Also In My Vision, Finnick Minors In Public And Social Services In His Second Year+

botany major!katniss, who isn’t so good with her words, so she gifts you flowers that correlate with what she’s feeling. you walk hand in hand through the woods as she points out different plants, rambling on about how to recognize various species and their distribution patterns.

fine arts major!peeta, working tirelessly at his family’s bakery, making personalized latte art which leaves him with huge tips at the end of the day. all of his peers recognize you as the inspiration for all of his assignments, your features taking up every bit of his sketchbook.

mechanical engineering major!gale, his schedule so full and busy but always making time to see you daily. you’re always the first to hear about how he did on a particular exam, cuddled up as you watch nature documentaries.

aquatic biology major!finnick, known around campus as the university heartthrob. he spends most of his free time at the docks or the beach, feet always bare and buried underwater, occasionally splashing you playfully. suntanning and writing your initials in the sand is how your dates usually go.

athletic training major!johanna, who caresses your sleeping features and plants a small kiss on your forehead before leaving for her morning run. she teasingly flexes her muscles while you’re applying kinesiology tape on her body.

i just wanted to tell you that i am not normal about your writing and it pulls at something in my chest and it's just SO good that i don't even know how to express how it affects me, the way you weave words together is nothing short of a masterpiece. this is just a "you're my writing goals" kind of message ✨❤️

AAAAAA THANK YOU SO MUCH THIS MEANS THE WORLD TO ME 😭😭

rest in peace legend. thank you for giving us such an amazing performance as president snow. 🕊️

O sweet november,

your winds gale, akin to the melancholy you carry.

a distinct smell of cedar-wood and fir fights to mask the notes of vomit and white liquor wafting through the home of the ash black haired man who rests disheveled on the couch, bottle tightly clutched in hand.

it’s more charcoal under this light, you think as you take your coat off and notice how the dim lighting darkens his hair a shade or two. you hang your coat and make your way to the fireplace, long accustomed to the gag inducing stench of the place. you've also grown accustomed, no, fond of haymitch abernathy. ever since you lost an impromptu bet to him at the hob upon meeting which declared you personal housecleaner for a week, he decided he liked the few times his home did not look like a rat feast. and so, he started paying you for it, and you began to visit more often.

this was a personal record, though. you came by the victor's village just two days ago to continue this routine, yet the smell you so diligently scrubbed and disinfected layers of had returned. haymitch wouldn't notice the difference in odour, though. the alcohol he associates with cleanliness smells the same as the alcohol he seeks to dirty himself.

throwing two more logs into the dying fire, you turn to the noiret. if there's one thing you've learned through your visits, it is that haymitch looks more peaceful awake. maybe peaceful is not the word. relaxed. there is a certain scowl that pulls on his features when he's asleep, as if he's living an entirely different life in his dreams. haunting, torturous dreams. his breathing is deep, his snores heavy.

you mindlessly retrieve the bottle he's got a vice grip on to set on the table, but the loss of it jolts haymitch awake, bringing his other hand concealed under the pillow out, slashing the air with a kitchen knife. this has you jumping back with a scream, falling to the floor. luckily, the knife did not claim you.

"fuck!" you breathe out between pants. "what the fuck was that?!"

haymitch is also panting, his grey eyes wide. a tinge of a desperation you can't place behind them. appearing dangerous for the first time in a while. upon registering your face, the knife drops to his side, and his features slightly soften, but the feeling this has instilled in him, or rather the memories evoked, are still there. you can tell by the inhuman dilation of his pupils, his hands shaking.

"shit, are you... are you okay?" he asks, caught between reaching out for you or letting you gather yourself. letting you piece together what he is. letting you finally understand why this big estate houses only him.

"who the hell sleeps with a knife under their pillow? that was so fucking close, haymitch! and why does your house stink already, i just cleaned it two days ago!" you know you shouldn't be yelling at him like this, piling it all on, but your heart is still trying to re-enter your chest. the adrenaline has gotten to both of you. haymitch slumps back on the couch, head in his hands, not able to look at you or the knife. his body is still trembling, and it is clearly not from the cold that november has brought over. as you pick yourself up, you hear haymitch's voice, hoarse, small,

"two days... for two days." he says. his mouth is partially covered by his palms, so the words come out muffled.

