oxford-dwitt

[oxford-dwitt]

wastefulyears‌:

the sound of his fist against the wall sliced though the air and made jules bite his lip - hard. he was too focused on the tribute in front of him to notice he had drawn blood, the bitter taste on the tip of his tongue. for a moment he tried to make himself bigger, straightening his back, and puffing out his chest. an attempt at intimidation, which obviously fell short. he quickly retreated back into himself.  

“if they volunteer they bring it on themselves. some of these tributes live for this, you know that. everyone does.” the career districts were vicious beings. they volunteered to win the games, not participate. why anyone would be delusional enough to willingly put themselves through the games, is a mystery to jules. he listened carefully, taking in every melancholic word the man voiced. he looked every bit as defeated. truthfully, jules had no idea how to comfort him, he had never allowed anyone close enough to burden him in the likely chance that they were another lost to the games. he wished he could say he remembered the girl from district nine, but that would be a lie. too many were lost. she wasn’t special. 

“we aren’t supposed to do anything. we’ll try, like every other tribute has before. we’ll most likely die, unless luck is on your side and you happen to be the one that emerges victorious. just… make peace that your family will lose you too.” he shrugged, he was never good a sugarcoating the truth. “you could… gain a few allies to help your chances. surely, you’ve made a few friends here.” to use oxford would be cruel, but nonetheless a good idea.

“Try.” D12′s advice was to try. The thought had honestly never crossed Oxford’s mind. Since the moment his name was called - hell, the moment his sister’s name had been called - he had been so wrapped up in wrath, disappointment, and fear that it had never once occurred to him that all things being equal, he had a 1/24 chance of making it out alive. If he would just try.

Of course, not all things were equal. 

Ox snorted in derision at the man’s comments about Careers. So fucking true. He had seen them in the room just past those doors: the glitzy men and women who were showing off, practically gloating over their wins before setting foot in the Arena. Maniacs. Demons. 

He opened his mouth to make a comment when D12′s final thought hit him. It gave him pause, and finally he allowed his eyes to travel from the floor to look him square in the face. He held his gaze for a touch longer than necessary, thinking of how best to respond. He hadn’t, of course, made any friends. But there was no need for this man to know that.

“What’s your name? I’ve been calling you D12 in my head this whole time.”

[oxford-dwitt]

Connor Swindells appreciation post.

[oxford-dwitt]

shallowfm‌:

     luna had been very upset about the results of the reaping, that was an understatement. in a split second, her life had been signed away to the capitol that didn’t even value her life. it was a wasteof her existence but she had no power to do anything about it. she had tried her best to keep her tears in until the reaping was over but others looking at her like she was already a ghost tipped her over the edge. she would miss her family and hoped no ill fate would come to them, that they would be treated with respect and her parents would garner support as she entered the arena. 

while luna was a talkative individual, she had been emotional so tried her best not to bother oxford, the acquaintance from ten that was supposed to be her ally through this ordeal. standing on the side lines waiting for the parade to begin, she sighed. although the girl felt beautiful, the glamour was only masking horror that had been socially accepted. “this is overhwelming, don’t you think?” luna finally broke the silence between them. this wasn’t how it was supposed to go and she already felt she was drowning as she looked around at the sea of people. “least we look good…” she nodded, mostly to psych herself up and brave a smile that was her signature in their district.

@oxford-dwitt​

Oxford’s jaw had been clenched shut since his name had been called. All during the train ride and parade preparation, his mouth was like an iron vice. Luna had made one or two attempts to talk to him, but Ox could not find the strength to unclasp his jaw to respond.

Now, standing before the parade in an awful array of clothing, Ox heard her voice pipe up again. His lifted his eyebrows in acknowledgement - more communication than he had given her so far. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed his voice to work. After all, she was the only trace of home he had left.

“Yeah. Overwhelming.” Ox was surprised to find his voice catching in his throat. “But looking good? I don’t know about that.” He looked down at the dreadful costume the stylist had put him in, and instantly regretted it as the weight of his headpiece tried to crack his neck. “I already miss District Nine. Is that how quick this is all supposed to feel?” He did not match her smile.

[oxford-dwitt]

wastefulyears‌:

for a moment, he blinked up at the taller tribute, eyelashes fluttering gently as he studied him. he had to get on this mans good side fast, as jules knew dying from his hands would be a painful way to go. he laughed nervously, trying to put him at ease. jules was no threat to him, not yet anyway. 

