am-i-interrupting

[am-i-interrupting]

The Roulette (Haymitch Abernathy x Victor!Reader)

Summary: President Snow forces you to make a choice that will affect your's and Haymitch's life forever. (Classic HG angst)

Can be read as a one shot but is part of the 'miscalculation series masterlist' universe

Warnings: dark theme, is not descriptive but the theme remains, idea came from season 2 of american horror story in which a character does this. Non descriptive Forced impregnation from capital and implied rape/forced prostitution, potential abortion is left unclear if was pregnant, Non descriptive self inflicted  non medical abortion, reader almost dying, desperteae haymitch. Spoilers to SOTR about katniss dad and beete's family. 8 years age gap implied

Notes:

This was inspired by the two amazing Haymitch series: 'moves and countermoves' by @nebulablakemurphy And 'capitol punishment' by @on-my-vigilante-sht please go check them out. Truly amazing. this would not exist without them

Sorry for the grammatical errors. Thank you for reading. do not translate or appropriate my work

Comments and kudos are highly appreciated :) as feed me to write, so anything even the smallest comment makes my day better

words: 3300

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Haymitch and you had made a pact as soon as you were married, that no kids would come form your union. You would not raise lambs for the slaughter like other victors had done before you for the capitol's entrateinment. Haymitch had agreed, the memory of Alpert of 13 years before still fresh in his mind like the day that had happened, and therefore he had always been careful with you

Still haymitch was not your only sexual partner, not that you wanted others, but what you wanted was never much taken into consideration by the capitol. They sold you to wealthy sponsors, not often like other victors but still it happened a few times a year. You were implanted birth control in those occasions, and that for you was the only thing form the capitol you accepted with silent gratitude

Until one day they took away their own only gift 

You had been taken from your shared house with haymitch, yanked in the night from his arms and brought to the capitol, 'she has been requested' the only thing they told haymitch as he kicked and protested as you told him to not fight as they took you away. You had accepted this fate a long time ago, resisting only brought you more abuse. Still haymitch never listened and continued rebelling before the end of a gun struck his head knocking him out cold 

 You were taken to the capitol as always, ready to be sold to the highest bidder, what you did not expect was to find snow himself waiting for you in his presidential house.

Your stomach sickened at the idea of having to sleep with him, he could see the discomfort in your features

'do not worry ms. y/l/n, I'm not your client. I just wanted to inform you of my new orders to you. You see, you have been married more than three years, the capitol is asking where are yours and mr abernathy's children. For a couple so in love, they are expecting an addition soon' he explained drinking his wine

'children will eventually come I'm sure, my husband with his drinking problem has been slowing the process' you lied trying your best to sell your story, haymitch would never even think of risking getting you pregnant

Snow smiled, 'I know your fear ms y/l/n, you fear your kids will end up in the arena like yourself and your husband. You see I cannot prevent that from being a possibility' as if the games weren't rigged 'but is my duty as a president to keep my citizens happy. You see I have a sponsor that would be very keen to give a twist to his lineage and identified you as the perfect candidate, considering you yourself come in part from the capitol lineage, something rare you see. They want to do this small societal experiment with you' he smiled wickedly

You mind blanked at his admission, at his order. Haymitch was your first thought. Not the forced impregnation they would put you through, or the lamb to the slaughter you would be forced to raise, but the destiny of the husband you had tried so hard to convince yourself you did not love, and how they could easily get rid of him to make you someone else's bride

'I am married-'

'do not worry, I have no intention to hurt Mr Abernathy, he will raise the capitol child as his child, he does not even need to know their true parentage if you do not wish to share it' Snow smiled enjoying your fear 'is very simple, my client and others will bed you as you are accostumed to now, as your role to the society. Your birth control implantation will be removed. I do not care who the father of this child is, until my client is happy and this experiment goes through'. 

With that, before you could even reply, they took you away to the room where the client was waiting

.-.-.-.

They brought you home a week later, you tried to dissociate as much as you could and remove from your mind what had happened but one thought had remained, with your birth control removed it could be a  roulette of when you could fall pregnant, and of who would be the father, your occasional clients or your mentor turned husband. Maybe you were already pregnant, after a week of continus abuse for their pleasure, who could know but it was most likely. It did not matter, it was implied that your kid would become a tribute. 

Before the overcraft could even land haymitch had rushed outside the door of your shared house at the sounds of its arrival. The peacekeepers had opened the ramp and had pushed you out with no care as always, bloody and bruised still, haymitch caught you before you could hit the ground. 'I got you darling, I'm here, you are safe now' he told you scooping you up

You were barely conscious as he brought you in your shared house, now trashed as he alwaays released his anger in breaking eveything and drinking until he passed out when you were taken. he cleaned you and dressed you comfortably before tucking you in your bed. He stayed next to you a bottle in hand  as he waited paitentaly for you to wake up

.-.-.-.

'do you want to talk about it?'  he had asked you once you had woken up the next day, he knew it was a stupid question, you never spoke about what happened in the capitol once they returned you to him, it would only make you relieve it

'no'  you replied drily eyes locked on the ceiling, thinking  of a solution to your newfound situation.

'okay. What do you need?' he tried

'I want a cake from the bakery, the one you got me last spring' you had replied a plan already taking form in your head

'but they only make it in spring -'  he tried to argue

'please haymitch'  you whispered from the bed finally looking at him, eyes empty

'okay I will ask them to make it if they don't have it' he told you getting up from his chair next to you. He pondered if to kiss your forehead but your eyes gazing in the void told him that you needed to be alone . And as always he followed your wishes. 

Once he had left the house and you had heard the door close behind him you had gotten up. The cake would keep him occupied for at least two hours, giving you the time to act on your plan

You were not sure It would work, you had heard of a girl who had done it and who had survived. At this point you did not care anymore, you just wished haymitch would not pay the price for your actions

You looked for a hanger and a wire and got into work

..-.-.-.

Haymitch had kept his promise and had come back with the cake you had asked him. the Mellarks had to bake it on the spot as expected they had not it ready, being not spring, still with double compensation they had done it

'darling its me' Haymitch shouted from downstairs he did not want to scare you with the sound of the door opening, you were always on edge after your trips to the capitol

'they made the cake, I'll bring it up!' he shouted preparing a plate for you

'darling?' he questioned opening your shared bedroom, but you were not on the bed, panick surged in him 'y/n?' he called again and then he saw it, the blood on the bathroom floor running down to the bedroom.

 The plate he was holding crushed on the floor as he ran to the bathroom, the image in front of him forever engrained in his brain and much worse than anything he had ever seen in the games. You were on the floor, blood all around you pooling from you as something he could not decide if it was a wire or a hanger layed next to you entangled on what he guessed was some part of you

'y/n!' he shouted kneeling in front of you panick taking him over trying to make you wake up by gently gripping your head 'what did you do' he cried and cursed

 'I will not be used by them to then see my kid die for their entrateinment. This way they cannot' you had whispered between ragged breaths before fainting again

'stay awake' he demanded as he scouped you up and ran out of the house towards the only person he knew could help him

-..-.-.-

Haymitch knocked at the door with strenght shouting 'buldrock! Asterid! Please!'

Buldrock wanted to ignore him but out of the memory of their old friendship he opened the door. He was Holding an infant of a few months old as his eyes went wide at the sight of his once best friend. he shield the little girl in his arms from the view of your bloody body in haymitch's arms

'Please I don’t know exactly what she did but I found her in a pool of blood please help her , I beg you, I know I don’t deserve your help but please. I didn’t know who else to ask. If our friendship ever meant something -' haymitch begged for the first time in over 13 years

'bring her in' astereid tells him appearing at the door 

'thank you' 

'buldrock take Prim and katniss to our room, don't let them out until I tell you' she instructed her husband as she cleaned the table for haymitch to place you on 

'oh dear god'  astereid replied taking a good sight of you  'who did this to her?' she asked her old friend 

'I think she did it - they took her a week ago and brought her back yesterday, she asked me to get her a cake and I came back and found her like this' he ranted

'we need to act fast I think she tried to remove her own reproductive system' asterid replied assesing the danger of the situation, she instructed him as haymitch helped her, he moved to the ktichen sink and emptied his stomach in it when he had seen the extent of your wound. astereid shook him as he recomposed himslef and helped her in any way he could. It felt like hours

'I did my best, but she could still have an infection - I suggest you to bring her to the capitol if you can. Bring her home, never leave her sight. If she wakes she should make it. I will pass by tomorrow' she told him washing her hands,

Buldrock came out of the room as haymitch thanked her 'thank you, both of you. I don't know what to say , please let me give you some of our portions-'

'we don’t need chairty' buldrock intervened

'is payment for what you did. I own you' haymitch argued

'you do. just don't come back, that will repay the debt' 

Haymitch sighed and scooped you up bringing you back home

Haymitch  Stayed at your bed side trying to lower the fever that was fighing the infection you for sure had. He followed carefully astereid instructions 

'you cannot die now, not now-', not when you thaught my impenetrable heart to love again

-.-.-.-

'My mother knows Haymitch and Y/N, or at least she did, she never said why or how, but from how Y/N always gives me extra portions when I deliver them meat, there must be a past between them' - Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games

Asterid kept her word and visited saying you did not need the capitol afterall. Haymitch was releived, he did not know if you would have prefrred to die rather than accept capitol's help, but he could not let you die so he would have brought you to them, even  if it meant you hating on him forever

He doesn’t leave your bed as you go in and out conscience he feeds you water and some soup. He doesn’t sleep, fearing you would be gone when he wakes up. so he waits pondering how did this happen and how he could not prevent it

Then you finally regain conscience.

You see him on a chair at your bed side, eyes dark from the lack of sleep as he looks at you with a mix of sadenss worry and anger

'hay-' you say as you feel his hand gently cupping your cheek in a second, 'I'm here' he comforts you as you try to move up

'careful darling' he tells you as he helps you, he passes you some water and when he is sure you are not going to loose consciusness again he brings you up some food. You eat it slowly, his eyes never leaving you following your every move

'I'm fine. Stop looking at me like I will drop dead' you say voice still rasping probably from the screaming

He cannot believe you, honestly he is almost offended by your adudacity if that wasn't one of the many reasons he had fallen for you 

' You could have died . You could have died and - ' with that the last piece of my heart would have died too   he just shakes his head 

'Why did you do that ? Why would you do that to yourself? Why would you not tell me-' he rants trying to contain his range  as you interrupt him

'they took my birthcontrol away and then sold me. He said a client wanted a child from a victor. Then they sold me hour after hour for the entire time I was there - I could not - I could not carry their children, not theirs. Not to be a lamb for their slaughters - he said - he made me understand they would be reaped. I had to prevent that forever.  This way they will never take anythign from us'. They can already take you from me and I would not bare it you explain, 

Haymitch heart pauses momentarily, he thinks this is a sick joke. The capitol was brutal, but this - this was something he could not even think about, how could these people be human he would never understand. He had made peace of not having kids for your same reasoning, but knowing that you, his life, was brought to do that on yourself to prevent this child or any in the future to be forced on you had him sicken, he had to gulp to avoid vomiting then and there, aided by how his stomach was empty. 

He moves in a second engulfing you in a hug as you lie on him sobbing in his chest. He has never seen you cry like this before, only once you had shed a few tears when you had learned the truth about your parents, that broke him, and this, seeying you sob and shake? he doesn’t think he could manage to see it again, his heart could not bear it 

the coldness in which you had told him what happened  is only a façade and he knows it, sometimes it creeps him out, but everyone copes in a different way and he knows this is yours, because he knows you, and he knows that internally you are screaming . He cannot even say he is sorry because that is given and quite reductive so he decides to follow your lead, to follow rage.

'Why you didn’t say anything? I could have  -'   he shakes his head. He needs a drink, he needs to drink so much to ever forget what happened, no bottle can do that for him

'You could have what?' you taunt him. you can't look at him not now, not knowing that if the situation was reversed you would be so angry the city would burn

' I could have tried to help you !' he cries in desperation

'It wasn’t your kid , it wasn’t your problem. I can be their pawn but not to that point. I rather -' die you reply simple and straight, he knows what you mean he feels it to.

 'I  put us in this siatuation, I forced you to marry me to save myself. you never asked for this, you already suffered enough I did not want to buden you further' you reply, swallowing hard. You cannot look at him, you would not know what would hurt you more the sight of his heart breaking at your statement, or the confirmation that this marriage for him is not love, not the same love you grew for him in these years, that for him is just comfort. 

You always miscalculated his love for you, how you are his very essence. Haymitch is not good with words, he has not been in a long time, you on the other hand have never been in the first place. 

He weights his words carefully 'Your burden is my burden as  last time I checked we are married, the reasons that brought to this marriage do not matter. You are my wife, you are my life.' You were his life, lenore dove had been his love, no one could take that title, but you had engraved yourself in his so every being that you had become part of his existence yourself. 

