#haymitch abernathy x fem! reader

[erephene]

— , , 'Summer's Dying Light.'

⤑ Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!Reader. (Drabble)

WC : 1.2k.

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

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

AO3 LINK HERE!

~

The reaping is two days away.

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

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

And you—

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

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

But you know better.

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

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

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

He grins. “Do I need forgiving?”

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

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

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

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

You bristle. “That’s not your call.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you come back, I’ll marry you.”

He blinks.

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

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

You swallow. “Then you better come back.”

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

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

When he pulls away, his eyes are glassy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “I do. It’s you.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m scared.”

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

You slide closer, curling your fingers into his.

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

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

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

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

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

He closes his eyes.

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

“Don’t forget me.”

“I couldn’t if I tried.”

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

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

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

[onlybeeewrites]

Echos

Request: Could I request a one shot where Finnick odair x fem! Reader reunite after the reader is saved from the capital?

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Fem!reader

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Mockingjay violence, torture, psychological torture, jabber jays, peeta’s torture in the capital, Johanna’s torture in the capital, PTSD, anxiety, fear, capital manipulation, president snow

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pain. It was all you knew. Every breath, every moment since they dragged you from that godforsaken arena was laced with agony. You never should have left Finnick’s side. You had promised—sworn—that no matter what, you’d stick together. That you’d never risk losing each other again.

But you also remembered what Haymitch had told you before the Games. The plan.

He had pressed a golden bracelet into your hand—almost identical to Finnick’s. A token, a silent promise. A reminder of what you had to do. Keep Katniss and Peeta in the dark. Keep them both alive. But above all else, get Katniss out.

For a while, everything had been going according to plan. The bread had come, the signal was given, and the time had come to put Beetee’s strategy into motion. You had hope. This could work.

And then it all fell apart.

The explosion hit.

A blast of force sent you both you and Peeta flying, slamming you against a tree, knocking the wind from your lungs. The last thing you saw before everything went black was the blinding white light of destruction—debris raining down as the arena shattered.

Pain drags you back to consciousness.

It’s different now—sharp, aching, thrumming through every nerve in your body. Your head is heavy, your thoughts sluggish, and when you try to move, your limbs feel foreign, unresponsive.

The first thing you register is the cold. Not just from the sterile air, but from the hard surface beneath you, unforgiving and clinical. The second is the color. White. Blindingly white. The walls, the ceiling, the floor. Even the flimsy gown draped over your battered body. It’s like you’ve been erased, stripped down to nothing.

A cell.

You try to sit up, but the movement sends a sharp spike of pain through your ribs. Bruised—maybe cracked. Your wrists are raw, red marks circling them, though you don’t remember why. You don’t remember much at all beyond the explosion. Beyond the moment the arena fell apart.

The soft hiss of a door opening snaps you to attention.

Boots echo against the floor, slow and deliberate. You force yourself to look up, and ice coils in your veins.

President Snow stands before you.

He’s composed as ever, dressed in crisp white, his cold blue eyes studying you like you’re an insect pinned beneath glass. A faint, almost amused smile tugs at his lips. In his hands, he cradles a pristine white rose.

You steel yourself, masking the fear clawing at your throat. You don’t speak first. You won’t give him the satisfaction.

Snow takes a slow breath, inhaling the scent of the rose before his gaze locks onto you. “You’re quite the survivor, aren’t you?”

You say nothing.

“I must admit, I was quite disappointed to see you among those extracted from the arena. A shame, really. I had hoped for better from a Victor of District Four.” He tilts his head. “Finnick Odair’s love.”

Your stomach twists at Finnick’s name, but you keep your face blank. You don’t know where he is. If he made it out. If he’s even alive.

Snow takes a step closer, watching you carefully. “You see, we know there was a plan. We know the Quarter Quell was never meant to go as intended. The rebels orchestrated this, didn’t they?” He crouches slightly, lowering himself to your level. “Why don’t you save us all some time and tell me what you know?”

You blink at him, forcing your expression into something blank, confused. “Plan?” Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Snow sighs, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “Lying is beneath you.” He leans in slightly, and you catch the faintest hint of blood beneath the overwhelming scent of roses. “Very well. We have ways of making you talk,”

And you know he’s right.

And the pain he afflicts never left. It simply changed—sometimes sharp and searing, sometimes a dull ache that settled in your bones—but it was always there.

Time blurred in the Capitol. You didn’t know how long it had been since they ripped you from the arena, since the explosion stole you away from Finnick. Days, weeks… it could have been months. You weren’t sure anymore. You weren’t sure of anything anymore.

They never let you rest. The sterile white walls, the blinding overhead lights, the sound of footsteps approaching and retreating—it all became part of your existence. And then there were Peeta and Johanna.

You caught glimpses of them when they dragged you through the halls, when you passed rooms where screams bled through the walls.

Peeta was barely recognizable anymore. The hijacking, the tracker jackers, had shattered him, stolen the light that used to live in his eyes. He couldn’t focus for long, his mind darting from one fleeting thought to the next. His words were broken, a disjointed mess of confusion and hurt. His body trembled constantly, his hands shaking as if they couldn’t hold onto the fragments of his sanity. He would mumble to himself, apologize for things he didn’t understand, and then, in a fit of panic, beg you to stay, to tell him he wasn’t lost. And you would do your best to assure him, sooth him from across the room.

It was unbearable.

Johanna was different. She was quieter, but there was something hollow in her. Her body shook violently from withdrawal, her lips cracked from dehydration. The Capitol had drowned her over and over again, only to pull her back just before she crossed the line between life and death. When she looked at you, there was no spark of rebellion, no fire. Just exhaustion and pure resentment that kept her going.

And then there was you.

They had their own way of breaking you.

At first, they kept it simple—pain, starvation, isolation. Keeping you across the room from your friends. Close enough to talk. Close enough to hear their screaming. But not close enough to comfort.

But then they brought you to that room. The one with the speakers hidden in the walls, where the shadows were deeper, where the air felt heavier. And they made you listen.

Jabberjays.

You had heard them in the arena before, their eerie mimicry of loved ones’ voices meant to torment you. You had seen Finnick fall to them, and Katniss. And it had broken your heart seeing how they were reacting.

But that had been nothing compared to this.

The pain had been your constant companion, gnawing at you, twisting every second into an eternity.

They didn’t just sing—they screeched. The birds were torture incarnate, their calls designed to break the mind, to twist the memories into something ugly. They brought you to the room, the sterile walls designed to keep you isolated, to amplify the terror in your heart. They had programmed the birds to sound like those you loved—those you had failed.

At first, it was a whisper. A voice you thought you recognized, but it was distorted, cracked, like the sound was being pulled through a filter of madness. It came slowly, building, growing louder.

It was impossible. You had never heard that tone from him before. Finnick never spoke like that. But there it was, his voice accusing you, twisting the memory of his care, of his laughter, into something venomous. The birds sang it over and over, forcing you to hear the words that ripped at your very soul.

And then the voice changed again.

The words cut through you like a knife, too sharp, too raw. His voice, so young and full of trust, was unmistakable. But it was a voice that had long since faded from your memory. The bird had twisted it, made it sound like something darker, like something hateful. Your little brother who you did everything to keep safe.

It wasn’t the voice of a child who loved you. It was the voice of a child who felt abandoned, who had been left alone. The bird screamed again, louder this time, its voice shrill and echoing, sending waves of nausea through you.

The birds’ voices layered one on top of the other, drowning out your thoughts, breaking the barrier between reality and the spiraling nightmare that consumed you. It was as though every painful memory, every regret, every mistake you had ever made, was being replayed and twisted into something ugly. Something unforgivable.

The walls seemed to close in as you sank deeper, the birds’ calls surrounding you, clawing at your mind, twisting your thoughts. It was endless. The repetition, the overwhelming weight of their words, started to chip away at you. You could feel your sanity slipping, each scream from the birds tearing a hole inside your chest.

The pain, the guilt, the spiraling madness was too much. You had no defense left. The voices echoed, screamed, whispered, and everything you had held onto was cracking, shattering like glass. Your hands trembled, your heart raced, and you were drowning in the sound of their accusations.

The sound of Finnick’s broken voice, Annie’s hollow sadness, and the desperation in your brother’s cries—each one felt like a new blade slicing into you. Each call, each accusation, only deepened the spiral you were trapped in. Your chest ached with the weight of their pain, your soul shattered from the guilt of it all. The torment was endless, suffocating.

In the haze of madness, time felt like an abstract concept—blurred, stretched beyond recognition. The room seemed to shift around you, but the stillness of it pressed in like a vice. It was as though you were stuck in this moment forever, caught between memories and nightmares. You couldn’t tell when you were moved from one place to another.

Even then as you laid on the cold, white floor of your cell, the sterile walls closing in around you. The trembling never stopped. It was like a constant hum in your body, a fear that never quite left. Your back was pressed against the smooth, unforgiving surface of the wall, your eyes staring blankly at nothing in particular.

Your mind felt detached from reality, a fog clouding every thought. The voices of the Jabberjays still echoed in your head, their cruel distortions of Finnick’s, Annie’s, and your brother’s voices a constant reminder of the horrors they had subjected you to. You couldn’t escape it. You couldn’t escape them.

