"I do, actually," you whispered, barely above the noise of the crowd. A ripple of surprise ran through the room. "I have someone waiting for me."

You slowly slid the ring onto your finger, letting it shine under the Capitol lights. For a moment, the crowd was dead silent. The world seemed to hold its breath. And then, the cheers exploded.

You could see Haymitch in the crowd, his expression unreadable at first. But then, something in his eyes softened. He didn’t hide his emotions, even if you couldn’t hear his voice. It was in the way his hand shook as he reached for his flask, eyes never leaving you.

"You’re married?" Caesar’s voice was full of excitement now, a gleam in his eyes. "What a surprise! Tell us, who is this lucky man?"

You met his gaze again, locking your eyes with Haymitch's. "I’m afraid I’m keeping that information to myself," you replied, your voice calm but firm. "Just in case I die tomorrow, I want him to move on, to find happiness. Obviously, without all the cameras and media .That’s all I’ve ever wanted for him."

You glanced down at the ring, your fingers brushing over it gently as you spoke. "My death will not be the end of him. He will mourn, but he will live. Live for me. Live for us. Live for the world. My death won’t erase our love. Our love will live on. These Games may take everything from me, but our love? That’s something that will last forever." You blinked rapidly, tears beginning to blur your vision. "I’ve loved and been loved in these few years more than some do in a lifetime," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly. "I’m one of the lucky ones."

The audience was silent for a moment before an overwhelming wave of applause broke through the air. You could see the tears welling in Caesar's eyes, his voice shaking with emotion. "That… that was beautiful," he said, his tone sincere. "I’m sure he knows how deeply you love him. And he’s lucky to have someone like you."

"Thank you," you said softly, your heart pounding.

The audience cheered again, but you only had eyes for Haymitch now. You blew him a kiss, a simple gesture, but one that felt like it carried everything you couldn’t say aloud.

"That was amazing," Mason said, wrapping you in a tight hug the second you stepped off the stage.

You cried in his arms, the weight of everything threatening to swallow you whole. "It’s going to be okay, darling girl," Mason whispered, his voice warm and comforting. "He knows you love him, and you know he loves you."

Johanna was next to you, rubbing your back. "You really did a good job. I think all of Panem’s crying right now."

You stopped crying, and only the sound of the following interview filled the room until Johanna spoke again, her voice annoyed.

"Really? A wedding dress?" She raised an eyebrow at Katniss’s dress, which looked suspiciously like a wedding gown.

"Snow made me wear it," Katniss said, her tone flat, not caring much for Johanna, but glanced at you. Haymitch trusted you, and so did Peeta.

"Make him pay for it," Johanna smirked, causing Katniss to smile faintly.

"Come on, let’s get you cleaned up," Mason said, wrapping an arm around you, guiding you away. But then Katniss reached for your wrist, stopping you.

Mason tensed but you turned towards her.

"You did good," Katniss said quietly, nodding at your ring. "I know he appreciates it."

"Thank you," you smiled at her, though it was strained.

"Plus, I’m sure you made Peeta cry," Katniss added with a rare smile.

You laughed softly, your heart lighter despite everything. "Good luck," you said, offering her a smile before following Mason out.

"So, we’re really teaming up with District 12, huh?" Mason said, rolling his eyes.

You nudged him, a small smile playing at your lips. "Yup."

*********

You found yourself staring out the window of the living area in your suite, the stars twinkling distantly in the night sky. Mason was sitting across from you, nose buried in a book, but you couldn't tear your eyes away from the vast darkness outside.

After the interviews, you all held hands, the gesture simple but filled with power, as if, for a brief moment, the Games could be stopped. But an hour ago, Abigail had come in and crushed that fragile hope, informing you that the Games would go on as planned.

You sighed, the weight of the news heavy in your chest.

"I know you're not reading," you said, breaking the silence as you turned to Mason. "You've been on the same page for the last six minutes. It usually takes you three."

He looked up at you, a sly smirk tugging at his lips before he closed the book, setting it down on the table with a soft thud. "True," he said, the humor gone from his eyes. "But it's hard to focus on anything when death is looming over us."

