𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘥 .

my poor mother begged for a sheep — 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙖 𝙬𝙤𝙡𝙛 .

[bludstaine]

you  poor  thing  —  sweet  mourning  lamb .      . ・゜゜・．#𝙱𝙻𝚄𝙳𝚂𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽𝙴  is  a  muse  blog  dependent  on  mockingjaysfm .  written  with  ugly  devotion  by  lo,  who  is  aged  thirty,  operates  from  the  gmt  timezone,  and  prefers  the  pronouns  of  she  and  her.

katniss everdeen

mina dewitt

siku maskwa

ophelia redfield

[burntgcds]

HONORE WAS TRAINED TO PUT THE MISSION ABOVE EVERYTHING, AND FOR THE MOST PART, HE FOLLOWED THAT GUIDANCE. He spent years undercover in the Capitol, watching victors and tributes come and go from a careful distance-- only reaching out when his mother gave the go-ahead. Mina, however, was the weakness in his armor. He was supposed to be hovering on the outskirts of the victors' orbit, but with her, he couldn't help but draw himself nearer. He knew it wasn't part of the plan and that being around her put her more at risk, but he couldn't help it--- a part of him will always be a bit selfish.

He traced her presence as she spoke, eyes lingering on the annoyance that quickly flashed upon her features. From an outsider's perspective, she was the poised victor she portrayed herself as. He knew her better, though, and he could tell she was upset by her role in the rebellion.

"You don't have to stay here, you know." He murmured softly, leaning down so that only she could hear their conversation. "We can slip out the back and disappear, if you want. I'm sure these Capitolites will be too drunk to notice your absence, anyway."

[bludstaine]

it is hard to be tender after all that she has been through. but honore releases something in mina which she had thought to be long dormant. a kindness which had been stomped out of her by the arena and all that followed, a softness reserved for their moments alone, when he would walk out of a place like this on her arm, and offer her a warm bed all to herself. it pains her to admit it, that when he’s near, she doesn’t want to be alone any longer. there is comfort in him and their history, the truth in the purpose that he has given her since welcoming mina into the rebellion. they’re known well enough within the capitol, so it is with eyes hungry for gossip rather than brimming with envy that watch how honore leans closer. the unconscious way in which she tilts her own head close enough to hear the words spoken just for her. eyes fluttering shut, she feels a warmth spreading through her, an easy comfort in someone who has become her best and closest friend in the time they’ve known each other. “let’s go,” she agrees, lashes fluttering as eyes lined with kohl lift to meet his. “i doubt it’s sponsorships they want to offer me at this point.” she says quietly, lifting a flirtatious hand to brush against his shoulder. all of it for show, to present them all with the lie that she is claimed for the night. she takes his hand and slips through the crowd, many of them parting in awe of the beautiful victor. there is much attention on her thanks to ash being her tribute again, and she hates that more than anything. the rest of them, as honore says, are too drunk to pay much attention to the glitzy little thing pulling her friend from the party and out into the balmy, summer night. she closes her eyes and tilts her head towards the sky, sucking in a breath as she shakes of mina the victor, and becomes his friend again. “saint honore, saving me from them all over again.”

[metaltourniquet]

Fawn spotted her long before she reached them, glitter dusted across her collarbones, eyes too bright, the curve of her smile stretched thin enough to split. Mina Dewitt sparkled because the Capitol demanded it, not because she had anything left to shine with tonight. Fawn understood that kind of performance too well.

They stepped toward her as she slipped back into the crowd, reading the tension in the flex of her jaw, the brittle edge beneath her sweetness. When she spoke ( Isn’t this exciting? ) the words hung sharp and trembling in the air between them. “No,” they said softly, evenly. They didn’t force a smile or a mask. Mina already had enough of those for the both of them. “It’s not exciting. It’s a reminder.” Of exactly who they think we belong to.

Their voice remained calm, but their eyes were steady, tethering. “Sponsors will come. They always do. The Capitol loves a tragedy dressed up pretty. Just… don’t burn yourself out chasing them. They’re drunk on luxury tonight. Someone has to stay level.” A beat passed before they added, quieter, “You shouldn’t be doing this alone. Want some company?”

[bludstaine]

she reminds herself that this is all a game. or a continuation of one she has played before, sick and twisted, and something she cannot escape from all these years later. the blood soaked mayhem of her own arena, mina would take it in a heartbeat over these frequent trips to the capitol. tonight, at least, she does not adorn anyone’s arm as though she is one of their glittering accessories, a ring on their finger or the jewels against their breast. she is a mentor, she is working the room, and she is seething. sometimes she fears the pity more than she does the leering, she would welcome the hands reaching for the shimmering snowfall of her hair swifter than she would a kind touch upon her shoulder. she looks to fawn, one of her own. a victor, but there is nothing victorious about them, much like mina. do they still wake up screaming, guilt clawing at their skin like it does hers? she imagines that they do - that they all do. “a reminder that they can change the goalposts whenever they wish.” her fury is simmering, and she has fought to keep it from boiling over. easier said than done when she is pressed beneath the boot of the capitol. “i hate doing this… chasing them. making them think i want them.” there is more to it than just the sponsorships, everyone knows it. pale eyes lift to meet fawns, and she slowly nods. “i’d appreciate that,” she says quietly, stepping closer as though the other victor were a shield to her torment. “they’re always drunk. how intoxicating all of this much be for them.”