You barely noticed the sounds at first—footsteps, muffled voices, the faint shuffle of boots on the hard floors. Then the door to your cell opened with a sharp hiss, and for the first time in what felt like ages, you looked up. Someone was standing there, silhouetted in the dim light, their features too blurred to make out. You didn’t know if it was real, if you were dreaming again, or if it was just another cruel trick of the Capitol.

A hand reached out, tentative, like they were unsure of how to approach you. “You’re alright,” a voice said softly, but with a firmness that cracked through the haze in your mind. “We’re here to get you out.”

But the words felt distant, disconnected, as though they were coming from underwater. You couldn’t trust anything. Your heart pounded in your chest, fear bubbling up from deep within. This could be another trap. Another lie. You weren’t sure who this person was, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to know.

Before you could even form a coherent thought, a sharp scent flooded the room, heavy and sickly sweet. The next thing you knew, the room swirled around you—shapes and sounds warping—and the last thing you heard was the voice again, more urgent this time: “It’s okay. We’re getting you out.”

And then, as the smoke thickened and your vision blurred, everything went black.

The first thing you felt when you woke up was confusion. It was disorienting—your senses a blur, your mind fragmented. You were in a room, but it wasn’t your cell, wasn’t the sterile white of the Capitol. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic, and the soft hum of machines around you was both strange and oddly comforting.

But that didn’t mean you were safe. Not yet. Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes darted around, trying to make sense of the chaos. Doctors in white coats were moving quickly, their voices a frantic buzz. Someone was touching your arm, their hands too firm, too urgent.

You flinched away, panic surging through your veins as memories of the Jabberjays twisted into your mind. The screams of Finnick, Annie, and your brother—distorted and cruel—ripped through your thoughts again. Was this just another trick? Were they going to use the birds again? Were you being captured all over again?

“Please, just… just stop,” you gasped, your voice raw, barely audible. You scrambled, trying to pull yourself away from their grasp, but your limbs were weak.

“Shh, shh, you’re safe,” one of the doctors whispered, but you didn’t trust it. You couldn’t. Safe didn’t exist anymore.

They tried to hold you down, to reassure you, but the more they touched you, the more your skin crawled. Your breath was coming in ragged gasps as the room closed in, and the walls felt like they were suffocating you. Everything felt too bright, too loud. You wanted to escape, to run, to hide from the chaos.

Then you heard it—his voice.

“Where is she? Where is she?”

Your heart skipped a beat, a raw, desperate sound. Finnick’s voice. But it couldn’t be him. You tensed, a jolt of panic shooting through you. No, no, no—this isn’t real. It’s not real.

The words that came next weren’t comforting—they were the birds, mimicking him, twisting his voice. It was too much. Your pulse raced, your body trembling violently as you backed away from the doctors, too afraid to look.

“Where is she?” Finnick’s voice called again, closer this time. “Please, please, I need to find her.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The memories collided in your mind, his voice and the twisted birds, and you weren’t sure where one began and the other ended.

Then, out of the chaos, a familiar face emerged. Finnick. His face was drawn, haunted, but his eyes—his eyes—they were the same. He was real. The fog in your mind started to clear, the panic slowly ebbing away as you locked onto him. The sight of him, standing there, filled you with a raw, aching relief. But the confusion still clung to you, the terror that this was a trick.

He stepped closer, his hand outstretched. “It’s me, sweetheart” he said softly, his voice full of something gentle, something full of warmth you thought you’d lost forever. “I’m here. You’re safe. It’s over.”

Your body froze, heart hammering in your chest, but then something inside you broke. You couldn’t hold onto the fear anymore, couldn’t push him away. You collapsed into him, falling into his arms, the weight of the months of torture pressing down on you, flooding you with every raw emotion you’d been holding in.

The warmth of Finnick’s embrace is overwhelming, like a beacon in the dark. For a moment, it feels surreal, like you’re still trapped in the nightmare, that you’ll wake up any second and be back in that place, alone and broken. But when his arms tighten around you, when he whispers against your hair, you realize that this—this is real.

Finnick was home. His scent, his touch, the way his body feels against yours—it’s everything you’ve been missing, everything you’ve been longing for. For so long, you thought you would never feel this again. You thought you were going to die there, in that cold, endless nightmare.

“I thought I was going to die there,” you murmur, your voice barely a whisper, a broken sob escaping as you clutch him tighter. The words spill out before you can stop them, the weight of them sinking deep into your chest. “I thought… I thought I’d never make it out. That I’d never see you again.”

Finnick pulls back just enough to look at you, his face full of sorrow, guilt swirling in his eyes. “You’re here now,” he says, his thumb gently brushing across your cheek, wiping away the tears. “You’re safe. You’re with me now, and I’m never leaving you again. I swear it.”

The sound of his voice, steady and unwavering, cracks something deep inside of you. It’s like the world around you shifts—like you’re not alone anymore. Like you’re finally home.

He takes a slow, deep breath and leans his forehead against yours, his hand still cradling your face with gentle care. “I know… I know it’s been hell,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m never leaving you again, sweetheart,”

You nod against him, your breath shaky, but his presence is like an anchor, grounding you, pulling you back from the abyss. Your body trembles, not from the cold or the fear, but from the raw relief that courses through you.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel safe, or at least the illusion of it. Either way, you didn’t care. And for the first time since the reaping, maybe you can properly start to breathe.

[maycat-19-142]

Haymitch x daughter reader

⚠️: Spoilers, drinking, ptsd, talk of suicide.

A/n: let me know if I missed anything in warnings

Definitely drunk Fling

After Lenore he never really loved like that again

You were left on his doorstep with a note from your mother

You grow up fairly normal, besides your father's drinking which he lessened but still does

And his ptsd of the games

He never really talked about the games

You knew it was bad, every year for his birthday he was horrified for your safety

You would bake with your friends family's and bring it home for his birthday

He loved it and would appreciate it more than life itself

If you ever got picked for the games he would basically end himself

He was more of a reck than normal

And going through bottles a day, effie has to hide the liquor

Your victory is the greatest and most horrific thing for him yet her has no memory

When you reunited he never wanted to let you go

You stayed away from the spot lights for years after

Then katneis and peeta

The plan with them was pure insanity

Yet they are safe

The 75th is horrific for everyone

He is begging you not to volunteer

Katneis volunteers when you are called

You are the only one to see him drying up in his hole in 13

He loves you so much, you are is life and his reason for living even after the war

Have a good day and night 🌙

Pixie out 🧚‍♀️

[cabotwife]

When The Chips Are Down

johanna mason x fem!reader

warnings: not canon compliant in some ways, blood and injury mention

word count: 1371

a/n: quick little thing before work

you can’t feel your arm.

not in the numb, cold way. you’ve felt that before, on the train staring at the capitol skyline, frost in your throat and nowhere left to run. no, this is different.

this is wrong.

you’re losing blood. you know it by the heat dripping from your shoulder, the sticky pull of your shirt clinging to the wound. the foliage blurs as you stumble through it, branches whipping your face, legs burning.

behind you the forest moans mechanically. something living and nonliving all at once.

you’ve lost count of how many tributes are still alive. it doesn’t matter anymore. they’re hunting you. specifically you.

and you don’t know why.

you fall near a moss-covered log, face first into the damp earth. the scent of rot fills your nose.

you try to move, but your body refuses. you roll onto your back, gasping for breath.

a figure makes their way out of the leaves.

you blink. once. twice.

she doesn’t speak, just crouches down beside you, axe in one hand and mud streaked on her face. her expression is unreadable. calculating. somewhere between annoyance and disbelief.

“didn’t think you’d make it this far out,” she mutters. “been lookin’ for you.”

you open your mouth to say something, anything honestly. help me, kill me, looking for me? but nothing comes out.

she rolls her eyes. “yeah, yeah. save the drama.

then she grabs your good arm and hauls you up.

you expected pain and you got it.

johanna moves fast. she slings your arm over her shoulder and half drags, half carries you through the brush like you weigh no more than a sack of potatoes. she doesn’t slow down when you groan or falter.

you’re not too sure why she’s helping. all you know is that she is.

𓇢𓆸

it takes hours to reach a shelter, a hollowed-out space beneath a split tree trunk, hidden by a curtain of leaves. inside, it’s cramped and dark, but the temperature is a few degrees cooler. the air tastes like damp moss and pine. safe. almost.

she sets you down with a grunt. “you better not die. that would really fuck up my day.”

you blink up at her, half delirious. “you’re not gonna kill me?”

she gives you a look. “why would i have carried you all the way here if i was just going to kill you? if i was gonna, i would’ve already.”

fair point.

she rips your shirt near the shoulder, exposing the wound, and clicks her tongue.

“you’re lucky. missed anything vital. mostly.”

then she cleans it. not gently by any means.

you hiss, jerking away. “careful–”

“don’t be a baby.” her hands are steady, unmoving. “it’s just a little bit of pain. you’ve felt worse.”

you want to argue, but she’s right. you’ve both felt worse.

the bleeding eventually slows. the fire never comes– she doesn’t risk it. too dangerous, she says. too visible. instead, she wraps you in some sort of foil blanket and drops a strip of dried meat into your lap.

