Warning: These one-shots feature heavy subjects, including alcoholism, drug abuse, suicide and torture... so far. Now adding: depression, cheating, heartbreak, underage, implied prostitution, suicidal thoughts, someone having acid thrown on them, smut, implied rape/non-con, self-harm. I'll add more as the story wears on, just in case.

Disclaimer: Credit goes to HannahSongla for the story idea. Please go check out her Hayniss story similar to this - Sweetheart. Credit goes to Suzanne Collins for the verse and the characters. I don't really own anything but the text of these one-shots. And no, that doesn't mean the song lyrics or the playlist. Enjoy c:

Song: Often by the Weeknd

My God white, he in my pocket
He get me redder than the devil 'til I go nauseous
Ask me if I do this every day, I said "Often"
Ask how many times she rode the wave, "Not so often"

Haymitch rolled on his side, his back facing her. His nose burns from the 'Capitol enhancement' that he'd taken to get the courage to actually fuck her and he's nauseous from it. He would much rather be alone in bed after sex, much rather grab his clothing and slip out of the door before sad eyes fluttered open and demanded more from him than he could ever dream to give. Sleeping alone came naturally to the older man, and it was actually a favorite. It was too much awkwardness to sleep with someone else, too many loud glances and unforgotten memories the morning after.

How drunk had he been, he had no clue. He had said some things, she had said some things and then it'd just happened - he'd fallen into bed with the nations beloved Girl on Fire. The girl had welcomed him, yearned for the release that he sought in her flesh. She was a Capitol bitch, now - no longer the District warrior that had emerged bloody and estranged from the arena. Being a Victor had transformed her, they even started calling her by some stupid Capitol nickname. Carmela or Chocó or some sort of candy name. Long blue curls that fell past her shoulders and unnatural green eyes that pierced through him. And her lipstick – red, making her lips look thick and delicious – oh god the lipstick. He didn't have to look in the mirror to tell that it had been everywhere on him.

He had called her adorable, she had snorted in disgust. Katniss - Candice, whatever the fuck - never liked being degraded.

"I'm not cute," she had grinned, her perfect white teeth shining in the moonlight. "I'll have you begging for my mercy." She had said some other things that would have made Haymitch shout some sense into her if he wasn't so turned on by that tight little behind straddling his lap.

He was exhausted, he realized with a start, sitting up in the sheets. He hadn't done very much sleeping that night. Neither had she, if he were allowed to be quite proud of himself.

Not that it wasn't expected of him. In this city bustling with lights that never slept and moans in the middle of the night that carried through the roses tinted wind, he was viewed as god. A sex god, to be more specific. He and a few of the more popular Victors had credit for their… skills in the bedroom. Or the floor. Or the bathroom. Or the alley behind Mickey's Night Club. Whenever or wherever they were needed. He didn't have a choice, so he'd learned to become good at his work and to try and enjoy it.

"Do you do this a lot?" Katniss had asked drily, when she was sure he wouldn't attempt to escape the confines of the sheets. Haymitch turns to face his supposed girlfriend – or so the Capitol gossiped – and nodded his head in almost shame.

"Often," he sighs, turning to look at her. She's taken out her green contacts and the blue wig is laying in a curly heap, not far from her bra. She looks more like Katniss, despite the caked make-up that her face had been lathered with. Haymitch misses the days when she was dressed by Cinna, when her make-up was elegant and not trashy, when her features were kept young and delicate and she didn't looking like some sixty-year-old desperately clinging to the strings of youth.

"How many times?" She presses. He can't even look at her as he replies, instead adverting his eyes to a small rip in his sheets.

"Often."

"How many times are you willing to do it with me?"

"Not so often, sweetheart," he whispers, kissing her forehead. "Go to sleep. You have an interview in the morning and then drinks with Avi Amor, the oh-so-great fashion designer." Haymitch recites all of this boredly, Effie's insistent babbling coming to the fore front of his mind.

"I know. I know how girls throw themselves at you. For your body. I know I'm not the only one in the Capitol that everyone insists on advertising. Why won't you talk to me?"

"Sweetheart," he groans, before placing a finger against her lips. "Shh. Sleep."

It was too early, too late, he couldn't tell the difference anymore. But whatever the case, it wasn't the time to talk about this. Katniss was persistent, her hair falling to frame her face. She presses a kiss to his bare sweaty shoulder and he sighs. Why was she so gentle? It made him feel like shit, because he knew he didn't deserve the gentle sweetness that she pampered him with. Katniss had her Capitol front, but she was always going to be his little sweetheart.

"Haymitch I-"

"Katniss, just go to the fuck to sleep," he snaps in frustration. She retracts in hurt before resting her head on his chest. His fingers tangled in the brunette locks that she hid under atrocious colored wigs with such care. He strokes her hair tiredly,

"I left him. Peeta, I mean. I left him. I need to know that if given the chance-" He flips them, pinning her to the bed. His mouth trails sloppy, uncoordinated kisses down her body before coming back up to suckle on her neck. She gasps, gripping the dirty brown locks of his hair so tight that her nails scrape against his scalp.

"Yes," he murmurs against the soft flesh of her lips. "Yes, Katniss. Just go to sleep, please, sweetheart."

Infatuated by the fame status
She wanna ride inside the G-Class grey matic
I come around, she leave that nigga like he ain't matter
That girl been drinkin' all day, need to change bladder