onlybeeewrites

[onlybeeewrites]

GO HELP MY BESTIE GUYS!!!

YOU GUYS.

Please help me with this or I fear I may lose what little bit of sanity I have left. 😄

I broke through a huge barrier in my writer’s block and started writing a Klaroline fic (for myself tbh) because I needed to get the hell away from everything I’ve got going on in life and enough was ENOUGH u feel me??? (I know there are a handful of you waiting for the next chapter of Whispers and it’s coming. I dunno when but don’t hate me OK!!!) 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

A N Y W A Y . . .

I never do anything half-assed and I need a title or else I can’t function. Don’t ask. I have three. Pick your favorite pls. 🙏🏼

[onlybeeewrites]

Hi! I loved A change of plans, could you do a part 2 of it??

Hi lovie! So glad you loved it!

I finally had time to write a part 2 and you can find it here: A change of Plans

I hope you enjoy! <3

[onlybeeewrites]

I feel like I need a follow up to ‘a change of plans’!! Love protective haymitch so much.

Hi lovie! It totally took forever but you can find a part 2 here: a Change of Plans 2

[onlybeeewrites]

A Change of Plans (2/)

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!reader 

Requested: yes!

Word count: 2k

Warning: Mentions/illusions to SA, mentions of blood, gore, mentions of past games.

A Change of Plans: Previous

A/N: OMG I’m alive??? So many people requested a part two and I finally got around to writing. Between how busy life is plus writers block I promise I’m not ignoring the requests in my inbox <3 i appreciate all of your patience and I really hope you enjoy, this was a lot of fun!

      · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You never for one moment had thought that you’d be back here. Not like this at least. Of course you had been a mentor for years. You had did your best to keep the kids alive, to try to at least bring one home each year. But like many of the other districts, not many did.

You remembered their names. Their faces haunting your dreams every night when dreams of your own arena decided to give you a break. 

The dreams started off kind at first. But then as usual, they turned awful. Dark. Bloodied. Murderous. The smell was thr worst part. It all felt so real, that you could still smell the flesh and blood even after waking up. 

All of it reminding you of the failure to save them. Most of them at least. Celia was one of the ones you were able to save. Now a mother, she had her life ahead of her. At least as much of a life a victor could possibly have. 

But that’s why you always kept to yourself. Always. For the most part at least. You always kept your head down. Did as Snow asked of you. Continued to put out clothing lines the Capital thrived off of. Played the happy shy girl until you grew up and the Capital had new toys to play with.

Like Chasmire. 

Like Finnick.

You had been spared. Too shaken too meek. Not desired enough by the Capital to be sold off to. Though you supposed that was a blessing in disguise. A blessing that you didn’t get called on. Used by greedy hands and dropped back off on the train to go home.

But that didn’t protect you completely. Even now, after so many years after your own victory. You still returned to the Capital often. For parties, fashion shows, interviews, collaborations, meetings, work ups. It was exhausting. 

It was always exhausting.

But it Haymitch soothed it. 

It was rough at first. For a few years at least. Both young and scrambling to learn how to live with the content losses. The loose mentoring as the both of you were kids yourselves. Dealing with the aftermath of your own traumas—though dealing in very different ways.

It had taken years for you and Haymitch to become friends. Even longer to be lovers. With knowing how the Capital worked, you both knew Snow would do anything to use each other against one another for something.

So you both kept it close and quiet. 

Your own little peace. A little get away from the bright lights, and the constant cameras. It was something that was purely your own that no one could take.

But somehow, even without knowing? Snow had exactly done just that by putting you in the Games and not Haymitch.

You had known what was being planned by the rebels. Especially being from District 8, you had seen it yourself how fast that fire is spreading. And once the Quarter Quell had been announced? You knew the poor girl, Katniss, who you had been able to see and meet and call, was being thrown back into the games. And sweet Peeta refusing to let her do it alone.

Snow was trying to kill her. That much was clear to you as well. But what was also clear was how important the two kids from the District 12 were. You knew there was something sort of plan being brewed. You just needed to wait to hear what it was. But a gut feeling told you that that plan, didn’t include you as a priority. 

Not that you mind. You didn’t really if it meant getting the kids out and stopping these Games once and for all. It was Haymitch that you were worried about. And you hoped to whatever power was out there 

    · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The metallic scent of polish and artificial roses hung in the air, sharp and suffocating in the way only the Capitol could be. You stood backstage, shoulders pulled back despite the weight of the dress stitched to your body like armor.

District 8’s stylists had worked you into something stark and hauntingly beautiful — a dress made entirely of thread. Fine lines of black, silver, and deep plum wound tightly around your frame, as though you’d been sewn together by the very fabric of your district. 

The skirt trailed behind you in curling stitches, unraveling and reforming with every step, a visual metaphor for resilience. Your bodice was structured like a corset —though it was amusing considering both your and Woof’s outfit were your own design your stylist borrowed. 

Your hair was swept up into a loose bun, tendrils left to fall and frame your face in soft waves. Silver pins shaped like needles sparkled subtly in the Capitol lighting. Your makeup was more subdued — matte lips the color of dried blood in your opinion, and makeup around the eyes lined with a metallic powder. 