[bludstaine]

@likeallfires

she is so angry, but is katniss not always brimming with a fury for which she is so famous? the girl on fire, burning alive in her own indignation. she thinks of peeta,  and she feels her heart stutter wildly in her chest, to imagine him back in the arena, surrounded on all sides by those who would hurt them. their friends, those they’ve grown closer to… much too close to. katniss has always worked to protect herself from such bonds, and here she is, a fool of a woman who had begun to let herself care. and here is haymitch, perhaps the one she cares most for and still shares the most hostility with. it is like looking in a mirror at times, and as she sits beside him on the plush couches of their living area, her stomach twists in anticipation and a nausea which is growing more familiar by the day. “there was nothing you could have done.” she says quietly. nothing that either of them could have done, in truth. it was always going to be peeta, because he would have bent the heavens and the earth just to ensure he went into that arena alongside katniss. “they want him - us - dead. they have since we were sixteen years old.”

[fordirections]

Nora hated reaping day, even before she'd been a Victor of the games it had been a dreadful day. Then every year it was just a reminder that she was likely to take two children to their death. Today was different though. She was surrounded by friends or at the very least people she'd known for decades. She wanted nothing more than to just run away. Especially once the reaping was over. How was she to come to terms with going back when she was forced to engage with others.

Like most victors though Nora knew what was expected of her, and she could put on the show that people were expecting. So she'd laughed and drank and acted wild. Even going to the bathroom to wet her hair to cause the wild curls to explode round her face.

"I'd keep your hopes to a minimum just now. Well, maybe just wait until later on in the night. Once their excitement really amps up as their inhibitions lower."

[bludstaine]

she wonders if any of this is real, if any of them are truly happy as the laughter dances around her head much like the pounding base of the music. it’s another world here in the capitol, like a frenzy of lights and stimulation which mina cannot possibly imagine to keep up with. she aches for home, the familiar weight of an axe in her hand and the trees lining her district. she wishes to feel the ground beneath her feet and know that it isn’t about to disappear out from under her, as it so often does here where nothing feels real, but dreamlike. and yet it all hurts just the same. she looks at nora, a brow arching in her direction. “i thought you’d be locked away in the training center?” she tilts her head, thinks of her own tributes hidden away on the seventh floor, forced behind locked doors after days of wondering whose name might be called. her little sister, likely cursing mina’s name as she dresses herself in glitter, pretties herself up and looks for the means to keep her tributes alive in the hands of wealthy sponsors. “that’s when i want to get away. they’re worse when they’re drunk.”

[metaltourniquet]

Dyna’s shoulders eased the moment she heard Siku say her name, just that, just Dyna, like it pulled her back into her own skin. They hadn’t realized how tightly they’d been holding themself until then. Everything tonight was smoke and tension, the whole Capitol strung up like a tightened wire, but Siku’s voice cut through it in a way nothing else could.

They stepped toward him without thinking, soft and sure, the Capitol shine still in place but gentled at the edges just for him. “Come on,” they murmured, tilting their head toward a side hallway most visitors never noticed. “The stylists’ break lounge stays empty after reaping nights. No cameras inside. Just ugly couches and bad lighting.” It was a joke, quiet but real, the kind they easily slipped into around him.

As they walked, Dyna kept a close enough distance that Siku could brush against them if he needed the grounding. Not touching outright ( she wouldn’t risk startling him on a night already too full of fear ) but close, companionable. When they reached the door, Dyna pushed it open and gestured for him to go in first. The room was dim, mercifully so. “Sit,” they said gently. “Or lie down. Or stand and stare at the wall. All acceptable options.”

They paused then, letting themselves look at him, really look. The fear tucked behind the boyish edges of his face, the exhaustion, the guilt radiating off him in waves. “You did what you could today,” Dyna said softly, sincerity slipping past their practiced polish. “More than anyone should’ve had to. And I’m… I’m really glad you’re here. With me. Not up on that stage.”

Their voice almost betrayed the emotion under it, so they cleared their throat lightly, softened the moment with a faint smile. “I can get you water. Or a blanket. Or I can shut up and sit next to you. Dealer’s choice.”

