the mockingjay

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KATNISS EVERDEEN // MOCKINGJAY

✘ victor of the 74th hunger games

✘ rebel. survivor. weapon.

(she/her) // somewhere in the wreckage of district 12

✦ the hunger games verse

✦ asks/dms open // starters welcome // individual rping allowed // war-torn musings allowed

peeta: @theirpropaganda

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ooc: hii guys welcome to my katniss blog! musing hunger games so much, desperately need a peeta lol. feel free to send anything, therefore i'm itching to write. super open to meeting new friends or long-term partners! i also write on discord if interested being rp partners ! dms are open <3

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-Madge

on the table. in the sink. on me, somehow.

it looked like someone had fought the bread dough and lost.

i didn’t ask questions.

i just stared at the mess, then at you, then back at the mess.

you said, “it got away from me.”

what does that mean, peeta.

how does bread get away from you.

why is there flour on the ceiling.

@theirpropaganda

-CaptiolKatnissfan12

hate is a strong word. but if i had to pick, it’s probably the tribute who threw a knife at my head before breakfast. rude.

gossip? okay, fine: johanna once smuggled a bottle of something very not regulation into training and dared everyone to drink it. peeta talks in his sleep. sometimes about cake. sometimes about...me. not that i’m telling you what he said. beetee labeled every single fork in the cafeteria with a tiny sticker. no one knows why. no one asks.

“fun secrets”? most of us are just trying to not cry in public.

finnick odair in person? exactly what you think—annoyingly attractive. smells like salt and expensive soap. once flirted with a tree just to win a bet. also cried over a kitten. same day.

-CaptiolKatnissfan12

are you serious. again?

no. i’m not pregnant. i just ate half a loaf of bread and took a nap. that’s called being human.

i sneeze and people start knitting baby blankets. relax.

if i ever am pregnant, believe me—you'll hear about it when i start threatening peeta for breathing too loud and crying over soup commercials.

a normal person might say “okay” and move on.

peeta?

peeta took it as a personal challenge.

twenty minutes later he was in the kitchen making cheese from scratch.

talking to it. nurturing it like it was a newborn lamb.

i asked how long it would take. he said “a few days.”

i said we could just go to town.

he looked at me like i’d committed a crime against art.

so anyway. we have a cheese now. it lives in the cellar. it has a name. he’s very proud.

@theirpropaganda

they’ve never heard a cannon fire.

they don’t flinch at sudden noise, or sleep with a knife under their pillow.

that’s the whole point, right?

our son has your hands. always in the flour, always reaching to help before anyone even asks. he watches people the way you do—quiet, careful, with too much heart. i see you in him every time he smiles at someone like they matter.

and our daughter… you say she’s got my fire, but i see you in the way she hums when she paints the porch yellow or insists we have dessert before dinner because “papa says sweetness makes the day better.”

sometimes, they ask about the war.

and we look at each other—just a second too long—before one of us finds the words. enough to tell the truth. not enough to let it bleed.

i never thought i’d have this. not really.

but they came anyway.

and every night when you kiss them goodnight, i think—

maybe we finally got something the capitol couldn’t touch.

@theirpropaganda

we were halfway through the woods trying to find some wild roots he swore were edible. two hours later: we found a rock, a frog, and a patch of poison ivy.

he called it a success. i called it a lesson in trust issues.

and yet, i keep letting him drag me into things. maybe i like disasters now. maybe i like him.

kitchen looks like a snowstorm and smells like defeat.

followed the instructions. used the right measurements. didn’t even threaten the dough this time. still came out hard enough to qualify as a district 2 training weapon.

and somehow… burnt. and raw. at the same time.

i don’t know how he does it. bread is flour and water, not a capitol-level science experiment. but his comes out golden and soft, like it was always meant to be that way. like it just wanted to exist for him.

mine came out looking like a muttation had a nervous breakdown and died in the oven.

pretty sure i heard the loaf whisper, “please kill me.”

so yeah. i’m retiring from baking. again. starting to think the oven can smell fear.

someone tell the boy with the bread he’s safe. his job isn’t under threat.

(not that it ever was.)

(but don’t tell him i said that.)