#haymitch abernathy x you

[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

[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.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

➤𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗔𝗿𝗲 𝗠𝗶𝗻𝗲 || 𝗛𝗮𝘆𝗺𝗶𝘁𝗰𝗵 𝗔𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗵𝘆 ||

A/n:Pure filth, I got nothin to say so enjoy 🫡

Tag List: @strawberrydeersimp

The war was over.

Snow was dead. Coin, too.

The Capitol lay in ruins, the rebels scattered in half-celebration, half-confusion. You stood in the remains of what had once been power—glass underfoot, the air heavy with smoke and blood and the weight of too many names.

Haymitch found you in a storage room beneath the rubble of what used to be a government building. No words. Just the creak of a door, the low thud of his boots, and that goddamn look in his eyes. Like something inside him had snapped years ago, and now whatever was left had finally shattered.

“You’re still alive,” he said. Not a question. Not even relief. Just fact, rough in his throat.

You nodded, barely breathing. You both knew what that meant.

He moved first. Fists in your jacket, yanking you forward, mouth crashing against yours like a threat. Teeth clashing, tongues fighting, nothing gentle. You responded in kind—biting his lower lip, digging your fingers into his shirt like you could rip the pain out of him.

He turned you, slammed you against the concrete wall, the sound echoing like a gunshot. His hands were all over—desperate, shaking, angry. Not at you. At the world. At himself.

“This doesn’t fix shit,” he growled into your neck, voice like gravel, hands already shoving your pants down. “But I need it. I need you.”

You didn’t answer—just grabbed his belt, unbuckling with fingers that trembled from adrenaline or want or both. His cock was hard already, hot against your thigh, and when he finally pushed into you, you gasped—more from the suddenness than the stretch.

There was no rhythm, no buildup. Just need.

He fucked you like he wanted to forget—fast, brutal, punishing. Your back scraped against the rough wall, and you welcomed the sting. His breath was ragged in your ear, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. You clawed at his back, left scratches, made him feel it.

“Say my name,” he hissed.

“Haymitch—”

“Louder.”

“Haymitch!” you cried, head falling back, voice echoing in the dead city.

He came with a choked-off moan, collapsing into you, both of you a tangled mess of sweat, blood, and ash. For a moment, neither of you moved. His forehead pressed against yours, the rise and fall of your chests the only sign of life in the silence.

Finally, he pulled back just enough to look at you. Eyes wild, haunted.

“This world’s fucked,” he muttered.

You cupped his face, rough and unkind. “So fuck it back.”

It was days later after your comment, the words still ringing in his ear.

“So fuck it back."

Haymitch didn’t say a word when he grabbed you again that night. The war was over, but the fire still burned in his veins. You followed him into another half-destroyed room in the Victor’s Village, the floor dusty, furniture broken. Didn’t matter. Nothing did except the way he looked at you like you were the last thing tethering him to this fucked-up world.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered, voice rough as he shoved you back onto the mattress. “You don’t get what you do to me.”

His mouth was on you before you could speak—biting, devouring, like he wanted to consume every part of you. Clothes came off in frantic, angry motions. He manhandled you like you were his to take—and you were. Right now, you wanted to be.

He shoved his cock inside you with a growl, no teasing, no pause. Just raw, thick pressure and the slap of skin on skin.

“You think I can let you walk around like this,” he rasped in your ear, hips snapping forward with bruising force, “dripping from me and not do something about it?”

You gasped, back arching. He drove into you deeper, each thrust stealing the air from your lungs.

“I’m gonna put a baby in you,” he growled. “My baby. Gonna fill you up and make sure everyone knows who fucking owns you.”

“Do it,” you moaned, eyes glassy, body quaking. “Fill me. Make me yours.”

That broke something in him.

He snapped—fucking you harder, hips relentless, hands bruising your thighs as he spread you wider, deeper. Every thrust was possession. Every groan was a promise.

“Gonna knock you up right here, in the ashes of everything. Leave my cum leaking out of you for days. You want that?”

“Yes—fuck, yes, Haymitch—”

He pressed his forehead to yours, voice low and rough. “You’re gonna take it all. Every drop.”

And when he came—he poured into you. Hot, thick, endless. You could feel him pulse, spilling everything inside you as he kept thrusting, fucking it deeper, grinding through every wave. Like he needed to make sure it took.

You were wrecked. Used. Marked.

And he still didn’t pull out.

Instead, he stayed there, still hard, still inside. One hand on your belly.

“Maybe if I breed you full,” he murmured, voice quieter now, rawer, “you won’t disappear with the rest of the world.”

You pulled him down into a kiss, just as rough, just as broken.

“Then do it again.”

He never pulled out.

Even as you trembled beneath him, skin slick with sweat, your body pulsing with aftershocks, Haymitch stayed buried to the hilt. Still hard. Still hungry.

His breath ghosted against your throat. You could feel the low growl in his chest before he even spoke.

“Still not enough.”

You barely managed a sound—something between a whimper and a plea—but it didn’t matter. He rolled his hips slow and deep, and you arched helplessly beneath him.

“Gotta make sure it sticks, sweetheart,” he said, voice slurred with exhaustion and lust. “You want that, don’t you? Want me to fuck you round after round until I breed you right?”

You nodded, dazed, raw, wrecked. “Yes. Please. Again.”

That was all he needed.

He grabbed your hips, pulled out just far enough for you to feel the mess he’d left inside you—then slammed back in, dragging a cry from your throat. There was no mercy in him now. Just need. Just instinct.

He fucked you like he was running out of time. Like putting his seed in you was the only thing keeping him sane.

You could feel it pooling inside already, every thick, hot thrust forcing it deeper. He pinned your legs back, pushing your knees to your chest, getting deeper, deeper still. You cried out his name, over and over, mind unraveling with every round.

“Look at you,” he panted, sweat dripping onto your skin. “So full, so fucking open for me. You want to be bred. Made for it.”

His second orgasm hit harder—he bit your shoulder, hands gripping your thighs like anchors as he spilled another load inside you, grinding through it, hips twitching, not stopping.

Not done.

Not even close.

He shifted you to your side, wrapping a leg over his hip, still hard inside. He fucked you slow this time—but it was worse. Deeper. Possessive. So fucking intimate you almost sobbed.

“You feel that?” he whispered against your ear, his voice like smoke and whiskey and ash. “That’s two loads. And you’re still clenching. Greedy little thing.”

You whimpered, overstimulated, fucked-out. “Haymitch—can’t—”

“Yes you can.” He pressed a hand to your belly. “Still room in there. Gonna keep going until you’re leaking down your thighs for days.”

Round three came slower. More drawn out. He kissed you through it, hands all over you, possessive and tender in the most fucked-up way. When he came again, he didn’t thrust—just pushed in deep, groaning like it hurt.

You could barely move. Could barely think. Your thighs were shaking, slick and soaked, your cunt stuffed full and twitching around him.

And still… he didn’t stop.

“Think you can give me one more?” he whispered, nipping your ear. “Just one more, baby. One more and I’ll plug you up, keep it in.”

You nodded, delirious. “Yes… fill me again…”

He chuckled darkly, and started to move.

You’d lost count of how many times he’d finished inside you.

Your body was wrecked—slick, shaking, sensitive beyond reason. Every inch of your skin buzzed, raw and tender from his hands, his mouth, his claim.

And still, Haymitch wasn’t done.

He had you straddling his lap now, thighs trembling, knees braced on either side of his hips. He sat back against the ruined headboard, sweat-soaked hair pushed off his face, his eyes locked on where you were slowly sinking back down onto him.

“You hear that?” he rasped, hands gripping your ass. “That’s you—sloshing with my cum. And you’re still taking me. Still opening up like a good little breeding whore.”

You whimpered, the filth of his voice flooding through you just as deep as his cock.

He was so thick, and you were so full. His previous loads were leaking out around his length, making a wet, obscene mess between your thighs—and he loved it. Every inch that slipped back inside sent another rush of heat spiraling through your core.

He bounced you once—hard—and you cried out, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

“Nuh-uh. No running,” he growled. “You asked for this. Said you wanted to be plugged full. So here—”

He shifted, slamming you down hard and holding you there. Buried deep. His cock twitching inside your ruined cunt.

“Now sit. Just like that,” he murmured darkly, one hand pressing down on your belly, the other wrapped tight around your throat. “Feel that? That’s all of me. All my cum. Sitting right where it belongs.”

You choked out a moan, so full you could barely breathe. Your belly was taut with pressure, your walls fluttering helplessly around him. It was too much, and not enough.

“Don’t even think about leaking, sweetheart,” he warned, thrusting up into you once, deep and brutal. “I’ll fuck it right back in. Again and again.”

“Haymitch—” your voice broke, eyes fluttering shut.

“No,” he growled. “Eyes on me. Want you to know who did this to you. Want you to remember what it feels like to be bred like you’re mine.”

He held you still, cock twitching inside you, hand firm on your lower belly like he was claiming it. Like he could will it into taking.

And then—he started to move again.

Not frantic. Not even rough this time. Possessive. Slow, deep thrusts while he kept you locked in place, each one designed to push everything back inside.

“You’re not leaking a single drop,” he whispered against your lips. “I’ll keep fucking you until your body gives in. Until it takes.”

You moaned, grinding against him, your own body betraying you with need, pulsing around him as another orgasm built—sharp and hot and aching.

“That’s it,” he hissed. “Come on my cock while I fill you again. Let me breed you so full your body has no choice.”

You shattered with a scream, and he followed—burying himself to the hilt, grinding through every pulse of his orgasm, spilling inside you for what felt like forever.

You collapsed against him, twitching, unable to move, his arms holding you tight as you dripped and leaked around him.

But still, he stayed inside.

Still plugging you full.

Because Haymitch Abernathy doesn’t just fuck.

He claims.

The light filtering in through the cracked window was soft and gray, the kind of morning that doesn’t feel real—too quiet, too still, like the world is holding its breath.

You woke up in Haymitch’s bed, your body aching in the most exquisite way. Every inch of you was sore, marked, used. Your thighs were sticky, your cunt still messy with the remnants of the night before. Three… no, four times he’d filled you. Maybe more. You couldn’t remember where one orgasm ended and the next began.

You shifted slightly, wincing at the dull, sweet ache between your legs.

“Don’t move.”

His voice came from behind you—low, rasped, rough from sleep and sex and cigarettes. A heavy arm looped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. You could feel his cock already hard again, nudging the curve of your ass.

“You’re leaking,” he murmured against your neck, his hand sliding down your stomach, fingers brushing the inside of your thigh. He found the mess there, his own cum seeping out of you slow and warm. He brought his fingers up to your lips, smearing it there, watching you with hooded eyes.

“Still fucking full,” he growled, like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen. “But not full enough.”

You whimpered, lips parting as he slipped those fingers into your mouth. You sucked instinctively, tasting salt and sweat and the raw filth of the night before.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “You like this, don’t you? Being ruined. Waking up stuffed with me.”

You nodded, unable to speak with his fingers in your mouth, your cunt clenching around nothing, aching for him again already.

“You think I’m gonna let you walk around today dripping with my cum?” he said, dragging your leg over his hip, grinding into your ass. “You think I’m gonna let a single drop go to waste?”

His voice darkened.

“No. Not happening. Gonna fuck it back in until it takes. Until you’re knocked up and glowing with it. Until this whole goddamn world sees what I did to you.”

He pushed into you from behind in one smooth stroke—your body slick, stretched, and ready, even as you gasped from the sudden stretch. He groaned deep in his chest, burying himself inside like he belonged there. And he did.

“Still so tight,” he hissed. “Still fucking mine.”

His pace was slower now—but deeper, possessive. Each thrust a silent brand. His hand moved back to your belly, pressing down to feel himself through your skin, groaning at how swollen you already were from him.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “That’s all me. You’re full of me, inside and out. And I’m not stopping until your body gives me what I want.”

You moaned, helpless against the slow, brutal rhythm. There was no escaping him. You didn’t want to.

“Better get used to waking up like this,” he murmured, mouth hot on your shoulder. “Fucked full. Plugged up. Marked.”

And with that, he thrust harder—deeper—claiming you all over again as the morning light washed over both of you.

Because Haymitch wasn’t just breeding you.

He was keeping you.

"I love you." Haymitch whispered into your neck as he held you close.

"I love you too."

Because after the end of the day, know matter where or how.

He love's you, Haymitch loves you more than anything.

You are his, you are his everything and Haymitch Abernathy was yours.

[nebulablakemurphy]

Horn Of Plenty

Summary: The Capitol sends a very special gift for Y/N and Haymitch’s son on his first birthday. Set in the Moves & Countermoves universe, can be read as a stand alone. SoTR Spoliers

Warning: SMUT 18 + ONLY, mentions of trauma

Today is a big day.

Through all the diapers and sleepless nights, they made it. One year of being parents to this perfect little boy. Haymitch is still in awe of him.

“Vanity sent clothes.” Y/N tells Haymitch, watching as he turns to her with their son in his arms. “Cameras will be here later.”

“Surprised she’s not here.”

“She’s got a show,” Y/N inches closer, enough to tickle Everest’s little belly. “High fashion waits for no one.”

The boy squeals, hiding his face in his father’s shirt.

Haymitch smiles, keeping hold of the wiggling child. “On a scale from ugly to hideous, how bad are they?”

“They’re pretty tame,” Y/N shrugs.

I love you. Haymitch has to bite his tongue to keep the words from escaping. He just can’t risk it.

————————————————————————

Y/N’s family joins them for the festivities and cake of course. Though there is only so much a one year old can do, Caesar Flickerman is hosting live from the Capitol. And they’ve sent Everest a very special gift.

“Now, we’ve sent this all the way to district twelve.” Caesar narrates, as the cameras in their living room move of their own accord. “I do hope it’s to your liking.”

“I’m sure it is, Caesar.” Haymitch says, “you know us all so well.”

Everest, in his white collared shirt and powder blue overalls, claps his hands, watching his father remove the lid of the box. The sides fall free, revealing a black rocking horse.

“Oh,” Y/N gasps. “This is beautiful!”

Haymitch wants to play his part, to smile and admire the craftsmanship, but he can’t move. He can barely breathe.

Y/N carefully seats her son on the horse, keeping hold as he begins to rock. Drawing the camera away from Haymitch, to a tight shot of the birthday boy.

‘Oh, Horn of Plenty. One Horn of Plenty for us all. And when you raise the cry, the brave shall heed the call, and we should never falther. One Horn of Plenty for us all.’

The anthem ends only to begin again.

Everest babbles, toying with the horse’s mane.

“He loves it!” Y/N rejoices, and through the camera’s speaker she can hear similar applause in the Capitol.

“Ahhaha! We are so pleased to hear that.” Caesar’s voice booms through the camera speaker. “As much as we hate to see you go, I’m afraid it’s time for our next segment.”

“Of course, we understand, Caesar.” Y/N says. “Thank you all for your generosity and for celebrating Everest’s birthday with us!” She waves. “We’ll see you soon.”

“Bye, bye.” The little boy coos.

“Bye, bye!” Caesar replies, tearfully.

The cameras power down and wheel themselves out the open door, leaving the birthday boy and his family.

“Get him off that horse.” Haymitch demands, slamming the front door closed and turning the lock.

“Why?” Y/N’s father laughs, “surely we don’t need to be so strict about bedtime. It’s my grandson’s birthday.”

“Dad,” Y/N whispers, taking Everest back into her arms. “It’s been a long day.”

“Haymitch?” Madge waves a hand in front of his glossy eyes. “Are you ok?”

“I need a minute, Maysilee.” Shit. Fuck. “Madge. I’m sorry. I meant Madge.”

Too late. Y/N’s mother bursts into tears, clutching at her head.

Madge’s face crumples, “it’s ok, Haymitch. I know you didn’t mean to.” This happens a lot, not with Haymitch, but her mother. Maysilee or Merrilee. I’m whoever you want me to be.

He wishes the earth would open up and swallow him whole.

“They took them all, they took them!”

“Melodiee, please my love.” Y/N’s father sighs, stepping around his daughters to his wife. “Where’s your medicine?”

With the commotion, Everest begins to cry.

“It’s ok,” Y/N forces a smile, looking down at her son. “You’re ok.”

Haymitch moves, as if in a trance toward his son. Oh my baby. My poor, sweet baby. What have I done? Can I spare you? He says nothing, caressing the back of Everest’s head. No, I fear, they will not let me spare you.

One might find humor in the fact that a rocking horse could cause a family to collapse; splintering apart on what should be a happy day.

The Undersees clear out, leaving only Haymitch, Y/N and Everest. Who still needs to be rocked to sleep, despite what the morning may bring.

Y/N sits with Everest in the rocking chair of his nursery. They’d hoped to wean him off of nursing, but tonight he is too restless. And Y/N is too tired to be in this chair any longer than necessary.

She hums and sways until the little hand fisted in her shirt releases. He’s out like a light.

Haymitch watches from the doorway as Y/N eases their son into his crib. Waiting until she closes the door to his room before speaking. “I took it to the other house.”

The ‘other house’ had once been hers. Now plagued with unwanted cameras and haunted horses.

She nods, before taking his face in her hands. “Haymitch, I know that after everything we’ve been through, things can seem worse or bigger than they are. It happens to me too. But if anything, Snow just wanted to rile you up. I don’t think the horse means anything.”

“We got thrown off the chariots. Louella died and I took her body to him using a horse that looked just like that.”

“I know,” Y/N nods, “I hear you.”

“Tributes are drawn by black horses in the parade while the anthem plays.” Haymitch snarls, “Snow wants him for the games.”

“Then we have eleven years to change his mind.”

“Beetee had twelve.” Haymitch’s heart is beating itself out of his chest. “We’re raising a lamb for the slaughter.”

“No,” Y/N stops him. “No we’re not.” She passes her thumb over his cheek. “We can learn from Beetee. We’re gonna play our parts, we’re gonna do whatever Snow says.”

Haymitch knows he should object, this isn’t what Y/N wants. She longs to be wild and free, to storm the Capitol, guns blazing. But he needs her, like air, to breathe. “It’s too late, Y/N. He knows.”

“He knows what?” Y/N breathes.

“That I love-” Haymitch tries to stop it, to stuff the words back down, but he can’t. “You! I love you and he knows.”

“Oh, Haymitch.”

He presses a hand to his mouth to contain the unbidden sob.

Y/N wraps her arms around him. “I love you too.”

He clings to her, as though she will slip right through his fingers. “I love-” he wants to tell her a hundred, thousand times, but the words burn, like acid in his throat.

“I know,” Y/N strokes his hair, the same color as their son’s. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”

He holds her and weeps. For his Pa, Ma and Sid. For Maysilee and Louella and Lou Lou. For Wyatt and Ampert. And for Beetee, who surely lives in unimaginable pain. For Lenore Dove, who despite her own untimely death, surely sent him an angel. “Everyone I love is dead; except for you and that little boy. Everyone I love.”

“I’m so sorry, Haymitch.” Y/N buries her face in the junction between his neck and shoulder. Kissing him and kissing him and kissing him, doing everything she can to ease his pain. “So sorry.”

Even she can’t stop it. He is broken, defeated and tired. I cannot lose you.

“We’ll be alright.” Y/N promises, “I’ll do what it takes to stay right here with you and keep Everest safe.”

He brings her impossibly closer. I cannot lose Everest. “He’s ours.”

“It’s like you’ve always said, if we make the Capitol fall in love with him, they won’t be eager to watch him fight to the death.” Y/N believes that, she has to.

She’s right, he knows she is. But he’s at the point of no return, words cannot calm him.

“Here,” Y/N snakes a hand between them to unbutton his pants. She knows it is wrong, to comfort him this way. To place a bandage over a bullet wound but she can’t stand his tears. Or the sound of his ragged breathing, cannot bear the thought of him in any kind of pain.

