sheburnsalone

[sheburnsalone]

it was onion weed. i won’t deny that.

you looked so proud, like you��d just discovered an ancient healing herb instead of… garnish for stew.

i tried to keep a straight face, i really did.

but then you called it “elegant.” and i lost it.

still, i wore it.

not because it was pretty—because you picked it. and because deep down, i knew someday i’d get to remind you of it for the rest of your life.

so now every time you get smug about your baking skills, i just think:

“this man once gave me a weed and called it romance.”

I could've swore I've looked at a herbarium a dozen times.

She would disagree and declare I'm uneducated.

In the end, we'd both be correct.

When I tucked a small, white flower behind her ear, her eyes glinted like she was trying not to laugh.

I had thought it was gorgeous. She had thought of it as a joke. Of course I didn't understand it then, but now I can see how stupid I had looked.

It was onion weed. I haven't touched a plant since.

@sheburnsalone

[sheburnsalone]

omg Katniss are you pregnant???????

-CaptiolKatnissfan12

are you serious. again?

no. i’m not pregnant. i just ate half a loaf of bread and took a nap. that’s called being human.

i sneeze and people start knitting baby blankets. relax.

if i ever am pregnant, believe me—you'll hear about it when i start threatening peeta for breathing too loud and crying over soup commercials.

until then, stop looking at my stomach. it’s full of carbs, not children.

[sheburnsalone]

i told him we were out of cheese.

a normal person might say “okay” and move on.

peeta?

peeta took it as a personal challenge.

twenty minutes later he was in the kitchen making cheese from scratch.

talking to it. nurturing it like it was a newborn lamb.

i asked how long it would take. he said “a few days.”

i said we could just go to town.

he looked at me like i’d committed a crime against art.

so anyway. we have a cheese now. it lives in the cellar. it has a name. he’s very proud.

@theirpropaganda

[sheburnsalone]

they don’t know the smell of smoke in the rubble.

they’ve never heard a cannon fire.

they don’t flinch at sudden noise, or sleep with a knife under their pillow.

that’s the whole point, right?

our son has your hands. always in the flour, always reaching to help before anyone even asks. he watches people the way you do—quiet, careful, with too much heart. i see you in him every time he smiles at someone like they matter.

and our daughter… you say she’s got my fire, but i see you in the way she hums when she paints the porch yellow or insists we have dessert before dinner because “papa says sweetness makes the day better.”

sometimes, they ask about the war.

and we look at each other—just a second too long—before one of us finds the words. enough to tell the truth. not enough to let it bleed.

i never thought i’d have this. not really.

but they came anyway.

and every night when you kiss them goodnight, i think—

maybe we finally got something the capitol couldn’t touch.

@theirpropaganda

[sheburnsalone]

he once said, “this’ll be easy.”

we were halfway through the woods trying to find some wild roots he swore were edible. two hours later: we found a rock, a frog, and a patch of poison ivy.

he called it a success. i called it a lesson in trust issues.

and yet, i keep letting him drag me into things. maybe i like disasters now. maybe i like him.

[sheburnsalone]

not sure if you’re flirting or just horrified by the structural integrity of my bread. could be both. probably both.

and i wasn’t aware dough could fight back, but now that i’ve met it… yeah. seems right.

if you’re offering a lesson, fine. i’ll try not to set your kitchen on fire. just don’t get smug about it. (or do. whatever.)

bring extra flour. and patience. mostly patience.

tried to bake.

kitchen looks like a snowstorm and smells like defeat.

followed the instructions. used the right measurements. didn’t even threaten the dough this time. still came out hard enough to qualify as a district 2 training weapon.

and somehow… burnt. and raw. at the same time.

i don’t know how he does it. bread is flour and water, not a capitol-level science experiment. but his comes out golden and soft, like it was always meant to be that way. like it just wanted to exist for him.

mine came out looking like a muttation had a nervous breakdown and died in the oven.

pretty sure i heard the loaf whisper, “please kill me.”

so yeah. i’m retiring from baking. again. starting to think the oven can smell fear.

someone tell the boy with the bread he’s safe. his job isn’t under threat.

(not that it ever was.)

(but don’t tell him i said that.)

[sheburnsalone]

tried to bake.

kitchen looks like a snowstorm and smells like defeat.

followed the instructions. used the right measurements. didn’t even threaten the dough this time. still came out hard enough to qualify as a district 2 training weapon.

and somehow… burnt. and raw. at the same time.

i don’t know how he does it. bread is flour and water, not a capitol-level science experiment. but his comes out golden and soft, like it was always meant to be that way. like it just wanted to exist for him.

mine came out looking like a muttation had a nervous breakdown and died in the oven.

pretty sure i heard the loaf whisper, “please kill me.”

so yeah. i’m retiring from baking. again. starting to think the oven can smell fear.

someone tell the boy with the bread he’s safe. his job isn’t under threat.

(not that it ever was.)

(but don’t tell him i said that.)