You smoothed your skirt with a quiet exhale, not from nerves, but from weariness. The Capitol made everything feel louder, heavier. But you’d been through this before. You knew how to hold yourself without becoming something else.

A familiar voice broke the hum of prep around you.

“Well, well. Look at you.”

You turned, lips tugging into a smile as Finnick sauntered over in his absurd sea-green netting and too-confident smirk. Though you knew it was all pretend—expect for that fond look in his eye that he saved for his true friends.

“I thought they were supposed to make me the pretty one tonight,” he teased, giving you a slow once-over.

You blinked at him, unimpressed. “You look like the garnish on a seafood platter.”

He laughed — loud, bright — and leaned in to bump your shoulder with his. “Good. Then they’ll never see me coming.”

You gave a soft hum, smiling now as he settled beside you. Finnick never stayed still, always pacing or fidgeting. But next to you, he stilled — if only for a few breaths.

“You nervous?” he asked, tone lighter now, but still careful.

You shook your head. “Not for me.”

He nodded, glancing down the hall where all the other tributes laid: older and younger, and the newest additions at the very end of the line. “Yeah,” he said, quieter. “Me neither.”

You reached up, gently adjusting one of the messy strands of hair that fell across his forehead. “Don’t show off too much tonight,” you murmured.

“I make no promises,” he grinned. “But I’ll try — for you.”

You shook your head fondly your heart aching knowing that he, like many here, are hating the fact they they all had to be there agin. Then the horns blared, signaling the parade to begin. 

Taking Woof’s hand, you stepped up into the chariot, and waited to get this over with.

 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

After the parade was finished you told Woof you’ll catch up with him later on, your heels clicked softly against the floors. You didn’t glance around — not yet. Your eyes found Haymitch immediately, though you pretended they didn’t. They always found him.

Your heart pounded as it had the first time you saw him. And ever time after.

He stood with Katniss and Peeta near the elevators, arms crossed, his usual grim scowl in place. Though he seemed to be talking with him, almost amused.

You kept your pace measured as you walked toward them. Your heart kicked at the sight of him, at the way his eyes swept over you quickly — worried, relieved, proud — before he looked away like it hurt to look too long.

“Smooth ride?” he asked, voice dry.

You nodded. “Crowd still loves a tragedy. All their favorites are in the ring,”

“You’d know,” he said. But there was a faint curl to his lip. Almost a smile. “Though not all their favorites. I’m not in,” he said.

That had earned him an unamused eyebrow raise, “Well unfortunately for you, Abernathy, you haven’t been a capital favorite in a long time. Especially now wi the these two,” 

Katniss’s eyes lit up when she saw you properly, as if the weight on her shoulders lifted for a second. Though it was quickly replaced with that familiar stoic gleam in her eye. The reality that you too, were back in the games.

“Y/N!” she breathed.

You gave her a nod, eyes warm. “Nice to see you again, Katniss. You looked good. Cinna did a great job,”

She laughed under her breath. “You looked terrifying.”

Peeta smiled too, softer. “We are glad to see you. It’ll be good to know someone here,”

You met his eyes reaching and giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Peeta was too good. Too sweet. And especially with his leg gone? These games for him especially would be almost impossible. “I wish I could say the same,” 

The elevator opened then chimed open and you all stepped in. You stood beside Haymitch. You were careful not to brush against him even as your fingers ached to reach for his.

Silence stretched. Capitol gold and steel blurred past the glass walls.

Then the elevator chimed — twelfth floor.

The doors slid open.

You waited until the kids stepped out and headed to their rooms to change before they ate.

“Y/N,” Haymitch started, the moment the two of you were alone. Well, as alone as you could be in those apartments. 

“I’ll find you later. But you know I can’t stay long,” your voice was quiet, but quick as your gaze met your love’s. His eyes, the same tired grey ones Katniss wore. And his messy scruffy dark hair that Effie tried to tame.

How cruel the world was. With how much it look from your Haymitch. And how cruel it was that it just continued to take from him. His friends. His family. You. 

“Nothing changes,”

“Plans change.”

“Do they?” Your eyes, usually so soft, timid were fierce like they had been so long ago. Before the burn out of the games. Before the toll of the losses started to take that light from you one year at a time. 

There was something in your voice that made him turn. His eyes were sharper now, clearer than anyone ever gave him credit for.

“You talk like you’re not part of this.”

You gave him a long look. “I’m not the one that matters in this right now, Hay.”

He flinched. Barely. But you saw it.

“Don’t start,” he muttered.

You stayed quiet for a moment, watching a hovercraft drift past in the distance. Its lights cast brief shadows across your face.

“I know the rules,” you said finally, your voice low, but steady. “I know how this game is played. Who the sponsors will favor. Who else is watching.”

He stared out at the city, jaw clenched. “Don’t make decisions for me.”

“I’m not,” you said gently. “I’m reminding you to make the right ones.”

“You are the right one.” The words escaped before he could stop them. Rough. Unfiltered. Careless.

You glanced around the room. Knowing that all over there are most likely cameras and bugged wires placed and hidden all over. Your eyes fell back to him, and raised your brow slightly, a silent careful.

