#and then pearls part that fucks me up from getting fc

[munchboxart]

Into the Light playing in the lobby

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

❛ COME TO BED, I CAN'T SLEEP WITHOUT YOUR HIPS PRESSED AGAINST MINE ❜

❚❙ OBISPO ‘BISHOP’ LOSA MASTERLIST.

✨ REQUEST by @meteora-fc: heyo! please can you do 3 from the smut prompt list with bishop 😏 ty ty!!

✨ Prompt: “Come to bed, I can't sleep without your hips pressed against mine”.

Gif credit: to my amazing @sonsofeorl.

WORDS: about 1.5k.

Warnings: nsfw, unprotected sex, a little of overstimulation, mention of bodily fluid.

❚❙ A/N: thanks for requesting, my dear. I hope you enjoy this piece I wrote in less than 30 minutes, which is a record time. I’m sorry it took me so long and I know this should be part of ‘January of Prompts’, but I decided to take it as another request due it has been impossible for me to write this challenge.

❚❙ MASTERLIST.

❚❙ JOIN MY TAG LIST.

You have been trying to sleep for an hour now, but it has become an impossible mission knowing that your husband is still awake for some reason. He has been through some shit with Los Olvidados and Miguel Galindo lately and he doesn't want you to worry you feeling him spinning around your shared bed as he fights to fall asleep. But you prefer that than being alone. Getting up brushing your hair with your fingers, you lead your bare feet to the back porch, crossing your arms and rubbing them with both hands to get warm as you come closer to the outside.

Bishop is sitting on a chair with his legs rested on the wooden railings, smoking and holding an empty beer. Wrapping his chest from behind with your arms, you lean forward to press a gentle kiss on his raspy jawline. And you can't help but let go a soft purr as you sink your nose into the gap between his neck and his shoulder. Setting off the cig in the ashtray, he lands his right hand on the back of your head closing his eyes for a second.

“Come to bed... I can’t sleep without your hips pressed against mine”. You whisper into his ear with a provocative tone of voice, extending the last four words to highlight them.

You can see the smirk appearing on his face a second before standing up and lacing his fingers with yours, so you can guide him through your house straight to the main bedroom. In your way, he isn't able to put his free hand away from your throat to earn some exposed skin of your neck to kiss it slowly. Once Bishop puts a hand on your body, he can't stop touching you.

As soon as you reach your bed and tuck in, you get what you wanted, what you needed. His strong arms surround you without hesitation, pressing his body against yours; too close there's no distance between both. His lips continue adhered to you, leaving mouth-opened kisses from his starting point till finding your mouth in the middle of the gloom. Bishop tastes like nicotine and alcohol, but it doesn't disgust you, sliding your tongue into his cavity to crash with his in a friendly match.

Your husband bites and sucks your bottom lip, slowly swinging his hips against your ass and creating some friction as your t-shirt rolls up and down with every move from his body. You don't shut the soft moans that soon fills your room, grabbing his right wrist massaging your nipples over the cotton fabric to direct it down over your abdomen. His palm getting dragged gives you shivers, closing your eyelids when his fingertips caress your hipbone ending up playing with the waistband of your black panties.

“Tell me what you want, querida…” Bishop's voice puts you to tremble briefly, so needed after a couple of days without feeling him this close.

“I want you, Obispo”. You almost sob, dancing your hips in sync to earn more friction against the bulge growing under his boxers. “Need you inside me tonight… I need you”.

“I'll do anything for you”. He murmurs, while his hand makes his way to your already-ready pussy. “I'm so sorry for unattending you… Could you forgive me, mi amor?”

While he continues speaking to you, his index finger slightly caresses your swollen clit causing you to gasp eagerly.

“Yes… Yes, Bish”.

“I'll make it up to you”. And you know pretty well he will keep his promise.

Removing his hand from your panties, your husband pulls them down through your legs before doing the same with his underwear. You stirr at the simple touch of his bare skin and the heat it emanates from. Bishop urges you to raise a leg so he can guide his hard cock to your folds, playing with them as the head rubs your entrance to coat it with your arousal. And it feels so damn good after two days. Placing his hand on your inner thigh, he makes his way through your warm and soaked pussy, nailing his hardness as deep as he is able.

“Oh, god…” You cry out intertwining your fingers with the ones gripping your throat, rolling your eyes to the back of your head inevitably.

Bishop is so thick and big that you know you won't ever adjust to his size. He's aware of it, always giving you some seconds to get used to his cock, even if he adores the way your cunt suffocates him every time he's balls deep between your legs.

