#Hunger Games chapter series

[you-askedforthis]

Katniss canonically spends more time thinking about Peeta’s kids than Peeta.

[vxsellie]

‧₊˚┊simple living things﹗

a hunger games!au ellie williams fanfiction.⌇ 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔦𝔦

summary. to give a final goodbye to someone you love is generally the last thing anyone would ever wish to do. though, when being shipped off to your death, it's the equivalent to being given a final meal whilst on death row.

content warnings. abuse, mentions of death, implications of murder, and (the worst of all) a lesbian breakup

total wc. 5,225

notes!! here she is! i wrote this in one sitting on the night before christmas, literally up until two am bc my thoughts wouldn't stop flowing (ive had writers block for the past few months so you couldn't pry my keyboard from my cold dead hands). anyway here she is! once again, reminder that it's better read on ao3!

𝜗𝜚 series masterlist ⸝⸝ playlist ⸝⸝ ao3 𝜗𝜚

14:45.

DISTRICT SEVEN.

“What were you thinking?” 

Despite how loud Marlene’s voice is, it sounds rather muffled. Ellie’s thoughts all jumble together into a plethora of unintelligible abstraction. This results in outside noises becoming equally as cryptic.

After the Reaping, both tributes were escorted into the Justice Building and forced into separate rooms. Having grown up amid the Games, Ellie’s aware that this is the part where she’s supposed to say her final goodbyes to her loved ones — an hour of time allotted to these farewells. And, despite knowing that all twenty-three other tributes are going through the same thing, Ellie couldn’t feel more alone. There’s a sickening sense of finality to this. Like she’s cattle bred and born to await death. Like there’s nothing more to her life aside from this — being Reaped to never return.

And, with the time given, Marlene has opted to use the entirety of her visit reprimanding Ellie for how she’d acted on stage. Not that she doesn’t deserve to be chastised, she knows she does, but it’s still fucked up.

See, after her name had been drawn, Ellie’s entire world fell out from under her feet. She knew there was a possibility of her name being drawn, she’d be a fool not to at least acknowledge that fact. But to look that fate in the eye and have no way of revoking it? That’s an entirely different pill to swallow. As she stood atop that stage, the escort’s piping voice ringing through her ears, Ellie simply could not seem to comprehend it. But then she felt a weight in her hand, a warmth. She turned to see Riley, her jaw set and her eyes darkened. She grabbed Ellie’s hand and hoisted it into the air.

To Ellie, it was a rather odd thing to do. But, as Marlene is pointing out presently, it was an act of defiance against the Capitol itself. Ellie had no idea. Not that she doubts it, what with Riley’s outward distaste for the government, but it just hadn’t dawned on her that the mere act of holding a friend’s hand would piss off the Capitol. It’s kinda funny.

“What could you possibly be laughing at?” Marlene groans, her pacing coming to a halt as she whips around to face Ellie. Her expression isn’t one of rage, as initially expected. Instead, it’s one of genuine panic. Well shit, apparently holding hands really is treason.

Ellie doesn’t respond, her face dropping instantly. She pins her gaze to the floor, staring at the same rusted nail she’s been looking at for the past ten minutes. In fact, she’d been so zoned out that she hadn’t picked up a single thing that Marlene was trying to say. Usually, this would amuse her. But now, with her impending doom so leering, she can’t help but feel ashamed. She may never see Marlene again. And then what? Her last memory of the girl she’d raised from infantry would be of her zoned out whilst curled into a ball on a dilapidated sofa. That’s rather pathetic, is it not?

She shudders, pulling her knees even closer to her chest at the thought. She doesn’t yet know who was Reaped from the other Districts, but she’s sure they aren’t all pouting on their couches like children. Still, she can’t seem to remove herself from this position — one of self comfort. 

Something touches her knee and she flinches, tearing her gaze from the floor. She looks up to see Marlene sitting beside her on the couch, her gaze softened. Ellie hadn’t even noticed her approach. Fuck. See, this is the exact thing she’s worried about. If she were to zone out like this in the arena, she'd be dead within minutes.

“You didn’t hear anything I just said, did you?” Marlene asks with a sigh. A wave of guilt washes over Ellie’s body before she nods, admittedly having heard nothing. “I was saying I’m sorry. I don’t mean to shout at you like this, especially considering the situation. I’m only lecturing you because I’m worried. I’ve seen the Capitol kill people for less than holding hands.”

Ellie shakes her head, though the act is faraway. “The Capitol can’t kill us now that we’re tributes. To do so would only result in more defiance from the viewers. They’re anticipating a show, to kill off the characters would be antiprogressive.”

“No, but they can surely make your time in the arena worse.” Marlene points out. 

Ellie thins her lips at this, but ultimately says nothing. This is not what she wants to hear right before being sent to her death. She wants consolation and comfort, not reminders of how little control she has in her own life. But that’s just how Marlene is — she gets stressed and rambles. Most of the time, it's a harmless habit. Right now, though, it’s proving to be rather taxing.

“Look,” She sighs, “I’m not good at this whole thing, talking. Everyone knows that. It’s– Well, it’s the entire reason I never had any kids of my own.” She sighs again trying desperately to make sense of her thoughts and word them in a way that doesn’t sound like an insult. “I never wanted children, but raising you was the best thing that ever could have happened to me. Losing you would thereby be the worst thing to ever happen to me. I only shouted at you because your safety means everything. But— you’re strong, Ellie, and so very brave. If you put your mind to it, you can make it out of that arena. I believe in you. All you have to do is believe in yourself.”

Ellie is certain that’s the most Marlene has ever spoken in one go without shouting or giving up halfway through. And for that, she’s grateful. Ellie swallows harshly, her throat suddenly feeling too big for her neck. She leans forward.

She doesn’t hug Marlene, not necessarily. She simply flops into her, thumping her forehead onto her shoulder. Her body is stiff and her jaw is clenched tight, but the act of the touch still carries a sense of sentimentality to it. Especially considering she and Marlene never hug. In fact, she thinks she only ever hugged her once in her whole life. Again, it’s not anything to pity her for, it’s just their relationship. A fact of life. Some people are touchy, others aren't. And Marlene is definitely among those who are not.

She rubs a hand up and down Ellie’s back, though it’s more so to do something with her hands rather than to comfort her. 

They remain like that for a long time, sitting in silence because neither of them are skilled at voicing their emotions. Ellie’s mind continues to move at a million thoughts per second, though it slows a little in the absence of Marlene’s shouting.

Roughly twenty minutes go by before Marlene pulls away. She has a hand on each of Ellie’s shoulders, a foot between their faces. She stares at her, brown eyes flicking across each one of her features, as though to memorize her before departure. Ellie mimics her, taking in the sight of the woman who raised her — from the slope of her nose to the arc of her brows. Afterall, this might be her last time to do so. No matter how hard she believes in herself.

“I ought to go visit Riley.” Marlene says with an awkward cough, standing from the couch. “She doesn’t have any family aside from you and I.”

It’s true. Riley’s family is rather complicated seeing as she doesn’t have any. It took seven years of being Riley’s friend before she confided in Ellie about her past. And, after hearing it, she couldn’t blame her for her hesitance. 

Her father was a rebel. He hated the Capitol and everything related to it. He wasn’t married to Riley’s mother when she got pregnant, hadn’t even been dating. They simply had a fling and moved on — hence his oblivion to the fact that she’d been a Peacekeeper. Riley’s dad lived a life of tranquil solitude, aside from frequent whippings as punishment for opposing the Capitol so vocally. Truly, he’d been lucky to not be assassinated on the spot for his insubordination. The entirety of Seven knew him for his rebellious nature.

So, when Riley’s mother came forth with an infant in her arms, he was shocked. He couldn’t believe that she’d gotten pregnant. Though, more importantly, he couldn’t believe she was a fucking Peacekeeper. He tried to keep his calm, civilly agreeing to partial custody over their daughter. 

But, when Riley was about four years old, their refined consensus came to an abrupt end. They got into an argument. And a bad one, at that. Nobody knows the exact details to its origin or entailments, but it’s widely known how it ended — Riley’s mother dead and her father as an Avox for the Capitol. His punishment for her murder.

Riley subsequently grew up in an orphanage, though she inherited her father’s rebellious nature and oftentimes escaped over the fence. She’d spent more time in the woods than she had in the decelit building — chopping wood and climbing trees and visiting the Hob. She’d grown rather skilled at it, the illegality of escaping. She met Ellie in elementary. She’d been scaling the fence, intending to flee the school. Ellie had caught her and insisted she teach her how to do it. Begrudgingly, Riley agreed. From there, with many details gone unmentioned, they became friends. Now look at them Reaped for the Hunger Games together. Ugly ending to a beautiful story.

