#pre reaping

[you-askedforthis]

Headcanon short list of things Katniss Everdeen kept track of about Peeta Mellark:

- His birthday

- Where he sat during each class

- What days he had wrestling practice

- New burn scars from the bakery oven on his arms

- Whenever he got a hair cut

- His Reaping Day clothes

- How his hair caught the sunlight in such a pretty way

Part 2

[katnissisautistic]

Oh you just know that Katniss would ogle so hard at Peeta in his wrestling uniform at competitions.

[you-askedforthis]

Headcanon short list of things Peeta Mellark kept track of about Katniss Everdeen:

- Her birthday

- Her Reaping Day clothes

- Whenever she’s at bakery, either trading with his dad or looking at the display out front with Prim

- where she sits during his wrestling matches

- every time she smiles (which is rare, but he's confident he could make her smile)

- how she watches the mockingjays in the school yard while she waits for Prim’s class to let out

- how she tugs on the end of her braid when she’s nervous

Part 1

[annoying-vegan]

[islaiverlyy-blog]

Q&A One

How would your closest friends and family describe you?

Forty four degrees outside, and I have to rub his hands between mine--to get the blood flowing and rushing under his frozen skin. His frozen, cracking skin.

“You’re impossible,” I mutter. But my tone is too flat, and Keaton shakes his head, shoulders pinching together.

“I-I can’t help that I l-lost my gloves.”

He says it guarded, voice defensive. Pitches upward with the shake of his body and chatter of teeth. He’s so cold. So stupidly cold.

“I don’t have time to look for them today. Double check to make sure they’re not under your bathroom sink, though.”

“My bathroom sink?”

The boy blinks and his dark brows pull together, a small crease forming between the eyes. His hair is wild. The fog sticks to it, spider-webbing the strands, brushing the flush along his jaw. Such a carefully drawn jaw, angled face. If I weren’t lying to myself, Keaton is rather--

“Why in the w-world would they be there?” his voice breaks apart my thought.

“I have a hunch.”

“A-always a hunch, r-right?”

I don't reply.

Instead, I bring his hands up close to my mouth and blow hot breath onto his fingers, and hold fast when he almost pulls away in surprise. It’s only a last ditch effort to warm the poor boy up. That’s all.

“Isla, c-can’t you just come l-look for them?” he begs, “I don’t want to go to t-the w-warehouse without them. There’s n-no heat. And I don’t want to c-catch a c-cold, ‘cause if I c-catch a cold, I w-won’t be able to work and I’ll lose money and m-mom will--”

I bite back a sigh, lower his hands, stare up into those frightened, bambi bloodshot eyes. He’s terrified, as usual.

“Keaton.”

His rambling ceases.

"Keaton, I'm now going to miss a job because of you. Understand that."

I shift my gaze, and stare at the gritty brick framing his figure, concentrate on the lines as I deliver what needs to be said. Don't need to see his guilty, jutting lip.

"Well i-if you put it l-like that--"

"Keaton."

My voice bounces in the alley. I'm suddenly aware we stand too close. I'm suddenly seeing what other people would see if they shuffled in off the rock roads of three, if they were to take a moment's rest from their daily commute, and hope for a moment's peace and instead get two teenagers all but fucking against a wall. That’s not something I’d want to explain.

"Yes?"

"Don't. I’ll help. You’re fine.”

The boy looks down at me, nerves in his face giving way to a small smile.

“You make n-no sense, y’know?”

The comment brings me up short, and I’m so startled I look, quite literally, at anywhere but him. Stare at the sliver of smoke sky between these half-finished buildings, if I must. I don’t reply. Just listen careful to his chattering teeth. Then he opens his mouth as to explain more, to further elaborate on how I am dead-panned and unkind, but kind none the less. He’s told me as much before. It hurt. But, I can’t say that to him. It’s not like he’s wrong. 

Good thing Keaton doesn’t realize my kindness is exclusive to him. And, of course, my dog.

