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.
i love these hunger games boys reactions they’re so cute 😭😭
how do you think they would react to you having a nightmare about the games?
peeta is a very light sleeper and would notice you stirring in your sleep almost instantly. he’d wrap his arms around you and whisper in your ear: “it’s okay. you’re just dreaming. i’m right here.” when you wake up, sweaty and panicked, he soothes you with soft words and strokes your hair until your breathing is steady and your tears have stopped. then, he asks if you want to talk about it. either answer is fine, he’ll respect it.
gale isn’t able to understand fully, but he’ll be woken by your whimpers and ask if he can hold you. if you say yes, he’ll envelop you in his strong arms and rub your back until you’re calmer. if you need space, he’ll get out of the bed and kneel on the floor beside it, watching you with worried eyes, remind you that you’re safe, that he’ll protect you, that everything you did was to survive and that no one can hurt you now.
finnick has been having nightmares for so long, he fully understands your pain and will pull you to his chest. “what was it this time?” he’ll ask, voice rough from sleep. he’ll encourage you to talk about it, if you’re able. it helps him, and he’ll exchange stories with you until you both feel lighter, having the horrible things off your chest. he kisses your face, assures you that you’re safe, and tells you that you aren’t weak for the nightmares — he has them, all the victors have them.
coriolanus couldn’t possibly understand, but he tries to comfort you. “you survived,” he’ll say. “you’re alive and you’re safe and you did what needed to be done.” he kisses your forehead and offers to make you tea, and eventually will soothe you back to sleep with gentle touch.
sejanus also struggles to understand what you’ve been through, but he ends up ranting about how horrible the games are and how your trauma is valid. “you didn’t deserve that,” he says. “it’s an evil thing, what the capitol did to you. i wish i could take all that pain away for you.” and he’ll hug you tight, assuring you that you are not evil for what happened in that arena, that the blame is on the people who put you there.
#5 please with Haymitch Abernathy like the reader is another victor
#5. “Do you think we’re bad people?”
“Do you think we’re bad people?”
Your question didn’t take Haymitch by surprise. It wasn’t uncommon for you to get like this around the Games. It was the reason he was so used to drinking. It kept those sorts of questions hidden behind the haze with which he saw the world.
Haymitch took a long pull from his flask, savouring the burning sensation as it slipped down his throat. He offered it to you but you waved it away. He shrugged and hid it in his pocket once more. “We’re victors, remember?” he finally answered gruffly. “We’re not allowed to be bad people.”
You wrapped your arms around yourself, shoulders hunching. Haymitch studied your body language and concluded that you were doing worse this year than most years. Still, you refused his offer of a drink. “That’s not what I mean.”
Haymitch shrugged, “Does it really matter if we’re good or bad? Isn’t like anyone else cares.”
You swallowed, staring at your hands. Haymitch could see dark red rings where your fingernails had dug into your palms. “These kids care. They’re looking to us, to me, for guidance I don’t know how to give.”
Haymitch felt a pang of pity. You were a relatively recent victor. You’d been around long enough to watch too many kids get slaughtered but not long enough to figure out how to deal with the guilt. “You won somehow,” he pointed out.
This time when he offered, you took the flask. You cringed at the taste before handing it back. “You of all people know you don’t win the Games, Haymitch. We aren’t victors. We’re just survivors.”
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.”
