#panem

[rebelumbrella46]

My obsession with The Hunger Games has officially reignited. I’ve always been a huge fan of the movies, but after watching The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes and absolutely loving it, I decided to read Sunrise on the Reaping—which was actually the first book from the saga I ever read. I rewatched all the films, and since I knew the movies left out so much from the books, I finally picked up the original trilogy to read. Now I’m completely hooked again… and I cannot wait for the Sunrise on the Reaping movie!

[silvverart]

“I first saw the girl at The Hob when she was just a baby. Burdock was so proud of her, he toted her around everywhere. After he died in that mine explosion, she started coming alone, trading the odd squirrel or rabbit. Tough and smart, her hair in two braids then, reminding me for all the world of Louella McCoy, my sweetheart of old.”

[remusfinglupin]

Haymitch intentionally pushing the other Newcomers away so they wouldn’t be punished for his actions. Haymitch promising Beetee that he’d look after Ampert in the arena even though he had no chance of winning. Haymitch rearranging the limbs of the dead tributes so their families wouldn’t see their mangled bodies on camera. Haymitch only killing two tributes, both entirely in self defense. Haymitch wearing some of the Newcomers’s district tokens to honor them. Haymitch running away with Louella and then Lou Lou’s bodies so the Capitol wouldn’t immediately take them. Haymitch sharing the chocolate he’d been given by sponsors with Wellie and Silka.

Haymitch, in the midst of so much pain and trauma, remaining kind and reminding people of their humanity.

[imnotallie27]

Someone who refers to his mother as "Ma".

A bag of gumdrops.

[onlybeeewrites]

Echos

Request: Could I request a one shot where Finnick odair x fem! Reader reunite after the reader is saved from the capital?

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Fem!reader

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Mockingjay violence, torture, psychological torture, jabber jays, peeta’s torture in the capital, Johanna’s torture in the capital, PTSD, anxiety, fear, capital manipulation, president snow

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pain. It was all you knew. Every breath, every moment since they dragged you from that godforsaken arena was laced with agony. You never should have left Finnick’s side. You had promised—sworn—that no matter what, you’d stick together. That you’d never risk losing each other again.

But you also remembered what Haymitch had told you before the Games. The plan.

He had pressed a golden bracelet into your hand—almost identical to Finnick’s. A token, a silent promise. A reminder of what you had to do. Keep Katniss and Peeta in the dark. Keep them both alive. But above all else, get Katniss out.

For a while, everything had been going according to plan. The bread had come, the signal was given, and the time had come to put Beetee’s strategy into motion. You had hope. This could work.

And then it all fell apart.

The explosion hit.

A blast of force sent you both you and Peeta flying, slamming you against a tree, knocking the wind from your lungs. The last thing you saw before everything went black was the blinding white light of destruction—debris raining down as the arena shattered.

Pain drags you back to consciousness.

It’s different now—sharp, aching, thrumming through every nerve in your body. Your head is heavy, your thoughts sluggish, and when you try to move, your limbs feel foreign, unresponsive.

The first thing you register is the cold. Not just from the sterile air, but from the hard surface beneath you, unforgiving and clinical. The second is the color. White. Blindingly white. The walls, the ceiling, the floor. Even the flimsy gown draped over your battered body. It’s like you’ve been erased, stripped down to nothing.

A cell.

You try to sit up, but the movement sends a sharp spike of pain through your ribs. Bruised—maybe cracked. Your wrists are raw, red marks circling them, though you don’t remember why. You don’t remember much at all beyond the explosion. Beyond the moment the arena fell apart.

The soft hiss of a door opening snaps you to attention.

Boots echo against the floor, slow and deliberate. You force yourself to look up, and ice coils in your veins.

President Snow stands before you.

He’s composed as ever, dressed in crisp white, his cold blue eyes studying you like you’re an insect pinned beneath glass. A faint, almost amused smile tugs at his lips. In his hands, he cradles a pristine white rose.

You steel yourself, masking the fear clawing at your throat. You don’t speak first. You won’t give him the satisfaction.

Snow takes a slow breath, inhaling the scent of the rose before his gaze locks onto you. “You’re quite the survivor, aren’t you?”

You say nothing.

“I must admit, I was quite disappointed to see you among those extracted from the arena. A shame, really. I had hoped for better from a Victor of District Four.” He tilts his head. “Finnick Odair’s love.”

Your stomach twists at Finnick’s name, but you keep your face blank. You don’t know where he is. If he made it out. If he’s even alive.

Snow takes a step closer, watching you carefully. “You see, we know there was a plan. We know the Quarter Quell was never meant to go as intended. The rebels orchestrated this, didn’t they?” He crouches slightly, lowering himself to your level. “Why don’t you save us all some time and tell me what you know?”

You blink at him, forcing your expression into something blank, confused. “Plan?” Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Snow sighs, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “Lying is beneath you.” He leans in slightly, and you catch the faintest hint of blood beneath the overwhelming scent of roses. “Very well. We have ways of making you talk,”

And you know he’s right.

And the pain he afflicts never left. It simply changed—sometimes sharp and searing, sometimes a dull ache that settled in your bones—but it was always there.