You didn’t respond. Instead, you stood and moved to the window, resting your hands on the cool glass. He followed you, his footsteps soft on the carpet.

"Did Cash seem fine when you told her we weren't joining the pack?" he asked, trying to shift the conversation.

Your shoulders tensed slightly, "She wasn’t happy, but she knew," You said with a nod. "They all knew we were going with District 12. Expected it, even." Then you turned to him, your heart pounding slightly. "Are you mad at me?"

Mason shook his head instantly, his expression softening. "No. Never." He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "I just… I just hope we're not making a mistake. That’s all."

You hesitated, then spoke the words that had been in your head. "You could always go with the Careers, you know."

The words barely left your mouth when Mason shot you a glare, his eyes darkening. "Shut up," he said, his voice sharp but filled with the raw edge of care. "I've been saying the whole time—it's you and me, always. If you want to team up with the newbies, we do it. If you want to team up with the Careers, we do it. Hell, if you want us to be on our own, we’ll do that too. I’m with you, partner, okay? You can't get rid of me that easily." He paused, a small, teasing smile creeping onto his lips. "I’ve been taking care of your ass for almost a decade. I’m not about to stop now."

A lump formed in your throat at his words, and you smiled, fighting back the emotions. "You're my best friend," you whispered, and he chuckled.

"Don’t let Cash hear that or she’ll make it her mission to have my head tomorrow." His voice was light, but there was something deeply affectionate in it.

"I’m serious, Mase," you nudged him, a little more forceful now, your voice cracking. "You’re my best friend. And this… this fucking sucks."

Without another word, Mason wrapped his arms around you tightly, his grip firm and warm. "Darling," he murmured into your hair, "no matter what happens tomorrow, know that you're my best friend. You’ve always been. And, I can’t really be mad at you. They're an alright team. The girl is good with those damn arrows. Plus, we get Finnick and Beetee. It could be worse."

You stayed like that for a long while, holding onto each other, the silent comfort of a friendship that had weathered more storms than anyone should ever have to. Then you heard a soft cough from the doorway, and you reluctantly pulled away.

You turned to see Haymitch standing there, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. "Am I interrupting something?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mason rolled his eyes dramatically, his tone mockingly offended. "Dude," he said with a grin, "I just got told I’m her best friend, and you couldn’t wait five minutes to swoop in? That’s crazy."

Haymitch raised his hands in surrender, still grinning. "Ouch, I thought that was me." He turned to you with a feigned look of hurt on his face. "Sweetheart, you wound me."

You shot them both a tired, amused look. "Quiet, both of you." You turned to Mason, giving him a small, pleading glance. "Mase, can you leave us, please?"

He groaned, but there was affection in the sound. "Fiiiiiinnnneeeee." He dragged out the word in a mock pout, but then he wrapped his arms around you one more time, pulling you close. "I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? I’ll find you." He kissed your forehead softly, the gesture comforting despite the weight of everything.

He pulled back, moving toward Haymitch. Before he left, Haymitch stopped and whispered, "Take care of her in there, and I’ll take care of you both out here."

Mason nodded, just slightly, so you wouldn’t notice, before giving Haymitch a firm hug. He stepped back, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before he turned to leave. "Good luck, Mason," Haymitch said softly, patting his shoulder as he went.

Mason gave a small nod, trying to keep the tension from showing, and then he left the room.

The door closed behind him, and for a brief moment, the room was silent.

Haymitch walked toward you, his steps slower than usual, more weighted. You didn’t need him to say anything. You already knew.

This was goodbye.

Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly like he was trying to memorize the way you fit against him. You buried your face into his chest, inhaling the scent of him—whiskey, pine, and something softer, something that always felt like home.

You wouldn’t see him tomorrow. As soon as you woke, the Peacekeepers would be there—no time for goodbyes, no time for holding each other like this. They’d tear you away from your bed, from this room, from him.

So this… this was it.

