#overfill

tonight’s stuffing: before, during (just food) and after (food and water)

His name is Horoki Stacey Overfill.

He’s 27 years old.

Invented this OC in 2021 and since then he has been with me every day✨

“I hold it to be the inalienable right of anybody to go to hell in their own way.”

Ariadne never left the cold shower of that morning to begin with. A subtle shiver she couldn’t control was pinching the edges of her hands as she was preparing to walk on stage right after the projection the Capitol had prepared for that year. Even so, the purple of her dress felt like draining down her spine. As if she never quite wiped the deliberately chilly drops of water off her back. It wasn’t the first time she was sweating on her way to the Hunger Games. The thought alone carefully filled her lungs with fresh air. Suddenly, breathing got simpler. She stepped ahead, hearing no sound, catching a glimpse of her brother instead. His eyes told the story of a sleepless night, still alcohol-injected. She hadn’t slept either, but she never felt more awake regardless. Today was smiling down on her, but she was too shaky to smile back, instead keeping herself focused.

Like walking on the edge of a cold, luscious knife, she stepped ahead in front of the microphone. When she opened her mouth, her voice didn’t sound like herself. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Capitol,” she introduced the omnipotent force without smiling, followed by the loyal applause. There was a time for smiling, but the Reaping of the 124th Biannual Hunger Games was not it. She was careful to be solemn, not underwhelmed.

The girl had to remind herself it was not her applause to take. Instead, she clapped too. Ariadne’s style had never been bubbly, especially as an escort. Instead, she was fierce the way only someone from the second district knew how to be. Licking her lips, she dreaded more than ever the parting seconds between then and the big moment. Partly because she wanted to freeze it, decided yet terrified.

There were no fireworks upcoming. Only her heartbeat. Ariadne couldn’t look over her shoulder at Orpheus -- not anymore. Not until she’s done it. The guilt would never be as bright as it was at that moment, and she refused to give him the chance to read all about it in her eyes. Instead, she faced the crowd, the way she should have all along. The way she would always dream of. At that moment, even if nobody knew but herself, she was a tribute, representing her district into the Games. She took one last breath as sole holder of that information. Soon, everyone would learn it.

“We will now begin the yearly selection for the tributes. The moment, um, the moment we have all been waiting for.” She was usually less clumsy, but her hands were fully shaking at that point. Holding her breath, she worried she would push the bowl of names off the platform and watch it split into shards at her feet.

Her fingers almost tore apart the piece of paper, trying to unfold it. The shaking was almost as stubborn as she was. “For the female tributes... Erida Karambit.” Her heart completely stopped, encouraging her lips to part and say the magic words. Time stopped there. The knot in her throat naturally untied itself, so she would make it into reality.

“But I volunteer. So don’t bother. Sorry,” she was quick to add, deadpanned with a dash of acid, despite the moment of hesitance projected by her own brain. In reality, not a second more passed by her. Apathetic for the moment, Ariadne couldn’t feel her numb hands anymore. She now had to announce herself, not the way she would have planned her Reaping to unfold back when she was making plans at fourteen years old.

She did it meekly, almost embarrassed of the situation, though straight-backed and prouder than ever. She had to stand straight. Otherwise, she would risk facing one of the figures she was avoiding, standing behind her. A general murmur covered the crowd, but the microphone was louder. “I’m Ariadne Beaurevoir and I will be fighting for our District these Games. Oh, and I fucking quit.” Afterwards, more solemn than ever, as if forgetting the last part, she executed a small head bow. 

Yet, for a dumb moment, her heart rushed to imagine her brother, the boy whose shadow she was side-eyeing, volunteering. As it was always supposed to be. Still, despite the plans, nothing horrified her more. Nonetheless, she continued as if nothing changed. As if he wouldn’t notice. As if he wouldn’t think about it. As if he never loved her enough to. “I will formally fulfill my duties, however. The male tribute of District Two is Dexter Harlow.”

Whether somebody else volunteered or not, it was in a haze. All she could tell was that a boy was squeezing her hand all of a sudden. A quick, halfway blind glance confirmed that it was not Orpheus Beaurevoir. That was everything that mattered. “Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to present us, the two tributes representing District Two during the 124th Biannual Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in our-” She couldn’t continue without spreading an artificial taste all over her mouth. “You know the words. We will make you proud.”

“Thank you.”