Time blurred in the Capitol. You didn’t know how long it had been since they ripped you from the arena, since the explosion stole you away from Finnick. Days, weeks… it could have been months. You weren’t sure anymore. You weren’t sure of anything anymore.

They never let you rest. The sterile white walls, the blinding overhead lights, the sound of footsteps approaching and retreating—it all became part of your existence. And then there were Peeta and Johanna.

You caught glimpses of them when they dragged you through the halls, when you passed rooms where screams bled through the walls.

Peeta was barely recognizable anymore. The hijacking, the tracker jackers, had shattered him, stolen the light that used to live in his eyes. He couldn’t focus for long, his mind darting from one fleeting thought to the next. His words were broken, a disjointed mess of confusion and hurt. His body trembled constantly, his hands shaking as if they couldn’t hold onto the fragments of his sanity. He would mumble to himself, apologize for things he didn’t understand, and then, in a fit of panic, beg you to stay, to tell him he wasn’t lost. And you would do your best to assure him, sooth him from across the room.

It was unbearable.

Johanna was different. She was quieter, but there was something hollow in her. Her body shook violently from withdrawal, her lips cracked from dehydration. The Capitol had drowned her over and over again, only to pull her back just before she crossed the line between life and death. When she looked at you, there was no spark of rebellion, no fire. Just exhaustion and pure resentment that kept her going.

And then there was you.

They had their own way of breaking you.

At first, they kept it simple—pain, starvation, isolation. Keeping you across the room from your friends. Close enough to talk. Close enough to hear their screaming. But not close enough to comfort.

But then they brought you to that room. The one with the speakers hidden in the walls, where the shadows were deeper, where the air felt heavier. And they made you listen.

Jabberjays.

You had heard them in the arena before, their eerie mimicry of loved ones’ voices meant to torment you. You had seen Finnick fall to them, and Katniss. And it had broken your heart seeing how they were reacting.

But that had been nothing compared to this.

The pain had been your constant companion, gnawing at you, twisting every second into an eternity.

They didn’t just sing—they screeched. The birds were torture incarnate, their calls designed to break the mind, to twist the memories into something ugly. They brought you to the room, the sterile walls designed to keep you isolated, to amplify the terror in your heart. They had programmed the birds to sound like those you loved—those you had failed.

At first, it was a whisper. A voice you thought you recognized, but it was distorted, cracked, like the sound was being pulled through a filter of madness. It came slowly, building, growing louder.

It was impossible. You had never heard that tone from him before. Finnick never spoke like that. But there it was, his voice accusing you, twisting the memory of his care, of his laughter, into something venomous. The birds sang it over and over, forcing you to hear the words that ripped at your very soul.

And then the voice changed again.

The words cut through you like a knife, too sharp, too raw. His voice, so young and full of trust, was unmistakable. But it was a voice that had long since faded from your memory. The bird had twisted it, made it sound like something darker, like something hateful. Your little brother who you did everything to keep safe.

It wasn’t the voice of a child who loved you. It was the voice of a child who felt abandoned, who had been left alone. The bird screamed again, louder this time, its voice shrill and echoing, sending waves of nausea through you.

The birds’ voices layered one on top of the other, drowning out your thoughts, breaking the barrier between reality and the spiraling nightmare that consumed you. It was as though every painful memory, every regret, every mistake you had ever made, was being replayed and twisted into something ugly. Something unforgivable.

The walls seemed to close in as you sank deeper, the birds’ calls surrounding you, clawing at your mind, twisting your thoughts. It was endless. The repetition, the overwhelming weight of their words, started to chip away at you. You could feel your sanity slipping, each scream from the birds tearing a hole inside your chest.

The pain, the guilt, the spiraling madness was too much. You had no defense left. The voices echoed, screamed, whispered, and everything you had held onto was cracking, shattering like glass. Your hands trembled, your heart raced, and you were drowning in the sound of their accusations.

The sound of Finnick’s broken voice, Annie’s hollow sadness, and the desperation in your brother’s cries—each one felt like a new blade slicing into you. Each call, each accusation, only deepened the spiral you were trapped in. Your chest ached with the weight of their pain, your soul shattered from the guilt of it all. The torment was endless, suffocating.

In the haze of madness, time felt like an abstract concept—blurred, stretched beyond recognition. The room seemed to shift around you, but the stillness of it pressed in like a vice. It was as though you were stuck in this moment forever, caught between memories and nightmares. You couldn’t tell when you were moved from one place to another.

Even then as you laid on the cold, white floor of your cell, the sterile walls closing in around you. The trembling never stopped. It was like a constant hum in your body, a fear that never quite left. Your back was pressed against the smooth, unforgiving surface of the wall, your eyes staring blankly at nothing in particular.

Your mind felt detached from reality, a fog clouding every thought. The voices of the Jabberjays still echoed in your head, their cruel distortions of Finnick’s, Annie’s, and your brother’s voices a constant reminder of the horrors they had subjected you to. You couldn’t escape it. You couldn’t escape them.