Haymitch helps her shuck his pants down around his ankles, knowing they stand no chance of making it to the bed.

“Ask me again.” Y/N pants, against his mouth. Gentle fingers find the waistband of her panties, forcing them to the ground.

“What?” Haymitch can’t think of anything beyond shoving himself inside her, as deep as he possibly can, on the hallway floor.

“It’s real,” Y/N gasps, welcoming the feel of his length stretching her. “Ask me again.”

“I wanted to do something special.” Not now, within an inch of losing his mind.

“This is special,” Y/N assures him. “Ask me again, I want to be your wife.” If we’re running out of time…I want to be your wife.

“Marry me.” Haymitch says, tugging at her bottom lip with his teeth. “Marry me and you’ll never be alone. You’ll be mine and I’ll be yours. I want to be your husband.” He admits, “I want you to be my wife. Marry me.”

“Yes.” Y/N nods.

Haymitch kisses the side of her face, the corner of her mouth, relishing her little whimpers. Rutting against her harder, faster, until he feels the familiar flutter of her walls around him. Milking him dry.

Y/N sighs contently as Haymitch’s arms give out and he rests his full weight against her.

“I wanna do a toasting.” Haymitch tells her.

Y/N yawns. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, angel,” he smiles, “tomorrow.”

————————————————————————

Haymitch wakes to the sound of Everest fussing in his crib. The noise used to send him sprinting from bed, to see what danger had befallen his son, but he knows better now.

“Sometimes babies cry, Haymitch.” Y/N reminds him, “he’s alright. Just wants a clean diaper and milk. Or to be held for a while; he’ll calm right down.”

Haymitch sits up, stretching both arms above his head. Y/N is sound asleep beside him. He presses a kiss to her head before padding down to their son’s room.

Everest leans against the pristine, white slats of his crib. Peeking out to see who’s come to his rescue. “Dada.”

Haymitch grins. “Good morning.”

Everest squeals as he’s lifted from the confines of his bed.

“Well, kid, I’ve got bad news.”

Everest babbles, shaking about the rattle laid beside him on the changing table.

Haymitch tosses the soiled diaper into the waste basket. “Your mama is still sleeping and we need eggs to make breakfast.”

“Mamamamama.”

“Which means we have to raid one of those wild goose nests outback.”

Everest only smiles as his father dresses him for the day.

“They don’t like me very much, so I’m hoping to distract them with your cuteness.” Haymitch tells him. “Not sure how well it’ll work, given that you look like me and all, but it’s worth a shot.”

[onlybeeewrites]

A Change of Plans

Request: hi!! could i request a oneshot for haymitch where theyre already in a relationship, takes place during the 75th hunger games and shes reaped, reader is very similar to annie cresta - soft spoken, shy, kind but emotionally fragile due to past trauma - maybe haymitch and katniss’s alliance negotiations are more desperate because he promised to get her out of the games? please and thank you!!

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!reader 

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: mentions of PTSD, spoilers for Catching Fire 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The train hummed beneath them—too smooth, too quiet—like it had no business carrying something as ugly as death. Haymitch sat stiffly in his usual seat, a glass in hand he hadn’t touched. For once, the burn of liquor wasn’t enough. Not for this.

The reaping was over.

For District 12, at least.

Katniss and Peeta were reaped.

Well—he was. Technically.

Peeta volunteered, though it wasn’t like Haymitch could do much to stop him. Not when the Capitol stacked the deck so neatly, not when Snow already knew every move they’d make before they made it.

It was all exactly what he feared.

And somehow worse.

Because it wasn’t just Katniss and Peeta.

It was who else had been chosen.

The third Quarter Quell.

Where the victors themselves became the tributes.

A punishment wrapped in a celebration.

He hadn’t seen her yet. Hadn’t let himself imagine it. Wouldn’t allow her face to take shape in his mind—not until he had to. He thought he could delay it. Maybe she wouldn’t be reaped. Maybe, for once, the odds would lean in their favor.

Now, the screen played the recaps—district by district. A slow, cruel countdown. Effie had turned the volume up, her voice unnaturally chipper when she said they should “know who we’re up against.”

Peeta sat with his elbows on his knees, eyes fixed. Katniss sat rigid beside him, barely breathing.

A notepad lay in Peeta’s lap, filled with frantic notes and rough sketches. Names circled, others crossed out, arrows and question marks scribbled into the margins. He wrote based on Haymitch’s earlier comments—strategy, personalities, strengths. He wanted to be ready. Wanted to protect her.

They didn’t know how impossible that would be.

Haymitch sat bracing himself. His hands were already trembling, though he hadn’t taken a sip. He didn’t look at the others. Didn’t dare.

District 8.

The screen flickered.

There she was.

Standing alone on the platform, washed in that horrible blue-white Capitol lighting that made everyone look a little more ghost than human. Her hands were folded in front of her, fingers white at the knuckles. Her shoulders hunched slightly, like she was trying to make herself disappear into herself.

Just her and one other female tribute.

She hadn’t changed much. Maybe a few more lines around her eyes, a new softness in her features. But the essence of her remained untouched. The gentleness. The quiet strength. The kindness.

Even now, she looked soft.

Everything the arena was not.

Katniss inhaled sharply beside him. “Oh.”

Effie’s hand fluttered up to her mouth, her expression crumbling. “Oh no…”

Haymitch didn’t look at them. Didn’t acknowledge anything but the screen. His heart thudded slow and sick in his chest, and his fingers curled tight around the glass he still hadn’t touched.

Y/N stepped forward when they called her name. Her voice was low, trembling—barely above a whisper. But she walked. Unflinching. No dramatics. No sobs. Just the quiet dignity she always carried, like a thread sewn into her very bones.

She didn’t look surprised.

She didn’t cry.

That was her.

Always braver than anyone realized.

Braver than him.

“Won’t the other volunteer for her? She’s…” Peeta’s voice trailed off, uncertain, trying to say the right thing. “She’s not the most violent, is she?”

Haymitch’s jaw clenched. “I doubt it,” he said tightly. “The other female victor, Cecilia. Sweet woman. But she’s got three kids. If she wasn’t picked, she wouldn’t volunteer.”

Katniss was watching him now, not the screen. Her voice dropped into something softer than he’d ever heard it. “You didn’t think they’d pick her.”

“No,” he said flatly. “But then again…” He raised the glass, whiskey burning his throat. “Sometimes the odds are leaned into our favor.”

He tasted bitterness more than alcohol.

Because he knew.

He knew Snow did this on purpose.

Picked this Quarter Quell theme.

Picked Katniss.

Picked her.

This wasn’t justice. It wasn’t random. It was Snow’s hand around his throat, squeezing harder every time Haymitch dared to hope for something better. Dared to love something again.

Haymitch leaned forward and set the glass down, scrubbing his hands over his face like he could erase the image burned into the back of his eyelids—his wife, his wife, standing stiffly as Peacekeepers took her from the stage. They cut the footage just before she looked back.

But he didn’t need to see it.

He knew that look.

He’d seen it before.

The first time she was reaped, before they’d ever met.

Before she won.

Before he ever dared to let someone in again.

He had spent years protecting her in the only way he knew how—keeping her name quiet, keeping her out of the Capitol’s grasp, tucked away in the shadows of District 8. She had always felt too good for this world. Too soft for it. But she’d survived it once.

Her condition, her fragility, her gentle demeanor—none of it ever made her weak. It just made her precious. To him.

Now they were throwing her back into the fire.

“Haymitch,” Effie said gently. Her voice had lost all its Capitol shine. “I am… so terribly sorry.”

He didn’t answer. What was there to say?

There was no plan. No maneuver. No clever twist of words that could undo this.

All he could see was her. That quiet smile she gave him when she mended his clothes. The way she held his hand in bed when the nights were too dark. The smell of her hair. The small kiss to his wrist when she thought he was asleep. Her voice saying his name like it meant something.

Gone.

No.

Not gone.

Still within reach.

The plan was still in motion. The one he’d built with Plutarch piece by piece. But now… now it needed to be reshaped. Bent to save her.

He stood abruptly. His voice was rough, slurred at the edges, but solid where it counted. “She’s not dying in that arena.”

“Haymitch—” Peeta started, knowing that at the end, only one of them could get out. There was no way they’d let them get away with it a second year. 

He turned, eyes burning. “I mean it. I don’t care what it takes. If we’re—” He stopped himself. Too many ears. Too many cameras. He gritted his teeth.

Katniss nodded slowly, picking up what he was putting down. “We’ll watch her back. But you know how this works. Especially now. Only one can make it out.”

Only one.

That’s what the Capitol wanted them to believe.

But Katniss and Peeta didn’t know what he did.

Didn’t know Beetee’s plan.

Plutarch’s plan.

Didn’t know the ship hovering beyond the clouds that would be ready for when the time comes.

Didn’t know he’d already laid the groundwork to get her out. He just needed to get the other Victors on board.

He just had to keep Katniss alive long enough to make it happen.

For the rebellion to happen.

But now he had another factor to worry about. His wife was now stuck in the games. Haymitch needed to figure out a way to keep her safe. Sponsors would only do so much, and Cecelia would ensure you were looked after. The capital loved you and all the clothes you made. A Capital favorite, especially to all the designers like Cinna.

Maybe Finnick would do. He could be trusted.

Or Johanna. She liked Y/N. Had a soft spot for her, even if she’d never admit it.

It could work.

It had to.

Effie dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “She’s one of the good ones,” she whispered. “Always has been.”

Haymitch didn’t reply.

He couldn’t.

He turned and left, boots heavy against the floor as he crossed the car to his compartment. Once the door slid shut, he walked to the window and leaned a hand against it. The tracks blurred by below, the sky painted in ash and dying light.

Somewhere out there, she was being powdered, painted, packaged for the cameras. Being forced into a dress she didn’t want. Touched by hands that didn’t know her. Made to smile through the terror.

Somewhere, she was alone.

And he was here.

But not for long.

This time, he wouldn’t watch from the sidelines.

This time, if the world wanted war—they’d get it.

Because no one was taking her from him again.

Not without burning for it.

[nebulaafterdark]

Exile (Part 6)

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

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

SotR SPOILERS

Part 5

“Y/N’s become too Capitol for the districts, she’s losing her pull there.” Anyone with eyes can see that’s been Snow’s plan all along. Sever her ties with the people.

“How do we fix that?” Haymitch wonders.

“We don’t,” Plutarch decides. “We let her play her hand and wait.”

“How long?” How many recordings? How many tributes? How many of her tears will waiting cost?

Plutarch lifts a shoulder. “Your guess is as good as mine. But when the time comes, she’s our in with the Capitol.”

This news does subsequently nothing to make Haymitch feel better. If anything he feels worse. Downing the rest of Plutarch’s prized liquor bottle before returning to the tribute center. They won’t be provided passage home until the games are over.

The penthouse is quiet now, without Maximus and Denali. Y/N can’t cry anymore about it, not now. She’s had one too many glasses of champagne. Making quick work of the buttons on Haymitch’s shirt, as the door of their suite closes behind them.

Alcohol is nice, drugs are better, but nothing brings the temporary tidal wave of euphoria like Haymitch. His mouth pressed to hers, reducing her brain to mush.

Haymitch rests his hand over hers. “You ok?”

“Not really,” Y/N admits. “Need something to take the edge off.”

“I can get you-”

“You,” she breathes, “I just want you.”

Haymitch tightens his hold on her. I want you too. More than I want to want anything.

Her dress joins his shirt and then his pants, until they’re laid bare. Not district, nor Capitol. Perhaps because they are meant to be neither; they belong to each other.

Nothing exists outside of the gentle rocking of his hips. Nothing to do but breathe him in.

Y/N’s fingers tangle in his hair, drawing him closer.

————————————————————————

They aren’t made to stay past the announcement of Cashmere’s victory. The tribute’s caskets are loaded onto the train and they’re off to twelve.

“Do they have family?” Haymitch asks.

“No.”

“Not even extended? No aunts or uncles?”

“I don’t know, Haymitch.” Y/N sighs. “They’d been going it alone all their lives, if they had someone, I’m sure they would’ve been there.”

Haymitch nods.

“I can ask Cherry and Tucker if they have room.” Tyson’s parents have a little cemetery outback, couldn’t bear to be parted from their son. A few others from the seam take up residence in the spaces beside him now.

Again he nods, before tipping his empty glass upside down and rising to his feet. “I’ll be in the bar car if you need me.”

Y/N lowers her gaze, waiting until the door slides closed behind him to stand. She is headed elsewhere, to the car where two coffins rest, side by side. Collapsing to her knees in the small space between them and resting a hand over each.

Her gut tells her that under her right palm lies Denali, the spitfire of a girl who showed up the careers. And beneath her right is the little boy who clung to her in the elevator. Maximus. But Y/N has not the want nor will to push back the lids and prove her theory.

She remains there, holding vigil until her legs ache. Shifting position enough to lie down and cry herself to sleep.

Once he’s nice and wasted Haymitch stumbles down to the train car farthest from their sleeping quarters. The sight of Y/N’s feet poking out from between the caskets is an unwelcome reminder that this is standard practice for her.

He crouches down, giving her leg a little shake.

“Haymitch?” Y/N lets out a sleepy sigh.

“Come to bed, angel.”

“I don’t wanna leave them.”

“I know,” Haymitch breathes.

“You can go, it’s ok.” She won’t be alone.

“I’ll stay,” though the notion is still foreign to him.

————————————————————————

Y/N’s first stop after departing the train station is the Carrell’s front door. Her district partner, Tyson, had taken care to list off each of his siblings favorite snacks, then his Ma and Pa. Y/N takes equal care to make sure she never comes to them empty handed.

His parents, Cherry and Tucker, embrace her with open arms. Growing together through their collective loss.

Today is different. His siblings are sent to their rooms and Y/N finds herself strapped to the dining room chair.

“What are you doing?” She laughs. Surely this is a joke of some sort.

“What are you doing?” Tyson’s father bites out.

“I brought you cinnamon rolls.” Y/N stammers, “you don’t like them anymore?”

“Don’t do that.” Cherry snaps.

“Do what?” Y/N is starting to panic now, struggling at the rope binding her hands behind her back.

“Act like you’re the same. Nothin’ about you is the same.” The woman says. “You stopped goin’ to the hob, stopped comin’ to see us. Married a man who wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire, started chummin’ it up with those freaks in the Capitol.”

Tucker shakes his head.

“Uh, uh, not my girl.” Cherry presses on, “I started askin’ around, tryin’ to make sense of what I was seein’. Turns out, somethin’ like this happened before. With the McCoy’s girl.”

“What are you-”

“They took that baby for the games, but she didn’t make it that far. Those animals did somethin’ to her, replaced her with somebody who had a bug in her ear. Didn’t fool her parents none.”

“Like a body double?” Y/N asks.

“The Callow boy died a while before she did and didn’t smell half as foul when he got home.” Tucker recounts.

“I don’t understand.”

“She was long gone before anybody knew and that was over a decade ago.” Cherry murmurs, “imagine how good they coulda got at passin’ people off for somebody else in fourteen years.”

“You think I’m someone else?” Y/N frowns, “a body double from the Capitol?”

“Maybe not a double, maybe they did somethin’ to you.”

“Nothing like you think.” Y/N assures them.

“I love you like my own, so I’m only gonna ask you once.” Tucker drawls, “did they put something in your head?”

“No,” Y/N shakes her head. “If you have questions about what happened to the girl in the Capitol during the Quarter Quell, Haymitch might know.”

“I don’t trust Haymitch any further than I can throw him,” Tucker runs a hand over his grief stricken face. “And right now I’m not even sure I can trust you.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“Then tell us what happened. And it better make a hell of a lot more sense than what you’ve been saying, little girl.”

Y/N pauses, collecting herself. “Snow was going to sell me to the highest bidder. Haymitch made him a deal.”

“Why would President Snow give a damn if you married him or not?” It doesn’t make any sense.

Y/N tells her. “A victor has never married a victor before, the curiosity was there. Snow just took advantage of it, he recorded us together and sold that instead. Threatened my family, if I didn’t perform, I’m willing to bet that includes you too… So I performed.”

The room is silent.

“It’s up to you, believe me or don’t. I came here to make sure you were ok and to ask if I could bury my kids in your backyard.” No secret Capitol agenda.

“Tell us something only you would know.” Tyson’s father demands, wanting to believe her but needing to be sure.

“The first flower I left for Tyson was a dandelion. When it died, I replaced it with a daisy, and a bluebell after that.”

This is Y/N, as best they’ll ever be able to tell.

“Should I keep going?”

Cherry cuts the rope around Y/N’s wrists. “Why do you want to bury them here?”

“They didn’t have a family before, I thought it might be nice for them to have one now.” Y/N massages the blood back into her hands.

Tyson’s mother joins his father, in front of the younger woman. “Sorry about all that.”

“It’s fine.” Y/N sighs, “no one has ever gone to the trouble of tying me up for an intervention before. You guys must really love me.”

“You do what you gotta, from now on Ma and Pa are with you.” You’re the closest thing we’ve got to our boy.

Y/N thanks them, allowing them to hold her for as long as it suits them. The same way she always has.

Eventually she finds her way back home, back to Haymitch and the house in Victor’s Village. He’s the only one who understands her now.

“What’d they say about the kids?” Haymitch wonders.

“They said yes.”

“You were gone a while.”

“They tied me to a chair for interrogation.” Y/N tells him.

What in the hell? “You wanna talk about it?”

“Yeah, actually. They thought I was a Capitol body double or that I had a bug in my head.”

Oh.

Part 7

Taglist: @spideysimpossiblegirl @ancientbeing10 @1-800-styles @l3xi3luv @lam-ila @druby2011-blog @liballer @readinginthe-am @rae-11 @champomiel @mariechristine00 @solacestyles @inky-sun @dadbodfanatic-x @sandorcleganeslutt @indigoashh @mustainelove @darkened-writer @ch3rrybutterfly @boredomquest @theladyofmanyfandomsofficial @kisskittenn @kwllakka @feeblemindedfool @oopsieikilledan @that-one-fangirl69 @just-levyy @thisisthepartwhereishutup @alixxhere @quackitys-amor @pepelachanel @lurkingsparrow @faithalsip09 @cwallace02sblog @animaloversammy @peachiesnsilk @libbyaller @juiceboxfullofslime @libra-2409

[msmk11]

a hunger games fic where there’s tension between reader and haymitch but he feels conflicted because of the age gap i don’t know lots of pining and angst so i can go insane

Drunk on You

Haymitch Abernathy x fem!reader

WC: 4k

CW: Drinking/being drunk; mentions of death and blood; age gap (legal and consensual- reader is 21)

A/n: Thank you for the request!! I'm so sorry this took so long. I have been in a writing rut and also very busy, but I hope you enjoy this! I know I sure did.

You’d been lucky enough to avoid mentoring the first two years after your games- your first year by claiming insanity and the second merely because of the abundance of victors in your district. But the Capitol, and Snow, were ravenous for the return of their Angel- the sweet, innocent girl they painted you to be despite the blood they knew was on your hands.

And while the nightmares of your games were as fresh in your mind as the day they started, you persisted nonetheless. You couldn’t afford to let anyone else die at your hands, even if the cost to you was great. 

So the day of the reaping you stood by Mags’ side- four’s other mentor this year- as you watched kids be chosen to be sent off to their deaths like pigs for slaughter. 

The girl, someone you barely recognized but knew you’d gone to school with, looked strong. Like a potential competitor. She was tall enough, fairly lean, and the definition in her arms was obvious. Her age- eighteen- was a benefit too.

Whatever her name was (you’d been too anxious to pay attention), would be your mentee this year while Mags took the boy. 

