#hayffiebird

[greywitchproject]

I read you wanted asks/requests for Haymitch-Effie drawings. I ADORE your art and would love to see your take on a pregnant Hayffie post-war. 😊

I kinda rushed this haha. I was gonna draw them after Effie gave birth too but I ran out of space to draw. Maybe next time ;).

Anyway i've always imagined haymitch being reluctant and scared when he heard the news but slowly came to terms with it as time went on and he became more protective. Anyway thanks for the request!

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

This October I’ve (finally) been rereading THG trilogy

...slowly with the intention of taking in as many details as possible. I’m nearly halfway through, and here are some thoughts. Keep in mind, I’ve only read these books once before, over the course of a week in 2010. I was 38 then with an 8 year old kid. I was a totally different person in every fiber and cell.

1) At this point, I’m already tired of Katniss’s written voice, and I find myself consistently wishing SC had written at least some of the chapters from the POV of other characters. I know, I know... If that had been the case, the books would have told a different story. Back in 2010 I had a pretty big *girl crush* on Katniss. Before the first film, I was disappointed with the casting of Jennifer because she didn’t match the Katniss I’d imagined, but she’s a wonderful actress and she did come very close to portraying the Katniss I had in my mind.

2) As dearly as I adore Haymitch, I feel like I haven’t been doing justice to him in my writing. I’ve been trying to write him as multidimensional, intelligent, traumatized, with a big capacity for devotion, but damn he really is all that with extraordinary depth. He is articulate, cautious, and other adjectives which are difficult for me to grasp right now and wrangle into this post. More will come later I think. As I’m getting to know book-Haymitch, I’m truly appreciating Woody’s portrayal of him and also recognizing Haymitch is so much more. I want a book written from his POV.

3) The benefit of there being relatively little mention of Effie compared to other significant characters in these books is I feel free at this point to make her nearly anything I imagine she might be. Elizabeth’s interpretation of her is smashing. That said, in my mind Effie is more complex. I have a monster crush on the Effie I’ve been fleshing out in my mind. I find Liz attractive, but I’m really not into her. It’s the opposite. Every time I see her as her actual self, it crushes some of the illusion of Effie. So halfway in, I’m thanking SC for leaving the depths of Effie so open to individual interpretation.

4) Madge. I’m asking, where the fuck is she in the films? She may be a minor character, but she is full of significance. It’s so clear to me that Madge’s feelings for Katniss are big like Gale and Peeta’s feelings for Katniss. Different of course because each person/character is unique. I know #gadge is a thing, but my take is Madge brings that morphling for Gale because she loves Katniss, and she knows how important Gale is to Katniss. With Madge, Katniss is willing to try to learn to play piano. With Katniss, Madge is willing to try to learn to hunt. They’re from different worlds within the same small world. They’re both loners mostly, but they fit together in a way that is unexpectedly comforting for them. I don’t see Katniss being romantically interested in Madge, but the inverse I see quite possible. It already sucks knowing Madge dies, but eliminating her from the universe entirely is much worse.

5) Mrs. Everdeen has more strength than is portrayed in the films. Katniss understandably resents her mother’s protracted catatonia in the wake of her father’s death, so the reader sees that. But there is more to her in the books than the viewers get to see.

6) I’ll save my impressions of Peeta for another post because halfway into the trilogy, he really is still mostly an afterthought for Katniss, but I remember his character will soon be taking up more space in her mind and full being. Deservedly so because Peeta is basically a giant heart walking around that world.

7) Every time the word “Rue” is on a page, my eyes start leaking. I remember that was true the first time I read the trilogy, and it’s still true.

8) Maude Ivory (or someone Covey) is Katniss’s grandparent/great-grandparent. Common headcanon, I realize. I’m straight up making that canon. Not my prerogative, but I don’t care. It’s true.

9) I salute all you people who started shipping Hayffie when reading the books. I didn’t feel that spark 10 years ago. Not at all. And now in the reread, I see clearly the potential of an interesting and complicated relationship between them, in part because I’m looking for those details.