[bludstaine]

he doesn’t have it in him. it feels wrong, like something gone rotten on his tongue to even think about preparing his friends for the arena. all of what they’ve been working towards, and siku has never once imagined a reality in which he might find himself standing through another reaping as a potential tribute. and yet, their name was not called, and it wasn’t relief they felt but dread coursing through them as they had looked to sparky and felt their heart sink. another year of mentoring, and siku cannot imagine doing this without sparky at their side.

but dyna is there, a comfort standing small and sturdy before them. she is so familiar, eyes holding onto their own as words pass between them unsaid. i am sorry that this is happening, i am happy to see you, i am so afraid. he doesn’t think that he will ever stop being afraid. “no cameras. didn’t think it was possible.” siku sighs as he follows dyna along down the corridor, feels his knuckles brush theirs and almost jumps out of his skin. it’s like a jolt everytime he touches them, so he tends to avoid it in a manner so rare for one as affectionate as he.

their legs almost give out as siku moves to sit down on the strangely soft sofas reserves for the stylists. they’ve never been here, but they don’t look curiously around, rather drop their head into their shaking hands. “i feel like i should be. why him and not me?” he takes in a breath and looks up at them, eyes flickering over dyna’s face as though reaching out for that comofrt she always provides. “can you sit? i just… need a second. my legs haven’t stopped shaking.”

[tetheredgod]

icarus had grown to have an oddly distant relationship with capitol parties, especially for someone that attended most of them. there was something violent in the parties' consumption, in their spills of alcohol on marbled floor, smoke ashes on balcony railings. there was something animalistic to it, a ritualistic indulgence that could challenge the games themselves for just how grotesque they could get.

so sure, he was at the party, but it was hardly like he felt at ease. he'd taken to sticking to walls wherever he could ( this was easier on his bag leg, anyway ), grasping onto shadows but making it seem as though he was deliberately refusing to engage with most of the crowd. as if to add mystique to his straightened shoulders. in reality, he was simply uncomfortable, on high alert, watching capitolites dance and chatter as they drowned their reaping-related sorrows.

he wasn't too familiar with mina dewitt. sure, he'd studied her games as he had all of them, but he staunchly remained unsold on interacting with victors, let alone liking them. and yet-- maybe he sometimes couldn't hide that there was some soul left to him, or maybe it was as obvious as his mangled leg, and he was simply more able to ignore it most days.

because mina looked pale as anything, pale as he had seen so many times before ( nervous children-turned-tributes had a habit on throwing up on his shoes for some reason, he truly did know what a retched kind of pale looked like ). so he pushed himself away from the wall he'd been clinging to, grabbed a tray of hors-d'-fucking-oeuvres off a poor capitol waiter, and made his way over to her.

"you should at least try and eat something," he lamented, like he was personally bothered by the state she was in. he held up the stupid tray of hors d'oeuvres. "you're in for a long night otherwise."

[bludstaine]

exhausted, it feels as though events such as this one sucks the very life out of mina. in truth, it has always felt this way to her; from the moment that victory crown was placed upon her brow, golden swimming in a sea of silver, she has felt worn out by the life she won in the arena. she often wishes she could slip away unseen, but it is more than just her own life on the line these days, it is the lives of her tributes who need mina to be the eyes, the hands and the lips they cannot be as they are locked away in the training center. if there were nothing to fight for beyond all of this, mina isn’t sure where it is she would find herself, today. her eyes lift towards the trainer she has had little dealings with. generally, she spends her energy on working with potential sponsors rather than those tasked with teaching her tributes how to kill. she recalls her own training sessions with a barely suppressed shudder, that tiny creature that she was in a room full of kids she would later watch die. “i’m not hungry,” she sounds almost petulant in her words, but mina’s appetite is lost to the terror she feels for ash. “i doubt those will make this any more bearable.” she should watch her tongue, and it is for this reason that she lifts the hors d’oeuvre to her lips and takes a bite. a capitolite man nearby is watching, and she turns her head away in well disguised disgust. “i feel bad for not eating at these things. i used to be little more than skin and bones before i won.”

[likeallfires]

@bludstaine

peeta had hated not being able to bake anything or help katniss in the way that he had wanted. and he hated that he had to ask an avox for something to help katniss since they knew that she wasn't feeling all too well and he knew that it was possibly because of the announcement, they hadn't been in the right headspace themselves to think about it too much which was why half of their focus was on making sure that katniss was alright. he had grabbed the soothing ginger drink from the avox, thanked them profusely before sitting it down on the table and running a hand over their face and then through his hair before taking a deep breath, trying to put up a strong front that he could for her. he had knocked on her door once before coming in and he smiled at her. "you said you haven't been feeling well and i just.... well i wish i could say i made it but i didn't. i did say very specific things to add into it though. if i had hands on some flour i would have made you some cinnamon bread." they had placed the cup of ginger tea with some chamomile petals mixed in it, sliding it over towards her before gently sitting down on the bed, hands on tucked into his jacket. "are you okay? have... have you talked to haymitch?" he made me promises.

