#district inbox

[dis-trict9]

Could you pls 🙏 post the cutest pics you can find of Channie🥰🥰🙏

IM SO SORRY FOR SUCH LATE RESPONSE 🙏🏻 YESSES I CAN 💙

A pre-debut one too 👀

[diiwata]

Big fan of D4 being a tourism area but in a way that still oppresses them, as so happens in real life. I also HC'd a water limit on 90% of D4

absolutely! these are my hcs too <3 i'm glad we share a similar thought

the tropical paradise often portrayed in d4 aesthetics is, i believe, the capitol's version of the district! fish stink. the ocean stinks. what just touched my foot while wading in the waters of the beach? i don't know!!! but it stinks!!! and the weather is volatile by the coast. it's absolutely freezing in the mornings, then you get sunburn by noon. sometimes, it's just fog for hours!

one piece of culture shock that the tourists definitely get is the fact that their restaurants and markets have fish in murky tanks (similar to asian supermarkets)... just staring at them... it makes them uncomfortable, which is ironic given the hunger games' existence.

i believe there is a section of the coast that is completely off limits and only for tourist use. california has been in a drought for decades, and yet, the rich act like it's not! "save water" has been ingrained in children from a very early age, but this responsibility only falls on the lower class. the capitol can have it all! my hc is that water is only limited to a certain number of hours of a day, which is typically in the morning, so they definitely rush to get the water they need for the day: bathing, drinking water, cooking, and more.

"district 4 is so beautiful this time of year!" does not hold true for its citizens, unfortunately </3

[caesarflickermans]

Do you have any opinions on Mrs. Everdeen as a character, and the parallels/similarities between her and Katniss? She is seriously overhated and isn't given enough credit.

Common readings state Katniss is like her father, and Prim is like her mother. While this is true for appearance and profession, Katniss shares her mother’s emotional nature.

When we first meet Katniss, much of her idea of love and marriage is shaped by the grief of her own mother over having lost Katniss’ father. Mrs. Everdeen is described to be in a “blank and unreachable” state (THG, 1). Katniss is scared of the consequences of love, that being grief, that she prefers death over returning alone to 12 (THG, 25). During the nightlock moment, she recognises that she will never go home, as she will spend “the rest of [her] life in this arena trying to think [her] way out” (THG, 25). 

Katniss’ willingness to sacrifice herself for Peeta’s life is a continued theme throughout all three books. Her wish to keep Peeta alive in the 75th Hunger Games presupposes her own sacrifice (CF, 13), and it is because she needs Peeta to live (CF, 24). She hopes that if she were to die, Peeta could live (CF, 27). When Peeta returns hijacked, Katniss has “accept[ed] deep down that he’ll never come back to [her]. Or [she’ll] never go back to him. [She’ll] stay in 2 until it falls, go to the Capitol and kill Snow, and then die for [her] trouble” (MJ, 14).

Following the 74th arena, Katniss’ aspiration to mend the relationship with her mother can be understood as Katniss having recognised that her mother had not been “equipped to deal with [what happened to her]” (CF, 3). This recognition does not come out of nowhere; if we look at her willingness to sacrifice herself for the life of another, Katniss has gained an understanding for why her mother fell into the crushing depression following Mr. Everdeen’s death (CF, 3). For the first time within the series, the parallels between them are directly brought about, as Katniss, too, has experienced a similar grief at the thought of losing, and eventually assuming she had lost, Peeta.

It is pivotal to recognise that Mrs. Everdeen’s depression due to grief, the one that left her “blank and unreachable” (THG, 1), is mirrored in Katniss when she grieves Peeta. Katniss becomes unreachable herself, refuses to speak, drink, and eat (CF, 27). It is Peeta’s hijacking that has Katniss become lethargic, with nothing to say and incapable of crying (MJ, 13).

Her previous reason to survive, taking care of her family, has been overtaken in her grief, much like Mrs. Everdeen “sat by, blank and unreachable, while her children turned to skin and bones” (THG, 1), as Katniss only learns about her sister’s fate afterward (CF, 27).

While much can and has been said about Mrs. Everdeen’s depression directly impacts her two children, Katniss’ depression in her grief for Peeta expresses itself in a similar lethargy. It is only Peeta’s return that awakens Katniss from the negligence she has applied to her own life and body, no longer withering away (MJ, 27).

While we have had three books to learn the intricacies of Katniss and Peeta’s relationship as well as Peeta’s character to trace Katniss’ grief over Peeta, we know fairly little about Mrs. Everdeen before her grief, Mr. Everdeen’s character, and their relationship. Unfortunately, this leaves fans with fairly little on Mrs. Everdeen other than Katniss’ frustration and anger. As this abandonment defines her on the first few pages, and the understanding occurs much farther in and is less plainly stated, it is easy to be blinded to the parallels between mother and daughter.

[paintbrushinacoffeecup]

It makes me smile to know when things get hard

Ooh, you'll be far

Ooh, you'll be far from here

And while I clean shit up in the yard

Ooh, you'll be far

Ooh, you'll be far, far from here

[cvbullshit]

You know the gaslight district? Man, the part where Mel was about to destroy the egg and sundely it begun to hacht...

I fr though it was another human and i imagined that they whould form a sweet sibling bond with Mel! 😭

Pretty sure it's stated that there can be only one human at a time, which is why Mel came up with the scheme to get everyone off her back

If I'm wrong about that, someone please correct me. But if I'm wrong then it wasn't going to be a human regardless because, if Mel is growing as a normal human should in canon then it wouldn't be the right amount of years for the next human egg from when she hatched to now.

It would be a cute AU idea though because I can see Mel looking at a human baby and just feeling complete empathy for it and deciding to spare it like her father.

I kinda hope they get to keep the baby angel though because I wanna see Mel be it's mama <3 Free angel kid/pet!!

