#ILLAQVEO — an indie dash-only blog. mutuals only & selective. est. may 2026. featuring a canon divergent gale hawthorne — written by ollie ( 27, they/them, est )
verses. headcanons. self promo. graphics credit.
rules :
1. mutual exclusive & selective : i only interact with mutuals, and am highly selective with who i follow. occasionally, i will respond to open starters in the tags and this is the only exception to my mutuals only rule ( unless explicitly noted on particular posts ). i will softblock any blogs i do not see myself interacting with. if i do not follow you back please don't take it personally ; there are a variety of factors that go into the decision.if i follow you and you don't see it working out for whatever reason, i strongly encourage soft/hardblocking.
2. canon divergence : my gale is written as katniss' cousin ( specifically with burdock and hazelle as siblings, though this is flexible ). therefore, when i write, i assume there is no romantic attraction between gale and katniss. this is a hard rule, so please respect this. for the most part, i do still largely abide by book canon, save for the fact some events are slightly skewed or have different context when assuming family relation lens between katniss and gale.
3. open starters & ask memes are always open and available to mutuals regardless of when they were posted. please indicate which of my muses memes are for. mumu blogs should also indicate which muse memes are from. you can provide up to three options for muses, and are welcome to send in multiple memes at once. mutuals are also welcome to send ic one-liners and character development questions !! ask memes are the best way to start an interaction with me — any response to a sentence starter/one-liner ask meme is encouraged to be continued in a thread, but it's never required. additionally, please reblog ask meme posts, inspo posts, etc from the source.
4. reply speed : i work full time & my motivation/energy fluctuates greatly so reply speed will vary but can range from a day to weeks. please never feel pressured to match my reply speed. reply when you can — i'm always happy to wait and i expect the same courtesy in return. dropping threads is also perfectly fine and i'm always down to have more than one thread going between muses. if you see me replying to threads but not yours, this doesn't mean i don't want to write with you !! muse & motivation fluctuates. you are always welcomed to send ask memes, even if i'm appearing not active as this can be the best way to jump start my muse. ask memes may be horded for when i have inspiration to reply to them ; however, if we haven't interacted yet, i do make an effort to reply to an ask meme as quickly as possible.
5. formatting : i use small text and usually go resourceless but on occasion may use medium-sized ( 268 px ) gifs. for the most part, i don't care what formatting you use or if you include resources on your replies. my replies usually range from 150 - 450 words / 1 - 3 paragraphs.
6. please do not use pet names to address me ( eg. love, honey, sweetheart, nugget, bug, lovely, etc )
7. after 10+ years here, i don't have the time or energy to care about rpc drama/hate/gossip. i use my block liberally to curate my experience here.
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COMPLACENCY IS EASY IN THE CAPITOL where there is abundance in the very air ; even through the cold, crisp, intermittent breeze there was a slight sting at the back of his nostrils upon reaching 12, something cinna assumed could be attributed to the district's coal mines. that, or it was a scent remembered from the last — and only — time he visited a district, factory smokestacks of 6 billowing endless plumes of grey into the sky. the sign of progress, his father had proudly proclaimed as he'd clapped a hand on his shoulder, not yet aware of his son's disdain towards that very smoke and the shipping containers lined up beneath bearing the name petreius.
complacency is easy in the capitol but less so when faced with life outside it — at least for him. his prep team are oblivious, their excitement for the impending tour filling every gap in conversation with endless chatter. effie is a consummate professional as always, her rigid adherence to the schedule a point of pride in her work. cinna's own work is strewn across the everdeen's living room in the victor's village, cameras having departed half an hour ago after filming katniss talking about her burgeoning talent. he'd stayed behind to pack up, entrusting his prep team to touch up katniss' makeup and outfit as the two victors said their goodbyes on the way to the station.
the sound of the front door opening draws him from his introspection, and cinna moves quickly to zip up one of the last remaining clothes bags, throwing his voice towards the entrance, ❛ i'm nearly finished in here ❜
@illaqveo : what are you doing ?
