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clemencetaught · 1 month

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"Thank you so much for introducing me into your busy schedule," Hermes says and he's oh so very polite, epitome of status and class, of the Capitol, complete with something less polite glistening in his eyes, making his stare resemble the kind worn by someone curiously waiting to see whether the distracted mouse will see the lurking cat in time. He comes up around Patrick, offering his hands. "Let me take your coat, hm? Care for a drink?" ((btw if Patrick is more of a jacket kinda peep here pretend it says jacket >:3333333)) || a year late but here we are ( unprompted w/ @mythvoiced )

One would think at his age, the stream of clients on his end would be slowing down by now. The copious amounts of surgeries and skin care routines Capitolites undergo would indict so– he’s already past his prime and with the pool of victors always growing larger and larger each year, he would assume the Capitol’s attention on him would fade. The Capitolites are like crows in that respect, eyes drawn to what is shiny and what is new, their attention spans that of goldfishes.

One would think then, that he’d be discarded by now, being OLD now and therefore in the Capitol’s eyes, as good as dead.

“But of course,” Patrick says astutely, flinching when he realizes the client has managed to sneak behind him. Well that’s new– most clients wait for him in their bedrooms. Most clients would have their avoxes let him in, the task of welcoming a guest apparently too arduous for those of their class. And most clients wouldn’t offer to take coats either. Perhaps this one was raised with a military background of sorts. “Your father has a great deal of connections to the games and President Snow certainly didn’t want to disappoint his son. You know our president holds the games to the highest esteem.”

The coat stays on for a moment longer. He tries to savor it, his armor, as he looks around the foyer. It’s ornate, just like all the ones that came before. And all the ones that will come afterwards– at some point when you’ve seen one interior of a mansion, you’ve seen it all. The heirs of the elite aren’t much better and with the way his newest client looks at him, like he’s supposed to provide some sort of entertainment at the moment, Patrick can only bite back a sigh. Only three hours, Patrick tells himself. Slowly, he forces a smile. Three hours and then he can get on a train and go back home. Back to Sun.

“It would be my pleasure,” Patrick says, finally offering Mister Hermes his coat. His stomach turns. “I suppose we all need a drink before the main event, hm? And a chance for me to get to know you, my dear.”

#mythvoiced #mythvoiced ( hermes. )#the victor ( answered. )#the victor ( verse three. )#LENLEN!! i had this one in my inbox for a while and I ALWAYS MEANT?? I ANSWER IT!!!#i'm late by like 8234820398 years BUT HERE IT IS #if you still would to donate hermes to the depresso verse :'3 #i also looked back on the little tidbits you said about hermes and made some vague assumptions about his background #but if there's anything from my end that i assumed wrong about hermes pls let me know <3 <3 <3 #i'm always happi to change things as needed :D #also pls have patrick considering himself old LIKE DUDE U STILL HAVE A LOT OF LIFE LEFT TO LIVE OKAY D-:#a question of justice ( answered. )

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clemencetaught · 1 month

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where the martyr becomes the survivor ( @mythvoiced from here ) || trigger warning: allusions to s*a, but no depictions of the act itself.

Nights like these are chilling.

Chilly sometimes, depending on the time of year, but always chilling, sharp enough to cut to the bone. He prefers it this way, the cool night air of the Capitol brushing against bare skin, a body that never feels quite like his own on nights where the clients have him marked in their calendars. A body that he would want nothing more than to crawl out of and trade in for a new one. The sensation, the urge used to be stronger in his younger days and even if the body now has become accustomed to it, the ‘escorting’ as President has so deftly phrased it, the sensation leaves him lightheaded. The lights of the street lamps make the edge of his vision blur as he tries not to think of the sweat drying on the back of his neck, foreign fingers that pressed themselves there without thinking. Why would they need to ask anyways– he’s theirs for the night and you don’t need to ask objects for permission. It is better than staying there in the aftermath though.

He’ll take the chilling air over the humidity. The lingering smell of sweat mixed in with sex. Or the lazy breaths of a body next to his as it embraces his own like he is their lover. The night air cuts through that. Chillingly.

Mister Hrvoditnir’s place is the last stop for the night. An unexpected one too– Patrick didn’t realize until the card listed his name at the very bottom that Mister Hrodvitnir had made a purchase for him. Did something happen? Did he decide he wanted out of this arrangement after all? Most of their communications aren't done face to face so it must be urgent, if Mister Hrodvitnir is calling out to him. And if it is in the case of getting cold feet, Patrick wouldn’t blame him; they’re both playing with fire, rigging and manipulating the whims of the elite.