“hope you’re not vegan.. are you?”

you manage a dry laugh. “well, not anymore.”

𓇢𓆸

night falls. the sky above you both is choked with smoke. somewhere in the distance, a cannon fires.

neither of you speak.

you lie on your side, watching her pace the tight perimeter of the shelter like a restless animal. she doesn’t look over to you even when she speaks.

“they’re watching you.”

you freeze. “what?”

“you’ve got sponsors. someone high up.” she finally looks at you, mouth tight. “they don’t send packs of mutts after just anyone.”

you swallow hard, “why?” even in your own games, you never got a single sponsor. you’re quiet and keep to yourself, they weren’t interested in you. and they certainly weren’t happy when you won.

she shrugs. “maybe you smiled wrong on camera. maybe you remind snow of someone he hated. doesn’t matter.”

“then why are you helping me if you know i’m a target?”

she doesn’t answer right away. just leans against the wall and picks at the dirt under her nails.

“because you don’t know how to play their game,” she says finally. “and i’m tired of watching good people get ground to dust.”

you stare at her. for a good amount of time.

“you think i’m good?”

she laughs, almost bitter. “no. i think you’re real.”

𓇢𓆸

the days blur after that.

you don’t heal so much as scab over. the pain stays, dull and constant, but you move anyway. you keep close to the brunette, learning her rhythms. the way she listens before moving. the way she tests berries twice before eating them or offering them to you. the way she sleeps in four-minute bursts, axe always in her hand.

johanna doesn’t talk much. but when she does it’s all bite and no apology.

you grow used to her dryness. to her muttered insults and sideways glances.

sometimes, they even feel like affection.

one night she shoves the last half of some kind of protein bar she had been sent into your hand, without even looking at you.

you say, “y’know, you’re not as mean when you’re tired.”

she snorts. “don’t get used to it. i just don’t want to waste food.”

𓇢𓆸

another day. another trap you stumble into.

this time, it’s the fog. acid, creeping in through the trees like a living thing. it burns where it touches your skin. your legs blister. your hands seize.

she carries you again.

doesn’t say a word. just throws you over her shoulder and runs.

afterward you both collapse on a rocky outcrop. she rubs salve over your arms and legs, silently. her jaw tight with restraint.

you breathe in through clenched teeth. “you could’ve left me.”

she doesn’t look up. “shut up.”

but when she finishes wrapping your burns, her fingers linger on yours for just a second too long. 

you don’t pull away.

𓇢𓆸

eventually you both reach the beach.

clear sky. salt air. reminds you a bit of home.

just a bit.

the air holds a stillness that feels unreal after days of poison and pursuit,

johanna drops to the sand, eyes on the horizon.

you sit beside her.

silence again. but it’s somehow different now. not heavy. just.. mutual.

you glance at her, and she glances back.

“i’m deadweight. i’m not going to make it,” you say, flat. just truth.

she shrugs. “neither am i.”

you blink. “what?”

she rakes a hand through her hair, like she’s deciding what to tell you and what to keep. “this quarter quell? it’s a slaughterhouse. we’re all just parts of the machine. none of us will actually make it out.”

“you’re oh so very uplifting,” you deadpan.

she gives you a sideways smirk. “i’m not here to uplift. i’m here to interfere.”

you raise an eyebrow. “with what?”

she doesn’t answer.

𓇢𓆸

that night, you can’t sleep.

she notices. of course she does.

“you keep twitching,” she mutters.

you roll onto your side to face her. “sorry. just thinking.”

she shifts closer, close enough that your foreheads nearly touch.

“you’re not dying tonight,” she says. “not if i can help it.”

you let out a shaky breath. “you always this friendly with your allies?”

she leans in, eyes flicking to your lips. “only the ones i like.”

your heart skips a few beats.

and then she pulls away, just as quick. like she didn’t just shake your entire world with one offhanded sentence.

𓇢𓆸

morning comes too fast.

the beach turns red.

there’s fighting. screaming. electricity in the air. smoke

so much smoke.

someone tries to grab you. johanna intercepts. her axe finds its mark in a skull that you cant bring yourself to recognize.

you run.

you run together.

when the lightning hits the tree and the plan unravels– whatever plan they never told you about– you’re the one who sees her fall as everything around you goes dark.

𓇢𓆸

when you wake again, it’s on a ship.

not one that belongs to the capitol.

you’re not dead, and this time there are no shackles.

you sit up. dizzy. alive.

beetee sits beside you. “you’re safe,” he says.

you barely hear him.

“where’s johanna?”

[sillylittlespam]

we found wonderland, you and i got lost in it. and we pretended it could last forever

wonderland (finnick odair x reader) masterlist

🐑 introducing district10!reader

catching fire

mockingjay

misc

taglist

@lunacurlclaw @anyaslittlepeanut @virtualsandwichqueen @Icvgty-4929 @volcanicwavecascade @moonb1tch @ellie-bellie-29 @marlene333 @maciejane

[moonlightkitties]

Chapter One

Summary: Your 18th birthday came by like a flash, it was your last year until you could stop putting your name in the reaping and work in the coal mine. Everything was going smooth, until your name got pulled from the cup as the female tribute for the 69th annual Hunger Games.

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 1,596

You stare out of the window of your family's little run down shack. It wasn't the best, the wooden floors creaked each time you or your siblings walked, the windows would barely close making it colder at night, and you could hear your parents arguing from the too thin walls. You were the oldest of three younger siblings; Fern, eight. Glenn, fourteen, and Grayson, sixteen. Today marked your eighteenth birthday which always fell on July 4th, or more specifically Reaping Day. You were nervous, as always, but giddy, if you could just get through the dreaded afternoon then you would be in the clear and start your early shift at the coal mine with your father.

You glance at the worn down clock at reside in your makeshift living room, it was four hours before two in the afternoon, when the escort for District Twelve would pick the names from the reaping bowl. You hadn't expected to survive this long, though you'd always hope you would. There was something in the air that made it seem like this year it would be different, like a good different, the type of different like you didn't have to fear for your life every year and the type of different where you didn't have to rely on a slip of paper to decide your future.

You pulled yourself off of the window seal and made your way down to the bedroom where you sleep with your siblings. Outfits, which were only used for special occasions such as these, were set on your bed. A nice blue dress that reminded you of the sky on clear days, the same for Fern and matching shirts and pants for Glenn and Grayson.

After bathing in the lukewarm water your mother left out for you, you pulled on your dress and helped Glenn button his shirt.

Your mind wandered towards the reaping and if, which it was a rare chance, you would get picked, you would have to deal with...Haymitch Abernathy. Even thinking about him made you cringe. You've seen him around the hob, drinking his days away at the makeshift bar and at sometimes you felt bad for him but you've seen his drunken outbursts and the way he treated people. You shook your head and glanced at the clock, an hour passed since you got dressed. The front door swung open and your father, who got the day off since it was a "federal" holiday, walked in. Fern squealed and raced into his arms, a protective feeling and wave of anxiety rushed through you as you realized that one day, little eight year old Fern would turn twelve and have to put her name in the reaping bowl.

You took a deep breath, she would have four more years until then, you had nothing to worry about.

Your father gave you a smile and you noticed he had something behind his back. Fern tried to look behind him but he gently pushed her away and walked over to you. "I heard it was someone's birthday," he said, pulling his arms in front of him and held a black and white puppy. You gasped "No way!" you exclaimed, you picked the puppy up and she instantly started licking your cheeks, "Did you talk to mom about this?" you asked, holding the pup close.

"Of course I did, stop worrying so much," he said, scratching the puppy behind her ears.

"Where'd you find her?" Glenn asked, coming into the hall.

"A co-worker had pups and gave them to whoever wanted em'" he explained.

Your mother walked in, wiping her hands on her apron, she smiled at her husband and her eyes landed on the puppy that was in your arms. Although she looked happy for you, you could tell she wasn't happy with the extra mouth to feed.

"Your cake is in the oven, I was thinking we could have it after the reaping," you mother said, kissing your forehead. You nodded "Yeah, that's fine," you said. Your mother nodded "Right, well, what are you going to name your puppy?" She asked and you shrugged "I dunno...I gotta think about it first."

Fern pouted and stomped her foot "I wanna puppy!" she whined and your father tutted "Fern, we don't act like that, the puppy is (y/n)s gift, not yours." Fern huffed but didn't say more.

You walked into your room and set the puppy on your bed and tried to conjure up some names.

You're mind wander back to the song your parents would sing you and your brothers at night, way before Fern was alive.

"How about Willow?" you asked the pup, it's tail wagged, possibly indicating that she liked it.

"Maybe when you're older you can go out hunting we me and dad," you told her.

Every Saturday and Sunday you and your father would go out and hunt, so you could illegally sell it in the Hob and your mother could fix food for the week.

-----------

Hours passed and hugged your parents, brothers and Fern as you made your way towards the square where the reaping would take place. Fern, like every year, starts crying and holds onto you as your mother tries to get her off. You promise her you're going to be okay and make your way towards the huge group of other young women waiting their fate.

