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.
Katniss had never heard the phrase “happy wife, happy life” until you entered her world, carrying your worn-out romance novels like they were sacred. You read them with dog-eared pages and ink-smudged notes in the margins, the kind of books Katniss would’ve dismissed as silly in any other life. But somehow, when you quoted them—half-joking, half-sincere—they felt like lifelines. Words like that one, light and whimsical, tucked themselves into the back of her mind before she even realized they meant something.
It was during her time in District 13, when everything felt cold and gray, and she was still trying to process the ruins of what once was District 12. Home had been reduced to ash and memory. Peeta had been taken by the Capitol, leaving her adrift with no anchor. Haymitch tried to help, in his own battered, blunt way, but he couldn't reach her—not when his own wounds were still bleeding. Prim was sweet and gentle, but Katniss had never leaned on her. She was the protector, not the protected. And her mother… well, her mother had never been someone she could fall apart with.
Then you appeared. A flash of soft sunlight against cement walls. Katniss first noticed you in the cafeteria, skipping past tables with a hum in your throat and a tray balanced on your fingertips like it was the easiest thing in the world. You looked oddly familiar—bright smile, tanned skin, long dark-blond hair that curled at the ends. It wasn’t until Prim leaned over and whispered, “That’s Finnick’s little sister,” that everything clicked into place. You shared his warmth, his effortless charm, but your presence felt lighter, like someone who still believed in good things despite everything.
Katniss found herself looking for you without meaning to. A subtle glance when you passed in the hallway. A moment longer than necessary watching you laugh at someone’s joke. And when she visited Finnick one afternoon, there you were—curled up near his bunk, book in hand, and eyes lighting up as you met hers. You smiled, wide and toothy, and slid into conversation like you’d always known each other. For someone who had never been good at talking to strangers, Katniss surprised herself by how easy it was with you.
From that day on, you were simply… there. Bringing her soup when she skipped meals. Guiding her trembling hands through a nightmare. Sitting beside her during long silences without demanding anything in return. You didn’t try to fix her, didn’t push. You just stayed, soft and steady. And for the first time since Peeta, Katniss felt seen. Not as the Mockingjay, not as a soldier, not as a symbol—but as a girl who was trying to survive something she couldn’t name.
And then, everything cracked again.
The Capitol fell. So many were lost. Finnick. Prim. The world reshuffled its weight and left you both staggering. Katniss was sent home, quiet and hollow. She waited as long as she could before boarding the train, stalling in hopes of catching one last glimpse of you. She sat by the window the whole way back to District 12, eyes searching for your face in every crowd. But you never came.
Weeks passed. She tried to plant things. Flowers, mostly. It helped, a little. The earth was quiet and didn’t ask her questions. Then one day, without warning, she looked up from the soil and there you were—kneeling in her garden next to Peeta, hair shorter now, dulled in color, face thinner, but still unmistakably you. You were helping plant a primrose bush. Your fingers moved through the dirt like they belonged there, and when you looked up at her, your smile flickered like it was remembering how to exist.
Later, when you sat beside her on the porch with lemonade and tired eyes, you laughed softly and muttered something about “happy wife, happy life.” Katniss raised a brow. You told her it was from one of your silly books, the kind with messy kisses and quiet mornings and people who made each other better. Katniss didn’t say anything in return—just leaned into you and let her hand find yours in the space between them.
The words echoed in her later that night, when your head rested against her shoulder and your breathing evened out. It wasn’t something she’d ever imagined for herself—this softness, this slowness. But you had brought it, piece by piece. And for once, she didn’t feel like she had to earn it.
Katniss didn’t expect to ever get married. Even after you came back into her life, even after the long, slow rebuilding of trust and warmth and mornings spent shoulder to shoulder in the garden—it still felt like a foreign concept. Marriage had always sounded like something for other people, for people who weren’t broken in places that couldn’t be seen. But when she looked at you, arms dusted in flour, hair tucked behind your ear as you laughed at something Peeta said, it didn’t feel like a question anymore. Just a quiet inevitability. A promise she was already keeping.