The boy.

Finnick Odair. 

And while the age difference between you two was large- almost 7 years exactly- you guys were close. Like sibling-level close. It took everything in your power to not let the tears brimming at your waterline spill. 

The aftermath was a flurry of rushed goodbyes, heated whispers, and your begging Mags to just help you make it through the games. 

Though every instinct screamed at you to put all your efforts into Finnick’s survival, your mind knew it wasn’t the right thing to do. The girl, your mentee, may not have meant something to you, but she certainly meant something to someone. And she deserved life just as much as Finnick. 

It didn’t make it any easier though. 

And in the nights, when the nightmares and fears came creeping in, you turned to drink. 

That’s how you met Haymitch.

Haymitch Abernathy. Blonde, 31, borderline alcoholic, victor of the second quarter quell. And your new drinking buddy. 

Apparently. 

When you get to the bar in the Tribute Center the first night it’s totally empty except for a few Capitol stragglers giggling in a corner booth. 

You take a seat at the actual bar and order from the bartender- a brunette avox who couldn’t be much older than you. You’re sure to be extra polite as you accept your drink and take a sip of the strong concoction. It burns and you know it’ll fuck you up just enough to take the sting off the emotions squeezing your heart. 

“Drinking alone? Seem a bit young to be doing that, sweetheart,” a voice interrupts from beside you.

You turn to find Haymitch Abernathy standing next to you, his appearance a little disheveled, but still obviously very handsome. 

“Not sure you’re the one to be making judgements, Abernathy. You even sober right now?”

He smirks at you a little, “only buzzed for now. Care for some company?”

You scan the blonde suspiciously and decide he’s basically harmless, “fine, but you buy the next round.”

The District 12 victor lets out a chuckle and slides onto a stool beside you, “thought you had more money than you knew what to do with, four.”

“So do you,” you remind him with a shake of your head, “anyhow, it’s not about the money. It’s about the principle. You’re supposed to be a gentleman.”

Haymitch doesn’t reward you with an answer, instead turning to the bartender and ordering two glasses of whiskey. 

“What brings you to the bar so early in the games?”

“Wanted to fully reacquaint myself with the tribute center,” you huff dryly, “I’ve missed it sooooo dearly.”

“You’ll get used to it pretty damn fast. Especially now that the Capitol’s got its claws back on you, you won’t be able to escape it.”

He takes a sip of his drink thoughtfully, “I mean, their angel has made her return.”

A scoff escapes you in spite of yourself and Haymitch smirks. 

“What would they think if they knew you were getting wasted with the Capitol’s most disappointing victor? Your reputation would be ruined.”

“Then maybe I should stick around you a little longer, Twelve. Let some of your bad energy rub off on me. Maybe even have them catch me leaving your room.”

Haymitch chokes on his drink and you smirk. 

“What?! Catch you leaving my room like, like we?”

“Had sex,” you tease, “goodness Abernathy, I didn’t pin you for a prude.”

He rolls his eyes at you and huffs cockily, “me, a prude? Babydoll back where I come from I have a reputation. I’m just shocked that the Capitol’s perfect little angel could be so naughty.”

It’s your turn to choke when he sends you a wink, and you try to cover it with a cough. 

“Looks can be deceiving, Abernathy.”

***** 

You’re not sure if it’s the booze or the blaring music that’s giving you a headache. Or maybe it’s the relentless stares and unwanted approaches by dimwitted Capitol folks. Regardless, you want to be anywhere but here right about now. 

A party. Celebrating. The arrival of tributes. The arrival of doomed children.

It makes you sick. 

You forget someone is yapping away in your ear until they’re suddenly interrupted by your savior. 

Haymitch. 

“I’m sure the story you’re telling is lovely, really, but unfortunately we’re being pulled away for important mentor business,” he shares calmly, barely suppressing a smirk. 

“Oh, oh. Yes, of course,” the blue-haired person before you chatters, “I’ll have to catch you another time.”

Haymitch, thankfully, is already pulling you away before they can make you answer.

The blonde pulls you through the crowd, hands intertwined, and you can’t help but shiver. You figure it must be the evening chill in the air. 

You seem to be walking forever, further and further away from the party until the voices and music are a faint hum. He’s hidden the two of you away in one of the President’s many flourishing gardens. One that, surprisingly, doesn’t have a rose in sight. 

When Haymitch finally comes to a halt you look at him and smile, eyes darting between his face and your joined hands, “what was all that for?”

He looks at you disbelievingly, “I was saving you.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him, “who said I needed saving?”

“The poor glass in your hand that you nearly squeezed to death.”

You once over the glass full of some colorful drink in your hand and shrug noncommittally, throwing it back and then setting the empty glass on the wall. 

“I think you just wanted time alone with me, Abernathy. Seems like an awfully convoluted plan….showing up to the Capitol party, stealing me away so dramatically….”

He releases your hand and leans back against the wall, “don’t flatter yourself. I’m here for the free booze. I only brought you here out of the goodness of my heart.”

A scoff escapes you and you roll your eyes. 

“Anyhow, you owe me now- for saving you. And for missing out on free drinks because of it.”

“Let me guess, with more booze?”

“How else?”

“I don’t know… a meal, a simple favor…. My friendship?”

Haymitch winces and taked a large gulp of his drink, “don’t think the last would be much of a reward.”

You go to slap his arm but he stops you, his hand grabbing yours.

“You’ve got wicked fast reflexes,” you choke out, trying to suppress the gasp that escapes your lips.

“I’m a victor, remember?”

When you look up at him, his smile seems to briefly vanish, replaced with something much darker. 

You take his drink and finish it while squeezing his other hand. 

*****

“You clean up nice.”

Haymitch looks more than disgruntled to be stuffed into a fancy suit and you can barely suppress your laughter. 

“Shut up,” he grumbles under his breath. 

It reeks of booze. 

“What? I’m just saying it’s nice that you’ve changed up the homeless look.”

The blonde eyes you with a glare, “And I see they’ve stuffed you into another ridiculous costume.”

Haymitch is right. You do look ridiculous, and you’re not even the one on stage tonight. The white, feathery dress made for you was certainly intended to represent your angel persona. You think you look more like a white duck. 

“I suppose it’s better than usual,” you scoff, flattening out a few ruffled feathers, “though it itches like crazy.”

You begin to fidget with your dress again as the group of mentors slowly gather in their assigned seats near the front of the auditorium. The shrill voices of an excited audience echo loudly throughout the room as you step inside. You prepare for the stares and whispers, donning your mask and armor bravely.

Still, your hands shake. Your body’s thrown back in time to your games. You can remember clear as day standing up on that stage as Cesar talked and prodded, guiding you right into the role that had already been decided. 

Sweet. Innocent. Lovely. An angel. 

You’d fallen for the trap, mistaking the net for a lifeboat.

And had you ever really escaped it? 

The knots in your stomach are answer enough, and the seat soon before you is a welcome reassurance for your wobbly legs. 

Somehow, you’ve ended up between Mags and Haymitch. The former smiles at you warmly, nodding in a way that is inexplicably reassuring. Deep down, you know that she’s telling you that Finnick will be okay. That you’ll be okay. 

And when a hand lands on your knee, you’re doubly reassured. 

“Stop tapping your foot, it’s even making me anxious,” Haymitch grumbles. 

You still, turning to look at him apologetically. 

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just… weird being back.  I feel like I’m back in my own games, being in this room again. I hate it.”

Haymitch shifts a little and you see him reveal a small golden flask in his hand. 

“Want a drink?”

As tempting as it sounds, you shake your head, “I think I’d puke if I drank. And I want to be present anyway. Ready for anything.”

Your eyes flit to his hand still on your knee and you recall the pleasing warmth as he held yours those few weeks ago. Carefully, you reach out and intertwine your fingers, resting your clasped hands between you. At first he stiffens, and you think he’s going to pull away. But then, he doesn’t. 

And the flask disappears into his pocket, unused. 

*****

The blare of the horn through the speakers nearly sends you into a meltdown on the spot. It feels so deeply real to you, even though you’re miles away from the games. Your eyes are trained on your tribute as she sprints forward towards the cornucopia, and towards her potential death. Still, she’s technically a career, so you have hope that she’ll survive the bloodbath. 

Your eyes stray to Finnick too and your stomach rumbles in worry. But you know that he’s strong and determined, so you try to relax. 

Like usual, the bloodbath is ruthless and you can barely stomach it. It’s worse too because you have a stake in the outcome. Not just your own life or strangers’ lives, but someone you’ve trained, someone you care about. 

It doesn’t register with you that the death of strangers might actually affect you more than you realize. In particular, the two tributes from twelve. They’re struck down quickly, as they often are, and your heart twists. While the death of children is certainly part of the cause, it’s the image of Haymitch that really pains you. Another year, another loss, and you wonder how he bears it. You suppose he doesn’t. 

Hence, the booze. 

Once the initial craziness of the bloodbath calms down and you’re sure that both your tribute and Finnick are safe, you go on a hunt for Haymitch. 

It doesn’t take you long if you follow the trail of beer.

Not literally, of course, but the bar is certainly the right place to start. Haymitch is slumped over on a stool and your heart breaks a little. 

“Drinking alone?” you say quietly. 

The blonde looks at you unimpressed and you’re immediately taken aback by the pain swimming behind his eyes. 

“Care if I join you?”

He hums noncommittally and you don’t take that as an outward no. After you take a seat you order a drink and sip silently for a few moments. 

“I’m sorry about your tributes.”

Haymitch shrugs, “I knew they were never gonna make it.”

“But it can still hurt,” you remind him. 

Haymitch scoffs a little, “I don’t care. I barely knew the kids.”

You study his face and can tell that he actually does. Of course, you don’t say that. Instead, you reach out and grab his hand. This time, he doesn’t even flinch as he grips yours back. 

“Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

You drag him along to the fourth floor suite and bring him inside. 

“I’ve entered enemy territory,” the blonde says gruffly.

You smirk at him and hold up a bottle of whiskey, “what about now?”

He smiles a little and you pour a drink for each of you before settling on the couch next to him so that your knee is touching his thigh- so you’re fully facing him. 

“You know, you don’t have to pretend to be strong,” you tell him softly. 

“I’m not pretending, I’m fine.”

Haymitch turns his head away and you hear a small sniffle. 

“Sweetheart,” you coo.

You grab his chin and gently turn his face towards you. He looks embarrassed and teary eyed and you stroke your thumb over his cheek. Haymitch’s eyes flutter shut and you think it’s a rather pretty sight. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper very softly. 

When Haymitch opens his eyes you’re inches apart, and your heart stutters in your chest. 

You both lean slightly closer, your breaths mingling. 

“Haymitch…”

He abruptly pulls back. 

“I think I need another drink.”

*****

You suppose you’re glad it was quick. Hopefully pretty painless. No chance to be afraid or to bleed out slowly. 

But it also happened so fast. One second your tribute was breathing, and now she’s gone. You’d had such high hopes for her, and now she was dead. Was it your fault? 

Was there something you could’ve done to warn her? To prepare her better? 

You feel even more guilty because you’re sort of relieved that she’s dead. Not because you wanted her to die, but because it means Finnick is one step closer to getting out of the arena. Back home to District Four where he is relatively safe- or at least in your dome of protection. 

When the guilt subsides, it’s replaced by numbness. That’s all you feel. 

You understand now why Haymitch drinks. It provides some semblance of warmth when all you feel inside is coldness and emptiness. 

Knocking. You hear knocking. 

You stumble to the door, bottle in hand, and there he stands.

“Haymitch!”

You lunge towards him and he catches you, gripping your waist firmly. If you were sober, you would’ve been able to suppress the shudder that runs through your body from his touch. 

“Want a drink?” you slur, your boozy breath blowing in his face. 

He shakes his head at you and you shrug, “more for me then.” 

You lift the bottle neck to your mouth but he stops you, gripping your wrist gently.

“I think you’ve had enough, sweetheart.”

A loud laugh escapes your lips and Haymitch shushes you, shuffling the both of you inside and closing the door, “What’s so funny?”

“It’s just funny- you telling me I’ve had too much to drink. Hilaaaaarrious!”

“Well I have a better tolerance.”

You shuffle back and topple over the couch arm, sending Haymitch down on top of you.

“Oooooops… sorrrrryyyyy” you giggle. 

The blonde pushes himself up off of you and sets the bottle down on the side table.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Haymitch asks softly, more kind than you’ve ever heard him before. 

You sober up a little at the question and scoff, “Of course I’m not fine. My tribute just bled out on

television in front of millions of people.”

“I-I’m sorry,” he mutters gruffly.

“Why? What was it you said? You barely even knew your tributes…It’s not like I did either. Why should I care? Or be torn up?”

“Because you’re a better person than me,” Haymitch adds gently, “Because you wear your heart on your sleeve and care so deeply about people.”

He grips your knee and smiles at you sadly. 

“Well I’m done with caring,” you slur, “It only hurts more. I like your way- drink yourself to death.”

You lunge towards the bottle behind him and he reaches out, stopping you again by grabbing your hips and pulling you against him. Surprisingly, he doesn’t let go when he pulls you away from the bottle. Instead, he pulls you into his chest, hugging you. 

“What’re you doing?” you mumble into his chest.

“Giving you a hug, sweetheart.”

“Why?”

He scoffs exasperatedly, “I can stop.”

“NONONO don’t! Don’t.”

You shift back a little to look him in the eyes, “It’s… nice. You’re…nice.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever called me nice before.”

You look at the blonde softly, infatuated by his face- the stubble across his chin, his piercing eyes, his lips…

By some unknown force, you’re pulled to his lips. You reach out and close your eyes, pressing your lips to his. For a moment, he reciprocates, his mouth melting against yours. But then he pulls away, “Stop, stop. You’re drunk.”

“So? You’re always drunk and I don’t stop you from doing things you want,” you remind him.

“I don’t- you’re. Even then, it doesn’t matter. You’re too young and I-”

Haymitch stands abruptly and leaves, abandoning you on the couch, alone. 

*****

Finnick’s return to the Capitol should be more joyous than you currently feel. You’re beyond relieved that he’s back and safe, within arms reach. In fact, you haven’t let him out of your sight in days and you think he’s starting to get annoyed by you. 

Still, something continues to burden your mind or, rather, someone. 

You haven’t seen Haymitch since you drunkenly tried to kiss him a few days ago. Though you were incredibly wasted, his words still ring in your mind clear as day- “you’re too young.”

It’s more painful than flat out rejection, really. Him not having feelings is one thing, but the knowledge that he potentially does and still won’t let you in hurts much more. What-ifs haunt you constantly, and the memory of the look on his face when he pulled away slowly rips your heart to shreds. 

Now there’s only an evening left until you’re set to return home to District Four, only one night until you won’t see Haymitch again until…well you’re not sure how long it will be. 

“You know, I’m the one that should be moping about,” a voice says.

You look up to see Finnick staring at you from the doorway, a knowing look on his face.

“I’m not moping…I’m just tired,” you say.

It is true, but so is Finnick’s statement. Not that you’ll tell him that. 

He quirks an eyebrow at you and walks into the room, plopping down on your bed, “Such a bullshit response. Come up with a better excuse if you’re going to lie.”

“I’m not lying I-”

You shut up as he looks at you unimpressed. 

“Come on, I can read you like a book. What’s wrong?”

You sigh and look down at your hands, fidgeting with your fingers. 

“Nothing I- I kissed Haymitch,” you murmur.

“What’d you say? I can barely hear you.”

“I kissed Haymitch,” you say more boldly. 

Finnick’s eyes widen, and it would be comical if it were any other situation, “Abernathy? You kissed Haymitch Abernathy?”

“Yes, Abernathy. Is there any other Haymitch?”

Finnick shakes his head in disbelief, “I owe Mags five dollars.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mags told me she thought you two liked each other. But I didn’t believe her, so we bet on it. Guess I can’t be that mad though.”

“Well it doesn’t matter, we’re not together or anything.”

Finnick looks at you intently, “why not?”

You sigh and pause for a moment, “Because he said I was too young.”

“That’s such bullshit,” the blonde scoffs, “you’re only like, what, ten years younger? Anyhow, you’re an adult who can make her own decisions.”

You shrug your shoulders and sigh, “I just wish I never would’ve done anything. I was drunk and stupid and now he won’t talk to me.”

A pillow gets thrown at your face and you wince, scowling at Finnick, “what was that for?”

“Drunk you was smarter than sober you. She acted on her feelings. Now you’re just sitting around moping.”

“I-”

Finnick looks at you seriously, “Don’t waste your chance. We both know life is too short to have regrets.”

You stand up quickly and kiss Finnick on the cheek, “when did you get so smart little bro?”

He only rolls his eyes at your endearment and shoves you out the door.

Your hand shakes as you hold it up to the twelfth floor door. It’s ridiculous, really, how you’re more nervous to confess your feelings than you were to fight in the games. 

You take a deep breath and finally knock stiffly. 

There’s momentary silence and you think maybe Haymitch is asleep or not there. But then you hear shuffling from the other side and the door is yanked open- “Wha-?”

Haymitch freezes at the sight of you, his likely nasty reply hanging off of his lips. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks more calmly.

“I-I came to apologize.”

Then, you shake your head, “that’s a lie. I’m not here to apologize because I’m not sorry for what I did… for kissing you. I’m only sorry you left too soon and I was too drunk for us to talk about it.”

Haymitch stands in the doorway still and only stares at you dumbfounded.

“Can-can I come in?”

Finally the blonde nods and steps aside, welcoming you into his space. It’s slightly messy and you suppose he hasn’t left the suite in days, not that you blame him or mind. 

You find a seat on the couch, comfortably separate from Haymitch on the other end. 

“Haymitch-”

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts. 

“What?”

“I’m sorry. For walking out on you. It wasn’t the right thing to do. I-I panicked and you were drunk and…and I haven’t felt anything like that in a long time.”

You stare at him softly and your heart beats in your chest, “So you did feel something.”

Haymitch runs his hand through his hair exasperatedly, “Fuck, of course I did. I mean, you’re smart, funny, and beautiful, how could I not?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks and you look down at your hands awkwardly… “but you think I’m too young. You said that.”

He sighs, “I-I did. And I meant it. I still do. You’re young, you still have a life to live. You deserve to be with someone young and put together and better…”

You scoff gently, “Did you ever think to ask me what I think I deserve? Why do you get to decide for me?” 

Haymitch’s mouth opens and closes silently like a fish.

“Maybe what I want- maybe what I deserve- is a kind, handsome guy who might be a little rough around the edges, but who is gooey and sweet on the inside. What then?”

“But I’m a drunk and fucked up and…”

You reach out and grip his hand tightly, “I don’t think I’ve seen you touch a drink in days. And also, look who you’re talking to. I don’t exactly handle my trauma well either. I’m a victor too, remember?”

You shuffle closer to him, “Please don’t push me away, please-”

Before you can finish your response you’re cut off as Haymitch moves forward and pulls you into him, kissing you passionately.

You melt into his touch and sigh, finally being rewarded with what you’ve been craving for weeks. 

He pulls away and rests his forehead against yours, panting softly, “you know, you’re right. I haven’t drank in days because I found something better. I got drunk on you instead.”

[mx-pastelwriting]

Fragile

HAYMITCH ABERNATHY X GN! READER

SUMMARY: Alcohol not allowed in District 13 you look after Haymitch as he goes through the withdrawals. WARNINGS/TAGS: Established Relationship, Mention of Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdraws, Depictions of Withdraws, Depictions of Gagging and Vomiting, Angst & Fluff, Cuddling and Snuggling, Cheek Kissing, Smell of Vomit

Washing away any remaining vomit with the cold sponge you held, Haymitch, sitting in the tub, breath labored going through painful withdrawals. Remaining by his side through all of it, beginning when you both had found out about Thirteen’s ban on alcohol, remembering Plutarch’s look of pity as all the color from Haymitch's face drained.