"what?"

"you didn't come for two days." haymitch repeats, putting his hands down to look up at you with an expression that throws all of your anger out the window. pure woe. his curly hair looked utterly frazzled, gaze begging to look away in shame but needing to drink you up. oh, how that is the only thing he knows to do. you weren't sure if the glossy reflection threatened tears, or was simply an adverse affect of his nighttime drinking routine, and you did not want to know. both answers you could not bear. both answers highlighted the deprivation that follows haymitch like a shadow.

you didn't dare touch the knife. instead, you again try to set the bottle on the table, most of its contents now spilled. raw and distilled. something else you'll have to clean up. "i've got other jobs, you know. can't just live off of this." you finally look back at him. a little playful at first, then solemn. "that made you drink more?"

"no, just... i got used to having you around. my voice doesn't echo in the room as much when you're here." the noiret smooths his hair out. rubs his eyes. fixes his sleeves. anything to look collected. he wordlessly slides the knife back under the pillow when you go to bring a mop, and pretends to fluff it when you come back.

"i'll always be around, haymitch. you need to take care of yourself more though, okay? i still worry for you like all-fire." this stiffens every limb, joint, and muscle in haymitch's control as though a blizzard has teared down the roof. his hands clench into fists before flexing instinctively to reach for the bottle once again, the tremor in them not abandoned. has not been abandoned in a long time. you finish cleaning up the spill and turn on your heel to put the mop back, and haymitch's last-second decision is to instead grab your wrist. his latest liquor of choice.

"no. stay." he pleads. two words. so much said. the pauses, the breathing, the tone. his voice hitches at the end, and his entire body is leaning forward, engulfed by yearning, but kept at a distance as to not cross any invisible lines he has drawn between you. lines that his hand has already overstepped.

“i’ve got the rest of the house to clean, i can’t—“

“the mess will still be here tomorrow. please.”

how can a boy so familiar with poison and punishment allow history to repeat itself? allow this feeling to overtake him again, and subjecting you to it? because he is a selfish rascal. haymitch knew that. it has been so long since he reached his hands out for something other than a drink or a knife. so roughly he has wrestled to keep this submerged within, barely floating; the warmth that radiates off another human being, and not just the fireplace in his house that on most days, he could not even look at.

haymitch doesn't say another word, but his grip does not falter. he awaits. and awaits and awaits. seemingly all he does. all he is good at. all he can do. people have so hastily come in and out of his life, he no longer can fathom object permanence. if he is not touching you, you will leave. disappear. another mourning dove cooing in his night terrors.

you perch the mop's stick against the table and settle next to haymitch. "of course. always." you whisper. and you sound so sure of this declaration that his head dizzies and his chest tightens with an ache that will never part from him.

haymitch drops his head to your shoulder. maybe from exhaustion, maybe from grief. you don't know. you don't ask. he will come around. and maybe sometime in the future, he can find a way to commemorate this grief and pass it. a safer future. a future where he no longer feels the need to sleep with a knife under his pillow.

now that the hunger games is once again getting popular, it’s all over my fyp on tiktok.

i literally hate the “we’re the capitol” and “suzanne only writes when she has something to say” and “we shouldn’t be getting another hunger games book” blah blah blah

just shut up and enjoy the series. my god. you’re not “part of the capitol” for wanting another BOOK in a POPULAR book series. it’s the hunger games. it’s a fascinating dystopian society. you’re allowed to be curious on how it works. and other POV’s of how other characters perceive it and their personal experiences.

and the suzanne thing is fucking stupid too. she’s allowed to write regardless of “having something to say”. that’s not required. she can have ideas later on down the line and add onto her series. esp now that her original audience has gotten older and matured enough to see the real horror that’s IN that original dystopian trilogy. we can now handle other perspectives like Coriolanus, and enjoy the way he thinks without boiling it all down to “i hate him because he’s the obviously the bad guy”

i feel like people need to enjoy things and stop being so english teacher mode. relax.

also PS. this is not to say that you can’t read into things but you have to remember it’s not that serious. it’s REALLY not that serious.