You barely noticed the sounds at first—footsteps, muffled voices, the faint shuffle of boots on the hard floors. Then the door to your cell opened with a sharp hiss, and for the first time in what felt like ages, you looked up. Someone was standing there, silhouetted in the dim light, their features too blurred to make out. You didn’t know if it was real, if you were dreaming again, or if it was just another cruel trick of the Capitol.

A hand reached out, tentative, like they were unsure of how to approach you. “You’re alright,” a voice said softly, but with a firmness that cracked through the haze in your mind. “We’re here to get you out.”

But the words felt distant, disconnected, as though they were coming from underwater. You couldn’t trust anything. Your heart pounded in your chest, fear bubbling up from deep within. This could be another trap. Another lie. You weren’t sure who this person was, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to know.

Before you could even form a coherent thought, a sharp scent flooded the room, heavy and sickly sweet. The next thing you knew, the room swirled around you—shapes and sounds warping—and the last thing you heard was the voice again, more urgent this time: “It’s okay. We’re getting you out.”

And then, as the smoke thickened and your vision blurred, everything went black.

The first thing you felt when you woke up was confusion. It was disorienting—your senses a blur, your mind fragmented. You were in a room, but it wasn’t your cell, wasn’t the sterile white of the Capitol. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic, and the soft hum of machines around you was both strange and oddly comforting.

But that didn’t mean you were safe. Not yet. Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes darted around, trying to make sense of the chaos. Doctors in white coats were moving quickly, their voices a frantic buzz. Someone was touching your arm, their hands too firm, too urgent.

You flinched away, panic surging through your veins as memories of the Jabberjays twisted into your mind. The screams of Finnick, Annie, and your brother—distorted and cruel—ripped through your thoughts again. Was this just another trick? Were they going to use the birds again? Were you being captured all over again?

“Please, just… just stop,” you gasped, your voice raw, barely audible. You scrambled, trying to pull yourself away from their grasp, but your limbs were weak.

“Shh, shh, you’re safe,” one of the doctors whispered, but you didn’t trust it. You couldn’t. Safe didn’t exist anymore.

They tried to hold you down, to reassure you, but the more they touched you, the more your skin crawled. Your breath was coming in ragged gasps as the room closed in, and the walls felt like they were suffocating you. Everything felt too bright, too loud. You wanted to escape, to run, to hide from the chaos.

Then you heard it—his voice.

“Where is she? Where is she?”

Your heart skipped a beat, a raw, desperate sound. Finnick’s voice. But it couldn’t be him. You tensed, a jolt of panic shooting through you. No, no, no—this isn’t real. It’s not real.

The words that came next weren’t comforting—they were the birds, mimicking him, twisting his voice. It was too much. Your pulse raced, your body trembling violently as you backed away from the doctors, too afraid to look.

“Where is she?” Finnick’s voice called again, closer this time. “Please, please, I need to find her.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The memories collided in your mind, his voice and the twisted birds, and you weren’t sure where one began and the other ended.

Then, out of the chaos, a familiar face emerged. Finnick. His face was drawn, haunted, but his eyes—his eyes—they were the same. He was real. The fog in your mind started to clear, the panic slowly ebbing away as you locked onto him. The sight of him, standing there, filled you with a raw, aching relief. But the confusion still clung to you, the terror that this was a trick.

He stepped closer, his hand outstretched. “It’s me, sweetheart” he said softly, his voice full of something gentle, something full of warmth you thought you’d lost forever. “I’m here. You’re safe. It’s over.”

Your body froze, heart hammering in your chest, but then something inside you broke. You couldn’t hold onto the fear anymore, couldn’t push him away. You collapsed into him, falling into his arms, the weight of the months of torture pressing down on you, flooding you with every raw emotion you’d been holding in.

The warmth of Finnick’s embrace is overwhelming, like a beacon in the dark. For a moment, it feels surreal, like you’re still trapped in the nightmare, that you’ll wake up any second and be back in that place, alone and broken. But when his arms tighten around you, when he whispers against your hair, you realize that this—this is real.

Finnick was home. His scent, his touch, the way his body feels against yours—it’s everything you’ve been missing, everything you’ve been longing for. For so long, you thought you would never feel this again. You thought you were going to die there, in that cold, endless nightmare.

“I thought I was going to die there,” you murmur, your voice barely a whisper, a broken sob escaping as you clutch him tighter. The words spill out before you can stop them, the weight of them sinking deep into your chest. “I thought… I thought I’d never make it out. That I’d never see you again.”

Finnick pulls back just enough to look at you, his face full of sorrow, guilt swirling in his eyes. “You’re here now,” he says, his thumb gently brushing across your cheek, wiping away the tears. “You’re safe. You’re with me now, and I’m never leaving you again. I swear it.”

The sound of his voice, steady and unwavering, cracks something deep inside of you. It’s like the world around you shifts—like you’re not alone anymore. Like you’re finally home.

He takes a slow, deep breath and leans his forehead against yours, his hand still cradling your face with gentle care. “I know… I know it’s been hell,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m never leaving you again, sweetheart,”

You nod against him, your breath shaky, but his presence is like an anchor, grounding you, pulling you back from the abyss. Your body trembles, not from the cold or the fear, but from the raw relief that courses through you.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel safe, or at least the illusion of it. Either way, you didn’t care. And for the first time since the reaping, maybe you can properly start to breathe.