Using the other side of the sponge to drip some of the cold water onto his neck, revealing its hot surface. Watching as his body shook with sweat rapidly coating his skin. Clothing only in sleeping shorts, knowing a new shirt would only be vomited on.

Eyes barely open, head resting against the shower wall, whispering weak pleas under his breath for the banned liquid. Breaking your heart even further as he started to beg your name, needing you to make it all go away.

Dipping your hand in the cold bucket of water before running your finger through his hair, taking it out of his face. Feeling his hot scalp against your cool fingertips hearing him sigh at the temperature change, but the relieving moment was cut short as Haymitch started to gag.

Quickly grabbing the trash can next to you that was halfway filled, looking away to not watch as he vomited again, hearing as only spit and stomach acid came up.

Only looking back as you hear him groan, head once again resting against the tiled wall. Dark bags hung from Haymitch's eyes as he looked at you, barely catching the weak nod he gave you. Helping Haymitch's weak body up, patient as his knees worked to stabilize.

Laying your fragile man on the shared twin mattresses you both had pushed together a day prior. Placing ice packs on his neck and sides to fight his hot flashes before tucking him in. Watching as he shook in place, body overwhelmed by the differing temperatures.

As you sat next to the bed, Haymitch's eyes never left you, looking into the blue helplessness of his eyes, fighting to not rush his weak body back to the medical bay. Having been there an hour ago as Haymitch's symptoms started to worsen, only able to check vitals and discharge him with multivitamins that help ease the withdrawal symptoms.

Moving closer, taking his clammy hand hearing his rapid breathing, the air between you kept quiet to spare him from a worsening headache.

Noticing the absence of the trash can, standing to grab it quickly from the bathroom, only to be stopped as Haymitch, with the little strength he had left, pulled you back. Looking back at his panicked face, breath now labored.

"I'm not leaving. I have to get the trash can from the bathroom," you explain, causing his grip to loosen a little. "I'll only be a minute," you reassure him, finally letting you go to grab the trash can.

Tying up the very used trash bag, taking it out. Setting the trash can next to the bed before putting the used bag next to the door for it to be taken out once Haymitch drifts off to sleep.

Replacing the trash bag, ready for Haymitch's next wave of nausea. Back to sitting by his side, propping him up with an extra pillow to drink some water while feeding him bits of crackers and small spoons of warm soup.

Stopping when he shook his head at the offering of more, removing the extra pillow, letting him get some rest. Watching as he drifted off just to be woken by tremors, waiting for them to calm before falling back asleep only to wake abruptly again from the tremors. Minutes of this, Haymitch finally looks to you for help, though not sure what you could do but crawl into bed with him.

Wrapping an arm around his shaking body, feeling as he relaxes in your warm hold. Kissing his stubbled cheek before resting your head atop his pillow, trying hard to block out the smell of vomit, to put his comfort over yours.

Seconds go by before soft snores sound from Haymitch, sighing with relief knowing the hours of struggle have come to an end for the day. Breathing and tremors come to a slow as he sleeps away the evening after spending the early morning and afternoon fighting withdrawals with you by his side through all of it.

Even as he tried many times to eat, drink, and clean himself on his own, you were there when his body failed to follow through. Knowing this would only get worse, but you lay there next to Haymitch, moving away strands of wet hair from his sleeping face, telling yourself you'd be ready for it.

I got heart burn from just writing this, sorry everyone!

Hello, I hope you enjoyed if there is any grammar mistakes or misspellings sorry about that feel free to let me know in the comments, have a great day/afternoon/night!

♥ mx-pastelwriting does not consent to their fanfiction being copied, copied & credited, translated, used in videos and/or audios, screenshotted, used in AI.

Fanfiction is protected under copyright law when plagiarism is involved. If you plagiarize my work, either a piece or whole in any language, I will take legal action. Inspiration or the same idea does NOT apply to this, only word-for-word plagiarism in any language.

Taglist: @bfintaks @callsignwidow

[maraudersilver]

Sit on my face (Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!Reader)

Warnings: face riding, oral (f! receiving), mentions of past sa, slight spoilers for SOTR, porn with plot. MDNI A/N: I don't know what this is. I was thinking about Haymitch's nose and suddenly I was writing a whole smut one shot about it. I do not write much smut lately, so I'm sorry if it's not the toe curling type. English is not my first language and I wrote this during an hour brainrot. Wc: 2,8K

"I want to sit on your face."

Haymitch looked up from the book he was reading, one he had snatched from Plutarch's library a long time ago. It was nothing interesting, something about scientific theories of old regarding space. Sid would have loved it, he thought, more than him.

"What?"

"I want to sit on your face," you repeat, louder this time. "If you wanna, or course."

"Why wouldn't I want that?"

He blinked at you, deadpanned, book forgotten in his lap as he rearranged himself in the loveseat.

It had been a couple years since Snow was killed and a new government arose. It wasn't perfect, not by any means, but at least it was democratic and the districts had more freedom than they had known in seventy five years.

You had been a fellow victor, the survivor of the 60th Hunger Games. Survivor. Never winner. After the revolution, you had fled to district 12 with him, babbling about a life of peace away from people. You had no family left, and your friends had been killed during the bombing of the Capitol, all of them trained medics who lost their lives trying to save others.

He had been adamant on pushing you away, warning you that he didn't want, didn’t need, more company than he allowed. Good thing you were as stubborn as a mule.

After twenty-five years of solitude where he thought he would never love again, you had carved open his heart and wrote your name in neon colours. Having breakfast with him, making sure he was still alive by checking from time to time, accompanying him to feed his geese.

One time, you had followed him to Lenore Dove's resting place when you saw him going deep into the woods, fearing he would do something stupid. He had been infuriated with you, screaming about lacking any privacy and about you sticking your nose everywhere you weren't invited in. Instead of leaving, as he was used to people doing, you had kneeled beside him and shared his grief, silent as little by little every detail about his beloved Lenore Dove left his lips.

Even since, you made sure to gather the most beautiful and colourful flowers in the meadows for him to carry Lenore Dove to her grave, your sweet voice always mumbling something along the lines of 'tell her I said hi!' in a cheerful voice.

He didn't mean to. Not at all. But as Lenore Dove had told him once, the walls of a person's heart were not impregnable, not if they had ever known love. And love you he did. At first in silence, almost in denial. Then he started with acts of service, like fixing a broken door or walking you down to the Hob. But if you ever asked him, he would dismiss his efforts as ‘tryin’ to get you off my ass before you pestered me.’

It took him more than a year after the revolution to finally admit to himself that he was irrevocably, deeply, truly in love with you. In a way he thought he would never be able to again.

But how could he not, with how cute, sweet, intelligent and stubborn you were. His heart jumped at the sight of you whenever his eyes laid upon you, now not being the exception.

And when Lenore Dove gave him a thumbs up in dreams, he knew it was time to finally be happy after more than two decades of misery. His love was fine with him having another love, and when you confessed to also feeling your heart bleeding for him the same way he did for you, the gates of heaven opened for him again. 

“I don’t know. I mean, we’ve never even talked about it. Maybe it’s not something you’re okay with.” You shrugged your shoulders, biting your lip in the nervous tick he had learned to recognize. 

“It’s not as if we’ve shagged enough to bring it up, love.”

It was true. Intimacy had been brought up a few weeks before, and it had been slow paced for both your sakes. After all, both yours and Haymitch’s only experience came from the abuse suffered at the Capitol. And he had never made love to Lenore Dove, too innocent and pure back then to think of it. It was new, and it took a while to feel comfortable in such positions again. 

But he craved you. The more you shared with him, the more his selfish ass wanted to claim. The sweet sounds you made, how your body reacted to his touch, the plump flesh of your lips. And he had been wondering how you tasted for a while now, his cock painful against his pants at the thought of his tongue on you late at night. 

“Yeah, I know,” you sighed, looking up at him sheepishly. He found it funny, how fierce and sassy you were most of the time, and how shy you became at any mention of sex. “But maybe we should start putting on the table things we would like to try.”

“Okay, why not.” Haymitch nodded, lips pressing in a thin line. “I would like to taste you. So I’m in with you riding my face, love.”

“Oh,” you mumbled, not expecting him to agree so easily.

Haymitch smirked at your bashful expression, eyes straying to the geese outside the window, wandering around the meadows. 

“Anything else?” he pressed, reclining in his seat with a manspread that had you eyeing him hungrily with a mix of longing. 

“Um, not for the moment. And you?”

Haymitch shook his head, one of his hands rubbing his stubble absentmindedly. “Let’s start with that. We can add one at a time. Sounds good?”

“Yeah,” you breathed, your attention shifting back to the embroidery in your hands. 

It wasn’t until a week later that it happened. Haymitch and you had been invited to a small festival by the new District 12 town to celebrate an old festivity lost to Snow’s reign of terror. You had been wearing a tight red dress, so tight it left little to the imagination. 

You didn’t get to leave the house at all.

Before opening the door, Haymitch pressed your front against the wooden surface, hands roaming your hips and ass, squeezing for dear life. “Damn, love. Nice dress,” he whispered in your ear, nibbling at the lobe before licking his way down to your neck. 

“Put it on just so you could take it off,” you sighed, tilting your head to the right to give him more access to your skin, which he nipped and kissed while his hands grabbed your thighs. 

“Is that right? At least won’t feel bad when I tear it apart,” he chuckled, turning you around and kissing your lips harshly.

It was hungry, desperate. His lips pressed almost forcefully against yours, tongue already licking your lower lip for access. Your tongues intertwined, teeth clashing, breathing ragged through your noses while your hands found leverage on his shoulders. His stubble scratched pleasantly against your soft skin, tender to the touch afterwards. 

His hands clenched to your waist, pushing you harder against his chest, fisting your dress as much as he could, as if trying to melt the fabric with the warmth of his hands. 

You pulled apart to breathe, a thread of saliva still connecting your lips to his. His were plump, swollen and angry red, surely as his tip would be if you pulled down his pants at that very moment with how hard you felt him against your thigh. So handsome, so ethereal. 

“Dumbstruck already, sweet girl? Have barely touched you and you already look prettily fucked,” Haymitch teased, licking your lips playfully. It did nothing to hide his wrecked state. 

“Don’t get too cocky, old man. Let’s see if you can keep up tonight, huh?”

Haymitch’s chest rumbled with an animalistic growl. Suddenly, you were lifted in his arms bridal style. You squealed, grabbing his shoulders harder at the lack of stability, your boyfriend just snickering at you. 

If he didn’t look so breathtakingly hot, you would have slapped his chest. 

He kissed you again, as desperate as before, swallowing your pathetic whimpers as he brought you upstairs to your shared bedroom. He didn’t pull away until he lowered you on the floor, to which you arched a brow, breathless and hazy.

“No mattress?”

“How am I supposed to take this dress off if you’re laying your ass down on the bed, dumbass?” He snorted at your narrowed eyes, chuckling when you swatted his bicep. “Alright, alright, no need to get violent. C'mere.”

With one hand, he held your cheek as if you were the most precious thing his eyes had ever laid upon, lips grazing your jaw down to your neck again, sucking and leaving love bites in its wake. You gripped his forearms, feeling your knees weak. His other hand pulled down the zipper on your back slowly, savouring the way the clothing fell down from your shoulders to your chest, leaving the valley of your breasts in sight for him.

Haymitch licked his lips, already craving the feeling of your tits in his mouth and hands, wanting to feel the weight of them. In less than a second, your dress was ripped to the floor. You gasped, both for the aggressive rush and for the cold air of the room caressing your mostly naked skin. 

“So pretty,” Haymitch groaned, lips attaching to the visible skin of your right breast, his hands fighting against the hook clumsily. 

You couldn’t help but whine in need, grabbing his hair and guiding him down to your nipple once he successfully tossed your holder away somewhere in the room. His warm breath and hot tongue contrasted with the cooler ambience of the room, so sweet and pleasant on your skin. 

You tossed your head back, sighing at his ministrations. Haymitch now licked your other breast, hand playing with your right nipple and fondling the flesh. It was paradise, his touch almost reverent. The sting of his stubble grounding you to the moment.

Trying to feel his skin, you started unbuttoning his shirt, which had so nicely stuck to his sexy dad bod. Haymitch was a forty-three year old alcoholic, in no way shaped like you had seen him on his games more than two decades before. But, if you had to be honest, he looked better than ever in your eyes. 

His shirt joined your discarded clothing, along with your panties not too long after, and your hands roamed over his hairy chest and liquor belly, wanting nothing more than to lick it. However, Haymitch had grabbed your hair and leaned to kiss you once more, walking you backwards until your knees hit the bed.

He laid you both down, turning so you were on top of him. To say you were confused was an understatement, but you didn’t waste time to pepper his neck and chest in kisses and bites.

“Wait, love,” Haymitch breathed, pulling you up to face him by your forearms. At your lustful eyes, pupils wide and consuming your beautiful irises, he hissed; heart hammering in his chest when you tilted your head in confusion again. “I want you to sit on my face.”

You almost choked on your breath, a moan leaving your parted lips in an unwilling display of desire. “Really?”

Haymitch grasped both your cheeks softly, pecking your lips over and over again. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Ride my face, pretty thing.”

He helped you up, worshipping your body on your way to the head of the bed. You could feel your hands sweating and your lungs constricting in nervousness. What if he didn’t like your taste? What if you smelled? You were definitely not depilated like the women back at the Capitol, and for the first time in your life you feared your hair. Maybe he didn’t like it.

But all fears disappeared when you heard his groan as you straddled his head. You could barely see his eyes, but the grey of them was focused entirely on your wet entrance, clenching around nothing and waiting for his mouth to alleviate the ache. 

“You’re so fucking perfect, sweet girl. Need your pussy on me, darling. Need to taste you.” His voice was hoarse in lust, deeper than you had ever heard him speak. 

That was all you needed to lower yourself to his awaiting mouth with the aid of his hands on your hips, and your core immediately had his tongue licking a stripe up to the hood of your clit. You spasmed, moaning loudly and placing your hands on the headboard to support your point of gravity. 

He groaned, clenching his hands around the flesh of your hips. “For fuck’s sake, you taste  so fucking good,” he moaned. Haymitch. Moaned. Haymitch had moaned! It only fueled you farther, moving slowly up and down his mouth, his stubble pinching the inner of your thighs and your rear in a painful, pleasant scratch. Tomorrow your skin would be sore for sure. 

His thumbs came up to lift the hood of your clit, his tongue twirling around it and sucking it into his mouth. Jolts of pleasure cursed down your spine, your nails holding to the headboard for dear life, your things and knees trembling as a finger entered you and pumped in and out of you in rhythm with his hot mouth on your clit.

"Haymitch! P-please, don't —ah!—, don't stop!"

When you thought it couldn’t get any better, he pulled away slightly to blow cold air on your core, which had you screaming and squirming in his grasp. He just chuckled, the rumbling of his lips a blessing as his tongue returned to your entrance, replacing his finger.

In a swift motion, you rubbed your clit against his nose. Your eyes rolled back, hips moving faster, riding his face as he had basically pleaded. Oh, how much you had dreamed of that crooked and big nose of him on you. It continued rubbing your bundle of nerves, tongue switching between thrusting in and out and licking your juices. His hands now squeezing your ass, fondling the tender flesh.

It didn’t take long for the familiar knot at the pit of your stomach to form, coiling deliciously. You could feel your throat going sore from how loud Haymitch’s mouth was making you moan. One of your hands came down to grab his locks, and Haymitch groaned again against your pussy, tongue as deep in you as he could master. 

A slap to your ass and his nose rubbing circles to your clit was enough for black spots to form in your sight, pleasure cursing from the very inside of your core to the tip of your fingertips, your orgasm crashing you like a wave to the rocks. Your thighs clenched so hard around his head you feared you were going to crush his skull. One of his hands came up to fondle your left breast, thumb and index finger twirling your nipple.

“Cum for me, sweet girl. Cum in my mouth,” Haymitch begged, nose still stimulating the place you needed him most, his tongue following to lap at your juices as you came hard in his mouth. Your body spasmed on top of him, toes curled and thighs pressed against his ears painfully. 

You could barely keep your hips moving without collapsing, and when his licking became too much for your overstimulated pussy, you pulled away and sat on the pillow next to Haymitch’s head, both of you trying to regain your breathings and composure. You looked down at him, and you moaned at the sight. His eyes were lustful, and his chin was covered in your cum and spit, hair sprayed over the pillow. His forehead was furrowed in strain, the fine lines carved in his face over the years painting the picture in brighter colours.

It was an image you would keep safely guarded in your memories for the rest of your life, how beautiful your man looked with his face ridden. Overwhelmed with affection, you leaned down to kiss his lips, tasting yourself on his lips and swallowing his grateful whimper.

“How was it?” he succeeded in asking, breathing still ragged.

“Amazing,” you admitted, laying down next to him, hands coming up to clean his chin tenderly, to which he smirked triumphantly. “I mean it! Best orgasm ever.”

He huffed a laugh, chest going up and down rapidly. “Good to know, because I want you on my face again.”

You chuckled until you noticed the serious look in his grey eyes, and your smile dropped immediately. “Like, right now?”

He nodded, smiling mischievously at you. Hell, he was going to kill you of overstimulation. 

No need to say, Haymitch became addicted to you riding his face every working day.

[ilguna]

☼ wildflowers (Haymitch Abernathy) ☼

summary; haymitch never was the same after the tragedies that followed his games. and even with his best attempts to push you away, you never budged. so he allows you to take him to the meadow sometimes to make up for it.

warnings; swearing, lots of drinking, talks of killing/murder but nothing actually happens.

wc; 2.3k

notes; mid-twenties haymitch. no outright spoilers for sotr but if you think hard enough, you could make connections yourself lol.

--

“This is my favorite time of year, Haymitch.” You say, bouncing down the grassy hill, keeping a tight hold of your bag. “You wanna know why?”

When he doesn’t respond right away, you look over your shoulder long enough to see the tail end of him taking a swig of the bottle of liquor he insisted on bringing with him. You give him a playful eye roll, shaking your head with disapproval.

You couldn’t object, as much as you wanted to. You knew it meant risking the day you’d planned with him, and you’ve been looking forward to coming out to the meadow ever since the weather got warmer.

No liquor, no Haymitch.

“Why?” He asks, appearing beside you. 

He’s got this dumb smile on his face, holding out the bottle for you to take a drink, a habit he formed after you agreed once a couple months ago. He always wants you to drink with him, claiming it’s more fun if two of you are drunk than one. That way, you’re less likely to complain about the stuff he does.

You wave the offer away, attention focused on the beauty that’s hidden beyond the fences of District Twelve. If the Peacekeeper’s knew you were out here, they’d likely string you up and whip you for it. Or worse, kill you. They’ve been cracking down on the rules again, you’re not entirely sure what triggered it, but they’re taking nothing lightly.

“The springtime feels like a fresh start.” You tell him, closing your eyes when you feel a breeze come through. “New beginnings.”

“Isn’t that what New Year is for?” He asks.

You scowl for a moment at his attitude, and then let out a laugh. “Sure, Haymitch. But it’s also a time for hope and growth.”

“I’ve experienced plenty of springs and nothing has changed.”

“Except your attitude.” You remind him, because his personality before the Games didn’t resemble a wet rag. “Which is far from your fault.”

He grunts.

This really isn’t anything new when it comes to Haymitch. You’re lucky you were able to get him out of that house at all. The place reeks of vomit and liquor, so he’s begun to take to the bench outside. You’re sure the smell isn’t doing any good for his sense of smell.

