nebulablakemurphy

[nebulablakemurphy]

Give us MORE 🫶

ash & honey (h.a. x reader) [prologue]

A.N.// I’ve never really done this before so advice welcome. I have been Haymitch hive-minded for a couple months now and I need an outlet now that I’ve read through all of Move & Countermoves from @nebulablakemurphy and I’m deep in Against All Odds by @flowercrownsandherondales.

warnings: canon typical trauma, mentions of alcoholism, guns

summary: Y/N and Margot change forever.

word count: ~2.4k

Margot didn’t eat breakfast that morning. I asked her to, practically begged, but she wanted to sleep in. This time, I gave her some repreive. She told me she wanted to sleep, and she probably did, but after six years of reapings I  myself had been subject too, I understood that there was more to it. For six evenings, I struggled to fall asleep. I still did before Margot got reaped. But I didn’t dream of the games. There would be plenty of time to fret over them in the morning. 

Instead, I dreamt of my mother. Of her long brown hair and her dark, forgiving eyes. How she smelled of baking flour and talcum powder, spending her days taking care of the Lochwood children in town. Opal and Dolly and Campbell. They were little then, all babies, and they loved my mother. Everyone loved her. She was gentle, but she was strong. No one knew better than me that she had her opinions, but she had a remarkable talent for a mellow delivery. Behind closed doors she was a little more direct, but never mean. Never once had I heard her raise her voice. She didn’t have to, her disposition directly transfered to Margot and I. We wanted to listen to her, always valuing her opinion. We looked at her like she hung the moon and stippled the stars just for us.

When she got sick, her resolve never waivered until the very end. She dropped weight quickly and it was obvious to everyone in the seam. We started getting gifts from neighbors she had charmed along the way, always food. Whether or not they knew was unclear to me at the time, but after she died it was obvious that they knew before we ever did. People would praise her for “fighting so long” and lamet how “she must have been so tired.” At her funeral I learned that she had been sick for over a year longer than I knew. She didn’t want to tell us until she had to.

I was seveteen when we buried her. There was no heart to heart about how I had to take care of Margot now, or that there was nothing to be afraid of, or how she’d always be with us in some cosmic, ethereal way. I knew all of that, and she knew that I knew. We didn’t need to rub it in, that she was leaving us. I tried to stop thinking of it that way, but I couldn’t help it. I still can’t. Every day of my life I will be hollow with that loss. But, especially on reaping day, I had to make Margot whole again.

When I woke up on those days, I felt like there was something sitting on my chest. While she was alive, Mom would wake us up and that alone would soothe at least some of the ache. But now, that responsibility was mine. And that day I failed Margot.

She got dressed by herself, far too old to want my opinion on her dress. Never mind that I was the most fashion forward girl in the seam, but I guess that wasn’t saying much. While she checked in I looked for a place in the crowd. On her last year, I tried to stand in the front so that I could find her quickly and take her home after. I planned to get her something special to celebrate, we would go to the Hobb and look for something pretty. A necklace, I was thinking. She liked gold, so I would find something gold. I was pretty sure the Undersee’s owed me a favor. But those plans were interrupted. 

When they called her name, Margot looked at me before the other children, sighing in relief, could turn their heads to her. I had never seen her eyes like that before. Her beautiful, big green eyes. They almost scared me then, so wide I almost didn’t recognize her. Wide but somehow still. There was this strange quality to them. She was stunned with fright, they had no emotion. For a moment, they made her look like she was already dead. My mouth opened, but I didn’t hear the sound that came out. By the way everyone looked at me it must have been something ugly, something that clawed its way from my diaphram and up my throat to haunt the outside world like the feeling haunted me. Something worse than when Mom died, becuase this time I had failed. I was Mom’s to love and protect, but Margot was mine. Now what would I do? What would I do now that I’d lost her. I was so sure that I had lost her.

My feet moved. Quickly, floating. They had come for her in their white suits. With their guns and their Capitol pride. 

Faster. They can’t have her. She’s mine. 

I reached them. A hand on a shoulder. Face to face with the enemy. They yelled, not as loud as me. Margot cried. 

No thoughts, just instinct. For the brief time that I held it, it was heavier than I ever realized. Black and oddly shaped, it didn’t fit intuitively in my hand. 

And before I knew it, I was on the ground. Margot screamed.

“Wait,” He yelled. I didn’t love him then. He spoke to them softly but they would only respond with vinegar. When they were gone, he was heaved me up by my upper arms, leaving ten oval bruises. He was there in front of me, I knew that, but he was blurry. For a while everything was, and the sunlight hurt my head, and the neighbor children’s laughter made me angry. He said something in a harsh whisper, something like “Are you stupid?” Of course I was. I was stupid for thinking she’d make it. I was stupid for thinking I could do something. But most of all, I was stupid what I did next. Margot could only call after me on her way to the Justice building. I couldn’t follow her, I was being hauled off. That, I thought, I would regret for the rest of my inevitably short life.

But when they let me go, Sycamore Lochwood was there. The hole in my stomach, the sucking chest wound that consumed everything good like a black hole, had diffused into numbness. My scalp had scabbed over, and I was hungry, and she was warm and stable. They never gave me a definitive reason as to why the let me go without so much as a slap on the wrist, just said to keep out of trouble. I stayed with the Lochwoods after that. It’s no trouble they said, after everything your mother has done for us. My mother. I’m so sorry.

Then, when her interview aired, she looked unrecogizable. She was more than beautiful, she was drop dead gorgeous. With any luck, she would. Quickly and painlessly to go be with Mom. She was also hollow, and I had done it to her. I sent her off to the slaughter with no love, just anguish and despair. For now, she spoke with Mom’s gentle authority. She was polite and she was smart. Witty and tactical, countered Caeser’s quick remarks. When she told him she would win for her big sister, I had to turn it off. 

