worse games to play

a hunger games multi by cían.

[et--circenses]

❝ I make a list in my head of every act of goodness I've seen someone do. It's like a game. Repetitive. Even a little tedious after more than twenty years... But there are much worse games to play. ❜

a hunger games multimuse || indie & mutuals only // by cían

rules | muses | meme tag & opens

replies: 27 | asks: 5 | starters: 0 | queue: 0 « june 6

[et--circenses]

happy pride ✌️

[et--circenses]

 ⭐ 

⭐✨ potential dynamics meme + i included @herelifeisbeautiful & @strategistsmind also!

mags. sort of a gimme, but what a fascinating team-up to happen! also how do they interact with each other after....all that

gloss. listen i love a lil dramatic irony, i love seeing muses who ultimately kill each other interacting before uhh before that happens. but also lowkey i think he actually liked her a lot, weirdly

annie. they're similar in a lot of ways, and definitely both capitolites and many of their peers lump them in together, but i think their lived experiences and core values are very very different. crunchy dynamic, mayhaps.

honorable mentions: peeta, teff, plutarch, boggs

@herelifeisbeautiful & @strategistsmind under the cut bc the peacekeepers can't stop me

with effie —

cashmere. the sometimes-solid, sometimes-tenuous divide between victors and escorts fascinates me, but more importantly big sisters! women defined by glamor™ and by being someone's big sister! they both care so devastatingly much about the people in their care. effie is so kind and cash is so mean.

peeta. tfw you've sort-of latched onto someone as a surrogate mother figure but you're also very aware of how naive she can be. she is so weird and so comforting and he cares about her so much.

madge. there's smth here about class and relative wealth, about gender roles and performative femininity, about achievable and/or unreachable dreams….. also. i just think it would be funny how much they'd baffle each other.

honorable mentions: plutarch, cinna, paylor

with beetee —

paylor or plutarch. in very different ways lol. but in the post-war era they're all very aware, i think, of how crucial it is to work together to actively intentionally build stability. fun to see their debates, also the very different experiences they had of the war itself.

cinna. put some geniuses in a room, see what happens! both very jaded in their own ways but cinna can also be quite naive tbh. designers with eyes on the longterm big picture. cinna studied for a bit in three.

boggs. the war of it all, ya know. the very different backgrounds they're coming into it from. what they each will or can't justify to themselves, and why. the family tragedies. the weight of it all

honorable mentions: teff, gloss, mags, peeta

[et--circenses]

@stmoon from ♟ here

His head tilted to meet her eyes with a small smile of his own, brows raised in warm encouragement. It was as much as he'd been hoping for— any kind of calm in the face of the chaos surrounding her, however half-hearted.

Cinna hummed softly as he considered the question. "No. I like to keep busy," he answered with a short quiet chuckle —She didn't need to know what a hell of an understatement that was,— before shaking his head. "And I'm always happy to see you, Katniss."

[et--circenses]

@wondersfull from ♟ here

Not really an answer, but at least she's nice about it. His eyes trail over Delly's face as she talks, strangely subdued and visibly unsettled, hands braced over his knees like he has to hold his good leg down from jittering. ( He hasn't, actually, moved an inch since she came in. )

Peeta's memories of Delly are... frustratingly vague. But he has a hard time believing their whole district was destroyed and she came out the other side of that unchanged. He's almost grateful when he hears someone murmur, "I'd be worried about you if that was true" in his voice, steadier and kinder than he's heard it in a long time. It takes him another moment to realize that it was him speaking.

An unsteady attempt at a smile flickers over his face: not at all glad that he's here, but as close as he can get right now to admitting it is good to see her. At least he stops himself from saying It shouldn't be, or That makes you and nobody else. Nothing else comes to mind.

Just talk. Just talk. "You're... sort of a surprise," he says cautiously, failing to hide the narrow scowl that comes with it. "I didn't know if... whether I believed them. That you'd be coming. In," he adds, to clarify. "Here."