“Move… please… please”.

Sticking his chest to your back under the sheets, your husband rocks his hips slowly, taking his time to enjoy that being buried inside your body is the only way he feels like he's at home. There's no better place for him.

“You take me so good, baby girl… You're so tight… Can you feel it, ah?” His hoarse words fall onto your ear, urging you to lie a little over your back so he can devour your mouth.

Bishop doesn't give you the chance to reply, invading your cavity with his tongue and his grunts as his pelvis speed up furiously when he knows that your walls are already adjusted to his prominent erection. Tossing your leg behind to his and freeing his hand, he directs it to your breasts straight to one of your nipples. Bishop pinches it, twists it, pulls it, earning the delicious whinings that make him feel proud of satisfying you.

“Fuck, cariño… Oh, fuck… Please… Please, Obispo… fuck me harder”.

You can't deny you're such a filthy and needed whore for your man's dick. That's a fact. And can't do anything, but take your wishes as his commands. He lives for making you happy. The pace of his thrusts increases, creating a beautiful noise that fills your room when his hardness is sunk into your soaked cunt, not giving you time to catch back your breathing.

“Mi amor, you're so damn… perfect for me…” Bishop growls against your lips, keeping eye contact since he loves to see every expression drawn on your face. “You're my home… the only place I wanna come back… every single second of my life”.

You try to tell him how much you love him between short and clumsy kisses, running out of air and feeling the pearls of sweat touring your forehead.

Your husband needs to hear you screaming his name, substituting his lips for his fingers and sliding them into your mouth.

“Suck them, baby girl… Suck them like I know you can”.

And you give him a whole show, moans included before leading them to your thighs. Bishop spreads your folds using his digits, as he moves them from up to down stroking your most sensitive skin right now. He has learned how to touch you by paying attention to your vocals, how loud they are, the words you try to utter. Your husband knows to perfection how much pleasure these caresses to your inner lips provokes you, while he continues pounding you with no mercy. That gesture shortens the time you can resist till finding the orgasm, but when you explode, he pushes your soul out of your body.

Bishop makes you cum. He makes you cry, screams his full name, trying to put his hand away from your pussy when he wants to continue rubbing your satisfied pearl with his fingertips from one side to another; overstimulating you as he hasn't finished yet. You can't even talk, nor think. You aren't strong enough to make him stop, crashing his body against yours until emptying himself inside your guts.

“Oh, fuck, sweetheart!”

His seed fills you completely, pressing his anatomy to yours as his arms wrap you as much tight as he is able to. Bishop can feel his dick twitching buried in your more than pleased hole, as your legs and your hands are shaking for too much pleasure roaming every single inch of you.

“Good girl… Good girl”. Bishop whispers against your neck, resting his forehead there during a short moment. “You're the goodest girl, my lovely wife… You know how to cheer me up…”

“That's my job”. You giggle barely breathing, getting comfier under his tight grip. You don't want him to move away from you. “Don't… pull it out, please…”

“Want it inside the whole time, ah?” Bishop scoffs, pressing his body a little more against you, earning a soft and broken gasp. “Beg for it… I love to hear you begging”.

“I shouldn't”. You complain. “I've been a good girl… not disturbing you while you were working… and I was here alone. Needing my husband. So I have the right to keep your dick inside me a little more, Obispo. I'm not going to beg for it”.

You can feel him chuckling in silence, infecting you with his good humor after releasing all the tension the club has caused on him.

“Whatever”. He teases you, pretending to move back and not hear your speech.

But you don't let him. Of course not. You force his arms to stay around your body, sticking your body to his. You can't avoid a soft grunt escaping your lips when Bishop pushes his semi-erection a little deeper, hitting unexpectedly your g-spot. He's going to kill you. That's for sure.

[tothewaterhq]

ACCEPTED // DIOR DUPUIS

district 12 mentor → victor of the 54th →  amanda seyfried fc

positive traits: sincere, captivating, gracious negative traits: dramatic, obstinate, emotional

describe their arena: The arena for the 54th annual Hunger Games can be described in one word: sadistic. The tributes were thrust into a large maze-like arena. The walls consisted of varying materials, such as brick, stone, grass/leaves/ clay, etc. Above them, there was a bright blue sky by day and a starless abyss by night. The walls of the maze were so high that they couldn’t see anything but the sky, the maze, and whatever came around the corner or out of the wall itself. With each day, the gamemakers reduced the size of the arena so that, by the thrilling conclusion, the arena was simply the starting point: the cornucopia.