But then he gets to Mister Hrodvitnir’s place ( he insisted on walking rather than getting chauffeured; Mister Hrodvitnir barely maintains the driveway of his place anyways ) and no second thoughts surface. Instead there is only a simple hello and an offer to come in. Have a cup of tea. Patrick both snags in relief and bristles at the offer.

All that money and maneuvering spent, for this?

And that’s exactly what Patrick tells him. Kindly, of course: “You don’t need to do that, not for me.”

And like a wolf baring its teeth, like a wolf closing in on its prey, his smile drops and suddenly he’s stepping into Patrick’s space. At least he’s polite enough to give a warning beforehand.

But Patrick freezes, nails digging into his palms. Is this how Sun feels when he brings strangers into the house? The outrage, the fear that accompanies the way a stranger will thread on her territory and there’s nothing she can do to change it so her next best option is bolting to the nearest safe space?

But Patrick is not a cat and he can’t very well just shirk this visit. And unfortunately for both of them, Mister Hrodvitnir is correct. A martyr might incite a revolution, but in a nation where the calls for upheavals and revolts are far cries, the goal in the long run is not change, but survival. And who better would know the ropes there than the survivor himself?

Patrick knows it. Mister Hrodvitnir, no, Van knows that he knows it well.

The nickname ‘Chessmaster’ isn’t entirely accurate for Patrick anymore, is it? A chessmaster may direct the pieces on the board, but they are never with the pieces. A chessmaster must sit separately if there is a chance at victory.

That’s not the case for Patrick. If anything, ‘Chessmaster’ might actually suit Van better than anyone else. Who else could wade between both the elite and the plebian circles without raising brows? Who else must don the guise of a nonchalant bidder in order bring some kind of relief for the victors?

And like a chess piece taking orders from its Grand Master, Patrick half sighs, half huffs in acquiescence. It doesn’t stop him from glaring at Van, of course, but his shoulders fall as the exhaustion finally settles in. The night air is no longer comforting but just plain chilly, even if Patrick has his coat on.

( How odd, unapologetic concern stemming from within the Capitol of all places. He supposes Van’s neighbors don’t get that from Van often, do they? )

“I suppose I can come in for a cup of tea.” Yes, tea always helps in these scenarios, don’t they? He steps into Van’s foyer and the skin on the back of his neck embracing the warmth inside. “Could I… use your shower? It wouldn’t be for too long. I just–” He looks down at his clothes: the suit that he wore this afternoon, yes, but the tie has been stuffed in his pocket. And the shirt underneath is crinkled. “I need to clean myself up.”

#sex trafficking cw #sexual assault cw #mythvoiced #tbt ( van. )#mythvoiced ( van. )#the victor ( verse three. )#interactions ( verse three — with the promise of a better world. )#not inherent but learned ( interactions. )#first of all van needs a tag #secondly i told you i was going to continue ur ask and uh well this happened :/#but there's no pressure for you to continue this if you're not comfy <3

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clemencetaught · 1 month

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maría. → Ironically, María reminds him of her, Sun:

They’re both loud. Not loud the way Capitol citizens tend to be in all spaces: encompassing and overwhelming. Loud the way an alarm clock is: quiet until they’re suddenly not. And then they make sure you know they’re there whether you want to not. María will stamp her feet, shout, and make a mess of her clothes and the Capitol’s pristine arrangements, anything to leave fingerprints, proof that she was there once upon a time. And Sun will yowl at him, jump on his desk to knock over his books and papers, and sit on the book he’s reading. Of course the reasons for the noise between the two are significantly different. If María never lets him or the other Victors forget about the horrors of the games or the rot hiding behind Capitol’s gleaming facade, Sun would never let Patrick forget to feed her. Especially if it’s one minute past her meal time. Or half an hour early.

They’re both unnecessarily bold. How María keeps tumbling back towards him, whether it’s with stolen bread or oversteeped tea, even when he denies her concern. And how Sun still wakes him up in the middle night, weighing down on his chest even if he keeps a knife under his pillow for security purposes ( the likelihood of her getting cut is greater than any imagined threat that comes to him in his dreams ).

And they’re vulnerable. Or at least they look at him vulnerably, like they can’t decide which facade to wear when speaking to him. In María’s case, it probably would be more of a question if she even has a mask to wear in the first place– of all the victors, María might be the only one who doesn’t have one, instead choosing to wearing her wounds on her sleeve for the Capitol to poke and prod at. But María still approaches him in a roundabout way, the way teenagers do, both seeking and loathing guidance at the same time. And for all the years she’s been with him, Sun still watches him from afar, through door cracks, before approaching.