“Yeah.” Ellie agrees curtly to Marlene’s suggestion. “Yeah, she’d appreciate that, I think.”

Marlene nods in agreement prior to turning on her heel and exiting the room.

Ellie sits alone for a few minutes, returning to her humiliating fetal position. She hugs her legs to her chest, dirty shoes on the cushion of the couch. Though the sofa isn’t in the best shape considering the prodding springs and frayed stuffing. She rests her chin on her knee, staring at the rusty nail she’s grown so fond of.

She’s not sure how long she sits like that before a knock is heard at the door. She groggily tells them to enter, causing the door to creak on its hinges. A face pokes inside prior to the body attached. Cat.

Her black hair is done up, pinned into a purposefully messy bun, bangs cut shorter than usual. It looks put together, but in that I-woke-up-like-this way. Her eyelids are colored in a shiny crimson, her lips in the same glossy tint. Her skin looks inhumanly smooth, her eyebrows impossibly thin. She’s wearing a strapless baby pink dress that’s uncomfortably close to the shade of her skin, coming to her midthigh. Her shoes are the same red as her eyes and lips, clicking against the wooden floor as she walks. She looks like a Capitolite in the way her features are accentuated, though human enough for Ellie to still find her attractive

She instantly straightens, confused. “Why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be on a train to the Capitol?”

“Well,” Cat begins, shutting the door softly behind her as she walks over to the couch Ellie is curled atop. She sits down beside her, the cushion dipping under her weight, which instinctively pulls Ellie toward her. “I caused a bit of a scene, insisting I had to see you. And, considering it’s a hassle to find another stylist so late into the Games, I simply dared them to fire me. They didn’t, of course, and instead opted to just give me time to see you, albeit minimal.”

Ellie laughs, though the sound is hollow. This draws a tight expression from Cat as she takes in the sight of the girl before her. Ellie suddenly feels self conscious, wearing a wrinkled linen shirt while Cat looks like a literal fucking deity. Not to mention the pathetic way she’s presenting herself — small and weak. She sits upright, swallowing as she runs her hands down her shirt in a futile attempt at flattening it.

Cat stops her, placing a hand on her wrist. Ellie looks at the place where she touches her, taking in the sight of her perfectly done nails. Baby pink with crimson colored accents. God, every single detail of her is altered for the Capitol’s preference.

“I got you something.” Cat whispers, removing her hand from her wrist to reach into the purse Ellie hadn’t even noticed she carried with her. She holds out her hand, a small piece of metal resting in the center of her palm. A ring, in the shape of a moth. The body is the centerpiece, the wings made to wrap around the finger. “Here,” Cat grabs Ellie’s hand, pulling it forward before slipping the ring onto her index. 

“I love it,” Ellie breathes, holding her hand out in front of her to admire the ring.

“I made it myself.” Cat says. Ellie should have guessed. She knew Cat enjoyed making jewelry, using spoons and other random hunks of metal to concoct something ugly into something pretty. She’s spoken of the hobby before, though she’s never revealed any of the end products. This is Ellie’s first time seeing one of them.

She suddenly recalls the rule that tributes are permitted to bring one token into the arena from home. One thing to remind them of their identities — which are sure to be lost in the Games. Ellie had completely forgotten about the rule, it never having crossed her mind. But looking at this ring now, she’s certain this is the perfect thing to bring. A reminder of home. Not of a place, but of a person. Of Cat.

“I love it.” Ellie repeats more furtively, turning to kiss her.

However, before their mouths are able to touch, Cat lifts her hand to Ellie’s chest. She pushes her away. And, though the act is as gentle as possible, Ellie still feels as though she’d been shoved. She leans back. Cat’s expression is pained, not at all matching the cheerful makeup she wears.

She shakes her head, eyes squeezed shut. “I love you, Ellie. Truly. A part of me likely forever will. But– to be in love with you would only end in causing us both an insurmountable quantity of pain. I can’t consciously do that to you. Even our current relationship is deteriorating your mental health. You’re too dependent on what we have, too afraid to lose it. To allow you to continue down this road would be wrong of me. To even have begun it was wrong. And now that you’re going into the arena, I just– adding yet another burden to your shoulder would be wholly immoral.”

Ellie doesn’t know when, but amid that confession, she’d begun crying. Not just due to the breakup, though, if she could even consider it that. But due to everything. Riley distancing herself recently, the Reaping, Marlene’s shouting, Marlene’s halfhearted farewell, and now this? On top of it all?

“So you’re breaking up with me to ease your own fucking conscience?” Ellie snaps. She doesn't mean to say it. She doesn’t. It’s just all become so much for her to carry. And it’s so easy to drop it on Cat after what she’d just done.

“No.” She insists, nigh pleading in her denial. “Ellie, no, you know that’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then why even give me this?” She asks, holding out her hand with the ring on it. “For me to bring a reminder of your absence into the arena?”

“No, no.” Cat continues to deny Ellie’s accusations. “Not to remind you that I left, but to remind you why I left.”

Ellie scoffs, “Now you’re just saying shit. You’re not even trying to make sense.”

“Moths, Ellie.” She says, grabbing her hand in desperation for her to just fucking listen. “They’re attracted to the light. No matter where they go or– or what environment they’re placed in, they find a light. Something to always keep them going. Something to fight for. Something to reach. I’m holding you back, don’t you see? I don’t want you to fight to get home. I want you to fight because you know you’re worth it. You’re worth living for, even without me or Riley or Marlene. For you. Be your own moth, your own light.”

Ellie wipes roughly at her face, fists scrubbing at her eyes painfully. She wishes she had something clever to say. Something smart that would make Cat rethink everything. But all she can muster is a mumbled, “Moths are fucking ugly.”

14:45.

DISTRICT FOUR.

Your ears are ringing, a loud chiming sound that makes your head swim. Despite this, you keep your chin high as your mother shouts orders at you. You’ve long since tuned her out, which is something you’d never had dared to do prior to the Reaping. But you’re being sent to the arena — you’ll either die in there and never see her again, or you’ll come back a victor and thereby be of higher status than her. Whatever you do now matters naught.

She’s rambling on about something regarding orders to return home. Not because she cares for your wellbeing, but because it’d shame the entire family if you were to die on live television. 

She’s standing across the room from you, her pale blue dress somehow perfectly cleaned despite the journey she made across the grassy courtyard to the Justice Building. Her wrinkled face is contorted into an unreadable expression, the illegibility irritating you. Her golden cane is perched under her clasped hands. God, the woman is the embodiment of power despite having earned none. 

“I get it.” You cut her off, tone just as sharpened as hers, almost as though you’d spent years honing it into a blade serrated enough to challenge her. “I’ll come back. If not, you’ll be embarrassed. Poor you, right?”

The expression of shock on her face is almost worth the punishment — which ends up being hit by the end of her cane. Had it been the usual wood, the pain would be tolerable. But it’s pure gold, causing your mouth to fill with blood. You spit onto the floor and she begins to reprimand you for doing that, deeming it to be improper. You ignore her, massaging your newly bruised face.

The punishment for your statement would likely have been far more severe if you weren’t destined to be put on camera for the country to gawk at. A wound on your face would be shameful. A bruise, though? Your prep team can surely cover that up with a bit of makeup.

She finishes her castigation, seeming to have worn herself out. She then turns and storms out of the room. You almost didn’t notice her swift exit, as she’d made no effort to say goodbye or wish you luck. Just ten minutes of shouting prior to causing a splitting headache and a bruise to the jaw, uncaring to hear you utter a single syllable. Best mom ever.

See, most people deem this event as emotional — an hour allotted to parting ways with your loved ones. But your mother doesn't see this as a parting. She expects to irrefutably see you again. And very shortly, at that.

You’re alone in the room for only a few seconds before a shy knock is heard at the door. You’re confused by this, unsure of who else could be here to see you. “Come in.” You call out, moving to stand over the stain of blood you’d left on the shiny hardwood floor. Thankfully, your dress is long enough that the skirts cover up the space beneath you.

The door opens and a wrinkly old man pops inside. Your lips part at the sight of mister Alden entering the room. You rush forward, offering your aid in his walking. He takes it, looping his arm around the crease of yours.

There’s a small couch with two cushions in the corner of the room. You walk him over to it, easing him onto the sofa before sitting next to him. You cross your legs, “What are you doing here? I know it’s a far journey from where you live.”

He sighs, “You’re like a daughter to me, Y/n. And, though neither of us are willing to address that aloud, we’re both well aware of it. I’ve known you since you were three years old and just learning how to walk. In fact, I can vividly recall the very day I’d met you — you were asleep on your brother’s back, clinging to him like a sloth as he made the trek down to the docks. You were such a small thing, then. Chubby little face and a diaper that didn’t fit.” He smiles fondly, looking at you as though he still views you that way, a baby. “The point is, to not visit you would be cruel. And I’m not a cruel man.”