[spencersmopbucket]

Ocean Breeze | Finnick Odair x Reader

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Summary: You, this year's victor from District Four, return home after your victory. Finnick takes an interest in your deep, seemingly impenetrable personality. You didn't plan on letting him in, but.. Finnick is Finnick after all.

Expert brutality. In every news headline, in every advertisement of the Games, those were the words in big, bold letters. And who was on display, fingers tinted with blood and scars on their face?

You.

You were this year's Victor. You'd fought through the games -- tooth, nail, and fish hook. You always scoffed bitterly at every photo and comment you saw of yourself, your e/c eyes narrowing with disdain and something almost close to pain. Despite being good at hiding it, it was still there. It ebbed and flowed, reminding you every day of who you now were and what you'd be recognized for.

You were Name Last-Name, the brutal Victor of District 4. Beautiful, graceful, but deadly. You were known for being undetectable in the daylight, but creeping through the shadows of the arena at night, striking whoever you stalked with expert precision and gruesome method. You'd even taken out three people at once, simply because they couldn't see you in the dark and weren't as swift as you were, so they couldn't grab you.

In interviews, you were stoic. Uncrackable. That itself became your personality to viewers. Unbothered, they thought. Unbreakable. Wrong, you often snickered to yourself. You just wouldn't show the sheep anything they could get off on.

You hated the Capitol. You hated Snow. You hated everyone that supported the Games.

You'd just gotten home to District 4 today, the fanciful life in the Capitol finally coming to an end for you. The sigh of relief that exited you when you finally touched feet onto the beach could've been heard around the world. You inhaled again, deeply, holding the salty air of home into your lungs. Your eyes gazed across the horizon, watching the waves crash.

It was a windy day. Your hair blew slightly into your face. Grabbing it, you tied it up into a messy bun and continued walking, your bare feet on the cold beach.

Finnick, in all of his time watching your interviews and performance in the arena, couldn't figure out exactly what he thought of you.

On Reaping Day, he didn’t recognize your name when it was called. Finnick thought he knew everyone in District 4 -- faces, families, fishermen. But when you stepped onto that stage, something about you struck him. Not fear, not drama. You didn’t cry or shake. You just walked, eyes ahead, spine straight, mouth set in a firm line. That calm silence unsettled him in a way he hadn’t expected.

You reminded him of himself, standing there years ago. Only younger. Quieter. And somehow, already hardened.

He started paying attention during the Capitol broadcasts. You didn’t perform for the cameras. You didn’t flirt with the other tributes or flash a Capitol smile. You just trained, and watched, and listened. Finnick noticed how your eyes moved -- never resting too long on anyone, but never missing a single detail. He recognized the calculation behind your stillness.

You weren’t detached. You were preparing.

Capitol audiences didn’t get it. They called you “stoic,” “unapproachable,” “cold.” But Finnick saw through it. He had worn the same mask. And the fact that you never let it slip -- not even once -- made him sit up straighter every time your face flickered on screen.

You didn’t charm the crowd on interview day. You didn’t cry. You barely smiled. And Finnick couldn’t look away.

While Caesar tried to pull something -- anything -- out of you, you sat with that unreadable expression, voice low and clipped, like you didn’t care if the audience liked you or not. You didn’t need them to. You weren’t looking for sponsors. You were preparing for war.

The Capitol called it a lack of personality. Finnick knew better. That’s not emptiness, he thought. That’s control. And maybe -- just maybe -- it scared them.

He’d planned to watch your Games the way he watched every set --disconnected. He couldn’t afford to feel anything. But when you moved through the arena like you’d been born for it -- slipping between shadows, striking with brutal efficiency -- he leaned closer. You didn’t fight for sport. You didn’t gloat. You just survived, again and again, with that same quiet fire.

And when you killed? You didn’t blink. But he saw it; the tiniest shift in your eyes after each one. Not pride. Not satisfaction. Just pain buried too deep to show.

The night you took out three tributes at once -- swift, silent, unseen -- he actually exhaled in disbelief.

Watching you win reminded Finnick of what victory really was: survival dressed up as glory. He saw it in your eyes -- that numbness, that quiet rage. He knew it well.

You didn't hear him at first. The wind swallowed the soft crunch of his footsteps in the sand, the rustle of driftwood beneath his weight. But then you caught the scent of salt and something softer -- like sugarcane and sea spray -- and your gaze sharpened slightly, turning over your shoulder.

Finnick Odair stood a few paces behind you, hands in his pockets, eyes on you instead of the ocean.

He didn’t speak right away. He just watched, quietly, like he wasn’t sure if you’d bolt or bite.

“You always walk like that,” he finally said, his voice smooth and low, tinged with something like amusement. “Like the ocean owes you something.”

You stared at him. Not cold, but unreadable. It was how you always looked at people now.

“And do you always sneak up on people?” you replied, tone even. No bite, no softness -- just a fact.

Finnick shrugged, offering a small, crooked smile. “Only when I’m curious.”