The wedding was small. No white dress or grand speeches. Just a patch of wildflowers in a clearing, a couple of rings made from twisted wire, and a few close friends who had become family. You squeezed her hand as you recited your vows, voice shaking just enough to make her throat tighten. Katniss, who had faced death more times than she could count, was afraid of very few things. But standing there with you, trembling and smiling, she realized love was the bravest thing she’d ever let herself do.
Married life with you wasn’t a sweeping romance. It was domestic and quiet and filled with rhythms that settled into her bones like second nature. You filled the house with warmth—real warmth, the kind that came from small things. You made tea for her when she got headaches. You left notes on the kitchen counter, simple and sweet: “Don’t forget your coat, love.” “Saved the last muffin for you.” “Come back to bed, it’s cold without you.”
Katniss began to understand that saying you’d always quoted—“happy wife, happy life”—not as something silly or soft, but as something profoundly true. Because when you were happy, when your laughter filled their little home or your shoulders relaxed into her touch, Katniss felt grounded. She felt like maybe the world didn’t have to be so cruel, not when you still chose her every single day.
She took care of you in her own way—quietly, instinctively. She made sure the firewood was stacked high before the winter months hit. She brought home your favorite kind of jam when she came back from the market. She didn’t always have the words to tell you how much you meant to her, but you saw it in the way she reached for your hand under the table, in the way she kissed your temple after nightmares, in how she always let you sleep in on the mornings you looked worn out.
And it was in the simple, daily acts that Katniss found peace. You’d hum softly while brushing your hair by the window. She’d curl against your back after a long day. You still read those worn-out romance novels, and Katniss pretended not to care—but she’d often listen closely from the kitchen, her lips twitching when you read the especially cheesy lines out loud on purpose, just to get a reaction.
Some days were harder than others. There were still scars—physical and otherwise. Some nights, she still woke up sweating, heart pounding, eyes wide in the dark. But you were always there. You never asked her to be anyone else. You never pushed. You just wrapped your arms around her, whispered that she was safe, and held on.
Years passed quietly. The pain didn’t vanish, but it softened at the edges. And Katniss, once all sharp corners and bristled silence, became someone who smiled without needing a reason. Someone who looked at you, messy hair and all, and thought, “This is what I was fighting for. This is what I didn’t know I needed.”
You were her safe place. And she had become yours.
“Happy wife, happy life,” you would still tease whenever she brought you coffee in bed or let you hog the quilt. Katniss would roll her eyes, but her smile always gave her away.
She had lived through hell. But with you, she finally learned how to live.
And every time she looked at you across the room, or caught your reflection in the window while you sang to yourself and folded laundry, she knew one thing for certain: it wasn’t just a saying.
It was the life she chose, the love she grew, the peace she never thought she'd deserve—and finally did.
warnings: (panic attack),, n just overall cuteness overload !1!1!<3
You were having yet another panic attack inside the bunker, Katniss was by your side in an instant when Finnick was nowhere to be seen. “Deep breaths in, deep breaths out. Follow after me,” she whispered, rocking you back in forth in her arms. You tried following her directions but in the end, you failed and your panic attack was getting worse and worse.
“Is she okay?” Peeta asked Katniss, who looked back with a ‘does she look okay?’ look towards him. ‘ go get Finnick . NOW ’ she mouthed to Peeta, he nodded and walked off.
It was just you and Katniss again, and Katniss felt you to the core. You had just started to hyperventilate, and all she could do was hold you close to her body to keep you warm and try to get you back on track.
About ten minutes after Peeta had left the two of you, pairs of footsteps clicking to the floor could be heard. Katniss turned her head towards the sound, and exhaled out when she saw Peeta and Finnick behind. “Thanks for looking after her Kat.” Finnick nodded his head towards her, “she is my best friend. I’d be a bad best friend if I didn’t do anything,” Katniss gently lifted you up, the two of you walking towards Finnick.
“Hey, hey princess. What’s wrong? What’s got you so worked up?” Finnick took you into his arms, thanking Katniss once again as the other two walked away to who knows where. “I- I- I shot him,” you whispered, your hands going to your face to scratch at it. Finnick grabbed ahold of your hands, rubbing them gently with his thumbs. “That’s not what we’re gonna do today,” he chuckled with a soft smile.