Your eyes burn as you listen to him. He’s right. You both know it. You and Ruben are like children to him. And he is definitely not a cruel man. You wonder if he’d visited Ruben when he was Reaped. Probably. But you don’t dare ask, not wanting to speak of your brother any more than necessary.

“Oh!” He jolts as though he’d just remembered something vitally important. 

You watch as mister Alden reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a dainty necklace. A white pearl resides in the center, acting as a pendant to the thin silver chain. Your gaze softens as you look at it hanging between his shaky fingers.

“It’s beautiful.” You tell him.

“I want you to have it, to take it into the arena.” He says. “You remember my granddaughter, the one who was facing her first Reaping today? She made it for herself, and planned to wear it into the arena had her name been drawn. She spent weeks searching for the perfect pearl, then another few weeks saving up money to buy the chain.”

Your chest twists at hearing this. You could easily buy something like this from a small shop down by the beaches. It wouldn’t even cost you a day’s allowance. You shake your head. “I can’t take this from her. It’s too special.”

“I insist.” Says he. “When she heard your name called, she instantly turned to me, slipped the necklace into my pocket, and demanded that I bring it to you.” He lets out a light chuckle. “Her ferocity reminds me of you, actually. I don’t even remember telling her about my visits to your house. No shock she found out, though, she’s so bright for her age.”

With a grunt, he pushes to his feet. You rush to do the same, standing beside him in case he needs assistance. Instead of asking for aid, he tells you to turn around. Without hesitation, you oblige. You then feel something cold wrap around your neck. You look down to see the thin necklace now placed across your collarbones. It’s absolutely stunning. Mister Alden fumbles with the clasp, his shaky hands struggling to work the tiny thing.

When he finally gets it on, you turn around to see that he has tears in his eyes. He takes in the sight of the pearl necklace paired with the navy dress, the silver chain matching the silver diamonds adorning it. He nods, wiping roughly at his eyes. “You’ve grown into such a lovely young woman.”

You swallow the lump in your throat before pulling him into a hug, having to hunch over a bit due to his lack of height. He hugs you back, sniffling. It’s rather telling that the random stranger that you buy your seafood from is more caring than anyone in your family. But he’s not a stranger, is he?

After a few minutes of sentimental embrace, he finally parts from you and leaves. On the way out, you catch a glimpse of a tear rolling down his cheek, the droplet catching the light for a split second.

Alone in the room with about ten minutes remaining, you walk over to the window. You look at your reflection in the shined glass, taking in the sight of the necklace. Knowing how long it’d taken to create only adds to its beauty. The dresses your mother has fitted for you are paltry; replaceable. But this? Nobody could recreate the months spent making it, nor could they recreate the small hands that did so.

The sound of footsteps entering the room draws you from your thoughts. You catch his reflection in the window before he’s even fully through the door. Your entire body tenses, something shifting in the air at his presence. Something deep, deep inside you. Like the atoms that make up your very being have been furtively yearning for this moment. For his proximity.

You turn to face him fully.

Ruben.

You’ve seen him around, of course. You’d seen him less than an hour ago. Everyone has seen him, what with the Capitol flashing him around nigh as much as the country’s flag. He’s their brightest diamond and their largest star — the abnormal mixture of UY Scuti with Sirius, creating something impossible to tear one's eyes away from.

You two have spoken as well, albeit in short increments and only when mandatory. So, truly, you’re not sure if it counts in terms of conversation.

He shuts the door slowly, facing you with an unreadable expression. No– that can’t be right. You could always read him, you could always understand him. But right now, not a single word comes to mind as you look at him. He’s a closed book that you’d once memorized every page of.

He stares at you for a moment, gaze lingering on the bruise forming on your cheek. You wonder if you should hide it or not. But he likely knows exactly how it was induced — knowing the feel of your mother’s cane all too well, as he’d grown up taking hits for you daily. It takes a few minutes, but he eventually tears his eyes from your face and looks around the room, looking at the intricate ceiling or the swaying chandelier.

“Been a while, huh?” He huffs a laugh, though it’s dry and lacking any scrap of genuine humor.

You think about this, about what he said. It’s been a while. The world’s biggest understatement, that is. You’re suddenly filled with an immeasurable amount of rage. It’s been eleven fucking years. And he has the nerve to say it’s been a while?

Eleven years since he was Reaped. Eleven years since he was the one in this room. Eleven years since you came to visit him, sobbing and begging him not to go to the arena. Eleven years since Ruben returned from the arena. Eleven years since your brother never returned. Eleven years since the boy who raised you, who protected you, who taught you to walk and talk and eat, vanished.

You say nothing to him, not trusting yourself to speak without either screaming or crying. Or, most likely, both. So, insead, you remain silent.

Ruben sighs, leaning back against the wall with crossed arms. Something about that action makes you visibly wince. He’s so confident. The Ruben you knew was an awkward young boy, made complete with lanky limbs and oversized eyes. Strange little habits — like the way he didn’t ever know what to do with his arms, or the way he always tapped his left foot when he was nervous — made him human. But not anymore. He now knows exactly what to do with his arms and he wouldn’t dare show when he’s nervous. His humanity is just another thing the Capitol stripped him of.

“You don’t have to say anything, just listen.” Says Ruben. He then inhales deeply, his jaw set and eyes piercing; a Capitolite in all but name. “This is the last time we won’t be monitored. After leaving this room, everything will be tracked and recorded and analyzed — the train, the center, the arena. From here, you’re never alone. Even in the bathrooms, privacy doesn’t exist.”

You narrow your eyes at him, “So you’re saying you need to tell me something the Capitol can’t hear?”

“Yeah,” He breathes, “Exactly.”

“Okay, so what is?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest. Of course that’s what he’s here for. Not to wish you well or say goodbye — though he likely also expects you to win; he was raised by the same monsters, after all — but, instead, to warn you. To make sure you survive the arena so as to not penetrate the family name.  

“Something is wrong with this year’s Reapings.” He explains. “Districts Two and Three both had a pair of siblings Reaped – Lev and Yara from Two, Sam and Henry from Three. Then, if that weren’t enough proof as is, Districts Five and Seven both Reaped a set of best friends — Selene Jones and Ariande Evans from Five, Riley Abel and Ellie Williams from Seven. Not to mention the pair of lovers that were Reaped from Six — Roland Jennings and Archie Bardot.”

You take in what Ruben is saying, thinking hard about it. You were Reaped alongside a small child, a little boy who you’d never seen before in your life. That doesn't seem rigged, but there ought to be some kind of intentional malice behind it.

“How do you know all of this?” You ask, though you know the answer. “The Reapings haven’t aired yet.”

“I know people.” He says rather ashamedly, as though he’s already aware of the kind of reaction this will draw from you. 

Anger sparks up once more at the mention of his ties to the Capitol. Not only is he using the Capitol to help you in the games — a perk no other tribute has — but he’s managed to fucking memorize every name name of importance. You don’t want to be treated as some sort of celebrity. You were Reaped with equally poor luck as Lev, Henry, or Ellie; or whatever their names were. You should therefore be held to the same expectations, not given hints into the Games. Which, by the way, is highly illegal. Not like Ruben would be punished. He could probably murder a Peacekeeper on stage and manage to get away with it. 

It makes you sick.

“Okay, great.” You bite. “You told me what you needed, you can leave now.” “No, Y/n, you’re not understanding.” He insists, taking a step forward. You take one backward, almost on instinct. A pained expression crosses his face, though it vanishes just as quick as it’d appeared. He sighs, running a hand down his face. “These tributes won’t be killing for the sake of winning, they’ll be killing to save themselves alongside their loved ones. Had you and I been in the arena together, our strength would have doubled. Just imagine that. For at least five other Districts, their wills to live are multiplied. And the—”

His words are cut off as the door slams open and Peacekeepers come filing into the room to rudely announce that your time is up. It’s time to board the train to the Capitol. To the Games.