[kangaracha]

Chan + tremble

written by @keepswingin for the nevermore universe

---

The mirror shatters when Chan looks into it, pieces slipping from the frame and crashing against the ground. He can't bring himself to move, lost in a trance that reminds him of District Nine as he blinks and looks down at his hands, opening and closing them until they are covered by gloves darker than the room around him and ink that stretches unnaturally across the curves of his skin. He blinks again and then the mirror is fixed when he looks up, but he is different and out of place amongst a room full of oddities. 

The door opens ahead of him, and someone new stumbles in, but they don't feel new to him. They feel like someone he's known before, blonde hair cropped and skin pale with distrust as he approaches Chan, eyeing him carefully. 

Chan doesn't know what to do at first, simply watching as he walks closer and closer. When he looks down at the small podium he has been placed against, an electric pad sits there, instructions filing themselves away in his head the longer he looks at it. 

He looks back up at the man before him and tries to speak. But no words come out, and his hands move without the rest of his body, fingers pressing against the screen in a stiff and sure way that doesn't feel right. 

The man walks past without having to be told, but he does look back at Chan more than once as he descends down stairs that have no end. 

Chan is left alone. 

There's a part of him that doesn't want to be alone, and another part of him that thinks it's how things should've always been. It's better this way, isn't it? 

He blinks again, and the room changes once more, warping into something he's never seen before. But no, he has seen this before - he's recorded here before, spoken words far too close to his heart, listened to others laugh and speak and yell. This is their place, has always been their place, even if the people within change on a whim. He reaches out to the microphone that sits in front of him, gripping it gently. He's worried it will shatter like everything else had if he holds it too tightly, if he dares think anything other than what is expected of him. He's never had such a restraint before.

"You're different," someone says, and Chan jumps, turning to see a man standing behind the glass, one hand resting patiently on the soundboard. He doesn't let go of the microphone, and the man on the other side of the glass grins. "You could break everything." 

"What?" Chan asks, even though he remembers now, remembers why he's so dangerous, and why everyone else is destined to stop him from becoming something they can't control. The man in front of him doesn't bother to explain further, instead toying with a switch, and then reaching over and turning a knob sharply to the left. A light flickers on to his left, bathing the recording booth in soft light.

"How does one stop something like you?" the man continues, as if Chan hadn't spoken. "Is it even possible at this stage?" 

Another flick of a switch and the Victory Song plays, far too loud. Chan winces, covering his ears, but the bass thrums loud, and the lyrics stick to him like they're meant to stay there. His body trembles under the sound, and by the time he looks back up, the man is watching him, though his eyes hold no interest in his reaction. 

"Or are you meant to stay here and become me?" 

Chan finally sees him for who he truly is, the pieces slotting into place like a puzzle that's been left alone for far too long. He knows that voice, knows those eyes. Speaks that same tone. And he can do nothing but watch as the man with his face, the other him, finally takes what is meant to be his. 

[thefloatingwriter]

🌻 :D

send me a 🌻

i’ve been thinking a lot about D3 tributes lately, so here’s a few hcs related to that!!

Specific:

Teslee Ravuri grew up in an Indian ethnic enclave in Three Falls, one of the towns that make up the Stills. after she died in the games, her older sister wanted to move away to another town because everything reminded her of her baby sister—her favorite restaurant across town, the factory they both used to work at, the preschool Teslee wanted to work at when she got older—but she stayed for her parents, who were already grieving their youngest child. eventually, she meets her future husband and they settle down together, but she never forgets her baby sister. next to the pictures of her family on the mantle sits a small portrait of Teslee, and every day before going to work, she places a kiss on the picture frame to remind herself of what she lost.

Circ Bauer was on the road to become the second person in his family to attend and graduate college before he was reaped. instead, after he died, his younger sister studied and grew up to do just that. privately, she credits all of her success to him, even if she can’t do it publicly in fear of sounding like she’s denouncing the Games (even if that’s exactly what she’s doing).

Various:

the 16th hunger games was the first time the capitol provided uniforms for the tributes, and also became the first time Three won with Attican “Atlas” Hoffman.

while Three’s names can be pretty out there, many of them do not have crazy names like Beetee and Wiress do. names like Athena, Annabeth, or Darwin are all popular, and typically more common than industry-related names.

the only time two children from Stepanov were reaped in the same year was the 48th, while the only year two children from Midtown were reaped in the same year was the 45th.

until the 4th hunger games, no tributes were chosen from either Stepanov or Midtown, as both tributes from the 1st to the 3rd were from the Stills. the first tribute from Stepanov was Alyona Nikolaeva for the 4th while the first tribute reaped from Midtown was Circ Bauer for the 10th.

the highest kill count a tribute from Three has ever had was nine kills, held by Beetee Latier of the 40th hunger games.

Three has won a total of five times—the 16th (Attican “Atlas” Hoffman) the 40th (Beetee Latier), the 48th (Wiress Liseicki), the 55th (Marie Teller), and the 68th (Haskell Nishimaru).

[darlingsnow0]

Do you have any hg or tbosas ocs?

🤭

yes

her name is jewels

shes from district one(if the name isn’t obvious)

i love her

[ongreenergrasses]

my unpopular opinion is that while i think Snow is ultimately responsible for the sex trafficking of victors i don’t think he’s the “face of the operation”. like obviously he’s the one that set it up, knows everything that’s going on and completely enforces it i still see him being someone who would like to publicly keep his hands clean of it. i don’t think anybody who pays for the victors would ever pay him directly and i think the victors would very rarely, if ever, have a conversation with him about it directly. i know most fics (and i’ve complained to you about this part before lol) depict Snow showing up to a victor and saying “hey you gotta have sex with this guy tonight or i’m gonna kill your whole family” but in my eyes he has a lot more people who do his dirty work for him and it’s a grooming situation. it’s probably people these kids see on a more day to day basis subtly edging them in to this before really locking them in

strongly agree | agree | neutral | disagree | strongly disagree

(un)popular opinions

[iccarian]

❝ careful - you’re in very real danger of hurting my feelings. ❞ ― @gamehaunt.