Most of those games floated pasted me in a weighted haze of tears and liquor. I had never been a drinker myself, but Sycamore had a hefty stock. Never too much, she never let that happen because she had too much respect for me. I had too much respect for her and her family, anyway. They were too kind, too gentle for me to be getting sloppy in their home around their children. I did, however, spend some time getting close to the kids. My mother called them her “bonus children”. Extra little hearts to spread the infinite love she had. Opal was almost at reaping age, and I worried I was scaring her. Still, she sat with me and chatted. Never about my mother. Too raw.

By the time there were only two tributes left, the entire Lochwood family was crammed on the couch, eyes glued to the screen. A career, district four I think, and my Margot. He hadn’t found her yet. She was up a willow tree, hidden in its soft green tendrils languibly bending with the breeze, but she knew she wouldn’t win like that. She was too weak, too hungry to outlast him and his sponsors. So, she set a trap. Some sort of net, something that fell from above. When she caught him in the marsh, all she had to do was wait. Wait for him to stop thrashing, for the bubbles to stop popping up from the water, for the life to leave her eyes as she snuffed out his flame. And she won.

She came home different, something I might have expected if I figured she’d come home at all. That was when I was able to put a face to the voice that talked me out of something unspeakable on reaping day when it wrestled a peacekeeper’s gun from my hands. Haymitch Abernathy. He smelled like alcohol and Teatree and the type of sorrow only awarded by the Capitol. Margot was thin, something she wouldn’t have to worry about on a victor’s salary. My victor, my angel, my Margot.

“She’s shaken up,” he warned, “she probably will be for the rest of her life.”

“What do I do?”

“Nothing. You try to live.”

To move into the victor’s village was to abandon the seam. That was okay, nothing good had ever happened to us there. The home was luxurious with amenities I hadn’t even thought to want. A faucet above the stove, a pot filler, Margot explained. They had one in their apartment before she’d lost herself. A shower that filled with steam. Four bedrooms. Modern, but it was haunted. For the first few weeks neither of us would sleep. Maybe we could, if we really tried, but it was never worth the dreams. Margot’s were worse than mine. She was a pacifist before the games, but now all she knew was self defense. If I tried to wake her up from a dream, her hands would fly out at me, hitting me or grabbing me. She always apologized. So did I.

One night things were particularly bad. Her screams had splintered like lightening all the way across the street. Haymitch showed up at our door in the middle of the night, glass in hand and worry in his eyes no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Margot didn’t talk about him much, but she didn’t talk about anything anymore. She was quiet and her teenage spunk was gone with tributes she’d killed. But he stayed through the night, just talking to her. He knew just what to say, stringing together words I never would know to put in the same sentence. He was the only person in the district who could help her now and we all knew it. He sent me to bed, and I woke up to Margot sleeping on the couch, blanket carefully laid over her bones, and Haymitch sipping on the Capitol burbon from our kitchen.

After that, he never really left. 

He was over a lot, feeling just as much comfort as Margot after finding someone who knew the dull, aching pain like he did. I made them food and knitted them blankets, anything to maintain the relationship for Margot. The Lochwoods would visit, too, and for a minute things would feel normal. Margot called her Mom once, then she cried, then she never stopped.

When Haymitch pulled me aside only weeks after meeting, he had a strange look in his eye. I didn’t know him well, he was here for Margot. We spoke, but never about anything serious. Sometimes he would catch me hyperventilating, pacing, or otherwise spiraling and help talk me down, but I never knew his favorite color or his mother’s name or why he looked at my sister like he’d seen a ghost. He’d told me that he made an arrangement at the reaping that day behind closed doors. Margot didn’t know, he didn’t know how to tell her when she was still this raw, the wound of the games hardly scabbing over.

My heart stopped then. What had I done to them? How had I damned my sister and her only friend?  This man, who’d never been anything but nice to me, looked me dead in the eye and explained to me the predicament I’d put them in. Margot, he thought, though he wasn’t sure, won the games because of him. She had to, she was leverage now, against the two of us. At the reaping, the only thing he could do to convince the peacekeepers to spare my life was to appeal to their higher ups. 

“Snow wouldn’t be too keen,” he lied, “on you killing a victor’s girlfriend.”

Since that day, we didn’t separate, not for a second. I refused because staying in his orbit kept Margot alive. When we did expalin it to her, she barely flinched. Her general disinterest for life applying to us as well. We spent time studying each other, our sleeping habits, how we take our coffee, our favorite flowers, and our favorite drinks. He likes the dark stuff, I prefer wine. Eventually, he would start coming home with delicate rounded bottles and fist fulls of irises without saying anything about it. 

For all the time I spent with him, I began to appreciate his… quirks. How he slept in late. How he drank more when the weather got hot and less when Margot needed him. More than anything I appreciated how gentle he was with her. Clearly they forged a bond that I would never understand. Frankly, I didn’t want to understand it. As long as they had each other, I knew they both had some vauge idea of stability. He moved in after a while. With one look through his front door I knew I could not put Margot there. His ghosts and his truama and his fear was all over the floor in the form of empty bottles and abandoned dishes. 

Together, the three of us were safe.

Until the next reaping.

[nebulablakemurphy]

“I think it’s one of those things where you get farther along in it than you plan to and he’s left with this feeling of ‘what now?’”

Do you think it was immediately after the games that Haymitch found out Snow wanting to sell yn? Cause it’s surprising Snow even allowed Haymitch to be sold in exchange for yn who was younger and “newer”. I don’t remember if you briefly mentioned it in one of the stories, but did they surgically alter yn to make her more desirable to capitol elites?