'In sickeness and health, in poverty and in richness, in death and in life I will take care of you, not because sno- they command it but because I lo-' love you, differently than I have ever done before but not more or less. Please know this even if I cannot say it out load. ‘because You know what I feel for you, I bleed for you, don't ever doubt it’

 You and haymitch were not of big words you had learned to understand what the other was saying without saying it. Silent conversation with unspoken words and broken phrases, especially as the capitol could be listening. You had come up with your own way of saying 'I love you', he said 'I bleed' as he would die and suffer for you in a second and you replied 'I burn', because you would burn the world for him, the first time you had told him you did not know the implications that love and fire had for him, for his family, for his first love. In a way it made it even a greater declartion of love. Although in this situation it was you who had bleed

'the point is Don’t ever do this again, don’t ever trick me again, you have a problem you tell me, you understand? And we face it together like we always have done. Because I can’t- I can't without you’ I can’t loose you he wants to scream kill me now rather than make me live a day in this world without you, not when you have brought me back to life

‘Okay’ you reply as tears stream down your face as you finally look at him, he is crying too. You caress his face trying to bring him close to you, he follows you and kisses you. It taste of salt of your mixed tears. 'me too haymitch, me too. I burn for you' I love you too you want to scream,  like I never loved before and like I never will again, nobody ever loved me, not like you, you are my reason to go on. you hope the kiss expresses it

You two stay there until you fall asleep in his arms, you need rest. haymich cries in silent as he wishes he had brought a bottle with him, but he had finished the one he had, he cannot leave you, not even for a minute. so he endures the pain of sobriety. It is still a fraction compared to the pain you have put yourself through . But if there was a thing haymitch abernathy loved more than forgetting or a bottle it was you 

.-.-.-.-.-

This will have a basically part 2

Can be considered previous/following parts:

Miscalculations Series

-The original miscalculation (60th hunger games)

-The reaping (74th hunger games)

Find other parts of the 'miscalculations' universe in Haymitch Abernathy master list in ‘Other Characters’ master list’, pieces will not be released in order of time line but in order of inspiration. 'miscalculation series masterlist'

Hunger games Taglist: @yoursrosie @theseerbetweenus

if you want to be tagged let me know

[am-i-interrupting]

bittersweet symphony || chapter 1

Haymitch Abernathy x f!reader || series masterlist

summary: Surviving the Hunger Games was only the beginning. As you try to navigate through this strange, terrifying new after-life, you find comfort in someone you'd least expected it from, but new threats are already rising ...

chapter warnings: angst!!, capitol-typical nastiness, President Snow being President Snow, Reader dealing with PTSD, a bit of fluff

word count: 4.7k

AN: I'm so sorry for the long wait, but life has been life, and once I actually sat down to write this chapter, I was more than halfway through before I realized that a re-write to better fit what I have planned out for this story as a whole was in order ... Anyways, here's the first chapter, and hopefully you won't hate me too much for that ending!

Stay alive, Princess. 

Stay alive. 

Haymitch’s words keep replaying in your mind in a constant, never-ending loop. 

Stay alive. Stayalivestayalivestayalive. 

On and on it goes, like a prayer, like a mantra - like the only thing keeping you sane. 

Stay alive, Princess. 

You stand on the platform, terrified, panic gripping at you, as you try to get a bearing on your surroundings, trying to locate Kai and your little allies. 

Stay alive. 

You watch, helpless, and frozen in fear, as little Lucas is speared by one of the Careers during the bloodbath. 

Stay alive. 

Finn, Sarah and Dalton - all three of them taken by the wave that floods the arena during the fifth day. Their screams are like a living, breathing pain, mixing with Haymitch’s words in your mind. 

Stay alive. 

You’re running through the forest, clutching Cassie’s hand, hoping against hope that you’ll be able to outrun the two Careers chasing you. Kai, with little Flora on his back, is already a few paces ahead of you, but when Cassie lets out a panicked scream, he stops, turning around, his terrified dark grey eyes finding yours. You shake your head, silently telling him to run, to save his own and Flora’s life. But, he doesn’t. Of course. 

Stay alive. 

Cassie’s terrified scream when, suddenly, a group of wolf mutts join the fight between you, Kai and the two remaining Careers. 

Stay alive. 

Kai’s dark grey eyes finding yours as the knife of the Career runs through his body. A chocked sob leaves your mouth and you want to run towards Kai, but he’s shaking his head, attempting to smile. His last, silent plea is clear: grab Flora and run. And so, you do. 

Stay alive. 

Flora, twisting her ankle and crying out in pain as she crashes to the ground. You bend down immediately, but it’s already too late - the mutt’s already got to her. 

Stay alive. 

Claudius Templesmith’s voice ringing out through the arena. Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the winner of the 61st annual Hunger Games? You look up, seeing a hovercraft descending towards the point where you’re lying on the ground, writhing in pain. The last thing you remember seeing - or maybe you’ve just been imaging things this whole time - is a short, fleeting flash of sunrise, the last wisps of fading clouds in the sky, as the sun rises in the distance. 

Then, everything goes black. 

☀🏹

You’re drifting in and out of consciousness. 

Moments of awareness - the blinding, uncomfortably bright lights of the room you’re in, the terrifying feeling of being trapped - are followed by awful memories of the Games, like Kai’s eyes finding yours for the last time ever or sweet litte Flora getting torn apart by those horrible mutts. 

But somehow, Haymitch’s voice always finds its way into your mind as well. 

Stay alive, Princess. 

Why?, you want to ask. What’s the point? Why should I deserve to live, if everyone I wanted to save died? 

But Haymitch isn’t here to answer you and even if he were, he probably wouldn’t have an answer for you - at least not one you’d like to hear. 

And so, you keep clinging to his words, like a mantra, like a prayer. Like a promise. 

Stay alive. 

☀🏹

Stay alive. 

Another moment of being uncomfortably close to consciousness or at least it feels like that. 

„No, absolutely not. She’s just a girl-“

Haymitch, you think. 

„But she needs to look-“

„I don’t care. You’re not going to do that to her.“ 

„But-“

The rest of the words are cut off, and then there’s Haymitch chuckling darkly. 

You drift off again, comforted by the thought than when you finally return to the land of the living for good, at least Haymitch will still be there for you, looking out for you.

☀🏹

Stay alive. 

Even before you open your eyes, you know that this time, you won’t be allowed to just drift of again. 

You’re alive. 

You survived. 

Somehow, you survived the Hunger Games. 

But you fear that surviving the Games was only the beginning. Because now, you have to live with yourself. You have to live with everything you’ve done; you have to live with the painful, ugly memories from your time in the arena. 

You’re a Victor now. 

Slowly, hesitantly you open your eyes, still clinging to some desperate thread of hope that maybe none of what you remember has actually happened, that when you open your eyes you’ll wake in the small bedroom you share with your brothers back in District Twelve and that Kai and everyone else you’ve come to love and care about during these last few days is still alive and well. 

But when you open your eyes, you’re not greeted by the sight of the small, ramshackle house your family lives in. 

Instead, your eyes land on a tapestry that feels somewhat familiar and then-

„Well, look at who’s finally had enough beauty sleep.“ 

You know that voice, know its’ deep timbre and that dry, mocking tone. And somehow, that makes you feel better, even if only slightly so. But still, even if it’s only Haymitch, your surly, drunken recluse of a mentor that you can’t quite figure out - and you’re not quite sure why you have that strong urge to figure him out, to understand him better, but that’s neither here nor there for the moment -, a friendly face is a friendly face. 

And finding yourself thrust into this strange, terrifying new world in which your best friend is dead, having sacrificed his life for you, and you’re somehow the Victor of the 61st annual Hunger Games, you feel as if you’ll need all the friendly faces you can find. 

You sit up, wincing when you notice how weak your arms suddenly feel. It’s as if all the fight you’d built up in yourself during your time in the arena disappeared the moment that hovercraft lifted you up into the air. 

„Haymitch“, you whisper, your eyes finding his grey ones. 

He’s standing at the side of your bed, his arms crossed in front of his chest. 

He looks the same as you remember him, his grey eyes as piercing as you remember, and his dark curls falling into his face, yet something about him feels different. You can’t quite put your finger on what, exactly, that is. Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, somehow warm and distant at the same time. Maybe it’s the dark circles under his eyes, though they were there before as well. Or maybe it’s the way he carries himself - all tensed-up, like he expects an attack at any moment. 

But then his mouth quirks into that familiar, crooked grin, and for a moment, all you can focus on is the way his grey eyes are piercing yours and how somehow, inexplicably, your heart starts beating faster inside your chest. 

„Great job staying alive, Princess“, he says, and his voice seems to lose some of its usual biting, sarcastic edge. 

You nod, attempting a smile yourself, but somehow you can’t quite muster up the energy for it. Because while you may be glad to see Haymitch, the truth is still this: you survived. Which means that Kai and all your little allies didn’t. 

You survived - yet you promised them the same thing: that they would survive. That you’d be there for them. 

„I, yeah …“, is all you say, turning away from Haymitch and looking at the floral-patterned wallpaper instead, as you try to fight off memories from the Arena. 

It’s no use. Even though you’re here, in this strange new afterlife, you’ve still got one foot in the Arena. Tears start to prick at your eyes and you squeeze them shut, biting down hard on your lip, not wanting to break down and cry ugly sobs in front of Haymitch. 

The thought is strange - surely he’s seen you in far worse moments, assuming he watched your Games, which he must have, otherwise how he’d have known what sponsor gifts to send you at always the exact right time? But still, it’s there. You don’t want to cry in front of Haymitch, you don’t want to be that vulnerable. 

He - and everyone else that’s watched the Games - has already seen so much of you, you can’t help but want to keep at least some pieces to yourself. Though you know, deep down, that that’s not how the Games and the Capitol work.

„Hey“, Haymitch says, breaking you out of your thoughts. You notice how his voice suddenly sounds unusually soft and calm, almost as if he were talking to a wounded animal. „Where’d you go to, Princess?“ 

At his words, you open your eyes again, not able to hold back the tears that immediately start streaming down your cheeks. You squeeze your hands into fists, hating how weak you must appear to him. 

And so, even though you want nothing more than to just break down completely and sob for everything and everyone that you’ve lost until you have no more tears to cry, you do your best to compose yourself. Crying can come later, you tell yourself. Later, when you’re alone and no one’s there to witness and judge your breakdown. 

„I - will it always feel like this, Haymitch?“, you ask, your voice sounding rough and strained. 

You can see by the dark, pained expression in Haymitch’s eyes that he immediately understands what you’re trying to say, without you having to explain it further. 

He clears his throat, his grey eyes finding yours again. „You want the truth, Princess?“ He doesn’t wait for you to say anything - you don’t need to. „It doesn’t, not really. But you’ve got to keep fighting, no matter how impossible it might feel. You can’t - you can’t give up, not like …“, he trails off, his eyes taking on a far-distant expression, and your heart breaks for him when you see the pain and grief written so clearly on his face. 

„You can’t give up, you can’t - don’t let them have that as well.“ 

You nod, squeezing your hands even more, until your fingernails dig sharply into the soft skin of the inner sides of your palms. 

„I - I just … I just - I feel so - exhausted, Haymitch“, you admit, your voice almost breaking on the last word. 

There’s a dark look in his eyes, but he just nods. 

„I know“, is all he says, „I know, Princess.“ 

☀🏹

Somehow, you make it through the next few days. Though survive might actually a better word to describe it all. 

First, you’ve survived the Arena. 

And now, you’re trying to survive this strange new after-life that you’d never thought you’d actually have to experience. 

Yes, you’ve somehow survived the Games - somehow you’re a Victor now. 

But even though your time in the Arena was nothing short of a living, breathing nightmare, the after-life in the Capitol is almost worse. 

It seems that at every corner, there’s some new Capitol citizens that want to get to know you, Twelve’s shining new Victor. Every day, you’re pinched and prodded by your prep team, stuffed into dresses that somehow always seem to walk a very fine, strange line between girlish and seductive, and every day, you’re paraded around somewhere new. Every day, there’s new faces, new hands touching you. 

First, it’s just your prep team and your stylist, then it’s some of your Sponsors. A courtesy of President Snow, Arienne, a member of your prep team tells you. Isn’t he just such a wonderful President, giving your Sponsors the chance to get to know their new litte Victor personally? 

You try to nod and smile, but inside, you feel frozen. 

Your eyes search for Haymitch, who’s just entered the room, a bottle of liquor - already half-empty, as you can see - clutched in his hand. He seems to sense your gaze on him, because after exchanging a few pleasentries with your prep team and stylists, he walks towards your side, coming to stand close right next to you. 

He’s so close that your arms brush when you turn to look at him, but somehow, his closeness doesn’t bother you - it doesn’t unnerve you like all the touches of your prep team do. He’s not prodding, not looking to rub your skin raw and shiny, not viewing you as a once-shiny toy, now needing to be polished anew. 

„Something’s bothering you“, he says, so quietly that at first, combined with the usual slight slur to his voice, it’s hard for you to make out his words. But once you realize that his words are much more a statement than a question, you understand why he’s being so quiet, so unlike his usual loud, boisterous self. 

You nod, your eyes scanning the room quickly. Your prep team and stylist don’t seem to have noticed how you and Haymitch are standing just a few feet away from them, and none of your Sponsors are here just yet. 

It’s the calm before the storm, you realize. 

„Listen“, Haymitch whispers, his grey eyes searching yours, „you’re not going to like what’s coming next, but-“

„I feel like a priced cow, trussed up for auction!“, you whisper furiously, the words leaving your mouth before you’ve had a chance to think them through. You realize your mistake the moment the words are out of your mouth and you feel your insides freeze, but there’s no taking your words back now. 

At least it’s only Haymitch, you try to reassure yourself. 

It’s only Haymitch. You may not be able to figure him out entirely and you may not even like him all that much, what with all his arrogant, sarcastic behavior, but still, you feel safe around him. You can’t explain it, not really, but you do feel safe around him - or at least much safer than around anyone else you’ve encountered ever since this strange after-life of yours began. 

To his credit, Haymitch’s eyes widen in shock for just a short, fleeting moment, before he clears his throat and his features morph into his usual mask of disdain and arrogance again. 

„Listen, Princess“, he says, his voice serious, without even a hint of his usual dry humor, „I know how you feel, trust me, I do - but you’ve got to play nice, to play along, understand me?“ 

„I-“, you start, wanting to protest furiously, but when his grey eyes find yours again, the realization hits you like a punch to the gut: Haymitch is right. This is your life now. And no matter how much you might not like any of this, you’ve got to play along. 

You’ve got to. 

You sigh, the sound a mixture of annoyance and defeat. 

You want to ask Haymitch why and what’s the point, and haven’t the Capitol already taken all they can from you already, but then you remember where you are and that it’s not exactly safe to speak your mind so freely. 

And besides, that’s just the point, isn’t it? It’s never going to be enough. If they can hold annual Hunger Games just for their own entertainment, it’s clear that for these people - at least for those pulling all the strings -  limits simply don’t exist. 

You’re a Victor now. 