 ‍  ‍ it is disarmingly loud, as it always is in these events. bubbly chatter rings in his ears and the unwarranted touches of overenthused guests prickles uncomfortably on his skin; things he should be used to by now, certainly, but he has always been a sensitive boy -- or so his coworkers said when they couldn't find anyone else to interview during the games. in spite of it, his attention is currently held captive by the most recent victor. one of two. viridian gaze flickers curiously over peeta mellark's expression, takes note of the playful quirk of a smile before his own tilts his lips and he expels a quiet, near - sheepish huff of laughter.

 ‍  ‍ ❝ look -- i'm sorry, that wasn't what i meant. ❞ cal passes a glass of a strange, electric blue concoction to his other hand, but doesn't take a drink. he never does. ❝ i'm just saying . . . if you want people to believe in your baking skills, you'll have to start shipping out free samples. preferably to district 5, first and foremost. ❞

[inkluvs]

this is so random but i remember reading tbosas when it first came out and not having a clue what was happening (i think i blacked out the entire book??) so now i need to go back and re read it LMAO

no ur so real for that actually 😭😭 it’s so fucking wild though LMAO like all the tie backs r insane and seeing coryo’s progression throughout the book is so wild skfjsjf

[inspotlight]

❝    no    more    picking    fights    for    something    stupid,    or    saying    that    you    like    his    crappy    music.    let's    be    honest,    girl,    that    boy    was    useless.    but    it's    a    win    if    he's    the    one    you're    losing...    ❞

@inbreeze requested: spotify wrapped meme — #44 texts go green by kylie cantrall

[diiwata]

Hi! Been thinking about District 4 lately... do you think the District would have a pearl farm?

medea!!! hell yeah!!!

judging from effie's off-hand and very wrong comment on coals turning into pearls under pressure, it's safe to assume that pearls exist in panem ☝🏽😃 it can also be assumed that the average capitol dweller is unaware of how much work actually goes into pearl farming. I like to think that pearls are a rarity and a symbol of ultimate wealth.

many asian countries practice pearl farming, so it does align with my hcs! this is based on my friend's hc, but i like to think being a pearl diver is a highly skilled, and rare, job bc it requires you to be underwater for a long time. pearl farms gain a lot of profit, and i feel like it pays a little below what the merchant class gets on average, but higher than an average fisherman.

that's my take! sorry if it's short homie, but i need time to flesh this out 😇

[ktownshizzle]

Honey & Citrus | an myg drabble

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Meet-cute coffee shop!au, to be confirmed if Yoongi is an idol or not

✎ ˎˊ˗  Summary: You haaate your job, but at least there’s this sexy eye-candy at your favorite cafe to distract you from your miserable 9 to forever grind. Your simple, casual nods with him turn into a silent caffeine war when, after his small act of kindness, you buy him his coffee—and he refuses to let the favor go unanswered. Suddenly, you’re locked in a daily battle of who pays first, and just when you think you’ve reached a stalemate, fate (and a very nosy barista) throws in a twist you never saw coming.

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: None ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 1.6k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: February 13, 2025

✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Welcome to another unplanned story. Just a little something I whipped up for the boss babes and corporate girlies working in their city's business districts, desperate to find a semblance of happiness in their robotic working days–did I mention this was really self-indulgent? I am not sure if this stays as a one-shot or a series of drabbles? Idk. Anyways, enjoy!~

Series Masterlist | More Yoongi stories this way > Masterlist

There’s a rhythm to your mornings. The kind that makes life feel like a well-oiled machine—predictable, efficient, sharp. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway, as you sidestep a finance bro barking into his phone to push open the door to Honey & Citrus cafe.

Not Coffee Bean. Never Starbucks. Not even Compose—even though Kim Taehyung’s face could certainly make you wanna come (in).

But you don’t need the soulless corporate grind in your caffeine routine when you already live it from 9 to god-knows-when. Honey & Citrus has the good beans, the real baristas who actually know your order and don’t try to be fake-friendly with you, and the quiet that lets you inhale a moment of peace before stepping into the battlefield of bullshit board meetings.

And then there’s him.

“Iced Americano for Yoongi…” 

He’s always there at the same time as you. Every. Single. Day.

A handsome stranger with sharp, feline eyes and an ever-present air of quiet confidence. The very first time you see him, he was wearing a suit. A medium gray set with an interesting burgundy tie. He held a small suitcase, fit for a macbook air, maybe a thin stack of paperwork. Definitely some VC vulture or hedge fund guy, gifted with the face of a luxury brand model.

But then one day he was wearing… a hoodie and black slacks with headphones slung around his neck, the expensive kind audiophiles swear by. 

Hmm. With this look, your previous assumptions did not add up. Now, you couldn’t quite place his profession. 

Since then, it becomes some sort of game you play in your mind. To discover what this dude’s job is.

One day, he holds a notebook filled with messy, poetic scrawls—you catch a glimpse as he flips the pages, and your mind spins wild theories. Another morning, he reads a printout of a Shareholder Meeting report as he awaits his coffee. Then the next day, you spot a vinyl tucked under his arm, and something about that sends your curiosity spiraling further.

Music Executive? Writer? Producer? Who is this mysterious artsy type in a sea of wolves? But maybe is a wolf. Lawyer, City Prosecutor, some Start-Up Founder… who likes to dabble in poetry?

You’re fascinated. Man has aura. And on top of that, he sure looks like he can fuck.