[bludstaine]

things have felt a mess in the days that have followed the reaping, katniss’s grip on reality has faltered as she spends her time alone, watching the walls of her capitol assigned room; a tribute once more. it is a horrifying concept, one which exhausts katniss, makes her feel nauseous and lethargic. all she can think of is prim, of her mother and of haymitch, gale, madge. peeta. her husband for all intents and purposes, and so often her final tether to reality. she barely notices the knock on the door, nor said husband slipping in with something warm and soothing cupped between their palms. her eyebrows arch and, slowly, katniss sits up against the fluffy pillows she still finds much too comfortable since she started coming to the capitol so frequently. “i love your cinnamon bread.” she notes, her voice low and hoarse from the crying, her tears long since dried on her cheeks, eyelashes clinging to one another. “yeah… yeah, i spoke to him.” katniss’s grey eyes lift to meet peeta’s, her mouth dry as she mulls it over in her mind. she will keep them alive this time, haymitch had made his promises and she intends to help him keep them. “i can’t believe he’s doing this, peeta.” she wills her voice not to break as she takes the cup from them and pulls her knees up against her chest, cheek resting against the soft fabric of her pants whilst her eyes trail over his familiar form. “i thought we were free of the arena. “

[metaltourniquet]

who: fawn maddox & open where: the tribute tower, post reaping

Fawn sat in the dim hush of the Tribute Tower, the city lights bleeding through the glass like something half-alive. They kept their hands folded loosely in their lap, though a faint tremor moved through their fingers whenever they forgot to hold them still. Anyone looking would have seen calm. Only the tightness in their throat betrayed them.

Their name had barely finished echoing before Caius volunteered. Brisk, eager, like he’d been waiting for the spotlight to call him home. It wasn’t a rescue. It wasn’t meant to be. The Capitol would dress it up as noble sacrifice, but Fawn knew better. His ambition filled the air like static.

What knocked the breath from them was Iris. Reaped again. Pulled back into the jaws of the Capitol’s spectacle as though the first time hadn’t been enough to scar her - and everyone who loved her.

Fawn inhaled slowly, letting the breath settle somewhere deep, smoothing the edges of their expression. The victors were being watched, every blink catalogued, every swallow weighed. So when one of the attendants blinked at them curiously, Fawn turned to the person next to them, features schooled. "Are you alright?"

[bludstaine]

her knees tremble, but there is little else to indicate how at odds ophelia feels with herself. her fingerprints are on those arena plans, her words and ideas had tasted rotten on her tongue, but she had offered them, regardless. now, she is tasked with the challenge of living with herself. a difficult feat considering all that she’s done to help shove this rebellion forward and into the light. how many of them must die in the process? sacrifice after sacrifice with so little to show for it, but they’re getting closer, she can feel it in the trembling within the capitol, in snow’s fear. she can hear it in the shock announcement of the games this year. he wants to wipe them out, and ophelia is expected to aid in those plans. for fear that their legs may give out, they hurry to sit on one of the nearby benches, unaware of all around them. a voice from their dreams reaches out to them, one which has haunted each night and forced ophelia to live through their sister’s death over, and over, and over. the one who couldn’t save her in the end. the eyes of a doe, wide and the softest of brown turn molten when they land on fawn, narrowing ever so slightly. she drops her tablet by her side, as though to put space between her and them. “i’m fine.” voice hard, tight. of course she’s not alright, the other half of herself was ripped out, and here she is adding poison to panem in paloma’s name. “lucky you, hm? that was close. you almost went right back in.”

[metaltourniquet]

who: dyna emery & open where: the tribute tower, post reaping

Dyna stood just inside the doors of the tribute tower, the soft hiss of them closing behind her doing nothing to steady her pulse. The marble floors gleamed too brightly, and the chandeliers were turned up too high. Everything in the Capitol had always felt theatrical, but tonight it felt like a stage built specifically to watch her slip. Surveillance was thicker than Dyna had ever seen; Peacekeepers lined the lobby, cameras blinked like watchful insects, and every escort or stylist moved with the brittle tension of people who knew the wrong gesture might be read as treason.

They smoothed their hands down the front of their staff uniform ( a habit, a reset ) before stepping farther in. On the surface, Dyna was every inch the Capitol-polished trainer: composed posture, calm expression, a faint, professional softness in their eyes. Inside, the District 13 spy was running calculations at a breathless speed. They’d known a crackdown was coming, but reaping victors? Dragging old survivors back into the arena for Snow’s birthday spectacle? That was a warning shot to the whole country.

Someone stepped out of the elevator ahead of them, then. Dyna offered a small, steady smile. Quiet, companionable, exactly what a Capitol trainer was supposed to be. “Long day,” they said gently. “If you want water or a moment to breathe, I can help you find somewhere quiet.”

[bludstaine]

they  had  thought,  for  certain,  that  they  were  doomed.  the  reaping  had  taken  barely  more  than  an  hour,  but  to  siku  it  had  felt  like  eons  alongside  their  fellow  victors.  he  had  trembled,  watching  the  stage  with  an  uncharacteristically  hard  gaze,  almost  comical  on  the  boyish  features  for  which  the  capitol  love  him  so.  this  feels  like  a  step  too  far,  even  knowing  that  plans  are  being  made  in  the  background.  their  gaze  had  drifted  so  often  to  plutarch  that  siku  had  needed  to  force  themself  to  stop  before  it  grew  suspicious.  they  always  say  he  has  the  sort  of  face  which  gives  every  little  thought  away,  after  all.  eventually,  he  had  screwed  his  eyes  shut  like  a  little  kid  trying  to  make  the  monster go  away. the  elevator  slides  open,  siku  wringing  their  long  fingers  as  they  slip  into  the  tribute  tower  where  they  will  be  forced  to  mentor  friends, comrades  as  they  head  into  the  hunger  games,  once  more.  guilt  wars  with  fear,  and  so  he  barely  even  notices  dyna  there.  he  stills,  eyes  landing  on  the  trainer,  a  comfort  after  a  day  so  long  as  this  one  has  felt.  “dyna,”  he  savours  the  word,  the  sight  of  her.  it’s  been  a  while  since  he  last  saw  them,  but  his  heart  is  weakened,  almost  too  tentative  to  skip  its  usual  beat.  “quiet…  yeah.  i  could  use  somewhere  quiet.”