You’ve survived the Games, but at what cost? 

Not for the first time in your new life you find yourself wondering if simply dying in the Arena wouldn’t have been the better, safer, less painful option. 

You blink furiously, suddenly feeling pressure building behind your eyes. 

Beside you, you hear Haymitch inhaling sharply, and the next thing you know, he’s reaching for you hand, squeezing it softly. The moment is over before it can really begin, though, by the time your eyes find Haymitch’s again, he’s already stepped away from you again, both his hands cradling the bottle of liquor, but your skin still burns where he’s touched you. 

„Don’t let them see“, is all he says, his voice all sharp, cutting edges. 

You nod, allowing yourself one small, fleeting moment of squeezing your eyes shut. You picture Kai, smiling at you, telling you that it’s all going to be alright, somehow. 

Then, you open your eyes again, breathing in deeply and squaring your shoulders. 

You nod at Haymitch, an unspoken understanding passing between you two. 

His lips quirk into a sad, crooked grin. „There you go.“ 

And then, when you’ve already turned away, your eyes landing on a pair of outlandish-looking Capitol people, who must surely be some of your Sponsors, he whispers, so quietly that at first you’re not sure whether he’s meant for you to actually hear the words: „I’m here for you, Princess.“ 

You don’t turn back to look at him, tucking the words away into a corner of your mind instead, keeping them close to your heart, just like you did with the last piece of advice he gave you before the Games.  

I’m here for you, Princess. 

☀🏹

It doesn’t get any easier, trying to make it through these strange, uncomfortable moments in the Capitol, just slightly more bearable. And even that is an oversimplification of things, but during the following days, you try not to let your thoughts stray too much in that direction anymore. 

Haymitch is right - everything will be much easier if you just simply play along with everything that’s thrown your way, no matter how much you may despise all of it on the inside. 

And so you smile, laughing at your Sponsor’s vapid jokes, letting them touch and pet you like you’re an animal at the zoo instead of an actual human being. Though that’s just it, you suppose - to them, you’re not really human. 

You can’t help yourself but bring this up to Haymitch after the second day of meeting your Sponsors. 

„They don’t - they don’t really see us as actual humans, do they?“, you say, quietly, defeatedly, crossing your arms in front of your chest in order to ward off the slight chill in the night air. You’re up on the roof, as safe from watchful eyes and listening ears as you can get in the Capitol, at least according to Haymitch. After dinner, he’d suggested getting a breath of fresh air and the dark look in his eyes had told you that fresh air wasn’t all that his suggestion entailed. 

At your words, he laughs darkly, taking another sip from his bottle. „Whatever makes you think that, Princess?“ 

You shoot him a dark look. „It’s just - all their going on about how I seem so smart and well-spoken for someone that’s District, so - well-behaved …“, you say, trailing off, trying not to cringe at memory of an older woman - though with all the cosmetic surgeries done to her face you’re left in the dark when it comes to guessing her real age - grabbing a strand of your hair, running it through her fingers with a greedy look in her unnatural lilac eyes. 

„And the way they talked about some of the other tributes, it’s horrible …“, you whisper, your insides freezing when you recall how they’d talked about little Sarah and Finn - or, according to them, those wild savages. „Like we’re not even human, just … something - something less than …“ 

You shake your head, your gaze landing on Haymitch whose grip on the bottle in his hand has tightened so much so that the whites of his knuckles are showing. There’s a dark, pained look in his eyes, and by the way he’s staring off into the distance you can tell that he’s not really here in the moment with you right now. 

Not for the first time since meeting him you find yourself wondering what on earth happened to him that could’ve turned him into the cynical, drunken recluse you’ve always known him to be. 

As far as you can recall, there’s no one there for him in District Twelve - no friends, no family. Though surely he must have had friends and family before going into the Games. A mother, a father, maybe siblings. Maybe even a sweetheart. 

And now, he’s got no one. No mother or father to take care of him, no loving sweetheart, no caring friends. Something must have happened to them, his loved ones. It must have had something to do with his Games, you’re sure of it. 

If President Snow has no qualms about showing you off to your Sponsors like you’re nothing more than a glorious toy to be played with, then what limits are there for him when it comes to tributes causing trouble in the Games?

You don’t recall much about Haymitch’s Games, other than the fact that he must have somehow managed to outsmart the Gamemakers. That’s all that your father’s ever managed to cough up when you asked him about it and you’d never been able to get much more information from anyone else you’d asked. Back in Twelve, everything to do with Haymitch’s Games is all kept very hush-hush, which is rather strange, considering that he’s not only the only living Victor of Twelve, but also managed to win the Games during a Quarter Quell at that. 

Come to think of it, you can’t really remember any clips from Haymitch’s Games. There’s that one clip of his pre-Games interview with Caesar Flickerman during which he confidently announced that he’s not nervous about going into the Games, because even though there might be twice the amount of tributes as usual, that doesn’t mean that they won’t be any less stupid than usual. 

You also vaguely recall him allying with Maysilee Donner, a blond girl from the merchant sector of Twelve with an array of necklacesa around her neck. You’d think them pretty if the image of her neck, skin shredded to pieces after a pack of mutt birds attacked her, blood gushing and gushing and gushing, wasn’t burned so hard into your mind. 

But that’s it. 

The Victor of the Second Quarter Quell, and there’s hardly anything you know about his Games. 

You start shivering then, though it’s nothing to do with the slight chill in the air. Icy panic is flowing through your veins, turning your insides to ice. 

„- here, take that.“ 

Haymitch’s voice and his hands on your arms draw you out of your thoughts. 

You’d been so absorbed in the terrifying thoughts rushing through your head, you haven’t even noticed Haymitch taking off the sweater he’s wearing and leaning in closer towards you, sweater bunched up in one hand. Without the soft, knitted sweater, he’s left wearing a dark, tight shirt, and for a second you’re mindlessly ogling the way the shirt clings to his chest. How did you never before notice just how strong and muscular he actually is? 

But then you realize that you’re ogling him the exact same way you’d been ogled at by your Sponsors earlier that day and immediately force your eyes upwards.

There’s a dark, knowing look in Haymitch’s eyes, but it’s the smirk he gives you that really does you in, causing blood to rush to your cheeks. 

This is Haymitch, you remind yourself. Haymitch. Your mentor. Haymitch, who - as you’re becoming more sure of with every passing second - must have done something during his Games that caused him to lose everything and everyone he cared about after winning. 

The thought immediately sobers you up and you bite down hard on your lips. 

Haymitch smirks. „Take that“, he repeats, thrusting the sweater into your hands.

„But - but you’ll be cold“, you say, flushing the moment the words leave your mouth. 

Haymitch only rolls his eyes. „Just take the damn sweater, Princess. I could do without all the shivering and teeth chattering … besides, your coronation’s tomorrow, can’t have you falling ill before that, can we now?“ 

You nod, taking the sweater from him, though the mention of your Victor’s interview with Caesar Flickerman gives you pause. 

You know that it’s inevitable, that there’s nothing you could do to prevent any of it, and yet the thought that you absolutely do not want to live through any moment from your Games ever again, is there all the same. Not that you can really escape your memories from your time in the Arena - they’re woven into all of your nightmares and most of your waking moments. 

Still, it’s something else entirely, being forced to watch all these moments while surrounded by an audience of Capitol people, than to wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and calling out for Kai, even though you know that you’re never going to feel the comforting weight of his arms around you ever again. 

Just thinking about Kai causes your heart to ache. 

Pressure builds behind your eyes, and for once, you don’t try to fight off the tears, letting them fall down freely instead. 

But even as the tears are streaming down your face, your body shaking with silent sobs, you tell yourself that you’ll only get this one moment. This one stolen moment in the dark, with Haymitch by your side. 

Just this one moment. 

Because come tomorrow, you’ll have to go through everything all over again. You can’t let yourself fall apart, not yet, not while you’re still here in the Capitol. 

And almost as if he’s read your thoughts, Haymitch reaches for your hand after you’ve pulled his sweater on, squeezing it lightly. 

You squeeze his hand back, your eyes finding his. 

There’s so much more you want to say, so much more you’re burning to know and understand about him, but in this particular moment, you don’t need any more words to understand each other. 

You don’t know how long you stay like that, just sitting next to each other in complete silence, your hands still joined.

But when, after some time has passed, you both wordlessly get up, you feel considerably lighter, and the pain in your chest has lessened, if only by a small fraction.  

☀🏹

Your interview with Caesar Flickerman the following evening is every bit as horrible as you’d imagined it to be. 

You fight hard to keep your composure, to smile and nod when it’s expected of you, but you barely make it through the whole ordeal, especially once the viewing of the clipped-together version of the Games begin. 

It’s surreal - surreal and absolutely horrible - seeing Kai and all your other allies there on the big screen. 

Watching a whispered late-night conversation you’ve had with Kai during the end of your time in the Arena, you feel as if you’ve stepped out of your body, watching yourself interacting with Caesar and the audience as if from afar. 

Your eyes find Haymitch then, who’s sitting in the first row, a half-empty bottle of liquor clutched in his hands. He holds your gaze, nodding as if to say: that’s it, keep holding on. 

And so you do, suffering through the rest of the footage of the Games and more empty, meaningless chatter with Caesar. 

Then, it’s time for President Snow to crown you Victor of the 61st annual Hunger Games. You stand, frozen and rooted to the spot in cold fear, as the President places the fragile looking gold crown on your head. 

„Congratulations“, he says, and you have to fight to keep your composure as his stale breath hits your skin. 

You force yourself to nod as the President turns to Haymitch, who has been called up on stage as well and is now standing right next to. „And I believe congratulations are in order for you as well, Mr. Abernathy“, Snow says, reaching for Haymitch’s hand.

As Snow shakes Haymitch’s hand, Haymitch’s dark grey eyes seem to blaze with barely concealed disdain, but other than that, his expression is entirely unreadable. 

Still, Snow’s puckered lips quirk up into a terrifying smirk. „You’ve truly outdone yourself this year, Mr. Abernathy …“ His eyes flicker towards you, before turning back to Haymitch. 

„I’m sure that I speak for everyone in the Capitol when I say that we’re all so very curious and eager to see where her journey will take our lovely new Victor next … Though it’s reassuring, of course, to know that you, Mr. Abernathy, will be there at her side - for all of it...“ 

Snow laughs, though his eyes remain cold and expressionless. 

You can’t help but shiver, your heart pounding with fear. But when you turn to look at Haymitch, he won’t meet your gaze. 

Your bite down hard on your lip, so hard that the metallic taste of blood floods your tongue, but you don’t feel the pain. 

Something is wrong, you think, heart pounding in your chest. 

Something is very, very wrong. 

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gentle reminder that feedback is always appreciated and that reblogs really help me with visibility <3

[am-i-interrupting]

NSFW Headcanons

Silco x Jinx friend! Reader

Slight NSFW

Tags: Silco x reader, reader is jinx friend, mention of smut.

Love a bit of forbidden love tihi^^ please continue leaving requests and thank you all for your support!

Masterlist

~You’re One of the Few People Who Can Handle Jinx. Silco notices that Jinx listens to you more than anyone else. You keep her somewhat grounded, which makes him wary of how much influence you have over her.

~Silco Doesn’t Trust You, At First. He sees you as a potential liability. If you’re close to Jinx, that means you could sway her. He keeps an eye on you, watching for any sign of betrayal.

~But Then He Starts Admiring You. Whether it’s your loyalty, your intelligence, or the way you handle yourself, Silco slowly starts to respect you. Maybe even like you.

~Jinx Notices the Tension. She’s sharp, too sharp. If something’s brewing between you and Silco, she will figure it out. Whether she teases you about it or gets possessive over his attention depends on how you play it.

~Jinx brings you around a lot. You’re in Silco’s office often enough that he starts paying attention, to the way you carry yourself, to how sharp your wit is, to how your eyes linger on him just a second too long.

~It starts with stolen glances. He watches you when he thinks you aren’t looking, calculating, studying. But the second you meet his gaze? He doesn’t look away.

~The first time he touches you, it’s subtle, fingertips grazing yours when passing a drink, his hand settling on your lower back when guiding you through a crowded room. Small, meaningless gestures… except they linger.

~He starts noticing things about you he shouldn’t. The way your breath catches when he stands too close. The way your lips part when he speaks in that low, commanding voice.

~He tells himself it’s nothing. You’re Jinx’s friend. You’re off-limits. But the more time you spend together, the harder it gets to pretend. Friend. You’re off-limits. But the more time you spend together, the harder it gets to pretend.

~It’s a mistake. It shouldn’t happen.

~Maybe it’s after an argument, voices heated, faces too close. Maybe you’re tending to a wound on his face, fingers brushing against his jaw, and suddenly the tension snaps.

~The moment your lips meet, there’s no hesitation. It’s rough, desperate, like both of you have been holding back for too long.

~He’s dangerously good at control, but not with you. Not anymore.

~Silco is used to power. He’s a man who owns every room he walks into. But with you? It’s different.

~You challenge him. You don’t always listen. You talk back, push him, make him want things he shouldn’t.

~One night, after another one of your tense, unspoken-want conversations, he pins you against his desk.

~“You enjoy testing me, don’t you?” His voice is smooth, but there’s a dangerous edge to it.

~You smirk up at him, eyes daring. “And what if I do?”

~His fingers tighten on your waist. He leans in, his breath ghosting over your lips. Waiting. Waiting for you to break first.

~But neither of you do. And that’s what makes it even more intoxicating.

~At first, Jinx doesn’t notice. She’s too caught up in her own chaos.

~But then she catches the way Silco’s eyes linger on you for a second too long.

~The way your conversations pause, like there’s something unspoken hanging between you.

~One night, she straight-up asks, “Are you two fucking?”

~Whether you’re horrified or smirking depends on your personality, but either way, Silco is calm as ever, only giving her a knowing look and saying, “Go to bed, Jinx.”

It happens after a long night. Maybe a dangerous mission, maybe a close call, maybe just another evening of suffocating unresolved tension.