Maybe this is why of all the victors who have come out of the arena, Patrick keeps looking to her. Beyond the scope of responsibility and duty, somewhere deep down, there is an instinct to…protect? No, that can’t be– there are only two individuals he should be prioritizing and María, young María who is fresh out of the arena, who isn’t even guaranteed to make it out of the den of vipers known as Capitol society, certainly isn’t either of those individuals.

“Well, it would be rather cruel to make a cat travel for no good reason, wouldn’t it? They can be quite…territorial of their surroundings.” And at this point in his life, it’s not a matter of whether to be cruel or kind so much as it is a matter of what degree of either can be afforded without tipping the scale. Not that he thinks Sun would actually mind making the trip. If anything, she makes her dissatisfaction over the temporary separation palpable whenever he returns from the Capitol– either she yowls at him from the door or she sulks in the corner of his house, requiring him to make a wild goose chase to find her once more. Both are…well, it is certainly a way to be welcomed home and he’d rather entertain one of those two options than the Capitol scooping her up without warning.

They’re not exactly accepting of strays, even the furry kind. María probably knows this too. In a way, all the Victors are strays, foreigners of sorts within Panem– with a piece of themselves firmly planted in the arena, they no longer quite belong to districts, but they don’t fit in with the Capitol either.

“Your parents are coping. It’s just as hard to see a child changed as it is to lose one,” he says simply. That’s what his own legal guardians did back then– trying and trying to make him feel at home until they just couldn’t anymore and at that point, it was easier to keep distance. He hasn’t seen them in years. He doesn’t even know if they’ve rejoined the earth by now. Even if her parents don’t try to understand her, he can only hope her family doesn’t go down the same route. “That being said, I think it would be easier to feel anything aside from gratitude in your case. A pity people never quite…realize that.”

And they never will, if they are only watching the games. It’s no wonder the only person who could possibly understand a victor is, well, another victor.

“If cats could speak, she might complain that I’m not around enough.” Or she might not. Perhaps that’s the reason it’s easier to bring Sun up here now, to a girl who, with an outburst like water boiling over the edge of the pot, isn’t guaranteed to keep secrets. Ironically, in this nation, a cat of all things might have more immunity than any victor does.

“Who says I haven’t burst before?” He says though and perhaps that’s too much to reveal about him–a hint that he hasn’t always been this tranquil, this calming in the face of all this horror. Patrick certainly knows he hasn’t always been that way and it wouldn’t do for María to figure that out now. Not when she needs…guidance first. “It doesn’t matter whether I burst or not. What matters is that I keep going afterwards. She’s worth it.”

Something, someone, who makes the suffering worth going through. Hope, he might say, in a situation that is irredeemable. As soon as someone gets a hold of such, surrendering becomes…tricky, unfortunately. “Even if you want it to stop, it won’t.” So she better adapt to it sooner than later if she wants to survive, pragmatism would say, but when has he ever been the rational one? “Your reason doesn’t have to be another person; it could be something else, like a hobby, something you like to do for yourself?” Or a cause, even. “You don’t have to know right away either. And you can always redefine it and change as many times as you would like.”

Maybe he does do it on purpose.

Appear like a whole person stuck behind so many walls of glass that María can only assume her perception of him to be somehow distorted.

She envisions them in a room - similar but different to this one, mutilated by the same rich smooth walls but not quite as glimmering not quite as feigned not quite as stuck in its play-pretend to not reveal its ugly reality - all the Victors, all the Survivors.

She envisions them in a room most eerily similar, if not a direct copy, of the training halls. The same coloured walls, the same echo to a footfall, the same smells (sweat turned putrid with the acrid scent of fear, anxiety, desperation, hopelessness, cowardice mixing with the ferocity of an animal ready to fight its last fight, to gnaw at its own leg to escape the trap and to maul at anything set in its path).

None of the equipment, or the boards, or the chatter of gamemasters, the scents of their rich food wafting over until it reached even María's nostrils and made her sick, the hollowing pit of her stomach when she'd refused to eat a few days just to be defiant curling and coiling and twisting on itself every time she heard the sound of fish meat giving or pig skin sliding off its back.

Just them, just the Victors.

In a dark grey, blue-ish room full of bright, white lights.

Patrick stands, prim and proper, somewhere miles away from María. She doesn't connect with what she looks like, how her hands feel, but she sees the others. And she sees the distance, she sees the vague silhouette of a gentleman, backlit to cover his face with shadows.

Glass upon glass upon glass between him and the others.

Devora, Devora appears in a similar manner. Terrifying, and somewhat clearer, closer, but even though no shadow blocks her face, her features are hardened like a stone mask, and María can't read them any better than Patrick's.

She starts pulling at a string coming lose where her dress tightens around her waist. Capitol garments are the finest among the finest, imported directly from... from her...

Home.