[post] notes!! don't really have any (for once), i'm just so so so so excited for u guys to read this bc i write things way prior to posting bc i like to proofread like 50 time before releasing it. anyway yeah, u guys barely know abt this bad boy while im typing this

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[disgurrr]

The opening lines of THG are Katniss waking up alone in her bed, searching for her beloved sisters' warmth. Katniss finds her sister with their mother, cuddling her, presumably after a bad nightmare. In the same chapter (chapter one of THG), we get a bit of a glimpse of Katniss’s former life. The life she had before the Games, before everything. She spends her morning and afternoon with her friend Gale, the only person she can be herself with. She even tells us that everything would be perfect if it meant Reaping Day was truly a holiday, if it meant she could spend her day with Gale, hunting. Her day is quiet, calm, and somewhat uneventful (yk if one looks past all the trauma that is brought iving in 12). It seems she is happy in the woods with Gale, hunting to feed their family. But there is something quite limited about her life…

She panics at the mere thought of Gale bringing up romance, she even says she never wants to get married and have kids. At this point, she can't make sense of why her mother would leave the comfort of the Merchant life for something such as love. She no longer is that talkative defiant little girl who would sprew out anti-Capitol talks out of nowhere. She no longer has someone that she can turn to when she has nightmares or when she needs that emotional safety that her parents once provided. Her happy moments are limited to certain places and with certain people. Katniss is reserved, she is the headship of her family. She doesn't need her mom, not the way Prim does. She doesn't really need anyone like she used to. And she makes it seem like she's fine with it, but as we are going to read more, that might not be true.

In the same chapter, Katniss does not narrate Peeta at all. Chapter one of THG is quite literally the only chapter in the whole trilogy where Peeta is not mentioned at all. It’s in the same chapter, where we get the small glimpses of the “old Katniss.” where she had no one to turn to when she had nightmares of her own. Where she thinks all of Gale’s anti-Capitol talks are nonsense. Where her joy is truly limited to the fences of D12. That is Katniss before the Games.

[starrrbakerrr]

the raven in haymitch’s nightmares when he quoths “nevermore”

[hauntmemaybe]

I’ve been reading mockingjay and this is a summary of what I think is happening inside peeta’s head rn:

Peeta: once I manage to undoom you from the narrative the wedding is back on!

[fionas-chicken]

jacob portman - the male tribute from district 12

age: 16

training score: 10

allies: emma bloom, millard nullings, bronwyn bruntley, olive abroholos elephenta

skills: axe throwing, snares/traps, wit

placed: 3rd out of 24 tributes

⋆˙⟡

[groceryreceipts]

love you like the passing time: chapter six

A Catching Fire retelling.

Katniss and Peeta ended up not working at all and just studied the television in silence — limbs all tangled together — periodically switching channels to see if they could find any stories about District 13. Prim returned from school and watched them in confusion as her sister and not-boyfriend stared at the screen, and Asterid told her to ignore them and go do her homework. “This is part of some harebrained scheme, I’m sure,” she told her youngest, who giggled in response and skipped off to her room.

[clearlyundefeyened]

I have a (probably... hopefully) irrational fear of my local bookstores not having SOTR available on release day.

Why?

Because back in 2010, I had preordered Mockingjay and it was a WEEK LATE arriving. A WEEK. I had to wait a whole effing week to find out if Peeta fucking died or not. I don't think I was ever the same.

[sunraysoverthevalley]

A Crown hidden beneath the tide

Finnick Odair x fem!oc

summary:  Capitol-organized “tribute reunion.” A Decade of Promise: Honoring the Spirit of Young Victory.

contents: celebration of young victors, mild trauma/violence, no smut (for now), slow burn story

word count: 2.7k

warning: a little violence, other than that none

author's note: hi everyone! I'm new to writing and posting in general so please be kind. This is a series I had planned for sometime now and am happy to upload the first chapter. I will post a list of future projects, as well as things I'm willing to write! Also I'm sorry, this chapter is kinda short.

tag list: @siravalondulac (major thank you, she helped me with writing and gave me a lot of advice)

next chapter

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆

Chapter one - Capitol’s muse

The gallery wasn't just an event—it was part of a larger Capitol-organized “tribute reunion.” A Decade of Promise: Honoring the Spirit of Young Victory – such title tainted with Snow’s poison.

“This exclusive, high-profile event celebrates the triumph, growth, and potential of our youngest Hunger Games champions—those who proved that even in their youth, they could rise to greatness. – she can still remember the words she read on the invitation, she, oh so desperately tried to ignore.

In this changing age of Panem, their stories inspire a new generation to believe in strength, resilience, and hope under pressure.

The Capitol is proud to host this historic gathering—a cultural tribute to youth, unity, and the bonds forged through shared legacy.”

The art of victory (gallery event she was currently attending), legacy interviews, unity banquet and finally at the end of this torturous weekend, the grand gala.

 Elena knew better. It was a way to parade Victors without openly parading them.

Attendance wasn’t optional. Even after ignoring several invitation letters and being persuaded by her own family, it all came down to peacekeepers bringing her to the Capitol themselves.

So here she was. Standing beneath track lighting, surrounded by Capitol officials who wore feathers and metallic eyeliner in the name of fashion. She stayed upstairs, away from the cameras and the glass-clinking smiles.

The second floor of the gallery was quieter than the rest of the event. Whitewashed walls, tall windows letting in the glow of early evening, and art—if you could call it that—curated to confuse more than inspire.

She moved through the space slowly, heels soundless on the worn wooden floor. She clutched a wine glass with one hand, while the other occasionally lifted to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

For a brief moment, she paused in front of a large canvas: a storm of angry brushstrokes, tangled fishing lines glued across it like veins. At its center was a single, rusted hook.

She frowned. "This again," she muttered under her breath.

Behind her, a quiet voice replied, “It’s either a metaphor for trauma or a budget cut.”

She turned slightly.

The man beside her was tall, sea-tanned, effortlessly relaxed. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to suggest that the dress code didn’t apply to him. There was something familiar about him—the ocean blue eyes, maybe. Or the way people’s attention drifted to him without him saying much.

But Elena didn’t blink. She tilted her head toward the hook. “Or someone’s therapy project gone public.”

That made him laugh—low and easy. “You think they’ll charge five thousand credits for it?”

“At least,” she replied, sipping her wine. “And someone will buy it. Say it speaks to them.”

He looked at her then—really looked—and something shifted behind his gaze. Not attraction, not quite. Recognition. Not of her exactly, but of what she was.

“Elena, right?” he said. “You were reaped at fifteen.”

She froze just a fraction. Not enough to show weakness—just enough for him to notice. “You’ve got a good memory.”

“I had a reason to,” he said. “I won the games at fourteen...”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. She hadn’t made the connection before—too many faces, too many Games. But now, under the light of the gallery, she saw it.

“Finnick Odair,” she said softly.

He gave a half-nod. “Guilty.”

Elena turned back to the artwork, eyes tracing the tangled lines. “I thought you’d be taller.”, she took in his height, pretty tall, so why would she say she expected more.

That made him smile—not offended, just amused. “I get that a lot.”

“And I thought you’d be more... Capitol,” she added, nodding toward his open collar.

“Fortunately, I gained my own control over my wardrobe last year.”

She glanced at him sideways. “Lucky you, this dress might as well be two sizes smaller.” Finnick chuckled again, taking in her appearance. The dress was ocean - coral reef themed, with bluish silver material and pearls accenting the curvy parts of her figure.

They stood there for a moment, quiet. Not talking, not uncomfortable. The kind of silence that happened when two people were neither strangers nor friends—but something in between.

Elena finally broke it. “So. You’ve been to a lot of these?”

He shook his head. “I usually find ways to skip. This one… not so lucky.”

“Same,” she said. “They said it was mandatory. ‘Celebrating resilience.’”

Finnick made a face. “Resilience. Right.”

“They keep saying it like it’s a reward.”

He looked at her then, really looked. “You don’t talk like most of the others.”

“That’s because I try to avoid picking up their kind of talk.”, her voice was softer this time, her hand started to relax its grip around the glass of wine.

A beat.

“You were good,” he said quietly. “In your Games. Quiet. Strategic.”

Her jaw tightened slightly. “You watched?”

“I remember.” He paused. “I remember the net trap. The way you used the tree roots to pull it tight. You took down three of them in one move.”

“I remember bleeding for two hours afterward because the rope cut through my hands.”, eyes noticing how his expression changed in a matter of seconds. His eyebrows drew closer - forming an almost perfect line between, as his smile faltered.

Their eyes met. Something old flickered between them—recognition of the kind that only came from people who knew what it meant to survive, and hated being praised for it.

She looked away first.

A moment later, the muffled sound of voices carried up the staircase. One in particular rose above the others, Capitol-accented and impatient.

“Finnick? Come on—they’re waiting downstairs.”

Finnick sighed through his nose, but didn’t move right away. “That’s Arlen,” he said. “Stylist-turned-friend. He persuaded me to come to this event.”

She took another sip of wine, nodding along before drifting her gaze onto the painting again.

Finnick watched her for one more second, as if committing something to memory.

Then he said, “It was good meeting you, Elena Virell..”

Her lips curved just slightly. “Likewise.”

He walked away without another word.