~You’re in his office, the only light coming from his cigar as he exhales slow, eyes heavy-lidded and dangerous.

~You step closer, testing him, daring him. And when you finally touch him, resting your fingers against his chest, his self-control snaps.

~He grabs you by the waist, pulling you flush against him, his voice low and warning.

~“You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

~But you do. And when he finally takes you, it’s all pent-up tension, rough kisses, hands gripping too tight.

~Silco may be a patient man, but with you? He’s starving.

~Silco doesn’t do attachments. Attachments are weaknesses.

~But the first time he sees you asleep in his bed, tangled in his sheets, he realizes. He doesn’t want to let you go. And that terrifies him.

[am-i-interrupting]

protector - haymitch abernathy

what a party

masterlist

background: you're mags' granddaughter, from district 4, 18 years old, just won the 55th hunger games, no clue what comes next whereas haymitch and mags know everything

warnings: sexualizing, allusions to sa and gross people, spoilers to sotr, age gap of like 3 years

word count:

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

your neon turquoise drink bubbled in your hand as you smiled sweetly at another guest, your shimmering blue dress holding you in tightly by the corset.

"yes, it was scary," you told the woman dressed like a hammerhead shark, a large headpiece on her crown that seemed to hit every passerby as she turned. "but, i knew i could survive. obviously it worked out all fine."

"obviously," she crooned with a heavy laugh, whacking another guest as she glanced at her husband who expertly ducked underneath the sharkhead. "so, dear, i've been wondeirng-"

"excuse me."

you turned quickly, narrowly dodging sharklady's headpiece as she followed your movements. the young man standing in front of you was a sight to see - a perfectly tailored navy blue suit that looked suspiciously close to yours, wavy blond hair quiffed in a way that was both messy and perfect, and striking grayish blue eyes accentuated by glittery blue eyeliner you were sure he fought against.

"mr abernathy!" sharklady exclaimed with a chirp of delight. she immediately began fanning her face and stuck out her rounded chest enough that her husband stepped away with an eyeroll. she looked to you, taking out another guest as she did, and gestured to the man by your side. "miss flanagan, let me introduce you to haymitch abern-"

"we've met," he said bluntly, turning to shoot you a boyish smile. "good to see you again, honey."

honey. golden, smooth, sweet - exactly the nickname for a girl like yourself. not that you realized why. it was just the first thing that came to his mind when your grandmother hastily introduced you both backstage of caesar's talk show the night before.

"you as well, haymitch," you answered, mustering a small smile.

he then turned back to the capitol couple who'd had you stuck for the last fifteen minutes, smoothly stealing the fluorescent glass from your hand and offering it to the woman. "you mind if i steal her away for a dance?"

sharklady mindlessly took the glass and nodded with a giggle. "not at all! have fun!"

haymitch nodded at her, grinning lazily as he took your hand and pulled you quickly after him towards the center of the room where the rest of the couples were slow dancing.

his hand found your waist instantly, pulling you closer as his other hand held yours gently, your free hand on his shoulder now. his eyes roamed the room, carefully taking in the beachy decorations in honor of district 4 before meeting yours again. "this is quite the party for ya."

"yeah," you said with a thin smile. "the capitol's been very kind."

"kind enough to let you enjoy it without being strung from the ceiling at least," he said with an ironic smile and a huff of breath. you furrowed your brows in question and he continued: "that's how i spent my victory parties - in a gold cage where people could poke and prod and toss food all they liked. the whole week."

"oh." you looked away from him and at the exotically dressed capitol citizens all here to celebrate you and the murder of 23 other district children. "then yes - i guess they have been kind to me."

"they won't be, if you haven't figured that out already." he tilted his head and tugged you forward gently so your eyes met his again. "did you speak with mags?"

"yes," you replied quietly.

"and you're okay with this?" his grip on your hand tightened a bit as he searched your eyes again.

"if what you both say is true, which i believe... i'll do anything to avoid it," you answered, meeting his eyes more fully.

he nodded, pulling you into him further as he dropped his mouth to your ear and whispered quietly: "then unfortunately, honey, the games are back on."

he spun you out, twirling you under his arm and laughing loudly to catch the attention of surrounding guests, who began to whisper to themselves as he caught you back in his arms.

his mouth was back at your ear. "smile."

and you did, widely, letting out a short laugh as you kept your eyes strictly on the blond boy in front of you.

"you look very dapper tonight, mr abernathy," you told him as the next song began playing, your steps moving quicker to accommodate the new beat.

"and you look absolutely stunning, miss flanagan," he said, winking and earning another laugh from you in response. "it seems as though our stylists have had similar ideas when it came to themes."

"how cute! we match," you giggled.

he spun you again, but stopped so your back was at his chest and he glanced down at you from behind. his grin was the one you were used to seeing in the news - casual, mischievous, glowing a sense of carelessness that only suited the gorgeous rascal of district 12. you smiled back up at him with your own carefully-curated-capitol smile.

you both pretended not to see the flash of a camera in the crowd.

"don't we look great together, honey?" he hummed, chuckling as you rolled your eyes before spinning you back so you were dancing properly again.

"i fear that is the point, 12," you answered quietly as he pulled you closer into his chest.

"it's a good thing we're both so damn gorgeous then, hm?"

you rolled your eyes again, but quickly smiled to cover it as you spotted a particularly interested guest furrowing her brows at you.

"yes, it's a very good thing."

you two continued to dance until the end of the song, haymitch dipping you dramatically with his face too close to yours and a stupid grin that made you want to either slap him or kiss him - both a surprise to you.

once you were standing again he pulled you to the side, his lips at your ear in an instant.

"how do you wanna play this?" he mumbled, his eyes flickering around the room at the all-too-attentive capitol guests. "wanna sneak out now and let 'em talk or drag out the flirting?"

"shouldn't we just jump straight into it?" you wondered as you turned to face him completely, your back to the party and his hands on your arms. "since it's gonna happen anyways?"

"up to you, darlin', but i'll tell you that they love their drama, and if they think they're getting in the way of you and me potentially getting together they'll stay away," he answered, his eyes finally dropping to meet yours again. he shrugged and opened his mouth to speak again before another cut in.

"play the game."

you looked quickly to the side, your heart jumping at the sound of this new man's voice and found yourself face to face with plutarch heavensbee. he'd introduced himself at the interviews before your games as a friend of your grandmother's but you hadn't seen him since.

"i'm sorry?"

a warm smile pulled at his lips and he moved to rest a hand on your arm, pulling away only when realizing haymitch currently had hold of both.

haymitch eyed him warily before letting out a short breath. "mags tell you?"

"she did. she asked for my advice, and my advice is the same to you now: play the game," he said again, returning his gaze to yours. "drag it out, make subtle moves and comments and flirt around each other enough to keep attention on you."

"i thought the goal was to keep the attention off of me," you said with a frown.

"honey, the attention is already on you and is going to stay for a good long time," haymitch said, his head lolling to the side as he eyed you and finally released your arms. "the goal now is to change the narrative. keep them from wanting to be with you to-"

"wanting to be you," plutarch finished with his brows raised encouragingly. haymitch shot him a side-eyed glare for cutting him off.

"and us flirting will do that?" you asked.

"yes. and also staying separate. a game, like i've said. push and pull," plutarch continued. "for example, i will now take you to dance."

"hey, what-?"

but plutarch had already whisked you away, the sound of strings surrounding you.

"see?" he hummed as he swayed you easily, a soft smile on his lips as he met your eyes. "people are looking, aren't they?"

you glanced over his shoulder to see the capitol citizens looking away from you, off to the corner you'd just been pulled away from. "they're looking at haymitch."

"exactly. and soon, when the song ends he will take you away once more and the whispers will begin. it's a very predictable game," he told you. "but for now just smile and dance. and when you go back to haymitch be subtle. you want this to be exciting for them, like a mystery."

"right," you mumbled. "except it's a mystery to me too."

"it's not. that's why you're doing this," he reminded quietly, his brows raised before he spun you. your eyes roamed the crowd and found their attention back on you and the heavensbee boy.

the song was short and your dance quickly ended. you smiled politely and curtsied at the man, him returning with a bow, before someone took your hand.

"you wanna get a drink?" the words were mumbled in your ear and you turned quickly to find haymitch in front of you. you breathed a sigh of relief, nodding shortly.

"yeah," you said, mustering a bit of a laugh. "i think i could use one."

"me too, honey," he answered, his lips tipped into a frown, but turning immediately into a keenly polished grin as he turned and pulled you into the crowd. "'scuse me, folks - coming through."

you held onto his hand tighter as you weaved between people, eyes following you as you followed him. he plucked two glasses from passing trays in one hand, balancing them expertly between his fingers before he finally came to a stop near a bubbling blue fountain in the center of the patio. people were still chattering about, the sounds and smells overwhelming your senses, but as he handed you your bright yellow champagne you felt the slightest bit of calm.

"thank you," you told him, sipping from the tall glass. it tasted like banana candy and somehow you didn't hate it. "you seem to be an expert on pulling me away from social situations."

"one of my more favorable attributes," he said with a lopsided grin, drinking from his own flute of taffy-flavored bubbly. "you'll be experiencing it often."

you heard a muffled giggle from behind you, like some girl had overheard the subtle flirting from the abernathy boy and failed to hide her giddiness. your eyes traveled over the sea of people, already drooping in exhaustion over the idea of having to do this for another two weeks before you finally went home, and then again for your victory tour a few months later.

you steeled yourself and returned your eyes to the blond boy in front of you, smirking and tilting your head at him. you raised your glass a bit. "yeah, i suppose i will."

[am-i-interrupting]

I should be cocooned and give DPT.

[am-i-interrupting]

protector - haymitch abernathy

hey hello (also kinda prologue)

masterlist

background: you're mags' granddaughter, from district 4, 18 years old, just won the 55th hunger games, no clue what comes next whereas haymitch and mags know everything

warnings: sexualizing, allusions to sa and gross people, spoilers to sotr, age gap of like 3 years

word count: 1.3k

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

mags had done a really good job preparing you to enter the wild world that was the capitol. she warned you about smiling judgements from everybody and the strange clothes and drinks that make you throw up so you can just keep eating. you knew all about caesar flickerman and his awkward and too blunt questions. and you knew, even, that victors were used as tools for snow to make more money, earn loyalty, and win the support of many hunger games sponsors.

you just didn't know that she really meant you.

you, the newest and brightest young victor, 18 years old and easy on the eyes, a shining star from district 4, the golden new heartthrob of the capitol that had men way into their late forties salivating at the thought of meeting you.

you were the best target.

"why was he looking at me like that - and why did he say that? that was completely crude and disrespectful and he acted like i was some girl who he had easy access to, like a bloody slab of meat, and why-" you turned sharply to your grandmother, "do you have no reaction?! why aren't you saying anything? why do you just sit there and listen to me and not do anything-"

"my dear," mags sighed, a hand in the air to cut you short. "i tried. i do try and i will continue to try, but i told you. i told you before you volunteered, before your games, and before this party - this is snow's way. this is his game. the gamemakers and sponsors, they can do whatever they want in the arena he couldn't care less but here, in the real world... he loves to play this game."

"but this is my life, gigi," you breathed out, sitting next to her finally. "i can't - i won't be played like this. i can't handle it. i should've listened to you."

"you should've." she nodded and finally met your eyes. "but you can still listen to me now."

you sat straighter, your brows furrowing but you nodded anyways. "i'm listening, gigi."

"there's a boy that i mentored a few years ago - young, charming, a bit of a throwaway victor because he was rebellious. the capitol loves it, they consider him more of a rascal as opposed to a threat but snow... he hates him because he can't use him. i think he could be a great help to you, help protect you in ways that i can't," mags explained.

you let out a breathy laugh. "you can't mean-"

"haymitch abernathy."

"but, he's all out for himself. he won't help someone like me. i - i'm a career, a volunteered tribute who was an idiot enough to do it. he won't help me," you told her, shaking your head.

"he will."

"i doubt it."

"he's already agreed," she said. a small, sad smile pulled at her lips. "it's another game you'd be playing if you go along, but at least you have some control over it. and you have a partner. and we both know that having a partner in the capitol's games can help your chances of survival."

you considered her words even though you knew immediately she was right. you just couldn't wrap your head about the idea of haymitch abernathy - the victor of the second quarter quell, the only living victor from district 12, famed for his solidarity and genius and charm and brewing of illegal alcohol - helping you.

"what's the play?"

"you flirt. pretend to be a couple. it's your only chance of snow leaving you alone, if you're in a very active, very public, and very popular relationship," she answered with a sigh. "i know it's not ideal, but sweetheart, i think it's the best chance you have."

you hesitated again, but only to ask: "he's a good man? you like him?"

mags didn't hesitate with her response, only smiling slightly. "he's a good boy. his heart is in the right place. and he's got spirit, spunk - i think you two would get along really well."

"okay," you breathed out, nodding as you looked up from your hands to meet her familiar seagreen eyes. "if he's in, i'm in. i'll take my chance."

"he is your chance. and he's waiting to meet you," she said, squeezing your hands before standing from the couch in the greenroom and nodding towards backstage. "come along now. caesar is set to interview him in a couple of minutes, just a bit before you, and i'd like you to meet beforehand."

she ushered you along sidestage to the massive curtain that made up caesar's backdrop, making sure to stay quiet as you crossed behind it to where you just noticed a messy tuft of sandy blond hair slip to.

he was taller than you expected, and had more muscle too. you figured it had to due with the last few years of finally eating right, but still, with all the alcohol you heard he consumed you were impressed with how he held himself.

his eyes were a deep gray that flashed blue as he turned his head, and they softened when they spotted your grandmother, settling into a clear silvery ocean color when they finally rested on you. his posture straightened, the glass in his hand never swishing or threatening to spill even as he crossed a few steps to meet you both.

"hello haymitch," mags said with a smile.

"hi mags," he answered, matching her smile genuinely. he glanced behind her to you, one brow twitching up as his smile grew a bit lopsided. "hey."