The two of you settled onto the couch in silence, your body curled into his, your face tucked into the crook of his neck, and his arms wrapped around you like armor. His hand moved up and down your back in a slow rhythm, steady and calming, though his heart beat loud and uneven against your cheek.

You could die like this, you thought.

God, you wished you would die like this.

"You know what I was thinking?" you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Haymitch hummed in response, low and thoughtful, his fingers gently threading through your hair.

"I think we were meant to be with each other. In every universe. It's always you and I,” you breathed. “And I know... I know in another universe, we got to have a beautiful, long life together."

His lips twitched into a smile, pained but sincere. "You think so?"

"Oh, I know so," you said, the corner of your mouth lifting. “We have three kids. Two girls and one boy. They're perfect—just like we always dreamed. We live in this beautiful home with a white picket fence, big porch swing. You finally grow tomatoes that don’t taste like dirt. We grow old together. We see our kids have kids. We'd be cool grandparents."

"The best grandparents," he said quietly, still stroking your hair, his voice strained and cracked with longing. “Is it weird that I'm jealous of that us?”

"No... because so am I." You closed your eyes, the fantasy a cruel comfort. It felt so real. It should have been real.

Your voice broke as the grief crashed over you like a wave. “This isn’t fair.” The words came out as a sob, and you shoved your face deeper into his neck, clinging to him like he was the last safe thing in the world.

"I know, sweetheart. I know," he murmured, holding you tighter. His hand moved slowly over your back, as if he could rub the pain away, ease the break in your heart. "But I'm going to help you. You and Mase. It's going to be alright.”

He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes, his own gaze sharp and urgent. “I just need you to stay with Katniss. No matter what—stay with her.”

You blinked, confused for a moment, but nodded. There was something in his tone, something just beneath the surface. You didn't know the full story, but you trusted him. You always had.

"I promise, Haymitch. I’ll try to protect them... for as long as I breathe."

He stilled. Completely.

His jaw clenched, and his grip on you tightened again.

He hadn’t meant for it to come across like that. God, no. He never wanted you to think you owed him that—your life for theirs. That wasn’t what this was.

"I just need you to breathe," he said, his voice rough and trembling. “That’s all I need, okay? Just breathe. Protect yourself. I’ll take care of the kids. I promise. But you—you look after you. No playing hero. No playing mama bear.”

You lifted your head to meet his eyes, your heart thudding. “You care for those kids, Haymitch Abernathy,” you said, voice firm. “I’m going to protect them as much as I can. Nothing’s happening to those kids if I’m there.”

He stared at you, the pain behind his eyes shining like glass ready to crack.

"And I care about you, Y/N Abernathy." His voice hitched. “So you're going to make sure you survive.”

Your bottom lip trembled. You looked at him—at the man you loved more than anything—and whispered, “Only one comes out alive, Mitch.”

Your voice cracked like a brittle bone.

“I’m not even in the top five of who should win.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, hot and burning, and his face crumpled just slightly as he pulled you back into him, his breath stuttering.

You could see it. The way he was unraveling. The storm brewing behind his eyes. He had been holding something in, and it was clawing its way out of him, ripping him apart from the inside.

You’d been accepting your fate quietly, trying not to make it harder for him. But he needed more from you now.

He needed you to fight.

He needed you to live.

He needed to say the thing that had been killing him since the moment he knew. There was this plan. A plan to get Katniss and all the other victors out of there. A plan that could save your life. And he wishes he could tell you scream it out.

But Plutarch didn’t want you to involved because of your close relationship with the careers. He said it could compromise the whole mission. But he needed to tell you. He needed to guarantee your safety. Plutarch be dammed. You’re his wife. You’re the only thing that matters.

"I—" he started, voice hoarse, his hands twitching at his sides. Just spit it out he thought to himself.

You turned to face him fully, one brow raised. He was spinning in his own mind, fighting every instinct. You could tell he wanted to say it, to scream it but there was something holding him back.

"There's thi—well, there's this... this plan... Plutarch—" Why couldn’t he just say it? His heart was screaming at him to spit it out.

You stepped in before he could finish, your heart stalling. You knew that look, the flickering indecision, the desperation caught behind his teeth.