The escort, a young woman named Robin Daebreik, has been District Twelves escort for at least three years. According to the peacekeepers you regular hangout with in the hob, she is an incredibly strict and like you, can't stand Haymitch.

"Welcome, to the 69th annual Hunger Games," she began, her capital accent ran across the square, her bright colored red wig and too much makeup made her stand out between the emaciated children that stood in front of her.

You looked over towards the stage, usually the mentor, ergo Haymitch, would stand near the mayor. You spotted him, his messy dirty blonde hair was unkept and greasy and you cringed at the thought of being near him.

"As always, we will start with the girls," she walked over to the reaping bowl, put her hand in and pulled out a white slip of paper. You could hear and see the girls around you freeze and whimper in fear. Friends and sisters alike grabbed onto each others hands. You froze to and your breath felt like it was caught in your throat.

She opened the slip and her pursued lips let out nine words that you never once in your eighteen years of living would hear.

"The female tribute for District Twelve is (y/n) Nightingale."

You froze for what seemed like forever before you forced your legs to move in between the other girls. Robin gave you a smile and motioned for you to come up onto the stage of the Justice Building. You could hear your mother cries from the back of the crowd and you could spot Glenn and Grayson looking horrified as they stared at you.

You glanced back at Haymitch, who caught your eye and smirked, you rolled your eyes and faced forward, waiting for Robin Daebreik to announce the male tribute.

"Now, for the boys," Robin continued once the crowd calmed down.

She put her hand in the boys reaping bowl and pulled out a single white paper, she unraveled it and said "The male tribute from District Twelve is Rowan Novak." You looked towards Grayson, you could tell he was about to raise his hand to volunteer as tribute, but you quickly shook your head, he had to take care of them and take over your place when you and your father went hunting during the weekends.

Grayson stayed down and Rowan, whos lightly tanned skin shone and his dark brown curly hair was unkept like he didn't mind brushing it at least for this "occasion" and his green eyes held a twinge of mischief.

"Well then," Robin giggled "Lets give it up for District Twelves tributes!" she exclaimed. Your mother was still sobbing in the back of the crowd and no one clapped. You and Rowan were escorted into the Justice Building and were held in separate rooms. The door opened and Grayson quickly walked over to you, his eyes were saddened and he looked grief-stricken, like you were already dead.

"Listen to me," you began, "you're going to have to step up, okay?" Grayson nodded "I-I will, but, what are you going to do?" he asked "You've never killed someone before," he finished. You put your arms on his shoulders "I'm going to be okay, alright?" he nodded and a Peacekeeper took him away and your parents, Fern, and Glenn replaced him. Your mother wailed and pulled you into a hug, her tears were soaking your dress and Fern whimpered from behind your father's leg.

"I'm going to be okay, Ma," you tell her, hugging her back. She sniffed and pulled away "You don't know that," she whispered "This isn't fair, we were supposed to go back home and eat your cake," she hiccupped out. Your father gently pulled her away and into his arms. You bent down to hug Fern and when your mom and her both left, your eyes filled with tears as your father pulled you into a safe, warm hug. He shushed you and you felt safe for a few moments until a Peacekeeper took him away.

After the door slammed shut, you looked around, you were alone, and absolutely terrified for what the future held.

Tag List: @nevermorefanfics

[allisluv]

First off congrats on 200!!! I feel like it hasn’t been that long since 100 followers.

💍 I would like to request something with the victors ie Johanna, Finnick, Haymitch (gloss, Enobaria, cashmere, Cecelia, Mags if you want) before the quarter quell. Reader is a victor from District 8 and their talent is crocheting so they go around crocheting little animals for the other victors. Could you write something about what animal Reader would give the victors and their reaction? 😁

ooooo i love this so much!!

i think you would crochet johanna a black cat. its her spirit animal like if i cracked her soul open, that's what i would expect to see.

finnick would love a blue whale or a starfish. i think theyre his favorite animals and he would give them designated spots on his bed.

you would make katniss a copy of buttercup and she scoffs, pretends to hate it, but sleeps with it in her arms every night.

i feel like peeta would really appreciate a koala or maybe a sloth. don't ask me why because i dont have a clue, its just a gut feeling.

haymitch would recieve a grizzly bear with a bottle of alcohol in its hand. he fucking loves it

[yjsteamwife]

not understanding why there are so many johnny sinclair x fem oc's when johnny is literally gay. that's such a part of his character and the things he goes through and it's being written away in fanfiction just because he's hot🙃

[oweninadaydream]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫 ||𝐇.𝐀𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐲

summary : Haymitch finds solace in a friendship with young (Y/N). Now Haymitch is outside, watching. (Y/N) is in the Arena, fighting.

song inspo: "There's no morning glory, it was war, it wasn't fair" - The Great War by Taylor Swift

pairing : Haymitch Abernathy x fem!reader (platonic)

word count : 1.8 k

contains : angst, hurt no comfort, betrayal, found family trope, violence, some gore, death, this story is set way before Katniss and Peeta's games. Also, first time writing for this character so probably a bit OC Haymitch hahaha.

a/n : Here you have my first moodboard !!! I wanted to try and capture the vibes of the story in three images and I'm pretty proud of myself. Anyways, I hope you enjoy the story :) PD: shoutout to @sarahisslytherin for being so supportive everytime I have a crisis hahaha. Comments are always appreciated 🩷

“I think it’s time I have another dose of that medicine they've sent'' she said as a cue for him to get up from his spot and hand her the remedy inside the metallic jar. (Y/N) had been sick for a day and a half and, even though it was the boy's fault that they had encountered the monster that had bitten her, she wasn’t holding it against him. She knew she could trust him ; at the end of the day, the male tribute from her district had made an alliance with her and she had been doing everything in her power so that he didn’t die. He stood up and handed her the jar. 

Haymitch had awoken suddenly after falling asleep on the couch while watching the games in the room designated to the mentors. The constant worry was affecting his sleep schedule and his appetite detrimentally. Not for the boy, no ; he didn’t give a shit about that brat who had skipped all the training sessions and had dismissed his mentor every time he tried to give them valuable advice. He was anxiously picking his lips for her, for (Y/N).

People thought Haymitch had met her after the Reaping, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Ever since (Y/N) was little, she roamed the District streets in solitude, as her mother had died and her father was extremely neglectful towards her. A younger Haymitch had recently become the District 12's victor and was beginning to develop a certain addiction to alcohol when, one cold afternoon, he encountered a young child by the gates of Victors Village.

Her sparkly eyes caught his tired gaze and a stare contest began. "I don't have time for this bullshit" he crankly thought while looking away. She asked him his name and that if that big house was his. He turned around and wondered whether he should engage in a conversation with the child who obviously had no better place to be at. He noticed the kid was underfed and didn't wear any winter clothes. The heart that had stopped beating after surviving the Hunger games came back to life , like a phoenix being reborn from its ashes. From that day on a very special bond was created between the two unfortunate souls. He was still very grumpy and had a little problem with drinking, but (Y/N) made him want to do better. She was incredibly smart and her sarcasm was one of the very few things that made the former tribute laugh. Their talks and dinners were a secret to the rest of the world ; he couldn't risk hurting the girl he had grown to love as a daughter.

He soon discovered her birthday was the day after the Reaping. This year she would turn 19 and the panic the Reaping used to cause her would finally end. Just one more year of not getting chosen and she could live a peaceful life, just like she had always dreamed of. The latter year Haymitch had been talking about taking her in as his daughter, as her father had also passed away. But before that could happen, the most disgustingly ironic thing happened.

"(Y/N), (Y/N) (Y/L/N)" 

One day, she only needed one more day. But it seemed useless to whine about something that would not change anyway. The other tribute was a boy nobody really talked to, so neither she nor Haymitch had any idea of what to expect from him. To say that the mentor was devastated was an understatement. But he could not show it, his face impassible as ever instead. 

He was there for every meltdown before the dozens of events, for every doubt she could have about how to make it out of the Arena alive, for every nightmare about what fate had planned for her. Haymitch observed with a worried frown how nobody approached (Y/N) during training week ; she was very astute but her mentor had stressed the importance of making alliances in order to have more chances to survive, and seeing how she was going to be all alone out there compressed his chest with acute pain.

He did everything in his power to prepare her for the multiple dangers she could be facing out there. Still, Haymitch’s mind couldn’t help but explore the darkest scenarios ; optimism was never one of his qualities. In the end, the apathetic boy from 12 decided to make an effort at the end of training season and he turned out to be a magnificent and stealthy climber ; he also started to get close to (Y/N) and they decided to team up. The change of attitude shocked Haymitch but since (Y/N) was much more calm and focused, he didn't put too much thought into it.

The District 12 mentor stared at the bright screen in front of him and watched how (Y/N) was sound asleep. The last 3 hours had been pretty dull on their part of the prefabricated habitat : he had gone out to collect some wood and after he had returned, he lit a fire and offered to watch out for any intruders while she slept. 

Suddenly, Haymitch noticed how the young male had started pacing back and forth in a nervous manner. His instinct of suspecting of everything anyone does kicked in very quickly. The tribute started sobbing heavily as he wielded the dagger he had managed to obtain from the cornucopia a few days earlier. His shaky hands lifted the weapon in the air and, with all the strength the teenager possessed, he stabbed her. 