Unlucky for you, your interactions so far are limited to polite nods, the occasional small smile exchanged as you both wait for your respective coffees. Maybe the universe has a sense of humor, slotting you into the same ten-minute window every day with a stranger who intrigues you far more than your own coworkers do. But of course, he is not interested in you.

You wake up with a migraine, and instantly, you know—it’s a morning from hell.

Your alarm didn’t go off. Your inbox is already on fire. Your boss sends a cryptic “let’s talk” email before you’ve even left your apartment, which is never a good sign. You forgot about the afternoon presentation you’re supposed to give, and your deck isn’t even half-finished.

The thought of quitting—of walking into that glass tower and tossing your resignation onto your boss’s desk like a dramatic K-drama lead—has never been more tempting.

This morning has no rhythm. More out of tune than drunk-you in a Coin Karaoke.

By the time you drag yourself into Honey & Citrus, it’s already a god-forsaken Friday. You’re barely holding it together, probably leaving a trail of smoke in your wake. Your hair is frizzy, your face frazzled—it’s just a fucked-up day all around. And it’s barely 8 a.m.

You’re so deep in your own misery that you don’t even clock the fact that your favorite stranger has been looking at you since you walked in.

Not until—

“Fighting~”

You blink.

He’s looking right at you, his dark eyes warm with quiet amusement as he mouths the word again, this time with double closed fists, like a cartoon character summoning energy. And then, just for good measure, he smiles.

A real one.

The disbelief must be all over your face because suddenly, you’re giggling—actually giggling, something you didn’t think you were capable of before noon.

Yoongi—the mysterious, unreadable stranger you’ve been quietly fascinated with for weeks—just gave you the world’s softest pep talk.

And then, as if realizing what he’s done, he quickly looks away, pulling a face mask over his mouth, his pink-tinged cheeks disappearing behind black fabric.

A second later, he’s heading for the door, stepping out into the cold like he didn’t just single-handedly save your morning.

Your eyes follow him until he disappears around the corner, but the warmth he left behind lingers in your chest.

Maybe because you needed to hear it. Maybe because no one’s said it to you in a long time. Maybe because he said it.

You take a deep breath, square your shoulders. And somehow—somehow—you make it through the day.

You survive. Without handing over your resignation letter.

Small wins.

The next Monday, you get to Honey & Citrus first. You don’t even think about it—you just do it. You buy his coffee.

And then you sprint out before he can react, because suddenly, the idea of watching his expression feels too embarrassing to bear. You tell yourself it’s just a small gesture. A thank-you for a kindness he probably doesn’t even think much of.

The next day, though, he beats you to it.

You walk in, and the barista just hands you your usual order with a knowing smile. “It’s covered.”

You blink, turn, and find him already at his usual spot, sipping his drink like he didn’t just declare war.

Because it is so obvious he did this just to one-up you.

You narrow your eyes. He lifts his cup in a silent toast, eyes glinting with something dangerously close to amusement.

And so it begins.

For a week, you play the game.

One morning, you bribe the barista to let you pay first. The next, he somehow convinces them to refuse your card. 

You show up earlier to get ahead, but the next day he shows up even earlier.

Your schedule is screwed. You’re suddenly up way earlier than you like, but you like it.

It’s ridiculous. It’s fun. It’s completely unlike anything else in your day.

Until, finally, one morning, you both arrive at the exact same time.

You grab the door handle—he does, too. His palm brushes against your knuckles. Both of you freeze, eyes locking, realizing at the same time:

Shit. No winner today.

You swear you see his lips twitch, like he’s holding back a real smile. And then—before you can overthink it—you finally, actually, talk to him.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head, “we could just both buy our own coffee like normal people.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” His voice is deep, lazy, laced with amusement.

“Are you always this competitive?”

“Are you?”

You huff, trying to suppress the warmth creeping up your neck. He leans in slightly, and it’s the first time you’ve really, truly studied him up close—the sharp cut of his jaw, the quiet intensity behind his eyes, the scent of something subtly musky clinging to his coat.

“Since we’re doing introductions before the next round,” he says, “I’m Yoongi.”

Of course, you already know it. You give yours in return, and he nods like it makes sense. Like he already knew it as well. Which makes sense.

As you walk in, the barista snickers, clearly entertained by whatever weird silent war you and Yoongi have been waging for the past week. You’re about to step back, let him go first when the barista clears her throat.

“Actually,” she says, way too pleased with herself. “It’s on the house today.”

Both you and Yoongi blink in unison.

“What?” you ask.

“Why?” Yoongi adds, looking just as skeptical.

The barista leans on the counter, grinning like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. “Valentine’s Day promo.”

Your stomach drops. Your brain stalls. You look around and Honey & Citrus has little cherubs hanging from the ceiling.

“First couple to walk in together gets free drinks,” she further explains.

You feel the heat crawl up your neck, your face burning so hot it could brew the damn espresso yourself. Beside you, Yoongi makes a tiny sound—like an exhale caught in his throat—and when you turn your head ever so slightly, you see it.

His ears are bright red.

The barista just smirks. You are going to die here.

You should correct her, actually. You should explain. But words? Language? Coherent thought? We don’t know her.

But that’s when Yoongi does something absolutely insane.

He clears his throat, thanks the barista, and then—looking at one of the booths of the cafe, still not looking at you—he says, casually, like this isn’t the most absurd moment of your life,

“How about we have that first date right now?”

Your head snaps toward him, and he finally meets your gaze, and oh, he’s serious. 

Your heart stumbles over itself, but you manage a tiny, shy smile, and a quip, “…you mean this coffee? Here?” Because that’s all your pea brain can compute.

His lips twitch. “Mm. Unless you wanna go somewhere else?”

Huh.