The 54th arena was perhaps remembered most for the amount of tributes that went crazy trying to find their way out. Additionally, the constant onslaught of mutts, changing walls, and bloodthirsty tributes had an effect on the mental stability of the 24 kids. In fact, one tribute was so deprived that, when he walked around a corner and encountered a wall of mirrors, he assumed the tribute he saw was another. The ironic confrontation ended with the tribute stabbing themselves by accident and bleeding out as a result. Some tributes, like the eventual victor, had an easier time. However, we will learn more about this later…

biography: It all started with a foolish mistake. A desire to feel wanted mixed with pure and animalistic lust resulted in the physical union of man and woman. As a result of this sinful union,  yet another mistake in the form of a human being was created. The woman, for the man had abandoned her without a second thought after his gustatory pleasures were satisfied, took hold of the infant and clutched the baby close to her bosom, tears cascading down her cheeks as she openly wept in the back alley. Gazing down at the product of her sin, the woman ran her bony fingers through the infant’s thick, golden curls. The child, now that it had been birthed, was the only thing keeping her to this world. She had nothing and she was nothing, just a tramp looking for love in all of the wrong places. With a racking sob, she stared lovingly at her child as she cried, the woman, barely old enough to be called one, opened her mouth and dubbed her child “Dior.” Just like the name suggested, Dior was golden and, just like gold, was considered to be a priceless treasure by her mother. However, little did the weeping maiden know, just like most priceless treasures, Dior would be stolen from her mother fifteen years later by a thief known as “The Hunger Games”.

The world of District Twelve was not a nice place to live. Of course, being one of twelve Districts essentially enslaved by an overwhelming force known as the Capitol is not the most grand option for living, but, when it comes to District Twelve, grand living doesn’t exist in any way, shape, or form. Unlike most other Districts, which had small pockets of wealth, Twelve consisted of the dead, the dying, and the soon to die. There was a small group of people, merchants, business owners, etc., who were considered “wealthy”, but the fact of the matter was that they, in comparison to other Districts, were still the lower class. It was in the slums, the places where deadbeats resided, that Dior grew up in. It was also in these wretched slums that Dior learned to loathe, with severe intensity, District Twelve in its entirety.

In a tiny shack, barely big enough to hold one person, let alone two, Dior and her mother, Bridget Bradt, “lived”. Bridget, being a single mother, worked herself to death every day to support herself and Dior. She balanced a myriad of jobs and, when Dior was old enough (about ten years old) she forced her to get a job as, basically, a mail girl. She delivered messages, written or verbal, packages, and other menial things that people needed to be delivered throughout the District. She once delivered a message from a wife to her husband, telling him that she was leaving him and not to come looking for her. Another time, she delivered “an important parcel” to the mayor from the local baker. The mayor ended up loving his little box of raspberries.

Due to her job, Dior knew many people and knew her way around the District quite well. During her deliveries, people would sometimes wave at her, others would just give her a nod of their had, and, sometimes, the other kids/teenagers that lived in extreme poverty would taunt her, calling her the rich girl with the golden hair. Many of select families that lived slightly better lives than the vast majority of the District possessed a form of blonde hair, whether it be as dirty as the District itself or pure and golden as, well, Dior. Since a majority of them were blonde, everyone simply started assuming that if someone was blonde, they were rich. It didn’t help the fact that the District Escort was blonde, too, so everyone associated being blonde with the Capitol, as well. For those that didn’t know her, the teasing was only minimal, but for those that lived in the slums and knew her and where she belonged, they teased her mercilessly.

“Oi, blondie? Who’d you have to fuck to get that hair dye?”

“Blondie, blondie! Why don’t you just go off yourself? You don’t belong here…”

“You’ll never amount to anything, bitch. You’re just like us, no matter how hard you try to change that.”

Of course, Dior never dyed her hair, nor had she ever had sex or done anything promiscuous of the sort before. However, the other mean things they said to her, about her, and behind her back, were pretty much true. She hated it in Twelve. She wanted to be more than what District Twelve could provide. She didn’t want to belong in Twelve. Part of the reason why she hated it in Twelve so much was because of her mother. She loved her mother, in fact, she was her closest friend, but many of the slum residents knew of her mother’s shady past. After all, many of the men, were, well… her clients, so to say. They teased Dior because of that, too. They called her mean things like “the prom night dumpster baby” or, Dior’s personal least favorite “daddyless little girl”.