The blade of his dagger penetrated her back with disturbing ease. He felt as if someone had put him on autopilot and, despite (Y/N) turning to feebly try to defend herself from the unexpected attack, he kept her still against the cold ground and continued to inflict the fatal wounds.

Her shuddering screams reached her assailant's ears like a distant echo. On the television, however, (Y/N)'s last words were perfectly understandable. His name. She was screaming his name. Haymitch couldn't quite detect whether the screams were a conscious call as a hurried form of farewell or a primal instinct in search of comfort triggered by a delusional pain that caused her to abandon all logic or coherent thought. If he had to bet, he would go for the second option, considering how quickly she was bleeding to death and the panicked expression on her face as she realized her life was rapidly coming to an end.

The stabs were becoming significantly weaker and that could only mean that the adrenaline rush that had originally enabled him to act in favor of his secret plan had slowly faded, only to leave him stranded in the tragic reality he had created. The screams stopped quite quickly, as she was choking on her own blood. The lack of cries caught the attention of the aggressor, who looked down and saw how (Y/N) breathed out for the last time. His shirt was a crimson mess. However,  nothing could compare with the bloody puddle that was coming out of her body. 

Leaving no time to mourn or process the scene in front of him, the Careers appeared and found the violent scene already over. Without an ounce of remorse or repulse, one of the District 1 tributes made their way towards the paralyzed teen and the corpse.

“There’s no time to waste. Give us her supplies, we’ll take them to our hidden spot in the skirts of the mountain. Meanwhile, you must go to the Cornucopia and bring some more food and weapons. You’ll join us later” The commanding voice of the male tribute intimidated the boy from 12 who obediently began to hand them what used to be (Y/N)’s : the matching axes, the food she had collected and had determined to be safe to consume, the medicine that was supposed to help her heal from the bites of the venomous creature. 

Haymitch beheld the horrific scene shown on the gigantic TV totally disassociated from reality ; he couldn’t move but the uneasiness crawling up his skin created a tight and uncomfortable feeling that he urgently needed to shake off. How could the boy be so stupid, so naive ? The Careers would kill him after he had completed the tasks they had ordered him to do; he was just a pawn in their master plan to win that hellish competition.

The camera pointed towards the interior of the cave where the body of the young woman laid still. Haymitch could barely recognize the corpse; that could not be the girl that brought light back to his life after living in the dark for so long or the young adult who respected him but also held him accountable when he messed up. No, that was not her. His brain could not assimilate the idea of her dying in such a vile and miserable way. That scum, poor excuse of a man would regret breaking his word, backstabbing his daughter like only a coward would.

He wished him a slow, painful and sanguinolent death. Actually, he wished he could have entered that damned Arena and done the job himself ; if you want something done right do it yourself, right? After a couple of seconds, the sound of the canyon and the image of (Y/N) projected in the sky appeared on the TV and as fast as they came, they disappeared from the screens, moving on to something much more entertaining for the expecting audience. 

He quickly excused himself from the room before anyone could begin to notice the grief in his expression. In the quietness of his private room, he started wailing and throwing everything in his way around, tearing all his belongings to pieces as a way to channelize his pain. After a while, he stopped only to approach the drinks cabinet provided by the generous Capitol, and he poured himself one of the many drinks he would have that night and the days to follow.

His heart began to develop another stone wall around itself, but this time it would never ever be destroyed, not like (Y/N) had managed to all those years ago. This time he would drown all his sorrow and any kind of emotion in all the types of liquors he could find. He would close himself to the world ; nobody would carve him open again, nobody would get so close to the real version of himself. He vowed then and there to abandon all hope and just let the years go by until the arrival of his final day. 

He exited the room only to sit on the balcony floor. While staring at the night sky, he felt a tear rolling down his left cheek ; after releasing a shaky breath, he raised the glass that contained his numbing remedy and murmured : 

" 'till we meet again, sweetheart"

[midnightsgetawaycar]

Why do people interact more with a series masterlist than the actual fic?

[elflowpatosworld]

Hi everyone! This is my first time posting on Tumblr, and I'm excited to share my first fanfic with you all. I've been a big fan of The Hunger Games, but especially of Haymitch Abernathy. So, I decided to take the opportunity to write one from the heart. I hope everyone enjoys it!

Prologue: The Shards of Ava

°☆••°☆••°☆••°☆••°☆••°☆••°☆••°☆••°☆••°

The bottle was half-empty. Or half-full. Haymitch didn't give a damn either way.

The transport bus rattled as it passed over a cracked ridge near the edge of District 12 one of the few remaining roads, worn down by the time and neglect. Like everything else around here. Like him.

He sat hunched in the corner of the bus, parked behind the Justice building, barely moving. The cushion beneath him was thin and squeaked when he shifted, doing little to ease the cold pressing through the metal wall at his back.

A Capitol, issued screen buzzed above the driver's seat, flickering with static. The colors were too bright, the smiles too wide. Normally, he'd tune it out. But the volume had been left on.

And then he heard it.

"Welcome, welcome, Panem! It's a bright day here in the Capitol, and we have a very special guest joining us tonight on the Caesar Flickerman show- Gamemaker Seneca Crane!"

Cheers erupted from the screen. Laughter. Music. Glitter. Fake smiles.

Haymitch groaned and ran a hand through his unwashed hair. "Great," he muttered. "The beard himself." Haymitch leaned back with a grunt and took another swig.

Seneca Crane sat down, polished and smug. His perfectly trimmed beard curled in sharp lines along his chin, every inch of him controlled and rehearsed. His suit was blood-red velvet with black lapels, Capitol fashion at its most pretentious.

"Seneca, Seneca," Caesar said with a grin that could split mountains. "The Games are just around the corner, and the citizens of Panem are dying for a taste of what's to come!"

Seneca folded one leg over the other. As he adjusted his seat, looking calm. Confident. Arrogant. "This year's Games are different," he said, eyes glinting. "I've worked on them harder than anything I've ever done. I want Panem to feel everything. Suspense, heartbreak, awe. These Games will make people feel again. This isn't just a bloodbath, it's a spectacle."

"Ohhh, chills!" Caesar clutched his arm dramatically. "You hear that, folks? You'd better hold onto your seats!"

The audience whooped and clapped.

Haymitch snorted. Feel, huh? That's rich. They never feel what the districts feel. They only cheer when the blood spills. He grabbed the tin cup beside him, reached for the ice tray on the floor, half-melted cubes floating in tepid water, and dropped three chunks into the metal. Clink. Clink. Clink.

"Seneca's going to give us a real treat this year! But wait, Seneca. Before we dive too deep into the slaughter and suspense, I hear you've had a little... romantic development in your life?" Caesar wiggles his brows.

Haymitch didn't look up. He rolled his eyes and uncorked the bottle.

"Tell me, tell all of us are the rumors true? Is our brilliant Gamemaker off the market?"

Seneca Chuckled. The crowd giggled and swooned.

Haymitch frowned as he poured his drink, pausing mid-motion.

Seneca went on, voice silky. "I met her about 13 years ago. She changed my life."

"Oooooh! You sly devil!" Caesar fanned himself. "Do tell, do tell. Is she from the Capitol? A fellow creative? A stylist? An actress?"

Seneca shook his head, grinning like he had a secret too good to keep.

"She's from District 12."

The cup in Haymitch's hand trembled. He stood there, heart hammering in his chest as he stared at the screen, lips parted slightly.

"That's right," Seneca continued, "I was in District 12 with President Snow's blessing. I went there to... absorb the essence of the place. Find inspiration. I wanted to do something raw. Real for when I would be a Game maker."

Haymitch's fingers tightened around the bottle.

"She was quiet. Captivating. Everyone in the district seemed to know of her but not know her. I saw her once in the market square, and she stuck with me. I couldn't get her out of my mind. I asked the local Peacekeepers to help me find her. The mayor himself arranged it."

The bus seemed to shrink around Haymitch. Haymitch's jaw clenched. His vision blurred, but not from the whiskey.

"And when she stepped into the room," Seneca said, eye glowing, "I knew. She was the one."

"And now," Seneca said, standing from his chair and gesturing toward the audience, "She's here with me tonight."

The camera panned across a sea of glittering Capitol citizens until it landed on her.

The lights dimmed around the theater, a spotlight falling gently on a woman seated in the third row.

Her hair was longer now, coiled into soft waves, laced with gold dust. Her dress was midnight blue and shimmered like river stones. Her expression was calm, perfectly composed, just like the Capitol liked their pretty things.

Haymitch froze. His hand suddenly went numb.

CRASH!

The glass shattered, but it didn't startle him.

The sound rang through the empty bus like a gunshot. The bottle struck the floor at an angle, cracked along its neck, then exploded in a splash of whiskey and shards that danced across the floor like glittering fragments of memory.

The reflection of her face—delicate, unreadable, stared back at him in the shattered shards.

His chest heaved, but the breath never came.

He stood there, frozen watching the reflection in the glass.

Her reflection.

Not a memory. Not a hallucination. Not the distorted dream he used to wake up from.

