I am a 19 year old scottish girl who is just writing fanfics when I feel like it! I am currently in university studying marine biology.
I also edit a lot more than I write- on instagram and tiktok (zve.aep)
I am a Gryffinclaw and daughter of poseidon.
Fandoms I'm in (it's a lot)
Marvel, Hunger games, the long walk, Peacemaker, asoiaf, Arcane, Squid game, Alice in Borderland, TLOU, Percy Jackson, Gorillaz, iwtv and more.
Characters I will write for atm:
Marvel
Bucky Barnes
Natasha Romanoff
John Walker
DC
Adrian Chase
TLW
Billy Stebbins
IWTV
Armand
(Platonic only) Claudia
Requests open atm but I cannot guarntee I will get to them all.
Request rules-
no smut as i am not comfortable writing that
no illegal age gap, pedophilia, incest etc. basically don’t be a creep
I’ve finally started working on chapter 4 of the rabbit tribute! I hope people are still interested lol life kind of caught up a bit and I had to delay the chapter for ages! I will post a small snippet tomorrow!
Hi!!, I just want to say first I love your writing so much your work is amazing. I just finished reading the first three chapters of the rabbit tribute and I love the story already but I was curious if you were still working on the fanfic?
Thank you so much for the love! I do plan on finishing it I just hit some writers block and then a lot of personal stuff came up but I’m about to go into my spring break so I’ll continue writing then :)
This is an edit of one of my fav fanfics atm “don’t kiss and tell” by @harringtonsdiary!! I’m so excited for the last few chapters and I hope you like the edit 🫶🫶🫶🫶
(Faceclaim of reader/hotshot is Emmy Rossum as Fiona Gallagher)
Jake Sully is slowly—and painfully—coming to terms that he's fallen out of love for Neytiri during a midlife crisis. His new point of devotion? Kiri's best friend, you.
Tags- SMUT, angst, breeding kink, Pervy old Jake Sully (no… fr), cheating, Divorced dad with a concerning age gap girlfriend core!, age gap, power imbalance, unreliable narrator, choking, belly-bulge
A/N- Remember when I said I was limiting myself to 10k at most… yeah I don’t even know why I bother! I always go past it! That being said, its been awhile since I wrote something that actually made me feel kinda grossed out (In a good way???). It became more of a character study on Jake Sully with smut tied to it. I was gonna make this some hot sexy haha DILF jake, instead its a lot more uh… angsty then I originally was gonna make it. Still, enjoy! (RIP Neytiri I cried making your scenes).
Jake Sully loved his wife.
Once upon a time he'd trace the silvery marks stretched across her belly—Neteyam's, Lo'ak's, little Tuk's—Every stripe, every scar. Neytiri had given him everything: children, purpose, a second life stitched from the echos of his first—and he loved her for it.
God knows he did—loved the tilt of her smile, the way her eyes caught amber. Loved her even when she hissed at him, because the fury only made her more beautiful.
Loved.
When had it slipped into the past tense?
"You said you could protect this family."
His heart had stopped. Right there, that moment—was that the final nail? Or was it when Neteyam had died? Was it when he'd dragged them all from the forest to this reef that would never be Neytiri's home? Maybe he'd been building the coffin for years, failure after failure. Peeling bark, sanding frames, measuring their marriage with rulers that kept coming up short.
“I was wrong.”
It came so quietly her ears pricked forward, straining to catch it. His gaze left hers—couldn't hold it, not anymore—and settled somewhere past her shoulder, on nothing.
He was wrong about protecting them, her and pandora—himself. He wasn’t strong, and he wasn’t the fortress they needed. He was just an alien playing soldier, tracing fatherhood and pretending protector.
Playing.
"Jake—" She reached for him with her good hand, fingers stretching across the space between them, but he was already rising. His knees popped. Everything hurt these days.
"M' gonna sleep in the community huts," he muttered, rolling up his mat.
Neytiri went still. Hurt flickered across her features. "...Jake."
But pride locked her jaw. She wouldn't apologize, and he didn't expect her to. What would she apologize for? For being right? For knowing—long before he did—that he couldn't keep them safe?
He killed their baby boy. He did. Not her.
His eyes burned. He shook his head, blinking hard, and folded the mat against his arm. "Look, we're both—" The words seemed heavy. He swallowed. "We're both tired. Maybe sleeping apart'll do us good, yeah?"
He scratched behind his ear, a nervous habit from his first life. "I'll uh—I'll be over there."
And he walked off, and she watched.
.
.
.