[et--circenses]

what does your heart look like?

teff // a bird struggling to get loose

Your heart can never hold still. It pounds against your chest frantically, always turning your sights to one thing after the next. When was the last time you were certain? The last time your life was stable? On the move constantly, not tied down to one person or place. You chase one goal after the next. Can you ever really feel complete without a place to land? Shouldn’t you build yourself a nest?

cashmere & peeta // a tangled ball of red strings

Who are you without the company of others? You aren’t sure, but you know that you aren’t fond of whoever it is. You are an actor, a pretty face and a pleasant song. Many idolize you, or love you, but you can never be sure of how sincere it is. Your heart is buried under the letters they leave you, sealed with a kiss. It can’t be untangled from the red strings they’ve attached to you. You deserve to find something, someone, true and faithful to hold your heart in place. You don’t have to be everything to everyone.

gloss // a cage with iron locks

You are an enigma. You take care to remain that way. You aim to keep people guessing; your motives are uncertain even to yourself. What is it you truly want? You’ll never know if you keep your heart locked away like that. Stop being afraid of what you might find if you open your heart up to self-reflection. Stop thinking that no one will love you the moment they understand you.

tagged by @whatsbehindthefacade // tagging @oddsfavorcd @towngirlreaped @withereth @thrndy @tailtucked @qverdia @illaqveo

[et--circenses]

@lovedunexpectedly [hero] said ♙ ❛ sometimes you have to pretend to be someone else to get what you want. ❞

She knows. Annie frowns and smooths her hands over the heavy, unnatural fabric of her skirt —again,— squinting at the bright 'pearlescent' paint on her nails for a long moment. "Oh," she mumbles, finally.

If she's wondering what it is this unfamiliar escort wants, it doesn't show on her face. Her eyes are just fixed on Hero now, wide and bottomless-dark and intense in an opaque, rudderless sort of way that gives the counterintuitive impression she's... maybe not really paying much attention.

"Who are you pretending to be?"

[theroning]

Léa Seydoux talks ‘Spectre’.

[oddsfavorcd]

@et--circenses (cinna) sent: “what's that smell? something's burning.”

“don't worry about it,” portia called. they were knee-deep in preparation for the seventy-fourth games — quite literally. while the idea cinna had had about using fire for the tribute parade was brilliant, it was also proving surprisingly hard to execute — fabric, it turned out, was remarkably flammable. and getting two tributes burned to death in front of all of panem would not be a promising start to their fashion careers.

“another dud. but we'll get it,” she adds, holding up what little remains of the fabric — nothing but a charred black scrap — as evidence of their failure.

“got any bright ideas over there?”

[et--circenses]

Portia says don't worry about it, so he doesn't. Cinna takes another few moments to finish jotting down his latest notes —there are structural formulas dancing in front of his eyes at this point,— before he finally glances up at the glorified ashes in her hands. He really can't help cracking a wide grin at the look on her face.

"Yes and no," he sighs. "The new samples for the lining don't shrink as badly as the last batch, but they also dilute oxygen so efficiently I'm not sure we'd even be able to ignite the outer layer." Which definitely would keep the tributes safe, but their firey ensemble won't be much to look at without the fire.

The thing is, though, that between the two of them Cinna can't imagine that they won't pull this off. Their fingertips may be covered in burns, the deadline for the parade costumes looming closer every day, but he knows how spectacular the final product is going to be.

Once they get there.

He swallows a quiet laugh. "Well, at least we're having opposite problems."

[tridentide]

@et--circenses liked a starter call ! ft. plutarch

" you're not kidding. " finnick has waited for thirty seconds for plutarch to laugh or smile or say anything resembling giving up on the joke. he doesn't know plutarch to be much of a joker, though, especially when he says he's planning the rebellion to happen during the recently announced quarter quell.

they both know finnick is going, and just getting over the shock of returning to the arena would've been enough. reassuring annie that he wasn't going to die in this new hell was enough. and now, of course, plutarch wants to add more to his plate. finnick groans.

" let me get this straight. " he starts, his voice a whisper. " you want me to somehow get katniss everdeen to trust in me long enough to get us out ? out how, plutarch ? and even if it is possible to get katniss to think of me as an ally, i doubt she's going to be amenable to being the face of the revolution. what happens if this doesn't work out in your favor ? " finnick is careful to not let his voice rise. the capitol party he'd been whisked away to for celebrating is busy and loud, and no doubt no one can hear the conversation, but finnick, like all victors, is paranoid.