The topic of Dior’s father was a rather sore one in the Bradt household. During the beginning, Dior didn’t really know or care about the absence of her father. However, when she got older and started going to school and noticed that most people had fathers who loved them, hugged them when they were hurt, and cared for them the way a father should, she started wondering where hers was. When she asked her mother, at age 11, where her father was, her mother froze up and, almost as if she had been waiting for this moment for years, answered robotically: “He died in a coal mining accident before you were born.”

As one can imagine, the news was devastating to Dior. The fact that she would never know her father’s embrace, his comforting words, his advice, or even his love sunk in over time. She was bitter, extremely much so, that her mother had not told her this was when she was younger. She was pissed that she would never know her father, and she was also bitter that she, unlike many others, didn’t have one. More than anything, though, Dior’s hatred for District Twelve solidified at that moment. It wasn’t her fault that her father was gone, it wasn’t anybody else’s, not even her mother, it was the coal mines. It was District Twelve.

Dior and her mother, from that point on, fought on an almost regular basis. For some reason, Bridget seemed more on edge than usual, perhaps because of the stress of her jobs, and Dior was on edge because of her hatred for the District as well as her longing for a father. Years past, and, eventually, during a rather dramatic fight involving Dior losing a parcel and Bridget reprimanding her, everything changed. At one point, while tears flooded down her face, Dior accidentally knocked over her mother’s “jewelry box” (if one could even call it that, for the only thing Bridget put in it was a single pair of earrings with two small, fake pearls on them) and the contents of the box spilled out. Out came her mother’s earrings along with a old, wrinkled piece of paper. Dior, confused due to never seeing her mother put anything else in that box other than earrings, stared at the paper curiously. When her mother saw what had happened, she let out a yelp and dove for the paper… but Dior was faster. Snatching it up, she ran quickly opened it and gazed at the face of the man drawn on the page. It was a face she recognized, a face she had seen every year for just about fifteen years: Stefan Dupuis, District Twelve’s very own Escort.

At first, she was confused, but in the minute long silence that followed when Dior picked up the sketch, everything started to make sense. Why her hair was the color it was, why her mother never wanted to talk about The Hunger Games, why her mother always stared, sometimes with a look of longing, other times with a look of pure disgust at Stefan Dupuis when he came to Twelve, and why her mother never wanted to talk about Dior’s father. It was him, it was always him. Her father was none other than Twelve’s Escort. The silence, involving Dior staring, teary eyed, at the paper and Bridget, also teary eyed, trying to get her daughter’s attention, ended abruptly with Dior sliding the drawing of her father into her shirt and, in a fit of rage, started screaming at her mother.

“All these years!? All these years you’ve lied to me?! Why?! I thought he was dead… you told me he was dead! Not only is my father alive, but he’s the District Escort?! I’ve seen him so many times and I didn’t even know it. Mom, how could- how could you do this to me?! How could you be so selfish?!…”

The blaming turned into screaming, and the screaming turned into a full on argument from both parties. Daughter screamed at mother, mother screamed at daughter, and tears were shed. Eventually, Dior fled the house, running away into the night while her mother beckoned her back from the inside of their pathetic little home. Dior ended up staying at a friend’s house for the night and, as she lay her head down for sleep, her brain spun ‘round and ‘round, contemplating the events of the day and processing everything. Above all else, one thing danced around in her head: she had to see her father… she had to meet him face to face… and she knew exactly how she was going to do it.

A month or so later, the dreaded Reaping came knocking on the District’s door.  All of Twelve gathered in the District Square, ready to see which two unlucky brats would die this year. Dior, being one of them, stood with the rest of the fifteen year old girls. That morning, she ran out the door as fast as she could, not even bothering to wait for her mother to return home from her night shift. She hadn’t spoken to her since the incident, and she wasn’t about to start now. She had betrayed her, and that was that.

When Stefan Dupuis walked on stage, Dior’s heart skipped a beat. There he was, her father, and he had no idea that she was there or that she even existed, for that matter. Well, that was all about to change. Dipping his hand into the two oversized bowls, the well-dressed man read the names aloud in quick succession.

“Without further ado, your tributes are… Mackenzie Simpson and Jebediah Jackson! Congratulations, the both of you.”

Then, with a voice that cut through the following silence, Dior shouted: “I volunteer as tribute!”

Bridget, upon hearing her daughter’s voice, nearly collapsed to the ground. Frantically, she looked around, spotting her daughter calmly making her way to the stage. She then looked around at the men and women besides her. Why weren’t they surprised? Dior was well liked… many of her friends and people she knew loved Dior. More importantly, she had her: her mother. So, why did she do it?