So one of my favorite things about Snow is his capacity to sit on information and dole out punishments as it suits him. That’s why Y/N becomes so paranoid about what he’s going to do to them in the months after Katniss and Peeta win.

Haymitch is freshly 26 when Y/N wins so he’s really in his prime. Snow was always playing the long game with them. No matter what Haymitch did, Snow was always going to sell Y/N it was only ever about the timing and how far he could push Haymitch.

I think Y/N was probably had some sort of injectables in her face just because she still looks very young at 39 which is stated in the epilogue of Moves & Countermoves. Maybe there would’ve been a little breast lift after Daisy because as she tells Johanna, her boobs don’t “sit up” like that anymore. But Capitol citizens do alter themselves to resemble her features (i.e. her nose as we see in Exile.)

[nebulablakemurphy]

What are the meals that y/n and haymitch make for their children?

In Moves & Countermoves they have a ham one time when Peeta’s over for dinner. In Capitol Loss they’re making a pot roast. They probably do soup/stew because when the geese don’t eat the vegetables from Everest’s garden they use them.

[nebulablakemurphy]

What was Haymitch’s reaction to Y/N winning initially? Was it bitter sweet or a joy because he actually kept a Donner girl safe? Was he in disbelief during her time in the arena, that she was managing to get so far?

I think it’s one of those things where you get farther along in it than you plan to and he’s left with this feeling of ‘what now?’

She made it to the end of the games, what now?

He’s very much waiting for the other shoe to drop.

[nebulablakemurphy]

In Haymitch Abernathy & The Dead Donner Girl (Part 2) what do you think Haymitch means when he says to y/n ‘I thought you would be different’, when she knocks on his door after all those years?

This is actually such a profound yet simple thing, I think he just imagines her different 😂 I think he has a really hard time perceiving her, he just imagines some jumble of Madge, Maysilee, Y/N’s mother, etc. He doesn’t have a clear mental image of her, he just thought she’d be different than she is.

[nebulablakemurphy]

In moves and countermoves is Haymitch sold to the capitol in between Y/N winning and them getting married?

I really love the new pieces you are writing!

Thank you sm ❤️

Yes, Haymitch is being sold in the years after she wins until they are married. This is briefly discussed in the second part of Haymitch Abernathy & The Dead Donner Girl and completely flushed out in part 1 of Exile. When he confesses that he was “fucking the highest bidder so she didn’t have to.”

[nebulablakemurphy]

Is Madge Undersee in Moves & Countermoves different to the Madge in THG books? Just cause you changed her mom and made her seem older, so I was wondering if this is a different version.

It’s been years since I’ve read thg that I don’t really remember much about canon Madge Undersee except for the fact that she is the Mayor’s daughter and gives Katniss the mockingjay pin.

In moves & countermoves, Madge is 6 years younger than Y/N making her 24 years old during the series as opposed to around Katniss’ age. She also looks almost identical to her maternal aunt, Maysilee Donner and I don’t remember if that’s book accurate or not. I’m sure she’s different than what was depicted in the books either way. I love taking background characters and bringing them to the forefront. In that, I have to take some liberties to make them better suited for whatever story I’m writing.

[nebulablakemurphy]

just wanted to drop by and tell you that you’re awesome, your writing is AWESOME, and i literally recommend it to EVERYONE 😭. anyways, have a good day xx

Thank you so much 😭😭 that means the world to me!! Have the best day!

[nebulablakemurphy]

hi nebula! i really love your writing and i wanted to ask if u had a faceclaim for haymitch (because of the new casting announcement) for exile,twenty questions,dead donner girl ect, or was it the same age woody was when acting in thg????

Hi! Thank you so much ❤️ so to me Haymitch is always just Woody lmao, like I can’t picture him any other way. But I’m obsessed with the sotr castings so far and can’t wait to see it. Basically just slap the wig on young Woody Harrelson and there he goes, Exile, twenty questions, etc. Haymitch. So fine.

[nebulablakemurphy]

Not to be weird but somebody must be LOVING YOU DOWN to inspire these amazing love story

Imagine dating a girl whose taste ranges from Haymitch Abernathy to Aegon Targaryen ii, to Taissa and Van from Yellowjackets (I haven’t written for them yet but that’s what I’ve got him watching with me rn and I know that man is sick and tired of hearing about it 😂) He’s got his work cut out for him. But I’ll let him know you said that, he’ll love it.

[nebulablakemurphy]

Love an Annie mention, she’s such an interesting character!! Also, I’m DEVASTATED, how dare they make her fertile again 😭😭😭

The point of no return (Haymitch A. x Victor!reader)

Summary: one morning your's and haymitch's life are changed forever thanks to snow. (Fluff kinda with before kinda angst)

can be read as a one shot but is part of the miscalculation universe this is the master list 'miscalculation series masterlist'

Warnings: hunger games canon stuff, mentioned torture, undescribed mentioned victory's forced prostitution, indirect kind of forced impregnation, pregnant reader, SOTR spoiler on alpert, bette's son

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

words: 1700

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Stand alone but makes more sense if read after ' The Roulette '

For the fifth day straight you had woken up running to the bathroom and emptying your stomach in it. Initially you had thought that it must have been the meat that young hunter girl had given you, but now  you started to doubt it. That left only another option.

You could not have children, you had ensured it years before, Snow would only take them as a pawn in their games. But if that wasn't the reason then why had you been vomiting for five days straight? 

You could not be pregnant, it was impossible, unless - flashbacks of a few months before flashed your mind

..-.-.-.-

‘Y/n I tell you this is the year we will make it . Annie can break the arena. she can. and from there the districts will rise’ Finnick your best friend had told you and you had believed him, although you knew he was so sure on the plan because he loved her, but could you blame him? you would have done the same if haymitch had been in annie's place.

'this is madness.  I failed and you failed and we were much stronger that finnick's girl' haymitch protested 'this will get us killed!' 