" do you know what i did when it was announced, plutarch ? i spent hours keeping annie from panicking about it, i told her i would be fine, that nothing's going to happen to me, or her. you --. . . " he takes a breath, runs a hand through his hair. " you have to promise me that once everything is over, and we're on the way to thirteen, you'll pick up annie. promise me, plutarch, then i'll do whatever you want. guarantee her safety. "

[et--circenses]

"Finnick, please." His eyebrows knit, and Plutarch flashes an expressive grimace over the top of his drink, like he's sincerely disturbed by Finnick's estimation of his good taste. "I'm much funnier than that."

Hard to say whether that's meant to be a joke. It's delivered a bit absent-minded, if it is. Overshadowed entirely by the intensity at the back of his eyes as he waits for Finnick to catch up to the reality of the situation.

Plutarch wouldn't call the feeling that's been fizzing behind his lungs anxiety, exactly. But the anticipation is killing him. There's a great deal of terribly delicate work ahead of them, countless ways it could all go wrong, but he has an unerring sense for these sorts of things. Right now, for the first time in decades, maybe for the first time since the Games' inception, a final — a very real victory is in their reach.

And of all the precarious moving pieces of their little conspiracy—Well. Plutarch is confident in Finnick. He trusts in his ability to understand that he wouldn't run this risk if weren't so beautifully, brilliantly, devastatingly possible. He's seen how clever and how capable he can be, and.... ah. Without putting too fine a point on it... he knows how motivated Finnick, of all people, is to see this thing through.

"Our favor," he interjects, voice equally low. "If this works out in our favor— Just imagine." No reason to say what they both already know: if it doesn't work, they'll all die horribly and rot more-or-less forgotten, won't they? A gruesome footnote in someone else's history books, like any other failed coup. And it will be all of them. Because Plutarch may have helped to engineer this Quell, but the fact is that with or without his influence, every victor's days are numbered in Coriolanus Snow's Panem. Too visible, too beloved, too out of step with the story the regime needs to sell... If this plan fails, the only head he'll have truly added to the chopping block is his own.

A smile breaks over his face as Finnick cracks, at once sympathetic and beamingly pleased. "Of course," he agrees immediately. "I'll have to talk to our outside allies, of course, but we all know how much we'll owe to you. We should make arrangements for all of the tributes' families, now that you mention it, — and I'll make sure that Miss Cresta's name is at the top of that list. You have my word."

[jacespunkdad]

rereading the hunger games and i CANNOT stop thinking about what haymitch and peeta’s individual interview training session must’ve gone. like

haymitch: so what’s your angle you wanna go for how do we want to portray you

peeta: I Have Been In Love With Katniss For 12 Years

haymitch: oh word?

[towngirlreaped]

Maysilee groans, snapping her fingers in front of Peeta's face a few times. why are people always so slow to catch on? she's clearly not alive, since no one else has noticed or mentioned her, but he doesn't seem to process that yet. maybe he has no sense of urgency on a night like tonight, but she does -- despite being dead. Maysilee tries to throw a nice shirt at his face, and a flicker of annoyance filters into her gaze as her hand passes right through it.

“ Pretend that actually hit you in the face, ” she snarks. “ You're wearing that tomorrow. You're going to shower before we do anything, and then you're going to let me help you with your hair and makeup. Haymitch, if you prefer, clearly doesn't think you're going to win. 'Course he'd want Burdie's kid to win. But I think you've got a real shot at this. Besides, us townies gotta stick together, yeah? ”

Peeta, for his part, is looking less and less confused the more she continues talking. she refuses to tell him the truth of who she is. from what Maysilee's seen, even the Capitol's fancy technology can't seem to detect spirits, but she doesn't necessarily know if they've improved since last year's Games. for that reason, she intentionally withholds his name from her; she has no idea if he'd put together her connection to Asterid by name alone, and she's not willing to risk it.

“ Consider me your prep team, your stylist, and your mentor, all at the same time. You can call me... M. You gotta keep this quiet, though. We wouldn't want to make a big scene about the behind the scenes and ruin everything. ”

[et--circenses]

Peeta winces when her hand veers a little too close to his face, a sharp instinctive twitch that quickly disappears into a wan grimace. He's awake enough now to follow what she's saying, — or he thought he was, before he watched her hand go through that shirt like it wasn't even there. But he is pretty sure he's not dreaming. The shirt is right there, and she's right there. So...