So, while you pull him out of the house for some overdue fresh air, you begged your father this morning to do you a favor and clean Haymitch’s house. It wasn’t easy by any means to convince him, but you managed to do it after a few pleas and a promise to mend a couple pairs of his old pants and shirts to make them look brand new. He wasn’t thrilled when you gave him a warning about the smell, but he sighed and said he’d open every window and the front door to let the spring air come in while he cleaned.

He truly is the best father you could ask for, and the most qualified person for this job—considering his background with some of the wealthier families in Twelve. He started cleaning as a side gig in high school to get himself and your grandparents through without having to get tessera. 

It turned into a more serious job when people discovered they do mind having a layer of coal dust on their belongings. From there, he cleaned the Mayor’s mansion, the Justice Building, the Peacekeeper base—whatever, whenever. As you’ve grown up, you’ve joined him a few times to see the process, but you’ve never been inspired to make it a permanent career.

Anyway, it’s a win-lose situation. In this case, you’re the winner, because you’re not trapped inside of Haymich’s house for an extended period of time. And you get to spend the afternoon with your best friend by the lake. Which, by the way, if your father knew you were out here, he likely would’ve murdered you twice. Once for making him clean Haymitch’s house, and twice for breaking the law.

“Just over here, Haymitch.” You tell him, waving him on. “I think the lake is in this direction.”

“It is.” He murmurs behind you.

He should know, he’s the one that showed you it in the first place, some years ago. 

It was right after a huge blowout fight you had with him. He was at the lowest point you’ve ever seen him, and you were trying to continue to give him the benefit of the doubt. He hadn’t always been like this, his entire life changed in less than a month after he won his Games.

He needed a friend, and you wanted to continue to be that friend. He’d already pushed away the rest of the group, one way or another. You were the last one hanging on because being friends with a group of boys gave you thick skin. If he wanted you to leave, he needed to say or do something that would change your mind about him. 

And he did. He chose to insult you until you were in tears. You remember the way he had been sitting on his couch, completely casual, as if what he was doing was easy. Like he didn’t care that you’d been friends for nearly two decades and you’ve been his shoulder to cry on since the beginning.

You were fuming, hands balled into fists. He had his back turned to you, eyes locked on the television the Capitol had given him, watching the news like he always did. You kept thinking to yourself how easy it would be to punch the lights out of him. Maybe a hard reset was what he needed to be normal again or at least polite. You’d just bought him a basketful of white liquor because he’d been too embarrassed to do it himself.

“What are you still standing there for?” He asked, his face twisted in disgust. “Give me the basket, and go.”

You’d never been the one to turn to violence before that moment, but his tone had made something snap inside of you. “You want the fucking liquor, Haymitch?” 

Your hands were shaking with rage when you slammed the entire basket to the floor, causing him to jump at the sudden noise. Liquor and shards of glass went flying everywhere, and little did you know, you’d still be finding it years later. As Haymitch got to his feet, eyes wide, you stomped on every bottle, making sure they were shattered, and there’d be nothing he could salvage from the mess.

“Then get down on your hands and knees and drink up.” You told him, eyes boring into his, daring him to challenge you.

“Get out of my house.”

“With pleasure.” You smiled at him, body full of nothing but hatred for him. “No wonder you’re alone.”

“Go fuck yourself, (Y/n).” He finally said to you. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know more than you ever could’ve possibly imagined, Haymitch.” You stood in his doorway. “And I’m sick of dealing with your shit. Goodbye.”

You swung his door shut with a slam, pissed off he treated you that way and you let it happen for so long. The anger would wear off by the time you got home, where you went and cried in your father’s arms about the situation. Haymitch was your best friend, you didn’t want to watch him succumb into the darkness you’d been trying so hard to save him from. 

Your father made you take a hot bath, and even though you were too old for it, he tucked you in. Before he went to bed for the night, he told you that if Haymitch truly cherished the friendship you had, he’d see what he’d done and apologize. If not, then you need to move on to better things.

Haymitch didn’t come back for a while. You resisted every urge in your body to go and check in on him, because he stopped being seen in District Twelve. You were almost convinced he’d died, but he’d showed up on your doorstep a month later. He had a box of your favorite treats in his hand and apologized.

He told you if you forgave him, then you should meet him at his house later that afternoon. He handed you the box and left. You forgave him, of course, and listened to his request. When you saw him, he had a wrinkly shirt and a pair of shorts on, and a sunhat.

“I have something to show you.” He told you. “I haven’t been there in a while, but I’m sure you’ll like it as much as she did.”

You knew who he was referring to as soon as he said it, so you didn’t pry. Haymitch brought you to the lake, which you’d heard so much about. While the others had come out here from time to time, you never wanted to break the law, fearing for what your father would say about it. 

“A lake.” You were surprised. “This is what you’d been talking about?”

“Yeah, I should’ve told you to bring a change of clothes but I didn’t want to spoil it.”

“Who cares?” You asked with a laugh, taking Haymitch into a hug. “Apology accepted.”

He gave you a squeeze. “Thank you.”

The meadow peeks out from between the trees, letting you know you’ve made it. You stop in to take in the sight of the wildflowers, spread throughout the field. You don’t mind taking a dip in the lake every now and then, but your favorite part is seeing what grows around it. This is what you came here to see.

Haymitch goes to lift the bottle to his lips, but you direct his hand back down. “Take it easy on the liquor, will you? It’s too early for you to be drunk already.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Haymitch.” You tilt your head at him. “Please.”

He stares at you for a moment, before nodding his head gently, capping the bottle and tucking it back into his pocket. You give him a smile, before leading him down to your favorite spot beneath a large tree.

You sit with your legs crossed, bag sitting next to you. Haymitch leans against the base of the tree, staring off. You timed this trip perfectly, the flowers have bloomed all sorts of different colors: reds, yellows, blues, oranges, pinks, purples and all the hues in-between.

The wind blows hard out here, since there’s nothing to obstruct its path. The flowers dance, flowing in different directions, sometimes being pushed so far you’re sure that the petals are on the verge of flying off, before they pop right back into their upright position.

The spring’s sun beams create this dreamy look in the bright, healthy grass. The scene looks vaguely familiar, a sense of deja vu coming over you, but you can’t quite put your finger on the reason why. 

“So what’re we doing out here, anyway?” Haymitch asks, breaking the soft silence.

“Do you have a favorite flower?” You ask back, looking at him. “I don’t. I could never pick between them all.”

“I haven’t given it much thought.” He admits.

“Well, you have plenty of time to think now.”

You reach into your bag, pulling out the snacks, but really you watch the sketchbook. When you flip it open, Haymitch leans over, head tilted to get a better look at the drawings inside. It’s just full of flowers, some you’ve observed in person, but most you get through books and pictures. Beside the art is information: the bees they attract, the trees they cling to, the many shades of colors they can be found in. 

“I didn’t know you liked art.” He murmurs, reaching for the book. “Can I?”

“Yes, please.” You tell him, handing it over. 

He’s very gentle when he flips through the pages, taking time to actually drink in the art before him. After a while, he stops, about three quarters of the way through, and places his finger down on the page. 

“This one.”

You lean over, invading his space as you look over his arm to see what he’s picked. 

A sunflower.

“Sunflower, huh?” You ask, looking down at what you’d drawn. “It’s a summer flower. If we plant it soon, we might see it bloom by the time your birthday comes.” 

Haymitch looks up, a smile hinting at his lips. “Really?”

“Yeah! I know a thing or two about flowers.” You laugh. “Actually, if I were to choose what to do with the rest of my life, I’d probably own a greenhouse with every flower under the sun.”

He thinks about this for a moment, looking off to the meadow. “I can help you.”

“What?” You ask, face twisting. “No.”

“Why not? You don’t want to clean houses, do you?” He asks.

“Well, no, but that’s your money.” You shake your head.

He picks up his bottle of liquor. “It’s all going to waste, anyway.”

You take your sketchbook back from Haymitch, closing the book and setting it in the grass, trying to end the conversation. “That’s nice of you to offer, but I can’t accept.”

“You could if it were a gift.” He says, looking away from you. “I could pick a nice spot next to the market near Victor’s Village. You’d get a lot of traction there.”

“Haymitch, no.”

“You wouldn’t accept it?” There’s a smirk on his face. “You’d let it go to waste?”

You press your lips together. “If you built it for me, I wouldn’t let it go to waste, but—.”

“Then it seems like it won’t be long before you’re selling flowers.” He tells you. “And I expect those sunflowers to be a bestseller.”

You can feel the tears gathering in your eyes, lips pulling downward. 

“Don’t cry.” Haymitch tells you, pushing your head away. “I don’t want to cry with you.”

“Do you know what sunflowers resemble, Haymitch?” You ask, wiping away the tears that escape. “It resembles growth and resilience.”

Haymitch lets out a laugh, rolling his eyes as he lifts his bottle to his lips. “Of course.”

[ama3003]

hi! is there any way you can write a pt 2 of a pawn once more? maybe turn it into a series? i just read it and LOVED it, your writing is beautiful!

Ask and you shall receive!!!!!

A Pawn Once More (2)

Character: Haymitch Abernathy

Requested: Sorta??? Lol I've been seeing all the love it's been getting.

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: You're trying to figure out if you should listen to your heart or follow your head.

Part 1: Here

Part 3: Here

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)

I honestly wasn’t expecting this to get so much love — thank you all so much! I've seen a lot of people asking for it to become a series, and the truth is, I actually started this one-shot right in the middle of everything. There’s so much more I can write — backstory, missing context, and I could even take it all the way through Mockingjay Part 2 and beyond.

Let me know what you want to see, and I’ll gladly make it happen!

My inbox is always open and y'all I love your comments! Soooo please comment!!!!!!

You couldn’t breathe.

It wasn’t just the bodysuit—though it clung too tightly to your ribs—but the panic.

The cold, creeping panic of being back. The fear you thought you'd buried, the ghosts you thought you'd left behind—they were all clawing their way back to the surface.

How unlucky were you, really? To be given a second round of memories. A cruel encore.

"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe." The words barely made it past your lips, more breath than voice, a desperate mantra as you stepped into the Chariot Staging Area.

You just needed to find Haymitch.

If you could hear his voice, meet his eyes, feel his presence—maybe then the terror would loosen its grip. Maybe then you could breathe.

“You look stunning!” your stylist chirped, smoothing your hair and flicking back a few stubborn flyaways. Her hands were quick, practiced, and utterly unaware of the storm brewing inside you.

You were dressed in a sleek black bodysuit, tailored like a second skin. Woven into the fabric were delicate fiber-optic threads that pulsed in slow, elegant waves, mimicking lightning bolts across your body. A walking storm.

“This beautiful number responds to movement,” she said proudly. “The lights will shift and pulse with every gesture. I’ll be operating the pattern controls—you just need to wave and look pretty.”

You nodded absently, your attention already drifting, eyes scanning the room like sonar.

You needed to find him.

“Little bird looking for me?” You turned, and there he was—Gloss, standing with that signature smirk, arms crossed like he owned the room.

“You look breathtaking,” he said, eyeing the suit with an appreciative nod. “I swear, you’ve got enough power in you to light up all of Panem.”

A genuine laugh escaped you, small but real, and you stepped forward to pull him into a hug. “Flattery will get you nowhere,” you said, voice lighter. “But it’s good to see you, Glossy. Where’s Cash?”

“Here I am!” a familiar voice called.

You turned to see Cash striding over, flanked by Enobaria and Brutus. A wave of warmth surged through your chest. You moved quickly, gathering them all into a hug.

These weren’t just allies. These were your people. Friends who understood the weight behind your eyes. The ache in your chest. The blood on your hands. Because they were the exact same way. As broken as you were.

Once, when you were young, it seemed impossible to be asked to kill strangers. And now? Now you were being asked to kill your friends.

“How are you all?” you asked, voice soft. “I’m sorry I missed the last hangout. I had food poisoning. And I’m even sorrier that this is how we’re seeing each other again.”

You gave them a sad smile. The kind that meant more than words ever could.

“This was definitely a turn of events,” Enobaria muttered, rolling her eyes.

“Never thought I’d have to set foot back here as a tribute,” Cash added, shaking her head.

Everyone nodded grimly. You all had the same unspoken thought: peace was promised. And then peace was stolen.

Brutus looked across the room, tipping his chin toward the group. “So? Should we expect you and Mason to join us?” You raised an eyebrow. He went on.“I doubt we’ll offer that to District 4. I love Mags, but this isn’t about friendship. It’s about survival. Or are you planning to side with the newbies for your husband’s sake?”

You met his gaze, firm and unflinching. “You already know the answer to that, Brutus. Those kids? They’re basically his. Which means… they’re mine, too.”

Enobaria let out a slow sigh, stepping closer. “Just don’t put their lives above your own. And don’t forget about Mason. You have to think about him. Plust those kids…” Her next words hit harder than you were ready for. “--they’re the reason we’re here. If just one of them had died... we wouldn’t be back in this arena and we all know it. And look at us we’re stuck here once again and now we have to kill each other.”

The silence was immediate and suffocating.

No one spoke.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

It was the truth everyone avoided speaking out loud—but now that it hung in the air, you all had to face it.

Bitterness curled in your stomach, uninvited but undeniable. You hated feeling it. Hated that it made sense.

“Hey,” Cash cut in sharply, eyes narrowing at Enobaria. “Stop. Whatever happens, happens. We keep it fast. We keep it painless. Right?”

Everyone nodded. Even Enobaria.

Then Cash turned to you, her voice lowering.

“I would really love for District 5 to join us,” she said. “We love you. And we love Mason. But I get it. You’re looking out for your husband. That’s not cowardice—that’s loyalty. It’s love. Just… if anything changes, you’re always welcome here.”

She gave you a tight hug and stepped away. Gloss winked and followed. Enobaria gave you a rare side hug. Brutus patted your shoulder, rough and sincere, before the group slipped into the crowd.

And then you were alone again. Not alone in the room—but alone in the way that mattered.

Your eyes scanned once more, heart pounding harder now.

For him.

And then you saw her—Katniss. Standing with Peeta. Not speaking. Not blinking. Just... watching.

You hadn’t spoken yet. You and Haymitch had always kept your relationship quiet, tucked away where the Capitol couldn't twist it. Mentors by day. Lovers by night. The other victors knew. Your families knew. But to the Capitol?

It had to stay hidden.

Some things were too sacred to put on display.

Last night had nearly shattered that wall. You’d broken down behind a closed door, only to feel their eyes on you through the crack—Katniss, Peeta, and even Effie.

But Haymitch had pulled you away, shielding you from their stares. From their pity.

And now, Katniss was watching again.

You met her gaze, steady and calm, and offered a soft smile. A small nod.

She mattered. They both did.

You needed her to trust you.

Because Haymitch did. And you saw it—how he cared for them. The soft way he spoke to them. The cracks in his armor, carefully hidden but real. He was letting himself feel again.

He was learning to love. Openly. Fiercely. Just like you had always wished he would. And because of that, you would do whatever it took to protect them. By your life… or by your death.

Katniss gave you the smallest of nods. Then turned away.

You exhaled—slowly, shakily.

A small victory.

Maybe the only kind left.

A warm hand caught your arm. Mason.

“You ready for this?” he asked, helping you up into the carriage.

You nodded. “Smile and wave,” you said softly.

The chariots began to roll and the sound hit like thunder. A roar of applause, cheers, screams. Your lungs tightened. The noise pressed in from every side. Your hands trembled. Sweat gathered along your brow. You felt like you were drowning in the sound.

Mason’s grip on your hand tightened. He could feel your fear. But he wasn’t the one you needed.

You needed Haymitch.

His voice. His eyes. His strength.

You scanned the audience, heart hammering wildly. Too many faces. Too much light. Too much noise.

And then—there.

You found him.

He stood behind the others, half-hidden, quiet as always. But his eyes were on you.

Only you.

You felt your shoulders drop. Your breath returned. You smiled softly

And he winked.

Just like that, the panic loosened. The thunder of the Capitol became background noise. The trembling in your fingers eased.

You could do this.

You could finish the parade.

Because he saw you. Because he was there.

And that was enough.

*******

You hated looking at yourself in the mirror. You always had. Especially after the Games.

Back then, at sixteen, you’d stare at your reflection and search for something—someone—you recognized. But all you ever saw were the eyes of the people you killed, their final moments etched behind your own. 

You didn’t see a girl. You didn’t see a victor. You saw a murderer.

And now, nearly a decade later, here you were—twenty-five years old, staring into the same damn mirror, in the same damn room, waiting to face the same horrors.

Except this time, you weren’t naïve enough to believe you’d make it out.

You knew the moment you volunteered.

This was your end.

A knock at the door snapped you out of your thoughts. “Darling, we need to go,” Mason’s voice called gently from the hall. “We need all the training we can get.”

You looked at yourself one last time.

A murderer. A lunatic. A dead man walking.

You blinked away the tears, jaw tightening. Then you tied your ponytail higher—tighter—like it might hold you together a little longer.

You stepped out to meet Mason.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice laced with that familiar worry. He always worried. Especially about you. You were the little sister he never had—and now the two of you were walking into hell all over again.

“Well enough,” you replied, offering him a small smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “But it’s fine.”

He didn’t believe you. But he nodded.

You were grateful, at least, that you’d never really stopped training after your Games. You were constantly on edge, and staying active had become your only way to keep the nightmares at bay. The gym had always felt more familiar than your own home.

The Training Center was exactly how you remembered it: the scent of metal, sweat, and Capitol sterilization. Clean and gleaming, like death dressed up in a ballgown. Everything here looked expensive. Perfect. Soulless.

You and Mason stood shoulder to shoulder on the rising platform. The doors opened, revealing the training floor—wide, cold, and humming with tension.

Tributes filled the space, moving like restless ghosts. Silent, watchful, already assessing one another like it was the arena.

You tensed immediately. The smell. The sound. The weight in the air. It all pulled you backward, to the first time. The fear. The blood. The moment everything changed.

You scanned the floor, searching for him. For Haymitch.

But he wasn’t here.

Mason nudged you gently. “He’s probably hungover. He’ll be down in a minute.”

You nodded, but your mind was still spinning. You didn’t want to be here. Not really. You didn’t want to spar or strategize or throw knives at holograms. You wanted to find Haymitch. You wanted to hold his hand and talk about nothing. You wanted to remember what it felt like to be alive before the arena took everything again.

But the odds were never in your favor.

“I say we stick with the Careers,” Mason murmured, arms crossed over his chest as he nodded toward the familiar pack from Districts 1, 2, and 4. “They’ve got numbers. They’re predictable. We know how they move, how they think. We get in, stay close, bail when it gets ugly. And hey—if we do die, at least it'll be quick and painless.”

You didn’t respond immediately.

Your eyes drifted across the floor, landing on Katniss and Peeta as they entered the room. Their posture was stiff. Guarded. Haymitch still nowhere in sight.

You sighed. “We can’t.”

Mason’s brow furrowed. “We can’t what?”

“We can’t team up with the Careers.”

You turned to him fully, voice steady, even as your heart pounded. “We need to stick with District 12. With them.”

He stared at you like you’d lost your mind. “Are you serious? Y/N, come on. They’re kids. They won out of dumb luck.”

You met his stare. “We all won out of luck.”

“You know what I mean.” He stepped closer, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “Everyone here won. They’re strong. Dangerous. But you want to team up with the wide-eyed girl and her boy toy? Compared to the Careers? Darling, please.”

“I’m not asking you,” you said quietly. The edge in your voice cut sharper than you meant it to. “I’m telling you. I’m staying with them. You can make your own call.”

There was a pause. Not anger—just tension. Thick with history. With grief.

Mason’s jaw clenched. “This isn’t like last time, Y/N. This isn’t your Games. This isn’t about heart or honor or—whatever the hell you and Haymitch have going on now. This is survival.”