And Elena stood still, fingers curling gently around the stem of her glass, wondering why she felt like fluttering within her stomach - it felt odd.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.

Capitol – the next day

Elena had taken her coffee and escaped the forced cheer of the reunion breakfast. It seemed to fancy and bougie for her taste. With other victors constantly laughing and making jokes, while her stylist followed her around and reminded her to smile, or sit with a straight back, eat with manners and so on..

The Capitol gardens had always been too polished for her taste—too sculpted, too artificial—but this early in the morning, before the photographers and game-makers showed up, the silence was real.

She found a bench near the back of the rose courtyard and sat, legs crossed, head tilted toward the breeze. It smelled faintly of citrus and wet stone.

“Thought I’d find you here,” came a voice. Warm, dry, unmistakably familiar.

She smiled before she turned. “You’re late.”

The man standing there wore a soft navy coat and a cane he didn’t strictly need. With dark hair (now mixed with a touch of grey) and eyes almost pure ocean color, she’d recognize him even by  the slightest glance. Calen, her old mentor. District 4’s oldest living Victor, and the first person who’d believed she could win without turning into something the Capitol would devour.

“You didn’t wait for me at breakfast,” he said, easing down beside her.

“They served portions at the size of my palm. I fled.”

He snorted. “And coffee seemed more appetizing?”

They sat together a moment, occasionally talking, but mostly watching distant buildings, tall as mountains and enjoying the peace and quiet.

Calen leaned back. “You look good. Quieter. Softer, maybe.”

“I’m not soft,” she said automatically.

“No. You just finally stopped fighting the past.”

She looked down into her coffee. “Maybe. Or maybe I just got better at hiding it.”

Calen didn’t push. He never did.

“Do you know who’s here?” he asked after a pause.

“Odair?”, she guessed. Her eyes meeting her mentor’s.

Calen smiled knowingly. “Ah, I see you already saw him last night at the gallery.”

“I didn’t talk to him,” she said, almost immediately. It felt weird, as if she was trying to prove something with no reason. “Not really.”

 A few more moments of silence passed till he reached into his coat and handed her something—a small, smooth shell from their home coastline.

“Thought you might want to keep something real in your pocket,” he said.

She took it. No words. Just a quiet breath and a grateful glance. “Is this where you give me some wise old mentor speech?”

He smirked. “No. This is where I remind you that not everyone is an enemy.” She opened her mouth, then closed it again. He wasn’t wrong.

Calen tapped his cane against the stone floor gently. “Look, I’m not saying you owe him anything. But the Capitol wants us all to play roles again, and you—you’ve stayed offstage longer than most. He hasn’t had that luxury.”

Elena's jaw tightened. “He chose to stay in the spotlight.”

“No,” Calen said softly. “They never gave him a door to leave through.”

That made her pause.

The air between them grew heavier. She folded her arms, holding the shell he’d given her in her palm now, thumb moving over its worn ridges.

Calen softened his voice. “You know what I see when I look at you, El?”

She didn’t answer.

“I see the girl who built a trap so quietly the cameras barely caught it. Who didn’t kill for sport. Who survived because she thought five moves ahead. Who went into that arena with no real knowledge of combat, yet still won…”

“I did what I had to,” she murmured.

“You always do. But don’t forget, there’s a life after surviving. And sometimes... someone walks into it who knows how to live afterwards.”

A silence passed. Then Elena stood. “I didn’t come out here to have a therapy session with a man with a walking stick.”

He chuckled. “You came out here to breathe. I just happened to be in the way.”

She looked down at him. “Thanks for the shell.” She started to walk away, then hesitated.

Without turning around, she asked, “What would you do, Calen?”

He didn’t hesitate, “I’d talk to him again.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.

Later That Day — Tribute Tower, Capitol District

Elena took the long way back to her suite. It was quieter out here, down a curved hallway that wrapped around the far wing of the tower—unused guest suites, forgotten elevators, and windows that stared out at a city too bright to be real.

She liked the silence, but she wasn’t alone.The moment she turned the corner past the sculpture alcove, she felt it—a shift in the air. That unspoken tension that followed only certain kinds of people.

“Elena Virell,” came a voice, low and too smooth.She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Brayden Marr, District 2 Victor. Won at seventeen. Brutal, theatrical, always more knife than person. The Capitol adored him.

Elena exhaled slowly and stopped walking. “Brayden.”

He stepped into view. Tall, immaculately styled, always in control. But his eyes—cold, calculating—held something else now.

“You’re hard to find. Been dodging events for years.”, his breath reeked of alcohol even from the current distance they were at.

“Maybe I just recognize what’s best for me.” she said, keeping her tone flat.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny. That’s not what they call it. You know what they say? You vanished. Ran. Like a scared little-”

She turned to face him. “Careful, Marr.”

But that only made him step closer.

“You know what I think?” he said, voice quieter. “You didn’t deserve it. You were just a fluke. A girl with a net and lucky timing. Half the Capitol doesn’t even remember your Games.”

Elena’s jaw clenched. “Good. That was the point.” Her heart dropped for a moment when she was pulled.

He grabbed her arm. Hard.

“You shouldn’t be here, Virell. Not with the real ones. Not with the ones who didn’t hide when the lights came on.”, his voice was low. Lower than before, as if wanting to appear intimidating.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull back. But her voice was ice. “Let go.”

“And if I don’t?”

A flash of movement behind him.

“Then I will,” came a voice Elena recognized instantly. Finnick.

Brayden didn’t turn fast enough.

Finnick’s hand snapped across Brayden’s wrist, forcing him back a step, and then another—just enough space for Elena to step away.

“Back off, Marr,” Finnick said. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous. “You’re not in the arena anymore. And she’s not alone.” Brayden held Finnick’s gaze for a second too long.

Then he smirked, lifted his hands in mock surrender, and backed off. “Didn’t mean to rattle her. Just saying hello.” He vanished down the corridor, coat swishing behind him.

Elena stood frozen for a beat, her heartbeat like thunder in her ears. Her arm was still pulsating after being gripped so harshly.

“You okay?” Finnick asked, voice lower now.

She looked at him for a moment longer than intended. And said nothing.

Then she walked away—past him, back toward the elevator. But she didn’t walk fast. And when he followed, this time... she didn’t stop him.

Elena walked in silence, her steps sharp against the pristine floor. Finnick stayed just a pace behind, hands loose at his sides, eyes on her—not pressing, just present.

When they reached the elevator, she hit the call button a little too hard.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said flatly. He didn’t answer at first.

Then, “You think I should’ve let him grab you?”, his voice was softer now, yet there was a hint of concern in it.

She turned to face him, eyes sharp. “I think I can handle myself.”

“I know you can,” he said, evenly. “But he wasn’t testing your strength, he was provoking you, trying to get under your skin.”

She looked at him, the green in her eyes became paler now. And for a second, she hated that he was right.

Ding. The elevator arrived, doors sliding open like an invitation neither of them trusted. And they stepped inside. Silence again, until Elena finally spoke, voice low. “They think I’m weak.”

He turned his head toward her, while she struggled to swallow the bitterness in her mouth.

“They think I disappeared because I couldn’t face it. The press, the parties, the Capitol. Maybe they’re right.”

He studied her face, but still didn’t speak. And Elena snickered once, bitter and soft after the silence. “You’re not going to deny it?”

“I’m not going to lie to you.”

That stopped her. She looked at him, tense—until she saw something different in his expression. Not judgment. Not pity. Sympathy.

“They say the same things about me,” he said. “Just... louder. With better lighting.”

“But they love you,” she said, almost accusing. He smiled, cold and tired. “No. They love what I pretend to be.” The elevator began to slow.

“You pretended to be charming,” she said. “I pretended not to exist.”

“And now here we are.” She didn’t respond.

The doors opened. They stood there a moment—neither moving. Then, softly, Elena asked, “Why were you there?”

He met her gaze, and then hesitated for a moment before answering. “Because Marr had beaten up more people than I could count on my fingers.”

She swallowed hard. “And you thought he was going to do the same to me?”

“No,” he said. “I thought he’d hurt you.” A long pause, and Finnick’s eyes never strained from her. In all honesty, the moment he saw Brayden’s hand around her arm, he felt absolute anger.

Then Elena stepped out of the elevator. Walked a few paces forward. And stopped.

“You coming to the banquet?” she asked, not looking back.

“Yeah,” Finnick said. “I think I think I have to now."

[cantheywinthehungergames]

April Fool's!

Normally, only human and humanoid characters can be submitted for polls on this blog. But, for April Fool's Day, let's look at a character that was previously rejected and indulge in some silliness.

Keep Reading for Tribute Info (no restrictions!)