"You're not supposed to tell me, right?" you asked gently, already knowing the answer.

He faltered, looking at you like you’d read the last page of a book he hadn’t finished. He wanted to tell you. So badly. And that’s what terrified you.

"There's this plan—"

"Stop." You raised your hand, voice quiet but firm. A small, tired smile tugged at your lips. "Don’t tell me."

He stared at you in disbelief, his brows furrowed like you’d just spoken in a language he didn’t understand. "What...?"

"There's a reason why you can’t tell me, right?"

He hesitated… and nodded.

"Then it’s probably a good reason.”

"It can save your life," he whispered, and that was when the first tear slipped from his eye. He was screaming at himself to tell you to save you. Why the hell isn’t he saying anything?

Your chest tightened, but you held your voice steady. "But it jeopardizes Katniss, doesn’t it?"

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence was loud enough.

"Then don’t tell me."

"Sweetheart..."

"Don't tell me, Haymitch." You stepped closer, looking up at him with as much reassurance as you could muster. "I’m telling you not to tell me. You were going to—and now I’m saying no. So if anything happens, it’s on me. Not you. Never you."

You could already see it in his eyes—the guilt building like floodwater behind a dam. You couldn’t let it break him.

"You need to protect Katniss," you said softly.

His expression cracked as tears finally spilled freely, his voice breaking under the weight of his helplessness. "I need to protect you."

And that nearly broke you.

You had to look away, just for a second. "You’re putting her first," you said, your voice catching. "And that’s okay. You need to put her first. Always. You and I both know that. It’s for the greater cause—something bigger than just you and me."

He clenched his jaw. You both knew it was true. If the rebellion was going to work, it had to be Katniss. It had to be the Mockingjay.

"I need you safe," he said again, like if he repeated it enough, the universe would listen.

"And we need her alive." You were already shifting, already planning. Your voice quickened, desperate to be useful, to give him something to hold on to. "Both of them. Without Peeta, Katniss won’t want to do anything for the rebellion. Okay, I’ll look after Katniss and Mase can look after Peeta. Well of course I’ll also look after Peeta, but—"

You rambled, words spilling from you as your mind raced, building walls to keep the fear from crashing in. And he just looked at you.

God, he looked at you—like you were made of light and heartbreak and everything he could never deserve.

Then suddenly his hands were on your face, steadying you, grounding you. He needed to tell you. It was eating him alive.

You froze under his touch, your voice softening to a murmur. "Don’t tell me, Haymitch. I’m not mad. I won’t be mad. I’ll never make you choose between them or me. I care about them too."

He pulled you close, resting his forehead against yours, his breath trembling.

"It’s always been you," he choked, tears falling freely now. "It’s always going to be you."

You closed your eyes. If you could bottle this moment—this closeness, this certainty—you would have. You’d carry it into the arena like armor.

"This is more than just us, Mitch," you whispered. "If she survives… the districts' hope still lives."

He let out a bitter, shaking breath. "Damn it, woman, I want to tell you. I need to tell you."

You touched his cheek gently, tears stinging your eyes. "But you're holding back for her. And I'm telling you it’s okay."

You swallowed the lump in your throat and straightened your shoulders. "I told you since the beginning—I’m getting her out of that arena. Now you need to promise me you will too. Over Mags. Over Beetee. Over me."

Your voice didn’t shake this time. Not when it mattered most.

You looked into his eyes and saw the war in them—saw him silently screaming I can’t lose you.

But he knew you were right.

"I promise," he whispered, barely getting it out.

"It's going to be okay. We're going to be okay," you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears as you pulled back, giving him a smile that trembled with hope and heartbreak. "And then one morning, you’ll wake up back in District 12… and you’re going to look out at the sky and feel it. Feel the peace. The Games will be gone. The children will be able to be children again. It’s what we’ve always wanted."

You smiled as you spoke, but he could see it—you weren’t just comforting him.

You were saying goodbye.

And Haymitch felt it. In the hollowness in his chest. In the way your voice cracked just slightly when you talked about a future you didn’t believe you’d see. You were accepting your death. Quietly. Gracefully. Willingly.