You hate that he’s smooth about this. You hate that you kind of really, really like it. 

You swallow hard, shifting on your feet. “This place is fine.”

His smile curves, small but victorious. “Good.”

The barista practically vibrates behind the counter as she hands over your drinks, joyful even though two drinks are getting docked from her pay that week. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day!”

With Yoongi, it feels like it's definitely going to be...

:)

A/N: To you, my dearest reader. I hope your heart is filled with joy today and forever. You deserve it!

Want more for our coffee shop couple? Let me know if you’re interested in me turning this into series of drabbles?? Look at me adding more stuff into my WIP list.  Caved! Here's the H&C masterlist

Thank you for reading this you lovely, beautiful human! xo

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Divider by: @cafekitsune (thank you!)

[wonderlandwalker]

The masks we wear | Finnick Odair x reader

thg masterlist / inbox

summary: Johanna doesn't know what do anymore, but she knows someone who does. (set in the same universe as 'The promises we cling to')

word count: 1.3k

tags / content warnings: some angst but major fluff later, depictions of violence, descriptions of a panic attack

a/n: @meikoo oops my hand slipped

You had been struggling to keep it together all night.

Smiling when they praised you for your "spectacular" victory. Nodding when they asked if you missed the adrenaline of the arena. Laughing when some Capitol socialite with gemstone-encrusted eyelids asked, "So, what have you been doing with yourself since you won?" as though you hadn’t spent the last three months staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks like they were the tributes you’d buried.

But the worst part was the way they touched you. A hand on your shoulder, fingers trailing down your arm—every brush of skin like a brand, every whisper of "You were my favourite" slithering into your ears like poison. You could feel the cracks in your composure spreading, your breaths coming shorter, your ribs tightening around your lungs like a vice.

You barely made it out of the ballroom.

The garden is cold, the air sharp with the scent of roses and something bitter. Your knees hit the gravel path hard enough to bruise, but the pain barely registers over the roar of the pulse in your ears. The fountain beside you is a grotesque Capitol extravagance—some weeping nymph with hollow eyes, water spilling from her cupped hands like tears. You focus on it, desperate for an anchor, but all you see is her—the girl from District Nine, the one who’d begged you for mercy with those same hollow eyes. A shudder wracks through you. You dig your fingers into the dirt, nails grinding against the stones, but the memories don’t stop.

"Breathe, you idiot."

The voice is sharp, familiar. You don’t look up, but you don’t have to.

"I’m fine," you lie, voice ragged.

Johanna makes a noncommittal noise in her throat, halfway between a scoff and a sigh, and then there’s a flask being shoved under your nose, the smell of cheap liquor overwhelming you. "Drink. Before I dump it on your head."

You take it. The alcohol is terrible, warm and biting — District 7’s finest. It’s the same rotgut she’d smuggled into the hospital after the Games, when the morphling drips ran dry and the only thing louder than the screams in your head were the Capitol doctors sighing about "adjustment periods". It burns the same now, but it gives you something else to focus on as its nostalgia hits you, and it’s honest in a way nothing in the Capitol is, with no candied flavours to mask the aftertaste. Johanna studies you with narrowed eyes and crossed arms as your breathing remains laboured, your hands still shaking, but she doesn't leave; she just stands there.

“They’ve been asking where you went.” She says after another moment. ‘That new Gamemaker’s convinced you're playing hard to get.” A broken laugh escapes you at her words. “I told them you were puking your guts out in the bathroom.” She shrugs, but her jaw is tight. “Figured that’d buy you time.”

You should thank her. This—the lurking, the lies, the way she’s still here—is practically a love language in her terms. But your tongue feels like lead, your pulse rabbiting in your throat like it’s trying to escape. She studies you again, and for a moment you wonder how much longer she will put up with you before she loses her patience. Then, without a single word, she spins on her heel and stalks back toward the ballroom.

Alone, the night air presses in like a suffocating hand. The fountain’s water mocks you with its rhythmic drip-drip-drip, a countdown to the moment you finally shatter—

Then Johanna returns, and she’s not alone. Finnick Odair stumbles behind her, his wrist locked in her grip, his usually flawless hair mussed like she’d dragged him from the other side of the mansion.

“Johanna, just tell me already—” He freezes when he sees you, and Johanna shoves him forward. “Fix it.” The puzzled look in both your eyes makes her sigh before she continues. “You’re good at this, at pretending you’re fine, at making them believe it.” Her voice is sharp, but there’s something underneath it, something almost like concern. “So fix it.” Then she's gone, her boots crushing rose petals into the dirt as she walks back inside.

Finnick stands there, and for a terrible moment, he just stares, his face unreadable in the moonlight, the usual easy charm stripped away as the silence stretches thin between you. "You can leave," you mutter, digging your nails into your palms. “I don’t need a babysitter.” He doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just studies you with those sea-green eyes of his.

"Yeah," he says finally, so quietly the word nearly drowns in the fountain's murmur. "You do."

And then—

He sits.

No hesitation. Finnick Odair—Capitol darling, District 4's golden boy — drops onto the damp grass beside you like it's a throne. Dirt smears his tailored pants. He doesn't seem to care.

"What are you doing?" you rasp.

Finnick leans back on his hands, stretching his legs out with deliberate ease. "Sitting." As if it's that simple. As if he hasn't just thrown away every carefully constructed mask for this—for you.

“Why?”

He meets your gaze, and for the first time, you can see the exhaustion in his eyes, the same exhaustion that's been haunting you. “Because sometimes,” he says, “you just need someone to sit with you.” Your breath stutters, and his shoulder presses against yours. And for the first time in months, your heartbeat doesn't sound like a countdown to destruction.