If you would like to see your favorite character either as a tribute or as a mentor, please fill out this Google Form. Just keep in mind that for mentor polls, they will be posted every Saturday so chances are it could take a long time before they are posted. Also keep in mind that April Fool's Day is the only occasion where I would break my human/humanoids only rule, so please follow the submission rules.

Please also look at my pinned post for submission rules as well as a list of previously submitted characters prior to submitting your character.

Tribute Name: Susie

Age: Teenage

Media: Deltarune

Restrictions: None. If we're going to commit to the bit, Susie may as well have all her abilities!

[creationcitystreet-em]

Me: wow a full weekend off? I can actually study and get some much needed work done!

My brain: what if you reread the entirety of “Where Soul Meets Body” for the first time in like 5+ years and stayed up until 6am doing so instead??

[happyhauntt]

BURIAL GROUND, a hunger games fic.

─── summary:  In District Four, they teach you  how to survive the Games. They don’t teach you how to survive what comes after. ─── warnings: this story contains triggering themes including sexual assault & rape, prostitution, self-harm and thoughts of suicide, death and canon-typical violence. these themes, along with others, are prevalent in the hunger games universe and will come up in this story, so please don’t read if these things affect you! ─── fic tag. read on ao3. fic masterlist.

CHAPTER ONE ─── the uglier truth (3.8k words.)

     YOU WOULD THINK, by the way people in the Capitol talk about Nimah Caplan, that she was some kind of deity. That she wasn't born human, but instead rose from the sea foam crashing onto the shores of District 4 one day, skin glowing like the inside of a buttercup and eyes greener than the freshest grass.

     The Capitol likes to forget the uglier truth  ━  that she was never some goddess that appeared out of the blue one day, some beautiful woman to be at the center of President Snow's glistening parties.

     Nim hates to disappoint, but her life certainly didn't start out that way. She was a child, once, a long time ago. They drag it up every year, her adolescence reduced to nothing but a newsreel; it hurts to look at the films and see how young she used to be, still soft with innocence. She grew up a feral child, practically born with a knife in her hand, and yet still, before the Hunger Games, she'd been... something else.

     On mornings like this, though, she wishes she were born of the sea. Dragging herself out of bed, the silken sheets still tangled around her legs, she stumbles into the bathroom across the hall. She runs the tap and holds her hands beneath the freezing water for a moment before splashing it onto her face, hoping the chill will wake her up faster.

     Nim is fairly certain that goddesses don't get hangovers.

     She groans, drying her face off with a towel. A mirror hangs above the sink, large and oval with a silver-painted frame. The sheet she threw over it years ago, in an effort to ensure she never saw her own reflection again, is loose at the edge. For just a moment, she catches a flash of blue-streaked curls, desperately in need of brushing.

     She holds her breath and tugs the sheet back into place.

     The clock says it's late. Later than she should be waking up, anyway, on market day. She learned a long time ago that alarm clocks weren't the best way of rousing her from a dead sleep, and Nim had destroyed more than enough of them in a panicked haze to prove it.

     Heading back into her bedroom, she tugs on the nearest pair of black slacks she can find and grabs her tan wool-lined jacket from where it is draped over the foot of the bed. The empty bottle sitting on her bedside table glares at her until she grabs that, too, taking it downstairs with her and tossing it into the trash.

     Her boots, slippery black leather, slide on too easily over her narrow shins. At the door, she pauses. The nausea comes quickly, an unpleasant burn lingering at the back of her throat, and Nim presses her forehead against the glass until it passes.

     It isn't always so bad.

     Most of the time, these days, she doesn't need to drink. At night, she can take her sleeping pills and drift off to a dreamless netherworld where little can trouble her, and the nightmares cannot fight their way into her subconscious to tear her brain apart. Nim is happy to survive in this way, half-rested, as long as the terrors stay safely trapped in the lining of her bones where they belong.

     There are the bad days, though. Less now than there were a few years ago, when the Games were still fresh and the trauma was new, but they still happen. Those days, she cannot sleep without a bottle in her hand and enough alcohol in her system to tranquilize an elephant.

     Those days only come when she knows the inevitable is coming. A fast train to the Capitol, a few nights clinking glasses with society's elite, a shining example of what a young woman should be, with the right stylists, escorts, manners  ━  and a particularly memorable stint in the Hunger Games under her belt.

     The thought of brushing shoulders with Capitol folk again always makes her want to crawl inside a bottle. The thought of what happens when the lights go down and the party is over makes her want to never come back out.

     She swallows the bile back down and breathes deeply until her headache subsides a little, but the static on her skin never goes away. The hangover is only half of what makes her so sick; leaving her house in Victor's Village always feels like treading through a minefield. The wide open spaces, the eyes peering at her, judging her, reducing her to nothing but a tiny grain of sand...

     Nimah can be confident. She can fake it with the best of them, hold her head high in the Capitol and wear her dazzling smile and bat her eyelashes, because when the cameras are out there is nothing else she can do. This was the part assigned to her when she won the Games, and it is the role she'll play for the rest of her life.

     In her home district, though, Nim just wants to be invisible. Every pair of eyes on her feels like a dagger in her back. The navy streaks in her hair and the inhuman green of her eyes mark her out as a creature of the Capitol, now. An outsider.

     Steeling herself, she wrenches open the front door and steps out into the street. 

     Nim used to think that Victor's Village was pretty. As a child, she'd stand at the gates and press her face between the bars, looking at the long row of a dozen white marble mansions, six on either side, dreaming of the day she'd get to live in one.

     Now, as she treks down the path, gravel crunching beneath her feet, the mansions aren't so pretty anymore. They line up like pale tombstones on either side of her, empty windows leering into the street. At the very end of the road, six of the houses sit dark, with no one inside to make them into homes. Every other mansion in the village bares the flaws that Nim was blind to as a child; the cracks in the paint, the wrinkles in the skin of a Victor, the proof that the Games are not all they are made out to be.

     Mags' home is nearest to the gates. Orange chrysanthemums blossom in the window boxes  ━  gardening was the talent Mags chose when she won her Games around sixty years ago  ━  but her gnarled hands haven't touched the soil in years. These days, the caretakers are the ones keeping the village looking perfect.

     Annie Cresta's house sits across from it. There are little stars and hearts carved into the front door, from when the pair of them sat on the doorstep one day a few summers ago, intent on letting the world slip by for once. They'd been able to hear the voices from the square, where the rest of the district had gathered to watch that year's Victor on their victory tour. They were both supposed to go, but Annie's breakdown prevented her, and Nimah volunteered to stay behind and sit with her friend.

     She'd stolen knives from the kitchen and they'd sat in silence, gritting their teeth, carving happy symbols into the wood, forcing their anger out in a way that was more productive than smashing things. The caretakers painted over them, but when Nim goes to visit her friend, she runs her fingers over the marks left behind by their knives. It reminds her of a solitary, pleasant memory in the midst of so much bad.

     Next to Mags' house is Cowell. Winner of a Games that had long-since past, the windows of his mansion were broken years ago in a fit of rage, and boarded up with wood. Sometimes Nim can see the light from inside peeking through the gaps in the boards, but she doesn't see Cowell often. She doesn't mind. There is a haunted look lingering in his eyes, the kind she knows is mirrored in her own, and she hates to be reminded of her failures.

     Hobbs lives next door to Annie. Almost as old as Mags, his door is always open for anyone who needs to talk. When Nim first returned from the Capitol after winning her Games, it was Hobbs she ran to when she could no longer stand the quiet in her own house.

     Finnick and Nimah live opposite one another. She has been inside Finnick's home enough times to know that he keeps it immaculately tidy, as if cleaning up a physical mess is his way of sorting through the trauma he keeps buried. He always needs to keep his hands busy.

     Nimah sleeps with every light on in her house. Before she goes to bed, she treks through all the rooms and closes all the curtains, only to turn on the light before she leaves. If she wakes up in a darkened room, terror clogs her throat until she can't breathe. Her screaming wakes up the whole street. Even now, at midday, if she looks back over her shoulder she'll find her bedroom window glowing with golden light. It's how she finds her way home.

     When she reaches the gates, Nim pauses. Just beyond, down a long pathway, she can hear the bustle of the docks. From her window she can see the beach, the sea rising up in raucous grey waves to crash against the sand, and all the fishing boats bobbing in the water.

     Her old house, a brown shack with only a few rooms and a leaking roof, isn't near the beach. It sits in a long row of other shacks, all different shapes and sizes, in the shadow of the huge fisheries. Her parents used to work on the conveyor line, sorting the fish. Nim grew up in a house where the scent of rotting fish permeated everything, and she shared a room with her brother, and her grandparents lived in the room next door. There were six of them in that house. Her family wasn't poor, they earned better wages than many in the district and Nim and her brother never had to take tesserae, but every spare bit of her parents' money was spent sending their children to the combat academies.