[bludstaine]

you             built             this            cage             .

(   olivia cooke   ,   demi woman   ,   she / they   )   that’s  OPHELIA REDFIELD , the THIRTY THREE year old UNDERCOVER GAMEMAKER from DISTRICT EIGHT  they’re so lucky to be in the capitol for such a special hunger games.  they’ve been here for long enough to gain a reputation for being so RESILIENT, and simultaneously ILLUSIVE.  they remind me of the patience of awaiting a moment you have ached for, to be so riddled with guilt that you no longer feel the grief, red on your hands and in your scalp ; might you never escape?, which makes sense since they’re always listening to ODE TO THE METS by the strokes. let’s hope they’re up for all this work ahead of them this year .  

𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘴

full name : ophelia redfield age : thirty three gender / pronouns : demi  woman she  /  they orientation : lesbiam  occupation : undercover gamemaker 

𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭

eye  colour  :  brown hair  colour  :  auburn build  :  slim,  muscular height  :  5′7″ piercings  :  ear lobes, tragus, cartilage tattoos  :  sister's name on their left hand distinctive  features  :  thick, curly hair face  claim  :  olivia cooke  

𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥

TW: death of a sibling .

you  had  thought  that  it  would  be  you.  you  would  be  the  one  to  go  into  the  games,  because  you  were  the  one  with  the  spine  like  steel.  a  promise  between  sisters,  born  of  the  same  womb,  but  she  was  a  few  minutes  older  and  she  never  allowed  you  to  forget  it.  despite  it,  you  felt  like  the  eldest.  she  was  tender  where  you  were  rough,  cynical  of  the  world  around  you.  both  of  you  huddled  up  close  together  under  the  thin  blanket  you  slept  beneath  the  night  before  your  very  first  reaping  —  that  you  would  never  volunteer  for  her,  and  vice  versa.

she  knew  you,  the  half  to  her  whole.  she  knew  you  were  most  likely  to  lean  towards  self  sacrifice  if  it  meant  your  twin  would  live.  she  knew  that  the  only  thing  stronger  than  your  resolve,  was  your  refusal  to  break  a  promise.  and  yet,  on  the  reaping  of  your  fourteenth  year,  paloma  redfield’s  name  was  called.  your  lips  parted,  the  words  formed,  and  her  hand  slapped  itself  over  your  mouth.  your  sister,  tender  as  a  spring  morning  and  twice  as  beautiful,  who  picked  daisies  as  though  the  world  was  not  on  fire  all  around  you,  refused  to  let  you  take  her  place  upon  the  chopping  block.

you  sobbed  against  her  palm,  but  you  nodded  at  the  demand  in  her  gaze.  you  would  not  betray  her,  not  when  she  was  your  entire  heart.  that  heart  broke  in  paloma's  hands  as  you  watched  her  go,  shaking  on  that  stage  alongside  her  escort,  her  mentor,  and  her  tribute  partner.  you  could  tell  that  she  was  petrified,  and  still  she  smiled  as  you  from  her  place  on  the  stage.  she  was  good  at  that,  pretending  as  though  all  was  well  in  the  world  you  never  could  make  sense  of.

the  days  passed,  and  eventually  she  was  dead.  you  made  your  peace  with  it  for  your  mother’s  sake,  but  you  never  did  heal  from  the  loss.  you  buried  your  grief  alongside  paloma,  and  you  went  on  about  your  days.  you  did  not  seek  out  rebellion,  but  it  did  find  you  with  such  ease.  all  around  eight  knew  of  your  anger,  and  it  was  on  your  way  home  from  too  many  drinks  following  a  rotten  day  of  work  at  the  factory  that  you  were  cornered  by  an  old  school  friend  who  informed  you  of  the  unrest.  you  didn’t  hesitate,  not  with  such  fury  bubbling  under  your  skin.

you’ve  worked  for  years  towards  the  shared  goal  of  the  rebellion.  the  day  you  received  your  orders  to  attend  the  capitol  is  the  day  it  feels  like  the  rest  of  your  life,  paused  from  the  day  of  the  reaping,  finally  resumed  its  pace.  you  had  meaning  again,  a  way  to  avenge  the  sister  who  took  chunk  of  you  with  her  into  death.