“Don’t.” I huff, and then I’m taking eighty steps back from our bubble. Now I feel the cold.

“F-fine,” Keaton responds, then pauses. “Does t-that mean we c-can go n-now? I feel like s-someone is w-watching us.”

Now, I sigh aloud, let it hiss between my teeth because he knows that I know that there isn’t a soul in sight for at least a hundred foot radius. I just know.

Nevertheless, I ease his worry.

“Of course, Keaton.”

And with that, we leave the alley.

[anatolianoctabelle]

Kill of the Night | | OS

“Anatolia and Mallory, Artemis has tracked a gorgon to the northeastern border of the forest. But as she has more important business to tend to, your assignment is to follow through in her hunting of the creature. Bring along your hunting companions, and watch thyselves. The gods no that gorgons are slippery creatures,” Zafarah barks.

I rise off of the log I had been sitting upon. As hunters, we tend to use what nature provides us with as furniture. That is why our shelters are usually composed of the forest itself. Often times, we will all just sit beneath the stars, gazing up at the constellations that hold the stories of those now in the underworld, and those belonging to us.

“Of course, Lieutenant,” I accept the order with a curt nod. Refusing it would unleash all forms of fury from Zafarah, and most likely the notorious furies themselves. I have had to deal with them once before, the gods know I would rather not ever do it again. Such obnoxious, vengeful old hags. And so very hard to dispose of, my gods. I almost had to utilize an entire quiver of my silver arrows, and the monstrosities even dared to break a few of them! The nerve that they have…

“Let us go, Mallory. I don’t want to be out too late,” I call to the girl beside me, who Zafarah had assigned to accompany me on this hunt. I have known her ever since the day that I was inducted into the hunt. We have been paired up to complete tasks ever since, working in the most perfect of harmonies together. Pairing my power with hers, we are quite the team of huntresses.

I straighten the silver headpiece on my forehead, the crescent moon dangling from the center of it. Slipping my nimble fingers into my dark hair, I absentmindedly transform the once hanging, somewhat tangled locks, into a tight braid that cascades gently down by spine.

“Ana, have you seen my hunting knife? I can’t find it anywhere,” Mallory asks me. I survey her immediate area quickly, allowing the hint of a smile to appear on my face when my eyes fall upon the knife. It is not the sight of the knife that causes me to smile, but the nature of its location. “Why don’t you check in the boughs of that new tree behind you, Mallory,” I suggest.

Mallory spins on her heels, laughing upon spotting her knife high up in the tree that she unknowingly created. She has always been carefree with her powers. Most of the time, I find it to be quite endearing. Although it can be a tad bit aggravating when I find myself in the top of a tree when I fell asleep in the safe clutches of Gaia, on the forest floor.

After only a few brief moments, the celestial silver knife is back in her clutches. She grips the hilt of the knife with expertise. As hunters, we are trained in every aspect of handling a weapon, even down to the precise finger placement when holding a hunting knife. Those who grow tired of learning how to wield these weapons are free to leave the hunt in shame. Why anyone would leave the hunt is very much so beyond me. The gods have given you such a wonderful opportunity, and you throw it away, like a titan into the deepest depths of Tartarus! Very shameful indeed.

As Mallory gathers her things, I carefully sling my precious quiver of silver arrows over my shoulder. I wrap my lithe fingers around the handle of my trusted bow, allowing my bones to settle into their usual position, sliding into a shallow, yet firmly outlined grip. I slide my hunting knife into my weathered hunting boots before lacing them up, feeling the soft, supple leather conforming to my feet and shins. Lastly, I button up my leather vest, with the purpose of warding off the chilled, yet refreshing forest air.

Mallory and I tread quite lightly as we venture into the forest-shrouded in a dense fog, whose tendrils reach out and wrap around our ankles, our wrists, threatening to pull us into the Underworld, or worse, back to the actual district. It has always been something I have been afraid of: being forced to return to civilization. The hunt is where I belong. It is my destiny. It is written in the stars.