     They didn't want the Hunger Games to take their children away.

     At least not without a fight.

     "Nim!"

     The crunching of gravel creeps up on her, and she turns weary eyes upon her new companion, offering him a small smile. "Finnick. I thought you had left for the Capitol already."

     His throat bobs as he comes to a stop beside her, holding the gate open so she can go through ahead of him. "Tomorrow." The smile he offers her in return is dazzling, white teeth gleaming like a shark's. "I've got business to attend to before the party next week. Are you going?"

     His voice dips, and for a moment it vanishes in the cool wind blowing in off the sea. Nim can't help it; she shivers. The party in question is the Victor's Ball, held at the Presidential Palace for this year's newest winners, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. Former Victors have always been invited, but most of them don't bother to go; Annie hasn't been to the Capitol for years, not even as a Mentor, and Cowell never passes the threshold of his front door these days.

     For Finnick and Nim, though, their attendance is not optional.

     Nim grimaces at his question, knowing he is only asking to be polite. "I'm putting it off until the day before. I've no desire to be in the Capitol any longer than required."

     Part of her likes it. The mindless gossip, the glitter and the gold, all the strange people and the way it distracts her for an hour or two. Her prep team dolls her up, and Nim has always shone as the center of attention, able to command a room with little effort.

     The days after, though, she has to bury herself beneath the covers and cry. To be so outgoing comes at a cost. To allow strangers to touch her, to rub shoulders with them and laugh with them, takes all of her energy. At one of her first parties after winning, someone grabbed her wrist when she wasn't looking, and she nearly clawed their eyes out.

     Surviving them takes everything she has.

     Without another word, the pair of them start the slow trudge down the path towards the town square. Nim pulls her jacket tighter around her. In mid-winter, the weather in District 4 is mild. It never snows here, but on the coldest days, the wind coming from the sea nips and bites.

     Her earliest memories are of summers spent playing on the beach with her brother, digging her toes into the warm sand. Those days were few and far between  ━  the peacekeepers only opened the beach up to the public on holidays  ━  but Nim's fondest memories are of chasing her brother into the surf and jumping over the waves.

     Every one of those moments feels tinged with red, now. The salty tang in the air reminds Nim of blood on her tongue.

     "What do you need from the market? I'll get it for you." Nim already has a list for Annie and Mags tucked into her pocket. The old woman had tried to insist that she was perfectly able to buy her own bread, but Nim had refused to listen.

     Finnick shakes his head. "You look like you need the company." He looks at her, his eyes lingering on the plain silk eye patch and the dark circles beneath her uncovered eye, her unruly curls and the odd pallor of her skin.

     Nim turns away. "I don't..."

     She leaves her sentence unfinished and lowers her eyes, careful to ensure her steps are even, one boot in front of another. Part of Nim craves silence; where Finnick must always keep his hands busy, must always have something to do, Nim adores nothing more than the quiet rooms of her too-large house, legs crossed in the middle of the plush carpet, trying her best to breathe.

     The small, traitorous heart of her, though, needs the company. Not to be surrounded, but to just exist with someone else, in the little moments of peace. To breathe with them. To be reminded that, no matter the horrors she has endured, there is someone else in the world that bleeds the same way she does.

     That doesn't mean she appreciates it. Finnick Odair, the Capitol's golden boy, hovering over her shoulder like she's a fragile thing about to break. Him and Mags and Hobbs, all watching and waiting for her to snap again. Wondering if it will be worse than last time.

     The pair of them walk on in silence, until they reach the town square. On market days, the square in front of the Justice Building fills up with stalls selling all kinds of goods. Peacekeepers mill through the crowd, white-gloved hands ready with their guns. They used to chat with stallholders, gossip and buy their bread without much trouble, but since Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark came through last week on their victory tour, things have been different.

     There is a tension in the air that wasn't there before.

     The shouting batters her ears. Nim closes her eyes for a moment, struck by the sudden rise in volume. Without a word, Finnick presses closer; not close enough to touch her, but she can feel the warmth of his hand hovering over the small of her back, close enough to shield her from the noise.

     Releasing a slow breath through her nose, Nim heads over to the first of the long line of stalls. Drawing the crumpled list from her coat pocket, she passes it over to the stallholder, who sets to work putting a series of glass jars into a basket.

     Finnick leans over Nim's shoulder. "What is Mags cooking up that requires that many jars?"

     Nim shrugs. "Ask Mags."

     They move along the line of stalls. Nim keeps her head low, eyes intently focused on the movements of her hands  ━  passing the money across to each vendor, inspecting her purchases before carefully putting them into her basket. She can feel Finnick at her back, only a few inches taller but feeling infinitely more like a human shield the longer she spends in the midst of a crowd.

     She hates this. Every time someone she doesn't know accidentally brushes past, she flinches away. A vile feeling coils in the pit of her stomach like a viper waiting to strike; an urge to run coupled with the instinct to attack first, to drive a knife through someone's throat before they can get her.

     Her muscles tense. She keeps a tight grip on the basket, lime-green eye darting from stranger to stranger, her pupil narrowed to a tiny black pinprick. Everyone is an threat, even the people she recognises  ━  a girl she went to school with lingers by one of the many shellfish stalls, hardly paying attention to her surroundings, but when Nim blinks, she sees a flash of bare teeth lunging for her neck.

     To be that ignorant, she thinks, pushing the obtrusive thoughts away. It does not stop the horrible prickling of her skin, but she loosens her shoulders a bit. Even with the Peacekeepers wandering around, everyone in the marketplace seems so carefree in comparison to the thundering of her heart. None of them know what it is like to have blood on their hands; to feel the slick warmth of it as it runs up their wrist, to scrub and scrub until their skin is raw and still feel no closer to clean.

     The girl  ━  her name tugs at the edge of Nim's memory, but Nim hasn't thought of her old schoolmates in so long that it feels like that life belonged to someone else  ━  moves along. Nim tracks her movements like a predator until she has moved just out of view, and suddenly someone else, someone heartbreakingly familiar, crosses into her line of vision.

     She can feel Finnick looking at her, wondering why she froze like a deer caught in the sights of a hunter, but with one look at where she is staring, he understands.

     Her grandmother hasn't seen them yet.

     Distantly, as if she is underwater, Nim can hear the irritated mutters of people as they step around her and Finnick, annoyed that they've stopped in the middle of the path. Finnick wraps his hand around Nim's arm and gently tugs her out of the way. Almost automatically, she tears herself out of his grasp, shocked out of her haze.

     The old woman stops at one of the stalls further down, clutching the hand of a young child. Something stony and cold ripples through Nim as the little girl, no older than six, chatters happily away. Beneath the eye patch, the marbled scar over Nim's eye burns.

     "Have you talked to her recently?" Finnick's voice is soft in her ear, but Nim wants to reach up and rip his tongue out. Finnick, darling of the Capitol. Finnick, who, in the eyes of the world, seems never to have done anything wrong in his life  ━  except save her.

     Nim scoffs. "What do we have to talk about?"

     He grimaces, a poor attempt to hide his loathing of the old woman. He has never been so good at biting his tongue when it could get him into trouble with Nim, but these days, he knows better than to push her where her family is concerned.

     Her grandmother buys a loaf of bread and carries on walking, pulling the little girl along beside her. The child tosses her head back to giggle, a wave of brown curls cascading over her shoulders, before suddenly she looks back over her shoulder, beaming a bright smile at no-one in particular.

     "I'm not a masochist," Nim says through gritted teeth. Jaw clenched, she watches as her grandmother and the girl press on, eyes lingering on them until the crowd swallows them up and they vanish from sight.

[disgurrr]

Here is your daily reminder that Katniss connected the dandelion to Peeta ever since she was 11 years old. The dandelion that reminded her that she was not doomed. That she can survive. That she can keep her family alive. That there is hope.

[etherealperrie]

Anywhere With You

Chapter 2: "The Bolters"

Coriolanus (Coryo) Snow x Reader Word count: 1.6k Contains: pre-hunger games Coryo | buzzcut Coryo | longtime friends to lovers | Coriolanus being soft for the one he loves | mentions of minor tbosas characters | tbosas spoilers

Catching Up? Chapter 1

--

There’s a chill in the air. Your body shivers in response, a reminder that you really are here, your fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of the case you packed late last night. Wind dances across the town center, sweeping the leaves up into the air. You watch in awe as the oranges and yellows mix, their rustling the only sound at this hour. You’ll miss the changing of seasons here in the city, even though they don’t carry quite the same beauty and magic they did when you were a child – before the war. 