"hello," you said, bouncing on your heels a bit as you heard caesar's interview wrap up and edge closer to yours at the end of the night. "i'm-"

"mags' granddaughter, i know," he said, waving his hand with the glass and not spilling a drop. "i watched the games. you were very impressive."

you'd gotten that a lot. "thanks."

"quite honestly i thought you were going to fail. that dry as hell desert was a far cry from district 4, but you held it together," he hummed. "good job."

you shifted on your feet, offering him a bit of a smile. "i do my best."

"haymitch is good at that too," mags said, glancing between you and the boy. "especially out here in the capitol. he can show you the ropes."

it was like ropes was a keyword for something they'd previously discussed, because as soon as it left her mouth his eyes were back on you with a strange intensity that turned them back to steel gray. he tilted his head. "yeah? you want that?"

you had to break eye contact with him to breathe and actually think about anything other than how annoyingly perfect his face was, especially for a district 12 boy. and then the only thing you could think about was going out to meet caesar for the fifth time since being in the capitol and how every word you said was like honey to some psycho sponsors who was just waiting for snow to let them sleep with you.

you chewed on your lip, your eyes on the curtain and your ears trying to tune out the laughing crowd behind haymitch. and then, with a nudge from mags, you finally met his gaze and nodded. "yeah. that'd be great."

"okay," he agreed. and then, all at once, his seriousness was gone and a boyish smirk was on his lips. he took a dramatic sip of what you assumed was some sort of whiskey and then stepped back, his hand in the air in a vague gesture to the stage. "and that's my cue. wonderful seeing you ladies."

your brows furrowed as he stepped away, glancing at your grandmother. "what's his cue?"

and then you heard the laughter change to applause and then as he slipped out of sight onto the stage they turned into screams and whistles and loud universal giggling.

"they love him. they want him. they can't have him," mags told you, a small smile on her lips. "and when he's yours, you'll be untouchable too."

[am-i-interrupting]

hi !! I wanted to request maybe something for young haymitch where reader is his gf and is reaped along with him & how he’d react to that/treat her in the arena? love ur work 😊

ahhh u ask and you shall receive!! (disclaimer: NO SOTR SPOILERS!!! DIFFERENT EVENTS FROM THE ORIGINAL STORY!!)

The Three Times

young!haymitch abernathy x fem!reader content warnings: angst, normal hunger games warnings, descriptions of death (NO SUNRISE ON THE REAPING SPOILERS!!!) summary: the three times haymitch tried to keep you safe. wc: 1.6k

masterlist.

The First Time.

Haymitch isn’t afraid of the reaping.

Not because he thinks he’s safe, he’s not that stupid. His name is in there too many times, and if past games have taught him anything, it’s that the odds don’t favor poor kids from District 12.

He doesn’t fear it because fear won’t change a damn thing.

He stands in the square, jaw tight, arms crossed as the escort steps up to the microphone with their sickly sweet Capitol drawl. The sun beats down, dust rising with every shuffled step of the crowd. Haymitch barely listens, staring at a crack in the stage instead.

Then they say his name.

He exhales through his nose. It was bound to happen. He keeps his shoulders squared as he steps forward, ignoring the murmurs from the crowd. His mother gasps somewhere behind him. His little brother starts crying. Haymitch doesn’t turn around.

He won’t give them that. Won’t let them see him panic.

He climbs the stage, feet heavy, and keeps his face blank as he looks out at the crowd. It doesn’t matter. It’s done.

Then the escort reaches into the second bowl. Their manicured fingers pluck out a slip.

They unfold it slowly.

They read the name.

Haymitch’s stomach drops.

He must’ve heard it wrong. Must’ve misunderstood. But then he sees you, the way your whole body stiffens, the way your hands curl into fists.

You don’t move at first. The silence stretches too long.

His heart slams against his ribs.

This can’t be happening.

Not you.

You finally take a shaky step forward. The crowd parts for you, all those wide, pitying eyes. Haymitch hates them for it.

His whole body feels locked in place, stiff and wrong. He wants to run, to shove you back into the crowd and take your place.

He wants to tear through the square and shake every single person until someone does something.

You step onto the stage. The sun casts a glow over your face, and for a second, you almost don’t look real. You look too soft, too good for this place. For what’s about to happen.

Haymitch’s throat is dry. He knows what happens to people in the arena. He’s imagined his own death a hundred times over. It never scared him much before, not until now. Not until you.

You stand beside him, your breath coming in quick, uneven pulls.

Haymitch twitches, fingers flexing at his side. He wants to reach for you. Wants to lace his fingers through yours and promise that he’ll fix this. That he won’t let them take you. That he’ll find a way for you to make it out.

Instead, he just looks at you.

And you look back.

And in that single moment, nothing else exists. The cameras, the escort, the whole world, they all fade into white noise. All that’s left is the two of you, standing side by side on a stage that might as well be a graveyard.

His fingers brush against yours. Not enough for anyone to see. Just enough for you to feel it.

He couldn't protect you from the reaping.

But he could protect you from the arena.

Haymitch swallows hard. Then, finally, he speaks. Low enough for only you to hear.

"I won’t let them take you."

It’s a promise.

He knows, only one of you is getting out.

And if it comes down to it, it won’t be him.

The Second Time.

Haymitch runs.

The second the gong sounds, he doesn’t think, he just bolts to you, grabs your wrist and runs.

He doesn’t go for the Cornucopia. Not yet. That’s where tributes die first. Instead, grabs two stray packs and pulls you toward the tree line, shoving past another tribute before they can react. You stumble, but his grip tightens, dragging you with him.

The air is hot, thick with something wrong. The trees around you are too perfect, branches too symmetrical, leaves too still, the flowers too beautiful.

The whole place feels like a puppet stage, something stitched together by hands that never touched real earth.

You don’t stop running until your legs give out.

You collapse against a tree, gasping for breath, hands clutching at your knees. Haymitch crouches beside you, every muscle in his body tight, his ears straining for sounds of movement. Screams echo from the Cornucopia, first one, then two, then more.

You’re shaking. He can see it in your hands. He hates it. Not you, never you, but the fact that the Capitol has already won. They’ve already made you afraid.

He exhales sharply, schooling his face into something steady. Strong. You need him to be that.

“Gotta keep moving,” he says, voice low.

You look up at him, eyes wide, but you nod.

"Okay"

Good. That’s good.

He keeps you alive. That’s his only priority

****

You’re no killer, he knew that before, and it only becomes clearer the longer you’re in here. Haymitch doesn’t hold it against you. It’s not a weakness, it’s what makes you you. And if you can’t kill for yourself, he’ll do it for you.

He takes down a tribute the second night. A girl from District 4. She didn’t see him coming. He doesn’t let himself think about it—just focuses on the supplies in her bag, the water canteen, the knife.

Things that will keep you alive.

You don’t look at him the same way after that. Not in a bad way. Just…different.

Like you understand what this means.

Like you know he won’t stop.

Like you’re starting to wonder if he’s going to make it out at all.

****

You don’t get sponsors.

Haymitch does.

It pisses him off. It’s not a coincidence. He plays the part, the tragic lover, the desperate protector, the boy who would do anything to keep you alive. He knows the cameras are watching every time he presses his forehead to yours, every time he cups your face like you’re the last real thing in this whole damn world.

And the gifts come to him.

Not you.

And that’s how he knows.

They don’t care about you. They care about him.

They’ve already picked their Victor.

It makes him sick.

But maybe he can still keep you safe.

The Third Time

It happens on the seventh day.

The arena has been quiet. Too quiet.

Haymitch doesn’t trust it.

He’s on edge as you both walk through the forest, your fingers brushing his arm every now and then, like you’re making sure he’s still there.

He doesn’t blame you.

You haven’t slept. Neither has he.

You’re starving, weak. The sponsors haven’t sent anything in days. Haymitch knows why. He’s seen the writing on the wall since the first night.

They want a show.

And they’re about to get one.

The trap triggers so fast he doesn’t even have time to react.

One second, you're walking beside him. The next, you’re screaming.

A spear, thin as a needle, fast as lightning, shoots out of the ground and impales you through the stomach.

You choke. Stumble. Collapse to your knees.

Haymitch hears his own breath leave his lungs.

“No. No, no, no-”

He’s on you in an instant, hands scrambling to hold you up, but you’re already fading.

The wound is bad. Fatal. He knows it the second he looks at it. The spear is barbed, meant to cause maximum damage.

He grabs it, tries to pull it out-

But your hand covers his, weak, trembling.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

His stomach drops.

Your breathing is shallow, your fingers curling into his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you here. He sees the blood staining your lips, the life slipping from your eyes.

And there’s nothing he can do.

His hands shake as he cradles your face, pressing his forehead against yours.

“You’re okay,” he says, his voice breaking. “You’re okay, dove. Just hold on.”

You let out a weak laugh, barely a sound at all.

“Liar.”

His vision blurs.

This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.

He should have seen the trap. Should have stopped this.

He should've protected you.

Your fingers brush over his cheek, soft, loving. The way you’ve always touched him.

“You’re gonna win,” you whisper.

He shakes his head. “Not without you.”

You smile at him, but there’s something in your eyes that destroys him. A quiet kind of acceptance.

“I love you...always and forever” you say.

It shatters him.

He can’t do this. He can’t.

“No- don’t say it like that-” His voice cracks, desperate.

You just look at him. Memorizing him. Saying goodbye.

His throat closes.

His heart stops.

Your hand goes slack in his.

Your eyes flutter closed.

And then...

The cannon fires.

Haymitch makes a sound he doesn’t recognize. Something raw, something that sounds like it was ripped out of him.

You’re gone.

You’re gone.

And the worst part?

The cameras are still rolling.

The Capitol wanted this.

And now they have it.

After.

He wins.

Not because he wants to. Because he has to. Because that’s what you wanted.

He uses the arena against itself. The force field, the Capitol’s own arrogance. He beats them at their own game.

He goes home.

Alone.

They try to clean him up, paint him into something pretty for the cameras. He doesn’t let them.

They tell him he should be grateful.

They don’t understand.

There was never a victory. There was just you and then there wasn’t.

So he drinks.

And drinks.

And drinks.

Because that’s the only way to make it stop.

So now not only were you gone.

But so was Haymitch.

Because Haymitch was the boy who loved you.

And now, without you, that boy is dead, too.

[am-i-interrupting]

Viktor who comes home late. Viktor who sees you lying in bed and stares lovingly. Viktor who pulls back the covers to see your exposed lower half. Viktor who pauses and stares. Viktor who tries to ignore it as he gets ready for bed and fails. Viktor who stares at the ceiling keeping his hands to himself. Viktor who rolls overtop of you one night after this keeps happening. Viktor who grinds against your ass. Viktor who eventually slips his fingers in. Viktor who scissors you open. Viktor who doubles over himself when he slides his dick inside you. Viktor who cums embarrassingly quick, coating your insides as you sleep.

[am-i-interrupting]

Worth Keeping | Haymitch x Everdeen!Reader

Chapter 1 | Lost Bet

Summary: For the first five years of mentoring, Haymitch was not numb but indifferent to these new tributes, on their way towards death. This year, he's forced to change that approach when his childhood friend's little sibling is called at the reaping.

Your reaping best was a dress, knee length with sleeves that bellowed out. They were made from the slightly scratchy material of the produce bags from the capitol but that is precisely what gave the sleeves their shape. The thick material was easily manipulated and held its form rather well. The rest of the dress was made out of patches of left over fabric. A waterfall of colors. Your shoes were just regular boots, worn with time and age.

That didn’t matter. You always felt like a grand princess when you wore the dress.

It was your masterpiece. A thing you’d made over the course of a year. Carefully hiding fabric swatches when you thought they’d match the others you’d collected. You stitched it all together by your own hand and no one else’s.

You were proud of it and if the capitol didn’t like it for their shiny televisions, they could kiss your ass. ‘Cause you sure as hell weren’t gonna change it.

Burdock came up behind you. He ran his fingers through your hair. He hooked one around a small section. It was divided into three parts and he started braiding.

“Last year,” he said.

You wanted to nod but didn’t want to mess up his work. “Last year.”

There was a tense silence between the two of you. Your foot shifted from side to side beneath you. He wouldn’t look you in the face just like every other year.

“You’ll be fine,” he said as he tied off the braid.

You grabbed his hand and force a smile up at him, determined to not show your nerves. “I will be. I am.”

“You are.”

He sighed through his nostrils.

Every single reaping was different now. It didn’t used to be like this. Not years ago. It just so happened that the day of your first reaping two of your childhood friends were ripped away and neither of them came back.

“Come on, it’s getting depressing in here,” you said as you walked past your brother and out of the house door.

You breathed in the air. It was thick and heavy. There was a certain stickiness to it.

“It’s a miracle they don’t pack up their equipment,” you said, raising your voice loud enough so Burdock could hear from inside. “Rain’s in the air. Might ruin all their shiny shit.”

“They have the money to replace it,” he said as he closed the house door.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

The district was normally quiet before the reaping and booming after. There was no day people drank more and worked less.

“Where’s ma and pa?” you asked.

“They never came home last night,” he answered. “Apparently there’s some coyot pack that’s been around. They wanted to find it. Then they can sleep when they get back and have no consequences.”

“Other than pa complaining tomorrow about sore his feet’ll be.”

He snorted at that and pushed you along.

You almost wanted to take off your shoes and walk down the dirt path. There was something so satisfying about that feeling of the earth between your toes. You could do it later though and you’d done it enough to know how it felt by your heart.

The boots were just so confining. No matter how worn they were, they structured in a way. Maybe your foot could fit instead the shoe but it couldn’t sit the way it was supposed to when gravity caused it to spread.

If you got anything bigger though it would weigh down your foot and rub against your skin. No matter what kind of socks you put on, it would still manage to rub your skin raw.

You gave your name, waiting for the line up.

They always put the little ones in front. Those wide, innocent eyes filled with their first experience of fear and shock. No idea how it felt to be in that position until they were in it and not able to hide the way they felt now that they were.