Whenever you had panic attacks, you’d always scratch your face to the point it bled. Finnick helped you get out of that mess. He led you to the stairs, always getting permission for you to go outside the bunker just to look at the stars whenever you had your panic attacks.
He led you up the stairs, at a slow pace to not startle you. “How was your day, my love?” He hummed, wrapping an arm around your back and rubbing it slowly with his hand.
Finnick waited a few minutes for you to calm a bit down, he knew whenever he started conversations it would take some time for you to answer. “O—Okay,” you stuttered out. “What was your favorite part of your day?” He asked you.
You twiddled with his other hand that held yours. Playing with the golden ring on his ring finger. You smiled softly. “waking up next to you,” you whispered. the tears from your eyes finally came to a stop, wet streaks visible on your cheeks with your puffy red eyes. “Really?” Finnick’s lips turn to a huge wide smile onto his face. You giggled softly and nodded. “Really.” You repeated.
The two of you finally got to the top, and both of you had to climb up the ladder. Finnick got up there first to open the trap door, and then you followed suit. He grabbed your hands to pick you up quicker, and then sat you on the dirt ground. He closed the trap door and placed grass over it.
The two of you walked and walked till you got to your safe log that was surrounded by trees and bushes, big enough to fit you and Finnick sitting on the green green fresh grass. You sat on the said grass, while Finnick sat on the log behind you.
You leaned back into him, getting comfortable as Finnick wrapped his arms around your waist. You grabbed ahold of his hands and started to play with them, while you heard Finnick counting the stars.
“You’re never gonna get them all,” you giggle out, looking up at him from your spot. He looked down at you, “you made me lose my spot.” He pouted. “How many stars did you have in counting just right now?” You asked.
“50. 50 stars.” Finnick hummed. You made a duck look face, moving your lips to signal to Finnick you wanted a kiss. He chuckled and leaned down to you, to kiss you softly. He pulled away, his eyes half open as he looked at you with nothing but love.
“I love you,” Finnick spoke, kissing your lips once more.
Note: Just to clarify, English is not my first language, and if anything is wrong, I apologize and ask for your understanding.
Contains: misunderstood feelings, unspoken love, a quick kiss, conversation about the future.
Katniss Everdeen is not driven by romance — but that was never the problem.
She doesn’t know how to name her feelings. She doesn’t know how to feel them, or how to express them.
And then there’s you.
What was supposed to be a simple friendship, born from the unfortunate fact that you were forced to participate in another Hunger Games, slowly turned into an imperceptible kind of admiration.
She sees herself in you, even though you come from very different districts.
During the Games, the two of you grew close. The difference was that you had already lost the person you loved.
Unconsciously, Katniss admires your strength in carrying that grief — because she doesn’t know what she would do if she ever lost Peeta.
When the Games end and she becomes the symbol of the revolution, you worry about her. And she notices.
You sit beside her. You talk when she wants to talk, and you stay quiet when she only needs to think. You support the plan to rescue Peeta. You give advice.
And when you’re not around, she notices. She looks for you just to ask anything. She does small things without realizing it, just to keep you close. When someone else stands too near you, she feels uncomfortable — even if she doesn’t know why.
And most importantly:
You are there when the nightmares come.
And then, one more night, she wakes up screaming — dreaming of the Games all over again.
Katniss wakes up gasping, her body rigid, the air trapped in her chest.
It’s the third time this week.
You hear it from your room and reach hers as fast as you can.
“Katniss, are you okay? Another nightmare?”
She nods. She doesn’t trust her voice.
You already know what she’s going to ask, so you spare her the words.
You sit on the edge of the bed. She stiffens for a moment, then leans into your chest — like it’s instinct.
“When this is all over,” you whisper, “I swear I’ll do everything I can to keep you away from anything that reminds you of this.”
She lifts her head slightly to look at you.
“These dreams probably won’t ever go away.”
“Then I’ll stay,” you say. “Every night. To help you through them.”
A small, almost invisible smile appears on her lips. The silence that follows is soft.
“When it’s over,” she murmurs, “you, me, and Peeta. Somewhere far away.”
You let out a quiet laugh. You like seeing her dream — even if it’s only a little.
But then you realize you’re looking at her for too long.
She freezes. She isn’t used to hearing that from you.