[sheburnsalone]

you waved at a peacekeeper once. in full gear. with the gun.

i thought you’d lost it. but I guess that’s just your “beige flag.”

as for the swimming… i knew there was a reason i had to keep you alive in that arena lake. thought you were just being dramatic.

next time I teach you to fish, i'm bringing floaties. you can wave at the trout.

I think my beige flag (are they called that?) is that I can't swim without floatation . . . oh and another is that I wave at almost every stranger I see? I thought that was rational.

[sheburnsalone]

peeta. it’s 2025. there is no deeper meaning. cursed images just exist. like mutts. or snow’s hair. you trying to find a hidden message in them is like trying to reason with a tracker jacker. admirable. tragic. pointless.

but hey, if a dolphin punchline gave you a moment of peace, then maybe the rebellion is working.

sent peeta the catherine method image as a joke and this was his response. i genuinely don’t know if he’s spiraling or writing poetry. maybe both.

highlights include:

• “emotionally mugged by a dolphin”

• him trying to emotionally process electrocution AND soul-bonding in the same sentence

• implying haymitch would sabotage our escape plan but like… lovingly??

i keep sending him cursed content and he keeps reacting like he just woke up in a capitol hovercraft with no memory of the past 3 weeks. it’s kind of beautiful.

[sheburnsalone]

sent peeta the catherine method image as a joke and this was his response. i genuinely don’t know if he’s spiraling or writing poetry. maybe both.

highlights include:

• “emotionally mugged by a dolphin”

• him trying to emotionally process electrocution AND soul-bonding in the same sentence

• implying haymitch would sabotage our escape plan but like… lovingly??

i keep sending him cursed content and he keeps reacting like he just woke up in a capitol hovercraft with no memory of the past 3 weeks. it’s kind of beautiful. -katniss

[sheburnsalone]

friend. lover. victor. fiancé. enemy. target. mutt.

you looked me in the eye and said those words like they meant nothing.

like i meant nothing.

but i know that isn’t you—not really. that’s the venom they pumped into your mind, the lies they stitched into your memories. and i hate them for it. not you.

you were the boy who gave me bread. the one who saw me when i was starving. you held my hand in the arena when everything was falling apart. you loved me even when i couldn’t say it back.

so go ahead. call me your enemy. your target.

i’m not going anywhere.

i’ll wait—for the real you to come back. because i know he’s still in there. and i’ll burn the whole damn capitol down to bring him home.

[sheburnsalone]

ooc: i'm turning 22 next month😫

Can I ask how old people are in this rp? I’d love to join but if it’s only minors here then I would have to pass on it. :(

//I’m pretty sure it’s mostly if not all minors sorry. I would ask @lokiostasis tho they have all the tags or rp accounts //

[sheburnsalone]

ooc: guys, im itching to write so much for katniss ! pls leave any asks, questions, submissions in my inbox <3 thank you loves

[sheburnsalone]

Katniss, does Buttercup still bother you as much as he used to? I know you hated him but you’re all he has left now, I hope you take care of him a bit!!!

-Primrose ☁️🕊🪦

Hey Prim, Yeah, he still hisses at me like I’m the one who tried to drown him. But I leave out food. I let him curl up on my blanket even when he smells like the ashes. Sometimes I think he’s looking for you when he sits in the hallway, staring at nothing. Maybe we both are. So no, I don’t hate him. He’s a piece of you, and I’d never let that go.

[sheburnsalone]

They say time heals. I don’t know if that’s true. Some wounds just learn how to close around the pain.

I never thought I’d have children. I swore I wouldn’t bring anyone into a world that could break them the way ours broke us. But things change. The world shifted—slowly, painfully and so did I.

My children don’t know about the arenas. Not really. They know there was a war. That people got hurt. That I lost people I loved, people who still visit me in dreams. Sometimes I wake up gasping for air, and my son’s small hand is wrapped around my fingers. Or my daughter sings to the birds like her father. And I remember that life goes on. Even when it shouldn’t. Even when you think you can’t.

Being a mother is nothing like fighting in the Games. There are no rules, no sponsors, no escape. But there’s something else—there’s hope. There’s joy in watching them grow, in seeing their eyes light up at the simplest things where a dandelion, a song, a story I make up on the spot because the old ones are too heavy to share.

Today is Mother’s Day. And I’m not sure I ever saw myself living long enough to celebrate something like this. But I did. We did. And I carry that weight—and that wonder—every day.

Happy Mother’s Day to the survivors. To the ones still healing. To the ones who chose to love anyway.

— Katniss ooc: guys, im desperate to write so much for katniss !! pls leave suggestions or submissions in my inbox <3 thank you and happy mothers day !!

[sheburnsalone]

Katniss furrowed her brow. She didn’t speak, not yet. Let the silence work first. Let him fill it.

His eyes flicked over her face. Hair, braid, uniform. She could see him cataloging—identifying components, not a person. It wasn’t fear or curiosity. Just… analysis. Clinical.

That set her teeth on edge.

