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.
a/n: im rereading the hunger games series ahead of the sotr movie & let's just say my love for haymitch is back in full force. so this is me coming out of a years-long writing retirement on this blog with a filthy haymitch fic...dont say i didnt warn you. enjoy if you wanna <3
pairing: haymitch abernathy x victor!reader
summary: at a capitol party, haymitch sees the woman he can't get out of his head, and the dress she’s wearing isn’t doing anything to help that. in fact, it’s made everything worse. he tries to control his urges, but to no avail. (long story short: this is haymitch getting off to the thought of you xoxoxo.) written in third person !
word count: 3212
warnings: smutttttt. male masturbation, swearing, regular haymitch alcohol consumption, implied age gap (but not necessary to the plot)
He walked in barely 30 seconds ago but was already feeling annoyed. The flashing lights bothered his eyes, the strange music hurt his head, and the shallow conversation took years off of his life. One of the only things that got him through these unbearable parties was – oh, champagne. Thank God. He swiped a flute from a tray being carried by one of the waiters passing by.
Downing it in seconds, he placed the empty glass on a nearby table, already looking around for another. With no luck, he put his head down and walked over to the bar. His hand flashed up in a gesture to get the bartender’s attention, shouting for a scotch. He felt much more relaxed with the glass of amber liquid in hand.
He’s able to socialize, slightly, talking to a few Capitol citizens he recognized from trying to get sponsors for previous Games’ tributes. He mainly keeps to himself, eyes scanning the room intensely. He won’t admit it out loud, but he’s searching for you.
You were one of the only people in this world he could tolerate, no that’s not the right word. He accepted you, enjoyed your company more than anyone else's. You were a fellow victor from a different district, and although younger, understood the horrors he had endured.
You were the only person he felt like he could talk to properly, the only one who could meet him where he was. You could take a joke as well as you could make one, and didn’t get wrapped up in all the frivolity. You performed for the citizens, then went back to real life in your district.
He didn’t have to put on a front for you, could simply talk about what was bothering him and you’d sit there and listen all night long if that’s what it took. You always knew what to say. He found your emotional intelligence wildly attractive. But that’s not all, physically, he thought, you were perfect. Of course he’d never tell you, if you ever asked he would chalk up all of the pet names and feather-light touches of your back or your knee to the influence of the drink. Sometimes it was just that, but most of the time he knew what he was doing. He couldn’t help but put a hand, or both, on you when you were near.
It was about an hour into the party when he first spotted you, wrapped up in some conversation with two other women clearly from the Capitol. You were dressed up of course, but not like them, no, never like them. They wore enormous blonde wigs, blinding white powder, monochromatic dresses, and lipstick in the shape of a triangle. But you. You wore a strapless, forest green dress that fell above your knees, structured as if it was floating off your body. The back was partially open, with sparkly gold chains hanging down in a U shape, which ghosted across your skin every time you laughed or moved.
He felt like a shy teenager when you caught his gaze, waving and smiling before running over to say hello.
“Hi Haymitch,” you said, and hearing his name roll off your tongue was already pulling him under.
“Hi beautiful,” he replied, smiling for the first time all night. “Having fun?”
“God no.” You replied immediately, and he was reminded all over again why he was infatuated with you. “Those two women I was just talking to were going on and on about how their wig stylist is retiring at the end of the month. I truly could not have cared less. It’s so out of touch it makes me want to scream.”
He took a sip of his drink as you spoke, hoping the glass to his lips would cool off the burning sensation he felt when you were near. “Sounds utterly awful.” He replied. “At least it’s over with.”
“For now.” You continued. “Until the next group comes and swoops me away. I’d much rather be hanging out by the bar with you.”
He tried to ignore how his heart rate sped up at your words. “Trust me when I say the same, sweetheart.”
He admired the way your eyes seemed to sparkle when he called you that, something he always pretended not to notice. You continued talking about your night as he fell deeper and deeper into the trap that was you. He hoped you didn’t register his gaze flicking down to your chest every so often, not in an entirely vulgar way, just watching the way your collarbones flexed when you used your arms to get a point across. It seemed your stylist had dusted them with a gold shimmer, making them pop even more.
“(y/n)! That you?” Someone called from behind you. You turned around at the sound of the voice, connecting in a hug with another woman you obviously recognized.