Her heart stutters. Her cheeks warm. She doesn’t understand why — only that it feels good. She has always thought you were strong, incredible. Knowing you see something good in her matters more than she expects.
“Thank you,” she says softly.
“It’s not a compliment,” you reply. “It’s a fact.”
You look at each other again. She doesn’t quite know what she’s doing when she tilts her head toward you — and you do the same.
Your lips meet in a short kiss. Brief. Gentle. Enough.
Her heart races, and she settles back against your chest.
“Sorry,” she murmurs.
You don’t answer. You just run your fingers through her long, dark hair, slow and steady, until she falls asleep — safe in your arms.
She doesn’t know it yet.
But she’s going to want to kiss you many more times.
you see katniss for the first time after she wins the 74th annual hunger games
warnings: just some cheesy fluff bc i watched the hunger games for the first time
word count: 1145
note: this takes place after the first movie bc i’ve only watched that one and the ballad of songbirds and snakes 🫣
also this is kinda based on that one forrest gump scene where he’s at the vietnam war protest and jenny starts running to him through the reflecting pool to get to him 😭😭
hope you enjoy!!
the second she steps off the train, she’s already surrounded by the crowd. some people are chanting her name, others are offering her the three-finger salute, and some are even crying. she feels peeta squeeze her shoulder as he steps off behind her, and she can sense the smile on his face.
but she can barely feel his fingers on her skin or hear district 12 celebrating around her. she’s so focused, her eyes frantically scanning the crowd. there were so many people there to congratulate and thank her yet she only wanted to see one person.
it takes a few seconds before she hears a faint shout of her name.
“katniss!” the voice calls out. “katniss!”
her ears instantly perk up and she instinctively moves toward the source of the sound.
“katniss!”
it’s clearer now and she’s sure she knows who it belongs to. she can see people getting shoved in the back of the crowd as someone makes their way to the front. she doesn’t even need to see who it is before tears rim her eyes.
she involuntarily releases a strained noise of sheer desperation before she speeds up, the crowd kindly parting for her. the same can’t be said for you as you use every bit of your strength to push past citizens, some of them leaving you irritated glances.
luckily you make quick work and suddenly your unkempt hair catches katniss’ eye. she notices your rough, seasoned hands fighting those around you to get to her and now she’s nearly running toward you.
she screams your name, letting you know that she’s seen you and reminding you of how intensely she’s missed you. her voice is raw and distraught. she reminds you of how painful it is for her to be without you.
only when you’ve made it all the way to the front do you stop and does katniss get a clear look at you. you stumble out of the crowd, nearly falling, but you catch yourself. bystanders stare, questioning the importance of your presence, but all you do is look up and meet katniss’ eyes.
she stops fifteen steps ahead of you. only then does she remember why she had fought so hard to stay alive; why she had killed; why she had refused to give up even when the odds were against her. because, when she looked into your eyes—your perfect, beautiful, joyful eyes that reflected all of her own emotions—she remembered that it was all for you.
she refused to let her life end in that artificial forest because her life hadn’t truly begun until she was able to be with you. you were her reason, the single thing that kept her going, that motivated her, that she thought about on every dark, cold, soulless night.
she dreamed endlessly about returning to district 12 just to be wrapped in your warm embrace, to feel your chaste kiss on her cheek, and to start a new life with you. in fact, she dreamed about this very moment that she was living in. she dreamed about everything from how you would look to the way you would look at her. she dreamed about how it would feel and what she would do, but once she was in the moment, everything was more powerful than she could have ever imagined. everything was far more perfect than in her dreams.
she watched your own tears swell as your eyes settled upon her. your hands came to your face, covering your mouth as you fought your natural crying face into a smile.
seeing you cry always made her so weak and she felt her tears start flowing down her cheeks. she felt her ugly cry begin but she couldn’t help it. it felt so good to see you that it was almost painful. you had woven your way into her heart and now the two of you were one.
a tiny part of her brain was scared of what you might think of her. would you be afraid of her after seeing her kill so ruthlessly? would you lose your feelings after watching her at her lowest moment? or worst of all, would you be angry at her after witnessing her onscreen romance with peeta?
she had played into her role during the games—the girl on fire who was head over heels for the baker’s son—but the games were over now and there was no need to pretend anymore. while peeta may have loved her, katniss’ feelings for him were never close to what she felt for you. she just hoped that you had realized that too.