“yeah, I am. I’m the youngest of four brothers, and clearly the least fortunate.” he stepped forward, slowly and calculated. it was quiet in the hallway, the only sounds a faint rumbling of the training happening not too far from where they were standing. he wondered if oxford could hear the heaviness in his breathing. “what about you? the first?” he managed to get out the question without the sound of fear trembling in his voice. it hit him that he could be standing before a future victor. jules was not sure how he felt about that. he had never expected to win, but witnessing his future truly disappearing was moderately upsetting, even to him. not too long ago his demise was certain, but the events leading to it had been a blur - it was getting clearer each passing day at the capitol.

Ox opened his fist against the wall to press his fingertips into the texture. The roughness soothed him for a moment. He turned and pressed his back against the wall. Crossing his arms across his chest, he sized up the man in front of him again. D12 had a small, retreating figure and a slouch that betrayed his insecurity. Ox only recognized it because he had it himself.

“Everyone Reaped is the unluckiest in their family, as are most of those who volunteer.” Luck seemed to have nothing to do with the Games, though the odds were ever in their favor. It was a shame - D12′s family had almost made it through. Four brothers, and they had almost made it through.

Oxford’s mind flashed back to the moment of Delta’s Reaping - how small she had seemed on that stage. Ox probably hadn’t - at his height, it was hard to look small anywhere. He silently regarded the man in front of him for a moment. His gaze was deep and sorrowful - and perhaps he stayed silent a bit too long. 

“No. My older sister was Reaped a few years back. Didn’t last long. If I don’t make it back, my parents will have lost half their children to the Games. I’m one of four as well.” Another deep breath. Breath in, breath out. “What the hell are we supposed to do?”

[oxford-dwitt]

wastefulyears‌:

jules huffed as he made his way out of the training room, he was bored and tired of it all. there was absolutely no way he was going to learn any new skills in the short amount of time he had left. the annoyance of the day taking form of a frown and furrowed brow on his face. however as the man from district nine crossed his path, this quickly turned to fear - something he hadn’t felt since being here. the district nine tribute was one who demanded the attention of people without any effort and was by far the scariest of all the tributes, mostly due to his size and stature. jules calculated how he should approach this situation, with spite or caution? 

“I, uh… wasn’t following you.” he took a step back - the further away, the better. jules could tell by the level of his voice, he was unhinged. “a moment alone is rare in these parts, so it seems.” chances are you were always going to be bothered by someone, a mentor or stylist, or worse - another tribute. he glanced around to see if there were any witnesses around, in case the circumstance of the large tribute deciding to kill him early were to arise. “it’s all bullshit anyway… right? they’ll decide who lives and dies. training won’t help us at all.”

Oxford looked down at the smaller man who had followed him. His sleeve labeled him District 12. Some of the panic that had been coursing through Ox’s veins subsided, but he still felt his fists balling up instinctively. To his surprise, this man seemed to be afraid of him. No. No no no, if there was one thing Oxford didn’t want to be labeled as - it was scary.

“I, uh... wasn’t following you.”

Ox stared down at him, his jaw tightening. “It just seems like we’re being followed - everywhere. Can’t escape anything. Can’t get -”

“A moment alone is rare in these parts, so it seems.”

The comment made Ox’s lip quiver into s small smirk for a mere moment. “Yeah. Seems like. And I agree - it is bullshit. Absolute bullshit. BULLSHIT!” The last word ripped from his lungs much louder than he had intended. The acid bit at the back of his throat and he abruptly turned to smash a fist against the wall behind him. 

Keeping his back to the District 12 Tribute, Ox took a few deep breaths. “Are you the first of your family to be Reaped?”

[oxford-dwitt]

-- running now with the raging bulls

location parade route self para

Oxford still felt as if he was in a fog. Only moments ago, it seemed, he was hugging his family and feeling their tears on his chest. His own tears hadn’t even had time or space to materialize. It had been a blur from Capitol building to train, where he barely remembered any of his conversation with Luna. His eyes had formed an impermeable mist, and everything looked like it was blurred by a soft film. Mostly what he could hear was Ophelia Reed calling out, “Oxford d’Witt,” which played on repeat under anything else anyone had to say.