We are silent as we approach the northeastern sector of the forest. My entire body tenses, becoming frigid as I feel something wrapping around my ankle. And this time, I do not think it is the tendrils of thick fog. Oh gods, please do not let this be the gorgon already…

I withdraw my hunting knife from my boot, looking down at what horrid creature has a hold on my leg. Instead I see a thick vine wrapped around it. “A bit of help here, Mallory?” I ask her, urging her to dispose of the vine that she has absentmindedly sprouted from the flesh of Gaia. I know better than to make an attempt at cutting at it. The vines she can conjure are much too strong.

She frees me just in time for my alert senses to detect even the quietest of noises. I move with trepidation as I hear the noise grow closer as the seconds tick by. A hissing. That is what the noise is. Our monster has arrived.

I nod to Mallory. She nods back. It is our own private way of unleashing a battle cry of sorts when we need to be absolutely silent, hiding the very whereabouts of our concealed location from the minds of the creature we have been tasked with hunting down and slaying.

Together, we have taken down gorgons before. Both of us know exactly how to act in this very situation. It is Mallory who always makes the first move. It’s crucial to our survival, lest our flesh and bones be turned to stone, left to erode within the forests for centuries to come.

When the repulsive figure of the gorgon comes into view, she’s clawing at the binding around her eyes. But Mallory keeps the vines secured around her eyes, to ensure that her glance does not turn us into stone statues; reminders of what can go wrong as a huntress.

Now is the time for me to utilize my own powers. I channel the ninja within me. I feel as if I am having an out of body experience. I watch myself act, not at all deciding these actions myself. I leap forth, my footing light and stealthy. I gracefully leap onto the trunk of a tree, soundlessly hoisting myself onto a branch. And then I’m leaping to the ground, landing safely on the earth after slicing through the head of the gorgon with my hunter’s knife. Her head tumbles to the ground as warm blood sprays from her neck.

“Could she at least throw on a bra?” Mallory huffs. I roll my eyes at her, looking away to hide my laughter. She loves to crack jokes at what could very well be the most inopportune times.

“Let us head back to camp,” I state as night begins to fall, the glowing twilight disappearing from the forest, being replaced by the eerie depth of endless darkness. I look up through the treetops, resting my eyes upon the stars that are carelessly painted across the night sky. A new chapter added to my story in the stars, I think to myself. 

[thetaleoftessahale]

Like Living On A Cliffside || Day Before The Reaping || OS

One of the things I often forgot about, was the Hunger Games.  I had so much more on my mind, that I never really paid much attention to it.  Sure, Reapings came and went.  They bussed anyone under eighteen down to the square and we all unloaded, getting strange looks from all the other kids as we checked in with wild hair and hospital-issued clothing.  I stood there, hoped my name wasn’t called, and then loaded back onto the bus and went back home.  Sometimes, if the friendly cooks were working that night, they'd give us a small sliver of cake as a congratulations.  To my knowledge, no one in the asylum has ever gotten reaped, but I suppose that could change.  Maybe we weren't even in there.  I doubt a clinically depressed teenager would be any fun to watch in the arena.

Of course, watching the Games is mandatory by law, but if the doctors rule that we shouldn’t, or that our therapy sessions come first, we can’t.  I usually try and sneak into the viewing room if I’m not in therapy, but sometimes, Doc will pull me out.  He’s afraid scenes of death and violence will only worsen my condition.  I say fuck off.  This is the only entertainment I get.

Well, as they reminded us during wake up call, tomorrow is the reaping.  Which would make tonight the night where everyone hides in their homes and pretends to ignore the fact that they might have to send their children to their violent deaths tomorrow.  The asylum was quiet.  At least, quieter than usual.  I walked down the hall in my filthy hospital gown, my slippers dragging across the dingy tile floor.  The lights were dim, and you could hear the buzz they produced.  I was walking back to my cell after a particularly draining therapy session.  My body was numb, and still tingling.  A nurse walked alongside of me in case I collapsed on the floor during our short walk.  She looked rather annoyed that I was moving so slow, but that only made me walk slower.