The answer was simple and known only to Dior: she wanted to meet her father. She also wanted to spite her mother who had hidden such a huge piece of her life from her. Of course, she would die, but that was a small price to pay for getting to spend time with her dad, the person she most wanted to meet since she was little.

Dior and Jebediah looked like polar opposites standing atop the stage. Dior appeared to belong to wealth while Jebediah was very obviously part of the deepest part of the slums. He was known as a thief around those, constantly stealing things for years and never paying any of it back. When they were ushered into the Town Hall, Dior tried to find her father, but he was nowhere to be seen. After asking around, Dior learned that he had gone straight to the train. So, after alerting the peacekeepers that she didn’t want to say goodbye to anyone (especially her mother) she boarded the train, the second chapter of her life beginning with the sight of a train fit for a king and a man sipping a cocktail, not a care in the world.

That night, after dinner, Dior followed her father back to his room. When he noticed that she was there, he looked at her quizzically, asking with his gaze what she was doing there. Taking a big, big gulp of air and closing her eyes, Dior announced to the man she barely knew that she was his daughter. Of course, he obviously didn’t believe her, but after she told him the name of her mother, his skin became pale and his eyes bulged out of his head. He collapsed to the chair behind him, his head buried deep in his hands. If word of his having a secret affair based daughter got out, his career and his reputation would be ruined. Not only was he the Escort of Twelve, something he did to get more appeal, he was a successful businessman. He had money, lots of it, and countless people working for and under him. He wasn’t about to let that all go to waste because some bastard child decided she wanted to come forward…

But, then, at that moment, he got an idea…

Getting up, he walked over to Dior and wrapped her in a hug, catching her off guard. Taking his hand, he rubbed her back slowly, just like a father would when comforting his child. With a deep sigh, he carefully pushed her away from him so he could get a good look at her. Dior watched, mouth slightly agape, as Stefan St.– her father, told her just how happy he was to see her, to know that she existed, basically. He told her he hadn’t known, but that if he had, he would have done something about it. All the things she had been waiting to hear for years and years were being said to her and she just couldn’t contain herself. She broke down, crying, and rushed to hug her father again. She was so busy while she sobbed that she didn’t even realize her father looked disgusted at the fact that a random girl was getting his expensive new suit wet with her dirty tears.

From that point on, everything seemed like a blur to Dior. When they arrived at the Capitol, she was bombarded with a flurry of cries and applause, celebrating her and her arrival. She couldn’t help but smile as she walked from the train to the main building, waving at everyone who waved at her and even blowing a kiss to a few. She was happy, more happy than she had been in a long time. She had a father now, a father who cared about her and loved her, and she was away from District Twelve. She was being treated like an actual human being - more than just a human being, in fact - she was being treated like a celebrity and she loved every second of it.

Dior quickly rose to prominence during the pre-arena portion of the Hunger Games. She was a beautiful, young, was sweet, kind, and seemed only to glow brighter as time passed. The Capitol citizens loved her and, soon, she became one of the fan favorites, even outshining most of the careers. The fact that she, a outlier, seemed to appreciate the Capitol was well as its culture (she didn’t, really, but it was much better than District Twelve, and it was all she wanted, so she liked it because of that) greatly influenced her appeal value, too. She was something that the Capitol had yet to see in a tribute, and at a time where the games were hyped up to the max, that mattered more than anything.

Everything had gone well, the introduction, the parades, even private training didn’t go as bad as it could have (Dior scored a seven), but it was the interview that pushed her popularity over the edge and into an entirely new plane of existence. The night before, while she was in the shower, Stefan Dupuis heard her singing. It wasn’t much, not a full song, but it was enough to grasp her father’s attention. When she finished and walked out for dinner, her father ambushed her, wrapped his arm around her and gave her a big smile.

“Kiddo, I didn’t know you had such an amazing voice! I mean, really, your voice is almost angelic. It’s better than practically all of the Capitol grown songstresses, that’s for sure. You should use that, you know, in your interview. Give ‘em a little song, a little tune, something. They’ll eat it up, I’m sure of it. Also… I have another idea…”

So, when the time for the interview came ‘round, Dior was ready. She walked out onto the stage, adorned in a gold dress that matched the color of her hair. She was glowing like a star, thanks to some special makeup from her prep team, and she felt like a star, too. As the interview progressed, the Capitol started to love Dior even more than they could have possibly imagined. She was just so charming, so sweet, and, well, everything they wanted. However, it was towards the end that really cinched Dior’s place as the fan favorite of the year.