So...?

Some kind of primal superstition crawls over his skin, but he ignores the sudden banging of his heartbeat against his ribs with a sigh. She's probably not wrong about Haymitch, he thinks, but if his district partner is the reason the old man's been so determined to ignore Peeta's attempts to strategize, that sure doesn't make him special. "Everyone wants Katniss to win."

And nobody thinks he'll win, either. His mother's parting shot echoes in his head, a bitter sting, but he.... he can't say even he thinks he stands a snowball's chance in summer.

If he is dreaming, it's not exactly a reassuring one. He's still turning Burdie over in his head —must be Katniss' dad, he guesses, although that's an awful familiar way for someone who looks about his age to talk about someone their parents' age,— but the part of his brain that's starting to accept that maybe-just-maybe he's looking at a dead girl right now has also put together that she's from home, and on the train to the Capitol, and looks about his age. It's not so hard from there to take a guess what happened to her.

Is that why you want to help me? he thinks, but he's a little too afraid to ask. Whatever M is, it's a relief just to have someone ... here with him.

"Okay," he mumbles, and realizes that at some point he's tucked his knees under his chin, hugging into himself like a scared child. With some effort, Peeta gives her the warm, honest-eyed smile that the other merchants' mothers always melt over. "If you think we've got a shot. I appreciate it."

[withereth]

THE   SMALLEST   OF   SMILES   ,   but   it   conveys   no   warmth   ,   nor   does   it   pretend   to   .   ❝   i   suppose   i   agree   ,   but   that's   a   bit   idealistic   ,   no   ?   ❞   iunia   offers   .   she'd   call   herself   a   realist   ,   though   most   likely   wouldn't   agree   .   ❝   i'd   rather   someone   believe   one   thing   and   swear   to   do   another   ,   so   long   as   they   mean   it   .   easier   to   track   .   ❞

[et--circenses]

"Never been called idealistic more often in my life than since I got to this city," she comments dryly. Like their dressed-up politics taught them more about what people are really like than surviving the poverty and power struggles in her district. Might be funny, if it weren't in her way.

"I don't care what someone believes or swears. Just what they want, and what they'll do to get it."

[valentina-poem]

[mvndrvke]

"People like me, sure. Obviously. But this is different. This is working with a bunch of awful nasty rebels! This is-- oh god, I'm going to have to work with people with no fashion sense."

She looks at Cinna, taking the cup of tea.

"How do you stand it? Keeping all this secrecy and not exploding from it? I don't know how to do this."

[et--circenses]

"Well, at least that you should be accustomed to," Cinna tries wryly, giving her an encouraging half-smile.

That attempt to lighten the mood fades into a more somber expression at Effie's question. He hums as he considers how to answer. "...I put it into the same place as everything else," he admits with a gesture towards the sprawling chaos of sketches, fabric, form molds, semi-complete chemical tests, spilled paint, and discarded bobs that take up the majority of his condo.

"It helps to have an outlet."

[whatsbehindthefacade]

@et--circenses asked: Why are you looking at me like that? (annie, for drove or fila)

"I'm sorry."

Truly, he hadn't meant to stare. This is his first year getting to see all of this from a different side of the table, and for a freshly turned fourteen year old, it's a lot to take in, particularly given that this year it comes without the fear of being thrown into an arena to fight to the death. Granted, it's not all that much better, because instead he has to watch close hand as other kids fight to the death. It feels odd, because both district three tributes are older than him, but they still seem to look at him like he might be some key to survival, and Fila doesn't know how to admit that he has no idea how to help.

"I'm...a little out of my depth," he admits softly, fidgeting a little.

[et--circenses]

A wave of quick, disjointed feelings tumble over her face — brows knit, mouth pinches, eyes widen then narrow, turn all misty and uncertain for a flash, then finally softening all out with a grimace. Right.

He's so small. The youngest-ever, as the telecasts had reveled in reminding her several thousand times over the past year, but she's aware where following that thought will take her, so she pushes it aside.

Pushes a chair aside, too, taking in a deep breath before she sits down next to him. "Tell me about them."

[butterflypeaflowertea]

ever since i was a little girl i knew i was doomed to take things too seriously and think about them forever