After a while — when the adrenaline fades — his breathing is steady beneath your cheek, his pulse a quiet metronome where your head presses against his shoulder. A prickle at the base of your skull guides you out of your trance. He’s staring. You lift your head. Finnick looks at you like you’re something rare, like a piece of sea glass worn smooth by oceans of tides. His gaze traces the curve of your cheekbone and the part of your lips, as if memorising a piece of art he’s not sure he’ll see again.

Your throat tightens, but it’s a different kind of ache.

Hesitation flickers in your fingers as you reach up. The moment your fingertips graze his jaw, his breath hitches. His skin is warm under your touch, his jaw smooth from a fresh shave. He doesn’t pull away. He’s waiting. You see it in the way his lashes flutter, in the barely-there press of his teeth into his lower lip. He’s searching your face for permission, for a sign that this is real, that he’s allowed to want— You lean in. He smells like Juneberries and saltwater, the ghost of liquor still clinging to his lips. Your nose brushes his, and—

“I said fix it, not make it worse.”

You jerk apart like live wires. Johanna leans against the stone railing, arms crossed and one eyebrow arched up. The moonlight reflects the smirk that sharpens on her face.

Finnick groans—a sound caught between a laugh and a prayer for patience—and thunks his forehead against your shoulder. “Mason, I swear to the fucking—”

“Save it, Odair,” she interrupts, but you don’t miss the slightest upward twitch of her lips. “If I had to watch you two eye-fuck each other for one more second, I would volunteer for the next Games just to end my suffering.”

A beat passes. Then, quieter, as she turns away, she speaks, “And clean yourselves up. The Sponsors are lurking by the roses.”

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter two, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, rest of the night narration, rafe and reader slowly getting along.

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cassaline dabs her lips with a napkin the color of crushed rose petals, sitting with a straight back and the posture of someone who’s never known discomfort.

“i know it’s all overwhelming, darlings,” she coos, pouring herself a bit more wine. “but if the tribute parade was any sign, you’ve both taken to the capitol beautifully. i mean, truly, the presence . . . you’ve got people talking. my inbox is glowing.”

you glance at her from across the table, chewing slowly. “good,” you say, voice even.

rafe doesn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth ticks up. not a smile. not really. just something close.

enobaria sets her fork down with careful precision, then lifts her glass. “she’s not exaggerating,” she says, her voice lower. “we heard from two different sponsors tonight. both asking when your training sessions start. they want to come watch.”

that catches your attention. you raise a brow. “already?”

“mhm.” she sips once, then adds, “and one of them’s on the gamemaker board. just so you know.”

rafe glances at you briefly, then shifts in his chair, letting one arm rest lazily across the table. “so we’ve got fans,” he mutters.

“you’ve got interest,” brutus says gruffly, standing up from his seat. he leaves half a steak on his plate and barely touched the glass of whatever cassaline poured for him. his arms are crossed, “but you need allies.”

you sit straighter at that. rafe’s already watching him, brow twitching.

“you’ll meet with district one tomorrow during training,” brutus continues. “maybe four, too. we’re working on the timing. you’ll make the call if you want the alliance.”

cassaline gives a soft nod, her earrings sparkling with the motion. “nothing is final, of course. but we’ve spoken to both teams. they’re open. interested.”

“they always are,” enobaria says smoothly. “no one wants to start a bloodbath between the careers on day one.”

you know what brutus means, though. alliances are useful, if they’re balanced. but three districts joining together? that’s six tributes, a quarter of the arena’s bloodthirstiest kids, all in one pack. and if it goes that way this year, it’ll be hard to break.

rafe seems to be thinking the same thing. “big group,” he mutters. “harder to manage. harder to trust.”

“harder to kill,” brutus adds, one eyebrow raised. “unless you’re ready to start with a war.”

you breathe in once through your nose and look at enobaria, who meets your eyes like she’s sizing you up all over again. “what would you do?”

she shrugs one shoulder, “i’d meet them, feel them out. see which ones have tempers, which ones like to follow. then i’d keep the ones who do what they’re told, and gut the ones who don’t.”

cassaline gasps, almost delighted. “enobaria! manners!”

enobaria smirks. “i used my fork.”

you don’t laugh, but you do look down at your empty plate and think about how different tomorrow will be. training. watching. reading every step, every hand, every flinch from the other tributes. you and rafe may have caught attention tonight, but now comes the real work: deciding who to trust before you're forced to kill them.

brutus gets up and steps away without another word, already done with his part—the advice and the meal. you hear the heavy thud of the door closing behind him, leaving only the soft clink of cutlery and cassaline’s gentle humming as she sets down her goblet.

“sleep well tonight,” she tells you both, smiling brightly. “you’ve made a lovely impression. tomorrow’s about making it last.”

you push your chair back slowly, rising from the table. you catch rafe doing the same across from you, both of you moving like something’s already shifted.

you glance at enobaria. she just nods once. you nod back. and then, looking at cassaline, you speak, “wake me up if someone dies.”

you walk out before anyone can reply.

the bedroom was way too big for one person. that’s your first thought when you finally get to be alone in it. there’s no cassaline talking your ear off, no brutus brooding in a corner, no rafe’s unreadable expressions across the table. just this room and you.

you’re not sure if his looks the same. rafe’s, that is. it’s across the hall, same size probably, but you didn’t peek when you had the chance. didn’t want to look too interested. you’re curious, though. you always are.

the floor in your room is marble, smooth and cold beneath your bare feet, a color you can’t quite name. there’s a vanity near the far wall, lined with bottles and brushes and jars of products you don’t recognize, probably don’t need, but the capitol put them there anyway. just in case.

the bed sits like a throne in the middle of the room, covered in too many pillows, too many layers. it’s clean, quiet, still.

the bathroom is attached, tucked away behind a set of sliding frosted glass doors that seal silently. it’s just as ridiculous as the bedroom. the kind of space you’ve only ever seen on capitol tv.