10) I’m enjoying this long-overdue reading, but my desire to reread @hayffiebird ‘s in progress masterpiece, Taste of Strawberries, which I just read days ago and is so present and full and delicious in my mind, is at least a hundred times greater than my interest here in the middle of Catching Fire. Hayffie is really the heart of the Panem universe at this point in my life for reasons I’m only partially clear about and I’ll save for another post.

11) In my opinion, TBOSAS is better written than the original trilogy. I am aware many people feel the opposite, but I don’t expect people to think like me, and I generally don’t care when they don’t. SC, please don’t retire anytime soon. I want more of Panem.

12) There’s a shitload of snow in District 12 for North Carolina Appalachia in a future dystopian North America in which Florida and the entire East Coast are underwater. It’s little details like this which feel illogical that can drive me crazy.

13) Me (watching in the films “Kill her Cato!! Kill her Cato!!”): Why the hell do people ship #Clato?... Me (rereading the books): Ahh, that’s why. Clove is a freak, and he likes her.

To be continued...

[archervale]

Kudos from one of your ooold time fans from your hayffie era! 😉 Just wanted to let you know, that even if I don’t know all the ships 100 percent that you draw these days (cause I’m a TOTAL slow poke when it comes to joining fandoms 😂) I love your drawing style, always have always will, and each time I see one of your posts on my dash it puts a smile on my face.

I

I don’t even know where to start like??? FIRST OFF THIS IS SO NICE OH MY GOSH THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!! 💖💖💖💖

Second oh my god Hayffie, it’s been like 4 years now jesus christ, I sometimes get the impulse to draw them, it’s just not strong enough to get over the barrier of fandom crap I come up with sometimes rip me 

AND ALSO ME, joining fandoms is a slow thing for me cause I don’t watch/read a lot of new stuff, I just circle around the same things over and over.... as proven by getting back to spn I am so sorry everyone 

I AM SENDING YOU A HUUUUUUUUUUGE HUG WITH LOTS OF LOVE AND CANDY AND HAYFFIE 

Couldn’t find a hayffie hug but I guess this will do......kind off LMAO

[ellanainthetardis]

Did you hear Lynn Cohen died this February? I just read it. She was such an amazing actress! I loved her in SATC and The Hunger Games. So sad she’s gone. “Mags”.

Nooooo I didn’t know! So sad... :(

[freebooter4ever]

hayffiebird replied to your photo “sneaking up the spiral staircase in the turret to look at the stars...”

It’s like the staircase scene in the Netflix TV series “Haunting of Hill House”! ��

just saw this and LOL i very much enjoyed the aesthetic of that show so thank you ^_^ edit: googled the hill house spiral staircase and holy crap you’re right....luckily this castle isn’t haunted though!

[thgfandomsz]

Tag game what you like about yourself

Sooo I was taggen by @hayffiebird and @bainelland and thank you so much!❤ Share five things you like and/or love about yourself and tag five people or as many as you want. 1. My weirdness lol 2. My eyes because, I like the color :) 3. That I can make people laugh/smile 4. That I care 5. My taste in music hehe I really don't know who to tag, so if you'd like to do this thingie, just do it.

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

More than frivolity

(Hayffie ❤️. — I wrote this fic in the spirit of shared little headcanons and with gratitude for that sweet  @hayffiebird who motivates me to continue writing. — Ellie, your remarkable creations and compassionate presence keep helping me feel that maybe... “It'll be spring soon. And the orchards will be in blossom. And the birds will be nesting in the hazel thicket. And they'll be sowing the summer barley in the lower fields... and eating the first of the strawberries with cream.” — I don’t know if hope can transcend the depths of extreme trauma. That transcendence has not yet been my experience, but you’ve been inspiring me lately to not lose sight of the possibility. Thank you, dearie.)

***

Through a whiskey fog, he felt her eyes on him.

Again.

All day she’d been hovering, dictating “musts” and “must nots.” And not just to the tributes.

“...Wear the navy blue coat. No, not THAT one. The one with pinstripes. It makes you look taller. And wear the silver tie that shimmers when it catches the light. It draws attention down from that chin you refuse to have manicured. Just two millimeters shorter is all I’m asking, and you balk as if I’m suggesting you cut off your head. Scuffed shoes?? Absolutely not! After all my efforts to make you presentable, you want to wear THOSE old things?! The black leather wingtips will be perfect. And, for goodness sake, comb your hair. It appears as if some sort of rodent nested in it last night...”