On the screen, Caesar's voice faded behind the sound of applause and camera flashes.

"There she is, folks! Look at her, isn't she stunning?"

The screen zoomed in on her face wide Capitol lashes, glimmer across her cheekbones, lips curved into a soft, obedient smile. Her eyes were lined in gold, but they hadn't changed. Still deep. Still dark. Still carrying something ancient in their silence.

And Haymitch felt every wall inside him collapse.

And it was her.

The same girl who once sat beneath the old willow tree near the mines.

The same girl who used to sketch quiet things in her journal while the district roared behind her.

The same girl he learn to love.

His eyes burned. Not from alcohol this time.

Then something in him snapped.

He took a step forward. His foot came down hard on the glass with a sharp crunch pain flaring up his leg but he didn't flinch. He stepped forward again. And again. Shards struck to the skin of his feet, slicing the skin, into memory.

The memories hit him like a wave breaking open his chest. Her laughter—quiet, rare. Her silence. Her presence beside him when words failed. The only person who didn't treat him like a trophy after his Games, who didn't fear him, or praise him, or ask him for stories. She just... saw him. The broken, scarred, hollow version of Haymitch Abernathy that no one else wanted.

Until Snow stole her.

Ripped her from him just like his family. Just like everything else.

But now she was right there.

Haymitch reached out toward the screen, hand trembling. Her face filled the frame. So close, but already gone again. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.

Then without thinking, Haymitch whispered her name.

"Ava..."

The same moment it fell from Seneca's lips on screen.

"Ava," Seneca said proudly, beaming at the crowd. "And she's the love of my life."

Haymitch's fingers curled into fists. His knuckles turned white. He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until it tore out of his chest in a rasp.

Ava.

She was supposed to be dead.

He wished she were dead.

Because this? This was worse. So much worse.

Alive but owned. Clothed in Capitol silk. Sitting beneath golden lights beside a man who had no idea what it meant to love her. To love anything.

The reflection of the light caught her face, and it felt like time folded in on itself.

Ava beside him the night he screamed in his sleep and woke to find her hand resting gently over his no words, no questions.

Ava, in the dark whispering, "You don't owe them joy."

The Capitol audience clapped and laughed and cheered as if they were part of some romance novel they didn't understand.

He pressed his hand to the screen like he could reach through it. Like he could touch her one more time. Like he could rip her out of that world and take her back to the girl who used to draw stars in coal dust.

His lips trembled as he whispered her name.

"Ava..."

The screen didn't respond . Just more applause.

Seneca smiled, then lifted his glass to toast her.

Haymitch dropped to his knees.

Blood seeped from his foot into the spilled whiskey, staining it red.

He didn't even notice.

The ghosts were screaming now memories crowding behind his eyes, pressing against his ribs.

All this time, he had buried her deep convinced she was gone.

But she wasn't.

She was alive. She had been taken. And now, she was displayed.

And all of it every ounce of his pain—looped back to one man.

Snow.

The man who took everything from him.

°☆••°☆••°☆••°☆••°☆••°☆••°☆••°☆••°☆••°

To be continued...

[onlybeeewrites]

Finding Magic

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

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x wife!reader

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: SUNRISE ON THE REAPING SPOILERS, characters mentioned

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

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

But somehow, you had made it feel like home. Haymitch wasn’t sure how she did it. Maybe it was the warmth she carried with her, the way she never let the weight of their reality smother the small joys you still managed to carve out of the days. Or maybe it was the way you saw things—not just for what they were, but for what they could be.

Even here, underground, you made the world seem bigger.

Your ten year old daughter, Louella was sprawled out on the cold floor, utterly lost in the book she held, her small fingers gripping the worn pages as if they contained the secrets of the universe.

Haymitch could see the crease between her brows, the slight parting of her lips as she whispered words under her breath, tasting them as she read. Whatever world she had discovered in those pages had its hooks in her now, and nothing short of an emergency would pull her out of it.

And you sat nearby, your head bent over a needle and thread, patching up yet another hole in your daughter’s jumpsuit. It wasn’t the first tear she’d fixed this week, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

Louella was always running, climbing, sneaking into places she wasn’t supposed to be. She had the boundless energy of someone who had never known anything but motion.

Haymitch liked to pretend he didn’t know where she got that rebellious streak from, but between your quiet defiance and his own tendency to do exactly the opposite of what people expected, the girl hadn’t stood a chance.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, watching them for a moment before speaking. “What’s she reading this time?”

You didn’t look up, but there was a small smile on her lips. “Poetry. About magic.”

Haymitch raised a brow and pushed off the wall, making his way over before flopping down beside Louella. “Magic, huh? Didn’t think District 13 allowed that kind of thing.”

Louella shot him an unimpressed look over the top of her book. “It’s poetry, Papa. Not spells.”

Haymitch smirked, leaning in as if she had just admitted to something scandalous. “Still sounds like nonsense.”

Louella let out a dramatic sigh and held up the book. “Just listen.”

She cleared her throat, straightened her back, and read aloud:

“The wind hums secrets through the trees,

The river sings to passing bees.

The sky bends low to kiss the land,

And leaves spell stories in the sand.”

She closed the book with a decisive little snap and looked up expectantly, waiting for his reaction.

Haymitch tilted his head. “Huh. Not bad.”

Louella beamed, victorious, and turned to her mother. “See? Even he likes it.”

You chuckled, tying off the stitch with practiced ease. “Took him long enough.”

Haymitch rolled his eyes but turned back to Louella. “So, you really think there’s magic in all that?”

Louella nodded eagerly. “Mama says magic is just seeing things the right way. Like when the sun looks like melted gold, or when the air smells different before a storm.”

You take a pause, setting down the sewing, stretching your fingers before smiling at your daughter. “My family always believed in magic,” you said, voice soft with nostalgia,

“We grew up in the fields, and we saw it in everything—the way fireflies danced like little stars, the hush of the earth before the first snowfall, the way seeds always knew how to find the sun.”

Louella’s eyes widened in that way only a child’s could, full of wonder and longing for things just out of reach. “I wish I could’ve seen all that.”

You smiled fondly, brushing a curl from Louella’s face. “You still can, sweetheart. Magic’s in the little things. You just have to know how to look.”

Haymitch snorted, shaking his head. “That why people used to call your family wild?”

That caused you to smirked at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling with amusement. “Of course. You’d know that. You’d also remember that people often said we were odd for believing in things you couldn’t hold in your hands. But it takes special people to see the magic in little things.”

Louella grinned. “Good thing I’m special, then.”

Haymitch hummed, “yes you are, sweetheart,” he said glancing between the two of them—you, his wife, with your quiet strength and stubborn belief in things bigger than themselves, and his daughter, practically glowing with excitement at the idea of unseen wonders hiding in the world around her.

Louella yawned, rubbing at her eyes but still stubbornly gripping her book. “Can I read one more?”

You glanced at the clock on the wall—lights-out was soon, and rules were strict here. But sighed, a small, indulgent smile on your lips. “Just one more.” How could you deny one of the few pleasures you were able to indulge in?

Louella grinned and flipped through the pages, searching for the perfect poem. Haymitch, meanwhile, leaned his head back against the wall, one arm draped lazily over your shoulders.

He wasn’t much for poetry, but he liked the sound of Louella’s voice as she read, soft and full of belief. Reminding him so much of you.

“The stars will shine beyond the dark,

Their light will never wane.

A whispered wish, a hopeful heart,

And magic stays the same.”

Luella looked up, blinking sleepily. “That means magic is always there, right? Even when we can’t see it?”

You ran her fingers through Louella’s hair. “That’s right.”

Haymitch huffed. “Poetry’s got a lot of nerve making promises like that.”

Louella giggled, pressing her face into his side. “You just don’t get it, Dad.”

He smirked, pulling the blanket up over her. “Guess not.”

She let out another small yawn, and this time, her eyes didn’t open again. Haymitch exhaled, shifting to pick her up. She made a sleepy sound of protest as he scooped her into his arms, but she didn’t fight it, just curled against his chest like she’d done since she was little.

You stood and followed as he carried Louella to the small cot she called a bed. He tucked her in, smoothing down the blanket while you brushed her hair back, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

Haymitch stayed there a moment longer, watching as Louella breathed slow and deep, already lost in dreams. He reached out, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Sleep tight, wild thing.”

She didn’t stir. You slipped your hand into his, lacing their fingers together as they stepped back from the bed.

Haymitch pressed a kiss to you temple as they settled onto their own bed. “You’re gonna turn her into a dreamer.”

You smiled against his shoulder. “Good. The world needs more of them.”

Haymitch didn’t answer right away. He just held you a little tighter, his fingers absently tracing slow, idle patterns against your arm.

Even after all these years, it still felt surreal sometimes—having this family, having you.

He thought back to the first time he saw you, standing on that stage at seventeen, trying to keep your face blank as your name was called. He’d been your mentor then, five years after winning himself. And he had been forced to watch 10 kids die since then. He was sure you would be the 12th.

And so he was forced to watch as you stepped into the arena, as you fought. But this time you proved everyone wrong as you won.

He had known, back then, what kind of person would walk out of that place. What it took to survive.