'Plutarch will protect us, he will not let us get caught. We can do it. We can succeed where my parents failed' you argued back

'and were did he got them? Dead!' haymitch cried in exapseration, he wanted freedom but not if it means loosing you

 But you didn’t listen to him, and he did whatever he could to help, like always, so both of you helped the rebellion exposing yourself as never before. Annie floaded the arena, but that didn't stop the games or sparked a revolution, but it did save Annie at least. 

Snow knew you must have been connected to the plan somehow so he took you and haymitch. You were tortured for days separately and together. Haymitch's screams engrained in your brain forever. Haymtich was forced to watch as you were tortured and abused repetedly by men of the capitol. Neither of you admitted anything, it would mean death for both of you, it did not matter how much it hurt to see the love of your life been torn apart. Eventually they gave up 

The punishment had been not enoguh and you did not know why. You would learn snow's real plan only a few months later 

They had left you broken and bloody. But yet they had not killed you, instead they had patched you up, and not only your recent wounds but also your old ones.  They had made you fertile again without you knowng it . It was the only plausible explanation

You had miscalculated and you had fallen pregnant, Snow would get what he wanted, your's and haymitch child would be reaped, you two would be forced to mentor them and then see them die horribly, and then Snow's plan would be complete, his revenge would be acted upon and Haymitch's worst nightmare would come to life.

.-.-.-.-.-.-

You destoryed the bathroom cabinet looking for a pregnancy test, you had kept them from years before when you were still scared it could happen and obsessively used them even if the chances were not existance. lukily they had not expired. 

You used one, two, three, all gave the same answer 

'Pregnant'

Your mind started running the possibilities as you sinked on the floor of the bathroom. There was no way for a safe abortion, not on you, no one in the dirstrct would risk their lives for you . You could neither do what you had done the first time the capitol had tried to get you pregnant because you promised haymitch you would not risk your life like that again

Haymitch . This was his kid, this was your husband's kid, And a part of you loved it already for being his . This kid was the product of love not the product of forced prostitution form the capitol like the other time. They had not taken you back to the capitol since the games, and you had started to wonder why. Now you knew the answer, Snow wanted to ensure the kid's would be haymitch's. to ensure it would die and break you both, the punishment had to be exemplar 

Would this child have his eyes or yours? what shade of skin colour? Will they have his humour or  you rage?. You smiled at the thought of a little haymitch running around and you had to stop yourself, this was a tragedy not a joy

Before you could ponder further, haymitch rushed to the bathroom emptying his stomach full of alchohol in the toilet. 'darling why are you on the floor?'  he asked you wiping his mouth after rinsing it with some water. You did not reply then he looked at you, eyes in the void and a stick in your hand. 

'y/n what is going on? You are scaring me' he demanded getting on the floor next to you and cupping your cheeck trying to get an answer, your eyes fell on your hand and the stick it was holding, you raised to him. He picked It up

One word was on it, the word which changed both of your lives forever. This was the point of no return

Pregnant

Haymitch mind flicked to Alpert, beete's son, placed in the games to hurt beete, that died in front of his eyes almost 20 years before, but the image of  the boy's skeleton remained engraved in haymitch's mind still today .

 Haymitch's face went blank mirroring yours as he rushed to the toilet bowl vomiting again, now because of this not because of the hangover

'How can it be possible? You-' he said recolling the scariest night of his life, the night he almost lost you, when he found you on this same floor in a pool of your own blood a wire and hanger next to you, the night you had made sure you could never fall pregnant

' they must have made me fertile again, they must have fixed me when I was under operation after annie's games' you reply, your mind still trying to find a solution 

'it's yours' you add whispering, you don’t know if is a consolation or a further burden, knowing you will become father to your biological kid just to see it die in 12 years. For a second haymitch almost wished it was the fault of some capitol elite member not his, like it had been the other time. Then this thought was replaced by shame, he was accountable and now you both had to pay the price for it, he had miscalculated, not being careful enough do to your apparent infertility

‘Darling -‘ 

'we are screwed. no one will perform an abortion. Not on me , they know it will risk their lives' you say your mind still calculating

 'Asterid-' haymitch tries 

'she  is not the same after Buldrock's death'  you  reply 'I could always do like last time-'

'no' he replies immedaily without hesitation he had almost lost you last time, he crounched on the floor next you to show that there was no space for arguing, he could not loose you

'we- we could always give them for adoption, say they died in childbirth and then find them a home' you try, you are ranting trying to find a solution to save your unbrorn child

'you know that he would find out,  they could never be safe'

'so what do you suggest? We have this kid and pretend all is fine as if on their 12th birtdhay they will not be randomyl selected to die!' you shout at him

'no. what I propose is we have this kid, we love them and ensure the reovlution happens before they are even close to 12' he says serious as never before 

'our sick hopeless hope for  revolution is the main reason why this kid exists in the first place'. You reply. Haymitch sighs and takes you in his arms, you let him, he smells of alcohol and vomit and you do too but you don’t care, you need him close, you need to feel safe. He places his head on top of yours and takes a long breath before speaking

'well we cannot give up now. The revolution will happen and there will not be a sunrise on the repang day ever again. we will not fail again. This is the only way to keep our kid safe. I promise you. We have almost 13 years before their name is in that bowl. We will stop the games. We will save them. You just worry about being healthy. I will take care of the rest okay?'

'Okay' you reply 'haymitch I'm'- I'm scared you want to cry .

'me too darling. But I promise you no one will take you or them from me. Not as long as I breath’ he promises, and you know well that haymitch always keeps his promises, you nod as you clinge into him ‘this time as you bleed for me I will burn for you, for you and for our child. I promise’.