the showers have more buttons than a control panel. there are shelves full of body creams, hair masks, oils, facial rollers, scented salts. toothbrushes that buzz when you hold them, rows of toothpaste in different flavors. moisturizers labeled by time of day, skin type, weather conditions. you barely touch any of it.

you just rinse off the sweat from the day, scrub your face, change into the soft nightwear folded neatly on your bed. it’s nothing like home, but it’ll do.

when you’re done, you dive straight into the mattress like you’ve been waiting for it all day. it swallows you instantly.

you lie there for a while, staring at the wall of a window across from you. the capitol glows beyond it with impossibly tall buildings. it’s dizzying, a little nauseating. you’ve seen it on a screen before, back home. but this is different. real. loud. blinding. it doesn’t look like it ever sleeps.

you won’t, either, not with that glow crawling across the floor of your room.

you push off the bed with a groan, walking over to see if there’s a curtain or anything you can tug shut. but there’s nothing. it’s just smooth wall, smooth glass. no handles. no switches. you pause, then glance behind you, remembering the remote you saw earlier on your nightstand.

you pick it up and look at the buttons. a few have symbols, like mountain peaks, a sun, maybe a wave, but most of them are blank. figures. you try one, and for a moment, nothing happens.

and then the wall shifts.

it’s not like a regular projection. it’s too immersive. no glare, no distortion. just a seamless image stretching across the full height and width of the glass, and suddenly, your room is filled with the soft orange and dusty gold light of a wide, open canyon.

the wind doesn’t blow through the walls, but you swear you can feel it. it looks like somewhere people lived before cities were even a thought.

you lower the remote and sit back on the bed again, cross-legged this time. the colors soak into the walls. into your skin. it’s not quite comforting, but it’s distracting enough. that’s all you need.

your hand finds the small bowl of iced cookies on the nightstand. they look sugary, almost fake, like they were made of pastel chalk. you take one anyway, bite into it. it crunches, then melts, like snow under sunlight.

you heard that apparently, capitol treats don’t go bad. they can sit out for weeks and still taste fresh.

great for you. great for the ghosts who’ll live in this room after you.

you lean back slightly on your palms, chewing quietly, watching the canyon stretch on forever. just breathing. just listening to the silence, for now.

but now it’s been hours since you first laid down.

you’ve changed the wall at least four times. from canyon to forest to snow-covered field to soft ocean waves, each one more soothing than the last, but none of them work. you can’t sleep.

you’re curled under the covers now, still wide awake, staring at the window wall. it should be peaceful. quiet. you picked it because it reminded you of something still. something far. but your eyes won’t close for long. every time they do, something pulls them open again.

it’s too hot. too cold. too bright. too dark. the blanket doesn’t sit right on your shoulders. the air shifts strangely in the room. even your skin feels off, and you’re too aware of the sound of your own breathing. and every time you try to fix it, you reach for the remote to adjust the lights, toggle the air temp, you wake yourself up all over again.

you’re frustrated. angry in the quietest, smallest way.

tomorrow is training. the start of it. you don’t even know what time they’ll wake you, just that someone will. cassaline had told you and rafe you wouldn’t need an alarm. “an avox will be there at some point,” she’d said lightly, “if not one of us.”

and wasn’t that funny? not funny-ha-ha, but funny like a punchline delivered too early. the capitol cuts their tongues out, calls it justice, and then expects them to silently rouse tributes from their beds.

you’d seen them earlier. avoxes. a few stood near the corners of the main living space, close enough to act quickly, far enough to not draw attention, watching, waiting for the mentors or stylists or prep team to be done so they could sweep through and clean what’s left.

it wasn’t creepy exactly, but you hadn’t approached them. hadn’t really looked them in the eye. you weren’t supposed to talk to them anyway. weren’t supposed to acknowledge too much of anything.

your head falls into your hands, fingers dragging through your hair. you sigh.

“you have training tomorrow, go to sleep.” it echoes in your mind, soft and strict and familiar. probably your mom’s voice. or your dad’s. either one.

you almost laugh, because for a second, you really do wish one of them were here. just to scold you. just to be loud enough to snap you out of this feeling. maybe then you’d sleep.

but they’re not. they’ll never be in this building.

and so, after a moment, you rip the blanket off your body and swing your legs off the bed, planting your feet on the freezing floor. your teeth almost clack together at the cold. you groan under your breath, stepping to the dresser and tugging open a drawer, pulling on the first pair of socks you find. then, quietly, carefully, you push open the bedroom door and slip into the hallway.

it’s dim out here. not pitch-black, but close. the kind of darkness that has no intention of being inviting. your arms wrap around yourself on instinct. it’s colder than your room. empty, too. no footsteps. no soft laughter. just silence and carpet.

you walk slowly, tiptoeing across the hall, and into the living area.

everyone’s gone. probably asleep.

you glance at the dining room as you pass it. it’s spotless, like the chaos from earlier never happened. no wine stains, no crumbs, no twisted napkins left behind. you remember cassaline spilling onto herself, brushing it off with a soft laugh, enobaria amused. it’s as if it never happened. the table gleams like it’s brand new.

you move on, walking deeper into the living room, where the massive couch takes up more space than any normal family could need. a fireplace sleeps beneath a blank screen, both waiting for someone to wake them.

maybe, if you were normal, if this were a regular night in a regular place, you’d sit here and watch something. let yourself fall asleep to the soft flicker of warmth and white noise.

but then you notice it.

the balcony doors are slightly open. just enough for a thin, pale glow to slip through the curtains.

your brows furrow. it’s late. too late for anyone to be out there. close the door, that’s why it’s so cold out here.

you step closer, slow and quiet, fingers brushing the curtain aside, and through the narrow crack in the door, you see him.