Even when the cause didn’t trust you enough to let you in.

And yet, here you were, dreaming about a life beyond the war—knowing you wouldn’t be part of it.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“I feel like I’m making a mistake,” he said, voice raw, like it scraped his throat on the way out. Damn the cause. Damn Plutarch. Damn those District 12 kids. Damn this plan.

“You’re not,” you said gently. “You’re a mentor. We give our lives for those children. If I could’ve saved my tributes, I would’ve.”

You smiled through your tears, and it wrecked him.

“You’re the best mentor known to man. And an even better husband.”

That was the final blow.

“I love you,” he whispered like a confession, like a prayer. “So, so much. More than the moon loves the stars. More than the sun loves the ocean. I love you, Y/N.”

You cupped his face like he was fragile, precious. Like he wasn’t the broken man the world always thought him to be.

“And I love you, Haymitch,” you murmured. You nestled yourself back into his chest, fitting there like you were made for him. And maybe you were.

You both stared out the window as silence wrapped around you. Not a single word for an hour—just hearts beating in sync, like this moment could stretch forever.

But it couldn’t.

Eventually, you sat up slowly, blinking back the heaviness in your eyes. “You have to go check on the kids. The elevator locks soon… and I doubt you want to walk up seven flights of stairs.”

He clung to you a little tighter. “I’ll be fine. Come back here.”

You gave him that look. The one that always shut down every argument. Soft, patient, immovable.

He sighed. He knew. You were doing it for the kids. For him. If the Peacekeepers found you both here, alone, asleep—it would be over for him. You’d never let that happen.

“Fine. Fine.”

You walked him toward the elevator slowly, each step a thousand pounds heavier than the last.

Then you paused.

“Tell Effie I say that I love her… and that she needs to take care of you. No more than three whiskey bottles a week.”

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even smile.

He just pulled you into his arms like he was afraid you’d disappear the second he let go.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and he meant it for everything—for the plan, for the Capitol, for the years wasted, for the future he couldn’t give you.

“I’m not,” you said softly, holding his face like a lifeline. “I lived a beautiful life… with amazing friends and a perfect husband. I meant what I said. I felt more love in the years with you than most people ever feel in a lifetime. You made me happy. You make me proud. After everything you’ve been through, we’re finally going to be at peace.”

He was breaking. He didn’t care how pathetic it looked.

“I need you,” he choked, like the words themselves were ripping something loose in his chest.

“And you have me,” you whispered, “forever.”

You kissed his cheek, pulled him close again, memorized the shape of his body, the weight of him in your arms.

“I’ll be fine,” you lied. “Remember your promise.”

You stepped back, slowly pushing him toward the elevator. Your hands were shaking, but your face was steady. Because if you faltered—if you gave in—he would stay. And that was too dangerous.

The doors slid open.

And he didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

But you gave him a little push.

Because you had to.

He stepped inside. And as the doors started to close, you saw the panic take over his features.

"I love you," he said, the words tearing from his chest like a final breath. His heart physically ached. Like it was collapsing in on itself. Like maybe, just maybe, a person could die from a broken heart.

"And I love you too," you replied, the softest smile breaking through your tears. How could you smile when you were walking into your death?

Haymitch didn’t know.

But you always found light, even at the end of the world.

“I’ll see you in the next lifetime,” you said, and your voice cracked on the final word.

The doors slid shut.

And as the elevator descended, the last thing he heard was the sound of you sobbing.

And that was it.

That was the sound that shattered him.

This felt extremely long lol anyways thank y'all for reading! I also live for your comments they actually make my day.

Let me know what you want to see!!!!

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[onlybeeewrites]

Finding Magic

Request: May I request a hunger games request Haymitch x wife reader, she is a district 12 victor from the laye 50's games. She is around 4-8 years younger than him. It is set in district 13, we see him with their young daughter named after his fellow 50th game tribute and just fluff, please Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!reader

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x wife!reader

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: SUNRISE ON THE REAPING SPOILERS, characters mentioned

A/N: the first of many Haymitch requests UGH I loved this and seeing soft Haymitch. Enjoy!! <3 ~~~~~~~~

The quarters in District 13 weren’t much—gray walls, stiff bedding, and a distinct lack of anything that could be called personal. Everything was practical, assigned, and strictly regulated, from the meals to the uniforms to the way time itself seemed to tick by in rigid blocks.