He let out a breath and shifted, eyes on the horizon now. “There’s a plan,” he said, voice more careful. “A way to keep certain… valuable pieces on the board. To ensure the games win,”

“I know,” you said. “I know the pieces. I don’t need to know all your strategies to know the goal is to win,”

He turned to you, eyes searching. “You’re not just a piece.”

You gave him a small smile. A sad smile that broke his heart. “But I know where I sit on the board.”

Silence stretched again. Not cold — just full of things neither of you could say.

Then, softly:

“They’re good kids,” you murmured, hands tightening on the railing. “Kind. Brave. The kind of good that’s hard to find now. But they’re also incredibly important,”

He nodded once.

“You make sure they win and get out of there,” you said. “You do whatever you have to do.”

“I’d rather not have to choose,” he replied, quiet.

“You won’t have to,” you said, finally looking at him again. “I already did.”

[onlybeeewrites]

Hey! Just wanted to let you know that I love your writing and hope you‘re doing okay<3

Hi, lovie! Thank you so much for<3

Life has just been crazy busy with one thing after another along with taking time for myself, and I haven’t had much time to write.

I’m hoping once things calm I’ll be back to posting some more.

But I appreciate the check in <33

[onlybeeewrites]

Hey, folks!

I’m (again) obsessed with the hunger games so I'm opening requests for the prompts below. To request, just choose the prompt, specify the theme, and pick your character.

Example: prompt number + fluff + character

who i write for | peeta mellark, finnick odair, haymitch abernathy, young coriolanus snow and sejanus plinth

angst:

1. “That is actually not comforting to hear."

2. “That's not a very nice thing to say."

3. "Hopefully to a better place."

4. "You deserve better, just saying."

5. "Sorry, I'm being so difficult for you."

6. "Show me that bruise please."

7. "Just stop. You’re hurting me.”

8. “Do you really need me to say it?"

9. “You almost died!"

10. “I didn't want to hurt you. But I also couldn't stop."

11. “Pushing me away will not help you."

12. “You deserved everything that happened to you.”

13. “Stop trying to make it up to me, you can't!"

fluff:

1. "We will get through this. Together."

2. "Can I please hold your hand?"

3. "Wait, you actually really like me?"

4. "Nah. You're a big softie."

5. "I have 99 problems, and a lot of them revolve around you."

6. “Do we really have to get up?"

7. “Will you stay with me?"

8. "Is that my sweater you're wearing?

9. "Text me when you're safe at home."

10. “Have I told you I love you today?”

11. “Any ideas for our next date?

12. "Your shirt is inside out."

13. “Do you think they will like it?"

14. "I'm sorry for not believing you."

(c) @creativepromptsforwriting

[onlybeeewrites]

I love you, I’m sorry

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Fem!reader

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: Mockingjay level violence, reference to torture, manipulation, brainwashing,

A/N: this can be read on its own or as a prequel to Echos <3

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The mess hall of District 13 had fallen into an eerie, unnatural silence.

The clatter of utensils, the quiet hum of routine, the scrape of boots on concrete—all of it vanished the moment the screens flickered to life. The space, normally filled with the soft murmur of conversation and the scent of rationed meals, now felt suspended in time. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

Rows and rows of identical steel tables stretched across the room like lifeless lines, each one packed shoulder to shoulder with soldiers in gray, medics in white, refugees in remnants of other lives.

Children clung to parents, wide-eyed and silent, uneaten food cooling on metal trays. No one moved. No one spoke. Every gaze had turned, magnetized to the broadcast beaming down from the mounted screens high on the walls.

There, under the cold fluorescence, sat Katniss Everdeen, her posture rigid and unmoving. Her tray sat untouched in front of her, the food forgotten. Her hands were clenched so tightly around the edges of the tray that her knuckles had gone white.

Beside her, Finnick Odair hadn’t blinked in what felt like minutes. Across the table, Gale shifted forward, jaw clenched, tension radiating off him in waves. The other members of their unit sat nearby, equally still, equally shaken. Haymitch stood off to the side, a flask half-lifted in one hand, paused in midair. Even Plutarch, for once, was silent, his usual theatrics gone.

It was as though the entire underground city had frozen.

Because on the screen—brilliant and sharp, framed in garish Capitol silver—sat Peeta Mellark.

And Y/N Maren.

They were side by side on a too-familiar stage, lit by the artificial glow of Capitol spotlights, each of them flanked by the unmistakable figure of Caesar Flickerman. His suit sparkled like starlight, and his smile was as blindingly bright as ever.

But the smiles on Peeta and Y/N’s faces… they weren’t real.

Tight. Controlled. Artificial.

Wrong.

And their eyes—gods, their eyes. Peeta’s were hard, hollowed, the blue dulled by something deeper than fear. His shoulders were squared, back straight, the perfect image of a calm young victor. But the stillness was unnatural, stiff. Forced.

Y/N sat composed, dressed in soft lavender, her curls perfectly styled in Capitol fashion, her skin powdered and glowing under the lights. She looked ethereal, delicate—even lovely. But beneath that flawless façade, something was terribly, unmistakably off.

