BURNING BOY.

K A T N I S S  E V E R D E E N.

➵ distruust​ liked this. )

the hush had stolen across their forms like     a thief in the night; quietly, carefully, slowly, until they had not known a way beyond it, until it had devoured them whole. he thinks someone may have fallen asleep in the corner, extends a long sweeping branch of a limb to nudge the form’s plush weight, hesitates before any real force can be placed behind it. perhaps-- perhaps not a good idea. instead, he forces ⁽ ᶦᶜᵉ⁻ˢᶜᵘᶫᵖᵗᵉᵈ ⁾ limbs to relax, unpopping bones & breathing deep through his nose, gathering as much stale air into his flame-fogged lungs as his ribs may allow, doing ANYTHING to force this terrible weight from his shoulders. ( it does not slink free, remains CHAINED to his throat, a noose rubbing raw, chafing chilled flesh to the bone ) another weight leans heavy on his side, something warm & tense on the furred surface of their sleeping mat. it takes him only a fraction of a second longer to take note of the irregular breathing, the way muscles still to the point of pain, the careful positioning of limb & skin. a sigh flutters past ivory teeth.      ❛ i know you’re AWAKE. ❜

➵ affinityforsecrets liked this. )

the face that finds its way before unstruck flint     is one gale finds he knows well, has memorised through years of compulsory viewing, through interviews & interviews & interviews, the abominable capitol creatures taking delight in pulling this, their most resplendent, their FINEST toy, from the closet, brushing off the dust & sealing the cracks from its visage & displaying it proudly before the rest of panem. this is ours, they had seemingly screamed, he remembers. you shall not take it. -------- funny, then, how the so-adored victor has found his lot with that of gale’s ilk; with rebels, with traitors, with those who should not demean themselves to give voice to the capitol’s name -- SNOW’S NAME -- except to spit it.     ---- none of this irony shall trail its acidic digits over the cast iron of his countenance, which remains ( mostly ) free of such trivialities as emotion. the knuckles of his right hand -- his hunting hand -- graze the surface of the door, leave in their wake a hollow knock.     ❛ you’re wanted upstairs. ❜ 

➵ darkinherheart. )

she is smaller than he remembers her.      this is the first thing he allows himself to consider. she is a mass of bony limbs, her flesh an armour crafted of ivory settled heavily over her delicate frame, long dark hair curling about her shoulders, brushing the adamantine edge of her collarbones. her eyes are as wide & dark as he remembers, but he finds none of her sweetness there now; they are no doe’s eyes, not any longer. now hers is the gaze of a predator-- the once-delicate planes of her face appear sharper now, knife-like. should she part her lips, he is certain she shall reserve naught but acid for him. ------ perhaps the idea thrills him some. ruffling feathers -- this is what he does. however, there is nothing MOCKING about the nod of acknowledgement he allows her, nothing petty lurking in his hues as they pick apart the sleek lines of her frame & promptly dismiss them, turning back to the strategies laid bare before them. beacon hills’ LITTLE PROBLEM has always been something that mystified him. the greatest line of hunters had made the place their home, had settled their roots in its bloodied earth & sharpened their knives behind its doors. & yet---- & yet the packs still live. this is where he comes in, he knows. this is his hunting ground -- it is all his hunting ground, will be until he has wiped the beasts from the earth entirely. the thought allows him a certain brand of DETERMINATION; the kind that settles in men’s guts like liquid fire, the kind that ends lives & ruins worlds.                    ❛ so-- first move? ❜       ( train your daughters to be leaders, turn your loyalty to the girl, bend your will to fit this small child’s. do it, boy, do it. )

➵ offireandrebellion. )

his head is fuzzy & whirling, helter-skelter,                the world falling to pieces beneath his feet & catching itself once more as a heavy hand scrambles for purchase on the closest thing to him; that that thing happens to be warm & moving & shooting him a look like she’d run him through if she could get away with it is inconsequential. he’d had a drink in his hand, he thinks with the idleness alcohol always inflicts upon him with a curve of her smile -- flint hues pause on the gleam of something wet on the fabric of katniss’ sleeve, follow the invisible curve between the DISASTER & the half-empty glass of tequila he’d been passed at some point in the night, then dart to a face carved of the richest marble -- a face so fine, it should be the envy of michaelangelo, of every artist in the world who should claim a knowledge of beauty. lips twitch, the silver of his mother-of-pearl smile gleaming beneath the crappy fluorescent lighting above their heads ------ the bar they have found themselves in leaves much to be said of class. perhaps an ⁽ ᵃᵖᵒᶫᵒᵍʸ ⁾ lurks behind his teeth, locked away in the feeble flesh of his throat, but it will not settle its weight on his tongue & he does not force it. instead comes the words,               ❛ stop-- being blurry. ❜            an accusatory finger ( though thankfully, not one of the disastrous digits coiled around the neck of the bottle ) points her way, smile fallen to the pursed mouth that it had once claimed.

-------- ( KATNISS EVERDEEN. )

when, finally, after the car ride to the train station                       -- during which he has marked bloody crescents upon his palms to stop himself from slamming effie trinket's powdered face against the dashboard until he draws blood -- they are left alone, words fail him once more. he can feel the resentment from her already, like a knife in the gut, but as long as she RESENTS him she's still alive. he must remember that. she's still alive. ( he quiets the voice in his head that tells him they're not in the games yet, that they have not tasted the sweet wine of danger upon their tongues, that they have much further to go still ). the question breaks a sigh from his lips, ragged hand running through his hair as he turns to her with  a glare & snarl released from behind his teeth,