But somehow, you had made it feel like home. Haymitch wasn’t sure how she did it. Maybe it was the warmth she carried with her, the way she never let the weight of their reality smother the small joys you still managed to carve out of the days. Or maybe it was the way you saw things—not just for what they were, but for what they could be.

Even here, underground, you made the world seem bigger.

Your ten year old daughter, Louella was sprawled out on the cold floor, utterly lost in the book she held, her small fingers gripping the worn pages as if they contained the secrets of the universe.

Haymitch could see the crease between her brows, the slight parting of her lips as she whispered words under her breath, tasting them as she read. Whatever world she had discovered in those pages had its hooks in her now, and nothing short of an emergency would pull her out of it.

And you sat nearby, your head bent over a needle and thread, patching up yet another hole in your daughter’s jumpsuit. It wasn’t the first tear she’d fixed this week, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

Louella was always running, climbing, sneaking into places she wasn’t supposed to be. She had the boundless energy of someone who had never known anything but motion.

Haymitch liked to pretend he didn’t know where she got that rebellious streak from, but between your quiet defiance and his own tendency to do exactly the opposite of what people expected, the girl hadn’t stood a chance.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, watching them for a moment before speaking. “What’s she reading this time?”

You didn’t look up, but there was a small smile on her lips. “Poetry. About magic.”

Haymitch raised a brow and pushed off the wall, making his way over before flopping down beside Louella. “Magic, huh? Didn’t think District 13 allowed that kind of thing.”

Louella shot him an unimpressed look over the top of her book. “It’s poetry, Papa. Not spells.”

Haymitch smirked, leaning in as if she had just admitted to something scandalous. “Still sounds like nonsense.”

Louella let out a dramatic sigh and held up the book. “Just listen.”

She cleared her throat, straightened her back, and read aloud:

“The wind hums secrets through the trees,

The river sings to passing bees.

The sky bends low to kiss the land,

And leaves spell stories in the sand.”

She closed the book with a decisive little snap and looked up expectantly, waiting for his reaction.

Haymitch tilted his head. “Huh. Not bad.”

Louella beamed, victorious, and turned to her mother. “See? Even he likes it.”

You chuckled, tying off the stitch with practiced ease. “Took him long enough.”

Haymitch rolled his eyes but turned back to Louella. “So, you really think there’s magic in all that?”

Louella nodded eagerly. “Mama says magic is just seeing things the right way. Like when the sun looks like melted gold, or when the air smells different before a storm.”

You take a pause, setting down the sewing, stretching your fingers before smiling at your daughter. “My family always believed in magic,” you said, voice soft with nostalgia,

“We grew up in the fields, and we saw it in everything—the way fireflies danced like little stars, the hush of the earth before the first snowfall, the way seeds always knew how to find the sun.”

Louella’s eyes widened in that way only a child’s could, full of wonder and longing for things just out of reach. “I wish I could’ve seen all that.”

You smiled fondly, brushing a curl from Louella’s face. “You still can, sweetheart. Magic’s in the little things. You just have to know how to look.”

Haymitch snorted, shaking his head. “That why people used to call your family wild?”

That caused you to smirked at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling with amusement. “Of course. You’d know that. You’d also remember that people often said we were odd for believing in things you couldn’t hold in your hands. But it takes special people to see the magic in little things.”

Louella grinned. “Good thing I’m special, then.”

Haymitch hummed, “yes you are, sweetheart,” he said glancing between the two of them—you, his wife, with your quiet strength and stubborn belief in things bigger than themselves, and his daughter, practically glowing with excitement at the idea of unseen wonders hiding in the world around her.

Louella yawned, rubbing at her eyes but still stubbornly gripping her book. “Can I read one more?”