You looked him straight in the eye. “Exactly. And it’s their survival I’m fighting for.”

His voice dropped. “And what about you?”

You hesitated, but he caught it. Your silence was louder than any answer.

“Look,” you began, softer now, “I’m not asking you to follow me—”

But he cut you off, stepping closer.

“You don’t have to! We’re partners. I’m sticking by you. I always have.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “I just want you to think. Really think, before you throw yourself into a losing bet. There’s a smarter play here. You know that.”

“I do,” you said. “But sometimes the smart play isn’t the right one.”

He exhaled harshly and scrubbed a hand over his face. “You want to help Haymitch. I get that. I do. But we both know it was luck that those two made it out. Pure, stupid luck. But you. You can win. You can make it back to your family. I’ll help you get there.”

You were about to say something to Mason—something half-formed and already losing shape in your mouth—when you heard his voice.

“Y/N! Mason!”

Your head turned faster than your heart could catch up. And there he was.

Your husband.

That familiar flutter of your heart. Like it always did. You hadn’t seen him in a day? But even now, with him just a few feet away, it felt like a lifetime had passed. You missed him deeply.

Trailing behind him were Katniss and Peeta.

“I want to formally introduce you to my victors,” Haymitch said, stopping in front of you. “Katniss and Peeta. Guys, this is Y/N and Mason. District 5.”

“Hey,” Mason said, flashing that strained, too-polished smile he always wore around new people. He gave your shoulder a quick pat. “I’m gonna go see what Gloss and Brutus are up to. Grab me when you’re done.”

Then he leaned in, low enough for only you to hear. “Please… think about what I said.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice. He gave you a look—worried, conflicted—and walked off.

You turned back to the trio.“Sorry about him,” you said with a soft exhale. “He’s… under pressure…but aren’t we all?”

Your gaze lingered on Haymitch for half a second longer than it should’ve. You didn’t need to explain more. He already knew.

Then you looked at Katniss and Peeta, offered a small smile, and reached out your hand. “I’m Y/N. I’ve heard a lot about you both. What you did—how you handled everything—it was impressive.”

Peeta was the first to move. His handshake was firm, warm. His eyes kind. “It’s good to meet you. We, uh… we watched your Games last night.” He hesitated, then smiled a little. “You were incredible. And also… slightly terrifying.”

You actually laughed. “Don’t worry,” you said. “If things go well, you won’t have to be scared of me.”

Haymitch cleared his throat, arms crossed, already watching the storm gather in Katniss’s face. “I was telling them you and Mason would be good allies. They seemed open to it.”

Katniss turned sharply toward him. “No, we didn’t.”

You blinked, trying to keep your expression neutral, but her words stung.

She folded her arms, looking you up and down like she was trying to see beneath your skin. “How are we supposed to trust you if you’re still with him? He clearly wants nothing to do with us.”

Your voice was quiet but steady. “I can handle Mason. He’ll follow my lead. He won’t be a threat.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, turning away, “I don’t trust you either.” And just like that, she was gone. Peeta followed, his face apologetic but silent.

You stood there for a beat too long, your hand still halfway raised before you let it fall.

Haymitch ran a hand down his face. “She’s scared,” he muttered. “She’s trying to protect him. She’s paranoid—on edge.”

You shook your head, arms wrapping around your chest like armor. “I get it. I really do. But if she won’t trust me, Mason’s going to dig in even harder. He’s already eyeing the Careers, and they really want us. They’re not taking District 4.”

Haymitch glanced toward where Mason was sparring with Brutus, the clang of metal echoing through the air like thunder. He winced.

“You thinking of going with them?”

You turned back to him slowly, locking eyes. “You really asking me that?”

Silence.

“I’m here,” you said. “With Twelve. With you. That’s not changing.”

He nodded, but you could see it—the guilt. The weight of what he was asking from you. Of what he couldn’t promise in return.

“I’ll talk to her,” he said finally. “I’ll get her to see reason. But you’ve gotta keep Mason from jumping ship. We don’t win this if he flips.”

You followed his gaze. Mason was grinning now, laughing at something Brutus said. “He can go if he wants,” you said quietly. “I told him. But my alliance is here. I made that choice.”

For you. You didn’t say it out loud. But Haymitch knew.

The noise of training continued around you—grunts, shouts, weapons clashing—but for a second, it all felt muffled. The pressure building behind your ribs was harder to ignore by the minute.

You looked at Haymitch again and tried not to let the fear show. But he saw it. He always saw it.

And that was part of what made this so unbearable.

“How are you feeling?”  He asks the question softly, like it’s the only one that matters. You know his eyes are tracing the lines of your face, trying to read the answer that you’re not saying out loud. The panic attack you’d had with him still lingers in his mind — a tightness in his chest he can’t shake. He’s scared, just like you are. The separation, even this small distance between you, feels like a raw wound. Every second without you feels like it’s eating at him from the inside out.

You shrug, doing your best to sound nonchalant. “I’m fine enough. Haven’t had another panic attack... yet. But it gets close sometimes.” You try to offer a half-smile, but it’s hollow. You can feel it — the weight of everything about to happen. And it’s suffocating.

His fingers twitch, almost as if he’s reaching for you before realizing he can’t. The frustration is written all over him. He needs to touch you. Needs to hold you, but everything feels like it’s out of his reach.

“You’ve only got a few days left until—” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to. You both know what’s coming. The suffocating fear. The arena. The uncertainty. But for a second, you don’t want to hear it. Not from him.

“I walk into my death?” You let out a shaky laugh, trying to break the tension with humor that doesn’t quite land. “I promise to make it as epic as possible.”

You turn to look at him, but his eyes are hard, like he’s trying to hold it all together, and he doesn’t like what you’re saying.

“What?” you ask, but you already know.

“Don’t say that.” His voice is low, urgent. His brow furrows as he steps closer, his gaze sharp. “Never say that.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, a dull pain spreading through you. “I’m sorry.” The words fall out before you can stop them, but it feels too late to take them back.

“I need you out of that arena.” His voice is raw, like it’s the one thing he can cling to. “I don’t know what I’d do if you don’t.”

You know that’s the truth. You can see it in his eyes, that quiet desperation. He’s already lost so much. He can’t lose you too. But you’re not sure how to make him understand that you’ve already made peace with the reality.

You turn your body toward him, not daring to reach out because of the eyes on you both. But this — this moment — this conversation, it’s just between the two of you. You need him to see you, to know you’re still there, even when it feels like everything is about to come crashing down.

“Haymitch,” your voice is softer now, the lump in your throat growing. “We’re going to be fine. No matter what happens, okay? In sickness and in health. In better or for worse. Death won’t do us part.” Your breath hitches, and you try to hold back the tears, but they spill anyway. “I love you more than you’ll ever know.”

There’s a tremor in his eyes, like he’s holding something back. But it’s his voice that cracks this time, just a little. “And I love you,” he says, his words lingering between you both. “Which is why I don’t like that you sound so defeated.” His voice is a whisper now, almost lost in the space between you.

It’s true. He’s only seen you three times. And all those times, you’ve looked at him like you’ve already accepted your fate. And that’s the part he can’t handle. The part that tears at him in a way he’ll never be able to explain.

“It’s not defeat.” Your voice is stronger now, though it still trembles. “I’ve accepted it. I won’t be as lucky as I was the first time around. And honestly, I don’t think I want to be. Not with them.” You gesture to the others around you — the tributes who would be in the arena with you. “And definitely not if it’s against your kids.”

He bristles at the mention of them, his expression hardening in that way you’ve come to know well. “They’re not my kids.” His tone is sharp, defensive.

You roll your eyes, though the sadness creeps back in. “You’re letting them into your heart, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.” You smile, but it’s bittersweet. “It’s such an honor seeing the light shine back into your eyes.”

His gaze softens, but his voice drops, rough and honest. “I’ve had light from the moment we kissed. You are my light. And that’s why I need you to stop talking like you’ve already lost.” He steps closer, his hand hovering like he wants to touch you but is afraid to. His breath is ragged. “The Abernathy’s don’t give up.” He’s trying, trying so hard to convince you both. But the truth is, you’ve already decided.

“They don’t.” You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “And that’s why, whatever happens, I’m going to need you to remember that.”

How could you still try to take care of him when you were the one who needed the comfort? You were supposed to be the one being held, not the other way around. But he was still trying to do it — trying to take care of you in whatever broken way he could.

“I’ll figure something out,” he says, his eyes burning with determination. “Trust me, okay? I’ll figure something out. And both you and the kids... you’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.” He reaches for your hand quickly, squeezing it tight. You can feel the heat of his palm, the raw, frantic pulse beneath his skin. His eyes meet yours for just a second, and he gives you a wink, a shaky attempt at something like normal. “Now, I have to go find where that girl ran off to. I swear, she’s becoming more of a pain in my ass this time around. And Peeta’s following her like a lost puppy.”

You chuckle softly, the sound breaking the tension between you both. “But you love them.” You smile up at him.

He shakes his head, his smile small but real. “But I love you more.”

And in that moment, you know he means it. Even if you’re both standing on the edge of an abyss. Even if you don’t know how you’ll survive the next few days, or if you’ll survive at all. Haymitch’s love is the only thing in this world that feels like it might be enough to hold you together.

But you can’t say that. You can’t say anything. Because the truth is, you’re terrified.

And you’re not sure you can be brave enough for both of you.

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@nikki-is-a-nerd , @quantumorquanta, @starvedhoe, @it-was-all-a-beautiful-dream , @andthevillainshallrises , @how-am-i-serpose-to-know , @honeybunnyboobear , @dedicatedfangirl2001 , @godwhyamionhere , @yoursrosie , @darylmysavior , @crossfandomslut , @passionkillerphil , @fallout-girl219 , @ramennudel , @onlyrealjoy , @narliesstuff

[graceroll]

this is what summer feels like

✿ Summary: After watching a tape of the second Quarter Quell, you immediately fall for the handsome and brave victor - Haymitch Abernathy. Since then, you've been a loyal sponsor for District 12.

✿ Pairing: Haymitch x fem! Reader

✿ Warning: NSFW | mentions of prostitution, creampie, unprotected sex, Older Man x Younger Woman

✿ Words: 5.2k (also available on AO3)

It's late at night, your friends just scattered home. You're sitting alone in the home theater, the large screen casting flickering shadows on your face.

Outside, the lights are on. You can see the giant posters of tributes hanging on the wall of the building across the street. Although nights in Capitol are usually restless, it is livelier now than usual. Bars on the street must be crowded with people, all gathered to enjoy the annual event. Every year, you watch the Games with friends. Different from most people here who are crazy about the Hunger Games, you just don't want to seem too out of place.

You look at the girl on the screen - unlike before, District 12 is no longer silent and obscure this year; there is a rare volunteer. You study her closely and find that she is really just like him, the same olive skin, the same gray eyes. More so when heard sister was reaped, she shouted, "I volunteer as tribute!" and resolutely stepped forward, with determination on her face. That look is familiar, one you saw years ago when first laid eyes on him. Perhaps it was then that you thought he was different. But over the years, you never see that in him again.

Although you come from a wealthy family that runs the largest shopping mall and body alteration center in Capitol, you never place a bet on the Games before this year. Maybe it really is as they sarcastically put it, that you are sanctimonious; no matter how hard you try, you can only be a casual spectator, unwilling to gamble with the lives of young children. Just thinking about it makes your throat tighten and bile rises. You believe that war is a double-edged sword, that the defeated don't become inferior and degraded just because they lose. It is too cruel to sacrifice young boys and girls for decades. But clearly, the great President Snow – Panem's #1 Peacekeeper - doesn't think so. Your opinion is obviously rebellious, so cannot air it out.

But this year, before the Games has even officially started, you're already throwing money down on Katniss and Peeta. Katniss wins the hearts of many by volunteering to stand up for her sister, while Peeta's heartfelt confession during the interview with Caesar captivates everyone. Additionally, they both got good grades in private sessions with Gamemakers. But there are more reasons compelling you to place your bets; somehow, you think they are like no other previous tributes from District 12.

Snapping back from flashback of the memory, you look up at the screen again, where Katniss lies pale and sweaty in a sleeping bag high up in the tree. She has been hiding deep in the woods since the Games began, until Gamemakers deliberately released fireballs to force her into the confrontation with the Careers. This agile and clever girl has managed to hold them off for now, but fireball burned her calf, leaving ugly, bloody wounds exposed to the air. Without proper medication to treat, she'll get infected. Although gifts in the early stages of the Games are not expensive, specific medicines are usually not placed in the Cornucopia and are hard to get directly in the arena, so generally worth a lot of money. But you still give a call.

After changing into a silk nightgown in bedroom, you just lie down on the bed when there is a knock at the door. At this late hour, only one person can arrive at your bedroom without the need for an announcement. You get up joyfully and jump forward to open the door.

Door opens. He is leaning against the doorframe, a dark blue suit slung over shoulder, few buttons of shirt undone and tie already loosened. He holds a bottle of wine in the other hand, but isn't drunk. Katniss and Peeta still need him, he cannot be drunk yet.

"I was thinking you wouldn't come." You say in mock annoyance, crossing arms over chest and not letting Haymitch in directly.

He eyes you teasingly when hearing that. "Why?"

"Sponsors for District 12 must be lining up right now, eager to send gifts into the arena."

He laughs. "Not that exaggerated. Even so, my number-one sweetheart still has the privileges."

Satisfied with this answer, you smile and pull on his tie, dragging him into the room as he closes the door behind.

You walk to the loveseat. He tosses suit aside and slumps down. You sit beside him, legs on the couch, cradling the hand he's not holding the drink and resting your head against his shoulder.

"No guards from downstairs to here, it's quite unsafe." He says, raising the bottle to drink, but you snatch it away and take a swig. His hand hovers in the air for a moment, head twisting to look at you in mild surprise.

"No need for that; you're taking the private elevator. I purposely don't arrange for anyone. Unless, of course, that dangerous person - is you." After swallowing the liquid in the throat, you reply. It's not his usual favorite hard stuff.

"How do you know I'm not? I am a victor, after all."

You look into his eyes, gaze moving from brows to nose and then to his lips. You think that he is no different from when you first met nine years ago, except for a bit of grayish stubble on the chin. But you really like the feeling of it brushing against inner of the thighs when he eats you out. Just thinking about it makes you clench your legs involuntarily and get a bit wet.

Nine years ago, you were in the University. One day at the party with friends, someone suddenly said that he had gotten a so-called 'uncensored' tape of the second Quarter Quell. Everyone was exceptionally excited. The rules of that one was different from usual, as each district had to send double tributes. But for some reason, the video of 50th Hunger Games was rarely shown publicly, and the widely available version was heavily edited. It was said that the original version was much more watchable, much gorier, and exciting, so you and your friends watched it together in a home theater.

At the beginning of the tape, sixteen-year-old Haymitch did not cry like most non-Career; instead, he walked up to the stage with steely eyes. Coupled with black curly hair and silver-gray pupils, he appeared surprisingly handsome. Once stood on the stage, he looked fondly into the crowd as camera cut to a woman and a young boy, then - a girl.

The subsequent parade was quite dull. He was a lone ranger in training center. After the Games began, initially he was on his own, then met one female tribute from the same district and dutifully protected her. Later, he encountered three Careers. Although had not been specifically trained for the Games, he still managed to kill two of them, which made you see him in a different light. What truly changed your perception of Haymitch was the final showdown, where he used the arena's force field to kill the final opponent - so clever. You seemed to have a hard time not falling for such a handsome, brave, committed and intelligent victor. The 65th Games was coming up, and you decided to find a chance to meet him then.

On the first day of the 65th Games, you wore a dove-gray strapless dress and a simple pearl necklace to the banquet hall, where mentors would be here to pull in sponsors for their tributes. You wore light makeup, and purple hair was simply styled in curls, no wig. You might be the least Capitol-like person here, not even taking various injections into the face or alternate body like the others. Most of the sponsors in the room were gathered around the mentor from District 4, which had sent an exceptionally good-looking boy this year, who also got high scores in his private session. Before the Games even began, all your friends had already become his loyal followers.

You looked around for your target and immediately spotted him sitting alone on a large couch, staring blankly at a glass of wine in hand. You were struggling to endure the high heels, so felt a bit relieved to be able to sit down.

You scooted small steps towards him and were about one foot away when he noticed you, his eyes scanning you up and down. Your heartbeat began to race and as you came to sit beside him on the couch, you said, "Mind me joining you?"

He raised the eyebrows, "Of course not." You beckoned an Avox to come over, hesitating a little at the various drinks on the tray in his hand. At this point, you naturally took the glass from Haymitch's hand and took a sip—it's whiskey—then handed it back and took the same thing for yourself. Looking over at Haymitch, you found him staring at you. Then he took a sip as well, lips just covering the spot where you left lipstick mark on the edge of glass.

"District 12 is off to a good start this year." You've dated boys, but never been with a man and didn't know how to approach him. In the past, scrawny tributes from District 12 mostly died in the bloodbath. While the girl didn't survive long either in this Games, the boy made it to the evening of the first day, which is a good sign, so complimenting his district might be a good choice.

"Perhaps. But it seems Capitol already has its favorite." He nodded towards the crowd surrounding the mentor from District 4.

You followed his gaze but said, "I believe that the scenery is better on the road less traveled."

You soon arrived at the door of the Hotel Suites. This was the most luxurious hotel in the Capitol, conveniently located near the game center, probably to make it easier for sponsors to get a more in-depth sales pitch from mentors for their tributes.

Haymitch stood close behind you, one hand on your ass. You could feel his wet, hot breath brushing against the back of your exposed neck. Your hand trembled slightly as pulling out the room key from clutch. Door opened with a 'beep'. He wasted no time, almost pushing you into the room.

After the door shut, you immediately turned around, wrapping arms around his neck and forcefully pressing lips to his. His lips were already slightly parted, inviting your tongue to enter. Your tongue slipped into his mouth and explored hungrily, sweeping across palate and licking teeth before tangling with his tongue. His grabbed and squeezed your ass. You withdrawn the tongue, luring him to follow into your mouth. There was much saliva, but for some reason, the sounds of kissing made you get more aroused.

You pressed tightly against him, feeling the hard erection against the small of your abdomen. You couldn't help but stop kissing and started moaning. He took the opportunity to bite your lower lip and tug it lightly, moving his hands from your ass to back and unzip the long dress. You stepped back to slip out of the gown and kicked it aside in high heels. Without a bra, your breasts were fully exposed to summer air.

Haymitch raised an eyebrow and smirked at the show. In the next moment, he took one nipple in mouth, licking and tweaking it. Of course, he wouldn't ignore the other one, pinching it between fingers while mouth sucked harder. You gasped involuntarily, threading your fingers through his hair and pressing his head against your tits, a clear signal that you don't want him to stop. He understood, moan escaping from deep in his throat in approval.

His mouth moved to the other side, sucking eagerly as hand trailed down to your stomach, eventually reaching the destination - between your legs. Two fingers slid along your folds. "Shit, you're so wet. Do you always get this wet for all the victors?" He paused the attention on your breasts and lifted head to talk to you. Hot breath sprayed over your nipples, making you shiver.

"No, just you. I think I've been wet for you for a while." You looked down directly into his eyes and replied. It was truth.

"Then it will be a waste if not to taste you." He said matter-of-factly, standing up and pinning you against the corner by the door. Knowing what was about to happen, you spreaded your legs openly. "Please."

He pecked a kiss on your lips, then ran tongue from your jaw to the hollow of neck, leaving a trail of kisses between your breasts and down the abdomen. Your shut eyes in pleasure.