She took one step into the room, careful and cautious, and watched how he adjusted—barely. His shoulders lifted a millimeter, his hands stiffened. But he didn’t move back.

Then he looked down. Her eyes followed and froze.

Thick metal cuffs encircled his wrists. Embedded deep. Fresh blood had dried around the edges, dark and flaking where it hadn’t crusted over. The skin around them was raw. Not medical restraints. Not controlled.

Punishment.

Her breath caught before she could stop it, and she forced herself not to reach for him. Not yet. He didn’t even seem to notice the damage—only noted it, calmly, as if his hands belonged to someone else.

“You’re not in your lab anymore,” she said. Her voice came out quieter than she meant. Not soft, but worn. She didn’t look away. She refused to let him fade into the sterile coldness around them. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

///RP Starter-Please Interact!//

The doctor stands on bare feet staring at light brown skin that's lost its tone long ago. It's bright in here, but where is here? It's not in his lab. He is not allowed outside the lab. A shot of dark brown eyes and he presses his spine against the wall feeling a gray uniform crinkle against it, too large for him. He'd been in his labs when there was crashing. There were... Scratched up peacekeepers. They wanted #P MEELARK. He told them they'd have to ask Mister Snow. He remembers smacking into his own lab wall not for the first time, but the first time he remembers vaguely hands grabbing him and hauling him around.

He takes a quick short deep breath through his nose like he's been trained to do. Takes inventory of his limbs, finds that while those are present none of his materials are. Nor is Dovey...

The walls here are gray. The atmospheric conditions suggest almost underground which should be rather strange. There are no components of his lab that are underground. He cannot leave his lab. But there is someone new here. While rather odd it is not unheard of. There's beeping.

a lock turning

And dark, but frozen over Abernathy eyes meet yours.

// trying something new. Yes I scrapped this together after a business meeting with my father's associates at literally 2 in the morning leave me. He's been taken by the rebels, if I was so awful at explaining. I'm going to tag some people and don't want you to feel obligated to respond but I want to tag anybody I think might have a good character to respond. If that makes sense and you can tag me the same way if you write something similar, I'd love to see your response! @sheburnsalone @sunrisenalcoholic @clerkcarmineclade @effietrinketdistrict12 //

[sheburnsalone]

The door opened with a sterile hiss and a metallic click, and Katniss took a cautious step inside. Her boots made no sound on the floor, though the silence here seemed too dense for sound to penetrate anyway. The room was gray, like everything in this place—and cold in a way that crept into her bones, even though the temperature wasn’t what did it. It was the stillness. The dead, calculated kind. The kind you’d find in a vault, or a cage.

She spotted him right away.

The boy was standing barefoot near the far wall, as if he’d been pressed there by some invisible force. Maybe fear. Maybe instinct. Maybe memory. His gray uniform was far too large, crinkled awkwardly as he tried to disappear into the background. But his eyes—light gray and unblinking—met hers as if he were the one walking in to find her.

He looked like a ghost. Not pale from fear, but from absence. He was young, fifteen at most—and small, barely reaching Peeta’s shoulder if they’d been side by side. His black hair was neatly combed and pinned, as though someone had carefully constructed an image of order around a boy with no say in the matter.

Katniss didn’t move. Neither did he.

So this was him. The Doctor.

Oliver Buckwheat Abernathy. Haymitch’s son.

She couldn’t reconcile it, not really. The name had come out of Coin’s mouth weeks ago like a weapon. A child molded by the Capitol into something sharp and clinical, hidden away in a lab under the pretenses of "usefulness." Katniss had imagined something else, someone older, colder, crueler.

But this boy was just...haunted.

///RP Starter-Please Interact!//

The doctor stands on bare feet staring at light brown skin that's lost its tone long ago. It's bright in here, but where is here? It's not in his lab. He is not allowed outside the lab. A shot of dark brown eyes and he presses his spine against the wall feeling a gray uniform crinkle against it, too large for him. He'd been in his labs when there was crashing. There were... Scratched up peacekeepers. They wanted #P MEELARK. He told them they'd have to ask Mister Snow. He remembers smacking into his own lab wall not for the first time, but the first time he remembers vaguely hands grabbing him and hauling him around.

He takes a quick short deep breath through his nose like he's been trained to do. Takes inventory of his limbs, finds that while those are present none of his materials are. Nor is Dovey...

The walls here are gray. The atmospheric conditions suggest almost underground which should be rather strange. There are no components of his lab that are underground. He cannot leave his lab. But there is someone new here. While rather odd it is not unheard of. There's beeping.

a lock turning

And dark, but frozen over Abernathy eyes meet yours.

// trying something new. Yes I scrapped this together after a business meeting with my father's associates at literally 2 in the morning leave me. He's been taken by the rebels, if I was so awful at explaining. I'm going to tag some people and don't want you to feel obligated to respond but I want to tag anybody I think might have a good character to respond. If that makes sense and you can tag me the same way if you write something similar, I'd love to see your response! @sheburnsalone @sunrisenalcoholic @clerkcarmineclade @effietrinketdistrict12 //