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 71st Hunger Games.

Haymitch sank into the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table. The black shoes, the pinstriped coat, and the silver tie were all off now. The kids were in bed, and he was no longer on the clock. He could ignore her.

He took a swallow of whiskey and tried to ignore her.

She smelled faintly like cherry lollipops from the sweet shop back home. She drew her feet up beside her, and her knees shifted toward him. They brushed his thigh for an instant before she inched them away.

She was impossible to ignore.

He took another drink, closed his eyes, and awaited an additional onslaught of directives.

Effie’s clipboard lay abandoned on her lap as she examined the contours of his face. He was probably too drunk to notice her attention. If he noticed, she could say she was planning his attire for the following day. Her truth was that memories of those contours had haunted her the past year. Now he was here again in person, and she was taking in that reality.

Had she ever been turned on before by the spot where a man’s earlobe curves into his jaw? It sounded ridiculous. Nonetheless it was happening inside her. Her perusal shifted to his hairline, and her fingertips followed. What am I doing?

He shivered as her nails touched his scalp. He’d expected nagging — not this. This was the kind of sensation he experienced in dreams that made him wake up ready to fuck somebody. But he always woke up alone. He made sure of that.

Now he wasn’t asleep, and he wasn’t alone, and he was feeling this. He opened his eyes and rolled his head to face her. “What are you doing?”

“I’m thinking about washing your hair.”

Of course. “Always looking for something to fix.”

She continued the caress. “I’m just wondering how it would feel — to do it. Don’t you ever just wonder?”

Yeah, he wondered how it would feel to do it with her. When he woke up ready to fuck someone, lately he always thought about her.

“Will you let me?” she asked.

Hell, yes. ...Wait...  “What?”

“Will you let me wash your hair?”

He didn’t need to look away from her eyes to know the details of her body. He’d been glancing at her all day. Peacock blue eyelashes matched her dress with feathers stitched in strategic places. Her wig was platinum like the rings on Capitol fingers. It was late, and her makeup was worn out. He pictured pink seeping through it if he could make her blush. Her lipstick coated the rim of her teacup. Her lips were almost raw. And kissable. Too kissable.

“Nobody washes my hair but me, sweetheart.” It was the safe answer. But he didn’t tell her to stop touching him, because the longer she kept at it, the better it felt.

Abruptly, she stopped and folded her hands over her clipboard. “It was just a thought.” A fool’s thought. Of course he’d say ‘no.’

He didn’t want her to stop. Shit. He took a swig so long the liquor burned his throat. “You can wash my hair, but I have two conditions. One, I don’t want to smell like perfume or fruit when you’re done. And, two, while you’re washing MY hair, I get to see YOURS. Not *that* thing.” He scrutinized her wig.

He’d seen her hair before, a decade ago, when it was teased and curled and sprayed to perfection. She didn’t have the tools for that here since wigs were the fashion now. So if she agreed, he’d be seeing her plain and wispy and nothing special. The voice of insecurity berated her.

“I don’t know...”

“Then forget it. I’m comfortable right here on the couch.”

He drank, and she watched his throat. She focused on the three open buttons of his shirt, counting them down and back up again. His skin was weathered just the right amount to make her want to crawl out of herself and slip inside with him. She wanted to touch more than the stiff bend of his elbow, which she curled her fingers through when courting potential sponsors.

She wanted more with him than artifice. For the past year, she’d been irritated, embarrassed by her desire. Yet the want itself was more overwhelming than any irritation or embarrassment she felt about it.

Effie set her clipboard on the coffee table and dropped the first hairpin onto it. “I don’t want to ‘forget it’.”

He gaped as she slid the pins out and lifted her wig off. She shook out her hair, bending forward and quickly back up. The maneuver thrust the feathers adorning her chest into prominence, and he wanted to see all of her at once.

She fluffed her hair like a preening bird. The color was deeper than he remembered from that long-ago summer when she was 18 and barely old enough for him to be looking at her the way he did. Her hair was golden now, like late afternoon sun reflecting off the endless fields of wheat they passed as the train traveled alongside District 9... and like the honey he’d spread on a slice of fresh bread that morning.