You turned back toward the water, letting the conversation settle into silence. But he didn’t leave.

He stepped closer -- not close enough to crowd, but just enough that you could feel the heat of him beside you, grounding in a way that surprised you.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured after a moment. “Not to me.”

You didn’t respond.

He glanced sideways at you. “But… I watched. Every second. You didn’t crack once. Not in the arena. Not on camera.”

Your jaw clenched. “And?”

“And I just wanted to say,” he paused, voice quieter now, “I saw what they didn’t.”

That made your eyes flick toward him, guarded but curious.

“I know what it’s like,” he said. “Coming back with blood on your hands and Capitol lies in your teeth. Everyone either wants to worship you or pretend you’re whole.”

You looked away again. The accuracy of what he said startled you. Like he could see you.

"Look, Odair," you sighed, the thick walls built up around you evident. "You can pretend you know anything about me, but--"

“--but I don’t, yeah, yeah,” Finnick cut in, his lips tugging into a crooked smirk. “Believe it or not, I’ve heard that one before.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You watched me on a screen. You don’t know a damn thing.”

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets, wind tousling his hair. “I watched you survive. Watched you outsmart half the Capitol’s little monsters. Watched you break records and a few rib cages.”

You didn’t answer, but your silence wasn’t dismissal. Not entirely.

Finnick tilted his head, studying you. “Let me guess. You hate the attention. Hate the interviews. Hate the fact that they all call you a ‘Victor’ when you feel more like a grave.”

You stiffened. He was getting too close to the truth.

“I didn’t come out here for therapy,” you said flatly.

“Oh, trust me,” he chuckled, “if I were offering therapy, I’d at least have brought alcohol.”

That pulled a small twitch at the corner of your mouth. Damn him.

“Why are you really here, Finnick?” you asked, arms crossed, voice low. “You don’t know me. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I don’t,” he agreed easily. “But I remember what it felt like. Coming back home and realizing the ocean didn’t wash off the blood. That the sand didn’t make you clean.”

You blinked. That was too poetic. Too real. And too annoyingly accurate.

“Besides,” he added with a wink, “I figured if anyone could match my pretty face and fucked up soul combo, it’d be you.”

“Wow,” you muttered, dry as the heat you fought in the arena. “Your ego’s bigger than the arena.”

“It’s well-fed,” he said smugly. “But you -- you’re starving for real conversation. Don’t deny it.”

You rolled your eyes, though your chest felt strangely lighter. He wasn’t giving you pity. He wasn’t afraid of you, either. He was poking the bear on purpose. Teasing the teeth.

“Careful,” you warned, but your tone had lost its sharpness. “I bite.”

Finnick’s grin widened. “So do I. Just ask the Capitol.”

He stepped beside you again, shoulder just close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him in the sea breeze.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” he said after a beat. “Hell, I’m barely holding my own cracks together. But I’m here. If you want that.”

You didn’t respond immediately. Just stared out at the horizon where the sun was starting to dip, orange spilling into blue.

“I’ll think about it,” you muttered.

Finnick smirked. “That’s basically a yes.”

You bumped his arm lightly with your shoulder.

“Don’t push your luck, pretty boy.”

His grin widened. “Wouldn’t dream of it. You like me, you just don't know it yet.”

The conversations on the beach became a small tradition as you softened up. Every few weeks, Finnick would seek you out, knowing exactly where you'd be. You were usually in the same spot, sitting on a blanket with a book. Sometimes the book was absent -- you just stared out at the waves instead.

He was proud of himself. He'd gotten you to tell him feelings, even secrets of your own. He'd gained your trust. He was your outlet, just as he'd wanted.

And the best part, to him at least, was that he'd managed to fall for you.

Finnick was a romantically charged person. He loved love. He loved old love. Slow paced tenderness where the process of falling in love with someone was barely noticeable until it was all consuming. And now, Finnick could barely ignore how much he wanted to tell you.

He knew it would scare you.

He opted not to use words. He used gentle touches, teasing, small flirts and comments. He used being a shoulder to cry on, collecting sea shells for you because you loved them, embarrassing people who made unsavory comments about your status as a Victor.

Finnick fell for you in the most beautiful, soft, slow way. As he got to know you, he found that you weren't some stoic gruesome person, just as he suspected. You were gentle, intelligent, funny. You were gorgeous, inside and out. You loved kids. You loved animals and the ocean. You had two little brothers, who looked up to you. You only had one parent -- your father, whom you adored.

He adored every single thing he knew about you, bad or not.

Today, he found you on the beach, per usual. But something was different. You weren't just sitting, spaced out or reading.

You were down by the water, laughing softly -- laughing -- as a stray dog jumped around your ankles, kicking up wet sand and barking at your playful swats.

You weren’t wearing your usual armor, either. Your hair was down, sunlit and wild in the breeze, and your face was open, warm, like someone who’d finally stepped out from a long, cold shadow.

You didn’t hear him approach, but somehow, you always knew when he was near.

“Should I be jealous?” Finnick asked, voice playful but quieter than usual, more careful.