The commune space was nicer than he'd expected—and emptier than he probably wanted. Because if there were bodies in the dark, or a distant snore, he could make up scenarios then, stories.
A husband exiled by his wife. Exhausted parents fleeing noisy children for one fucking night of peace. Maybe a couple who hide their love in this place of rest.
Small frictions to explain why he was here instead of home.
Jake shifted against his hammock. The entrance flapped open.
Then a figure stepped through, hammock bundled under one arm. You crossed to the hooks with practiced ease, smoothing the fabric flat. Bioluminescent freckles traced constellation-paths across your skin, mapping the shape of you in the dark.
You. Y/n.
He knew you from the periphery—always near Kiri, heads bent talking and giggling about god-knows-what. The two of you were a mystery to him, honestly. But why would a kid like you be sleeping here, in the communal space instead of home?
Jake sat up slowly. You startled, eyes flaring wide before finding his in the dark.
Confusion first. Then something gentler.
A smile.
"JakeSulli...?" Your gaze swept the empty hall. "What are you doing here?" You lowered yourself onto your hammock, right across from him.
Jake couldn’t quite manage a smile, not yet at least. He settled for a tug of his lips instead and hoped you didn’t find it impolite.
"Was gonna ask you the same thing." His eyes drifted past your shoulder to the scatter of belongings you'd brought: woven basket sagging with fruit, a bundle of shell ornaments wrapped in cloth. Personal items you’d bring when you weren’t planning on going back. "You get in a fight with your old man?"
You followed his look. Your ears flattened against your skull, He knew it immediately. He fucked up.
"I..." The pause stretched. "I don't have parents, JakeSulli. They died defending the tulkun. Hunters killed them both, long ago."
Shit.
Jake’s breath hissed between his teeth. "Agh—fuck. Sorry, kid. I didn't—" He bit the inside of his cheek. Can't do a damn thing right.
"You don't have to apologize." The sweetness in your voice nearly killed him. When was the last time someone spoke to him like that? Long, he thinks. Neytiri used to sound like that, before the sky-people came back and took everything.
"Really," you continued, and your smile returned into something careful. "It happened a long time ago, I thought you knew?"
He shook his head, and his smile was sheepish. "I guess I should've, huh."His gaze drifted past you, towards the far ends where someone slept. "You hang out with Kiri so often…" The words trailed off. He scrubbed a hand across his jaw. "Makes me a bad best friend's dad."
You frowned then, just before you could stop it—childish for a girl who’s reached her second birth, you knew. But it came so naturally, just as your arms folded into each other. "We're fighting right now."
He laughed until his gaze drifted sideways and the sound died in his throat. “Fighting?” He exhaled through his nose. Kiri would kill me for prodding around her business.
He shouldn’t ask. He asked anyway.
“About what?”
You picked at the thread of your sleeping mat, nose scrunching. The gesture made you look younger than you were. "She's always with that pinkskin now. I want to go to the reef—we can't. Why? Because he can't go." You rolled your lips thinly. "I've become second to her."
Something shifted in Jake's expression. Softened. A problem this simple—this normal—felt like a gift. He wished all his troubles could shrink to fit inside a young womans wounded pride.
Jake's mouth twitched.
He wished—
No. Don't.
He rose carefully and crossed to where you sat.
Be a dad, Jake. You can do this. At least with this one you don't have any problems. He settled beside you on the mat, hesitating until you glanced up and shifted to make room.
In the low light he could see the tattoo clearly now—the dark line that curved from your left brow along the edge of your jaw. And the other one too, sprawling across your shoulder, far too elaborate to have been completed in one sitting.
"I can't really speak for Kiri, you know how she is, hell you probably know her better than me." He paused. "But… she cares about you. Course’ she does." His hand hovered before settling on your shoulder—an awkward touch. "She just hasn't seen him for a long time, not since he was kidnapped."
Your frown deepened. For a moment he thought he'd mistepped—said exactly the wrong thing. But then you looked up at him, and your eyes were wide, the clearest green he'd ever seen.
"Really…?" You sighed, gaze dropping to your lap. "Now I feel like a jerk."
"No reason to think that. Talk to her, Y/n. Kiri'll understand."
You nod. Silence settled between you—surpsingly not awkward.
"If you don't mind me asking…" You tilt your head, studying the older man through lowered lashes. "Why are you here?" Your teeth catch briefly on your lower lip.
His shoulders lock. For a moment you think he might deflect, but then his breath left him. A surrender. "Neytiri and I got into a fight. And like a coward, I ran away." The last word tasted bitter. Again.