“I don’t want to forget it either,” he said.

She reached for his whiskey. Their fingers brushed as she took it from him. She gulped a mouthful and choked down the cough that threatened to follow. She capped the bottle and set it on the table beside her clipboard. “If you stop drinking, just for tonight, then you might remember this.”

If he wasn’t drunk on the look of her hair alone, then he would have protested. In that moment, he’d do almost anything she’d ask. That recognition made him nervous.

“Follow me.” She stood up and moved through the dining room on stocking-clad feet.

He followed in socks. The walls had ears, but this act was quiet. Suddenly he wanted to keep it that way. “One more condition,” he said, “No talking.”

“But—“

“You don’t need to use your mouth to wash my hair.”

She pursed her lips. Her silence reflected her acquiescence. In the kitchen, she found a wooden chair used by the avoxes, and she held it out for him to carry. He took it, and she lead him back through the common rooms and down the hallway to her bedroom.

The layout was nearly identical to the room next door where he’d slept every July for 20 years. In all that time, he’d never been in the escort’s room. The space was Effie’s now, filled with delicate things he would have looked at more closely if she hadn’t ushered him straight through to her bathroom. Colorful robes and fluffy white towels hung on the wall. Dozens of shiny, fragrant bottles were lined up on the granite countertop. Haymitch stood there out of his element, holding the chair, unsure about what to do.

Mercifully she took it from him and positioned it with the back against the sink. She folded a towel in half and draped it from the edge of the counter over the back of the chair. As he sat down, he wondered when she’d done this before and with whom. He didn’t know why that mattered to him, but it did.

“You’re going to have to slouch,” she whispered, putting gentle pressure on his shoulder, “That shouldn’t be a problem for YOU.”

Smart-ass. He slunk down until the nape of his neck rested on the folded towel. She reached across him and cradled his head. Her forearm pressed against his cheek, and the scent of cherry candy hit him again. Her skin was soft. Beneath all those peacock feathers and that corset, she was surely the softest thing in this forsaken place.

She turned on the faucet and let it run. Then she let go of him.

“Where are you going?” He should have kept his mouth shut because he sounded like he cared too much about this. Like SHE was doing HIM a favor, rather than the other way around.

“Not far.” Stifling a chuckle, she opened a cabinet and pulled out a plastic tumbler.

Then she was back, even closer than before, and he recognized how much he wanted her there. He was sober enough to know this whole thing was probably a mistake but not sober enough to call it off.

When the water poured over his scalp, it was the dream world again. Warm shivers, ease, pleasure... Oh, god... Effie. He tucked his hands in between the chair and his ass so he wouldn’t do something insane — like touch her.

She threaded her fingers into his hair. Goodness. He is actually letting me do this. She was scarcely breathing, fearing that air alone could burst the bubble, and he would leave.

“Peppermint?” she asked gently.

“Hmmm?”

She reached for a bottle of shampoo and pumped a dollop into her palm.

“If you don’t like something, tell me, and I’ll change it.”

Don’t change anything.

She watched sensations play over his face as she massaged his scalp, mindful of her nails. She wanted this to feel good for him; plus, breaking a nail during the Games would be an extreme inconvenience.

Right now she SHOULD be getting ready for bed. Puffy eyelids would be another inconvenience. She could justify this time with Haymitch as more than frivolity by telling herself that sponsors would be more inclined to make deals with a more polished version of him.

She slid her fingertips along the base of his skull. His lips parted, and a sound between a sigh and a moan escaped his throat. She repeated the motion, curious if he was even aware of his response.

Her pubic bone brushed against his shoulder, and she wanted more. She wanted more of all of this. This wasn’t frivolous for her. It was intense and deliberate, and if she was being honest, impressing sponsors had nothing to do with her intentions.

She filled the large glass again with warm water. When she poured it over his hair, his eyes opened to find her staring.

Please don’t stop doing this.

Please don’t make me stop.

Effie didn’t glance away or prattle. She kept her eyes fixed on his as she pumped more shampoo and repeated everything that she’d done the first time. If he blinked, she didn’t notice.