You turned back to him. “Haymitch, I’m so sorry to interrupt our talk. I have to run for a minute but I’m sure I’ll see you again later.”
“Go go. Don’t worry about me.” He gestured to the pair to go off and have fun. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Absolutely.” You replied, and you were off again. Too sweet, too popular for your own good. Another reason you’d never want a recluse like him.
He almost audibly groaned as you walked away, honing in on the lean muscles of your back he could see through the open back of your dress. He watched the way your smooth legs carried you off in those high heels so effortlessly, pursing his lips.
You seemed to be sculpted by the gods.
He didn’t know how much time had passed, how many more drinks he had, but he knew he was more than ready to leave.
On his way out to the front where the cars would be waiting to take guests home, he felt lucky to run into you again.
“Hey.” He said, tapping you on the shoulder.
“Hey!” You exclaimed, clearly under the influence of far more liquor than the first time he had seen you that night. “You heading out?”
“Yeah. ‘Bout that time for me. I’m not as young as I once was, can’t keep up with you party animals anymore.” He joked.
You laughed, a hearty, belly laugh that made him feel like the most notable comedian in the city. He knew you were drunk, but he didn’t care. “I think you could still outdrink everyone in here.”
He shrugged. You were probably right.
“Who knows. But I’m not gonna find out tonight, anyway.” He replied.
“Well get back safely. It was so wonderful to see you.” You said.
“Thanks darlin’.” He replied. “You too.”
“I will.” You beamed, leaning in for a hug that he gladly accepted. His arms wrapped around you, giving you a small peck on the cheek before pulling away, a sign of affection. The only one he could muster without giving himself away.
You waved as he walked off.
He sighed as he slumped down in the backseat of a cab, gruffly telling the driver which hotel to go to. He closed his eyes, replaying all of your conversations over again. Your sweet voice was all it took to make him feel…stirred.
It was about a 15 minute drive to get back to his hotel, and he stumbled through the too-bright lobby once he was dropped off. He accidentally pressed the button for the 10th floor instead of the 12th, which made his elevator ride a bit slower than he would’ve liked.
Stumbling into his room he immediately loosened his tie, feeling like it had been suffocating him all night. He kicked off his shoes and discarded his suit jacket on a chair.
He was alone again, and drunk, but not enough that he wouldn’t remember all this in the morning. He practically fell back onto the bed, button down shirt half open and tie loosely around his neck.
Should he shower? Probably, he thought, and forced himself back up after a few more moments. Before that though, he walked over to the complimentary mini-bar to pour himself a glass of something. He didn’t even bother to look at what it was before it splashed into the intricate vessel and he brought it up to his lips.
He brought the drink into the massive bathroom, turning the light on and quickly dimming it. Why does every room have to be so fucking bright? He grabbed a towel from a shelf on the far wall and threw it onto the sink counter.
He swore every shower in this godforsaken city was different. Why did they all have an ungodly number of buttons and switches? Give him on and off and he’d be fine. He pressed one, and all it did was project a cityscape onto the frosted glass walls.
He sighed deeply, composing himself and taking another sip before fumbling with some more buttons, finally getting hot water to stream out of the showerhead. He placed the glass on the edge of the sink for easy access.
With all his clothes discarded on the floor he hopped in, letting the water run over his tired shoulders and sweaty blonde hair, relaxing for the first time all night. As he relaxed, his mind calmed, thinking about nothing for a few moments, until the thought of you crept back in.
He tried to shake it off, tried to use the strong scent of whatever soap he grabbed to distract him, but to no avail. The pretty picture that was you in that dark green dress wouldn’t leave his mind.
Practically every part of you had been carefully looked over by his eyes at some point in the night. Your eyes, of course, sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight, your hair, curled without one strand out of place, your legs…man he loved your legs. So smooth as you walked around and danced, wearing heels but still managing to be shorter than him. The gold chains that hung over the back of your body, barely covering the supple skin there. For all the body parts that he couldn’t see, well, he had no trouble imagining them.
His eyes were closed at this point, and he didn’t realize he had tilted backwards against one of the shower walls until a blue light turned on when he accidentally leaned against one of the buttons.
“Shit,” he muttered, trying to figure out how to turn it off. He quickly discovered he had no idea, but it didn’t end up bothering him much. The cobalt light shining reminded him of the party, which once again reminded him of you.