The perfect expressive faces for television.

That’s all anyone in the districts was to the capitol. It’s the only time they ever seemed to care about making things at least look livable but not too livable. It all had to be clean but just dirty enough.

You gave Burdock a hug right before your name was called.

You saw your parents coming in the distance. Both with tiredness etched in their every being. Tam Amber and Clerk Carmine right by their sides. You gave them all a way.

You got your hand pricked by a capitol member for what would be the last time. Your blood was smeared across the white page along with all the others of age for what would be the last time. You walked to that little closed off place for the last time.

You were almost out you weren’t stupid. You weren’t out yet.

Being one of the oldest people meant your name was in there a lot more than some others. Just, hopefully it wouldn’t be you.

Hopefully.

The whole ordeal started.

Haymitch sat down on stage. He never really did stand. He’d tried his first year and he been too drunk to stand straight. He kept leaning from side to side. Now, like every year, he clutched a bottle in his hand and had a far off look in his eyes. His feet dangled off the edge of the platform. His back covered the bottom half of the microphone stand from view as he leaned on one hand and tilted his bottle with the other.

Reaping day was hard for everybody, especially since Haymitch’s games.

Not only was it the day that two kids were going to be sent off to their death. It was also now the day that a boy had died, killed in front of all of them for trying to escape the death sentence only to reach it early.

There had been a change since that day six years ago. It was no longer Drusilla Sickle who pulled the names. That change happened almost instantly.

Now she was replaced with a much younger woman. In her twenties. She always had brightly colored and drastic makeup. A shocking outfit. You’d heard her name was. . . It had an F in there, somewhere.

She, in contrast to Haymitch, had perfect posture even in her heels. Her movements were fluid and delicate. Always thoughtfully planned.

She had a high pitched but clear voice. Perfect pronunciation. A wonderful announcer’s voice with the cheeriness but somberness to fit the capitol and the district’s emotions. All performative, surely but that perfect balance nonetheless.

As with every other year the speech played. One that made many glare or roll their eyes.

No one wanted such a drawn out and lengthy process. At least not in the districts. Like a bandage, everyone wanted it quickly dealt with.

“Now, it is time for us to discover which courageous young man and woman will be select to represent District 12 in the fifty-sixth annual Hunger Games,” and though her voice was sweet it did almost make one yearn for the harsh vinegar of Drusilla again. At least she was direct with her ever present disdain.

“Ladies first,” she said before she placed her hand in the bowl. Her hand swirled above then went below the piles of paper. She shuffled them and then drew out a single piece. Your heart froze when your name was called.

A sinking feeling you’d felt once before came to you.

Your hand went to your bracelet on your wrist. Years old and once a necklace you’d outgrown. It was wrapped and twisted around your wrist. Colorful pieces of thread stolen from Lenore Dove’s bedroom at the age of eleven. A rock from the river you’d sneak to tangled in it. It was made by you and your childhood best friend’s collective efforts just weeks before your twelfth birthday when you would be eligible for slaughter.

You turned your head, half expecting to see her, and you did. A brief glimpse of twin braids that framed a heart shaped face and a scar on the forehead above grey eyes that looked at you with the exact same horror of which you felt now.

She was gone.

You clutched the smooth stone and walked past the girls in line. They parted with no hesitation.

You looked back and saw a brief glimpse of your parents, Burdock, Tam Amber, and Clerk Carmine all huddled together and all with the same.

Peace keepers forced you forward.

You met Haymitch Abernathy’s gaze. His bottle was down on the stage. His feet were planted on the ground. He was oddly steady.

You were marched forward. Every time your feet hit the ground it was like you were being shook to your very core.

You really wished you were barefoot just to feel this dirt one last time.

As you grew closer and closer, you could see him clearer. Tears began to well in your eyes but you forced your head to stay up tall as you blinked the down. Your breath hitched in your lungs, caught on your ribcage.

Everything was just coming back to six years ago again, it seemed, as you saw that numbness which covered up fear and hurt in Haymitch’s eyes.

He spoke not a word. You didn’t expect him to.

You walked up the steps and grabbed the woman’s offered hand. It was soft. She placed her arm around your shoulder and her back other hand on your upper arm. She rubbed her thumb up and down. You were guided to your place and her touch was gone.

“And now for the boys.” A moment of silence. “Milo Declan.”

Milo was a younger boy, only twelve years old. He had strawberry blond hair and brown eyes. His face was still round with baby fat of which he’d yet to grow out of and likely never would now.

You heard the drag of a bottle against wood. Haymitch tilted it back once more. He walked away from the and out of the camera’s view.

“May the odds be ever in your favor,” the woman said as she backed away.

Milo wiped his hands on his pants before he stuck one out to you. You grabbed it, shook it.

Then were suddenly in a room. Your mother and father visited you. Hugged you. Said words you couldn’t process. Were pulled out by peacekeepers.

Burdock came in after. He hugged you. Whispered words of love and pushed your hair out of your face as he looked at you close one last time.

It was when Tam Amber and Clerk Carmine came in that reality finally sunk in.

You collapsed in Tam Amber’s arms, crying into them. Smoke cling to his clothes even though he’d been nowhere near a fire. Clerk Carmine hugged you from behind.

“You better,” you began through hitched breath, “be singing loud enough that I can hear it when I step in that arena. I don’t want to die in silence.”

Both of the men held you tighter.

“You won’t, buttercup. You won’t,” was either could say.

[am-i-interrupting]

Fragile

Haymitch Abernathy x GN! Reader

Summary: Alcohol not allowed in District 13 you look after Haymitch as he goes through the withdrawals.

Warnings/Tags: Established Relationship, Mention of Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdraws, Depictions of Withdraws, Depictions of Gagging and Vomiting, Angst & Fluff, Cuddling and Snuggling, Cheek Kissing, Smell of Vomit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taglist: @bfintaks @callsignwidow

[am-i-interrupting]

haymitch abernathy | until sunrise

words: 1.7k warnings: MINORS DNI. off-page sexual and physical abuse, blood, suicidal ideation, alcohol, drugs, angst, hurt/comfort description: You’re the Capitol’s plaything. All he can do is clean you up after a particularly terrible night.  I just finished Sunrise on the Reaping and had to get out some Haymitch brainrot.

A knock on his door is never a good sign. When Haymitch is in the Capitol for the Games, he keeps to himself when he can, lost in the fog of drink where he can convince himself that nothing can touch him. 

But there’s one exception. You.

You’re the only reason he opens the door at all. A fresh victor of District 12, it’s been your turn to serve the Capitol over the last couple of years. Last Games, they still had that thing in your ear, keeping you drugged and controlled to establish you as the Capitol’s docile little darling. This year, you’ve spent every party either in a cage or satisfying potential sponsors behind closed doors. It makes him sick, so he drinks more and more and more, but it never makes it easier. 

Now, in the hallway, you’re more gaunt than ever. Barely there at all. There are cuts all over your skin, blood dribbling down your temple, your neck, even your damn legs. 

“I need…” you whisper, and the words are slurred. Unlike him, it isn’t a choice. Your clients like you better when you’re inebriated, not able to fight back. You’re theirs to do with what they want. 

You frown as though you’ve already forgotten what you need, but he knows. 

“Come in, sweetheart.”

When you step forward on buckling legs, he has to catch you, just barely holding you up. His white liquor breath mingles with your sour one as, somehow, this quest for stability becomes something more. He’s holding you tight while your head lolls against his shoulder, because it’s the least he can do and it isn’t nearly enough. He feels responsible. He helped you win those games. After years of following the rules, learning the hard way that rebellion got people killed, he’d seen a spark in you. A spark that could have destroyed the games if he was just smart enough to figure out how. 

Snow had seen the flame. Snuffed it out. It pains Haymitch to think it, but he would have been better off letting you starve without sponsors. Letting you die in the arena. This… This is his fault. He cared for something again, somebody, and now it’s killing you both. 

“What’d they do to you?” he whispers when he’s shut the door behind you. A stupid question, born from horror rather than a genuine need to know. With the bite marks, bruises, and slashes across your skin, he can imagine. The Capitol are almost as genetically mutated as Mutts these days, so many of them resembling animals with sharp-filed teeth among other hideous implants.

“Got one… with fangs n’claws,” you mutter. 

He looses a jagged breath, half-rage, half-despair, and guides you carefully over to his couch. The apartment is still in darkness, lights too bright for his ever-pounding head. Besides, the view of the Capitol illuminated under the stars yawns outside his window, a beast not quite slumbering. Never does. The city never stops; night just casts a blanket over their depravities, but there are holes in the velvet that keep the place lit dim.

Curtains aren’t allowed. He already asked. 

With you slumped on his pillows, he can get a better view of your state. Regrets looking immediately. Glittering dress the colour of grey doves has been torn by greedy hands. Where your skin isn’t bloody, it’s black, blue, green, your very own kaleidoscope of pain. It’ll be worse in the morning, but right now, you at least have the detachment the drugs grant you. Not like him, who feels every fucking mark on you. 

He rubs a hand over his unkempt stubble. Tries to figure out where the fuck he should start. If you were cognisant, he’d have led you straight to the shower, knows how unclean you feel after a night like this. But you’re not, and he’s not going to be another monster who strips you bare without you knowing. 

“Gonna clean you up best I can, okay?” he finally decides. “You rest now.”

Your mumble is unintelligible, but it still pierces another needle through his chest. How can the two of you keep going like this? How can you mentor more tributes, knowing that an arena death would be kinder than this slow torture?

Turns out his liquor comes in handy for more than just getting wasted. He grabs a cloth and his half-drained bottle from the kitchen along with a bowl of warm water, then returns to you, kneeling on the carpet at your feet. 

“I got you now,” he whispers, then starts on your sprawled legs. You whimper when he reaches the first gash, right below your knee. “‘M sorry, sweetheart. Know it stings.”

You bite your lip, fingers curling into the velvet arm of the couch as he keeps going. “Haymitch.” It’s a croaked whisper, barely audible at all, but he hears it like an alarm bell.

“I’m here,” is all he can reply as he wrings the blood from the cloth. Goes again. Where your dress is bunched towards your hips, he sees bite marks on your inner thighs and feels nauseous. He sucks in a sharp breath. Leans back to press his fist into his mouth so that he doesn’t yell, or sob, or do something. He’s had his time, his punishment. It’s your turn now, and all he can do is be there at the end of the night. He takes a swig of the liquor in his hand, but it just makes the burn in his throat worse. So bad he has to step away, just for a minute, to collect himself. 

He doesn’t know your lazy gaze is watching his back, waiting for him to return. The only person who keeps you safe in all this, or at least rides out the devastation with you. Without him, you wouldn’t be here. You don’t know if that makes him a blessing or a curse. 

“Gonna get you some water,” he decides. 

Don’t go, you think, but you don’t dare say it. Even now, you’re afraid the Capitol will see just how much you rely on him and take that from you, too. 

He comes back quickly, helps sit you up with a gentle hand on your shoulder as he tips the cool glass to your cracked lips. “That’s it,” he coaxes. “Thatta girl.”

Your face crumples as though it tastes foul, and he draws it back to dry the excess from your chin. “When’s… it gon’ end?” you ask.

“When we’re dead and buried,” he replies softly. “Till then, you try to stay with me, okay?”

Your hooded eyes glisten as you finally look at him. It isn’t easy, being this vulnerable. You’ve been used and abused all night by evil, depraved men. Men with weapons on their fingers, in their mouths, everywhere, not because they like to fight, but because they like to bleed people like you dry. You shouldn’t want to be anywhere near him now, but where else can you go?

He’s all you’ve got. Some nights, it just isn’t enough. “Don’t w’na do this anymore.”

“I know.”

“Could end it.”

“They wouldn’t let you. You know that.” His voice is gravel; pain. You hate you put it there with your dreams of death, but they feel closer now than ever. What if he didn’t tend to your wounds, didn’t keep your hydrated and fed and awake? What if he let you drift off the way he hadn’t been able to in the arena?

And he’s right. Even if he could let you go, the Capitol would find some way to get you back, whether they’d use your sickly corpse or find somebody to masquerade as you to keep up appearances. You’d just be making it worse, even if not for yourself. 

And he needs you. He’d never say it, but he does. The only other victor here, all you have is each other. Back in District 12, you sit in your grand house in the Victor Village for hours, listening to him shuffling on the other side of the wall. His presence always a frayed thread to grasp onto with both hands. You clean him up when he’s passed out on his doorstep, or sometimes, you get drunk together on your couch. Only then do your bodies intertwine the way you want, both of you too past consciousness to care whether somebody sees. You don’t know what he’d do without you. Choke on his own vomit, maybe. Drink until he drowned. You rely on each other — and it’s the most dangerous thing in the world. But also the only thing that keeps you going. 

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, and his face is fading in and out of the blackness now as he tends to some of the scratches on your face and neck. 

“Haymitch,” you whisper again, because if anybody can save you, it’s him. 

“Right here, sweetheart. Not going anywhere.” He’s so gentle against your raw skin you barely feel it at all, only moaning when he reaches tender spots. Finally, it stops. 

“Couch or bed?” he asks just as you’re sinking into the dark. 

“Couch.” Beds are where terrible things happen. Beds are where this happened.

“Lie down then, sweet. That’s it.” He guides you down to the cushions of the couch, a hand brushing the matted hair off your cheeks. You can’t tell if it’s comfortable or not. Your body isn’t yours to decide that, these days. He drapes a blanket over you, and it eases your shuddering limbs. Had you been shaking like that the whole time? You barely noticed. 

“You’ll stay?” If you were capable of it, it would have been a plea. 

He gives you the same answer as ever: “Where else am I gonna go?” And then, when you don’t reply, he takes your hand and gets comfortable on the carpet. He’s never, not once, tried to do more than that after nights like this, knowing too much touch will bring it all back. “Gonna be right here till sunrise, okay? Always gonna be another sunrise.”