He expects an uncomfortable frown, maybe a shy and pitiful apology, but instead you laugh. Warmth threads through it, and he knows then it's genuine.
He blinked. “What?”
One shoulder lifts in a shrug. "I think it's funny you called yourself a coward." Your head tilted, considering him. "Most men run from their wives after an argument. I've slept here most days for years. Seen many men come after fights." Your tail taps a steady rhythm against the hammock's weave. "Even Olo'eyktan Tonowari has. So why wouldn’t you too, JakeSulli? There is no shame in it."
He scoffed, shook his head, then lets his own laugh come out. "Right. Makes sense, I guess." Some knot in his chest loosened, he smiled now, an actual one.
When he look back at you he noticed the slight wag of your tail, the attentive look you gave him, ears perked forward. All open and sweet.
His eyes traced your tattoos again, then traced over your body—naturally.
The Metkayina women carried themselves differently than the ones of the Omatikaya—broader hips, fuller chests. Something closer to the girls he knew back on Earth.
And you're no different. Pretty in that soft way, such a sweet thing.
His smile faltered.
What are you doing, Jake?
"Well, I should…" He jerked his chin toward his hammock, standing too quickly, movements suddenly awkward. I’m a fucking creep.
You glance at his vacant hammock and your ears dip. You felt the shift immediately. "Oh… okay." The word came out small.
His chest tightened. Now look at what you did. Fuck. Fuck. Something about that disappointment sunk into his chest. "Do you… uh—do you usually sleep here?"
A nod. "Usually. If not here, then by the rocks."
Jake gave a slow nod. His eyes drifted—hammock, then you, then hammock again. He should go. He really, really should.
But his hand found your shoulder instead. A single pat. His smile came crooked, almost apologetic. "You can talk to me. Whenever you want. If you want."
Just a grain of opportunity. Innocent.
The kind of thing a father might offer—though you clearly hadn't known much of that. Just an introduction to what that word could mean.
That's all.
Your tail moved first—that paddle-wide thing thumping soft against the netting. Then came the smile, small and shy, tucking itself into the corner of your mouth. "Ok."
Jake peeled himself away and returned to his hammock, sliding in and feeling it strain. “You’re larger than most, Jake.” Neytiri once giggled. “I had to reinforce the straps twice. Stop eating so much!”
His arm folded beneath his head, and for a while he studied the ceiling—woven twine packed tight enough to hold the rain. Then the strings. The knots. The way they swung, twisting audibly.
Then, inevitably, his gaze drifted back to you.
Your spine faced him, tail draped over the netting.
When Neteyam was still young—
No.
He was young. He died young.
Remember that, Jake?
Jake's throat tightened.
When Neteyam was a kid—because that distinction mattered—the boy's tail always hung beyond the net. Every night Jake would tuck it back in. Every morning it'd be dangling again, somehow through the gaps in the hammock or with a leg tossed overhead. The same sight: that small blue tail dangling into empty air.
The memory pulled something sharp through his chest. His hand went there.
"You have a strong heart."
Neytiri again.
He shoved them down, burned them into the back of his skull where they couldn't reach him.
Yeah right.
.
.
.
When morning came, you were already gone.
Your belongings too—mat rolled, beads tucked away, the space where you'd slept scrubbed clean of any evidence you'd existed there at all.
Jake didn't want to name the feeling that came with noticing. Disappointment sat wrong in his mouth, tasted like something he had no right to. So he swallowed it. Shoved it down where it could rot with everything else he refused to look at.
He pushed himself upright.
“Dad. Dad. Dad.”
The voice hit him before he'd steadied himself. His head snapped toward the entrance—Tuk, bouncing on the balls of her feet, a plate balanced in both hands. Behind her trailed the reef girl she befriended, both of them giggling
He couldn't remember her name for the life of him.
"Tuk?" Jake rubbed his face, managing a tired smile. "Whatcha doing here, baby girl?"
She clambered up beside him, small hands shoving the plate against his ribs. "Mom said to bring you a plate." Her finger jabbed at each item—fish, berries, some kind of root—Then, already turning: "I'm gonna play with Anuy now."
Anuy. Right. He could remember that.
"Hey, hey—wait up." His hand caught her tail mid-swish and tugged her back. Tuk's face crumpled into an exaggerated pout, shoulders drawing in.
"Whaaaaat."
"You aren't gonna say good morning?" He quirked a brow, let his smile soften. "What happened to my kisses, huh? You used to fight your momma just to get snuggle time."