 It’s your own declaration of love, he usually says ‘I bleed for you’ it means I will suffer to see you alive and well because I love you, and you say ‘I burn for you’, it is not connected to ‘I love you like all fire’. you did not know that expression and what it meant to haymitch the first time you told him that you burn for him. For you it meant I will fight everyone and anyone to keep you safe, because I love you. 

Your heart swells, love declarations are never easy for you two. ‘I burn for you, forever’ you replied, clinging on him like there is no tomorrow, because maybe now there isn’t  

you don’t know how long you are seated on the floor in each other arms. Haymitch head is pressed against yours. He places his hand over your womb, where your child is growing. Where his child is growing. You tremble as you place your hand over his

He closes his eyes unable to hold himself to say the most important words you will ever hear as he whispers in your ear careful that nobody or nothing else can hear him ‘I love you’

You two had swore to never say it again, words too dangerous that could be used by snow to reap one from the other, but haymitch could not contain himself, he had kept those words in himself for almost 10 years, stopping himself from uttering them various times, its implications too powerful. But as he was on that floor holding not his love but  his life , which was growing another life in her, an actual one, their child, his child, he could not hold it in anymore, and he said the three 3 words what he would not say for other 5 years 

And that does the deal for you, you start sobbing in his arms, repeating ‘I too- so much’ as you hold each others sobbing on your past and on your future for a long time . 

-..-.-

7 months later your daughter is born,  the capitol congratulations arrive swiftly ‘our wishes for a victorious life’ the message says, haymitch vomits, you burn the note

You name her Aurora, it means dawn, as you hoped the sun would never rise on her reaping day

And you were right becaue the sun never rised on her repaing day, years later haymitch would finally repay his debt to the Everdeens for having saved you, saving Buldrock Everdeen's little girl and you would honor your parents sacrifice by stopping the hunger games once and for all

For once it was Snow who had misclaulted, understimating haymitch abernathy's and y/n y/l/n;s love for each others and their daughter

.-.-..-.

Can be considered previous/following parts:

Miscalculations Series

-The original miscalculation (60th hunger games)

-The reaping (74th hunger games)

-' The Roulette '

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'

if you want to be tagged let me know

Hunger games Taglist: @yoursrosie @theseerbetweenus @cloverleaf20 @mirrorballsandsunshine @gordorio

[nebulablakemurphy]

Thank you for the tag ❤️ Excited to see where this goes!

Sunshine and Roses

Eight years after surviving the 66th Hunger Games, Ember Chance has built a fragile life alongside her only friend and —reluctant husband in nothing but name— Haymitch Abernathy. But as the 74th Games set something dangerous into motion, both Ember and Haymitch find that the Panem isn’t the only thing changing, and no matter how hard they fight it, it might be futile.

Chapter 1- Sunrise On The Reaping:

I am in a foul mood even before the moment my mother knocks on my door to wake me.

Three raps. Light, careful, like she’s already bracing for my reaction.

“Ember,” she calls, soft but firm. The voice she uses on the kids at school. “It’s morning.”

For a few seconds, I pretend I didn’t hear her. I keep my eyes shut, even though, I was awoken an hour ago by nightmares of cold wind slicing through me, ice cracking under my feet, blood blooming in water, of the force of an explosion hurling me forward and fire licking up my back.

I push the thoughts away m like I’ve had almost ten years of practice to do.

I sit up, the silk sheets pooling around my waist, and rub my face hard with my right hand. The other—well. I reach to the bedside table for my prosthetic. The straps are cold, and the buckles bite into my skin as I fasten it in place, adjusting the fingers one by one until they move properly. A simple model, nothing fancy. Just enough to let me work.

I push off the mattress and stand. The room is too big, the bed too soft, the whole house far too quiet. No coughing fits from miners, no voices drifting up from the Seam streets. It’s nothing like the house I grew up in.

“Ember,” Ma calls again from the other side of the door. Still patient. Still gentle.

I don’t answer, but I move. That’s enough for her.

The floor is warm under my bare feet as I cross to the dresser and I pull on a yellow cotton dress patterned with tiny flowers, faded from too many washes. The fabric is soft, worn, familiar. Comfortable. And tug my hair into a loose braid. Something practical. Something I can move in.

I don’t look at the white box on my dresser. Not yet.

It’s always there on this day, delivered the night before like a present from a wolf. Square, clean, trimmed in Capitol red. I haven’t opened it, but I know what’s inside. Some tailored horror stitched with symbolism and control. It’ll be red—It was white last year so it’ll be red this year. I honestly think I must be the only victor in Panem who doesn’t get a say in what they wear on Reaping Day. I think they like it that way. I think he likes it that way.

I leave my room and make my way down the hall, the prosthetic clicking faintly against the wall as I brush by it. The house is too quiet. The staircase creaks under my weight. Another sharp reminder of how long it’s been. Eight years. Eight years since I stood on that pedestal, since I tasted blood in the snow and came home with pieces of myself missing. Eight years of this day repeating, repeating, repeating.

Downstairs, the smell of food lingers in the air, warm and rich. It should be comforting. It isn't. It coils in my stomach, sour and heavy. Still, I slide into my usual seat at the kitchen table without a word. Ma’s already watching me, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her smile brittle at the edges. I know better than to argue today.

She sets a plate down in front of me—simple, but almost too much: a thick slice of fresh bread, still soft and smelling of yeast, a boiled egg with the shell peeled away in careful spirals, and an apple so red and round it looks like it’s been plucked straight from a storybook. A real breakfast. A Victor’s breakfast. I force down the guilt like a lump in my throat.

Ma takes the seat across from me, smoothing her skirt under her. She’s small, barely reaching my shoulder when she stands, but there’s a kind of iron in her bones, a steel hidden under all that sunshine she’s always carried. Her blonde hair, streaked heavy with white now, is tied back in a bright cloth, a splash of cheerful color against the worn fabric of her dress. Her eyes—sharp, steady, the color of faded bluebells—never miss a thing. Especially not today.