when he turns, it isn't effie or one of her escort come to check on him. it isn't katniss' mother or her sister either, but a man faintly recognisable in the same way, though it takes a second to place his face from the footage he'd watched from katniss' district. gale, his brain supplies in the brief pause between question and answer, cinna straightening from the pile of outfits in order to respond to him properly. ❛ my name's cinna. i'm katniss' stylist. ❜ a step taken towards the door, a hand outstretched in greeting, ❛ you must be gale. ❜
he tries too hard to pretend it never happened. katniss didn't talk about it, and he didn't ask — their sundays in the woods more quiet than conversation. it always had been, but they never had needed to talk. however, the change settled over both of them still proved too difficult to ignore entirely — like the coal dust beneath his nails the games dangle between them, obvious and impossible to dig out. the signs land in the forage and game on the kitchen table, when he's barely seen the sun in six days, the money he refuses to take, the way he knows katniss' footsteps lead to the one part of town he'd never venture to.
until now.
katniss had seemed distracted last sunday — now as he tramped through the snow-laden streets, the banks becoming less and less tinged with the coal dust that ladened everything, it was obvious why. he catches sight of his own hand as he reaches for the door knob, his boots as he steps over the threshold and into the clean expanse of the everdeen house. in his rush after his shift, he hadn't cleaned up much — here where the perils of the distract pretend not to touch, it stands out even more. after spending much of their lives in lockstep, in effortless understanding, the distance seems too stark.
an unfamiliar voice pulls him from his introspection, the very fact enough to twist his stomach. his ears strain to hear anything else : katniss' mother, prim, peeta, katniss. the house feels too still, too quiet — and some instinct already knows he's too late. the dread sinks its claws in tighter as he tracts down the hall and towards the only sounds in the house. he comes to a halt only a few steps further, enough to bring the stranger into view, grey eyes skimming over him as he straightens.
he didn't need to be introduced to know he was capitol, his own arms crossing reflexively over his chest as the other turns toward him — initial question still unanswered. the exhaustion that perpetually clung to him in the wake of a shift is temporarily displaced : cool defensiveness taking its place, under it the familiar spark of anger. the name he recognizes, the face taking the shape of something more familiar as well from the broadcast of the games. his gaze flickers down to the outstretched hand, though he makes no movement to take it. he's fairly certain the other has no real desire to touch him anyway.
his lips press thinly together, not quite a scowl but a sign of displeasure all the same. grey eyes drag finally back to the gold-rimmed ones of the other. " where is she ?? "
✱ ˚｡⋆ ↪ MORBID CURIOSITY ... [ REMASTERED ] ( a collection of various original dialogue prompts centered around asking questions. adjust phrasing / gendered terms as necessary. )
give that to me! where did you find this?!
do you drink coffee or tea?
sorry– am i crazy, or have we met before?
do you trust me enough to close your eyes?
when were you planning on telling me?
at the risk of being a cliché, do you want to get out of here?
can i convince you to stay the night?
do i look like someone who knows what that means?
would you consider giving me a second chance?
do you really think that's helpful right now?
would you mind showing me around?
do you ever plan on forgiving yourself?
are you thinking what i'm thinking?
can we ... go out and do something crazy?
why are we whispering?
who exactly are you, anyways?
can't we just be civil for a minute?
does the past ever keep you up at night?
if you have nothing to hide, what's the problem?
how long has it been since i saw you last, [ name ]?
did the power just go out?
are we still doing the thing where we pretend not to care?
how should we celebrate?
can we just ... start over?
why is this so important to you?
how was i supposed to know that?!
do you want me to stay? it doesn't have to mean anything.
where are you? nobody's heard from you.
can you help me zip this up?
why do these things always happen to me?
you don't secretly hate me, right?
can i get you something to eat? –or drink?
ready to see what i've been working on?
where have you been disappearing off to?
what's that perfume you're wearing?
you're laughing?! do you really think this is funny?
are you planning to stay for dinner?
did you think it was going to be easy?
you see where you went wrong, don't you?
when did we become so cold and distant?
who are you working for?
did you really do all of this for me?
can i open my eyes yet?
haven't you heard the stories?