If she blushed, he didn’t notice. Maybe the worn out makeup was too thick, after all, for him to see through it. Or maybe this was just business for her. Her body might be pressed against him simply because the space was small. She could be washing his hair a second time just because he was a mess.

His gaze dropped to her lips. He remembered the way they caught the corner of his mouth the summer before. He recalled his decision to not kiss her and how cold she’d turned afterward. 

His reasoning still made sense. He still liked her too much. He liked her now even more. She was aggravating and often preposterous... and she felt like the goddamn sun. The warmth of her was all consuming, especially when she was like this — quiet and close and wrapped up in fragrances of peppermint and cherry candy and whiskey fog.

Damn, this is dangerous.

She poured water over his hair once more, and he closed his eyes again. In a moment she’d be gone. If I’m going to touch her, it has to be now. He untucked his hands—

“Stay still,” she whispered, moving away to get a towel from the cabinet, and then returning. As she patted his hair dry, she felt him trace the feathers stitched along the sides of her dress. The warm water she’d been pouring ran through the core of her. His hands came to rest on her hips.

“Not tonight... Not like this,” he’d said the last time his hands were there. The words frustrated her then but didn’t make her want him any less. “Sit up,” she directed. 

He did so without letting go of her. As she dried his hair some more, he leaned his forehead against her stomach. The stays of her corset dug into him, but he didn’t care. Weeks of misery stretched out before him, and whatever this was with her, he needed it.

She set the towel down and held the back of his head. “You’re drunk.”

‘No,’ he shook his head against her. The haze of liquor was clearing. It was HER now in his veins.

“Do you want me to blow-dry your hair?”

“Hell, no,” he mumbled, “I’d probably come out of that thing looking like a poodle.”

“Hmm. No trust!”

When he finally looked up, her eyes were on the mirror.

“I’m a mess,” she murmured with her hands still in his hair.

He laughed. “Finally. Something we agree on.”

“Haymitch! Don’t spoil this.” With the back of a knuckle, she stroked his forehead, tracing the imprints of her corset stays. “Please don’t spoil this tonight.”

“I’ll spoil it tomorrow then.” He smirked.

The corners of her mouth turned up as she sighed.

She’d washed his hair. Twice. Their reason for being together in that space was done, but he kept holding her hips as she strummed a forgotten melody in his hair.

Neither of them was ready to let go.

***

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Sharing a Taste of Strawberries

My blog has an eclectic, deceptively large and functionally tiny group of followers. Hi there, people who are still around. Whatever the reason was that you were drawn, once upon a time, to this blog — my heartspace — and have stayed, this post is for all of you.

There is a treasure I want to share because the world of the fic novel that @hayffiebird has been writing for 8 years (that’s not a typo; it really has been EIGHT YEARS) is so alive inside me, and perhaps you may want it alive inside you too.

Why is this ongoing story so special to me, a virtual non-reader of fanfiction? Because it speaks to and speaks about and touches the core of the journey of my lineage and my life on Earth and through the underworld, the unconscious. And into the dark night of the soul comes this resplendent color.

I experience this as a story of recovery. It’s about healing from attachment trauma, situational trauma, sociopolitical trauma, addiction, codependency, and profound loss of others and loss of self. In my view, it’s a story about the reality that love coexists with grief, and that coexistence offers hope in the face of impossible odds.

For me, the title all by itself is the voice of a friend whispering at the end of all things, “Stay alive.”. ...Why? I ask, What for... “For the *orchards in blossom, the birds nesting in the hazel thicket, the summer barley in the lower fields, and the first of the strawberries with cream.* Stay alive for what’s still good. Can you see it in your waking mind? Can you remember? Let me help you remember...”

Ellie recently posted her latest chapter. That single part reflects over a month of work. Her writing blows me away. Each word is chosen with incredible thought, and they all come together with such tenderness and intention. It’s the kind of storytelling I just love love love.

You don’t need to know anything about Haymitch Abernathy or Effie Trinket or the world of Panem to fall in love with Taste of Strawberries. That said, if you’re already familiar with Hayffie, and somehow haven’t read this yet, then such deliciousness awaits you.

Linking to the first of 24 chapters, some with multiple parts...

Taste of Strawberries Chapter 1, a hunger games fanfic | FanFiction

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