Her fingers twisted in her lap, knuckles pale as she gripped the hem of her dress. And when she blinked, it was too slow. Too deliberate. Her lashes didn’t flutter; they dropped like a curtain.

Something in Finnick’s chest twisted.

He knew that look.

“Panem,” Caesar announced, his voice smooth and syrupy, cutting through the silence like a knife, “what a joy it is to have two of our most beloved victors here with us today. Peeta Mellark and Y/N—alive and safe. You cannot imagine the relief this brings to the Capitol.”

Y/N gave a small, elegant nod. “We’re incredibly grateful to be here, Caesar.”

Her voice was calm. Too calm. The words were evenly measured, rehearsed. Not her voice. Not the way she laughed in the early mornings. Not the way she used to murmur his name, soft and sweet and full of hope.

Finnick felt a breath hitch in his throat.

He heard it—the tremor in the last syllable. Barely there. But it was real.

Peeta followed, his voice flat, eyes vacant. “Thank you. We are forever grateful for the Capitol’s generosity.”

No gratitude. Not really. His jaw flexed after the words passed his lips, like they’d tasted sour.

The camera zoomed in slightly as Caesar leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“And tell me, how are you both adjusting?” he asked. “After everything that happened in the arena… I imagine it’s been incredibly difficult.”

Peeta’s eyes flicked to Y/N for just a second. It was quick, but it was there.

“We’re… still trying to understand what happened,” he said slowly. “Putting pieces together still.”

Y/N nodded again, more carefully this time. “It all happened so fast. The explosions. The lights cutting out. The ground shaking. Then… being separated. Our friends being taken. And then… us. Waking up here.”

The word she used landed like a stone in the chest of everyone watching.

Captured.

A ripple moved through the room. Someone audibly gasped. Another cursed under their breath.

Caesar didn’t falter. “Yes, of course. Tragic, really. And I imagine it must have been quite a shock to wake up and find yourselves in Capitol care—especially after what certain rebels had planned.”

Peeta’s expression didn’t change. “What… rebels?”

The question was genuine.

Caesar blinked in mock surprise. “Why, the plan to escape, of course! The plan to break you out of the arena. You didn’t know?”

Y/N’s face paled. Her hands curled into fists on her lap.

“No,” she said softly. “We weren’t told anything. We had no idea of any sort of plan. We were left in the dark…”

Caesar gave a sympathetic nod. “Oh, dear. That must have been quite a betrayal.”

Y/N hesitated, then spoke again. “We thought… we were going into the arena to fight. Like before. Like we were supposed to.”

“And instead,” Caesar added smoothly, “the rebels used you. Used your reputations. Your hearts. To fuel a war.”

Peeta’s lips parted. “Is that… is that what this is? A war?”

A pause. Then a solemn nod from Caesar. “I’m afraid so.”

The camera closed in tighter. Every detail of their faces filled the screen now. The furrow in Peeta’s brow. The subtle panic behind Y/N’s composure. A single tremble in her jaw.

“We don’t support any of that,” Y/N said suddenly. “Whatever this is—this rebellion—we were never a part of it. We didn’t know. We weren’t told of a plan to get out. We didn’t… we didn’t know anything.”

A quiet breath left Finnick’s chest, sharp and painful. They didn’t know. Of course they didn’t. And now they were being paraded like puppets. Like propaganda.

That’s when it happened.

A single voice from the back of the mess hall cut the silence like a blade.

“Traitors!”

Finnick flinched. So did Katniss.

Then another. “They turned on us!”

“They’re lying!”

“Capitol dogs!”

More voices rose, angry, afraid, confused. Rumors swelled like a storm.

On the screen, Caesar continued smoothly. “And what would you say to the people of Panem?” he asked, hands clasped. “Those caught in the crossfire?”

Peeta turned toward the camera, his eyes glassy but pleading. “Stop this. Please. This isn’t the way. Think about what you’re doing.”

Y/N leaned forward, voice low but urgent. “You’re being lied to. We were lied to. And people will die for it. Please. Think for yourselves. Don’t just believe what you’re being fed. Ask questions. Look deeper. What’s the line? What will they cross to get what they want?”

Her voice cracked.

No one in the mess hall moved. Not a breath. Not a heartbeat.

Caesar’s practiced smile returned. “So brave. So wise. And we’re so grateful you’re with us now—safe, and on the right side of history.”

Y/N’s eyes locked on the camera, piercing through the lens.

“If you care about us…” she whispered, “stop fighting. Please. Please make it stop.” Her voice sounding more clear than ever before.

And then the screen went dark.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Finnick stared at the blank space where she’d just been, his chest rising and falling too fast. His hands trembled as he reached for the rope in his pocket, gripping it like a lifeline, the coarse fibers biting into his palms.

Beside him, Katniss was shaking. Her face was pale with fury, her eyes glossed over with unshed tears. When she looked at him, something passed between them—a silent, devastating truth that he had known this whole time.

We left them behind.

Finnick bowed his head, rope clenched so tightly now his skin broke. He swallowed against the ache in his throat, lips barely moving as he whispered:

“I love you, sweetheart. I’m sorry…”

Then, after a beat—firmer. Clearer. Sharper.

“I’m coming for you.”