You glanced at the clock on the wall—lights-out was soon, and rules were strict here. But sighed, a small, indulgent smile on your lips. “Just one more.” How could you deny one of the few pleasures you were able to indulge in?

Louella grinned and flipped through the pages, searching for the perfect poem. Haymitch, meanwhile, leaned his head back against the wall, one arm draped lazily over your shoulders.

He wasn’t much for poetry, but he liked the sound of Louella’s voice as she read, soft and full of belief. Reminding him so much of you.

“The stars will shine beyond the dark,

Their light will never wane.

A whispered wish, a hopeful heart,

And magic stays the same.”

Luella looked up, blinking sleepily. “That means magic is always there, right? Even when we can’t see it?”

You ran her fingers through Louella’s hair. “That’s right.”

Haymitch huffed. “Poetry’s got a lot of nerve making promises like that.”

Louella giggled, pressing her face into his side. “You just don’t get it, Dad.”

He smirked, pulling the blanket up over her. “Guess not.”

She let out another small yawn, and this time, her eyes didn’t open again. Haymitch exhaled, shifting to pick her up. She made a sleepy sound of protest as he scooped her into his arms, but she didn’t fight it, just curled against his chest like she’d done since she was little.

You stood and followed as he carried Louella to the small cot she called a bed. He tucked her in, smoothing down the blanket while you brushed her hair back, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

Haymitch stayed there a moment longer, watching as Louella breathed slow and deep, already lost in dreams. He reached out, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Sleep tight, wild thing.”

She didn’t stir. You slipped your hand into his, lacing their fingers together as they stepped back from the bed.

Haymitch pressed a kiss to you temple as they settled onto their own bed. “You’re gonna turn her into a dreamer.”

You smiled against his shoulder. “Good. The world needs more of them.”

Haymitch didn’t answer right away. He just held you a little tighter, his fingers absently tracing slow, idle patterns against your arm.

Even after all these years, it still felt surreal sometimes—having this family, having you.

He thought back to the first time he saw you, standing on that stage at seventeen, trying to keep your face blank as your name was called. He’d been your mentor then, five years after winning himself. And he had been forced to watch 10 kids die since then. He was sure you would be the 12th.

And so he was forced to watch as you stepped into the arena, as you fought. But this time you proved everyone wrong as you won.

He had known, back then, what kind of person would walk out of that place. What it took to survive.

But you had come back still you, against all odds. You had come back stubborn and sharp and kind in ways the Capitol couldn’t kill. You still held onto who you were. And that alone was the perfect act of rebellion.

And somehow, in the years that followed, through nightmares and rebellion and the slow, aching process of trying to be something more than just survivors—you had found your way to each other eventually. And then became more.

Then two, became three. You had sobbed in his arms when you found out, fearing the day that she too would have to be reaped from the bowl of names. With a high chance of her dying in that god forsaken arena. The guilt, Haymitch remembered, took such a toll on you.

“How could I do this? Bring a child into this world?” You had once said. But after some time you had come to terms with the baby—Luella. Light in the dark. And a memorial name after the one of the tributes from Haymitch’s games. A sweet little girl you remembered from the Seam.

But now, you all were here, in a dimly lit room beneath the earth, with the most incredible daughter who believed in poetry and magic, in a place where hope was hard to hold on to.

And yet, somehow, you still did.

Haymitch exhaled, pressing his forehead against your hair. “You know,” he muttered, “I always knew you were trouble.”

You laughed softly, shifting closer. “Oh? Since when?”

“Since you looked me in the eye after they called your name and didn’t cry.” His voice was quiet, thoughtful. “Since you gave me an attitude that first day on the train. And especially afterward,”

Your fingers brushed against his hand, lacing together. “Guess that means you didn’t do a terrible job as a mentor.”

Haymitch huffed a small, dry laugh. “Didn’t do a great one, either.”

You squeezed his hand, tilting her head at him. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

He didn’t answer, just pulled you against him, pressing a kiss to your hair.

You were here. You were still you. Even after everything you both had gone through.

Maybe that was magic too.