You didn’t look at him right away. Just let your hand rest on the dog’s head and murmured, “Of a dog?”

“Well, he’s got your full attention and, apparently, your affection,” he said, lowering himself onto the blanket beside you. “That’s a lot more than I can say for myself.”

You smirked slightly but didn’t meet his eyes.

“You bring food,” you murmured. “He likes that.”

“Do you like that?” he asked, voice dipping just enough to make you still for a second.

You shrugged one shoulder, watching as the dog trotted off to chase a seagull.

Finnick didn’t speak again right away. The silence between you had become a language of its own. Familiar. Almost safe.

Then he spoke again, more gently.

“You’re different.”

You raised a brow at that, finally glancing at him. “Different how?”

“Softer,” he said, eyes scanning your face. “Not weak. Just… not hiding everything with your fists.”

You wanted to snap something back. Reflex. Habit. But the words didn’t come.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

You didn’t answer, just looked back at the ocean. The waves were coming in slower now. Calmer.

The silence fell, but not the kind that used to hang between you like a barricade. This one was gentle. Shared. He stood next to you, hands by his sides, looking out at the water the same way you were.

Then -- he felt it.

Your hand, brushing against his. A feather-light touch. Testing. Curious.

He turned his hand slightly, enough so that his pinky grazed yours. You didn’t pull away. In fact, your hand moved a little closer. You still weren’t looking at him, but that made it feel even more real.

“You’re quiet today,” he said softly.

“I don’t need to talk to you,” you replied, then added quickly, “Not in a bad way.”

He smiled. “I know what you meant.”

A gust of wind swept by, blowing strands of hair into your face. Without thinking, Finnick reached out, tucking them behind your ear.

You stiffened slightly -- not in fear, not in rejection. Just surprise. A moment of nerves.

His fingers lingered by your jaw just a moment too long. His eyes searched yours.

You stared back, caught.

“I think about you all the time,” he admitted, his voice barely louder than the waves. “And not just the version people know. You.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t look away.

He moved in -- slow, slow, slow -- giving you every second to back away.

You didn’t.

His lips met yours in the softest kiss you’d ever felt.

It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t hungry. It was a confession. A question.

When you kissed him back, it was quiet but certain. Your hand pressed lightly against his chest, as if to keep him close but not too close, not yet.

When the kiss ended, Finnick rested his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling, hearts thudding in soft unison.

“I’m scared,” you whispered, honest in a way you hadn’t been before.

“So am I,” he whispered back. “But I’m here. Okay?”

You nodded, still not letting go.

Neither did he.

And that was enough -- for now.

[harlemdream]

Panem+

(its supposed to glitch)

[hrrystylesbookclub]

i don’t just want a book about each hunger games, i want to know the entire history of panem: the fall of north america and how it became panem, how long they existed as a capitol and thirteen districts, what led to the dark days, how panem changed in the time between the 10th and 74th games, if they have contact with other countries, what happened to the other countries, how far into the future this is

the brilliance of suzanne collins is that she created such a rich world where i’m genuinely interested in any sort of story set within panem, not just in context of the games but their entire history books

[snowfallingfirecatching]

A reminder that the Covey had nothing to do with the Dark Days of Panem. They were nomadic and didn't take sides until the Peacekeepers forced them to settle into the districts.

How ironic that a descendant of the Covey was the one to finally end the tyranny.

[wifeofcamillamacaulay]

new hunger games casting and lorde song releasing on the same day, close enough welcome back 2013

[silvverart]

Hide and seek is over!

[multifandom-trysten]

As an Appalachian and West Virginian, the most important thing in the Hunger Games series is the fact that Lucy Gray is a mystery.

Already, the series is almost completely accurate to Appalachian culture and strays from the harmful "hillbilly" stereotypes presented in modern media. (I could rant on and on about how and why that stereotype came to be, the classist and racist implications behind it, etc.) Particularly, The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes highlights the culture and way of life of Appalachia while placing it in a dystopian fantasy world.

Now, to my point, the mystery of Lucy Gray.

I understand the curiosity behind her completely, even the fan theories about her grave site in Sunrise on the Reaping (which I have yet to read, so no spoilers! I'm waiting on my local library to get a copy, lol.) I am vehemently against any confirmation of Lucy Gray's ending because she is an unsung symbol of resistance and the unyielding, never dying spirit of Appalachia.

In Appalachia, our history has been stolen and our people left intentionally uneducated and exploited. We do not know most of our history, but the culture is still there. With Lucy Gray, she represents the fact that we don't know where our way of life comes from but we are still resilient.

Lucy Gray is a coal miner singing as he gets crushed by a mine shaft and the greed filled companies erase his name to prevent liability. Lucy Gray is a quilt sewed by a MeeMaw, one day your babies and their babies wont remember her name, but that old quilt will still warm them. Lucy Gray is a loving mama who may not be educated herself but will get those babies on a school bus because they have to do better than her. Lucy Gray is a kid fresh out of school, scrubbing their accent from their vocal chords in an effort to sound more educated at their new university.