[onlybeeewrites]

Do you have a list of characters you write for or like to write about specifically?

Hi darling!

I just made a masterlist with all the characters I will/have/or would like to write for.

If you don’t see one on the list feel free to ask💛

[onlybeeewrites]

Do you have a master list?

Hi my darling! I just created one with all the works.

Here it is: MasterList

[onlybeeewrites]

𝕆𝕟𝕝𝕪𝔹𝕖𝕖𝕖𝕎𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕖𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕃𝕚𝕤𝕥

Welcome to OnlyBeeeWrites Masterlist. Here you can find all of my published works and series as well as characters I write for.

If you don’t see a fandom you’d like it is most likely because I just haven’t written anything for that fandom yet.

If you don’t see a character, reach out and submit a request or ask if I write for them!

𝙻𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚞𝚙𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍: 𝟶𝟼.𝟹.𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟻 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝙶𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜:

Finnick Odair:

Echos

A Soothing Touch

I love you, I’m sorry (in the works)

Haymitch Abernathy:

Finding Magic

A Change of Plans 1 2

Not a Kid

Coriolanus Snow:

Angel Eyes

Sweet Lullaby

Second Thought

Used to be mine

Three’s a Crowd

Safe and Sound

Sejanus Plinth:

Until the Mockingjay Sings

Peeta Mellark: None yet

Katniss Everdeen: None yet

Lucy Gray: None yet

Johanna Mason: None yet

What are the Odds Series: 1 2

The Valley song Series: 1 2 3 4

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

𝙵𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚐:

Whatever it Takes Series: 1 2 3

Xaden Riorson:

Shoulder to Cry on

Easy to Blame

Garrick Tavis: None yet

Bodhi Durran:

Out of Reach

Liam Miari: None yet

Aaric Graycastle:

Choose Me

Imogen Cardu: None yet

Violet Sorrengail: None yet

Rhiannon Mattis: None yet

Ridoc Gamlyn: None yet

Saywer Hennrick: None yet

Dain Aetos: None yet

Brennan Sorrengail: None yet

Mira Sorrengail: None yet

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

𝙰𝙲𝙾𝚃𝙰𝚁:

The Dance of Ash and Steel Series: 1 2 3 4 5 6

Rhysand: None yet

Feyre: None yet

Cassian: None yet

Azriel: None yet

Nesta: None yet

Elain: None yet

Lucien: None yet

Eris: None yet

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚜:

Anakin Skywalker

Nightmares

Miscellaneous:

A lost Jedi

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘𝚗:

The Violinist series: 1 2

Benedict Bridgerton

A Toast

The Muse

Anthony Bridgerton: None yet

Colin Bridgerton: None yet

[onlybeeewrites]

PROMPTS FROM THE HUNGER GAMES: CATCHING FIRE *  assorted dialogue from the 2013 film, adjust as necessary

if you die, and i live, i'd have nothing. nobody else that i care about.

it's different for you. your family needs you.

you have to live. for them.

nobody needs me.

i do. i need you.

how does that sound?

what if we set your backyard on fire?

he can't hurt me. there's no one left that i love.

remember who the real enemy is.

we got married... in secret.

we want our love to be eternal.

we've been luckier than most.

i just wanted to say that i didn't know [name]. i only spoke to him once.

he could have killed me, but instead he showed me mercy.

that's a debt i'll never be able to repay.

she wasn't just my ally. she was my friend.

i couldn't save her. i'm sorry.

you guys look amazing.

so what do you think, now that the whole world wants to sleep with you?

i wasn't talking to you.

will you unzip?

thanks. let's do it again sometime.

the way the whole "friend" thing works is you have to tell each other the deep stuff.

what's your favorite color?

now you've stepped over the line.

see, this is why no one lets you make the plans.

you have been our mission from the beginning.

the plan was always to get you out.

people are looking to you, [name].

you've given them an opportunity. they just have to be brave enough to take it.

we have seen a lot of tears here tonight.

you are angry. tell me why.

i'm getting totally screwed over here.

now you wanna kill me again.

nobody decent ever wins the games.

nobody ever wins the games. period. there are survivors. there's no winners.

love is weird.

i would love to borrow that outfit someday.

you look pretty terrifying in that get-up.

i outgrew them.

any secrets worth my time?

unfortunately, i think that's true.

i'm sorry you had to cancel your wedding.

i'm really not in the mood for a lecture.

you don't have to apologize to anybody, including me.

i hardly know anything about you except that you're stubborn and good with a bow.

there's more than that. you just don't want to tell me.

make him pay for it.

any last advice?

stay alive.

she's committed, i'll give her that.

you saved my life. you gave me a chance.

fear does not work as long as there is hope.

you were dead. your heart stopped.

how rude of them.

eyes bright, chins up, smiles on.

we're a team, aren't we?

i am truly sorry.

you both deserved so much better.

i don't want to be with anyone else in there. just you.

that's what i want.

no waving and smiling this time.

i want you to look straight ahead as if the audience and this whole event are beneath you.

that should be easy.

be careful. it's a force field up there.

i think these games are gonna be different.

i guess we're not holding hands anymore.

i don't care about any of them.

i'm here to drink.

you know and i know there's only one person walking out of here, and it's gonna be one of us.

i get to say goodbye.

they will kill us.

whatever game you think you're playing, those out there are not playing it with you.

i don't want you to get hurt.

so how do you like the party?

you could live a hundred lifetimes and never deserve that boy.

you don't want to shoot her.

how about i shoot both of you?

get them out of here.