It should be a comfort, but it feels like a death sentence. Doing this all over again tomorrow… 

But he’s here. He’ll always be here. The only good thing this world has ever given you. 

[am-i-interrupting]

protector - haymitch abernathy

prologue

masterlist

background: you're mags' granddaughter, from district 4, 18 years old, just won the 55th hunger games, no clue what comes next whereas haymitch and mags know everything

warnings: sexualizing, allusions to sa and gross people, spoilers to sotr, age gap of like 3 years

word count: .7k

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

haymitch hated july. he hated the reaping, his birthday, the hunger games, the capitol - all of it. and why was it so fucking hot all the time? he couldn't even walk from backstage to the damn interview couch without working up a sweat.

and he walked to that couch a lot.

"so, what is the rascal of district 12 up to these days?" caesar asked.

haymitch smirked and let out a low laugh, crossing one leg over the other as he held up his glass of bourbon. "take a guess, caesar."

the crowd laughed with the tv host as he reached for his own drink and clinked it against haymitch's. they both took a swig, caesar wincing dramatically as haymitch just breathed out contentedly.

"hopefully not brewing anymore though?"

"nah, i've got plenty enough funds to buy my own, thanks," haymitch answered with the same lazy grin he always wore in public.

"oh yes, of course you do," caesar said, waving a hand as he leaned forwards toward the young victor. "now, i'm so very sorry about your tributes again. they looked promising in the parade and behaved very well in their interviews."

yes. promising.

the girl had been practically naked and covered in coal dust - the stylist from 2 years prior's grand idea that became the new routine despite the revolving door of apparent fashion-experts assigned to the district - and the boy had the top half of miner's overall's with tiny black shorts. "it's like he fell in a cavern!" the stylist had told him. "it's innovative."

and then when they entered the roundabout parade their horses were slow and loud, their chariot covered in cheap black streamers, and the two fifteen year olds looked like two tiny mice rolled in coal dust and tossed into a cage of cats.

and the interviews? the girl was so nervous her hands shook and the strap of her hideous khaki and black dress kept falling down her arm. the boy kept trying to make jokes that never landed and insulted his district partner.

they then both scored 6s in the tribute center.

it was no wonder they both died within ten minutes of the initial bloodbath. haymitch told them to run and they did - just straight towards the cornucopia. straight towards the careers.

"they were good kids," haymitch managed to get out, taking another gulp of bourbon. "but they weren't built for the games. someone else was and so she won."

"yes, and what do you think of her? miss flanagan, i mean."

he paused, which only made caesar's smile grow wider. he caught sight of his old mentor backstage, her nodding once at him before disappearing behind the curtains again.

he sat straight and willed his grin back into existence, shrugging as he sipped from his glass again. "seems like a strong girl."

"a beautiful one too," caesar furthered, leaning towards the younger man. haymitch laughed lightly, nodding a bit.

"yes, she is," he agreed.

"have you gotten the chance to meet with her?"

"i have."

"and? anything noteworthy to report? any... connections found between you and the newest victor? we've all been waiting for our golden boy to find love again."

again. he hated how they flaunted lenore dove's death like it made him some tragic greek hero. he tried not to tense.

"she's absolutely gorgeous, of course," he answered, relaxing back in his chair as he shot a glance at the overexcited crowd. "no one can deny it. and she's... kind."

"kind?" caesar asked with raised brows. he grinned. "has she been kind to you haymitch?"

"more than any of the other victors, i'll tell you that," haymitch said with a gruff laugh. "alas, we're from different districts... i'll hardly see her except for once a year."

"do you want to see her more than once a year?" caesar teased, smiling at the audience like they were all in on some sort of secret joke.

haymitch paused, thinking back to the girl he'd shared a single conversation with prior to the games - the one who resembled his mentor just barely and had skin bronzed with the district 4 sun. the one who smiled like the sun itself. the one who'd managed to win the hunger games only killing one other tribute and did it all in a desert void of any water that would normally kill a girl like herself. the girl just on the other side of that curtain, chewing her lip, with a target on her back that was placed there just because she was pretty.

"yeah," he decided. "i do."

[am-i-interrupting]

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

Ask and you shall receive!!!!!

A Pawn Once More (2)

Character: Haymitch Abernathy

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

Type: Angst/ Fluff

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t breathe.

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

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

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

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

You just needed to find Haymitch.

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

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

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

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

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

You needed to find him.

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

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

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

“Here I am!” a familiar voice called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence was immediate and suffocating.

No one spoke.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

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

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

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

Everyone nodded. Even Enobaria.

Then Cash turned to you, her voice lowering.

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

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

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

Your eyes scanned once more, heart pounding harder now.

For him.

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

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

It had to stay hidden.

Some things were too sacred to put on display.

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

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

And now, Katniss was watching again.

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

She mattered. They both did.

You needed her to trust you.

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

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

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

You exhaled—slowly, shakily.

A small victory.

Maybe the only kind left.

A warm hand caught your arm. Mason.

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

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

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

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

You needed Haymitch.

His voice. His eyes. His strength.

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

And then—there.

You found him.

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

Only you.

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

And he winked.

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

You could do this.

You could finish the parade.

Because he saw you. Because he was there.

And that was enough.

*******

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

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

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

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

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

You knew the moment you volunteered.

This was your end.

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

You looked at yourself one last time.

A murderer. A lunatic. A dead man walking.

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

You stepped out to meet Mason.

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

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

He didn’t believe you. But he nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t here.

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

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

But the odds were never in your favor.

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

You didn’t respond immediately.

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

You sighed. “We can’t.”

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

“We can’t team up with the Careers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His voice dropped. “And what about you?”

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

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

But he cut you off, stepping closer.

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

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

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

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

“Y/N! Mason!”

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

Your husband.

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

Trailing behind him were Katniss and Peeta.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You thinking of going with them?”

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that was part of what made this so unbearable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taglist ( I hope I did this right)

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

[am-i-interrupting]

Could you write a small thing about Haymitch with a partner that is either really really unserious (not dad jokes, like, 2000s brainrot) or incredibly and soberingly serious (rockets backstory from guardians of the galaxy type shit, staring off into space, gets everyone's shit together, whatever)

Tysm

I just think that Haymitch would be in a relationship with a really traditionally pretty, badass tragic woman or just. A thing. Like the movie pans to his partner the fever dream

Idk anywayssss have a good day !!! <3333

haymitch abernathy x serious!reader

warnings: fem!district12!reader, fluff, sarcasm, reader being a little mean…haymitch loves it tho, a mention of alcoholism, swearing

a/n: hi nonnie!! thank you for your request i had so much fun writing this hope you like it<3 (divider by @dollywons)

word count: 368

haymitch abernathy would absolutely love your attitude. like at the reaping effie would babble about manners or comment ignorantly on something and you’d just throw her a look of judgement and disinterest. it made his day fr.

before you two got together he’d always just by the corner of his eye watch how you walk around hob confidenty, how your eyes would glide over the crowd, the food, weapons, everything. haymitch kinda admired your bravery, if not bravery then your insolence.

you were pretty, no discussion. very pretty. but it was hardly noticeable on the first glance given your demeanour but maybe, he thought, just maybe that was your goal. hide who you are with a cold mask. he understood that. more than anyone could actually.

over time he build up some courage, approached you and maybe after the seventh time he tried, you gave him a chance to talk to you longer than few minutes.

it was hard but haymitch was so proud of himself after winning you over and making you his woman<3

whenever he’d call you some sweet nickname you’d give him a deadpan look but he knew you loved it deep down.

“baby, my sweet girl, would you be a darling and get me my jacket from upstairs.”

the disgusted face you gave him was the most adorable thing he ever saw in his life. you did got him his jacket though, which he counted as a marriage proposal basically.

haymitch being a delusional queen<3 (he did got you to marry him so a win is a win)

“you need to fucking stop drowning yourself in alcohol and do something with yourself.” you’d say every time he’d come home from his ‘walk’ black out drunk.

to some it may appear like you were being unemphatic but he knew it was just pure concern and worry.

during the rebellion, in district thirteen, everyone is afraid of you. everyone. katniss respects you, which is admirable.

“haymitch, tell your wife to cooperate-“

“hell nah, i’m scared of her.”

“but-” coin pestered more.

“if you want something from her, go ask yourself.”

“we’re scared too, dude!” boggs exclaimed.

the only time they ever really saw you genuinely smile was when katniss shoot coin <3 (or at peeta’s adorable unfunny jokes, sweet baby angel<3)

[am-i-interrupting]

haymitch abernathy | no peace

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Haymitch. 

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

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

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

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

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

Seven.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey. There y’are. Welcome back.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Wasn’t a fair fight.” 

“Never damn well is.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[am-i-interrupting]

Moves & Countermoves (Part 7)

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

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

“What’d you think? Should we climb it?” Tyson asks his district partner, teasingly.

She is two years his junior, still not an idiot. The giant pile of sand funneling in from the top of the arena is no hiking expedition. “No, we should save our strength, like Haymitch said.”

“Did you know the tallest mountain in the world was called Mount Everest? Before the founding of our great nation?” He presses on, largely ignoring Y/N’s sage advice.

“What do they call it now?” She wonders.

“Trick question; tallest mountain in the world was actually Mauna Kea.”

“Now’s a bad time for trivia.” Y/N decides, a hand at her brow to shield the blazing sun.

“It’s the only time we’ve got.”

Y/N startles awake, as she always does from dreams of him. Dreams of a stranger, who in under two weeks became her best friend. The games are funny that way, time moves differently there. People who standby you in the arena become closer than people you’ve known for years. The ones that haunt you forever.

She thinks of him often. Though Y/N never had a brother, she decided a long time ago, that is where Tyson fit. How he taunted and teased her, protected and loved her, all at the same time. And when she named her son Everest, sealing the tiniest drop of Tyson in her blood, Y/N found some peace with it. Giving new life to the boy who died so that she might live.

When she hears Peeta recounting the day he fell in love with Katniss, her heart sinks. The gamemakers won’t let them both win. They can’t. President Snow simply won’t allow it. And if what they’re saying now is true, even if one of them survives…

“There’s backstory,” Haymitch muses.

Maybe he believes Seneca would do it, two victors. Or maybe he just wants her to believe that he believes. One thing about Haymitch is that he will lie, either straight up or simply omit key details to shield Y/N. Protect her at any cost, as if she were some fragile thing.

She used to hate it, until she understood. Not fragile; precious. Something more valuable than money, or secrets, even booze. If anything happened to Y/N, his world would simply stop turning. The sun would set and never rise. She is a precious commodity of extremely limited supply. She could never be replaced.

“You need medicine for that leg.” Katniss changes the topic of conversation.

“I don’t get many parachutes.” Peeta admits, though he doesn’t tell her why.

“We’ll figure something out.”

“Like what?”

“Something.” Katniss huffs, into the dimly lit cave.

“I think that was the green light on the meds for Peeta.” It’s go time. Haymitch rises from the bench, offering his hand.

This particular offering will not come cheap, it’s time for the original lovers of district twelve to do what they do best. Work an angle.

————————————————————————

“What do you mean we can’t send medicine? We’ve always been able to send medicine.”

“Not my rules, Mrs. Abernathy.” The woman behind the counter says.

“Of course not, you just work here.” Haymitch smiles.

The Capitol employee returns the gesture.

“We’ve been raising this money all day and Y/N is obviously upset that we can’t go through with sending the medicine, but we understand. Is there any information you could give us to help put our minds at ease about the condition of our tribute?”

The woman looks to Y/N now. District twelve tributes rarely make it this far and everyone is quite taken with the young lovers. Against her better judgment, she motions for Y/N to lean down toward her. “There will be an opportunity for your tribute to receive medicine tomorrow.”

“Is there anything we can send today?” Y/N asks.

“You can send soup.”

“Soup.” Haymitch repeats, with false enthusiasm. “We’ll send them soup.”

————————————————————————

“Attention tributes, commencing at dawn, there will be a feast of sorts, at the cornucopia. Each of you need something desperately and we plan to be…generous hosts.”

“And that is why we couldn’t send medicine,” Haymitch laughs, staring down at the contents of his cup.

They’re trying to wrap this up, everyone’s off in different directions. Bring them back together for one hell of a show before curtain fall.

“Five needs food. Thresh just got bread so…maybe weapons? Two needs…armor? I don’t-” Y/N presses a finger against her temple, desperate for answers.

“You feeling ok?” Haymitch’s brow furrows.

“Yes,” Y/N bites out.

Her husband reels back. It is not uncommon for Y/N to mourn tributes, even ones that aren’t theirs. It is unlike her to take it out on him.

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” Y/N apologizes, immediately. Taking one of his hands in hers.

Haymitch turns his gaze to their twined fingers, she’s shaking, “when’s the last time you ate something?”

“Not hungry.”

“You need to eat,” he decides.

“Nothing tastes right.”

“Listen angel, if they’re gonna poison you, it won’t be here.”

“I must be coming down with something.” Or the stress. Despite all of this, she’s never faired well under duress.

“Probably why you puked in that lady’s ice bucket.” Haymitch notes.

“You know what does sound halfway decent?”

“Hmm?”

“Those little cream puffs with powdered sugar on top.”

Haymitch grins, “I’ll bring a plate.”

He hovers after that. Y/N can’t stand hovering, but she tolerates it. Understanding that it comes from a place of love. She didn’t mean to worry him.

Haymitch can’t sleep. Even after Y/N is out cold.

“I love you so much, Haymitch.”

She who brushes wayward hair from his eyes and runs her nose along the length of his, after the sweetest of kisses. She who believes in him and shows him each day there is a reason his life did not end in the arena. She is the best person he has ever known and he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to deserve her. To deserve that selfless, all consuming, love that she gives so freely.

“I love you forever.” Maybe even longer.

In that, at least he knows there is no cause for concern. Their marriage will not crumble, come hell or high water. Haymitch knows how badly she misses home, their children. In another life he’d ask for ten, as many as Y/N would give him.