[ name ], what are you doing here?
what's it gonna take for you to trust me?
do you believe people can change?
how about we catch the ten o'clock showing?
don't you remember what happened last time?
why is it so unbelievable that i'd want to help you?
you're [ name ], aren't you?
who did this to you?!
how did you know i'd be here?
what's that supposed to mean?
do you think i'm irredeemable?
what kind of mess have you gotten us into?!
do you see anything you like?
what do i owe you for the food?
why won't this stupid thing work?!
does tonight really have to end?
holy shit. can you believe we really pulled that off?!
i can tell you're upset, [ name ]. what happened?
how long have you been standing there?
do you ever wish you could just ... run away?
haven't we been here before?
wait, shush ... did you hear that?
did i miss today's newsletter or something?
can we put our differences aside for a second?
what are you getting out of this, exactly?
you'd tell me if something was wrong, right?
are you willing to bet on it?
would you kill for me?
what made you think that was okay?!
do you believe people can change?
what's the worst thing you've ever done?
you were going to leave without saying goodbye?
[ name ], can you sit up for me?
can i kiss you?
where are your keys? you're not driving like this.
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there is a point after when gale's offered more or less the chance to undergo the remake medical technology to fully heal / remove the scars from his whipping in 12. needless to say, even though he still feels the scars pulling and the improperly healed misaligned muscle fibers every day, he vehemently turns the offer down.
"it's not bad." i turn my head to look away from him. if i look for too long he blurs over a little, like some glittering after image burning along his edges. we're kids in the woods again and i'm watching as he shows me how to set a snare. we're in the capitol, in one of those ransacked and abandoned apartments, too tense to sleep but too tired to talk. he's half awake face down on the kitchen table and it's my fault. it's easier to look out at the tree line instead. i wonder if he feels the same way. if he looks at me and sees the still too-pink skin where it had been burned and repaired, and the kid who trailed after him when we were little, and my face on a screen.
my fingers dig into the worn fabric of my sweater at the elbows, my arms crossed in front of me. i wish peeta or haymitch was here. they've always been better at talking - they still are, even now. they have some piece i am desperately lacking when it comes to knowing what to say. gale and i never needed to talk, though. it's strange that i feel the discomfort of silence with him now; the fundamental thing between us is gone. or ... not gone, but different. burned away with everything else. when mom talks about him on the phone she always almost danced around the subject by using hazelle's name and not gale's. and now he's here, standing in front of me again, and i still half expect him to turn with that smile that doesn't quite change his whole face and ask me why i haven't brought my bow.
"how is it? 2?" i haven't been back since the first and last visit took my spleen with it. all i know is from the reports i sometimes get from paylor or the others about the rebuilding efforts in all of the districts. small groups of capitol-loyal holdouts had been a problem at the start of the end, but word of those has grown scarce. i always wonder if it's because they've given up or if it's because paylor doesn't want to trouble me with them anymore. gale, though - gale i can trust to be honest. even now, after everything.
" it's different. " and for a moment, he's not sure if he's talking about 12 or 2. he doesn't think she meant to throw him a lifeline, but he clings to it anyway. it's not like he expected being back here to be easy — there was a reason for his persistent absence. bombs and screams and her. he doesn't know how she stays here with all the ghosts — or maybe she was already so haunted by them, by worse, it didn't make a difference. or maybe, it was because she wasn't there : didn't feel the heat of the flames, know the smell of flesh burning, the terror that'd suffused it all. that wasn't fair, she'd seen more than her fair share. that doesn't make him begrudge it any less that she's been able to rebuild over it — wildflowers over burnt scars.
he'd come back, but he didn't know what he hoped to find. not peace. he can feel it in the turmoil beneath his skin : he wasn't ready for that. his gaze levels over the meadow, caught between looking away and not wanting to look at her. the ease he once felt stepping over the fence line, katniss at his back as they tracked their next prey — he feels none of it now, and it's more disconcerting than he's willing to let on. he doesn't know what's changed more : 12 or him or both in such diverging ways it feels like a nightmare.
