#sotr book

[that-bitch-kat3]

basically the narration style:

anyone: so tell me about this person

haymitch: it was a warm day in early june when they were born, exactly 282 days after their parents got busy in the back of a honda CRV, and they were a typical gemini. their three sisters-

katniss: what are you a cop? come back with a warrant

[easier-thanlying]

I genuinely think maysilee donner would’ve won the games if the gamemakers hadn’t killed her.

[liscorrino]

Haymitch was strong for not falling in love with young effie too… I'd dream about her and die in the games

[peachdizz]

Effie Trinket! ✧

(In honor of the beautiful Elle Fanning!)

[millie-mei]

trigger warning: opinion!!

I’m gonna start off by saying that it’s fine if you’re upset over casting. Whatever

BUT.

to ANYONE who is being cruel to the little girls who got casted as Louella and Loyalty LITERALLY fuck you. You are a piece of scum who has nothing better to do other than hate. It’s FINE if you’re upset over their race. It’s FINE if you’re disappointed in the casting, but I’m gonna say the same thing when I heard this argument about Lenore dove:

“Why would they cast a black woman to play Lenore Dove if it said she had tints of red hair!!”

Suzanne collins is HEAVILY involved in the casting of her characters! She would not pick actors/actress she did not believe were good enough or fit the roles.

AGAIN

It’s fine if your upset or disappointed

But if you’re attacking those little girls over it—just think

They’re 11/12/13 no older—and are overjoyed because they just got their first leading role in a big time movie!!

And now scumbag, faceless people are attacking them on the internet for a role they auditioned for and got. Not their fault.

ONCE AGAIN.

It’s fine if ur upset. But do NOT attack those girls.

[duartedits]

effie trinket headers | like or reblog if u save

© wisesmellark on twt for credits!

[notsotrashyromancebooks]

Also I wasn’t expecting them to cast two people for Louella and Lou Lou

Glad they did.

[mockingjay-sings]

The mockingbird, the jabberjay and the mockingjay 🕊️ inspired by this post by @fromevertonow

[hamartichi]

Good-bye, Maysilee Donner,

who I loathed, then grudgingly respected, then loved. Not as a sweetheart or even a friend. A sister, I'd said.

Edit (update): Find Wyatt here!! <3

[madzthemenace]

“I just stare into those burning blue eyes, letting her know she’s not dying alone. She’s with family. She’s with me. In her last moments, she released her grip enough to lock her pinkie around mine. Looking, I think, for a final confirmation of the promise we made to eachother. I not so she knows I understand and that I will try my best to bring the Capitol down, although I have never felt so powerless in my entire life.” (SOTR 307)

In the end, he does fulfils his promise. To Maysilee. To Ampert. And to Lenore Dove.

[oliycs-art]

“Don’t you let it rise on the reaping.”

[msmoony7]

whenever the movie comes out i just want everyone to know that i was a fan of wyatt callow before everyone else

[maysileeewrites]

bittersweet symphony || series masterlist  

Haymitch Abernathy x f!reader 

“There might be another option, though”, he says hesitantly. “I don’t know whether it’ll work, and you’re sure as hell not going to like it, Princess.” 

You sigh, trying to brace yourself for the worst. “Just tell me.” 

He laughs dryly, avoiding your gaze. “Well, we could get - you could marry me.” 

Or: Eleven years after the second Quarter Quell, Haymitch Abernathy’s life takes a sudden turn for the unexpected when your name is drawn in the Reaping. 

After weathering through a less than ideal start, you slowly start to realize that there’s more to Haymitch than just the drunk, cynical recluse you’ve always known him to be. And though he’d never wanted it to happen, Haymitch starts to feel the walls he’d built to keep everyone away crumbling whenever he’s around you as well. 

But the Capitol, and especially President Snow is always watching, and soon enough Haymitch finds himself faced with an impossible choice …

contents & t.w.: mentions of canon-typical violence; angst!!, arranged marriage; slow-burn with a sprinkle of enemies to lovers; age gap! (Haymitch is in his late twenties, Reader is 18 at the start of the story); mentions & discussions of alcoholism; mentions of trauma; eventual smut in later parts; lots and lots of pining and mutual notions of unrequited love; spoilers for SotR (we’ll be encountering many familiar faces throughout the story - also there will be some canon-divergence concerning Haymitch’s arc post-SotR)

AN: After finishing SotR, I just wanted to give Haymitch a big hug. And that’s kind of how this incredibly self-indulgent fic came to be. 

I will try to do my best to honor his love for Lenore Dove in a way that doesn’t disregard his growing feelings for Reader. Yes, she’s is an incredibly important part of him and he’ll always love her, but he also deserves some happiness.

Also James Gaisford will forever be my og young Haymitch, so I used a pic of him for the moodboard, even though the Haymitch we’ll encounter here is over a decade older than QQ Haymitch.

key: 🦋 fluff || 🪷 angst || 💫 smut

Prologue 🪷🪷 || After being reaped for the 61st Hunger Games, you and your mentor Haymitch Abernathy are off to a rather rocky start …  [5.1k]

Chapter 1 🪷🦋 || Surviving the Hunger Games was only the beginning. As you try to navigate through this strange, terrifying new life, you find comfort in someone you least expected it from, but new threats are already rising … [4.7k]

Chapter 2 🪷🪷🦋 || After your interview with Caesar, Haymitch starts to distance himself from you. What will it take for him to let you in again? [5.3k]

taglist: @sundawn1990 @star611 @psychicfartvendor @madz22 @pervigilatrix @bemissconstrued @neonawax @not-the-teen-witch @luvlyluxx @cocastyle @mannythemunchkin @alitaar @juiceboxfullofslime @imonmyvigilanteshh @queenofnightdreamland @chenellearose @bluecookies08 @laramcflyyyy @nikki-is-a-nerd @jaybbygrl @face-the-grace-blog @knights-of-ni @mel3484 @heidiland05 @qtkarma @things-i-will-never-say-to-you @nyra-42 @eatmyheartdear @jarofshells @fanfiction-she-wrote @dreamer0903 @bfintaks @marissa8208

[sweetheartsofpanem]

Drunk Magic and Other Domestic Miracles

masterlist

i think haymitch would be suuuuuper sweet while he’s shit face drunk (he’s sweet in his own ways all the time, but he’s overtly sweet when wasted) and only when he’s that drunk so i based this off that lil headcanon i have of him and this request. i hope you guys like this:)

pairing(s): Haymitch Abernathy x Female!Reader

warnings: haymitch being drunk, haymitch makes a comment about strangulation but it’s nothing bad, this is kind of just cute intimacy lol

word count: 1.74k

He’s a mess when he’s sober, all sharp edges and muttered curses. But when the whiskey kicks in, he starts doing the impossible—braiding your hair, baking you pies, knitting sweaters with crooked little hearts. He says it doesn’t mean anything. You’re starting to realize it means everything.

You don’t even remember what you were talking about when it happened—something about booze, probably, or the vaguely alarming contents of his pantry. One second Haymitch was slouched sideways on your couch with a bottle hanging from two fingers, muttering half-formed insults about your concerns with his pantry, and the next he was suddenly behind you, all grumbly focus and clumsy determination.

“Hold still,” he slurred, already combing his fingers through your hair with shocking gentleness. “You’re all knots and chaos. Can’t concentrate with it lookin’ like a damn rat’s nest.”

You blinked. “What are you—?”

“Shh,” he whispered, like he was performing surgery. “Makin’ you presentable.”

And then he braided your hair.

Not just some pathetic attempt, either. A real braid. Tight and clean and even, tugged with practiced pressure and tied off with a hair tie—a hair tie, which you’re certain you didn’t give him and have absolutely no explanation for. Where did he get it? Why does he have it? The questions multiply, unanswered.

“There,” he said proudly, swaying just slightly as he surveyed his masterpiece. “Now you look like a girl who hasn’t been raised by wolves.”

You stared at him. “How the hell did you learn to do that?”

He shrugged, acting like he hadn’t just done something so out of the norm as he flopped back down onto the couch. “’S just rope made of hair. Braids are braids.”

You sat there, stunned, touching the braid like it might vanish if you weren’t careful. It was beautiful. Which was somehow the most confusing part.

“Haymitch?”

“Mm?”

“I’m terrified to say this, but… that was weirdly impressive.”

He smirked without opening his eyes. “I’m full of secrets, sugar.”

You blinked at the nickname. It’s not biting or sarcastic—it doesn’t carry the usual edge. Just something warm and unexpected in the drunken haze. You let it pass, unsure what to make of it, but somehow it stays with you longer than it should.

The braid’s perfect. He’s drunk. The world is upside down anyway.

A week later, you find yourself sitting at his kitchen table with damp hair and hopeful eyes, a comb in your hand.

“Can you do it again?” you ask, offering the comb like a peace treaty.

He squints at you like you’ve just asked him to solve a riddle using only mushrooms and spite. “Do what again?”

“The braid. From the other night.”

“What braid?”

“Haymitch,” you say slowly, “you braided my hair.”

He looks mildly offended. “No I didn’t.”

“You did. With a mystery hair tie that may or may not have come from another dimension.”

“That doesn’t sound like me.”

“It was you!”

After a long pause, he snatches the comb from your hand with exaggerated flair. “Fine. Move.”

You turn around, triumphant. That is, until two minutes later, when he growls in frustration.

“Why the hell is your hair so slippery? Is this sabotage?”

“It’s wet!”

“Feels like trick wire!”

He ends up tying your hair into what you can only describe as a deranged tumbleweed secured with a kitchen twist-tie. You stare at your reflection in the window and blink slowly.

“Beautiful,” you deadpan. “Like a noble shrub.”

He squints at it. “Looks fine.”

“You were surgical when you were drunk. Are you telling me liquor gives you hair-braiding superpowers?”

“Apparently.” He sounds offended by the fact. “Don’t ask me to explain it.”

“You’re like a fairy godmother who needs to be drunk to do magic.”

He grins at that, leaning back in his chair with smug satisfaction. “That’s right. You want a decent braid, you bring whiskey.”

A few hours later, he’s drunk again.

You find him in his living room, sprawled on the floor with his back against the couch like gravity gave up halfway through. The bottle is nearly empty. You weren’t even planning on going back over, but your hair’s still a little damp, and curiosity—or maybe something else—dragged you across the lawn.

He squints up at you like you might be a hallucination. “You came back,” he slurs.

“I live next door.”

“You came back,” he insists, like it’s a romantic gesture instead of you standing in your socks with a blanket over your shoulders.

Then he pats the floor between his spread legs with the kind of solemnity reserved for important ceremonies. “C’mere, sugar. Let me fix it. M’gonna make it right.”

“Fix what?” you ask, but you already know.

“The rat’s nest,” he mumbles. “Tried earlier. Failed. I failed you.” He looks devastated. “Twist-tie was not the answer.”

You almost choke trying not to laugh. “No, it really wasn’t.”

He holds his hand out for the comb you didn’t even realize you brought again. “Gimme another shot. I got the magic back.”

You hesitate only for a second before settling down on the floor between his legs, your legs stretched out in front of you, one arm resting casually on his knee. The contact is small, steadying—quietly intimate in a way neither of you acknowledge.

His fingers are clumsy at first, warm and wandering, but then something shifts. The same rhythm from before returns—steady, practiced. He hums to himself, off-key and tuneless, as he works. It shouldn’t feel comforting. But it absolutely does.

“Sorry ‘bout earlier,” he mumbles near your ear. “Didn’t mean to make you look like an angry bush.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“’Cause you’re sweet,” he mutters, tugging the braid just tight enough to ground you. “Sweet, sugar. Let me do right by your hair. Deserves better than me sober.”

You smile without meaning to, the corner of your mouth tugging up as his breath warms your neck.

When he ties off the braid—with the mystery hair tie again, of course—he leans his forehead against the back of your head for a second like he’s hit the emotional wall of drunken sincerity.

“There,” he murmurs, pleased. “Now you’re shiny again.”

You don’t know what that means. You don’t ask.

It’s a few weeks later when you learn he has another absurd drunk talent.