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Hiiii,I love your fics and I was wondering if you could write one about haymitch where reader falls for him when he’s their mentor, but haymitch is in denial because of their age gap. Something like angst,if you wantttt,hope your doing well 💕

Thank you my Darling!

I’m super inspired with the hunger game series rn so I’m very very happy.

This was a little fun to write so I hope you enjoy!: Not a Kid

[onlybeeewrites]

Not a Kid

Request: Hiiii,I love your fics and I was wondering if you could write one about haymitch where reader falls for him when he’s their mentor, but haymitch is in denial because of their age gap. Something like angst,if you wantttt,hope your doing well 💕

Pairing; sort of/pining Haymitch Abernathy x reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: Age gap, trauma, near-death experiences, emotional repression, unspoken feelings, PTSD, nightmares, Reader is 18 years old, Haymitch is about 28

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The day of the Reaping was hot.

Still air, cloudless sky, not a breeze to soften the tension that stretched over District 12 like a noose.

You were 18.

Your last year. The last time your name would sit in that glass bowl. And your name was in so many times. But you had to do what you could to survive. Even if that meant increasing your odds. But each year you had survived another. 

So of course on your last year—it was called.

Your name rang through the square, soft and cruel. And your feet moved like they belonged to someone else. Because they had to. Because if you hesitated, if you broke, then they won.

You were then moved to the Justice Building. No one came to say goodbye. You didn’t have anyone. Your father was God knows where, your mother died years ago when the flu swept through the Seam. So once the time was up, you and your district partner, some boy from school, about 16 or so, were swept to the train. 

Once seated there, Effie was chirping off of something. Haymitch was drunk when you waited in the train car.

Eyes bloodshot. Shirt half-buttoned. He didn’t even look at you at first. Just groaned and muttered something about “another dead kids.”

But then you spoke. Calmly. Clearly.

“What do we need to know?”

And something in him paused.

He looked up, really looked, and for a heartbeat, he saw you.

Not a child. Not a name in a bowl. But someone sharp. Someone scared. Someone trying not to die.

He didn’t say much that day.

But he sobered up the next morning.

The train ride was quiet. You didn’t have anyone with you—no family left to say goodbye. Just Haymitch and Effie and the ghosts you didn’t believe in yet.

“You want to live?” he asked, leaning against the doorway.

You nodded.

“Then listen to me and don’t do anything stupid.”

It wasn’t a pep talk. It wasn’t even kind. But it was honest. And that’s what you needed.

In the Capitol, the prep team fluttered around you like butterflies drunk on glitter and blood. They scrubbed you clean. Polished your teeth. Stared too long at your scars.

Haymitch watched from the doorway with tired eyes and a clenched jaw.

When your stylist—an older woman named Avice—tried to dress you in something revealing, Haymitch intervened.

“No,” he said. “She’s not bait.”

He didn’t explain why it mattered. He just made it matter.

You were clever in training. Smart. Quiet. You didn’t show off, didn’t draw attention. Just learned how to move, how to survive.

Haymitch didn’t smile much, but he started showing up earlier. Staying longer.

“You learn fast,” he said once, handing you a bottle of water instead of his usual drink. “That’s good. Most of them don’t.”

You looked up at him. “Did you?”

He didn’t answer. Just walked away.

In the arena, his voice came through in parachutes and whispers.

Stay smart.

Nice move. 

Stay near water. Stay alive.

You followed every instruction like scripture. Because you trusted him. Even when your hands were bloody. Even when your nightmares took shape.

And when you won—bruised, broken, and barely breathing—he was the first person you saw when they pulled you from the hovercraft.

He didn’t say “I told you so.”

He didn’t say anything.

Just wrapped a blanket around your shoulders and looked at you like he’d been holding his breath for days.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

District 12 looked smaller when you came back. Or maybe you were just bigger—heavier with what you’d done, what you’d lost, who you’d become in that arena.

They greeted you with cheers, hollow and echoing, faces you couldn’t meet. They didn’t know the version of you that killed to stay alive. They didn’t want to.

But Haymitch did.

You didn’t sleep the first few nights. The bed in your Victor’s home was too soft. The silence too loud.

You stopped going to the square. Stopped answering the door. You didn’t want Capitol cameras in your face, or people thanking you for surviving when you didn’t feel alive.

Haymitch was the only one who didn’t push.

He came by quietly. Left food at your door. Some nights he stayed, sitting across the room, watching you unravel with tired eyes and a heart too full to say anything.

“You’re not eating,” he said once, a worn blanket in his hands.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You won,” he said, not unkindly. “That means you have to live now.”

You looked at him, hollowed out and aching. “What if I don’t know how?”

His expression didn’t change, but his voice cracked. “Then I’ll teach you.”

Sometimes, you hated him for being the only one who understood.

Sometimes, you loved him for the same reason.

Weeks passed.

The nightmares stayed. Got worse.