“Before I end, I’d like to make an announcement, if you don’t mind?”

“Why, of course not, doll, go ahead!”

“Well, you see, my father is here! He came here with me… and he’s right over there!”

Gasps filled the room as Dior pointed to her father, who had, by this point, stood up, bowed, gave a thumbs up to Dior, and then proceeded to sit back down as he waved to some people who screamed in admiration for him. Everything was going according to plan.

“Stefan Dupuis is your father?! Why, that’s astounding! Incredible! Absolutely fantastic!”

“I know! I… I had never had a father before, but now I do! It’s been hard… but now I have him, and I don’t plan on missing out on any more time away from him. Actually, I don’t know if you all know, but today is his birthday! So… if it’s okay… I’d like to sing him happy birthday for all of you!”

And so, Dior began to sing. The moment she opened her mouth, she had sealed her fate. It was as if the entire Capitol grew silent in order to hear the angelic beauty sing for her dear father. When she had finished, a gargantuan applause erupted for Dior and it took a few minutes to calm everyone down to proceed with the final interview, but it didn’t really matter. Dior had stolen the heart of just about everyone in the Capitol.

When it came time to go into the arena, Dior was extremely nervous and scared for her life. In the back of her mind, she knew that she would never emerge as victor. It just wasn’t probable, and she knew that, but what she wanted to do was make her father proud. She wanted to show him that she wasn’t useless, that she is a daughter worth being proud of. These thoughts didn’t completely stop her from shaking as she rose into the arena, but it helped her a little bit. Suddenly, with a flash of bright light, she was there, in the arena, and the third chapter of her life had just begun.

The arena was a giant maze. The walls consisted of varying materials, such as brick, stone, grass/leaves/ clay, etc. The bloodbath was situated within the very center of the labyrinth with the golden cornucopia gleaming and full with deadly weapons and life saving food and tools. Dior ignored all of what was in and around the cornucopia because her father had told her that she wouldn’t need it. He told her that nearly everyone in the Capitol would sponsor her. While she trusted her father and believed in him, something nagged at her, telling her that she needed to get something, anything, from the bloodbath. What if she was attacked before she could get anything from sponsors? As the countdown came to an end and Dior was faced with the decision to fight or run, she made the decision to get something despite better judgement.

As fast as she could, she ran for the one thing that she had taken an interest in: a dull, golden shield with a large spike in the center. She ran as fast as her legs could take her. Fortunately for her, she made it to the shield, but, unfortunately, she wasn’t alone. A girl, about the same age as her, from District Five, tears brimming in her eyes, grabbed the shield at the same time. Screaming for her life, the girl from Five, in a panic for she did not see Dior at first, loosened her grip on the shield for a brief moment. However, that moment was all Dior needed to rip the shield from her and slam the spike into the girl’s leg, causing her to fall to the ground. Knowing that she could have died just then, Dior, gripping the shield close to her, sprinted away from the golden horn, taking one of the many exits into the labyrinth. Right before she was gone, she turned to see the girl from Four ending the life of the one from Five, a sadistic smile on her face. Paralyzed by fear, Dior watched as the girl yanked out the sword, spotted Dior, locked eyes with her, and then licked the blood off the blade all while maintaining eye contact with Dior. With that, Dior turned around and ran away, hoping she would never see her again.

Over the next week, Dior and the rest of the tributes experienced a medley of torture spawning directly from the labyrinth. It seemed that around nearly every corner there was a mutt, a challenge, a hallucination, or a tribute to overcome. The maze was changing constantly, causing intense confusion amongst the tributes. Tensions were running high, especially since, with each passing day, the maze got smaller and smaller. Eventually, by day six, eighteen of the tributes had died and only six remained. Of the remaining tributes, one was Dior.

Her father had kept his word and, after day one, Dior had been blessed with numerous sponsor gifts, some that were so rare and so expensive that many wondered if they were even allowed to be used as sponsor gift. For example, of the gifts she received, one of them was four bombs, all of which were activated by a remote that emitted a high pitched, whistle like sound. Due to her sponsors, most of Dior’s time in the arena was spent in leisure compared to the other tributes. This, however, came to an end on day seven.

That morning, Dior, who had slept up against the wall, surrounded by her treasure trove, was awoken by two tributes: the malicious girl from Four and the boy from Seven. She started to scream, but was quickly silenced by the girl screaming back at her.