I don’t have to look up to know she’s waiting for me to eat. So I do. Slowly. The bread is tender, almost sweet. The egg is still warm from the pot. The apple crunches when I bite into it, flooding my mouth with syrupy sweetness. Pa would have loved it—he always had a sweet tooth—but he’s long gone now, just a shadow left in the corners of this kitchen.

"Got much to do today before…" Ma’s voice trails off, brittle as a snapped twig.

"Just the usual," I reply, the same way I always do on Reaping Day. Cold. Mechanical. A well-oiled clock ticking forward.

She nods, her mouth pressing into a thin line. "You’ll change before the Reaping?"

I focus on my food, pretend not to hear the way her voice wavers, just barely. "Yeah," I say, my voice flat.

I know she’s only trying to make conversation, to keep the day from swallowing us whole. I know she’s being gentle. Careful. But there’s only so much pretending you can stand when you’ve survived the Hunger Games once already, and now you have to stand up in front of everyone like some kind of ghost.

She doesn’t push. She never does. Just folds her hands again.

"I left you a list," I add after a moment, softer. "Stuff that needs doing while I’m away."

Her smile warms, truly this time, lighting up her face the way the sun breaks through after a storm. "Thank you baby," she says, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. Her palm is rough with calluses, but her touch is feather-light

I squeeze back, just once, before pulling away to shove the last of the bread into my mouth.

"I’ll stick to your list like my life depends on it," she teases, voice bright but eyes too knowing.

"What’s first on the agenda?" She asks.

"Milking Daisy," I reply. “Sorry, I don’t have time”

Then she waves a hand dismissively. "Don’t worry, I’ll handle her. I’ve been milking goats since before you could crawl."

It’s a joke. A good one, even. But I can’t laugh. Not today.

We eat the rest of breakfast in a thick, stretched silence. Afterward, I scrape my chair back and pull on my boots, the worn leather creaking in protest. The air outside hits me like a wall—thick with late-summer heat, the sky a bright, merciless blue. It’s the kind of day that would almost be beautiful if it weren’t so cruel. As if the world’s trying to pretend today’s just another day, and not the day two kids from District 12 are going to be marked for death.

As I shoulder my bag, Ma calls after me. "I tucked some goat cheese in there for you— for the Hob”

I glance back and catch her smile, small but determined, holding herself together for me.

"Thanks, Ma," I say, hoisting the strap higher on my shoulder. It’s warm enough that I’ll have to be quick about it—the cheese won’t keep long in this heat.

She nods, smoothing her apron with hands that won’t quite still. Always moving, always doing. Always trying to keep the grief from settling too deep.

I linger in the doorway, for a second, looking back at her—at the strong lines of age her face, the bright cloth in her hair, the hidden sadness she thinks I can’t see. She’s been through so much already: losing Pa, scraping by on her own, smiling through the kind of storms that would have broken anyone else. She’s a ray of light, even today, even when the world keeps trying to snuff her out.

“I love you” she says not goodbye, not see you later. I love you.

I just give her a little nod—the one she taught me when I was a girl, when words were too much and not enough all at once and I step outside into the blinding sun, the door swinging shut behind me like the closing of a book I’m not ready to finish.

The Victor’s Village is quiet. Always is. It sits on the far edge of town, where the woods creep close but not so close that the worst of the Seam’s dust and coal smoke can find it. It’s a strange place—too clean, too still—like someone built it to look like a real neighborhood but forgot that people are supposed to live in it. Twelve houses, all lined up neat and empty like teeth in a skull. Only two are lived in now: mine and Haymitch’s.

His house is directly across from mine, hulking and grey, the first thing you see when you step out my front door. Always watching. Always reminding me what winning really means.

I glance across the road as I step outside, but there’s no sign of movement, and I didn’t expect any. Not at this hour. Not today. Still, I’ll have to stop by on the way back. Part of the job. Haymitch won’t be pleased to see me—not that he ever is—but I’m coming armed with the good stuff he likes, and that ought to convince him to go easy on me. Or at least grumble a little less.

I step down off the porch, the wood creaking under my boots like a sigh, and make my way onto the dusty road that cuts through the heart of the Victor’s Village. My shadow stretches long behind me in the early morning light.

Today, the errands are simple:

Check in on the bakery & pick up a few things for Ma.

Stop by the Hob.

Stop at Haymitch’s.

Keep moving. Keep busy. Keep the hours slipping past as fast as I can. Because when you stop, when you let yourself breathe, that’s when the fear sneaks in. That's when you remember what the day really is.

Another set of names will be pulled from those gleaming glass bowls this afternoon. Another pair of kids, sentenced to die for the entertainment of people who’ll never know their names. And me—standing up there in the square, a living, breathing reminder that you can survive and still lose everything. Not by choice. Never by choice. But there all the same. Complicit by survival.

The morning air is thick and warm, the first heavy fingers of July heat brushing against my skin. But a thin breeze slides down from the mountains, stirring the hem of my dress and carrying the twin scents of coal smoke and wildflowers. A strange pairing—grit and sweetness, just like District 12 itself. I tug my shawl tighter around my shoulders anyway. The heat doesn’t touch me. Not on Reaping Day. Not when the cold inside me has nothing to do with the weather.

The town is quieter than usual, like someone pressed a hand over its mouth. Even the birds seem to be singing softer, their songs frail and uncertain. A heavy kind of dread hangs over everything, thick enough to choke on. You learn to live with it, the way you live with a bad scar—you get used to the ache, but you never stop feeling it.