But you had come back still you, against all odds. You had come back stubborn and sharp and kind in ways the Capitol couldn’t kill. You still held onto who you were. And that alone was the perfect act of rebellion.

And somehow, in the years that followed, through nightmares and rebellion and the slow, aching process of trying to be something more than just survivors—you had found your way to each other eventually. And then became more.

Then two, became three. You had sobbed in his arms when you found out, fearing the day that she too would have to be reaped from the bowl of names. With a high chance of her dying in that god forsaken arena. The guilt, Haymitch remembered, took such a toll on you.

“How could I do this? Bring a child into this world?” You had once said. But after some time you had come to terms with the baby—Luella. Light in the dark. And a memorial name after the one of the tributes from Haymitch’s games. A sweet little girl you remembered from the Seam.

But now, you all were here, in a dimly lit room beneath the earth, with the most incredible daughter who believed in poetry and magic, in a place where hope was hard to hold on to.

And yet, somehow, you still did.

Haymitch exhaled, pressing his forehead against your hair. “You know,” he muttered, “I always knew you were trouble.”

You laughed softly, shifting closer. “Oh? Since when?”

“Since you looked me in the eye after they called your name and didn’t cry.” His voice was quiet, thoughtful. “Since you gave me an attitude that first day on the train. And especially afterward,”

Your fingers brushed against his hand, lacing together. “Guess that means you didn’t do a terrible job as a mentor.”

Haymitch huffed a small, dry laugh. “Didn’t do a great one, either.”

You squeezed his hand, tilting her head at him. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

He didn’t answer, just pulled you against him, pressing a kiss to your hair.

You were here. You were still you. Even after everything you both had gone through.

Maybe that was magic too.

[k-sunstar]

☼ ⋆ The Hunger Games Masterlist ⋆ ☼

My inbox is open for requests!🌙

Check out my navigation for my main masterlist and more info🫶🏻

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☼ Finnick Odair ☼

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[kahlanmars]

BAD FEELING part. 32

MASTERLIST

32. Epilogue

SIX MONTHS LATER

«If we are late, I swear to Panem…» You murmur, because Haymitch has to put on a shirt and to stop kissing you.

«What are you going to do? Tell me.» He challenges, and he is right because you won’t do anything. The sight of your man is alluring, especially when he can’t keep his hands off of you.

«We have to celebrate baby Finn.» You pout, trying hard not to laugh because he looks like a teenager.

You are in Four, all of you, even Katniss who had a special permit for Finn’s celebration, and you are overjoyed. You really missed your friends, and you spent most of the holiday gossiping with Perla and Lora and, well, the other part kissing and smooching with your non boyfriend.

You won’t see him for a whole week, because you are going away with Effie and Portia at the end of the holiday. It’s time for your internship to begin, now you are healthy enough and you feel stronger than before. You spent two months in bed, revered and served and you enjoyed it when you stopped being in pain (You will deny it, but maybe you could have stayed up a week before. Or two. But you didn’t have to cook or clean and when the sex strike was revoked, well, it was like a paradise. A holiday. And he never questioned why you were able to help the reconstruction in the district and not him at your home.) 

Haymitch took the change well, if “Well” means trying to take you to bed every five minutes and kissing you in front of everybody, which is huge for him. You are not going to complain about the sudden affection. 

You know he would have preferred having you behaving like a despotic queen from your bed but at home, instead of your usual self in Capitol City, even if he won’t tell you. But once a week he can see you and after the internship you will return. 

«Only Finnick could call his son “Finn”. Egomaniac.» 

You snort but you are fast to use his distraction to wear your blue dress before he decides to rip it out. Finn is an adorable baby, always with a smile on his face and Finnick is so happy he glows. Both him and Annie are so tired they have to stop the conversation and enjoy five minutes of nap sometimes, but when they watch the baby, the look on their faces tells you it’s worth it.

«Annie chose it. And stop the charade, you are happy for him. He is another of your children. That makes you a grandpa!»

The shock on his face is definitely worth the joke, but when he attacks you, he knows you’re ticklish way too much, you squeal and laugh. 

«Say that again.» He dares you, pushing you onto the mattress with his weight. The temperature in the room changes quickly, in a moment his strong hands are wandering around the zip of your dress and you suspect you are going to be late after all. You normally hate to be late but you are going to be in Capitol City tomorrow morning, so you want to indulge yourself a little.

«You are the hottest grandpa in town.» You taunt him, your voice lower and seductive now, and you eagerly accept his kisses and the hand that goes under your dress. It’s been almost a year now, and yet you are still crushing hard on this man. You love him, of course, but you are also in love. You prepare yourself for hours to be beautiful for him, you cook his favourite meals for special occasions, and you love when he reads to you with his deep voice. You even love when he feeds the geese, calling the animals with the names of the people you really know. The most quiet one is Peeta. 

«If I’m a grandpa, Gorgeous, you are a grandma.» He whispers against your ear before kissing your lobe. 

«Oh no, I’m the sexy young girl who seduced you, don’t you remember?»

«WE ARE GOING WITH OR WITHOUT YOU.» Perla shouts from the other room. She is not a patient person, and since you are in her house you have to follow her rules. And maybe you are not the easiest hosts ever. You always sneak out to make out and you giggle in dark corners.

«We are coming!» You answer her, and you threaten Haymitch with a finger on his face. «Don’t even try to sneak away.»

He snorts. «I would never. I love a party for someone who doesn’t even know how to poop.»

You wrinkle your nose. «You disgusting, disgusting man.»

He presses a rumorous kiss on your ear just to spite you. «And yet you love me anyway.»

The party looks like something that a family would do. Jellyfishes made on paper decorate the room, and sparkly fishes are printed on the windows. You are cutting the bread for everyone - the dreadful sea bread from district four - humming a song from Twelve, while Effie and Portia are fussing over Finn who sits on Annie, Peeta and Haymitch are playing chess, and Lora, Perla, Katniss and the others are on the couch, chatting. Mags is on a rocking chair, half sleeping, half listening.

The only people who are at home are Marjorie and Ivy, and Holly. Holly and Marjorie are closer than ever, especially since she is with Ivy now. Holly loves children and Ivy is a treasure of a child, you too spent a lot of time with her, telling her stories and fairytales. 

Katniss is doing better, you think. She speaks with Prim everyday on the phone, she refuses to talk with her mother - her mother never calls her, tho - and she is in your house on a daily basis with an excuse or the other, looking for Haymitch. You wanted to tell her it’s not a problem if she wants to see his adoptive father, but he stopped you, claiming she would stop showing up because she would have been too embarrassed. 

Peeta returns to the district today after six months in the Capitol hospital, and he will be with Katniss for the first time. He is not stable yet, but the doctors say he is ready for the next step.

As for Haymitch, he is really trying to stay sober. You threw out all the alcohol in the house - actually you sell the closed bottles, because why not - and you asked Finnick not to buy it for the party. He is learning how to live without booze, and sometimes it’s so hard, but your man is strong.

It’s a miracle you are all in District Four. After Coin was killed by Katniss and you were shot, the girl risked her life. District Thirteen didn’t want to let her go. Haymitch and Plutarch fought to keep her alive, and Coin was replaced as president by Command Paylor, the leader of the rebel forces In District Eight. You quite like her, she is not a fame or power hungry person, she wants what is right. She decided to pardon Katniss for her action, she voted against the new Hunger Games and she destroyed the arenas. She built memorials, and now she claims Capitol City is a new city with her. You don’t know if you believe her, but she is helping the districts as well with the reconstruction, so she is surely better than Snow and Coin, and for now that’s enough.

«Tomorrow we will go shopping, darling girl.» Effie announces. That’s another thing you have to clear up, because you don’t have any money and you have no intention of using Haymitch’s. You are thrilled you’re going to be in Effie’s home, first because you are really curious about her house, and second because you are going to live with your friend. You would really miss Effie.

«She doesn’t need clothes, isn’t she there to make clothes?» He asks, more to engage a banter with his friend than anything else.

«She needs to mingle. A perfect fashion choice will make it easier.» You have three dresses. Two for every day and one for special occasions, that in the District were weddings, funerals or the Hunger Games. You also have a pair of trousers, a nightgown and a coat, and it’s more than most in Twelve. 

«Maybe I can wait for the first month?» You taint. After the first month you will have a salary, and after a part for Holly, you could spend the rest to “mingle”.

«I have an announcement.» Lora says, so proud. It’s so good to see Lora happy, in the mess that is the war you forget that she is nineteen. This girl with big wide eyes is the youngest among you.

«Tell us!» Perla encourages her, and maybe she needs it because she rarely speaks in the group. She is witty and funny but nobody knows it, except for Chaff who was her mentor and a little bit of a father figure, like Haymitch for Katniss.

«I’m moving to Capitol City too. I don’t know what to do, but I want to travel, and I don’t want to stay in my district, so…» She declares, torturing her fingers. She is nervous, but you are so happy.

«So we'll be together!» You finish for her and you go to hug her. «But where are you staying? In a hotel?»

«Well, I have some news too…» Perla stands up, and Cinna becomes crimson. «I’m moving to Capitol too… because we are moving together.»