rafe.

you stand there, staring at him through the crack in the door, and it’s just—why the fuck is he out here?

he’s just standing there, leaning against the railing, elbows propped on the edge, hands laced together. he doesn’t move. doesn’t notice you. he just stares out over the capitol. the city looks different at this time at night. not quieter. just lonelier. maybe you were wrong before.

you hover behind the door for a second, the cold draft brushing your face. he’s out there, just like you’re in here, sleepless, restless, waiting for something that won’t come.

you eventually push the balcony door open and step outside, the wind enveloping you immediately. as soon as you go to close it behind you, the thing lets out the loudest, most god-awful creaking sound you’ve ever heard.

it seals with a heavy clunk and you freeze, wide-eyed like you just got caught sneaking out.

rafe’s already spun around, shoulders tense, like he’s ready to lunge at whoever decided to sneak up behind him. but when he sees it’s you, his posture shifts. he’s less defensive, more irritated. he looks at you like you’re ridiculous for that. like really?

“that’s why i didn’t close it,” he says, turning his back on you again. his forearms settle on the railing, crossed casually like this is his personal hideout. this is night one, buddy.

you shoot him a flat look as you walk over, glancing behind you once at the door like it betrayed you. “how was i supposed to know that?”

he doesn’t even look at you. just shrugs. “and how did i know the door would sound like that?”

you blink. “yeah, actually.”

rafe exhales through his nose, amused in that dry way only he knows how to pull off. “my dad’s a high-ranking peacekeeper back home,” he says finally. “brought me here one time when i was a kid. to the capitol.”

you look at him, a little confused. “here here?”

“yeah.” he shifts slightly, letting his forearms relax. “i met some of the tributes that year. he showed me around the tribute center like it was a museum. made a whole point to bring me to the floor for district two.” his jaw flexes. “like he knew i’d end up here someday. or hoped.”

you watch him for a second, your hands coming up to rest against the top of the railing beside him.

“that, and the couches in the living room fold out into beds,” he adds, offhand. “just in case someone can’t sleep in their actual room.”

your eyebrows twitch up just a little, impressed despite yourself.

“huh,” you murmur, gaze slipping away from him and onto the city below.

but you stand there, quiet, next to rafe.

you eventually steal a glance at him again. he hasn’t said anything in a bit. his face is cut from stone, but his eyes look distant. like he’s not even here. at least not on the balcony, not in the capitol. maybe not even in his own body. you wonder where his head goes when he goes quiet like that. probably somewhere ugly.

you shift a little, toe nudging the cool floor. “so . . . was that your dad’s thing? training you early?”

he doesn’t move. not even a twitch. for a second you think he won’t answer at all, but then his thumb brushes absently along the railing. “his thing was control.”

you nod, slowly. your eyes flick back to the city.

“and your parents?” he asks, softer now, almost cautious.

you let out a breath. it fogs slightly in front of you, the night colder than you realized. “they’re not like that. they’re just . . .” you think about it, really think. “they’re quiet. good people. never wanted this for me.”

rafe finally turns his head just enough to look at you. “but you volunteered.”

you nod once. “i did.”

he waits. doesn’t push, but waits.

you chew on your lip for a second, then say, “there was this kid in our district. younger. maybe thirteen? untrained, like it was obvious her parents took care of everything for her and never needed her to train at the academy like we did. but she would’ve been dead by the first hour.” you pause. “figured if anyone was gonna die, might as well be me. someone who at least knows what they’re walking into.”

the silence that follows is thicker than before. it settles into your skin, makes your shoulders feel heavier.

“you?” you ask, voice lower now. “you’ve probably been raised for this since birth, right?”

rafe lets out a short breath. maybe it’s a laugh. maybe it’s not, “pretty much.” your brows knit, your grip on the railing tightening slightly. “i used to think getting reaped would be the worst thing that could happen to me,” he says, voice steadier now. “but being trained for something your whole life . . . only to be scared of it anyway?” he turns his head a little toward you. “that’s worse.”

you watch him. not saying anything. not really sure what to say.

there’s a pause before you mumble, “well i haven’t slept either.”

he shifts, slightly. “figured.”

you glance at him. “yeah?”

“i heard you pacing earlier. you walk loud.”

a huff of a laugh leaves you before you can stop it. then you lean a little more into the railing, your hair falling into your face. “think they’ll wake us with some kind of trumpet in the morning? or like, cannons to get us ready for the real thing?”

“nah,” he says. “probably just an avox, like cassaline said. just starin’ at you until you open your eyes.”

you laugh again, quieter now. “creepy, but possible.”

you fall into silence after that. the wind pulls through the balcony and you shiver slightly, shifting your arms closer to your body. you notice rafe glance at you, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.

your voice drops to a whisper. “i hate this place.”

he’s quiet again. and for a second, you wonder if you said too much. but then—“me too.”

you look at him, and he’s looking right back. his eyes aren’t cold like they were earlier in the day. they’re tired. like yours.

you both look away at the same time, gazes falling back to the skyline. it’s a strange thing, sharing this moment. a quiet sort of closeness, made from exhaustion and fear and the knowledge that in a few days, one or both of you might be dead.

“so . . . you cold?” he asks, not looking at you.

“a little.”

he shrugs off the light jacket he’s wearing and holds it out. doesn’t say anything. just waits for you to take it.

you hesitate for a second, then reach for it slowly. “thanks.”

“don’t make it a thing,” he says, but his voice is softer than before.

you smile. barely. “wouldn’t dream of it.”

you slip the jacket on, sleeves a little long on you, and return to your place beside him.

you don’t say anything else for a while. you just stand there together, watching the city, letting the quiet stretch between you again. but it’s different now. less heavy. less lonely.

maybe, just maybe, the night will pass a little easier now.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae