#katniss and haymitch

[sapphicathenas]

anyone else thinking about effie spending 24 years watching haymitch completely fall apart. effie, who met haymitch by accident, who knows exactly what kind of person he is, who sees him every year on his birthday for 24 years and each year he’s drunker, each year he’s angrier, each year he’s faster to give up. and then they get katniss and peeta. peeta, who is kind and open and understanding, who refuses to give up on haymitch. and katniss, who is so much like haymitch at 16 that it hurts. and over the few days they’re together, effie watches haymitch come back to life. watches him try. watches him have hope. and then they get to keep not one but both of those kids. they get to come home. and then, less then a year later, effie pulls haymitch’s name at the reaping.

[ifyouknowmenahyoudontt]

rip katniss everdeen you would’ve hated jennifer lawrence

[reluctantfir0]

The sheer lack of Haymitch & Burdock Everdeen fanfictions is genuinely depressing :(

Someone, please write a fix-it fic where Haymitch doesn't push Burdock and Blair away and they stay friends PLEASE. A hurt/comfort fic, I need it rn. Haymitch stays away from alcohol and becomes Katniss and Prim's uncle god PLEASE.

Don't make me cry and start writing it myself 😭.

[animedragonwhouseswitchcraft]

HUNGER GAMES SPOILERS!!!

Ik that sounds useless with how long it's been out but believe it or not there are people who haven't read it yet!!

Anyways I'm one of those people and I just finished reading Chapter 20 and KATNISS JUST FUCKING DRUGS BRO???!!! LIKE HAYMITCH IS BASICALLY LIKE 'I CAN'T SEND THE MEDICINE BUT YOU KNOW WHAT I CAN DO???? SEND YOU SOMETHING TO DRUG HIM SO YOU CAN GET THE MEDICINE'. I love this for no particular reason lol. Also Peeta is totally a bottom, Katniss is the man in that relationship lol.

[lovebeatriceplz]

[fuzzygreenmushrooms]

When Prim died and Katniss was a mess, did Haymitch see himself losing Maysilee?

[maritteknewtheenemy]

I wish I could find fanart where the tributes have body hair. They shave Haymitch and wax Katniss and they both express their discomfort with it. Capitol beauty standards aren't district beauty standards. Neither Katniss nor Haymitch see hair removal as important and instead find it odd and unnecessary. It's implied that Katniss would have protested if Haymitch hadn't told her to listen to the stylists at all costs. She was so happy in CF when her leg hair started to grow back. Such a small but poignant critique about bodily autonomy and distancing from opressors and the often painful and grotesque beauty standards in our society. Just. I would love to see a Katniss drawing with leg hair, with armpit hair, with a unibrow. I'd love to see art of Katniss Everdeen, not Katniss the tribute or Katniss the mockingjay.

[confusionmeisss]

“you ever met him?” peeta to katniss in the hunger games movie about haymitch

NO! BUT SHE SHOULDA! SHE SHOULDA KNOWN HIM HER WHOLE LIFE! HE SHOULDA BEEN HER UNCLE HAYMITCH!

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[igibbydotcom]

theres a distinct difference between Katniss’s and Haymitch’s narration style that i think a lot of other people are noticing and it is that haymitch seems to know a lot more about District 12 and Panem than Katniss seemed to. and SotR might seem like lore dropping or name dropping but like. i think it says a lot about them as people.

I think the lack of context we get from Katniss isnt just due to propaganda, but largely due to the fact that she’s so deeply rooted in poverty and survival mode that she simply doesn’t have the mental capacity for anything else. When traumatized, our brains automatically retain less information than they ordinarily would and we see that with Katniss. Not for friends, or school, nor propagandized television lore. Notice how we get descriptions of most tributes before she remembers their names, if she ever does, while Haymitch actually remembers a lot of their names right off the bat. When you’re fighting for your life every day, it really doesn’t leave much energy for anything else. She’s used to saving all of her energy for providing for her family.

But Haymitch isn’t providing for his family. He has several friends, a healthy romantic relationship, and retains information about society because hes not neglected.

It’s just so interesting that Katniss is the luckier of the pair because in their childhood parallels, she drew the short stick compared to him. She’s only luckier cuz she had him.

[piniatafullofblood]

i wonder if haymitch bought into the star crossed lovers trope at least partly because he knew katniss would have a shot at winning and if she has a lover the capitol can’t sell her

[darlingsnow0]

love how haymitch enjoys a good yap session and katniss can't bare telling us anything except what the person is

Haymitch: He has two siblings, one girl one boy, he was born at exactly 2:34 am on a spring morning when the moon was in this exact position, his father has been working in the mines since 18.5 and his mother bakes pies, specifically uses strawberries from the 15th of may.

Katniss: hes..human

[livingfandomly]

Haymitch finding it impossible to ditch Lou Lou despite knowing that he should. She latches onto him and he just becomes her protector until the end where she dies in his arms.

Katniss finding it impossible to ditch Rue despite knowing that she should. She also latches onto Katniss who becomes her protector until the end where she dies in her arms.

They both see their little sisters in the young girls by their side. They both know that their deaths are inevitable. They both die with injuries to their chests. Both Katniss and Haymitch delay the hovercraft from taking them.

Both girls are from district 11.

[cringengl]

Re reading the original hunger games is so funny bcus katniss can literally read haymitch's mind like what. I'm dying of thirst but haymitch hasn't sent me water, that must mean that there's some nearby!! And one kiss is one pot of broth!! Like she even acknowledges that it's strange when she's like oh to peeta this would just be a pot of broth. Haymitch will give her one look and katniss knows immediately what he means and she's right every time

Meanwhile peeta is like your dress really suits you and you look nice :) and katniss is like he's trying to kill me

[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.

[lovebeatriceplz]

[notsotrashyromancebooks]

SOTR SPOILERS

why is no one talking about how Haymitch was put in a CAGE. A CAGE. And he was forced to accept food like an animal. And he agreed and did everything in an attempt to save his mom, Sid, and, Lenore Dove.

Only for them to die anyways