You weren’t expecting to see him that night—you were just coming by to return a book he lent to Katniss, because apparently even she has limits on how long she can tolerate his handwritten notes in the margins (“this guy’s an idiot,” “wow, murder again?”). You don’t knock. You never do anymore.

But you freeze halfway through the doorway.

Because Haymitch Abernathy—victor, drunk, emotionally stunted disaster of a man—is sitting on his couch with a half-empty bottle at his feet and a pair of knitting needles in his hands.

Knitting.

Knitting a sweater.

It’s light blue. There’s a tiny uneven heart on the sleeve. You know it’s a heart because you can see the failed first attempts in a little pile beside him, a lumpy collection of false starts that clearly pissed him off.

And he’s muttering to it like it’s got opinions.

“Been workin’ on it whenever I drink,” he slurs proudly, barely glancing up as you stare at him like your brain has short-circuited. “Was gonna be a scarf. But you’re cold all the time, so it… evolved.”

“You knit.”

“I drunk-knit,” he corrects, stabbing the needle through a loop like it insulted him. “Tried it sober once. Ended up stranglin’ myself with the yarn.”

You walk in slowly, in complete disbelief. “You’re making me a sweater.”

“Not just you. Made Peeta socks.” He scowls. “He doesn’t know. Gonna sneak ‘em into his drawer. Real covert-like.”

You honestly don’t know what’s more ridiculous: the fact that he’s doing it, or the fact that he’s actually good at it. The stitches are neat. Focused. Full of care he’d never admit to while sober. The little heart on the sleeve is uneven, but it means something. It feels like being seen through a haze of whiskey and grumbling affection.

“You’re a menace,” you say, sitting beside him, careful not to touch the project. “A drunk, secret-knitting menace.”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Better than fightin’. Or drinkin’ and fightin’. Or fightin’ the sweater.”

That one’s muttered under his breath. You don’t ask for details.

It spirals from there.

A few days later, you catch him in the kitchen making a pie from scratch at two in the morning, completely plastered and dusted in flour like he lost a fight with a snowstorm.

He turns slowly when he hears you in the doorway, one eye barely open. “S’for you,” he slurs. “Wanted you to have somethin’ warm in the morning. Don’t eat enough.”

“You’re making me a pie?”

He nods solemnly, like this is a sacred task. “Been practicin’ my crust technique. Had to drink three glasses just to get it right.”

He burns himself pulling it out of the oven, curses loudly, and then proudly presents you with a lopsided apple pie that somehow smells like it came from a professional bakery.

You can’t even mock him. You just eat it, silently stunned, while he watches with the wary expression of a man who put too much heart into something and doesn’t know how to ask if you liked it.

There’s no pattern to it.

Sometimes it’s a perfectly carved wooden bird on your porch step.

Sometimes it’s him fixing a squeaky cabinet hinge like it’s a goddamn life mission.

One morning you wake up to find your leaky roof patched with tar and spare sheet metal, and when you confront him, he just mumbles, “Was worried mold would start growing. Thought I’d… do somethin’ about it. Had to drink half a bottle first. For focus.”

You’ve never seen someone so functionally incompetent while sober and yet domestically gifted when plastered. It makes no sense. It breaks physics. You don’t understand it, and honestly, you’ve given up trying.

But one night, when he’s working on your sweater again, arms moving clumsily but steadily, he murmurs, “You always looked like you needed someone to take care of you a little.”

Then, after a pause, without looking at you: “Think I like tryin’. When I can.”

You don’t say anything. Just rest your head on his shoulder, watching the needles move, the yarn tug, the world settle into something oddly steady for once.

Haymitch Abernathy is a drunk, foul-mouthed, emotionally constipated man with hair-braiding hands, secret pie recipes, and a sweater in progress just for you.

And somehow, despite everything…

It feels right for him to be so soft.

[aco1yte]

Some sunrise on the reaping characters based on how I pictured them in the book

I finished this book last night, and I have a lot of thoughts (mostly positive) that are honestly too much to share. If you haven’t read it, you should . Anyway, I tried to make Haymitch look as much like his older version as I could, and I don’t know how well that paid off, lol