no matter what peeta would say to her or how many people were there to worship her, everything seemed insignificant when she was face to face with you. and you felt exactly the same. that empty hole in your chest that had appeared when katniss had volunteered all those weeks ago was suddenly full. with her return to district 12, katniss everdeen has also returned your heart.
she finally started toward you, slowly at first, and then faster. it didn’t matter who was watching, whether it was peeta or the capitol or the whole world, she had a primitive need to be with you. and you would accept her with open arms.
she tightly hugged your shoulders, her grip so strong that you couldn’t have pulled away even if you wanted to. she pulled your body into hers and kept your face close to hers so that your noses were nearly touching.
your hands found solace holding each side of her face. she knew how powerful your hands were from all the times you had been hunting together so it meant even more when you were able to hold her so gently. you always touched her like she was glass that would break in your hands if you weren’t careful. she relished the feeling; no one had ever treated her so softly and made her feel so special, not peeta, not gale.
when you felt her warm skin beneath your fingers, everything felt all the more real. she was really there. she had really survived the deadliest of arenas and now she was here with you. she was here for you.
you shared a single loving gaze, one that conveyed every emotion. you shared your sorrow, your pain, your excitement, your joy, your newfound relaxation. you shared your bare love with each other.
only then did she press her lips to yours in a feverish kiss. your lips fit perfectly as your tears merged into a single stream. you disregarded air and molded yourselves into each other, willing the moment to live on forever.
a single thought entered katniss’ mind, one that would’ve sounded crazy to anyone but her:
she would’ve done it all over again if it meant coming home to you.
omg i’m so sorry that i haven’t been writing any requests i have 9 sitting in my inbox 😭
the next story will prob be camille from house of usher and then i’ll work on those requests starting with naomi from wolf of wall street
cw. katniss x fem! reader. smut. minors dni. does anyone still read katniss fanfics? idk
imagine inexperienced! katniss w/ power bottom! reader, you tell her how to do everything right to properly please you and she promptly listens and do even through her cheeks are blushing hard.
while her fingers are knuckles deep inside you, she enjoys the warming sensation but also gets so concentrated in everything, every heavier breath, every time you whine, every squirm that your body unconsciously give because it feels so good.
she feels so, so proud of herself, especially when you praise her, letting her know how good she’s making you feel; “you’re doing so good, kat.”
but even through she’s still inexperienced and unsure of what to do, she’s a fast learner and her instincts to take charge and control of the situation talks louder and she wastes no time in closing her mouth against one of your nipples and one arm around your waist to keep you in place when you squirm a little too hard.
her sudden move made you feel even hotter and attracted to her, and she seems to notice by the way your walls gripped her fingers and the way your nails scratched her back.
after that, didn’t take long for you to come on her - surprisingly - skilled fingers, your legs shaken and your eyes rolled back in your head while you arched your back, calling out her name like a pray. katniss was mesmerized by the sight, completely intoxicated, it didn’t compare to anything she has seen in her life, to any proud of herself she ever felt before, she wanted to, she needed to see it happen again.
when your body stopped shaking and katniss took out her fingers inside of you and her body on top of yours, you kissed her lips, silently thanking her for making you feel so good, but after a few seconds she pulled back, looking right into your eyes with her dilated pupils.
“i need to do it again, can i?” you looked at her in confusion for a moment. “i need to… make you feel good again, please?” she said shyly but still looking determined.
she puts herself between your legs again, and the cold air hitting your core already made you shiver at how sensitive you were, after all you just had a mind blowing orgasm.
“i’m sensitive, kat..” you started but she cut you off with a kiss.
“please? i really want it.” she takes your little smile as a yes and leaned down her body until her face was between your uncovered thighs, which she kissed with love.
katniss looked at your center, so inviting and wet that she feels her own cunt dripping just at the sight and breathing heavily, she looks at your face again, licking her lips.
“teach me how to…” she starded breathless but didn’t finish, she looked so eager and needy, more than you’ve ever seen before.
you breathed in heavily and adjusted your body on the mattress, then brings your hand to caress her cheeks until make its way to the back of her head, silently guiding her on what to do.