María's gaze flickers up. It stills on the smile on his face and one of the glass walls sizzles away. Irrationally enough, the answer displeases her. And pleases her to lengths she can't hope to begin to describe. She's glad. Someone important is someone who can keep you alive.

A sense of responsibility towards another, towards their feelings, is perhaps the most violently effective reason to stick around.

That, and María's sense of... cowardice? Or the metaphorical stomping of her foot on the ground, petulant and loud and wailing like a child who doesn't understand how to express her hurt and lashes out?

Her frown deepens a little at the choice of words.

"You sound like you're talking about... a kid or a pet," she honest to fucking god hopes it's not the former. She'd assumed it was a woman. The way of the world, always assume it's... that kind of love. She can't tell if it's because her parents valued it like no other form of love or because of the stories they teach young girls, about how little else matters.

Funny thing to teach kids still, when at least one girl will get brutally killed each year.

Or be forced to brutally kill.

She thinks of Victors' personas, thinks of herself, thinks of Devora.

She scoffs, her head turns away like she can't move it far away enough. Out of her peripheral, out of her entire vision, half intended to pretend she can't still feel him nearby, hyper-vigilante as they all are.

Now she wishes for some extra walls of glass.

Why does he get to ask- why does he have the guts, and she doesn't?

"Only parents who blame me for winning," she twists the string around her forefinger and pulls until it threatens to slice into her skin, and snaps. Fine garments. María is just particularly good at destroying fine things.

No, that's not quite right, though, is it? They don't blame you for winning. They beg you to stop acting like you lost.

"They want me to go home and be grateful. They want me to be grateful," she takes a deep breath, fills her lungs until she wants them to burst, and exhales in one sharp breath.

"Nothing to look forward to about that. I imagine... Sun doesn't ask that of you, hm," she glances and turns her body to face him. "I don't want to... keep having to figure out how to make it easier. I want it to stop," her features contort, a grimace dragged and yanked at by helplessness, by the visual representation of screaming into the dark to have somebody, anybody hear her. "That makes sense! It makes fucking sense, who the fuck... I don't get it, I don't get you, with your... correct answers and correct way of appearing and correct way to act and... how you don't burst."

#mythvoiced #mythvoiced ( maría. )#the victor ( verse three. )#interactions ( verse three — with the promise of a better world. )#not inherent but learned ( interactions. )#little does he realize....maría's passions include ✨revolution✨#FJKLSDJFLSDKJ aka more reasons he says she CANNOT meet hyuk :3 #in trying to get her to adapt i feel like patrick unintentionally....helped her become even MORE OF A MENACE :'D #but also i don't know if she should be offended....that he compared her to his cat :'D #THIS IS ALL TO SAY THO!!#especially if he sees a bit of sun in her...it means he has protect(tm) instincts for her :'3

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clemencetaught · 1 month

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maría. → Mentoring never gets any easier with time. Anyone who says otherwise is either lying or they clearly have never been a mentor, let alone a tribute for the Capitol’s barbaric games. But this time around is…well, it’s worse. And it must be especially so for María, who is still fresh out of that hellhole herself.

Bad enough that she’s the sole victor of ‘sound mind’ from District Eight.

Even worse that her first time mentoring has to be for the Third Quarter Quell.

Worst of all, her mentees are two children. Twelve year olds freshly placed into the selection, only to be plucked for the reaping.

All the tributes are this time around. It’s no wonder she’s a trembling mess, a wolf with sharp fangs and no prey or predator to sink its teeth into. Only a fool would think feral wolves can keep still and docile at the convenience of others.

“You don’t have to drink it right now. Some people prefer their tea warm,” Patrick assures her, dislodging the paper cup from her fingers before he takes a seat on the coffee table. It’s not exactly gentlemanly behavior, but the cameras, aside from the ones Snow uses to keep surveillance, aren’t on them.

And even if the cameras were viewing them live, Patrick doesn’t mind cutting a corner or two. Once a troublemaker always a troublemaker. He leans forward, peering up at her. “You haven’t forgotten anything; both of your tributes are okay. They both have found good spots to rest for the night.” He shows her both of his hands, makes sure she can see both of them before he places one on the back of her shoulder. “Take a deep breath, alright?”

Only when the tremors stops does he remove his hand. But he doesn’t move from his spot on the coffee table either– scandalous, he imagines dispatch would say, crowding against a young girl, the freshest meat of them all, when there is all the space left in the room to occupy.

One might think the arena made grown-ups out of the carcasses of the children who survived, but here María somehow looks…well, younger isn’t the right word. Vulnerable, like a child begging to be reassured that the world out there isn’t so dark. He snorts, albeit kindly. “Believe it or not, I do have the same responsibilities as a mentor like you. Just because I’m considered an aide to Snow, doesn’t mean I can shirk those duties.”