She yanked her tail, but the shy smile won anyway. "I'm getting too old for that!" A glance at Anuy, who giggled. Her ears flattened.
Jake just grinned and pulled her in anyway, wrestling her close despite the squirming, and pressed exaggerated half-bites against her shoulder, her belly. Growling. "Then stop growing up! Come back! AGHHHH!"
Tuk shrieked with laughter, wriggling free like a fish. "Come on, Anuy!" She launched herself off the mat, Anuy's hand already caught in hers, their laughter spilling out in breathless squeals of monsters and run!
Jake let a few more chuckles die in his chest.
He stared after them.
Then down at the plate.
The food. Neytiri.
His thumb traced the edge of a berry. Simple food. But Neytiri had still taken the time. Still thought of him enough to do this small thing and send their daughter along his way.
“JakeSulli, are you still there?”
You stepped through the entrance just as Tuk and Anuy squealed past your legs. "Oh—Tuk, Anuy!" you scolded.
You shook your head, smiling to yourself, and crossed the space. You held another plate. When you looked up and saw the one already balanced on his lap, you laughed—already knowing.
"An apology meal?" One brow arched as you crouched beside him. Gently, you added more to his plate: Nuts this time. Different cuts of glossy fish, darker meat. "You should eat more."
Jake looked at it. The extra portions. The care in how you'd arranged them.
His stomach sat heavy and uninterested. He needed to train. Needed to be stronger, faster, better than he was yesterday. He wouldn't eat until he'd earned it—until his body had done something to justify the fuel. Eating felt like indulgence, and indulgence shouldn’t be rew—
He sighed.
You were looking. What the hell was he supposed to say to that?
"Thanks." He grabbed a fistful of berries—small, sweet things that burst between his teeth. His gaze drifted. Caught on you.
You wore something different.
Nicer, of course it’d be. Night was for soft loincloths and simple garments. Morning was for flowers that twisted over your breasts, petals cupping the curves, tied at your back in a way that said swimming or ceremony or maybe just because I wanted to. The arrangement shifted when you moved.
He jerked his eyes away.
Jesus.
He caught the barest hint of violet nipple.
His tail gave a single flick.
He shoveled more berries into his mouth, barely tasting them, just filling the space where his brain should be working. Come on idiot, chew. Swallow. Chew. Don’t look.
He didn't even know why he was reacting like this. Hell, he hadn't felt this caught since the first week with Neytiri—back when every glimpse of her had made his brain short-circuit. He'd gotten used to it. The female form. Normalized it. Wouldn't even register Ronal's chest or Neytiri's or anyone else's for that matter.
So why—
His gaze drifted back.
Violet peak against red flower petals.
"Do you like it?"
He choked. Actually choked. Berry pulp lodged somewhere in his throat and he coughed, fist to his mouth, eyes watering.
"Ugh—-what?" Heat crawled up his neck.
You glanced down, fingers grazing the petals with absent fondness. "I finished it two nights ago. Kiri helped me twist the stems—her fingers are better for the small work." A small shrug, easy and unaware and innocent.
You wouldn't know. Couldn't know what his idiot brain was doing.
“Mhm,” He mumbled. “Looks really nice.”
You swayed on the balls of your feet, weight shifting to the outside in that restless way you had, and his eyes tracked the movement before he could stop them. "Well,” You hid the barest hint of a shy smile. “I should get going, JakeSulli. I have some chores." You whispered.
"It's just Jake."
The words came out too fast. His ears flattened before he forced them forward again, he made himself meet your eyes. "My name. Uh... the Sully part's my last name. Family name."
You paused.
Color crept up your neck, into your cheeks—mortification blooming soft and purple beneath your freckles. "Really...? Oh! I thought—"
"Everyone does." He offered a crooked grin, something easier now. "I've told them all, but I think they just like JakeSulli better." A chuckle escaped him, he pushed the meal to the side.
Your smile unfurled slow, curling away from embarrassment. Then you laughed—this bright, bubbling sound that made something heavy in his chest go loose.
He liked that sound. A lot.
So I can still make people happy, huh.
"Okay, Jake." You tested it, nose wrinkling slightly. "It does sound off."
He chuckled low. "Yeah?"
You gave a nod. Something in you shifted. Your thumbs traced the wide sweeps of your palms—nervous, maybe, or just something to do with your hands. You glanced up. "It's... it's a nice day, Jake."
Your eyes drifted back outside, shoulders shifting in a way that opened space beside you. An invitation.
And Jake knew what bait looked like.