[5.25pm, wip]

coriolanus. swoony type, curly hair, bedroom eyes, cheeks like wine.

above tipsy coriolanus snow was a sight to behold, rare and cartoonishly bizarre. his half lidded expression, playful grin, and most importantly, wandering hands. he can’t quite tell if he’s moderately intoxicated due to the posca he’s been mindlessly sipping on, or the feel of your warm skin against his own. the blond had not had the opportunity to develop a tolerance towards posca, as he’d much rather spend scraps of money he and tigris pull together to buy food, or at least a variation of that.

with his inhibitions out the window, he was much less guarded. less skeptical of the world around him. simply an academy student who had a little bit too much to drink, and uncharacteristically giggles at anything.

coriolanus would not normally put himself in a position where the next words out of his mouth were not thought of and analyzed thoroughly to procure the upper hand in a conversation, but he’s cursed with a nervous fidget of sipping on the contents of whatever glass he’s holding, which got him into this predicament. unaware, bashful, completely and evidently enamored by you.

"To this day, I can never shake the connection between this boy, Peeta Mellark, and the bread that gave me hope, and the dandelion that reminded me that I was not doomed." - The Hunger Games, Chapter 2, Suzanne Collins

[ID: A 8 page digital comic of the bread scene between katniss and peeta, interlaced with the text from the hunger games novel. End ID.]

can i just throw something out very quickly:

firebender!coriolanus snow, who aims to become fire lord someday (using methods deemed too cunning, although he refers to himself as ‘resourceful’). he utilizes his words to beguile his peers into loyalty, saving his firebending for times that call to instill red hot fear and discipline.

coriolanus has a strong distaste towards his classmate, sejanus plinth, who he adjudges too ‘animalistic’ and ‘grotty’ to live among firebenders, yet finds the airbending nomad he is to mentor alluring and mystical. the blond especially dislikes sejanus’ foolish rambles about how he wishes to become a healer someday, as he himself knows that the minute the brunet was born an earthbender, that dream was over, so surely sejanus must know that too?

he slightly looks down on his nonbender cousin, tigris, who has truthfully kept the two of them alive through scavenging and foraging for food, sewing up intricate outfits for him to fit in with the upper class atmosphere of the academy and keep up appearances.

for his final assignment to establish himself as the star student of the academy’s senior class, he must figure out a scheme to ensure that the airbender, his airbender, is kept alive when put in an arena with 23 other tributes, some honing their bending for years. coriolanus is aware that her only way out is through cheating on his part, but won’t that deem him as a traitor? if he’s not careful, he too will find himself trapped in an arena. air can very well live on without fire, but that same fire will extinguish without the presence of air.

coriolanus snow loves in a way that is cannibalistic. it’s primal. violent. consumed by the need to devour you. he loves in a way that has him bare his teeth in perpetuity, content only when he knows he has swallowed you whole. some of it is ugly, obscene, and bestial, some of it is pure and holy and spiritual: all of it is himself.

the blonde convinces himself it’s for good. to protect you. to keep you safe. but when does protection cross the line to become control? to trap you. to keep you for himself. to know that you may never get away from all that is him, as he slowly makes you part of his own self, so much so that you begin losing your identity and your flesh knits with his.

he wants to eat you.

and the closest he can get to that is to graze his teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart. he wraps his hand around your throat, controls your breathing as he pleases. the knowledge that only he can grant you mercy. only he can give you life, or take it away. and you both know he would never choose the latter, as to consume you would mean that your being is tied with his, and wherever you go he will be forced to follow.

it’s mutual and untamed, self destructive yet passionate. the two of you clawing and biting to feel each other. a competition that dictates who swallows up who. it’s hunger that will never be satisfied, and god knows he’s no stranger to that.

as though your name is wrapped around his ribs, melting and flowing through his veins. your bones intertwined, waiting to see who will gnaw at whose heart first. there’s something dark and sinister about it, but isn’t that what devotion inevitably becomes? two lovers so feral that they seek to destroy each other.

“i cannot part with you.” he whispers, “I am you.”

and you have no choice but to be of one another for life.

bro the tribute x sejanus fic was so good ur talent is amazing omg

r u thinking of making a part 2

thank you so much omfg i wasn’t planning on it at first but now i might 😭😭

i actually thought it was a bit rushed, so i’d like to do a fully fleshed out version when i clear my remaining drafts