The corner of his eyelids crinkle. Why? It’s not like her questions will change anything in the long run. He’ll still have clients to entertain and the children will still be in this slaughtering the Capitol considers a game. He pats her hand. “I’ll be alright. The tributes seem to have settled down so the fanfare tonight should be a bit…tamer in the comparison to yesterday. If you want to take a walk before you turn in, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about any run-ins. I can walk you to your room too, if you would like.”

Her hands are shaking. That's why she's curled them so tightly into fists, shoved them between her thighs as though trying to keep them warm, squeezed tightly together in the hopes it might kill, still her nerves. All signs of weaknesses have ever granted her are further agitation. She'd rather choke on her own fingers, shove them down her own throat, than show anyone even a sliver of it.

But Patrick isn't just anyone, is he? And if there's one thing she can sacrifice hiding the tremor for, it's making sure he doesn't need to care any more than he already does.

So, her fingers shake as they wrap around the cup handed to her, and her leg bounces with the fury of a thousand civilians scrambling away from a falling bomb and a soon-to-be impact zone.

"Can't," she offers simply, inhaling, exhaling through her nose, a full body sagging as the warmth of the tea creeps into her fingers and grants her something else to focus on.

"I... I can't. Can't shut up-," stop, stop, okay, no need, bite down, swallow, good girl. Be quiet. Keep it all inside. Her parents most-instilled wisdom. "I feel like... I'm- I constantly feel like I'm forgetting something or I should be doing something, I-"

She feels nauseous at the mere idea of bringing the tea close to her lips and holds it in her lap instead. At least she isn't dolled up today. Silver-lining and all.

Her gaze flickers up. He's too kind, it's a thought that strikes her over and over and over again. Ever since the first time she'd met him, only that at the time, the thought had come along with growls and hisses. No way could that be genuine. No way could he care. No way.

"You shouldn't be here," she mutters, and leans forward suddenly with the surge of the need to clarify. "You should be getting some rest yourself, I mean. You- This must be exhausting to you, you've got-..."

The pause feels more like an interruption than anything else.

"Have you been resting? Like, at all? I don't..." she tilts her head, an unconscious gesture, suddenly a child again. "I've never asked... how you're doing."

#mythvoiced #mythvoiced ( maría. )#interactions ( verse three — with the promise of a better world. )#not inherent but learned ( interactions. )#not me...realizing in that fact the first time #maría mentors would be the quarter quell...OUR VERSION of the quarter quell #which makes all of this like 2384902384 times WORSE >.<#...it's no wonder she's not doing great #and honestly patrick isn't either ://#YOU KNOW IT'S THE USUAL HERE :'DDD #just two victors...suffering(tm)#JFLKSDJFSD I'M SORRY BUT THANK YOU ONCE MORE FOR UR SACRIFICE :3333 #....it will not be in vain for either you or maría my child <3 <3 <3

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clemencetaught · 1 month

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"Here," it's... it's just bread. It's a bun, sure large enough to still some amount of hunger, but it's just bread. And yet, María holds it in front of Patrick with the face of someone who'd consider it a criminal offense to refuse it. Nevermind that she's stolen it from one of the banquets. "Just making sure you're eating." ((RUH-ROH it's Len again~ and I promise I forgot about the Peeta bread thing until I re-read this IGNORE THAT--!! FDKLGJDLAJSGF Hope you didn't end up getting sick BUT IF YOU DID HOPE YOU'RE RESTING AND FEELING BETTER SOON 🥺)) || okay but panem is also known as the nation of bread & circuses– ( unprompted w/ @mythvoiced )

He doesn’t eat much in the Capitol.

Which is ironic, seeing how most of his life before the games, Patrick was always hungry. Always trying between schooling and factory shifts to figure out when his next meal was going to come. Why else would he and Hyuk have taken out tesserae all those years ago? It was preferable, playing the odds in the Reaping to starving for the rest of the year.

Nowadays, food is the least of his concerns. Whereas there is still a dearth in District Three, there is surplus in the Capitol. No surplus isn’t the right word; a surplus would mean the Capitol keeps the extra for the future. No, there is an excess of food in the Capitol, an excess that is dumped and left to rot after the pigs have had their share, have had their fun.

When he remembers that, food in the Capitol, no matter how finely it’s been prepared, becomes disgusting. Repulsive when it is combined with the thought of the districts, his people, still starving and fighting one another for the Capitol’s ‘scraps’. One plate is enough for Patrick to feel the bile swish in his stomach and even crawl back up his throat– how is he supposed to enjoy this filth now?