Shaking the thoughts away once again, he reached for the bar of soap to finish cleaning himself off. He traced the velvety product around his body, starting at his arms, moving to his back, his stomach, and below the belt. Important to keep that clean, too.
As he did so, he realized the touch of his hand in the area sent shivers down his spine. And not in a way that signified he was cold, but instead that he was aroused. He sucked in a sharp breath as his fingers ghosted over his cock, which was beginning to take on a life of its own. Was this all because he was thinking of you?
He reached out a soapy, soaking wet hand to grab his drink that still remained half full on the sink counter, hoping it would help him forget everything. It didn’t, in fact, he thought it only made it worse.
When he finished rinsing off his body, he was met with what could only be described as a raging boner. He felt like a fucking horny teenager.
He didn’t even know the last time he felt like this; definitely months, maybe even a year. Couldn’t tell you the last time he’d gotten himself off. He decided to try and keep it that way, hoping some sleep would help it all settle down.
He couldn’t, wouldn’t give into the temptation. Not when you had no idea of his attraction, because he knew if he…saw this through…he’d never be able to be normal around you again. No, it would be all he’d think about when he looked at your pretty face.
Shaking his head forcefully for what felt like the millionth time in the last hour, he turned the water off and grabbed the towel to dry himself off. The bathroom was filled with steam now, hot and humid from his unusually long shower. He downed the rest of his drink.
After sliding on a pair of black pajama pants that hung low around his hips, he flopped onto his bed once again, wet hair sprawled out across the half a dozen pillows that decorated the mattress by the headboard. He decided sleep would be best, although somehow he didn’t feel tired. Nevertheless, he flipped on his side, closing his eyes and trying to drown out everything that was swirling inside his brain.
When he woke up again, the first thing he noticed was that it was still pitch black outside, and the sound of car horns still blared in the distance. Do these Capitol assholes never sleep? But once he rolled over to look at the clock next to the bed, he realized it hadn’t even been an hour since he initially shut his eyes.
He groaned in annoyance, rolling back onto his stomach with his face stuffed in a pillow.
That movement, that’s what woke him up fully. With the front of his body brushing the bed, he realized he was hard. Again.
He pushed his face deeper into the pillow, trying to surround himself in darkness, picture anything else in the world besides you in that dress. It didn’t work. His cock was aching, even more so now than when he went to bed in the first place. He had to do something about it. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep.
“Fuck.” He whispered.
It was a few more minutes of trying to control himself before he finally gave in.
That first gentle snap of his hips into the bed felt like he set a fire to his insides. He was still on his stomach, head leaning to one side, hands gripping a pillow with his eyes shut tight. He thrusted a second time, taking note of the way his pajama pants shifted deliciously against his shaft.
God, what was he doing? He thought at first, but as he grinded into the bed with more force, he reached a point where he didn’t care.
It was probably horrible how through his shut eyes all he pictured was you. He imagined it was you underneath him in this bed, squirming and gripping onto his biceps as he pounded into you. Or maybe you’d like it more gentle? He slowed down his movements, thrusting once every few seconds, teasing himself.
He slowed down to a stop, trying to catch his breath. Rolling over onto his back now, he palmed himself through his pants, feeling his rock hard cock through them. He once again pictured your soft hands, teasing him over the fabric, looking up at him with glassy eyes as your nails softly raked up and down, up and down.
He couldn’t take it anymore, he slipped his hands under the waistband and threw the pants down his legs, kicking them off the bed with his feet. The cool air on his hot skin brought an entirely new sensation, breathing heavily as his hand moved to his bare cock for the first time.
It felt so fucking good, all thanks to this fantasy of you. His mind dreamed up a scenario where he’d taken you home after the party, unzipping that dress and throwing it somewhere on the floor. His hands would’ve flown to your breasts, massaging them, twisting the soft skin. The cool air would’ve sent goosebumps down your arms, and he’d kiss down them to warm you up. You’d climb into bed with him, still naked if you like, and your limbs would tangle together in some sort of erotic dance the two of you couldn’t get enough of. His hands would slide up and down your bare body, squeezing your ass every so often. You’d let out pretty little moans that were only for him, and say his name in that sweet voice that drove him insane.
He was vigorously pumping his cock as he came back to reality, breathing deeply, biting his lip every so often to stifle the sounds that threatened to spill out. But it got more difficult, the more he thought, the faster his hand moved, the closer he got to reaching that high he hadn’t felt in ages. It was all becoming too much.