" paylor's been keeping us busy. " he'd thought so much about the ending, he never bothered to consider what come after. maybe, he hadn't expected to exist in it at all. he barely exists in this after as it is — drifting through day by day, a soldier with instructions, just another ghost. for a long time that's what he liked about 2 : there was no time to think, even in victory there wasn't quite peace. until now — or as close they've come to it ever since they were kids in the woods. if only it were that easy to slip back into the woods with a bow across his back and rope at his waist. " things have quieted down lately — though i think she'll never quite give up the idea there's still an underground capitol-loyalist movement somewhere. " was it bad that he hoped she was right ?? then there would still be something for his hands to do, somewhere to put his rage he pretended wasn't starting to dull to exhaustion. his gaze finally slides to her, a half-smile creeping almost instinctively on his face in spite of it all. " you've missed out on more than a few rousing conversations on finances and government dress code. i know you're devastated. "
gale is such a tactician at heart. that's what really makes him good at trapping, and what makes him such an asset in thirteen. coin sees it an exploits that and his anger / sense of helplessness. paylor sees it too afterwards when they're trying to clean up the aftermath.
if he ever went into the games that's really how he wins. not just because he's good at making snares, but because he's insanely good at predicting what other people will do. trapping isn't just about the ability to manipulate the rope, but also the knowledge of where to put it, when to set it, and how long to wait. it probably gets downplayed by capitol media because they don't want the narrative that anyone from twelve can be that smart — nor that an outlying district out-thought a career.
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it's not like it's a surprise that he's here. i knew he was coming. maybe i should have met him at the train station. that's what i would have done a long time ago. it would have been ... it would have felt like being shot, though, so i'd hidden in my house like a coward for half the day until i finally felt like i could breathe. that doesn't mean the breath is knocked out of me when i first see him standing where the fence used to be. even the reminders of it are gone. i don't know what they did with the twisted, half-melted metal. maybe thom found some use for it.
for a moment i feel like nothing happened. like gale's about to look over his shoulder and smile, call me catnip, and that we're going to head out to the trees with our bows. he'll ask about prim and i'll ask about posy and - and. and. my arms fold over my middle and i can't make myself move any closer to him, but i don't flee, which is better than i thought i'd do. part of me is still furious with him, even though now i know it's not fair. part of me wants to hug him. all of me wants to cry.
"the wildflowers are growing back." it's all i can think to say. it doesn't feel like enough, but what else is there? gale used to be one of the few people in the world i could talk to. i miss it. i miss him. but it's not the same now.
the weight of the summer air presses in around him in a way he supposes was once familiar, but the dry heat in 2 made it feel foreign. each step is laden with memories, not all of them ones he tried to forget. he didn't know what he expected ; not the burned, tangled ruins from the bombing, surely — but also not the confusing peace that rests over the place now. he hadn't thought that much time had passed ; maybe it had.
the meadow and forest bearing no sign of the hundreds of frantic feet that trampled it is less surprising, even if some long buried instinct wants to bend to find the loose portion of fence that no longer exists. there was always something about the woods that seemed it would outlast them all. maybe that's why he had come here : because she hadn't been at the station and he'd left the door of her house un-knocked. because he knew if there was any place where they might make amends, it was here where they once felt the most free.
he doesn't know if he had hoped if she would show or not ; still doesn't know when the sound of her voice stiffens his shoulders. he'd known it was her from the footsteps ; maybe part of him still thought she'd run away. he can still hear the whoosh before the bombs, her scream, the words not said in the look in her eyes after. it was easier to pretend he believed they could move past that back in 2 where the surroundings reflected none of his past. maybe the emptiness in him made it such he was willing to try anyway. " the hunting must be good again, " is what he says finally, hands pressed into pockets, head turned back over his shoulder just slightly to catch her in his periphery. it feels wrong, the gulf that stretches between them — maybe time had only eroded it wider. " there's not so many rabbits in 2. "
what i need is the dandelion in the spring. the bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. the promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. that it can be good again.
@thrndy ; indie & private katniss everdeen by bee.
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