you  never  did  expect  the  role  of  a  gamemaker,  and  yet  you  accepted  it  with  a  clenched  jaw  and  gritted  teeth.  you  did  what  you  had  to  do,  and  you  disgusted  yourself  as  you  worked  your  way  through  the  ranks.  it  was  a  rotten  job,  but  someone  had  to  do  it.  you  wonder  if  paloma  would  hate  you,  now.  would  she  see  her  twin  move  through  the  capitol  with  dark  eyes,  a  stranger  to  the  steely  young  girl  you  had  been  so  long  ago,  and  recognise  you  at  all?

you  hate  it  here,  it’s  tough  to  mask  your  dislike  of  the  chaos  in  the  capitol.  still,  you’ve  been  here  four  long  years,  and  their  madness  becomes  everyday  to  you.  all  that  you  do  to  keep  yourself  grounded  is  written  on  your  body;  running  until  you  can’t  feel  your  feet,  working  yourself  to  the  bone  in  the  gym,  the  punchbag  indented  with  the  shape  of  your  fist,  for  your  anger  has  no  outlet  here.

the  time  has  come,  finally.  you  work  with  plutarch  on  everything  that's  set  to  come  next,  but  you  can  barely  make  it  through  the  day.  your  jaw  aches  from  forcing  back  the  vitriol  you  feel  for  the  other  gamemakers,  knuckles  white  from  holding  back  the  punches  you  want  to  swing.

you’re  almost  there,  but  every  limb  is  on  fire  with  rage.  just  hold  on  a  moment  longer,  spitfire.

[bludstaine]

open   to   —   everyone   .

location   —   party   in   the   capitol,   reaping   day,   night   time   .

hunched  over  the  toilet,  mina  wretches  until  her  throat  is  hoarse,  rough  as  sandpaper.  once,  she  had  felt  like  the  sacrificial  lamb  brought  into  the  games  in  the  name  of  her  family.  the  eldest  daughter  handed  over  to  the  capitol  if  it  meant  the  rest  of  them  were  safe  beyond  the  sturdy  walls  of  victor’s  village.  no  such  luck.  since  ash  had  won  the  games,  she’s  done  all  that  she  can  to  protect  her,  but  to  be  forbidden  from  volunteering  in  her  place  for  these  ninety  second  games  has  made  her  physically  ill. and  now  she  must  smile.  mina  dewitt  is  nothing  without  her  smile,  for  it  is  this  which  makes  her  sparkle  most  of  all.  dainty,  delicate,  a  sweet  little  thing  akin  to  a  fairy,  as  though  there  isn’t  a  vicious,  ugly  sort  of  fury  lingering  beneath  the  glitter  dusted  across  her  collarbones,  her  cheeks.  they  can  pretty  her  up  as  they  wish,  but  she  is  fuming. spitting  into  the  bowl,  mina  flushes  the  mess  of  bile  and  vomit  down  the  toilet  and  kicks  her  way  from  the  stall.  she  cleans  her  hands  and  returns  to  the  party,  determined  to  find  sponsors  if  not  answers.  one  of  her  suitors  offers  her  a  drink  which  she  accepts,  only  if  she  can  watch  it  made  at  the  bar.  she  smiles  in  a  way  that  promises  she’ll  return  to  him  later,  and  then  she  moves  further  into  the  crowd.  “isn't  this  exciting?”  she  arches  a  brow,  her  tone  unreadable.  those  within  the  resistance  who  know  her,  know  that  she  is  mere  seconds  from  falling  over  the  edge  into  her  frustration.  “i’m  sure  we  can  expect  party  after  party…  what  are  the  chances  i’ll  win  a  sponsor  over  when  they’re  indulging  so  much?”

[bludstaine]

in   another   universe,   i   am   loved   and   i   know   it   .

(   asivak koostachin   ,   demi man   ,   he / they   )    did you see them ?!   that was SIKU MASKWA, the winner of the 77ND hunger games. they’re back for the 92nd games as a MENTOR, and you know they’re one of my favourites!  the THIRTY ONE year old brought such honour to DISTRICT 5 when they won their games with MIND GAMES & KNIVES.  they’re known all over panem for being so CREATIVE despite being so IMPULSIVE. they remind me of to feel yourself unspooling so swiftly you cannot stop yourself, reliant on everyone around him whilst keeping the world at arm's length, fresh air erupting in a plume upon early morning lips,  and when i think of them, i think of STARBURSTER by fontaines dc  .  

𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘴

full name : siku maskwa age : thirty  one gender / pronouns : demi  man he  /  they orientation : bisexual  occupation : mentor  , district  five 

𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭

eye  colour  :  brown hair  colour  :  brown build  :  slim,  muscular height  :  6′2″ piercings  :  none tattoos  :  none distinctive  features  :  long, soft hair and lisp face  claim  :  asivak koostachin  

𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥

you  feel  as  though  you  were  born  to  be  a  sacrifice.  the  youngest  child  within  a  family  of  six,  you  weren’t  often  noticed.  it  was  a  struggle  just  to  make  it  through  a  single  day  in  district  five,  and  there  were  bigger  problems  to  be  solved  than  that  of  your  loneliness.  your  older  siblings  learned  early  how  to  take  up  space.  they  were  louder,  stronger,  faster,  whereas  you  learned  how  to  be  small.  how  to  survive  without  applause.  through  it  all,  your  mother  saw  you.  you  were  her  quiet  boy  with  the  clever  hands  and  restless  spirit.  her  only  child  who  knew  how  to  listen,  to  spare  her  your  quick  with  and  cheeky  grin. you  found  a  kind  of  resilience  in  being  overlooked.  you  learned  to  laugh  through  the  ache  of  wanting  so  badly  to  be  seen.  you  worked  yourself  to  exhaustion  in  the  dam,  leaving  school  at  an  early  age  if  only  to  help  to  provide  for  your  family. love  found  you  young.  it  was  messy  and  bright,  all  sharp  teeth  and  warm  touches,  darkened  eyes  and  the  thrill  of  a  fluttering  stomach.  her  sister  was  reaped  the  same  year  you  were,  and  so  it  was  your  hand  in  hers,  sobbing  when  the  hovercraft  came  despite  how  hard  you  fought  to  keep  her  with  you. you  made  it  out  balancing  on  luck  and  on  the  swiftness  with  which  you  might  throw  a  knife.  and  when  you  returned  to  district  five  with  nothing  but  grief  settling  upon  your  skinny  shoulders,  you  found  that  love  cannot  survive  the  weight  of  grief.  she  said  her  goodbyes  on  the  morning  of  the  victory  tour,  and  when  you  returned  home,  your  love  had  withered  and  passed  on  as  delicately  as  her  sister. they  call  you  charming  when  they  see  you  on  the  television.  cheeky.  dangerous.  your  smile  is  as  sharp  as  the  mind  which  got  you  out  of  the  arena  in  the  first  place.  a  rebellious  grin  and  nothing  left  to  lose,  you  sought  out  the  chance  to  fight  back,  to  avenge  that  young  girl  who  still  sits  in  your  heart,  small  and  too  delicate  for  the  games.  you  were  never  meant  to  be  the  hero,  but  that’s  the  thing  about  being  overlooked;  no  one  sees  you  coming.

[bludstaine]

if   i'm   on   fire,   you'll   be   made   of   ashes   too.

(   may  calamawy   ,   cis  woman   ,   she / her    )    did you see them ?!   that was KATNISS EVERDEEN, the winner of the 74TH hunger games.  they’re back for the 92nd games as a TRIBUTE, and you know they’re one of my favourites!  the THIRTY FOUR year old brought such honour to DISTRICT 12  when they won their games with A BOW & ARROW, STAR-CROSSED LOVERS PLOT.  they’re known all over panem for being so RESOURCEFUL despite being so IMPULSIVE. they remind me of the feeling of supple leather sitting upon your shoulders, a life lived like a fire burning constantly out of control, i get mean when i’m nervous; like a bad dog,  and when i think of them, i think of THE ARCHER by taylor swift .   

𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘴

full name : katniss everdeen age : thirty four  gender / pronouns : cis  woman she  /  her orientation : heterosexual  occupation : tribute  , district  twelve 

𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭

eye  colour  : grey hair colour  :  brown build  :  slim height  :  5′4″ piercings  :  ear  lobes tattoos  :  none  hand distinctive  features  :  arms  toned  from  archery,  grey  eyes face  claim  :  may   calamawy

𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥

your  story  is  long,  and  it’s  harrowing  —  so  let’s  keep  it  simple. you  didn’t  think  you’d  make  it  this  far.  turning  thirty  felt  like  a  fever  dream.  you  looked  at  your  little  sister  who  towers  over  you  these  days,  alive  in  part  because  of  you.  for  a  moment,  you  felt  something  close  to  happiness. the  games  broke  you  a  long  time  ago.  you’re  not  in  the  arena  anymore,  but  did  you  ever  really  leave  it?  it’s  hard  to  say,  not  when  the  nightmares  still  wake  you  screaming.  not  when  you  let  peeta  climb  into  your  bed  just  so  the  silence  doesn’t  swallow  you  whole.  it  aches  to  be  near  that  boy,  and  sometimes  you  can’t  even  look  at  him.  the  guilt  is  too  much.  he  should  have  someone  who  can  love  him  without  hesitation.  someone  who  wants  a  family,  willing  to  give  him  the  smiling  children  you  know  he  wishes  for. each  year,  you’re  paraded  back  to  the  capitol.  you  smile,  you  wave,  and  you  hand  over  two  more  children  to  die.  but  at  least  there  are  none  of  your  own  to  give,  a  mercy,  thanks  to  the  lie  peeta  told  so  easily  after  your  victory  tour.  he’s  good  at  playing  the  part  of  the  victor.  better  than  you  ever  were,  and  so  you  still  let  him  speak  for  you. haymitch  says  it  plainly  —  you  could  live  a  hundred  lifetimes  and  still  not  deserve  him.  you  can’t  love  him  the  way  he  wants  you  to.  or  maybe  what  terrifies  you  is  that  you  do.  instead,  you  hide.  you  fall  quiet.  you  pull  away.  you  wonder  if  he  regrets  being  tied  into  this  life  with  you. the  years  drag  on,  slow  and  heavy.  you  live  for  the  cameras,  and  behind  closed  doors,  the  world  feels  small  and  suffocating.  sometimes  peeta  is  there,  sometimes  he  isn’t.  and  you  wonder  what’s  left  between  you  besides  the  quiet  ache  of  everything  you’ve  both  tried  so  hard  to  forget.  you’re  numb.  so  numb  that  when  the  announcement  comes,  it  doesn't  even  feel  like  a  surprise.  hasn’t  some  part  of  you  been  waiting  for  president  snow  to  find  a  way  to  punish  you  adequately? and  so  your  name  is  called.  and  your  husband  says  the  words  that  began  all  of  this  —  i  volunteer  as  tribute.