One night, you showed up on his porch barefoot and shaking, still caught in whatever memory had clawed you out of sleep. The memory of what you had done haunted you, and you so desperately were trying to get your mind out of the arena.

He didn’t ask what happened.

Just opened the door and let you in.

You fell asleep on his couch again after hours, tucked in his blanket, the fire crackling low in his fireplace.

When you stirred in the middle of the night, you found him in the chair across from you. Awake. Watching.

“You should go to bed,” you whispered.

He didn’t move. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You sat up slowly, blanket falling around your shoulders. “You have them too, don’t you?”

He looked at you then—really looked. Like all the walls he’d built around himself were made of smoke.

“Every night.”

You reached for his hand.

And this time, he didn’t pull away.

The shift between you was slow.

Not obvious.

Not something the Capitol could exploit with cameras or twisted narratives.

But it was real. You both felt it.

In the way he started keeping whiskey in the cupboard instead of on the table. In the way your fingers lingered longer when they passed things between you.

In the way he stopped calling you kid like it was armor.

One night, you stood in his kitchen in your pajamas, hair still wet from a late shower. You were laughing at something he said—really laughing—and he just stared at you.

Like you were something he didn’t believe in.

You caught him looking.

And he didn’t look away.

“I don’t want to just be your tribute anymore,” you said one night. The hour was late, the entire District must have been asleep besides three two Victors. Your voice barely a whisper. “I’m not just a survivor. I’m a person. I’m an adult.”

“I know that,” he murmured.

“Then why won’t you—”

“Because if I start,” he cut in, stepping closer, “I won’t stop. And I don’t know how to love someone like you without destroying it. Let alone putting you even more at risk with them,”

You swallowed. You didn’t need him to clarify who ‘them’ was. “What if I’m already destroyed?”

He closed his eyes like it physically hurt. Like it was an ache in his bones.

“You deserve more than this,” he said hoarsely. “Than me.”

“Maybe,” you whispered. “But I don’t want more. I want you. Isn’t that enough?”

The air cracked between you.

But he didn’t touch you.

Didn’t kiss you.

He didn’t move forward. But back.

Just whispered, “You’re eighteen. youre fresh out of the Games. You’re a kid. You don’t know what you want,”

“I’m eighteen. I’m not a kid,” you breathed.

But then he turned away.

Again.

Leaving you alone in the home that was just too big for one person.

[onlybeeewrites]

Heyy i saw you take requests?🥹 i‘ve been dying to read something where xaden finally cries cause honestly i feel like at this point it‘s crazy that he hasn‘t broken down yet. Maybe with bodhi garrick violet etc comforting him and making him feel safe enough to break down?

HI DARLING!

So sorry this took me so long to get to, but PLS ENJOY XADEN ALLOWING HIMSELF TO FEEL HIS FEELINGS.

God knows the kid needs to.

Shoulders to Cry on

[onlybeeewrites]

Shoulders to Cry on

Request: Heyy i saw you take requests?🥹 i‘ve been dying to read something where xaden finally cries cause honestly i feel like at this point it‘s crazy that he hasn‘t broken down yet. Maybe with bodhi garrick violet etc comforting him and making him feel safe enough to break down?

Pairing: Xaden Riorson x Violet Sorrengail, Xaden and his brothers <3, Garrick and Bodhi are there too.

Word count: 1k

Warning: none, just some sad thoughts from Xaden and his friends comforting him <3

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The hallways of the quadrant were quiet. Not silent—never silent, not in Basgiath—but quiet enough that the low hum of distant voices, the occasional footstep, and the whirring of a patrolling gryphon didn’t quite pierce the calm.

Xaden sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. He wasn’t even sure how long he’d been sitting there.

The mage lights in the room flickered, casting shadows across the tattoos long his skin, the scars that lingered on his face, the scar that marked his face.

His jaw was locked. His chest was tight.

And he couldn’t breathe.

There wasn’t a trigger. Not this time. No nightmare, no violent vision of the past, no letter from Reesa or mention of his father. Just… the weight. Years of it. Guilt and grief and rage all packed tight into his bones like a dam he never let crack.

The responsibility had been carved into him since the day of his father’s execution. The weight of all 107 children of the rebellion. The burden of knowing the truth about what was happening beyond the wards. Every secret. Every danger. Every plan.

It was too much for someone so young. But who else was going to carry it?

Not Bodhi. Not Garrick. No—this had always been his to bear.

And the truth was, he’d gotten used to it. Hardened himself to it. Sharpened his mind, built coping mechanisms, turned his pain into focus, into leadership. He’d found ways to survive it.

Until tonight.

Something about the day—nothing monumental, just a passing conversation, a laugh that reminded him of someone long gone, the press of too many eyes—had sent him over the edge. And he didn’t even see it coming.

He exhaled—barely a breath, barely a sound—and it was like a thread snapped in his chest. Something hot pricked behind his eyes, and before he could stop it, he was shaking.

“Fuck,” he whispered, dragging both hands down his face, trying to stop it. He bit the inside of his cheek. Hard. But it didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Why didn’t it stop?

The door creaked open softly, and his shoulders tensed.