I pass empty homes, their windows shuttered against the heat and the fear, and every so often I catch a glimpse of a child being hurried indoors by a parent with tight lips and tired eyes. Everyone’s trying to pretend it’s just another day. Pretend that the sun rising and the market opening and the goats bleating mean life will go on like normal. Right up until the moment it doesn’t.

That’s the trick of Reaping Day: pretend hard enough and maybe—just maybe—you’ll believe it isn’t your name waiting on that slip of paper. That you’re safe.

I keep my pace steady, boots thudding against the dirt road, a rhythm so familiar it feels etched into my bones. I’ve made this walk since I was a little girl, when the world still seemed like it might be kind, when the biggest thing in my satchel was a lump of cheese wrapped in cloth and a handful of hope.

Now, the satchel slaps against my hip, heavier than it used to be. I shift the strap across my shoulder and feel the faint, mechanical hum from my prosthetic. It’s well-made, better than anything District 12 could’ve fashioned, but it’s still a part of me that isn’t mine. Just another reminder that even when you win, you don’t get to keep everything.

I skirt the graveyard without meaning to, my feet automatically taking the longer path around. I can't go near it today. I can't face the rows of crooked stones and unmarked mounds. Not when the ghosts are so loud in my head, whispering old names, old fears. Not when one wrong glance could pull me under.

I keep my eyes forward, my breath steady. Step after step, heartbeat after heartbeat. Just another day, I lie to myself. Just another errand, another morning. Just another Reaping.

I think if I keep lying like that, maybe I’ll make it to noon without falling apart.

I make it to the black market fast—my first stop of the day, and the easiest. The Hob always feels a little removed from the rest of District 12, like it's running on a different clock, or maybe just refusing to stop ticking altogether. Even on Reaping Day, it thrums with life.

The crowd is thinner than usual, sure, but it’s still here—traders with sharp eyes and quick hands, kids trying to scrape together enough coin or barter to bring something extra home for supper, greasers haggling over cuts of meat and bolts of thread like it's the most important deal in Panem. Maybe it is, for them.

The air smells like it always does—smoke, leather, sweat, and spice. Heavy and familiar. It clings to everything: your clothes, your hair, your memory. It’s the kind of scent that settles into your skin and never quite washes out.

I step inside, weaving through the narrow paths between stalls. I nod to a few familiar faces as I go, but I don’t stop. I’m not here to talk. Just to do what needs doing.

Ripper’s where she always is, behind her stall near the back wall, arms crossed and eyes sharp, tracking every movement around her like a hawk on a perch. She doesn’t smile when she sees me—she never does—but she gives a short nod, a jerk of her chin that means she’s seen me, that she knows what I’m here for.

"Morning," I say as I approach.

"Morning," she replies, already ducking down to grab the bottle I came for. "Here for him?"

"Who else?" I answer.

She places the glass bottle on the counter. The liquid inside catches the dim light and refracts it like a shard of ice. I lay a few coins on the counter, and she scoops them up without bothering to count. We both know it’s fair.

"I don’t know why you bother," Ripper mutters jokingly, pushing the bottle toward me.

"Neither do I," I say, slipping it into the crook of my arm, careful not to clink it against anything.

She snorts, but there’s no real judgment in it. Just the tired sort of amusement that lives deep in people who’ve seen too much. "Well. Good luck today."

She says it like I’m the one whose name might be drawn. Like I’m not already the one who made it out. Still, I nod. I appreciate it. Most folks in Twelve don’t look twice at a Victor unless it’s to whisper about you behind your back.

I turn to go, but as I do, my gaze snags on someone across the aisle. A girl, standing near a stall, selling fresh game. She’s got a dark braid down her back, arms crossed, eyes that look like they see straight through most people.

Katniss Everdeen.

I’ve seen her before—quiet, steady, a little too sharp for someone her age. I’ve bought from her more than once, mostly rabbits or squirrels when the cupboards looked a little bare. I’ve bought milk from her sister, too, now and then. Don’t need it, not really. But I don’t say no.

I know her mother better. Mrs. Everdeen was the closest thing we had to a healer when I was growing up. Still is. When my father was dying, it was her who came, day after day, just to make sure he wasn’t in pain. She never asked for anything. Never made a show of it. Just did the work, quiet and steady, like she always has.

I wonder if Katniss knows. If she understands the weight her mother’s carried for this district. The people she’s held together. The suffering she’s softened. I wonder if she cares. If it matters to her.

But the thought doesn’t linger. Can’t afford to let it. Not today. Soon enough, Katniss will be standing in the square like everyone else. Just another name in a bowl that’s too full.

I move on, slipping through the press of people, the cheese gone from my bag by the time I leave.

Next stop: the bakery.

The smell of warm bread hits me the moment I step inside the bakery, curling around me like an old memory. It’s rich, thick with yeast and butter, and it pulls something deep in my chest. For a split second, it reminds me of the Capitol—of those endless, grotesque feasts, tables piled high with food so rich it made me sick. But here, in this small shop dusted with flour and filled with real hunger, it’s different. Honest. Earned.

Behind the counter stands Mr. Mellark, sleeves rolled to his elbows, thick arms dusted in white. He looks up as I enter, gives me a small nod. He’s a quiet man, gentle in a way that feels out of place in a world like ours. Nothing like his wife. But we don’t talk about her. No one really does. Not unless they have to.

“Loaf?” he asks, voice low and steady.

“And a few extras,” I reply, stepping closer to the counter.

There’s a faint clatter from the back—quick voices, the scuff of hurried footsteps. The older Mellark boys, no doubt, handling deliveries or keeping the ovens hot under their mother’s sharp eye. I can hear her bark orders, short and snapping, even through the thick wooden door. The youngest Mellark must be somewhere back there too. Peeta. Probably getting ready for the Reaping, trying not to get in anyone’s way.