[bludstaine]

suffer     does     the     wolf     —     crawling     to     thee     .  

(   emilia clarke   ,   cis woman   ,   she / her   )    did you see them ?!   that was MINA DEWITT, the winner of the 76TH hunger games.  they’re back for the 92nd games as a MENTOR, and you know they’re one of my favourites!  the THIRTY TWO year old brought such honour to DISTRICT 7 when they won their games with AN AXE.  they’re known all over panem for being so BEGUILING despite being so RECKLESS. they remind me of a life lived long and to never belong to her, the sacrificial lamb curled up upon the altar, my poor mother begged for a sheep but raised a wolf,  and when i think of them, i think of FAKE PLASTIC TREES by radiohead  .   

𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘴

full name : mina dewitt age : thirty  two gender / pronouns : cis  woman she  /  her orientation : bisexual  occupation : mentor  , district  seven 

𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭

eye  colour  :  blue hair  colour  :  silver build  :  petite,  muscular height  :  5′1″ piercings  :  ear  lobes,  tragus  and  helix tattoos  :  left  arm,  right  hand distinctive  features  :  white   hair   and   stern   eyes face  claim  :  emilia   clarke

𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥

there  was  an  axe  in  your  hand  before  you  hit  puberty.  you  grew  up  with  callused  palms,  the  pads  of  your  fingers  roughened,  and  your  biceps  firm  from  the  weight  of  your  work.  your  family  owned  a  lumberyard,  and  so  you  weren't  wealthy,  but  never  starving  like  so  many  others  in  your  district.  you  were  an  ambitious  little  thing.  your  father’s  favourite  child,  always  at  his  side,  working  the  lumberyard.  you  thought  you’d  inherit  the  business  one  day,  but  that  dream  scattered  to  the  wind  the  moment  your  name  was  called  on  reaping  day. your  mother  collapsed.  your  father  stood  still,  his  eyes  hardened  with  fear,  for  death  had  come  knocking  at  the  dewitt  door,  they  were  all  certain  of  this.  when  he  said  goodbye,  he  held  you  tightly  and  told  you  in  hard,  simple  words,  that  you  had  to  win. you  were  a  sensation  in  the  capitol.  a  beautiful  little  thing  with  flowing  silver  hair,  dressed  in  soft  pastels.  your  parade  costume  was  a  cherry  blossom  tree,  something  shimmering  and  delicate  to  hide  all  of  that  brutality  living  within  you. somehow,  you  won  over  the  sponsors.  they  sent  you  medicine,  water,  bread,  fruit.  gifts  for  the  silver  haired  girl  who  had  wrapped  the  capitol  around  her  pinky  finger.  the  arena  was  a  snowstorm.  you  got  your  axe  on  day  three,  and  by  day  four,  the  pristine  arena  was  painted  red. you  fought  to  make  it  home.  the  axe  swung  and  they  fell.  blood  soaked  your  clothes,  matted  your  hair.  when  you  emerged,  you  were  shaking  and  feral;  but  you  were  alive.  your  games  caused  a  stir.  capitolites  bleached  their  hair,  tattooed  their  hands  with  red.  you  were  a  hit.  president  snow  took  note  of  your  impact  as  he  pressed  the  gold  of  the  victor's  crown  to  your  temples. a  house  was  assigned  to  you  in  victor's  village,  beautiful,  large,  airy.  you  expected  celebration,  but  when  you  went  to  your  father,  he  couldn’t  look  at  you.  you  had  become  something  violent,  something  he  no  longer  recognised. you’ve  spent  every  day  since  trying  to  win  him  back,  trying  to  reclaim  the  approval  you  lost  somewhere  between  your  first  kill  and  your  last.  the  capitol  keeps  calling  you  back,  a  prized  beauty,  another  jewel  in  panem's  crown. and  then  the  reaping  comes.  ash  is  chosen.  the  rebellion  you've  been  working  within  forbids  you  from  volunteering.  you're  needed  elsewhere,  and  so  your  nails  dig  into  your  palms  as  you  watch  your  sister  take  the  stage.  all  you  can  do  is  meet  her  gaze,  and  hope  she  sees  the  promise  in  your  eyes—that  you  will  find  a  way  to  end  this  hell,  for  all  of  you.  and  maybe  then,  your  father  will  welcome  you  into  the  family  home,  once  more.

[dicaprio-diaries]