He dropped to the knees, smoothly draping one of your legs over his shoulder as lips move to your pelvis. "Can you take off your shirt?" You opened eyes suddenly, seeing his curious look, and added, "It doesn't seem fair that I'm the only one naked." He smiled and nodded knowingly, pulling back to remove his suit jacket. As he dealing with his shirt, you reached one hand toward your thighs, fingering the clit slowly.

"Stop, I'm the only one who can make you come tonight." He commanded while undoing the buttons. "First with my tongue, then my cock."

You seemed to get even wetter at this and obediently stop the movements. After stripping off his shirt, he kneeled between your legs again, resting your right leg on his shoulder. You placed one hand on the back of his head and looked down at him. He held your left thigh with one hand while sliding index finger from your clit to entrance with the other. He lifted his gaze to meet yours, slid finger inside, then covered your clit with mouth, swirling tongue around it. You almost imperceptibly began to wiggle hips along with the movements of his tongue.

"Ah," You arched back and gasped. He licked harder, adding another finger to pump in and out. His head prevented you from closing your legs. "Haymitch -" You moaned. Then he alternated between sucking and licking your clit, his fingers moving faster inside you. You involuntarily grabbed his head and pressed it between your legs to fuck his mouth. You got even wetter. "Yes, yes, just like that." You pleaded. He responded with a hum, sending tremors through that bud. The quiet room was filled with your gasps and whimpers, only a little louder than the sound of his tongue and lips sliding between your wetness. His back beneath your legs grew hotter, covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

Your breathing became rapid as pleasure suddenly surged between thighs. Just then, Haymitch took your clit into his mouth firmly, hands supporting your trembling legs. Now the stimulation was overwhelming - you tried to push his face away but only made him suck harder. "Haymitch!" you cried out as clutched at his soft curls, "Ah, I'm coming." Your whole body shuddered as inside clenched around his fingers. He didn't stop, dutifully kept going until your orgasm subsides before withdrawing fingers and licking into your pussy to clean up the gushing wetness.

Once your body calmed down, he pulled back and wiped his mouth with hand, then rubbing it on pants before standing up. You were still panting heavily, limbs weak and barely able to stand straight. He wrapped an arm around your waist and gave you a kiss. You just responded lazily and could taste yourself on his tongue. "You taste so good," he murmurs against your lips, and you smiled. "I can't wait to feel you come on my cock."

"I can't stand now." you said. He picked you up and carried you to bed, tossing you onto it. On one side of the bed was a floor-to-ceiling window, with one-way glass overlooking the cityscape, and the other side faced with a large full-length mirror. He took off your high heels that had tormented you for so long, then turned on the bedside lamp. You spread your legs toward the mirror and could see slickness on pubes glistening in the light.

He walked to the opposite side of the bed. As you started to turn around, his voice dropped into a commanding low growl. "No, face the mirror and get on your knees." The firmness in his tone sent another throb through your still oversensitive clit. Obediently, you positioned yourself on all fours and looked into the mirror. He unbuckled the belt, then yanked down pants and underwear altogether. His thick, swelling erection poked out from the dirty pubic hair, up against the lower abdomen. You swayed your ass slutly.

He swallowed hard, then took off shoes and immediately got on the bed as well. His large palms grabbed and kneaded the round flesh of your ass eagerly. You closed your eyes and let out a soft moan, instinctively arching back into his touch. Suddenly, a sharp slap echoed, sending the stinging pain across one side of cheeks. You flinched and gasped, but he bent down and kissed there. The pain quickly melted into pleasure.

He repeated the same on the other side, and slid the thumb into your slickness, groaning as he felt how soaked you were. "Seems like you're enjoying," he murmured.

"Stop teasing me." You huffed impatiently.

He grinned at that and gave his cock a few firm strokes, then grabbed it in hand to glide the head gently up and down your ass. It brushed against the slick precum beading at his tip. You lowered upper body even more, presenting yourself in anticipation. When he finally pushed in, both of you released sighs of relief. Between assignments and exams, it had been a while for you to date - let alone sex.

He was thicker and bigger than any guy you had ever been with before. He slowly thrust into the halfway, pulled back a bit then buried completely. "You're so tight." he gritted through clenched teeth.

You were kind of proud and asked in mock innocence, "Do I feel good?"

"I'll show you how good I feel," he said, slamming hard. "It'll feel even better when you come inside me." You half moaned, half gasped as he growled low and started fucking you in earnest. You were soaked that there was no resistance to his movements at all. You looked up and locked eyes with him in the mirror; he hooked the hands under your thighs, pulling you frantically towards his pelvis. The lewd watery sounds of his cock going in and out drove you wild. You slipped one hand down to where your bodies connected, cupping his balls in palm and massaging gently. He gasped in surprise and slowed the pace. "Yeah, I like that."

"Fuck me harder, ah—" you demanded impatiently. He immediately pounded you more violently. Each time, he would pull the head to the entrance, then slammed it back all the way in. Your slick lips pressed against his pubic hair, his balls slapping rhythmically against your thighs. Although this felt good, your clit craved attention. Your hand moved to rub it, fingertips occasionally brushing his dick slick with your arousal. "Good girl, touch yourself for me." He moaned.

Your cries grew louder as the hand supporting your body began to go limp. Eventually you could only collapse onto the bed, but he still held onto your ass. After a few minutes, he wrapped his arm around your waist and lifted your upper body, so your back was pressed against his chest. He didn't stop; seeing your bouncing tits in the mirror, he grabbed them in hands to knead. You moaned as your fingers tangled in his hair while the other hand still moved between your legs. His tongue licked over your earlobe, "Want me to rub your clit?" You squeezed your eyes shut, barely managing to reply, "No, just pinch my nipples. Please." He immediately twisted your nipples, both thumbs pressing down and circling them. "Mmm..." you wiggled your ass in rhythm with his fingers.

But he always slipped out in this position, and after the fourth time he pulled out. "No -" you just began to protest at the sudden emptiness without him, but he pushed you onto the bed and flipped you over. He spread your thighs, grabbed a pillow to prop under hips, and without wasting any time, thrust back inside. This angle allowed him to go even deeper, and you could feel every inch of him.

He leaned down to swallow your cries. You grabbed his veined forearms with both hands, only able to tangle his tongue mindlessly in the intense pleasure. When he slid hand down between your bodies, you clenched inside around him, had to push his face away and screamed into the air. "Don't stop. Don't stop."

"You like that dick? Huh? You fucking like that dick?" He asked with a growl.

"I love it, so much, don't stop." You closed your eyes and shook your head from side to side begging him.

"Open your eyes. Look at me," His tone left no room for refusal.

You struggled to open them; his gaze was wild. Neatly styled hair became disheveled under your eager rubbing. Sweat dripped from his hairline to chin. He lowered his head to take one nipple in mouth. You moaned and played with the other, with legs tightening around his waist.

After a while, he released your nipple and pressed lips against your breast. His movements grew erratic. "I - ah – gonna come."

You squeezed him tighter and said, "Come for me." With an embarrassingly loud moan, he thrust hard a few more times. His cock was pulsing inside as he filled you up. The sensation was incredibly intoxicating. He collapsed onto you gasping for air, but you didn't mind the weight of his body at all, even like it. He lifted his head to kiss you, and you respond languidly. He pulled out and rubbed the length between your folds. Semen flowed down your thigh and the head brushed against your clit made you break the kiss.

As if remembering something, Haymitch propped himself up, grabbed the shaft and flicked your clit with the tip. "Shit." You pushed at him, but he instinctively grabbed both of your wrists. The pleasure between legs built higher and higher. You closed your eyes and stopped resisting. The hotel had great soundproofing, so you screamed loudly without any worries. "Theretherethere!" A flash of white light burst behind your eyelids, and you cried out, arching your back as he pressed you back down and hastily thrust his semi-hard cock inside again. Feeling the rapid contractions of your pussy, he let out a soft moan.

You both panted heavily, chests rising and falling rapidly. He planted several kisses casually on your neck and face before getting up from the bed and walking into the bathroom. The sound of running water came from inside. A few minutes later, he returned with a wet towel. Seeing his softened cock sway with each step, you were surprised at how quickly you could become aroused again. But there were more important matters at hand, so you thought, next time - next time you wanted to find out how many rounds he could go in one night.

He cleaned you up with the warm, wet towel. You were so touched by his thoughtfulness, reaching out to let your fingers glide across his chin. "You can tell them that I will pay for all the gifts."

He stopped what he was doing and looked at you. "Thanks."

However, as soon as the parachute landed in the arena, the Careers hunting at night slit the throat of the male tribute from District 12.

Ever since then, if the tributes from District 12 are not eliminated at the very beginning of the Games, you send gifts every year.

"Thank you." He turns his head slightly, pressing his lips in your hair as he says.

"For what?" You asks curiously, tilting your head up to look at him.

"Thank you for sponsoring District 12. Katniss has already gotten the ointment." You secretly breathed a sigh of relief, withdrawing one of the hands holding him and moving to rub his crotch. Then you kneel on the ground to unbuckle his belt and pull out the shirt tucked into his waistband. "I thought I was the one who should be thanking you." Haymitch raises an eyebrow in amusement, lifting his hips considerately as you help pull down his pants. He takes off his tie, then grabs the back of collar to pull the shirt off directly.

"I have the right to define my own rewards," You eagerly grasp the hot length and stroke it slowly. "And this is exactly what I want." One hand rest on his thigh while the other grips the shaft of his dick, you lick away the precum gathered at the tip, then swirl tongue around the head before sucking hard. "Fuck." He curses. You moan in response, looking up at him through long lashes. His eyelids flutter, like he's not sure whether to close them completely and enjoy, or just watch you suck his dick.

"I love your cock." You spit out the head and hover over it, saliva pooling in your mouth before you spit it onto the tip. "Yeah, that feels good" He closes his eyes again as you take him back in, swallowing more. He's big, but after these years, you get used to it. You lick the underside of the shaft, hands pumping the rest you cannot take. The wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your mouth filling the air.

Suddenly, you want to try something you haven't done much before.

You gently caress his balls, then swallow him as much as you can until the head hits the back of your throat. "That's it, do it again." You do it once more, gradually picking up speed and fucking your mouth with his dick. He instinctively thrusts up. You must hold him down to prevent choking. You suck your cheeks in hard, and a few minutes later, he says, "Stop, stop." You widen your eyes and his cock still in your hand - this must look funny. But he just laughs, "I love it, but there's no time for round two today. I want to come inside you."

You wipe your mouth clean with the back of your hand and climb onto his lap, straddling him. "Me too. I want to feel your cum dripping out of me." You murmur against his lips. He grabs your ass and stands up abruptly, your legs subconsciously wrapping around his waist. He carries you to the bed, lays you down, and then lies on his back. "Come on, use my cock to make yourself come."

You take off the nightgown and throw it on the floor. He spreads his legs, and you kneel on either side of his thighs, gripping the erection pressed against his abs and slowly lowering yourself down until his balls hit your ass. "You're so big…" You can't help but sigh, and he looks quite smug. "I've heard that before."

You don't respond, hands braced on his chest as rocking back and forth. The reward is instant - the coarse pubes rubbing against your clit sends mild pleasure. He tugs at your nipples, and you grind harder. "Oh God!" Suddenly, you scream out, stopping completely as you come hard on his cock. "Damn, that was fast." You're still too dazed from the orgasm to say anything.

You collapse forward onto him, lips brushing his ear. He grips your waist and thrust up to fuck you frantically. Even though you've just come and are still sensitive, you bite his earlobe and whisper, "Harder."

Haymitch tightens his arms, "You want me to fuck you harder." He says, slamming his pelvis into your ass passionately. "Yes." The only sounds in the room are the rhythmic slapping of flesh and your moans. You hazily licked the stubble on his chin; unexpectedly, he pushes you on the side to fuck in spooning style. He slips one hand between the mattress and your body to palm your tit, while the other lifts your leg to rub the clit. You grab his hair and whimper, turning your head back and searching for an open-mouthed kiss from him. For a moment, his fucking loses the rhythm but soon resumes. The familiar sensation erupts between your legs again, forcing you to let go of his lips and collapse onto the mattress with legs squeezed together. "No, I don't think I can -"

"I think you can, sweetheart. Come on, just give me one more." You scream as he pins you down on the bed, his arms braced on either side of your head, continuing to pound hotly. Your cries are muffled in the pillows when he suddenly stops and starts grinding in circles. "Haymitch…" You squeeze him tighter. He lets out a trembling moan. "Yeah, squeeze me like that again, good girl." You obey, and he leans down to whisper dirty words in your ear, talking about how much he wants to fuck your mouth, how much he loves your tight little pussy, and how he always cums so hard when he jerks off thinking about that time you squirted all over his dick, even made his balls dripping. "I'm gonna come." This finally pushes you over the edge. Your walls fluttering rapidly, milking out his orgasm.

"Shit." You can feel his cock pulsing inside, thrusting forward with each spurt of cum before becoming completely still. Gasping for air, you turn your head. Instead of pulling out right away, he kisses you tenderly. A few minutes later, he gets off you and lies on his back beside. "You okay?" He asks.

"Never been better." You answer with a smile.

District 12 has two victors all at once and this is your first time attending the celebration dinner at the president's mansion. Haymitch has been busy introducing Katniss and Peeta to all the dignitaries and sponsors, but you don't care about such socializing so stay away. After all, you come here only just to see him again.

Theoretically speaking, he should be happy. This is the first time he has truly achieved success since becoming a mentor. Perhaps it's just your illusion, but Haymitch looks worried.

You want nothing more than to feel joy and quickly shake off that thought. When he is finally on a break, you pull him to a dark corner where no one is around to kiss him. He hesitates at first but soon responds eagerly. And before long, both of you are panting and have to pull away.

You step back, gazing at his swollen lips under the dim light. "Guess we'll see each other again soon." Victory Tour in six months, Capitol is the final stop. He will accompany Katniss and Peeta back here. In the past, you could only see him during the Games when he came to Capitol for mentoring the tributes. Although you are a generous sponsor, you won't call Haymitch back at will like others do with Finnick Odair.

He doesn't say a word, just smiles and wipes away a hint of saliva from the corner of your mouth. "Congratulations, Star Mentor. I'm sure there will be more victors from District 12." You say hopefully.

His thumb brushes against your cheek, his face suddenly thoughtful. "Yeah, I think these games are gonna be different."

End.

☪English is not my first language, so all the mistakes are mine. ☪Likes, reposts and comments are much appreciated.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

General Glitterbeard || Haymitch Abernathy ||

A/n: Haymitch deserve's some happiness.

It started with the flowers on Peeta’s leg. But once the cookies were in the oven and her hands were full of markers, there was no stopping her.

Haymitch had made the critical mistake of lying down on the couch.

Now, half-asleep and vaguely aware something was happening, he cracked one eye open to find your daughter hovering above him, tongue poking out in concentration as she carefully pressed a butterfly sticker to his forehead.

“What the—”

“Shh,” she whispered, patting his hair. “You’re a garden warrior now.”

He blinked up at you from under a halo of multicolored glitter and marker swirls. “A what?”

“You fight the bugs,” she said very seriously, reaching for a green marker to start drawing vines down his arm. “But only the mean ones. And you live in a sunflower castle.”

“Oh,” Haymitch replied, nodding like it all made perfect sense. “Course I do.”

You stifled a laugh as she started drawing a sword—more like a squiggle—on his cheek. He didn’t even flinch.

Peeta, from his place at the kitchen table, leaned over and whispered to Katniss, “Five years ago he’d have cursed the sky if someone looked at him sideways. Now look at him.”

Katniss smirked. “Covered in stickers, getting bossed around by a four-year-old.”

“Don’t laugh too hard,” you told her. “You’re next.”

“I’m going to be a moon witch,” your daughter said, looking at Katniss with delight. “But you have to wear a hat made of leaves.”

Katniss raised a brow, but there was a soft tug at her mouth. “I can live with that.”

Haymitch groaned theatrically, sitting up just enough to look at his arms. “Do I at least get a cool name?”

“General Glitterbeard,” she declared proudly, placing one final flower sticker on his chin.

Haymitch blinked. Then let out a short laugh, surprising even himself. “Alright, kid. You win.”

You watched them—your wild little girl and the once-gruff man who now wore flowers like medals—and your heart swelled with something deep and quiet and full.

Maybe the world hadn’t ended. Maybe it was just beginning, here, with cookies in the oven and glitter on the couch.

Katniss and Peeta left, excusing themselves for the day. Which meant that Haymitch can sit down and relax...if you can call it that since the man found himself trying to fix something his adorable child had made.

The man was distracted, as he carefully tried to tie the string around the newly crafted “garden warrior” paper crown Lina the adorable four year old had made him out of construction paper and pipe cleaners. He was muttering under his breath, frowning at the tangled knot.

That’s when she struck.

Lina tiptoed behind him, holding her newest treasure—a tiny fistful of loose glitter, freshly pilfered from her “art treasure box.” With the kind of chaotic glee only a four-year-old can channel, she leaned over his head and dumped it—glitter cascading like fairy dust over his black curls.

“Lina!” you half-gasped, half-laughed though it turned into a full blown snort, your turning your body away to hide your laughter. Your husband fully covered in glitter.

Haymitch froze mid-knot, his entire body going still as fine gold and silver sparkles settled into his hair, his shirt, even his eyebrows. A shimmer coated him like magic.

Before he could speak, Lina gasped dramatically and clapped her hands.

“Daddy!” she said, voice full of pure, glittering wonder. “You’re beautiful forever now!”

He turned to look at her, one brow raised, glitter clinging to his lashes. “Forever, huh?”

She nodded, bouncing slightly in place. “It’s special glitter. Can’t come off. Even if you take a bath. Now everybody will see you sparkle and know you’re the best daddy in the world.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing as Haymitch looked at you, silently begging for rescue.

“Don’t look at me,” you grinned. “You are kind of glowing.”

With a resigned sigh, he leaned back, letting her climb into his lap—glitter and all. She smooshed his cheeks between her hands and giggled when it puffed some of the glitter into the air.

“You like me this way?” he asked, teasing.

“You look like a hero,” she whispered seriously.

And for once, Haymitch didn’t make a joke. He just pulled her close, glitter and all, and rested his chin on her head.

“Guess it’s not such a bad look, then.”

[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

[am-i-interrupting]

Worth Keeping | Haymitch x Everdeen!Reader

Chapter 1 | Lost Bet

Summary: For the first five years of mentoring, Haymitch was not numb but indifferent to these new tributes, on their way towards death. This year, he's forced to change that approach when his childhood friend's little sibling is called at the reaping.

Your reaping best was a dress, knee length with sleeves that bellowed out. They were made from the slightly scratchy material of the produce bags from the capitol but that is precisely what gave the sleeves their shape. The thick material was easily manipulated and held its form rather well. The rest of the dress was made out of patches of left over fabric. A waterfall of colors. Your shoes were just regular boots, worn with time and age.

That didn’t matter. You always felt like a grand princess when you wore the dress.

It was your masterpiece. A thing you’d made over the course of a year. Carefully hiding fabric swatches when you thought they’d match the others you’d collected. You stitched it all together by your own hand and no one else’s.

You were proud of it and if the capitol didn’t like it for their shiny televisions, they could kiss your ass. ‘Cause you sure as hell weren’t gonna change it.

Burdock came up behind you. He ran his fingers through your hair. He hooked one around a small section. It was divided into three parts and he started braiding.

“Last year,” he said.

You wanted to nod but didn’t want to mess up his work. “Last year.”

There was a tense silence between the two of you. Your foot shifted from side to side beneath you. He wouldn’t look you in the face just like every other year.

“You’ll be fine,” he said as he tied off the braid.

You grabbed his hand and force a smile up at him, determined to not show your nerves. “I will be. I am.”

“You are.”

He sighed through his nostrils.