He'd seen it a hundred times—back when he had working legs and a bar habit, when women would lean just so, their shoulders angled. Something about—”You ever gone up to the hotel with the flames? Real nice, Sully.” Or that time with Neytiri in the tree of voices, dressed—
Jake blinked.
He resisted a smile and tilted his head instead, considering the sky like it was the first time he'd noticed it. "Yeah. It is."
He glanced back just in time to catch the pout forming on your lips. You stepped closer, and he had to work to keep his expression neutral, to swallow the grin threatening to break through.
"A good day for chores," you tried again. "I mean."
"Yep." He looked away, whistling something tuneless. "I agree."
Your smile collapsed. The defeat was immediate, written in the slump of your shoulders, the way your tail stilled mid-sway. "Would you like to help me with my chores, Jake." Flatter now.
He grinned then, couldn't help it. "You know what? That sounds like a lovely idea."
Your eyes rolled so hard he thought they might stick. You turned on your heel, already moving toward the doorway, and for a moment Jake moved to follow—
Until his gaze dropped to the plate.
He'd eaten everything you'd offered. Finished a berry or two that Neytiri had set aside. The People did not waste. It was one of the first rules he'd learned, drilled into him until it became reflex. And here he was, leaving half-finished food like some—
He looked back at you.
I really shouldn't. The thought came quiet, reasonable. I should apologize to Neytiri. Not hide.
But that was easier said than done.
"Jake!"
You poked your head back through the doorway, frowning. Then your gaze followed his to the plate. Understanding flickered across your face. "Eat it later." You gestured, impatient, that bright smile returning. "Now come. Before the Olo'eyktan scolds me." A pause. Your voice softened into a tease. "You wouldn't want that, would you…?"
He smiled.
Yeah, later.
"Nope."
.
.
.
"Get the one that's yellowing!" you called up.
Turns out your chores were simple. For any forest na'vi worth their weight at least—this was child's work. Climb. Cut. Catch. Repeat until the bags grew heavy and your shoulders ached in that good, tired way.
For Jake, crouched on a branch forty feet up, this was a piece of cake.
"We'll have to climb the papa mantis tree," you said, already moving toward the tallest trunk. Your fingers traced the bark ridged like armor plates, feeling it. "The sweet shell fruit grows at the top. High up. Where the branches thin."
Jake shifted the woven bag higher on his shoulder. "Sounds easy enough."
You shot him a look, starting with his feet and dragging your gaze up to his face, took your time with it too. "This is difficult for my people, Jake." A smile tugged at your mouth. "Which is why you'll help me."
And that's exactly what he was doing.
Minutes later he stood balanced on a high branch, thighs braced, one hand gripping the trunk while the other wielded a pun stick—a long shaft, wicked blade lashed to the end. He angled it toward a cluster of fruit, skin the color of honey, and sliced clean through the stem.
The fruit dropped. "There."
You darted forward, bag wide open, and caught the fruit as it tumbled. It landed with a satisfying thump against the others already gathered. You glanced up, shielding your eyes from the sun bleeding through leaves. "Is that enough?"
He leaned back, surveying the bag from his branch, sweat beading along his temple. "Hard to say from up here."
You hummed, counting silently. "I think the Keyta'an family wanted four as well. They have a new baby—have you seen her? They named her Tuphrap."
Your hands worked the bag, rearranging fruit so more would fit.
"She has the fattest cheeks. And could you believe it—Reyta's spirit sister gave birth to a beautiful calf the same day!" You looked up again, grinning. "It's a rare spiritual occurrence. The clan was so happy for them."
He grunted, reaching for another branch. "That right?" His face pinched as he stretched, blade finding itself on another stem.
"Yes! She’s so small too—I wanted…”
He wasn't listening. Not really. But he wasn't not listening either. He welcomed the distraction from sky-people, from his sons, from whatever marriage pains were between him and Neytiri.
"When'd she give birth anyway?" He nudged his weight onto a thicker limb, bark groaning softly under him. "Look out, another incoming."
You shuffled, adjusting the bag just in time to catch the falling fruit. Glancing up, you shielded your eyes from the sun. "When your family left.”
The words came out softer than you meant. You cleared your throat, eyes tracking the bag's contents instead of his face. "She came around midday, if I remember."
"Hm."
Another cut. Another fruit dropped and you caught it, but barely—it grazed the bag's edge and you had to lunge. When you straightened, he was watching you.
"And you want kids?"
Your hands stilled on the bag. Above, he glanced down, mouth quirking. "C’mon, why so shy?"