(But of course the Capitol has a way of perverting everything. Who else would have invented a liquid that makes one vomit what was just digested to make room for more food?)

“You didn’t have to,” is the first set of words to come out of his mouth, however. It’s such a childish gesture on her part; as a victor, she and her family should have more than enough riches to cover for food whether she’s in the Capitol or her own district. That and it’s considered normal to take leftovers from these banquets.

And yet, she’s staring him down like they are in covenance– it’s odd…strange how the things the Capitol deem sacred, she’ll approach with the irreverence of a foreigner and yet with the most mundane of objects, like a loaf of bread, most likely one of the hundred baked today and will be replicated tomorrow, like it is worth the weight of gold. He takes a hold of María’s loot. The loaf is still warm, freshly out of the oven, he wants to believe. Like it came from one of the bakeries in say, District 12, rather than a Capitol banquet table. Does she look at the Capitol and its elaborate feasts the same way? District Eight is probably just as bad if not even worse than his own district when it comes to food shortages so maybe her thievery makes sense.

When one has gone without food for long enough, no amount of surplus is enough to satiate the insecurity. He knows that feeling all too well. His stomach growls in anticipation. “…Normally, the Capitol likes to have this with caviar.” A delicacy from District Four along with butter shipped from District Ten. He splits the loaf in two, the inside crackling and breaking into two crisp pieces. “But I think…I think it tastes just as delicious on its own.” He hands María one half while taking a bite out of the other. “Take the other half; I can’t finish it on my own.”

It tastes delicious.

#vomit cw #not that he actually does but there is mention of it #mythvoiced #mythvoiced ( maría. )#anger said her real name was grief ( maría. )#the victor ( verse three. )#the victor ( answered. )#AND HERE I AM NOW IN THE DEPRESSO VERSE :'DDDD #not me SOBBING first over the reference to the bread.... :'D pe*eta is my darling nobody does it like him </3 #hahaha not me with this hc that...#probably the victors in the outlier districts have complicated relationships with food #just bc a lot of them probably?? suffered from food insecurity??#and then you go to the capitol and suddenly there's an abundance.....#at the price of the districts starving... :///#that's gotta trigger some complicated reactions in the victors especially #so in patrick's case #it's not just that he's not hungry but that seeing the excess is...repulsive to him in most cases #(aka more trauma that since he doesn't actually acknowledge ends up manifesting physically....)#BUT FOR MARÍA!!!! HE WOULD EAT FOR HER :'D HE WOULD SHARE WITH HER TOO BC THAT'S WHAT HE DOES WHEN HE GOT FOOD BACK THEN #he'd share with his loved ones :'D #THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS ASK IT WAS VERY STIMULATING TO ANSWER :DDDD (the others are on their way too <3 )#ALSO THANK FOR UR WELL WISHES....i am feeling much better now <3 #a question of justice ( answered. )

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clemencetaught · 1 month

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devora. → YEARS FROM NOW, the Capitol will sing praise to his name– here was a young man from downtrodden District Three, who volunteered for the Hunger Games, eager to prove himself to his great nation. Here, this young man conquered the Games and proved his worth through his cunning and now silver tongue and would only go on to achieve greater feats for Panem to remember.

Little do they know, little do they realize desperation can be mistaken for eagerness, just as the base instinct known as survival can be passed off as bloodthirst. That and of course the cameras wouldn’t focus on the one whose place he took in the games.

Not that he thinks Devora, the newest Victor to join the ranks, would understand that. Bloodthrist doesn’t run through her veins the way it did in Remos, thankfully, but the combativeness did. For Patrick, winning the games was a miracle, an unexpected feat. For her, it was an obligation, a duty to be seen through even in death. Of course, you wouldn’t be able to tell that just from looking at either of them and he’s just thankful that since she’s left the arena, beyond the cameras, she’s…normal enough. She’s not necessarily looking for more reasons to showcase her prowess and she seems mentally stable too– perhaps that comes with the soldier mindset District One apparently instills in their tributes. She knew what to expect coming in.

“I suppose it would get dull, if you’ve watched all the other games before. But I doubt the Capitol saw your games as a bore. People appreciate a classic.” For entertainment purposes, he won’t add. But again, now’s not the time and place to admit to that. He gives a practiced snort. “Depends on what you consider to be interesting. If you consider partying and smooching off of the Capitol citizens’ money to be interesting, I’m sure there are plenty of suitors who can provide that for you.” But that the bar seems low for a victor of her stature; she doesn’t seem like the kind of victor to rest on her laurels, most likely. He isn’t either, the continuous partying not quite to his preferences either. He’s just thankful for the access to the libraries he was gifted now. “What do you want to do now? I’m sure for a victor of your prestige, the world’s your oyster.”