I finally got back, and sluggishly made my way into my tiny living quarters.  The nurse shot me a look and groaned as she swung the heavy metal door shut.  I heard the key twist, locking me in.

“Lunch is in an hour!” She snapped before walking away.  I slumped down onto my cot, curling up into a ball, still shaking slightly.  My teeth chattered, and I wished desperately for a thicker blanket.  I may have drifted off to sleep, or just gone brain dead for a few seconds, but the sound of something sliding across the dusty stone floor of my cell woke me up.  I slowly stood and walked over to my door.  A folded piece of paper was waiting for me.  I bent down to pick it up, my fingers trembled as I unfolded it’s creases, reading the note out loud to Tatum.  She always wanted to hear them too, though sometimes, I kept them for myself.  I shouldn’t have to share everything with her.

It read:

Hey Tessy,

It’s me again. What a surprise, right? I know these are getting lamer each time and I bet you’re in there rolling your eyes at how cheesy I must sound, but what can I say? After three years you start to run out of things to say. In reality though I don’t think I could ever truly run out of things to say to you. Anyway, I brought you breakfast today, thought you’d like something actually edible (instead of the crap they call food here). Obviously I can’t fit it under the door so it will be waiting for you somewhere else. Someone will be helping me get it to you but I can’t tell you who as that might give my identity away. So instead I ask you to just be patient; you’ll find it soon enough.

I told myself I wouldn’t talk about what tomorrow might bring but I have to. I’ve decided on something and I hope this won’t have to happen but if it does I wanted to tell you. If you get chosen tomorrow then I’ll come see you before you leave and I’ll tell you who I am. It’s a risk for myself but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Stay beautiful, Tessa Hale.

-S.G.

I sighed, my stomach churning, though whether it was from the note, or therapy was anyone’s guess.  I didn’t know why the thought of meeting S.G. made me so nervous.  Maybe a part of me liked the mystery.  Or maybe I just didn’t want to be disappointed.  I folded the note back up and stuffed it into my pillow, where a bunch of the other notes from S.G. were hidden.  I laid my head back down and tried to get as much sleep as I could before they called us for lunch.

I had a different escort that walked me to the cafeteria.  I waited in line, and watched as many other patients filled up their trays.  As soon as they saw me, they shook their heads, retrieving a “special plate” that had very little on it.  Today, a tablespoon of beans, a cup of water, and three baby carrots.  Yum.

I walked over to the table Callan and I sit at and plopped down across from him.  There was a bag on the table.

“What’s that?”  I asked.  We don't usually talk that much.  Tatum is enough of a chatterbox, and he's anything but.  But neither of us mind.

“Dunno, it was here when I sat down.”  He said, scooping some of his beans onto my tray. Callan had no dietary restrictions, in fact, they usually gave him more.  He was more than willing to share, and who was I to turn it down?

“Well, aren't you gonna open it?”  I asked.  He shrugged and I rolled my eyes.  I grabbed the package and ripped it open.  Inside, was a steaming bowl of oatmeal, with fresh berries and brown sugar sprinkled on the top. One the bowl, "Tessy" was written in black marker. “Holy shit.” I gasped.

“I bet it’s from S.G..” Tatum smiled.

“How intuitive of you.”  I said, sarcasm leaking from my lips.  I dove in, swallowing a large helping right away.  I practically moaned as I felt the warm, sweet mixture run down my throat.  I put a scoop onto Callan’s plate before scarfing the entire bowl down.  I’m not a total bitch.

After lunch, I decided to nap for the rest of the day.  I had the next  day off  because of the Reaping.  No one usually bothered the minors on Reaping Day.

I rested on my cot, rereading the lines of S.G.’s note in my head over and over.  I could finally meet him tomorrow.  But that would also mean that he would be a tribute, and most likely die, because really, who ever wins from Seven?

“You know, if you keep reciting the note you’ll never fall asleep.” Tatum warned.

I closed my eyes.

“Shut up.”