You shrugged one shoulder, then the other. Your hands twisted around the bag's straps until your knuckles ached. "I do." Quieter. "I think they're cute. But I shouldn't have children until the sky-people are gone."
His smile died.
You watched it happen—watched something older and sadder take its place.
"Don't say that." His was something urgent. "Don't let them take that from you too. You deserve a family."
"The People are my family."
"That's…That’s different, kid." He shook his head, eyes locked on yours. "You know that."
You opened your mouth. Words gathered somewhere behind your teeth that didn't make it past your lips before—
"Agh shit!"
The branch snapped clean through. Jake dropped several feet, slamming flat against his back with a grunt that punched all the air from his lungs. "Jake!" You abandoned the bag mid-reach and scrambled to his side, knees hitting dirt.
He groaned—One hand pressed flat against his spine like he could hold the hurt there, keep it from spreading, eyes unfocused and swimming with pain. "God fucking dammit." His gaze tracked upward to the offending branch, then dropped to you.
You were crouched above him now, fingers touching over his face, his temples, the back of his skull—checking for blood that wasn’t there before checking the base of his queue.
"Do you need me to get Neytiri?" The words tumbled out too fast. "Ronal? Tsireya? Your queue, did you land on it too harshly?"
"Nah, I'm…" He groaned, rolling onto one elbow. "I'm okay." Slow, he pushed himself upright. Jesus, when would a fall like that knock me on my ass? Getting too old…
You shifted back to give him room, but your eyes never left him—tracing the line of his shoulders, searching for some invisible fracture.
"I'm sorry," you murmured, voice small.
"For what?"
He dragged his palm across the back of his head, fingers probing his scalp for wetness. Found none. His ears swiveled toward you, and his brow furrowed at the guilt pooling in your expression.
You bit your lower lip. "I distracted you. You would've noticed that branch was weak if I hadn't—" The rest dissolved into an exhale, frustration aimed inward.
His face softened. He just smiled, lopsided and warm and clapped a broad hand against your back. "You're okay, baby girl." It came out so naturally to him that when you paused, only then did he curse under his breath. “Sorry—”
"No." You cut him off, quiet. Your gaze dropped to your hands, fingers twisting together. "It's okay. I..." Heat crawled up your neck. "I liked it."
You dropped your gaze, focusing instead on his hand where it rested against the ground. Even with the webbing your stafe had granted you, his palm dwarfed yours. You lifted it carefully, turning it palm-up. Splinters bristled from the heel of his thumb, angry red lines scored the meat below his knuckles where bark had bit deep as he'd tried to catch himself.
"We should see the Tsahik," you said quietly, thumb brushing the edge of a wound, only to trace his pinkie.
Jake's finger lay flat against your palm—a pale blue, blunt thing, hard at the pads where calluses were formed from years of fight. You traced the joints, counting five instead of four, feeling the hard bones shift beneath thin skin.
"Why is this one smaller?" Your thumb pressed the tip of his pinkie.
He laughed, a little rough. "Wish I knew. Failed biology back in high school."
Your hairless brow arched. He caught the question and waved it off. "Not important."
A few more seconds of inspection, and: "You don't think it's gross?" He asked.
You shook your head slowly. "When I first saw it, I thought it was strange." A pause. Your thumb traced the crease where finger met palm. "But I think it's kind of nice."
Nice. The word sat funny in his chest.
"I hate them... I hate their pink little hands! I hate the insanity in their mind!"
Your fingertip drifted lower, following the crease of his palm. Blue lines threaded beneath the surface "Does it hurt when I do this?" You pressed deeper.
Jake swallowed. You watched his throat.
"Nah."
Jake found himself leaning without meaning to.
"Look at me."
You did.
You didn't look surprised. Nervous, maybe. “Yes Jake?” Your pupils dilated just slightly, your breath catching somewhere between your ribs. But you kept your eyes on him, watched as he reached forward and took your chin between thumb and forefinger. He rubbed the skin there. Gentle. His head tilted, gaze dropping to your mouth.
"You had dirt," he grumbled.
He didn't know why he said it. Testing something, perhaps. To see if there was anything there—anything real beneath the wanting—that settling need, the want to reach and grasp and hold. Did he feel it?
Yeah. He felt it.
You retreated first. Looked away but didn't wipe your chin, didn't scrub the touch from your skin. Slowly, you stood and gathered the bag at your feet, hands moving on instinct. "T-There's a few other chores I need to do." Your voice steadied on the second sentence. "If... if you want to help."