The tiny garden, around the back of their house in victor’s village; where Everest plants carrots and other vegetables. Where Arista steals them to feed the wandering geese. The most taciturn, temperamental, creatures she can find are naturally the ones she chooses to care for.

Y/N’s syringes come like clockwork from the Capitol, every three months. Squandering any hope of tiny baby feet. Though she is the best mother, one who plays with her daughter and son, down in the dirt. A mother who loves her children more than anything.

Their lives there are a safe haven, one that exists only in their minds. There is no room for a place like that here. No safety for the children they’ve given life to. Only false hope and broken promises.

And if by some misfortune or Capitol ‘miracle’ a child should slip through, Haymitch would love them. Somehow, someway they’d all make it through. But he hopes, more than anything, that it is not now.

————————————————————————

There is no rush to the viewing room the next morning, everything the tributes need will be at the cornucopia. Katniss gets close to the bag marked ‘12’ and the girl from two is on her. Knocking her back with those damn knives.

They grapple around for a while, before landing with Clove on top. Leaving Katniss no room for escape as she holds the blade to her throat. Haymitch is seated on the bed, watching Y/N pace along the large screen in their bedroom.

Thankfully the boy from eleven takes out one of the two remaining careers. Overhearing her taunt Katniss and brag about killing his district partner.

“Just this time, twelve.” Thresh tells her, gathering his bag from the table. “For Rue.”

With that they’re off; Thresh back to solitude and Katniss to Peeta.

He’s still asleep when she arrives, waking only to the sound of her voice. “I got it. I got your medicine.”

“What happened to you?” Peeta’s eyes focus on the gash across her forehead, courtesy of Clove.

“I’m fine.” Katniss busies herself with opening the canister.

“No you’re not,” Peeta reaches up, “what happened?”

“The girl from two, she threw a knife.”

“You shouldn’t have gone, you said you weren’t gonna go.”

“You got worse.” She replies, simply. Spreading the salve over the length of his wound.

Peeta allows a small cry to pass his lips, grabbing at her wrist. “You need some of that too.”

“I’m ok.” Katniss is more worried about him.

“That feels so much better.” He sighs. “Now you need some too.”

“I’m ok.”

“No, come on. You need it too.”

“Alright.” Katniss finally agrees. Watching Peeta’s tender expression as he thumbs the cream over her injury.

When they wake to the computer generated sunrise and find their cuts have healed, the star crossed lovers set off in search of food.

Peeta to the left, foraging berries while Katniss goes to hunt. Though the separation is not ideal, his heavy footsteps would send any potential prey running. The archer is ready to score them some breakfast when the cannon sounds.

It’s for the girl from five. But Katniss doesn’t know that, so she sets off in search of Peeta.

This time, Y/N and Haymitch are down in the viewing room, overhearing the chatter around them.

“Those berries must be poisonous.”

“I hope Katniss finds him in time.”

Katniss calls out for Peeta again, colliding into him a moment later as Peeta rushes toward the sound of her voice. His fist still closed around a handful of blue berries.

“What happened? Are you ok?” Peeta wonders, holding her tightly as she trembles.

“I heard the cannon. I thought you were dead.”

The boy rests his chin against her shoulder, “I’m right here.”

Katniss pulls back to scold him, smacking the berries from his hand. “That’s nightlock, Peeta. You’d be dead in a minute!”

“I didn’t know,” he stammers.

“Scared me half to death, damn you.” Then she is hugging him again. She can’t explain it, the need to feel him close, know that he is safe.

“I’m sorry.” Peeta breathes, soothing her with a gentle hand, down the length of her back. “I’m sorry.”

When they have settled enough to keep moving, they make the discovery of the red head’s body. Her mouth stained magenta and a few berries still in hand, eyes wide and open.

“I never even knew she was following me.”

“She’s clever.” Katniss always thought so.

“Too clever.”

Katniss leans down, collecting the berries from her hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Maybe Cato likes berries too.”

It’s only half past noon when the sun sets, quickly and without warning.

“Must be in a hurry to end it.” Katniss reasons.

Y/N’s leg is bouncing faster now, vibrating almost.

Haymitch reaches out a hand, resting it atop her thigh to still it.

They wait there, in uncomfortable silence, until the sound of mutts causes Y/N to jump. Even Haymitch flinches when the animals appear, like something out of a nightmare, bits of the fallen tributes mixed in.

They take Thresh, tearing him to pieces and Y/N doesn’t fight when Haymitch wraps her up in his arms. Making a place for herself in his lap, legs dangling over the side of his, not caring if she is heavy. He of course, doesn’t mind, pressing a kiss to the underside her jaw.

Cato is waiting at the top of the cornucopia. When Peeta and Katniss inevitably end up there, the three of them have it out. With Cato’s arm around Peeta’s neck, Katniss is left with no good choices. If she shoots the career’s hand where Peeta is pointing and she misses… But if she doesn’t shoot, he’ll kill Peeta anyway. She takes a deep breath and lets the arrow fly.

Cato’s death is a quick one, a mercy he may not have shown with roles reversed. But it is over, leaving just the tributes from district twelve. Gone is the shadow of night, the sun returning to illuminate the finale.

“Attention, tributes, attention, there’s been a slight rule change.”

Katniss draws her bow, fearing that they are somehow not alone.

Haymitch shifts, bracing himself.

“The previous revision allowing two victors from the same district has been…revoked. Only one may be crowned. Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor.”

Katniss and Peeta turn back to one another.

“Go ahead.” Peeta insists, “one of us should go home. One of us has to die, they have to have their victor.”

“No,” Katniss tosses her weapon down, stepping over it to close the space between them. “They don’t. Why should they?” She pulls the nightlock from her pocket.

“No,” Peeta covers her hand with his own.

“Trust me.” Katniss whispers, “trust me.”

And Peeta does, accepting the berries into his palm.

Haymitch lets out a breath, patting the outside of Y/N’s thigh, affectionately. “You did it.” He murmurs, “there’s your victors.” Even though it isn’t fair, even though there will be nothing to show for it. They won.

Y/N leans farther into his embrace. Wishing more than anything for the chance to tell Peeta that she is proud and to tell Katniss…

“Together?” The boys asks.

“Together,” Katniss repeats.

“Ok. One.” Peeta runs his fingertips down the length of her braid.

“Two.”

“Three.”

Together they raise the poison toward their lips.

“Stop.” A voice rings through the arena, “stop! Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the winners of the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games.”

For this, the four of them will surely be punished.

Part 8

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[am-i-interrupting]

Moves & Countermoves (Part 6)

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

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Peeta is down by the river, camouflaged in the rocks after Cato slashed his leg and left him for dead.

“Ah ha ha,” Chaff smiles when he spots Haymitch with an entire pitcher of rum. “So this is how the Capitol treats it’s favorites.”

“Had to steal it off the cart.” Haymitch chuckles allowing his friend to slip in between him and Y/N.

“Steady now.” Y/N teases, a hand to his back until he’s seated.

Chaff knocks her shoulder with his own, “what’s the matter, baby?”

Y/N has nothing but love for her husband’s best friend. However they are two peas in a pod and when they get together…there goes all the liquor. Back home in twelve, Haymitch has been known to have a drink or two, still able to enjoy his wife and children. This place brings it all back, the horrible things he’s done, everything he failed to do. If he wasn’t drunk, he’d surely lose his mind.

“I wanna send Peeta medicine,” Y/N explains.

“Sponsors leaving you high and dry? Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Not the sponsors, Haymitch made him a deal.”

“Who am I to disrespect this poor boy’s dying wish?” Haymitch quirks a brow.

“And his wish is to-”

“No parachutes. Save Katniss.”

“Katniss,” Chaff drawls.

Two of their tributes have formed an alliance. Rue and Katniss hatching a plan to blow up the career’s stash; lightning fires to draw them away.

“This green stuff is gonna smoke like crazy, as soon as it’s lit, move on to the next one.” The girl on fire warns.

“Ok,” Rue agrees, “we need some kind of signal; in case one of us gets held up.”

“Like what?”

“Here, watch this.” Rue lets out a tiny melody, which the birds rings back.

“Mockingjays.” Katniss realizes, “that’s brilliant.”

“We use them back home to signal the time.” Rue says, shifting the backpack on her shoulder. “If we hear that, it means we’re ok and we’ll be back real soon.”

“We’re gonna be ok,” Katniss pulls her in for a hug, running a hand over her hair. “Hey, I’ll see you for supper.”

————————————————————————

For once in her life Y/N is grateful for the Capitol broadcasting the action only, in the viewing room. A split screen between Rue lighting the fires, the careers chasing smoke and Katniss making her way to the cornucopia.

Clove and the others leave a single boy behind to keep watch. As the red haired tribute from five lily pads around explosives to steal food, the watchman catches her in his peripheral. Taking off after her into the woods.

Katniss lines up her shot, missing the corner of the apple net by just a hair. She takes a step closer, a few calming breathes later the tip of her arrow pierces the bag and out tumble all of the apples.

She’s blown back by the force of it.

“Oooh,” Chaff winces.

After a moment Katniss gets her bearings, heading back to Rue.

The boy keeping watch pays the price, Cato snaps his neck before giving him a chance to explain.

Rue is well on her way to light the last fire when she hears the explosion. Katniss did it. Then the trap set by the careers falls, she tripped the wire, a weighted net.

“Shit.” Y/N covers her mouth. Katniss…please hurry.

“Come on, Rue,” Chaff says, under his breath. “Work your way out.” He coaches, as if she can hear him. She does try, just like he taught her, but the net is too heavy.

When Katniss finds the final fire unlit, she whistles their signal.

“Get her out.” Haymitch rocks back slightly in his seat.

“Get her out.”

“Get her out.

“Get her out!”

The people of the viewing room echo. Y/N turns her head as the room builds to a collective chant.

“Get her out. Get her out. Get her out.”

It isn’t unheard of for spectators to voice their call to action. Though they are more concerned with the entertainment value than the life of the child.

When Katniss gets no response, she races toward the pile of sticks and leaves meant to start the last fire. Still no Rue.

“Katniss! Katniss, help.” Rue calls from beneath the net.

Katniss cuts her loose, Rue safe in her arms. “I’m here, you’re safe.”

The viewing room cheers are short lived. Marvel sends his spear flying, only to be met with Katniss’ arrow. When the cameras pan back to Rue…the damage is clear and irreversible.

Y/N excuses herself. She cannot watch, she cannot pretend, she cannot breathe. Scrambling into the nearest private room with the curtains drawn. Pushing them back with little care before realizing that it is occupied.

“You look ill, dear.” The Capitol woman gasps. “Come, sit down.”

“I’m so sorry to barge in like this.” Y/N apologizes, it’s not anyone she knows.

“Never you mind that, the pleasure is mine. Let me get you a drink.” The woman begins waving down a waiter.

Y/N grabs the ice bucket, “can I throw up in here?” Doesn’t matter, it’s coming up.

“Oh my stars, you poor thing.” She fans the victor as best she can, while continuing to wave one hand out of the privacy curtain. “Must be something you ate.”

“What can I get for you?” The waiter asks.

“Some water, to start and a fresh ice bucket.”

“Yes, right away.”

The woman takes great pleasure in ‘nursing’ Y/N back to health. With water and something close to a bland cracker.

These people are not inherently bad, Y/N realized that years ago. Conditioned in their belief and out of touch, but they are not evil. I don’t hate them…I hate what they do.

It’s not long before Haymitch is tearing back curtains to find her. Letting out a sigh of relief when he does.

“Haymitch, what a pleasure.” The woman holds out a hand.

“Great to meet you, love the dress.” He kisses the top of her hand, using it to guide her toward the exit, “give us a minute, will you?”

“But of course.” The woman is awestruck. The victors of district twelve, in her private room! Hailing over everyone who is anyone. Mouthing, “they’re in there,” motioning toward the fabric that separates them.

“I need you to listen to me.” Haymitch whispers, kneeling in front of Y/N. Wiping away any remnants of vomit and tears.

Y/N nods.

“Katniss gave that little girl a proper send off, you know as well as I do, the gamemakers and Snow aren’t happy about it.” She created a martyr.

Again she nods.

“I’m gonna talk to Crane, see what I can do for damage control.” Keep Katniss alive.

“Ok." Don’t let them kill Katniss.

“We’re gonna get you a mint and then I need you to walk out of here like nothing is wrong. Can you do that?” He tips her chin up, holding her gaze.

There is worry in his eyes, guilt and sadness. Her husband is afraid and he needs her. “Yes.”

“Good,” Haymitch gives her a reassuring smile, taking her into his arms.

————————————————————————

Katniss receives a parachute of bread a while later. After the silence is louder than the cannons and the artificial sun has set.

Haymitch is still negotiating, Y/N figures he must’ve sent it. Until she sees the note attached, from district eleven.

Y/N makes her way over to Seeder, sitting alone in the opposite corner.

“It was for Rue,” she older woman explains before Y/N can get a word out. “My district spent days scrounging up the money, the sponsors finally came through. We had enough to send some for Thresh too.”

“You could’ve sent him both.”

“My people wanted Katniss to have it.” Seeder informs her.

“I know she…appreciates their generosity very much.”

The answer is dry, rehearsed. Y/N is young and still does not understand. “I knew a girl once, she was kind and brave. She played the games and never let them play her. For the first time, I thought there might not be a victor. Because she was lying there, bleeding out and her partner was there, bleeding out…nobody was killing anybody,” she pauses. “Haymitch had to fight like hell to get you out of that one, they wanted your family-”

Dead. “I know,” Y/N stares down at her hands.

“I saw something that day, and I see it in her.” Seeder motions toward Katniss on the screen. “A good, genuine person with heart. They tried to snuff it out of you, beat it out of you; but I still see you. You hold onto your heart and you never let anyone take it from you.”

“Thank you,” Y/N blinks back tears.

“Attention, tributes, attention. The previous rules allowing only a single victor have been…suspended. Two victors may be crowned, so long as they both originate from the same district.”

All hope is not lost.

Part 7

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