The sounds of footsteps catch you off guard, an instinct you weren’t aware you had, forces you back into the shadows behind a nearby building. It’s only Sejanus. You had no real reason to worry, he wouldn’t tell. In all honesty you thought he might try to leave with you and Coriolanus, but he refused. Even though he’d be the last person to try and stop you from leaving, you fight the desire to wave goodbye to him. It’s best you’re not seen. It would be easier to fade away in the memories of everyone here. Not only that, it would erase Sejanus of any culpability. To be honest you aren’t sure what the Capital will do once they realize you’re gone, but the last thing you want is for any of your friends to suffer consequences. So, instead of saying your goodbyes, you watch his figure walk away towards the Academy, noting the strength of his shoulders as he straightens up with every step. 

Your heart thuds against your chest. 

Where you’re headed is uncharted territory, really. A place you’d only heard stories about. A place supposedly far beyond District Twelve. A place with no one in sight – no civilization, just open fields and nameless land. Your heart pounds and you’re not sure whether it's out of excitement or fear: maybe both. After all, you’d been taught to fear a place like that, a lawless land. And yet, the thought of being able to live without the Capitol breathing down your neck, without the expectations and demands of your parents and professors excites you. Makes you wonder for all the things you might do, for the person you might become; to see the ways you and Coryo grow together. 

Slinking further back against the building, you glance up at the sky, the sun just beginning to rise from its slumber. When you woke this morning, Coriolanus was gone, his bed empty. Though the two of you discussed strategy mere hours before, waking up alone was frightening. What if Dean Highbottom heard word of your planned escape? What if a Peacekeeper found your Coryo out in the wee hours of the morning and took him to Dr. Gaul? Coriolanus is smart, but Dr. Gaul is calculated – who’s to say she wouldn’t catch on to your plans and punish him? 

Your worries are cut short as your body collides with something, or rather, someone. Before you have time to panic, a hand covers your mouth, another hand interlocking with yours, rubbing a soothing circle into your skin. 

Coryo. 

His eyes meet yours and you release a gasp, wilting into the strength of him holding you up. Your gaze rakes over him, noting something different about him. His hair. The soft wave of blonde curls are no longer, his hair buzzed down.

“Coryo,” you breathe, running your hands over his head. “What happened? Did they hurt you?” Your hands drop from his head down to his shoulders, feeling every inch of him. 

“I’m okay, love, I promise.” He chuckles, pressing his forehead to yours. “I figure it would be easier to maintain this way.” He shrugs. “That, and I thought it might help us slip out unnoticed.” 

He had a point, he did look different. Everyone here knew him to have those soft, gentle curls.

His hands tuck into the back pocket of his pants and emerge with a saffron yellow colored scarf. The golden thread shimmers in the early morning light. He glances at you and smiles softly, unfurling the satin fabric to drape it over your head. His fingers work to tie the ends just under your chin. 

“What’s this?” Your brow furrows and you reach up to feel the fabric now covering your hair, shielding you from the wind chill and the eyes of anyone around. 

“It was my mothers.” Coriolanus sighs, lacing his fingers through yours. “Anything to keep us out of sight.” He tugs you the slightest bit closer to him and presses a gentle kiss to your lips. It takes every fiber in your being to hold yourself back from him, to not mash your lips against his in such fervor that reflects the danger of the situation the two of you are in. Instead, you pull back as he squeezes your hand, a promise that there’s more on the other side of the two of you escaping the Capitol. 

The sharp whistle of a train in the distance brings you both back to reality, Coryo snapping up, his posture impossibly straight. 

“Come on, we don’t want to miss this one.” 

Close on Coryo’s heels, your hand in his, you make your way across the Capitol center towards the train station. As you approach, unfamiliar voices echo in the station yelling in virulent opposition to the stoic silence of the Peacekeepers as they yank small, frail bodies from the train. 

Your breath catches in your throat, your feet stopping. Coriolanus doesn’t notice at first, the way that you’ve stopped in your tracks, your hand no longer in his but lifted to your lips, the other shielding your eyes from the horror in front of you. 

The tributes. 

Peacekeepers. 

There’s no guarantee that Dr. Gaul or Dean Highbottom aren’t here as well. There’s no guarantee that you and Coryo make it out of the Capitol, let alone onto the train. You hadn’t realized everything Dr. Gaul mentioned yesterday would happen so quickly. That the tributes would be arriving this morning. Where would they go? How many would survive their welcome into the city? How could you run away while they were being carted to their untimely demise – something you’re supposed to have a hand in? 

From where you stand just behind a rusted column at the back of the station, your eye catches those of a small boy. Dark brown hair and pale skin, marred by dirt and what looks like blood, his left eye blackened. Had he been hit by a Peacekeeper? A fellow tribute? No more than twelve, he snivels, crossing his arms as he jumps down from the train onto the platform. A peacekeeper takes hold of his arm, but the boy doesn’t take his eyes off of you. It clicks then. It’s him. Your boy. The one you’ve been assigned. 

“Where did you go?” You jump at the feeling of Coryo’s breath on your cheek, his eyes wide as he takes in the sight of you stuck frozen to your place. The two of you are cramped behind this column, if a Peacekeeper so much as glanced in this direction, you’d be caught. 

Coriolanus takes hold of your hand and follows your gaze to the boy standing on the platform. More tributes stand around him now, all of them accompanied by a Peacekeeper awaiting instruction. Coriolanus sighs and brings his hand to your chin, turning your head back to him. 

“I know you want to help them.” 

You nod. 

“I should’ve warned you we might see them, but this is the only train that’s going back out to Twelve for quite some time, we have to take it.” 

“But, Cory–” 

“I know, I know.” Coriolanus places a finger to your lips. “Sejanus is going to do all he can to help them. He knows people back in Two. If he can, he’s going to help them escape – but we have to go. Now.” 

“What if we-” you begin again but Coriolanus cuts you off, placing a delicate hand over your mouth. You raise an eyebrow as the group of peacekeepers and tributes fall silent, their footsteps echoing across the platform as they begin their march toward the transport vehicle. 

“They’re going to bomb the arena,” Coriolanus whispers. “Sejanus, the rebels. They’re already in place, the minute anyone sets foot inside, the whole place will go down. They won’t even be able to hold the games. We don’t have to worry.” 

You’re not sure how to reckon with the information. When did this happen? Whose idea was it? It just might work, though, the Capitol is more than halfway out on the idea of the games overall, most people not having bothered to watch in years. A plan like this just might convince the masses that the Hunger Games are a moot point. That these children are victims to a war they never waged. 

Coryo eyes you, looking for any sign of movement. His eyes are slightly manic, bouncing between you and the train as if internally counting the seconds you have left to board. 

“Okay,” you sigh, taking one last look back at the tributes who had been shuffled into the car. A peacekeeper locks the back door and climbs inside the passenger seat just as the vehicle putters away, its engine just loud enough to mask the sounds of cries and screams. 

Your heart rips in half as Coriolanus tugs you from behind the pillar and out into the open for a singular moment before thrusting you up into the open train car, climbing inside after you. His hand rests on your hip, making sure you’re secure before turning to slide the door closed. 

It's dark. 

The train gives one last, mighty whistle as it lurches forward beginning its long trek back to District Twelve. 

“We’re almost free,” Coriolanus whispers, tucking his head to press a kiss to your neck. He rests there, on your shoulder for a long while, his fingers dancing across your thigh as the sound of the train tracks mimics the pounding of your heart.

--

A/N: I know this is many, many months late BUT I wanted to continue the story & tag those who requested it all that time ago...so...

TAG LIST: @clintsupremacy @jennifer0305 @zucchinimalfoy @marina468 @nishimura-writes @lovebyceleste @ennycutie @mjkale @tellsbabyy

[ifwebefriends]

I started rereading Catching Fire yesterday (I haven’t read the book in over 10 years) and the first chapter is already making me kinda insane for a few reasons

“A light snow starts to fall as I make my way to the Victor’s Village” (12) this pretty much directly foreshadows President Snow’s visit with Katniss at her new house

“[the Victor’s Village is] a separate community built around a beautiful green, dotted with flowering bushes. There are twelve houses” (13) I know that the number 12 is just kinda a common theme in this series but a part of me also kinda thinks this foreshadows the layout of the arena in the 75th Hunger Games as well as the victors’ involvement

After the BOSAS movie was released there’s been a lot of debate about whether Lucy or Coriolanus is the songbird or snake, I kind of think they’re both in their own ways but the final line of this chapter is literally “I'm staring into the snakelike eyes of President Snow.” (17) and made me want to scream

[thatfriendlyanon]

i can complain about aspects of the hunger games all i want, but it’s also choked me up three times already (made me cry one of those times, and there would’ve been another too if i hadn’t known the rue spoiler going in)