Another invitation.
He rose. Watched your tail curl inward, the paddle tip wagging—just a little, just enough.
By god, he felt something.
.
.
.
The next few weeks were… strange. That's what it was—strange in the way things are strange when you already know its odd. Jake felt it. Christ, he knew you felt it too. Some tension that had no name, or maybe it had too many, and naming it would make it real. Make it something he'd have to deal with.
So he didn't.
But it sat there anyway. Right in front of him, thick as smoke and as visible as the damn sun in front of him.
He'd catch himself watching the way your tail swept the sand when you walked, the small curve of your mouth when Neytiri's back was turned.
You'd pass him extra portions at meals, fingers lingering just a fraction too long against his palm. You'd trail after him through camp, curious and restless, asking what he was fixing, what he was thinking, why humans did this or that.
"What are you doing?" you'd ask, crouched beside him while he played with his guns or mended a net.
"Weapon maintenance."
"Why?"
"Because the guns get jammed.”
A pause. Your head tilted. "Can I try?"
Even Kiri—who usually lived in her own head—noticed enough to roll her eyes and make retching noises.
"Weirdo," she'd mutter, though her smile said she found the whole thing amusing.
You'd scoff, tail flicking. "Oh, shut it. I think it's weirder you're into Spider—"
"Shut up!" She'd shove you, squealing, and you'd both dissolve into giggles that carried across the marui’s.
You played at indifference. Rolled your eyes. Acted like this was all some accident of proximity, like Jake just happened to be where you were, like you just happened to find him interesting.
Jake didn't call you on it.
Because—and here was the thing he wouldn't admit, not out loud—he loved it.
Hated that he loved it, though, but there it was—a spark of something he hadn't felt in years. That giddy, stupid thrill of being wanted. Like he was twenty again.
The kind that came before the comfort settled in, before you knew every expression your partner would make, every gift they'd give, every flaw they'd carry.
This was different. New and unpredictable.
Dangerous.
One afternoon you passed carrying a basket of clams for the elders—shells that would be cracked open for their soft meat that they could gum and suck out. You’d been wearing something with weighted beads at the ends of your leaf-skirt.
And Jake couldn't help himself. His hand shot out, fingers curling gently around the tip of your tail and tugged.
You yelped, spinning on him with wide eyes, then broke into laughter. Your hand came up, pressing flat against his stomach, and you patted him once.
"You are annoying," you hummed, voice soft and teasing.
And it was like that.
For weeks.
"Does it look nice, Jake?"
The top was vine-work, thin straps that cupped your breasts and spiraled outward in a pattern that imitated Kiri's necklace. Your loincloth hung low, shells clustered into a skirt that dipped at the hips, moved when you moved.
Kiri exhaled through her nose, arms folded. "She spent all of yesterday on that." The words came flat, but Jake caught the twitch at the corner of her mouth. "Come on, Y/n. It's very nice. We all know it."
"Yeah," Jake coughed into his fist. "Very nice."
You blushed, pleasure and embarrassment came together in a symphony. You caught Jake's eyes flicker, caught the way they snapped back up.
Your grin came easy. You tilted your head, pleased.
“Oh!" Your hands flew to your bag, rummaging through woven fibers and dried herbs until your fingers found it. "The flower!"
Golden petals unfolded in your palm, tendrils cascading like little tongues of sun. You held it up, almost shy now. "Can you help, Jake?”
Kiri's nose wrinkled. "I could do it, Y/n—and stop calling my dad Jake. Ugh, it makes me want to shrink back into myself."
Jake shot her a look, mouth tugging into something almost apologetic. "I said she could. You know I don't like being called JakeSulli. Makes me sound old and gruff." He was grabbing at some bomb-arrows, new ones for Neytiri… if she wanted them.
You stepped closer, flower outstretched, a smile tugging at your mouth. "An old and mighty warrior is the envy of all in our clan."
Something softened in his face. He smiled back—almost shy—and for a moment the war-chief disappeared, leaving only the man who'd once been a marine far from home.
Kiri groaned and grabbed Spider's wrist. "Come here, monkey boy." She dragged him toward the path, muttering something about propriety and how nobody listened to her anyway.
Spider stumbled after her, throwing you one last amused glance before they disappeared beyond the woven drape.
Their voices faded.
Just the two of you now.
He could see it, even now—the way your attention fixed on him.
You stepped closer. "The flower, Jake?"