Every single reaping was different now. It didn’t used to be like this. Not years ago. It just so happened that the day of your first reaping two of your childhood friends were ripped away and neither of them came back.

“Come on, it’s getting depressing in here,” you said as you walked past your brother and out of the house door.

You breathed in the air. It was thick and heavy. There was a certain stickiness to it.

“It’s a miracle they don’t pack up their equipment,” you said, raising your voice loud enough so Burdock could hear from inside. “Rain’s in the air. Might ruin all their shiny shit.”

“They have the money to replace it,” he said as he closed the house door.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

The district was normally quiet before the reaping and booming after. There was no day people drank more and worked less.

“Where’s ma and pa?” you asked.

“They never came home last night,” he answered. “Apparently there’s some coyot pack that’s been around. They wanted to find it. Then they can sleep when they get back and have no consequences.”

“Other than pa complaining tomorrow about sore his feet’ll be.”

He snorted at that and pushed you along.

You almost wanted to take off your shoes and walk down the dirt path. There was something so satisfying about that feeling of the earth between your toes. You could do it later though and you’d done it enough to know how it felt by your heart.

The boots were just so confining. No matter how worn they were, they structured in a way. Maybe your foot could fit instead the shoe but it couldn’t sit the way it was supposed to when gravity caused it to spread.

If you got anything bigger though it would weigh down your foot and rub against your skin. No matter what kind of socks you put on, it would still manage to rub your skin raw.

You gave your name, waiting for the line up.

They always put the little ones in front. Those wide, innocent eyes filled with their first experience of fear and shock. No idea how it felt to be in that position until they were in it and not able to hide the way they felt now that they were.

The perfect expressive faces for television.

That’s all anyone in the districts was to the capitol. It’s the only time they ever seemed to care about making things at least look livable but not too livable. It all had to be clean but just dirty enough.

You gave Burdock a hug right before your name was called.

You saw your parents coming in the distance. Both with tiredness etched in their every being. Tam Amber and Clerk Carmine right by their sides. You gave them all a way.

You got your hand pricked by a capitol member for what would be the last time. Your blood was smeared across the white page along with all the others of age for what would be the last time. You walked to that little closed off place for the last time.

You were almost out you weren’t stupid. You weren’t out yet.

Being one of the oldest people meant your name was in there a lot more than some others. Just, hopefully it wouldn’t be you.

Hopefully.

The whole ordeal started.

Haymitch sat down on stage. He never really did stand. He’d tried his first year and he been too drunk to stand straight. He kept leaning from side to side. Now, like every year, he clutched a bottle in his hand and had a far off look in his eyes. His feet dangled off the edge of the platform. His back covered the bottom half of the microphone stand from view as he leaned on one hand and tilted his bottle with the other.

Reaping day was hard for everybody, especially since Haymitch’s games.

Not only was it the day that two kids were going to be sent off to their death. It was also now the day that a boy had died, killed in front of all of them for trying to escape the death sentence only to reach it early.

There had been a change since that day six years ago. It was no longer Drusilla Sickle who pulled the names. That change happened almost instantly.

Now she was replaced with a much younger woman. In her twenties. She always had brightly colored and drastic makeup. A shocking outfit. You’d heard her name was. . . It had an F in there, somewhere.

She, in contrast to Haymitch, had perfect posture even in her heels. Her movements were fluid and delicate. Always thoughtfully planned.

She had a high pitched but clear voice. Perfect pronunciation. A wonderful announcer’s voice with the cheeriness but somberness to fit the capitol and the district’s emotions. All performative, surely but that perfect balance nonetheless.

As with every other year the speech played. One that made many glare or roll their eyes.

No one wanted such a drawn out and lengthy process. At least not in the districts. Like a bandage, everyone wanted it quickly dealt with.

“Now, it is time for us to discover which courageous young man and woman will be select to represent District 12 in the fifty-sixth annual Hunger Games,” and though her voice was sweet it did almost make one yearn for the harsh vinegar of Drusilla again. At least she was direct with her ever present disdain.

“Ladies first,” she said before she placed her hand in the bowl. Her hand swirled above then went below the piles of paper. She shuffled them and then drew out a single piece. Your heart froze when your name was called.

A sinking feeling you’d felt once before came to you.

Your hand went to your bracelet on your wrist. Years old and once a necklace you’d outgrown. It was wrapped and twisted around your wrist. Colorful pieces of thread stolen from Lenore Dove’s bedroom at the age of eleven. A rock from the river you’d sneak to tangled in it. It was made by you and your childhood best friend’s collective efforts just weeks before your twelfth birthday when you would be eligible for slaughter.

You turned your head, half expecting to see her, and you did. A brief glimpse of twin braids that framed a heart shaped face and a scar on the forehead above grey eyes that looked at you with the exact same horror of which you felt now.

She was gone.

You clutched the smooth stone and walked past the girls in line. They parted with no hesitation.

You looked back and saw a brief glimpse of your parents, Burdock, Tam Amber, and Clerk Carmine all huddled together and all with the same.

Peace keepers forced you forward.

You met Haymitch Abernathy’s gaze. His bottle was down on the stage. His feet were planted on the ground. He was oddly steady.

You were marched forward. Every time your feet hit the ground it was like you were being shook to your very core.

You really wished you were barefoot just to feel this dirt one last time.

As you grew closer and closer, you could see him clearer. Tears began to well in your eyes but you forced your head to stay up tall as you blinked the down. Your breath hitched in your lungs, caught on your ribcage.

Everything was just coming back to six years ago again, it seemed, as you saw that numbness which covered up fear and hurt in Haymitch’s eyes.

He spoke not a word. You didn’t expect him to.

You walked up the steps and grabbed the woman’s offered hand. It was soft. She placed her arm around your shoulder and her back other hand on your upper arm. She rubbed her thumb up and down. You were guided to your place and her touch was gone.

“And now for the boys.” A moment of silence. “Milo Declan.”

Milo was a younger boy, only twelve years old. He had strawberry blond hair and brown eyes. His face was still round with baby fat of which he’d yet to grow out of and likely never would now.

You heard the drag of a bottle against wood. Haymitch tilted it back once more. He walked away from the and out of the camera’s view.

“May the odds be ever in your favor,” the woman said as she backed away.

Milo wiped his hands on his pants before he stuck one out to you. You grabbed it, shook it.

Then were suddenly in a room. Your mother and father visited you. Hugged you. Said words you couldn’t process. Were pulled out by peacekeepers.

Burdock came in after. He hugged you. Whispered words of love and pushed your hair out of your face as he looked at you close one last time.

It was when Tam Amber and Clerk Carmine came in that reality finally sunk in.

You collapsed in Tam Amber’s arms, crying into them. Smoke cling to his clothes even though he’d been nowhere near a fire. Clerk Carmine hugged you from behind.

“You better,” you began through hitched breath, “be singing loud enough that I can hear it when I step in that arena. I don’t want to die in silence.”

Both of the men held you tighter.

“You won’t, buttercup. You won’t,” was either could say.

[nebulaafterdark]

Exile (Part 5)

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

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

SoTR Spoilers

Part 4

“Sorry I…freaked out.” Are the first words out of Y/N’s mouth, the moment she realizes that Haymitch is awake.

“I’m sorry you’re in pain.” If she were bleeding on the outside, there are things he could do to help. A bandage, a tourniquet, kiss it better. There is almost nothing he can do to stop her from bleeding on the inside.

“It hurts less when you’re here.”

“I’ll be here.” Haymitch vows. He’ll hold his hand over her broken heart and apply steady pressure to her wound. He’ll make it better.

“But you won’t let me get too close.”

“You’re plenty close.” This is all there is. All that’s left of me and it’s yours.

“Snow’s gonna use me against you anyway.”

Haymitch huffs a laugh. “I’m very aware.”

“I meant what I said.” Y/N reminds him, “I won’t leave.”

“I’m not afraid of you leaving.” Good on you if you get away.

“Then what are you afraid of?”

Haymitch pauses for a long moment to consider, weighing the risks and benefits of telling her everything.

Forgive me, Lenore Dove and know that I do not love her like all-fire. I love her much gentler than that. No more and no less. I love her softly as the mangled sunflower held precariously together with Maysilee’s glue made of flour and spit.

“There was a girl…someone I loved.”

Y/N nods.

“Snow killed her too, not just my family.”

“Haymitch,” Y/N sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“Being happy with you feels like I’m-”

“Betraying her?”

“I thought I’d never…” love again.

“Thank you for telling me.” Y/N rests her hand over his. It all makes a little more sense now.

Once he starts talking, the dam breaks, with every dirty detail pouring through the cracks.

Her name was Lenore Dove.

She was eternally proud of her Covey roots.

She loved the woods.

She believed there was freedom outside the districts.

“She used to raise geese.”

“Makes sense.” Y/N lifts a shoulder.

“In what way?” Haymitch laughs.

“You’re like a goose,” she tells him. Taciturn, loyal to a fault.

“You might be onto something.” If I tell her that I love her, Snow will surely kill her, somehow, someway. Maybe he’ll make me do it myself. But if I never get the chance to tell her, it will surely kill me…and as she once confessed in the arena, Y/N is afraid of being alone. “We gotta get ready.” The tributes are waiting.

It must feel better, getting it off his chest. One day maybe she could talk about…things. The things that upset her mother enough her father forbade Y/N of speaking on them.

“Do you think that…. maybe with a good sponsor we could save one of them? If so, which one?” The boy or the girl?

“The girl.” He decides, “a good sponsor isn’t gonna save her from the careers but if she plays her cards right…maybe.” She’s not going to leave her kid brother behind.

“Ok.” Y/N nods.

————————————————————————

“When the gong sounds, don’t forget to run, grab a pack of supplies if you can. Search for water and high ground.” Y/N reminds Maximus, on the elevator to the hovercraft.

During Haymitch’s…sabbatical from mentoring, Y/N had to decide which tribute to join in the elevator. Usually the child who seemed most afraid. To bring some sort of comfort to them in their final moments. Last year she took the girl and Haymitch the boy, now they’ve switched.

Maximus is shaking and trying hard to hide it. “When will I see my sister?”

“Denali is waiting for you on the hovercraft, you’ll be together there.” Y/N assures him.

The boy nods, “thank you for trying to get us sponsors. It was real nice of you.”

“Honey, you have sponsors.” Y/N says, “all you need to worry about is-”

“Water, high ground, grab a pack if we can.”

“Yeah,” Y/N smiles, gnawing at the inside of her cheek.

“Do we hug or something?” He asks as the elevator doors open.

“We can.”

“Just don’t tell my sister.” Maximus insists, wrapping his arms around his mentor.

“Ok,” Y/N rests her cheek against the top of his head. Feeling the bones of his shoulder blades beneath her hand. Even though he hasn’t got much of a shot, she will not turn her back on this little boy.

“Time to go,” a peacekeeper reaches in through the open doors, dragging the boy away.

“I’ll be watching the whole time,” you won’t be alone. “Don’t be afraid.”

————————————————————————

The viewing room is full, with Capitol higher ups crowding around Y/N. Naturally the cameras follow.

“Look at you! So beautiful.”

“Your dress is a masterpiece.”

“Y/N! Did you see?” A particularly eccentric woman, wearing some sort of orange fur, motions to her nose. “Just like yours.”

Over the woman’s shoulder, Haymitch is laughing it up with a man she’s not familiar with.

“Wow,” Y/N smiles. “That is very nice.”

“I know the best surgeon. Everyone who is anyone-”

Y/N catches a glimpse of Cecelia, a fellow victor, from district eight. The first year Y/N came to mentor alone, most of the victors had already settled into cliques.

They were all polite enough, but no one was overly eager to explain the sponsorship system or how to send parachutes once she raised the money.

“You have to take the money up to the table and select from the menu.” Cecelia whispers.

“Oh, uh…thank you.” Y/N nods.

“Are you here by yourself?”

“Yes.”

Cecelia purses her lips, “you can sit with me if you want.”

Y/N sits with her for the next two years. Until last year, when she convinced Haymitch to join her, effectively sparking Snow’s curiosity.

The Capitol woman is still talking.

“Would you mind showing my husband?” Y/N asks. “He’s going to love this.”

“Of course!”

“Haymitch,” Y/N hails him over.

“You better go.” The Capitol man claps him on the back. “We mustn’t leave your lovely bride waiting.”

Haymitch’s blood runs cold. Did you watch? No. He stops himself. Knowing won’t help anyone. Instead he nods, stepping a few feet away to wrap a protective arm around his wife.

“This is my new friend, Synchrony.” Y/N tells him.

Some part of the woman is familiar to him, though he can’t put a finger on it. “Haymitch. Nice to meet you.” He extends a hand, which the woman swiftly takes.

“Likewise.”

“She was just showing me her nose.”

Her nose…your nose?

“Almost an exact replica.” Synchrony gushes.

“What do you think?” Y/N turns her head, so he can see from all angles.

“Well,” Haymitch chuckles. “It’s a great nose.”

“I thought so too.” The woman says, before flitting away at the sound of the anthem. “The games are about to begin.”

Y/N surveys the room, District one is cocky, as usual. Gloss, last year’s victor, has a sister who volunteered. And he couldn’t be more proud.

“District one, number one!” He exclaims at the sight of his younger sister lined up on her pedestal.

Her long blonde hair is held away from her face in two intricate braids. Cashmere.

Denali and Maximus have been placed at a notable distance, with careers on either side of the boy.

Haymitch sighs. She’s not gonna be able to get to him.

The surrounding forest seems to chitter with a life all its own. Cameras pan over the trees, revealing the horrors within. Spider mutts with fangs dripping venom and glowing red eyes. Weaving glistening webs, large enough to catch their human prey.

“Spider forest.”

“Not my favorite.” Y/N shifts closer to Haymitch.

The games begin with the sound of cannon and the tributes are off. Denali makes a mad dash for the cornucopia, grabbing two packs and a weapon. She does manage to reach her brother. They are nearly to the trees when Maximus takes a spear through his spine.

It’s the boy from two.

“Wooohooo, let’s go two.” His mentors rejoice.

First blood is always celebrated…by those who partake in celebrating death.

In a blind rage, Denali charges the careers, wielding her blade as though she’s trained for years to do it. She manages to take out the male from one, now abandoned by his partner.

Perhaps Cashmere did not consider the careers could become the target of a grieving girl from twelve.

Denali runs her weapon through the girl from two, after taking a good beating herself. Saving the boy for last.

“I was just playing the game.” He stammers, realizing that he will now have to take on the crazed girl, hand to hand. No more spear. No weapon at all.

“Game over.” Denali murmurs, all the light has left her eyes. She does not fear death. She has nothing to live for, apart from killing her brother’s murderer. She feels no pain.

Her cannon sounds not long after the boy from two’s, as though she hung on just long enough to hear it.

“I’ve gotta hand it to you, twelve.” Gloss calls, raising his glass to Y/N and Haymitch, “that was one hell of a show.”

I hope you choke.

————————————————————————

The viewing room begins to clear out around sunset. With both their tributes gone, the Abernathys are expected to attend the nightly festivities. Plutarch Heavensbee is hosting tonight.

Y/N excuses herself to the restroom before they’re escorted to a second location. In the fleeting moments, standing before her reflection at the sink mirror, Y/N has a moment to process what has happened.

Grabbing for the pristine white hand towel and dabbing it directly along her waterline. A trick Vanity taught her.

‘I do not care if you cry. Just don’t ruin your makeup.’

She used to cry more, in those first years after the games. Like a faucet that never stopped running.

“Are you ok?” A voice to her left whispers, announcing their presence.

“Cecelia,” Y/N whispers back.

“This is the only place the cameras don’t follow you these days, huh?” Her friend remarks. “That’s what happens when you buy into their agenda.”

“You think I bought into the Capitol?”

“You married your least favorite person in the world.” The woman lifts a shoulder. “If that’s not selling out, I don’t know what is.”

“I didn’t sell out, they were gonna sell me.” Y/N fights the urge to scream at the top of your lungs.

“I’m sorry, I had no idea.” Cecelia blanches.

“You could’ve asked,” Y/N snaps.

They stand in uncomfortable silence for a moment.

“They didn’t though, did they?” Sell you?

“They…recorded us. And sold it.” Y/N lowers her voice even further.

“Jesus Christ.” Cecelia’s stomach turns. “B-because you’re married? Do they do that to all victors?”

“Cecelia, I don’t know.” Y/N shakes her head.

Terror etches itself into the features of her face.

“I think it’ll be ok.” Y/N decides, “Teddy isn’t a victor. If they wanted to sell you, they would’ve done it by now.”

Cecelia nods.

“Just don’t draw any unnecessary attention.”

“Y/N,” Cecelia breathes. “You draw the attention.”

“Oh.” Oh, that hurts. It burns.

“They don’t care what I do, they never have. I’m not terribly interesting, or knowledgeable or pretty, I’m just Cecelia. The cameras and the people only hung around-”

“Because of me,” Y/N finally understands.

“It’s probably best if we…” keep our distance.

“Yeah,” Y/N twists the obnoxious diamond of her engagement ring around her finger.

————————————————————————

The Heavensbee estate is sizable, while lacking the grandiosity of President Snow’s mansion.

“Welcome, welcome.” Plutarch himself greets them. “Can I get you anything? Wine? Champagne?”

“How about some real liquor? Don’t hold out on me, Plutarch.” Haymitch says, keeping hold of Y/N’s hand, as they step over the threshold.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Plutarch grins. “Follow me.”

Party goers smile and wave as they pass, making their way to Plutarch’s personal stash. He hands Haymitch a bottle of deep caramel liquor.

Haymitch uncorks it, lifting the bottle to his nose and inhaling with an appreciative hum.

“Two glasses?” Plutarch looks to Y/N now.

“No thanks,” Y/N shakes her head, “just for Haymitch.”

Plutarch doesn’t argue. Reaching quickly for a crystal tumbler, before Haymitch can begin chugging directly from the bottle.

“Thank you,” Haymitch fills his cup to the brim.

“Of course.” Plutarch replies, “I was hoping you’d show.”

“Why’s that?”

“I haven’t had a chance to properly introduce myself to your wife.”

“Nice to meet you,” Y/N extends her hand for a shake. “I’m Y/N.”

“Plutarch,” he grips her hand, firmly, before releasing. “I know you’re the talk of the town, so I won’t take up too much of your time.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Would you join me for a game of chess?”

“Sure,” Y/N catches Haymitch’s gaze as Plutarch begins leading her away.

If she were in any real danger he would follow, but he doesn’t. Leaving only Y/N, Plutarch and his chessboard, in a room unsuitable for a party.

“You’ll have to forgive the mess, I don’t have many visitors here.”

“The all exclusive chess room,” Y/N deadpans, “everybody has one.”

The man chuckles. “I assume you know the rules.”

“My dad and I used to play.”

“Wonderful! You’re a shoe in. Please, sit.” Plutarch motions to the chair.

Despite the layer of dust and cobwebs covering a majority of the room, the purple velveteen chairs are perfectly preserved.

Y/N takes a seat, his pieces are red to her white. “This is a beautiful set.” Handcrafted, down to the pawns.

“It was a gift.” Plutarch says, making his first move.

Y/N considers trying to get more out of him, but it’s late and she doesn’t care all that much. Instead she moves her own piece into place. Her favorite play is the Queen’s Gambit, but he’ll surely be expecting that. She’ll have to take a quieter approach.

He’s paying more attention to the way she moves than the number of pieces she captures.

What’s your game, Plutarch?

“See that?” Plutarch grins, “you won.”

“I don’t give a shit about winning the game, I want to break the board.” Y/N smiles, in return.

“Life is a series of choices, much like chess. If you break the board, there will be a new board. You’ll get where you’re going a lot faster if you learn to play the game.” The man says, “moves and countermoves.”

Part 6

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