"Yeah." Deva speaks with her signature smirk at the corner of her lips. The type of smiles that are always half meant, half nonchalant. The other side, he says. It's good to see him, a familiar face. One could believe the contrary due to her classical lack of facial expressions, lack of obvious emotions but it is all the contrary - Patrick and her shared many conversations back to the Academy whenever he was invited to promote his experience as the latest victor, the star of the moment - she appreciates him. The inhability to fully smile only comes from her usual ways, she hopes he knows. The District one prodigee has been on this other side since her victory : the flashing lights, the cameras, the press conferences, the photoshoots. Deva considers herself a solder, a fighter, trained to kill and to die who instead has always been living like a pampered celebrity, perhaps she naively was hoping it would change. There now are doubts behind her cocky confidence, doubts that after accomplishing what she has lived the past 16 years for came as an empty box. "Didn't you get bored watching all that? Some called it the most impressive combo kill since the 30th games unstable kid who killed himself the day after he won. Others say my game was so predictible they made a shit ton of cash putting my face on water bottles." Her mentor, a former District one victoress who was a brilliant fighter too yet heavily specilized in kissing ass on TV keeps telling Deva : lose the attitude, keep a smile on and for God's sake stop talking like a man. Patrick and her are opposites : It all has been different for him in the arena, his game, his victory were completely unexpected, the type of success story nobody would suspect they would get. Deva admired him for that, something he probably didn't know. For Patrick, it was Survival, Proving the world wrong, giving the 4th district something to be proud of. For Deva, well, the hunger games weren't so meaningful anymore, were they? it wasn't a lesson of hope for the oppressed but another one of District One's demonstrations of power, the sadistic show of a rich girl in expensive armor killing the poor kids. "So when is it happening, when is this life on the other side gets any interesting? Are you there yet?"

#devangelis #the victor ( verse three. )#not inherent but learned ( interactions. )#interactions ( verse three — a piece in the system. )#haha mom and dad when they were younger.... </3 #patrick's just relieved here that deva is like...normal #perfectly reasonable outside of the arena :'D

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clemencetaught · 1 month

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AND THIS IS!! FOR VERSE THREE:

🔥 What kind of pieces has he done through wood carving? Does he keep these pieces as personal items or gives them away to other people? 🔥 What are his favorite books to read? Has he retrieved any kind of information from books as to use them for his skills or any situation he's faced? 🔥 What are his favorite scents when it comes to bath salts? 🔥 Does he have a pocket knife he always uses or that's always with him? If so, is it personalized in some kind of way; maybe added marks or something to it? 🔥Is there a situation you'd like to write out in this verse but haven't? 👀

Also feel free to skip any questions here IUWHEDWHD; HOPE YOU'RE DOING WELL, TAKE MUCH CARE, MY DEAR FRIEND!!

now the victor is on the hot seat ( nosy questions for the birthday enby w/ @jeoseungsaja )

HI ALEX!!! here i am again with more of your WONDERFUL QUESTIONS :DDD thank you again for these; i will try to answer them all to the best of my ability <3

🔥 What kind of pieces has he done through wood carving? Does he keep these pieces as personal items or gives them away to other people?

okie so i was actually going to recon this headcanon ( there are a few things i want to revise for this verse especially with what i know about hyuk now here 👀) into more like, yes he does do wood carving, but it’s not really the artistic kind ^^’ i’d say it’s more like, you know how some people will pick up a random stick and just start shaving away at it until there’s nothing left? Yeah that’s the kind of carving patrick does….i wouldn’t be surprised if when he and hyuk are at the beach, that’s typically how patrick passes the time– he finds a random piece of driftwood and just idly shaves away at it while listening to the waves and enjoying hyuk’s company <3

🔥 What are his favorite books to read? Has he retrieved any kind of information from books as to use them for his skills or any situation he's faced?

In this verse, he hardly reads fiction, mostly because i’m assuming that the books published in panem are probably pro-capitol. Books from before that (think of say, pride and prejudice, etc.) are probably found in the capitol, but you won’t be seeing anyone in the districts getting their hands on these legally at least–). So i could see patrick being more interested in reading say, history books? Anything related to history even though he knows that most accounts are, again, pro-capitol…this probably also ties into his capitol public persona as an academic, where he’s considered a ‘historian’ regarding panemian history….of course this’ll come back to bite the capitol in the ass 🙂

( on a note of after the second revolution, i could see patrick like, writing just one book on a comprehensive history of panem, one that cover both the districts and the capitol and it’s complete with interviews and primary and secondary sources….he had that published and then fucked off into obscurity aka he wanted no cameras on him ever again. he probably also played a role also in setting up a national university for both the district and the capitol students…although he would stick to teaching history in solely district three for the rest of his life <3 )

He will also read about science books and about the other districts/the capitol. The latter, he uses to kinda?? Get a better sense of the places he’s either stuck in or could be visiting, while the former, you could say it’s a paranoia thing just in case he’s ever thrown back into the games for a second time– this being said, i do think before he reaped, since he and hyuk did sneak out to the one beach at the edge of district three, he did do some reading about marine life and forest survival…whether that information actually did help him out though, who can say 🥲

🔥 What are his favorite scents when it comes to bath salts?

Probably nothing too fancy, but he definitely would hate anything that was too…sweet-smelling, like roses or vanilla. I could see him liking more of the refreshing scents kinda like, eucalyptus, peppermint or tea tree. Considering that often he take a bath after meeting with snow’s ‘clients’, i think he prefers sharp smells as the scent would ground him to the present moment. Keep his thoughts from spiraling too far.

🔥 Does he have a pocket knife he always uses or that's always with him? If so, is it personalized in some kind of way; maybe added marks or something to it?

i could definitely see him having one although it wouldn’t be anything fancy. I could see his favorite being say, something you’d find in the black market, something secondhand from district three. Mind you, he probably did get a fancy pocket knife here and there from snow’s ‘clients’, but i don’t see him keeping them…most likely he would’ve given them away or simply just thrown them out.

as for his usual one, the personalization is probably something very simple, like a carving of his initials into the handle. Just in case it gets lost ( although i don’t see that happening ever since well…never assume a dog no matter how sweet doesn’t know how to bite 🙃)

🔥Is there a situation you'd like to write out in this verse but haven't? 👀

Ahhhhh my favorite question on this list, alex i’m afraid you’ve opened pandora’s box here JFKLSDJFLK :3

But honestly? I think the connections that he has for this verse already do a wonderful job with fulfilling all the hypothetical situations i’d write him into ( and if there is more…well i do know who to ask ;D ) that being said…

i would be interested in writing patrick in the initial aftermath of felicity’s passing OR in a case where hyuk is say, kidnapped by the capitol (aka there’s no guarantee that he’s alive or dead) ? of course that would be super depressing so it’s not like we would have to go all in depth, but at least i would like to see a patrick that is perhaps temporarily unhinged as that’s not a side that comes out often and i have yet to see what that would look like in action. in the case of hyuk being ‘missing’ since hyuk here is patrick’s rock, take hyuk away and any stability that patrick is known for showing would probably just…crumble. like yeah, he’ll act he’s perfectly fine and composed but he’d also be consistently two steps away from a breakdown…probably would need to be sedated at some points in time to calm down :’(

if we’re talking about hyurick tho, this is going to be so vague, but i wanna write it all with you :D firstly bc hyurick has my whole heart and brain space BUT also i am genuinely curious to see how they interact in this depresso verse!! whereas in the black knight verse, they are on the same side and do agree on what the right thing is to do even if they throw barbs at each other :’DDD; here, however, just based on what you’ve told me about hyuk so far, patrick and hyuk each have very different ideologies/ways of being in this society. So i am curious to see how they navigate their friendship/relationship despite disagreeing on this very fundamental level…and also seeing how they might accidentally screw each other over in the process too ( aka hyuk tries to start rebellion things and patrick tries to sabotage said plan bc that’s gonna get hyuk killed 😣).

that and the reunion kiss we talked about 👀i need a play-by-play walkthrough of that PLS 🥺🥺🥺

#a question of justice ( answered. )#the victor ( answered. )#the victor ( verse three. )#the victor ( headcanons. )#the color of mercy is green ( meta. )#jeoseungsaja #AND HERE I AM AGAIN A MONTH LATER ALEX :'DDDD #to answer more of ur wonderful questions....even tho this is a depresso verse :'D #lmao not me going a tad overboard with the last question....that is a dangerous one to ask #but this is all to say MY BRAIN!!!!#always has hyurick in mind </3 #even if in this verse their relationship could potentially be a tad more dramatic....#bc one wants to fight for what's right #and the other is fighting for self-preservation :'D #just think about it...the spice...the ✨ drama ✨ JFKLSDJFLKSJ #but also absolutely no pressure to fulfill my wishlist here...i know it is v depresso #i would have to be in the right mindset to do it :'D #hahahaha maybe post felicity's death tho...that's when hyurick starts sharing the same bed again 👀👀👀#okay but NEVER MIND ME THANK YOU AGAIN FOR THESE Qs #I had a lot of fun answering them <3 #pls have a wonderful day in the meanwhile and CARE YOU LOTS MY DEAR FRIEND <3 <3 <3

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