Lucy Gray has to be a forgotten and erased piece of history because SHE is the Appalachian spirit. She is everything that the United States has exploited and stolen from us and everything Panem stole from 12. Lucy Gray is the spirit of a mountain song, you don't know the artist or even where it came from, but you sing it. Just look at the music and lyrics in the film. "Nothing you can take was ever worth keeping," or You Can't Catch Me Now shows that you can take HER and she'll still slip out of your fingers.

If we know her ending, we know that they finally got their hands on her. Lucy Gray doesn't die, she doesn't live, she's everywhere all at once.

[awkwardangst]

District bread 🍞

[piscesbae7]

coriolanus and his pretty little best friend <3

trigger warning: coriolanus snow is a manipulative, whiny bastard!! discrimination against the districts, misogyny, self righteousness, sexual implications, sassy man apocalypse, etcetera!!

District bound for the foreseeable future and cheated out of the Plinth prize by his own hand, an 18 year old Coriolanus Snow’s thoughts often turn vile, driven by his maddening desire for revenge — against the war about nothing that had cost him everything, against the Districts, against dean Highbottom, against mother nature herself for taking his young self’s only source of light in childbirth.

If any positives are to be sought, he was rendered starving no more in the Districts — in exchange for slumming it in 12, mingling with morale lacking filth under the guise of serving his country, his basic needs were met. Late at night, when the barracks prove too noisy to sleep in due to the hushed ramblings of his fellow peacekeeping grunts, Coriolanus’ mind would drift to her. The Crane’s youngest daughter, who had begun to attend the Academy amidst his junior year — those who broke the strict dress code never ceased to irk him, serving as a cruel reminder of his calculatedly hidden class insecurities; but he found himself unable to be truly vexed by the darling bows she adorned in your hair, the sparkly pink lip gloss she thought unnoticeable to those unsuspecting. He knew by the end of the first semester, he simply had to have her.

And as it would seem, fate had other plans for him — a Snow, diminished to serving in arguably the lowliest of Districts? The mere concept is laughable. With each and every boyish string cut — the luckiest of which being Sejanus, clearly, as Strabo Plinth took it upon himself to give his dear boys inheritance to his self proclaimed brother — he was back in the Capitol just in time to begin University.

Not long after returning, he purchased an opulent penthouse separate from Grandma’am and Tigris with a small chunk of his fat, newly granted inheritance, assuring the two of them are taken care of entirely before he takes his leave. It’s still on the Corso, of course, but with the gained luxury of beginning his adulthood on his terms. Not long after settling into his shiny new bachelor pad, he offered his darling girl her own room in his home — after requesting her parents permission, of course. While he thinks Mrs. Crane a sentimental fool and Idmon Crane a slimy bastard, he’d paid his dues in kissing their asses whilst in the Academy — therefore, he feels owed the companionship of their now only daughter. He’d weaseled his way into her life through becoming Arachne’s science partner, though her death is what truly solidified their lifelong friendship — he’d wiped the tears from her pretty face, coddled her endlessly and swore never to rest until payback was had on the Districts for their barbaric, senseless violence. Arachne deserved what she got, of course, but he didn’t dare say that aloud.

With his somewhat self detrimental work ethic and blossoming desire for power, Coriolanus graduated University in 2 years rather than 4, the Valedictorian of his class. Now that she lives in his home and is partially provided for by him, a proposal is an unspoken expectation amongst their friend group and families — with Coriolanus’ ability to swiftly clime the ranks, as he was given the role of co- Head Game-Maker almost immediately upon his graduation, any young lady would be lucky to become his bride!

Bitterness and cynicism had long ago dominated his mind, plagued his relationships. Oh, but he adores his girl. Perhaps it isn’t love — he isn’t quite sure he’s capable, after being foolishly conned by Lucy Gray — but he feels as if he owns her. She is his to provide for and to protect, to have and to hold. Over his dead body would he allow some silly boy to steal her from his grasp — she’s to be Mrs. Coriolanus Snow, in due time. Unbeknownst to her, a ring with a price tag fat enough to feed an entire District for a year is awaiting being picked up at the jewelers this very week — a beautiful, richly colored ruby, surrounded by glittering diamonds; nothing lab grown, as the price increase for mined ones are well worth the bragging rights.

The lighting in his study is dim, on the middle setting, as he burns the midnight oil — so to speak — attempting desperately to finish the tonight draft of his latest Game proposal before he retires to bed for the night. His gelled back, platinum blond hair is messed up past what he’d ever show his face with in public by now, his tie strewn across one of the overstuffed armchairs in the corner of his office and his cufflinks neatly pushed beside his fathers watch, rested on the antique mahogany of his desk. The crack of the door and a pair of hands daintily rested upon his shoulders alert him to his sweet girls presence rather than the usual tell-tale announcement of her heels click clacking against the hardwood flooring, the silk material of her nightdress smooth against the side of his head as she leers over him in an attempt to catch a sneak-peak of his proposal.