“Shut up, bitch! God… “

“Should we just kill her now and get it over with?”

“No… I wanna watch her squirm. It’s her fault we haven’t gotten anything from sponsors. Just look at all this shit. They sent it all to her ‘cause she’s special or whatever. I don’t buy it. Listen, Blondie, you’re done–”

Before she could finish her rant, Dior had gotten up and rushed her, hoping to catch her off guard. Unfortunately, the boy from Seven intercepted her and put her in a headlock, knocking the shield away from her in the process. In a panic, Dior tried to reach inside her sleeve and pull out one of the hidden knives she had been gifted, but the other girl saw through her and yanked it away from her, holding it to Dior’s throat while her partner held her down. At this point, Dior started crying, for she knew that her time was up. She had made it so far… but it didn’t matter. She was about to die.

“Once you’re out of the way, blondie, all that’s left is those three career’s. With all your shit, we can take ‘em, no problem. They’ll be easy pickings–”

Just then, a cannon sounded in the distance, indicating that someone had died. At the same time, almost as if it was caused by the cannon, the walls around them started to collapse. Large chunks of rock flew everywhere including on the three tributes. Dior was pounded, but all she got was a few cuts and bruises and sprained a leg. As for the pair from Four and Seven, they were unlucky and got trapped underneath a large chunk of the wall. Dior, gasping for breath, eyes, wide, grabbed the hidden knife from the girl’s hands and looked down at the two who had, up until this point, had her cornered. They were struggling, trying their best to get away and survive, but they wouldn’t. With shaking hands, Dior took the knife and plunged it into the boys throat, dragging it across in a bloody smile.

Another cannon.

The girl started screaming, throwing all sorts of curses and foul words at Dior. She, too, was silenced by Dior right after she called Dior “daddy’s little bitch”. Another cannon sounded off and, just like that, there were only three tributes left. As she did her best to calm herself down and check her minor injuries, Dior gathered what was left of her sponsor gifts and went on her way, watching as the arena seemed to fall apart. The Games were coming to a close. Soon, a victor would be crowned.

Later that day, as the sun began to slowly set, the three remaining tributes found themselves back where they had started: the center field where the bloodbath had started. The rest of the labyrinth and all of its tricks had been destroyed, leaving only the field and the three tributes. Dior, the boy from Two, and the girl from One were all that remained. As they entered the field (Dior putting on a front so as to make the Career’s think she wasn’t afraid of them) something… unexpected happened. The boy from Two gripped his sword and slammed it into the side of his partner, much to Dior, the girl, and the whole of Panem’s surprise. She died almost instantly, for the boy had pulled it out and slammed it into her heart, next. Now, there were only two.

When the final battle started, Dior did her best, but it was futile compared to the overall skill of the boy from Two. He was big, tall, and he was specifically trained for this. As he charged her, Dior tried her best to evade and counterattack. Unfortunately for her, her counterattack consisted of dodging attacks, blocking them with her shield, and then trying to throw things at the boy, Jason, so as to injure him from afar. She had just thrown her last throwing knife and was reaching into her pocket when she realized that she still had three of her mini-bombs. The remote to detonate them – which worked by emitting a high-pitched frequency – was still there, too. With a shaky smile, she quickly took two of the bombs and threw them at the ground around Jason’s feet. He stopped, confused as to what she had thrown, but his eyes widened when he looked up and saw her attempting to take the remote out of her pocket. Reaching down, he grabbed one of the throwing knives that Dior had thrown and launched it at her hand. His aim was excellent and the knife penetrated her hand, causing her to drop the remote and scream in agony. Before she could react, Jason had closed the distance between the two tributes. It was over.

In a matter of minutes, Dior was in a similar place to where she was hours ago: the boy had placed her in a headlock and had his sword pressed into her side, ready to end it all. Looking to her left, Dior saw the remote to detonate the bombs broken on the ground. A sob escaped her lips. It was all over for her. This was the end.

“Man, this must be pretty sad for you, huh, princess? You got so far and now you’re gonna die, just like that. Sucks, don’t it?”

“…Fuck you.”

“Aww.. now that ain’t nice!” Jason said with clenched teeth. Slowly, he started to press his sword into Dior’s side, slowly penetrating her and drawing blood. She started to scream, but couldn’t quite finish before Jason started talking again.

“Any last words, princess? After all, I wanna give everyone a nice, bloody show of me tearing you limb from limb.”