«Us three! Again!» You hug them in a group hug. The trio is together again, and now for the first time it’s not for a suicidal mission or a killing machine television game. That counts as progress.

«Yeah, well, I still have my family house here, but… yeah.» You feel calmer already, you are not alone in a new city. Effie and Portia are beyond generous, but they are home there. Perla and Lora can feel what you feel, it’s a new adventure for them as well.

«For six months, right?» Haymitch asks you, hugging you from behind. 

«Six months.» You promise. 

«You are long gone, my friend.» Chaff intervenes. «This one ruined you.»

You tend to forget Chaff is there, and you feel mean because he is one of Haymitch’s best friends.

«He is not ruined!» Annie protests, «He is in love.» 

And now you know your man would want to scoff, but if it’s Annie who talks he is gentle, like with Lora. 

«Isn’t that the same thing?» The eleven victor adds. 

«Shut up.» He murmurs before kissing you again because he refuses to be embarrassed.

«Hey, do you want to go for a walk?» Haymitch asks you while you are putting on your coats, after the party ends. You think Finn liked your present, an enormous stuffed animal (a dolphin) you sewed yourself. You needed to spend time while you were in bed, and it was worth it when the kid saw it. 

You are not that happy to leave. Maybe District Twelve is nowhere to be great, but you miss your home. And it will be rare from now on to be all together, and even if you like what you are going to do, and you are overjoyed Perla and Lora will be with you, you will live in Effie’s house so you will be with her, but this is good. This, a family dinner with everybody. Finnick and Annie are living their dream with baby Finn (and they love it, they are born to be parents and you bet you are celebrating the birth of another baby soon), you want to be there for them. For Finn too, you are ready to be a cool aunt. You want your mommy near you, and she took the fact that you’ll live with Effie Trinket very badly. She feels threatened by her presence, like she is another parent or something, but for you Effie is more like an older sister.

And Haymitch… you are not ready to see him once a week, maybe twice a month sometimes. You are so used to always being in his arms, to talk to him about everything and now you have to talk to him through the phone. No kisses. No hugs. No cuddles even if he claims that “he doesn’t cuddle”. No “Come to bed, sweetheart” and you will read side by side until one of you begins to kiss the other’s neck. 

But it’s your dream, you will become a good tailor, you will learn so much from Portia and you will return to Twelve. 

«A romantic walk? With you?» You repeat in disbelief because he is not the romantic type at all. He is the one who refused to light candles - because you are not sixteen - at your first proper date in the house - because he doesn’t date. At the first mention that if he doesn’t date then you could date other people, he stated that you were his. And then he cooked your favourite meal for dinner.

«Does it have to be romantic? Can’t it be just a walk?» He complains and his voice is rough and annoyed, but he squeezes your hand tight. 

«Well it’s a walk with your girl and there’s the ocean so…» And the sight of Four is really stunning. The ocean is so peaceful you almost don’t miss the meadow, but after the shark in the Games you don’t like to be in open water. Doctor Aurelius claims you need to overcome your fear, but then again Doctor Aurelius didn’t see a mutt white shark in front of her and you need time.

«If you don’t want to, we can just go back at Perla's.» This is not his usual answer, it’s rough even for him.

«No, no, let’s go.» You wince. «Are you nervous?»

«Perfectly fine.» He lies. That liar. He can’t say that he is sad because you move to Capitol City.

«Not thrilled that I go?» You try. 

«You can go, babe, I bought you the ticket.» Babe. He uses the term “Babe” or “Babygirl” when something is wrong. You don’t like them and he knows it. 

«I know I can go, thank you for the permit.» You jump into his arms. «But you can be sad too. I’m sad. Are you sad?»

«…Maybe.» He admits.

«Good. That means you love me. And that also means that every weekend will be precious.» You whisper against his lips. «And I will sew a lot of lingeries…»

The annoyed glimpse in his eyes is replaced by pure lust.

«Don’t put so much effort on them, I’ll rip them out every time.» He closes the space between your lips in a passionate kiss that definitely doesn’t belong in a street, it would be better in a bed. You can’t help it if he flirts like that.

«Walk.» You remind him, licking your lips.

«Walk.» He agrees. 

«If Katniss needs me, or Peeta, or my mother, please call me.» Or if you need me, you want to say, but you know he wouldn’t appreciate it. You are a little anxious about the alcohol stuff and the survival guilt.

«No one will need you, Sweetheart.» He kisses your hair «Go and have fun.»

«I’ll try.» You promise. You are a little worried about your mother, and… you are scared, of course.

«Is Effie okay with the visits? I don’t want her thrilling voice to wake me up in the morning every week.»

«I think so, yeah. We can stay in a motel sometimes, or with Perla and Cinna.»

«Yeah, no. Not Perla.» 

You almost burst into laughter at his tone. When you were in a coma, Perla was the one friend who stayed with you the most with Lora. Haymitch and Holly were arguing about everything, she said, and while Lora has a sweet temper and a great patience, Perla is hot blooded and frequently snapped.

«You don’t like my friends!?» You try to sound accusing. 

«I don’t mind Lora. Perla on the other hand…» His expression says everything.

«Oh c’mon. She is great.»

«You just say that because she has blue eyes.» 

«That’s not true. She also has great boobs.» You see his glare, «What? It’s true.» It is true. Perla is stunning. Sparkling blue eyes, legs for days and you are not blind, you can see her cleavage. You are in love with Haymitch but you are still bisexual, it’s not your fault you have eyes.

«That’s it, I’m going to lock you up in the highest tower.» He shakes his head. 

«Oh, with a dragon to guard me?» 

«No, you would manage to turn it into a pet in a week.»

«I don’t know, it would be fun to be a damsel in distress…» You trace patterns on his chest with your fingers. «And you are so hot as an evil king.»

His eyes darken and he takes you in his arms to kiss you again. «If we keep doing this, we will go back now.»

«No, I want my romantic walk. No more flirting with you.»

«It’s not a romantic walk. It’s a walk. Go to Perla if you want your romantic walk.» Yes, she is the right person for a romantic anything. You are sure she prepared the “Moving to Capitol” thing for weeks before talking about it with Cinna.

«You are not jealous at all, congrats! You know I only want my man.» You indulge on his lips again, taking his arm close to you. «Plus, she has a boyfriend.» 

«He is far too old to be called “boyfriend”.» You chuckle at his displeasure for the word. He fixed on this thing. You secretly call him your boyfriend with the girls, but when he hears that he grunts. 

«And what is she supposed to call him?» You laugh. 

«I don’t know, partner?»

«Do I need to call you “Partner” too?» 

«’Was hoping “Husband”.» 

What?

You turn around and he is handing you a little red box. Not on his knee, of course, and his expression is kinda annoyed, like he really doesn’t like to be in this situation.

This situation, asking you to marry him. A marriage. A wedding. A wedding and a toasting. And a life with him, forever, and nobody could say anything. 

«Oh my…» Daisy Abernathy. Daisy Pinecone Abernathy. It suits you, you think, maybe you can sign your dresses as DPA, or Daisy A. Pinecone, and the kids in the district will call you Mrs. Abernathy. 

You, a married woman. With Haymitch. You can only imagine it. Haymitch is not the kind of guy who asks you to marry him, you are speechless. 

You put your hands on your mouth and you are completely speechless. He opens the red little box and inside there is a ring. 

Well, of course there is a ring, but it’s the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen. It’s very simple, but it is made of gold and there’s even a little diamond on it. You have no idea where it comes from, there are no diamonds in the district. Well of course there are in the mines, but not on rings.

«Doesn’t need to be tomorrow.» He clarifies. «Or a Capitol thing. We go, we sign, we do a toasting and that’s it.»

«You are crazy.» You only manage to say.

«That’s the smart thing to do, you know if one of us is sick the other can take a decision and you could have my money if I die, things like that.» 

You try hard not to laugh. «You propose and then you talk about dying? Right now?»  

«Usually people say yes or now.» He is sounding a little nervous, and you remember you didn’t actually say anything. 

«Yes! Yes of course, yes!» You jump into his arms and give him a deep passionate kiss. The world stops turning just for a moment.

«Daisy Abernathy.» He whispers against your lips. «Sounds good, mh?»

«Daisy Pinecone Abernathy.»

Yes. Daisy Pinecone Abernathy.

Your name.

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

THIS IS THE ENDDDDD. I'm so saaad and happyyy we got to finishhhh.

I want to ask you, would you like a sequel? I think I'll do it, but if you are not interested I can post it only on AO3.

SO SO SOOOOO LAST CHAPTER.

taglist: @crimsonincursive

[kahlanmars]

This would totally be a Daisy creation

Cucculelli Shaheen

[allisluv]

Other victors find out you and Johanna are dating 😭

finnick would lowkey be like "i told you so" while annie comes up with ship names for the two of you. peetas congratulating you and katniss just doesn't give a damn LMAO 😭 cashmere would lowkey be super sweet about it but gloss would throw in a smart comment and she'd have to whack him in the ribs for being so rude. beetee and wiress will give in depth timelines for how long they think you're gonna last. haymitch doesnt care but he says something along the lines of "lets go lesbians" to show that he supports you HAHAHAHAH 😭