He didn’t need—

“Xaden?” Violet stood in the doorway in one of his shirts, her silver hair a soft halo around her shoulders. She didn’t say anything else—just looked at him. Really looked at him.

Her voice was so soft. Like he was something fragile, something breakable. A wounded animal she might scare off if she got too close. And it should’ve made him pull away.

But it didn’t.

It was strange, feeling her love like this. Tangible. Gentle. Undemanding. He couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at him like that—with nothing but care.

He pressed a hand to his mouth, shoulders curling forward as the first sob slipped out before he could shove it down. Violet crossed the room in two quick steps and knelt in front of him, slipping between his knees. Her arms wrapped around his waist, her cheek pressed to his chest.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”

Such simple words. But they hit harder than any command, any strategy, any truth. She was there. To listen. To hold. To simply be there.

He tried to speak, but the words dissolved before they could even form. He couldn’t explain it—this ache, this breaking point. How could he possibly say out loud that he wasn’t allowed to fall apart? That he didn’t get to?

Footsteps echoed down the hall, followed by a knock that didn’t wait for an answer.

“Vi? We saw you rushing over, is—” Garrick’s voice cut off the moment he stepped in, Bodhi right behind him. They froze at the sight of Xaden trembling, Violet wrapped around him.

But neither of them hesitated.

Garrick sat down beside him on the bed, one hand settling gently on Xaden’s shoulder. Bodhi lowered himself to the floor next to Violet, leaning back against the bedframe like it was just another night.

“You don’t have to say anything, X,” Garrick murmured. “You know we’re here. Just like you’ve always been for us.”

Xaden shook his head, the words choking in his throat. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Bodhi said, voice quieter

than usual, almost reverent. “You’ve been holding all of us up for so long, man. Just let go. We’re not going anywhere. We’re your family. That’s what we do.”

And maybe it was that. Maybe it was Garrick’s steady hand, or Bodhi’s honesty, or Violet’s quiet strength wrapped around him like a tether. Maybe it was the way none of them looked at him with pity or fear.

But Xaden finally stopped fighting it.

The sobs came hard—ugly, broken, years’ worth of buried pain clawing their way out of him like they’d been waiting for this very moment. He’d never been more grateful for the silencing rune etched onto his door.

They stayed through all of it. Violet never let go, Garrick never looked away, Bodhi kept cracking terrible jokes just loud enough to be a distraction. They didn’t flinch from the weight of him.

When it was over, when all that remained was the kind of silence only exhaustion could bring, Xaden slowly lifted his head. No one had moved.

“You’re not alone,” Violet whispered, brushing a thumb under his eye. “Not anymore. I know how much is on you. But you’re not carrying it alone. You’ve got Garrick. Bodhi. Imogen. Me. We’re all here.”

Xaden didn’t speak—he couldn’t—but he reached for her, arms wrapping around her waist as he pulled her into his lap. His forehead rested against her shoulder as her fingers found his hair.

A comforting quiet settled over the four of them. Steady. Warm. Unshakable.

And for the first time in a long, long time… Xaden let himself believe it. Really believe it.

That even in the dark, there was light. And even in a world built on loss and war and responsibility, he had people who would stay. People who saw him—not just the leader, not just the rebellion’s weapon—but him.

And maybe that was enough for once.

[onlybeeewrites]

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

Hi my darling!

Haymitch has my heart. I hope you enjoy <3

A Change of Plans

[onlybeeewrites]

A Change of Plans

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

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!reader 

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: mentions of PTSD, spoilers for Catching Fire 

A Change of Plans: Next

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

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

The reaping was over.

For District 12, at least.

Katniss and Peeta were reaped.

Well—he was. Technically.

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

It was all exactly what he feared.

And somehow worse.

Because it wasn’t just Katniss and Peeta.

It was who else had been chosen.

The third Quarter Quell.

Where the victors themselves became the tributes.

A punishment wrapped in a celebration.

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

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

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

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

They didn’t know how impossible that would be.

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

District 8.

The screen flickered.

There she was.

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

Just her and one other female tribute.

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

Even now, she looked soft.

Everything the arena was not.

Katniss inhaled sharply beside him. “Oh.”

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

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

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

She didn’t look surprised.

She didn’t cry.

That was her.

Always braver than anyone realized.

Braver than him.

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

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

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

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

He tasted bitterness more than alcohol.

Because he knew.

He knew Snow did this on purpose.

Picked this Quarter Quell theme.

Picked Katniss.

Picked her.

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

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

But he didn’t need to see it.

He knew that look.

He’d seen it before.

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

Before she won.

Before he ever dared to let someone in again.

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

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

Now they were throwing her back into the fire.

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

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

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

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

Gone.

No.

Not gone.

Still within reach.

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

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

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

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

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

Only one.

That’s what the Capitol wanted them to believe.

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

Didn’t know Beetee’s plan.

Plutarch’s plan.

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

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

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

For the rebellion to happen.

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

Maybe Finnick would do. He could be trusted.

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

It could work.

It had to.

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

Haymitch didn’t reply.

He couldn’t.

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

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

Somewhere, she was alone.

And he was here.

But not for long.

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

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

Because no one was taking her from him again.

Not without burning for it.