The smell of cookies drifts out with the noise—sweet, buttery, with just the faintest hint of melting chocolate. It sneaks into my nose and tightens something inside my chest. Not because of what it is. Because of what it reminds me of. A life that feels farther away every year.

I drift toward the display window while Mr. Mellark wraps up the bread. The cakes there are something else. Little miracles in a town that has no room for beauty.

One is covered in delicate, dusty pink roses, so perfectly piped they look almost real, like you could lean down and catch their scent. Another is simpler but no less lovely—a round, pale yellow cake glazed in bright citrus, the top scattered with thin curls of candied peel. Each one is a work of patience and steady hands. Someone cared enough to make something beautiful here, even if the world outside these walls doesn’t deserve it.

For a brief, foolish second, I consider buying one. Imagine carrying it home, setting it on the table like today was just any other day. Like I’m not about to stand in the town square and watch two more kids get thrown to the wolves.

But the thought withers almost as quickly as it blooms. People would see. People would talk. A cake, on a day like this, would feel like a slap in the face. Especially considering where I'm headed next. The person I have to see. Bringing something sweet would be a cruelty neither of us would put into words.

I shake the thought off, dig my fingers into the strap of my satchel, and make myself breathe.

Behind me, Mr. Mellark finishes tying up the bread parcel: a thick, round loaf, four soft rolls, and a smaller brown paper bundle that smells suspiciously like blueberry muffins. He handles it all with a careful sort of grace, setting it on the counter like it might break.

“Thank you,” I say, pulling a few coins from my pocket and sliding them across the counter without thinking. I never trade cheese here. They don’t need it, and I’ve long since stopped pretending I still have to barter to survive.

He nods, accepting the money without a word, then returns to his task—measured, quiet, steady. I gather the parcel into my bag beside the bottle and the last bits of cheese. The door chimes again as I step out, and I don’t look back.

the sun climbing higher in the sky, heavy and unforgiving. The Reaping is breathing down our necks now.

And I’ve still got one last stop to make.

And of all the errands on this day, it’s going to be the hardest.

A/N: Hi, this is my first hunger games fanfic but one I’ve been working on and off for years. It’s not an x reader but it’s inspired by several Haymitch fanfics, a lot of them Haymitch x reader (more specifically; Against The Odds by @flowercrownsandherondales, Moves & Countermoves by @nebulablakemurphy , Soft Things Survive by @sweetheartsofpanem and sleeplessness by @on-my-vigilante-sht. seriously I love these guys’ works!) so I’m still going to be tagging Haymitch x reader because that’s the inspiration.

[nebulablakemurphy]

Hi! I just wanted to point THIS out to you!

Maybe someone at the Lionsgate socials department has READ your fic? Or maybe it’s all a crazy coincidence? 👀 Either way, I loved Moves and Countermoves! The way you captured Haymitch is one of the best, if not THE best I’ve ever read of him.

Hi! I love that you saw this and thought of Moves & Countermoves! I think it’s probably just because “moves and countermoves” is an iconic line by Plutarch in the Catching Fire film…but IF someone on the production team happened to know about this fic, I’m so flattered.

Thank you so much for sending this either way, made my whole day ❤️

[nebulablakemurphy]

Hi! I just wanted to say that I just binged your series Moves & Countermoves this whole entire day, forgot to like (will do that in the morning lol) since I was too engrossed in the plot. I loved everything about the series and god it was just amazing! I’d love to say more but I am sleepy as hell and running on 2 hours of sleep 😭 love you work and I will be stalking your page tomorrow :D

Thank you so much, I’m glad you enjoyed it! Get some rest ❤️

[nebulablakemurphy]

“Pollux excuses himself, back to the sofa.” MY HEARTTTTR💔💔😭😭😭 WHY DID THAT HURT SO MUCH?? HE GOT UP TO PLAY JUST TO HAVE TO SIT BACK DOWNN MY HEARTTT😭😭

He’s such a sweetheart who’s suffered so much. 😭❤️‍🩹 BUT he does get a turn to guess who’s saying his name. The whole family learned sign language to communicate better with him. He’s so so loved and cherished…but heartbreaking in this scene for sure.

[nebulablakemurphy]

I may have just completely missed it, but what happened to Vanity?? Y/n's stylist in moves and countermoves?

Is she alive? Is she dead? Was she tortured? Did she reunite with Y/n? Do they know what happened to her?

This was intentionally left open. I believe that, like Effie, Vanity is not a bad person; she is just very used to the ways of the Capitol and needs that lifestyle. I think she may keep in touch, but she’s probably not boarding a train to visit them in 12 too often.

I’m actually writing a little blurb right now that someone requested about the first couple days after August was born (they’re in the Capitol for medical care.) Maybe Vanity will pop in!

[nebulablakemurphy]

What was Augusts pregnancy like? Was it a difficult as the other, like mentally?

So I think finding out she was pregnant with August was harder for Haymitch than it was for her. Just because of the birth complications she had with Daisy. But I do think they got to enjoy this pregnancy in a way they didn’t have a chance to with Everest, Arista or Daisy. This pregnancy doesn’t have to be shared with anyone, it’s just for them and their family.

When Y/N was pregnant with Everest, she struggled a lot mentally. Haymitch really manned the fort and was more worried about her than his own thoughts and feelings about it.

With Arista, Haymitch struggled more than Y/N in the beginning, but he comes around super quick and embraces her pregnancy more than he was willing or able to with Everest.

Daisy, Y/N and Haymitch both really struggle here through Moves & Countermoves. Haymitch is a little more at peace with it than Y/N is.

Obviously August, like I said, any hesitation on Haymitch’s part is just because of the trauma of Daisy’s birth. Y/N is ready for August, in the same was she was ready/almost expecting Arista.