“Just a few more pages, I promise.” Coriolanus claims, sighing heartily as he leans back in his chair. He glances at his watch — the time reading 5 past 1 AM — before running a hand through his hair. Unsettlingly blue eyes now fixed upon her smooth, glittery eyeshadow free face, he takes her wrist and presses a kiss to the palm of her hand. He prefers her this way, he thinks, free from the intricately made confines of the Capitol’s latest fashions, in merely her pajamas — so utterly his. God forbid anyone catch him acting such a way; Festus had, once, having stumbled upon them giggling like lovesick fools in a secluded hall of the Heavensbee’s manor, having snuck away from last years reaping party. He’d snickered before walking away, insisting Coriolanus was ‘pussy whipped’ — the thought was so crude he thought it almost laughable; if only she’d let him get so far.

“I’m afraid there won’t be any essays if you drop dead of exhaustion.” She comments, sarcasm more prominent than worry in her tone, sweet like summer rain no matter what she’s speaking of.

“There won’t be a thing if I don’t get these wretched plans approved.” The blond sulks, his never dormant desire to poke and prod at her boundaries bubbling up alongside his instinct to wallow in loathing for Volumnia Gaul. He grabs her wrist, yanking her to stand in between his legs.

Draped in silk and heavy velvet, a chiding sort of smile appears on her features. “Coriolanus.” She scolds — Coryo is saved for his redeeming, chivalrous moments, which are slim to none nowadays. It isn’t necessarily that she’s a pure hearted saint — she had starred in a rather raunchy musical during her time in the Universities theater program as a freshman, thank you very much — she simply knows she’s worth a fat diamond ring and a prestigious last name before gracing any man with a thing. Certainly Coriolanus would have bored of her by now, had she granted him what he seeks. He is very much aware of that — but, a Presidential hopeful undoubtedly needs a wife, and Miss Crane will do just fine.

“My father would have a heart attack.” She reasons, a little gasp falling past her lips as borderline manhandles her, tugging her down onto his lap.

“He would.” Coriolanus agrees with a soft chuckle, cocking his head to the side slightly to gaze at her properly. He adored her propriety, not partaking in the same sexual promiscuity as many of your shared peers — as the call girls he’s visited on more than one occasion. A rare gem indeed. Greedily, he sinks his fingertips into the flesh of her plush hips, shifting to sit up beneath her.

“He should be thankful I remain a gentleman, even in private.” He reasons, shamelessly burying his face against the soft skin of her breasts, sighing as he inhales the heavenly scent — rose and vanilla — of her now signature perfume, the one he’d gifted her over the holidays. His perfect girl, through and through.

“If I were a lesser man, I would do far more to you than simply pull you into my lap.” The Game-Maker promises, voice somewhat muffled by the steady, open mouthed kisses he’s littering where her velvet robe is fallen open.

She simply sighs in discontent, feigning propriety in a surface level attempt to keep the upper hand. The gossip rags remain correct in her newfound title — the gem of Panem — sickeningly desirable with her conditional affections and good family name.

“Enough.” She finally finds it upon herself to insists, smothering a girlish grin before it can fully blossom as she steadied herself against his broad shoulders, feigning being scandalized at his vulgar implications, his desperate touches. Standing up, she wraps her robe tighter around herself, leaning against the edge of his desk — careful not to slide around any important documents regarding his work. All the riches he spoils her in and necessities he provides for her aside — they aren’t yet married! Simply the best of friends.

Coriolanus groans lowly in disapproval, reluctantly letting her hips slip free from his eager grasp. He leans his head back, resting it against the back of his heavily padded leather chair. Although he remains immensely disappointed that he cannot have his darling girl in his arms anymore, watching her strut around tauntingly in her silk nightgown and velvet robe was — and will eternally be — pleasing on the eyes.

He sighs once again, reaching forward to tug at her hand. "Cruel woman." He accuses, a hint of frustration in his tone.

“It’s already far past midnight. Come sleep with me.” Coriolanus prompts, dangling the enviable thread count of his comforter and sheets so silky they’re borderline sinful as one would a prettily bundled ball of yarn to an awaiting feline.

“Shameless.” Is all she has to say in response, turning her nose up at him as if he’s insulted her entire bloodline and requested she drop out of University to pursue a career as a high dollar whore, secluded to his spacious office downtown.

She leans down, pressing a dainty kiss to his clean shaven cheek — a token of her affection, rendered precious due to the scarcity.

“Goodnight.” She offers with a squeeze to his tense shoulder, before sauntering off to her professionally decorated bedroom down the hall and leaving her political-to-be best friend to brood in the solitude of his own company.

Coriolanus sighs heavily, glancing to the grandfather clock on the wall of his study. How a silly young woman with more fashion sense than brains has managed to wrap him around her perfectly manicured finger is beyond him — perhaps he should beckon a call-girl over to the penthouse, he ponders, endlessly fed up with her playing hard to get.

But, alas, there is an essay to be completed — a Presidency he strives for, respect he demands — so, tomorrow, maybe.

Realistically? Not even then.

If all else fails the young Snow, his delusion prevails — his sense of spite, branded to him permanently as a result of all he’s lost. It’s saved him many-a-heartbreaks, really — Crassus would most definitely be proud of the dictator-to-be, strikingly resembling him in more ways than one.

not proof read oopsie

[personalheroin]

say hello to Louella (LouLou) from district 12 (11)