Surely hours or even days had passed, but it seemed like mere moments to Ox. His stylist had preened and fawned over him. The entire world seemed to rediscover that yes, he was tall. Yes, he was thin. Yes, things must be difficult back in District Nine. The whole time, though, he felt the condescension from those around him - he felt them discounting him and betting against him under his breath. And perhaps they were right. Perhaps they were. Perhaps they just were right.

Everyone would have to wait and see.

The stylist outfitted Ox in an ostentatious suit of armor woven from wheat that left his arms exposed. It was itchy, stiff, and terribly uncomfortable - made only worse by the garish headpiece the stylist had constructed. It almost immediately put a crick in his neck from the imbalance, and nearly all of his effort had to go into preventing his neck from snapping from the weight.

Between the ridiculous outfit, the growing pain in his neck, and the intimidation from the other Tributes, Ox had nothing else to do than white-knuckle grip the handlebar of his chariot. He could not wave, could not look side to side, and could certainly not smile. He stood tall and rigid, the bright lights and roaring crowd throbbing dully into his senses. For once, he was thankful for the mist in his eyes and the repetitive name in his ear. It was almost calming. Almost.

Oxford survived the parade by focusing on his breathing. He felt the roar of the crowd, the grandeur of the Capitol, and the eyes of the nation all trying to pry into his brain, but he knew he couldn’t allow them in. He couldn’t. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out, one moment to think how damn hard it is to breathe in this stupid outfit, breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

[oxford-dwitt]

Our parents won't understand They don't know that we might not last the day We ought to make a stand Holding out for another way

Don't you know that we're outlaws? Giving the finger to death himself We got no one to hide from We got no one to toast our health

Rules were meant to be pushed and pulled We were meant to be sparks of light Running now with the raging bulls Baby we can be magic tonight

[oxford-dwitt]

location outside the main training floor closed thread for @wastefulyears

Oxford suddenly found his breath catching in his throat, and it had nothing to do with the treadmill he was running on. He could feel eyes on him all around. It was as if the “D9″ on his sleeve was a beacon for ridicule and belittlement. Added to the fact that he towered over most of the people in the room, Ox couldn’t find a moment of solitude for himself. With his face turning red, Oxford pushed his way out of the training room and into the hallway, which he found mercifully empty. 

He leaned up against a wall, ducking his head to find his breath again. However, it just wouldn’t come. Instead, hot tears started forming in his eyes - it just wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. The door opening behind him caught him off guard, and he yelped, spinning and raising to his full height.

“Sorry, I just - I’ll get out of the way I just...” Ox realized he was speaking a little louder than needed. “I don’t need people following me. I’m just taking a moment outside, you know? Can’t I just have that?”

[oxford-dwitt]

Old heat of a raging fire Come and light my eyes Summer's kiss through electric wire

But I'll  n e v e r  d i e

Sycamore, ash, moss and loam Wrap your roots all around my bones And when they come for me When they call my name Cast my shadow from a bellow's flame

[oxford-dwitt]

-- bethlehem steel

self para; the night before the reaping

A hot acidic bite sat at the back of Ox’s throat. It could only mean one thing - the Reaping was tomorrow. The night before filled everyone in his family with different emotions, of course, but for Ox it was an electric kick drum in the back of his head. It pulsed through his brain and set his fingers on fire. He couldn’t stay in this house all day. He couldn’t. He would have to be back for dinner; a family tradition that hadn’t worked for the d’Witt family saw them together and silent for a few minutes, just sitting with one another.

But for now? Ox could run. And so he did. It was reckless and aimless, but the wind rushing past his face made him feel like a stalk of wheat. He imagined how they bent without breaking, no matter the stormy winds. They only fell if cut down. 

Ox ran to the abandoned barnhouse that lay past the hill behind his neighborhood. It wasn’t secret by any means; he had attended parties at this barnhouse, taken dates and lovers there, and even once had a birthday party there. Yet something about the weeds and the dust seemed sacred and private. When the sun rose, light lanced in through a single missing piece of the roof. Stray cats often hunted mice around the perimeter, and somehow - mysteriously - it was always empty when he wanted to be alone and always full when he wanted to be near others.