Dior started to open her mouth, prepared to give her father one last message before her death, but, just before she did, one of the bombs that she had thrown at Jason went off.

“What?! How di–”

Even though she was shocked, confused, and in severe pain, Dior knew that this might be her only chance to win. Using the convenient distraction, she turned and kicked Jason right in the genitals, causing him to double over. She glanced to her side, looking for anything that could help her. Everything was either broken (like her remote) or too far away for her to get to it in time. Just then, she remembered that she still had a bomb in her pocket. Reaching for it, she took it out, looked at it, and, in a moment of sheer desperation, got one final idea.

Running up to Jason, she kicked him in the crotch once more, causing him to double over again. Before he could hit the ground, Dior grabbed his face and shoved the miniature bomb into his throat. In the process, he bit down hard on her arm, causing previous cuts to burst open and for Dior to wince in pain, but she didn’t stop. After she thrust it inside his mouth, the girl from Twelve pushed him away from her as far as she could and, opening her mouth, let out a noise that could only be described as a high pitched whistle. Her vocal range was so high that she could hit such notes. It was a talent she had that she used to amuse herself and others back home. Now, however, it was her final saving grace. If this didn’t work, she was doomed…

…and it worked.

After a few seconds of using her whistle register, Dior was blown back as the bomb in Jason detonated and he exploded. She couldn’t hear anything, nor could she feel anything at that moment, but she stared into the heavens, her mouth slightly open and her eyes wide with tears falling from them. She was alive. She had won. Somehow… she had won.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the winner of this year’s Hunger Games, the winner of the 54th annual Hunger Games, Dior Bradt!”

After her victory, all of the Capitol rejoiced for a new Victor had been crowned. However, not everything was all rainbows and sunshine. The moment she was crowned as Victor at the post-game interview, riots sparked in the Districts. Many people, specifically the family and friends of the people Dior killed in the arena, claimed that the relation of Dior and her father, who was an influential Capitol figurehead, caused certain events of the games, such as the walls randomly breaking, trapping the two from Seven and Four, the first bomb randomly going off, allowing Dior to claim victory,  to be swayed in her favor. These riots were immediately suppressed by the Capitol and its military forces and the riots were soon subject to Panem lore and legend. However, the memory belonging to those directly involved still remained.

As for Dior, after the Games, she returned home to Twelve for a short period of time. When she arrived, everyone showered her in praise and joy. Due to her winning, Twelve had once again been awarded. Some would argue that the surge of food and gifts allowed for District Twelve to remain standing. Without it, many of its inhabitants would have starved to death. They hailed her as a hero much to Dior’s amusement. However, Dior was only concerned with one thing: fetching her mother.

Her mother wasn’t there to greet her, so she figured that she was still mad at her for leaving. When she arrived at the shack they used to share, Dior was greeted with a scene straight from her nightmares. There, in the middle of the room was her mother dangling from a rope. She had hung herself… she was dead. Dior only stopped screaming and crying when peacekeepers heard her wails and came to see what was wrong. Upon seeing what had happened, Dior was ushered away to keep from harming herself or others. Walking into the building, she saw her father there, a frown on his face. She ran into his arms, sobbing harder than ever. He embraced her, rubbing her back. He had been informed of what happened by other peacekeepers. Taking his daughter by the hand, he told her of what was to happen now. He told her that he had adopted her and that she would be living in the Capitol with him. Effective immediately, they were to go on the Victory Tour (due in part to large demand for Dior from the Capitol citizens) and, after it was over, they would stay in the Capitol. With a small smile and a nod, Dior hugged her father, burying her face into the crook in his neck, openly weeping at the loss of her mother.

For Dior, the start of a new chapter had begun. With the death of her mother came a new life shared with her father. Once the Victory Tour had ended, the pair settled down in the Capitol, as promised, and Dior began a new life. Not even a month after the Tour ended, people were lining up at Dior’s home, asking and pleading her to sing for them. They wanted to hear the voice that had not only won their hearts, but had won her the Hunger Games. She obliged and, before she knew it, a few months later, she was performing for audiences of thousands upon thousands of people. She had, in essence, become the Capitol’s Superstar. To this day, Dior continues to sing for all, gracing the Capitol and, sometimes, on certain holidays or events, and before and after every game to sing the Capitol anthem, she sings for the District’s, too.

She now has all that she ever wanted. Fame, glory, comfort, and, most importantly, her father and freedom from District Twelve. All of her wildest dreams had come true…

… but was she really happy?

PLAYED BY // OSWALD