So when a moan of your name left his parted lips without thinking, he froze. His hand ceased its movements, dick twitching under his calloused fingers.
Shouldn’t do that, he thought. Can’t go there. It was bad enough he was using the thought of you naked to help him reach his high, he couldn’t say your name as if you were actually in the room with him.
Could he?
Fuck, it felt so wrong. But with the way his body responded, so right, too.
He felt precum spilling from his tip, and he began to slowly, slowly, pump his shaft once again. But that pace didn’t last. In fact he quickened his movements almost immediately.
He was right there.
He imagined all the nicknames he’d use on you to help you feel special. Beautiful, sweetheart, gorgeous, would fall from his lips like it was nothing, but it would be the opposite. He’d mean every word he would say. He thought so highly of you, and this was a new low for him. The juxtaposition of those thoughts strangely only turned him on more.
Broken moans he couldn’t contain spilled out as he twisted and pumped himself to reach his high. And eventually, it felt so good he couldn’t wait anymore.
“Fucking hell…” He said. And with a few more quick thrusts up into his hand, white hot liquid was shooting from his cock, painting his chest with the proof of his strong arousal. He rode out his orgasm as the last few drops sprayed onto his shoulder, uncontrollable. His legs shook, he imagined because it had been so long since he or anyone else had touched him in this way.
Once those nearly earth-shattering seconds were over, he attempted to catch his breath, realizing he was now completely spent.
It took everything in him to get up and get another towel in the bathroom, quickly wiping himself off and discarding it on the floor.
He fell down back onto the bed once he was completely dry and cleaned off again.
“What the hell.” He muttered, so tired now he couldn’t think of much else to say.
Embarrassment, guilt, that could all be dealt with in the morning. But for now, he’d bask in the glow of all the thought of you had to offer him, and maybe one day he’d get to show just how much you affected him for real.
If you like reading for fun consider @hungergames-fanfic it’s a story blog about the life of a child growing up in the Hunger Games universe!!
Incase you’d like a summary;
From District 10 Isadora is a ten year old growing up in a dystopian future who’s finding their sexuality and forming friendships that give off over all wholesome vibes. All while living in a totalitarian regime that forces children to fight to the death in an arena built to kill them.
Imagine: Finnick, your mentor, helping you recover after you return from the Games.
Request: “Hello love, I was wondering if I could request? Maybe a Finnick Odair (Hunger Games) x female Victor from District 4 where Finnick was her mentor and helps her recover when she returns from her Games. I’m sorry if that’s too specific, but I’d love it if you could write it! Thanks 💛” For Anon.
You got off the jet as it landed in the Capitol and your ears were instantly filled with a roar of applause. You didn’t even try to fake a smile, because all you wanted was silence, privacy, and most importantly, you wanted to go home.
You kept a straight face and you ignored everyone around you, until you saw him. Standing at the end of the line of people was your mentor, the man who taught you everything you needed to know to survive, the one who made you want to survive, Finnick Odair. Without thinking, you ran into his arms, burying your head in the crook of his neck and letting out a soft sob, and the applause grew louder, “Finnick...”
“Welcome home Y/N,” He whispers into your hair, holding you tightly.
You were in the bedroom of your new house in the Victors’ Village, trying to fall asleep. You hadn’t slept properly since you came back and all you wanted was one dreamless night.
Sleep eventually found you but it was as restless as always and soon enough, you jolted awake, covered in a cold sweat.
You knew you wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep -part of you didn’t want to, not after that nightmare- so you decided to take a walk.
When you saw Finnick sitting on the edge of the pier, you decided to approach him, “Couldn’t sleep?”
He jolts in surprise a bit, but when he sees you, he relaxes once again, shaking his head, “Nightmares.”
You drop down next to him, “Still?”
“The nightmares will never leave Y/N, they’ll just get easier to deal with, for the most part at least,” He shrugs, “Let me guess, you’re having them too?”
You nod, before resting your head on his shoulder.
“How long has it been since you slept properly?”
You let out a dry chuckle, “The last time I slept properly was before the reaping.”
“What if I stay with you?” He finally asks, “Just for the night, if would help both of us. Besides, I’m sure you can use the rest.”
“I’d love that,” You smile, taking his hand and leading him back to your place.
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.”