This afternoon, the barnhouse was quiet and peaceful. Empty bottles from a night of partying were strewn about. Oxford threw himself to the ground, panting slightly, and stretched out in the dirt. He could see the first few traces of starlight filtering in through the cracked roof. For just that brief moment, Ox felt at peace with the evening. For just that brief moment. Then the acid bit back. The Reaping was tomorrow. The yearly reminder that he was a no one to the Capitol.

The acid grew until Ox was roaring. He screamed at the ceiling until his body threw itself at the walls. He swung his fists into the soft wood over and over again. His brain didn’t have time to process information before he was snatching bottles from the ground and hurling them across the space to shatter into dust. Bottle after bottle was launched to their demise. It didn’t make him feel better. 

It seemed like no time at all until Oxford had smashed every single bottle available to him. However, the rasp of his now-weak voice and the darkness of the sky told him he had vented for longer than anticipated. Shit. He needed to get home. He ran. The wind on his face helped him hold back the tears. 

When he arrived, he found his mother, Mohra, just finishing the table settings. She looked up at him with a sweet smile, the dread in her eyes masked with swept bangs. Ox silently took his seat, where his father, Dorn, was already seated. His older brother Barker was pulling a loaf of bread out of the oven, and his younger sister Kye was pouring water for everyone. Hedda, Barker’s wife, hovered in a corner, waiting for dinner to start. Everyone was quiet. 

Soon, the table was set and everyone was gathered: six people seated in seven chairs. After a moment, Mohra spoke. “Well, another Reaping is upon us. Let us take a moment to give thanks we haven’t needed to add any names for tessarae this year.” She looked across to Oxford. “This year is scary, of course. Let’s take a moment to say a prayer for all three names we have in those bowls. Oxford, Hedda, and Kye.” Barker gave his wife’s hand a squeeze. It would be her last Reaping tomorrow. Kye, on the other hand, would be in her first. Oxford himself had gotten used to the long lines and the tense atmosphere. Only a few more years and then he’d be safe like the rest of them.

“And, of course, let us take a moment to remember those we’ve lost to the Games.” Mohra’s voice choked the slightest bit. Dorn took her hand, knowing he wouldn’t be able to speak if he tried. “Hedda’s father, Ulster. And our...” The name caught full in her throat, and the acid bit in the back of Ox’s. The table looked around at each other, pleading with someone to say it. Oxford was the only one able.

“Our Delta.” The empty chair at the table seemed to radiate energy when the name was called. A slight girl, the second born, Reaped at age twenty into a Games designed for a Career. The shortest sibling. The one with the reddest hair, who looked the most like their father - the rest of the siblings looked more like their mother. Delta Benevie d’Witt of District Nine.

Everyone around the table tried to say her name, to varying degrees of success. Five years was not enough time to dull the pain, and chances were low that it would dissipate any time soon. The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. At the end, everyone helped clean up and hugged each other goodbye. Barker and Hedda left to return to their house down the road, and Kye retreated to her room, leaving Oxford with his parents. As usual, silence was king. Ox stood and walked to the door. When he reached it, he turned to look to his parents. He took a breath in to say something, but thought better of it. His father nodded acknowledgement. Everyone processed the night before the Reaping differently, and Dorn knew that Ox needed to be alone. Ox nodded, then turned and left. He ran.

He arrived at the barnhouse as moonlight was just beginning to drift into the room. Ox gently laid down in the glass dust from earlier. He ran his fingers across it, enjoying the slight bite into his skin. He took a deep breath in and tried to scream once more, but his voice was shot. It came out as a light, breathy wail. The sound wasn’t what mattered, though. It was the scratch in the back of his throat that replaced the acidic bite. That’s why he continued to scream.

He awoke the next morning with a burning in his throat and a rash on his face from sleeping in the dust. But at least there was no acid.

[oxford-dwitt]

and i’m back with some balance; ravi is so pro-games i figured i could bring in someone maybe not-so-pro-games. :) hit me up for plotting!

OX D’WITT --- DISTRICT 9

[ CONNOR SWINDELLS, CISMALE, HE/HIM. ] introducing O x f o r d  d' W i t t, TRIBUTE of the 74th hunger games, representing district 9. my sources say that he is 23 years old, & that he’s pretty handy with his bruised fists and not much else. wonder if that will do him any good in the arena? anyways, caesar says you can’t miss him, because he reminds everyone of a lightning struck tree, ghosts in the old church, and the bending of wheat as a storm gathers strength.

[oxford-dwitt]