His name came different from your mouth now that Spider and Kiri were gone. Sweeter. Shaped the way a woman shapes things. The way women say a man's name when they mean something else entirely. He knew the difference
He patted his thigh. Just fixing it up for her, he reasoned with the part of himself that knew better. Nothing bad in that.
You sat without hesitation, back to him, and even then your ears swiveled to catch anything he might say. Every small shift of his weight registered in the tilt of your spine.
"You know," he began, feeling the warmth of your figure beneath his palm. He fought the urge to let his hand settle lower, fought the urge to flex the muscle there. "You could've had Kiri tie it instead."
He brushed your hair over your shoulder and wound it around your neck, fingers grazing your bare nape. You shuddered. His mouth curved before he could stop it.
"I prefer the way you tie it," you said simply.
He hummed low in his chest. "There." A pat to your thigh. You rose, that small sound of delight escaping you.
"How's the completed look?"
He clicked his tongue. Grinned, boyish and lopsided and far too warm for what this was. "Good, baby girl. Really good."
You offered your hand. He took it, holding your gaze as you twirled, showing off the flower woven through your hair, the beads catching firelight. He kept his grip steady and let his eyes track the line of you: throat, collarbone, the sway of your hips.
"Ma Jake."
Your hands stilled mid-gesture.
The movement to step back was instinct—prey recognizing a predator's silhouette. By the time she ducked through the entrance, you were already performing innocence: adjusting beads, smoothing fabric, eyes wide and empty of guilt.
Neytiri's head appeared through the entrance, and her eyes found you immediately. Found him and the space between you that wasn't quite innocent anymore.
Your head dipped, the picture of respect. Jake watched your ears—they didn't flatten, didn't betray a thing.
"I was showing him my new outfit." Your hands traced the intricate beadwork across your ribs, drawing attention to the craftsmanship, the appropriate reason for being here. "Do you like it?"
The ease in your voice. The softness.
Jake's stomach dropped.
Dangerous, he thought. She's fucking dangerous.
But when had he ever had the good sense to run?
Neytiri's smile arrived late, stretched too tight across her teeth. "It is nice, Y/n." A pause. Her tail made a slow, snap. "But I must speak with my mate."
Mate. She said it like a line you'd already crossed.
You didn't flinch, didn't even falter. Just nodded and gathered your things with hands that didn't shake. "Of course," you whispered.
Neytiri watched you slip past, stone-faced, counting the seconds until your footsteps faded. Then she turned.
Slow.
"She comes here more often."
Her voice was gentle. That made it worse. Her shoulders were still tight beneath fresh bandages—Ronal's work, probably, wrapped after whatever bitter exchange they'd had over medicine or tradition or pride. The tension hadn't left her body.
"Yeah." Jake didn't look away. "She does. Kiri brings her over."
"More and more, it seems."
"They had a fight before."
"And you would know this?"
Jake's jaw locked. The muscle jumped beneath his skin. "What are you trying to say, Neytiri?"
Her tail snapped—once, hard enough that it cracked against the woven wall. The grief in her face was raw. She'd never learned to hide it, not from him. "You two seem close."
He scoffed and the sound surprised even him. He set down the bomb arrows with too much force, the components scattering. "Alright. You want to talk, let's talk." The hiss came from somewhere deep, somewhere he didn't recognize. "Say it."
Neytiri breathed, flinching from his response. Deep, shaking inhales that did nothing to steady her. Her lips pulled tight. "She likes you."
Jake's eye twitched. "She's a kid, Neytiri. It's innocent."
"She is a woman, Jake."
He stood then. Got right in her face, close enough to see the fractures in her composure, the way her pupils dilated.
He thought of himself fifteen years ago—young, stupid, so fucking in love it hurt—and knew that version of him would've knocked his teeth out for this. Would've grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the ground for standing here, for letting things get this far, for speaking to Neytiri like she was the problem.
He thought of himself a year ago. Same result.
So much lost in so little time.
“Barely, Neytiri. Barely. Come on, do you really think she’s a threat to you? Our marriage?” His eyes went wet—performatiely, predictably wet—as if innocence was something he could emulate now. "What do you want me to do?" His voice dropped. "Tell her to stay away? Push Kiri further out because you're uncomfortable?"
Goddamn liar.
Goddamn dirtbag.
She was crying now. Her head shook, weak, defeated. "I don't know what to think." The sound that left her was pathetic. So small. "I feel you—" Her hands moved, grasping at air before she pressed a fist to her chest. She couldn't look at him. "Drifting. Away. To this place I cannot follow."
That landed.
He faltered. His eyes closed. Shit.
"Baby..." He reached for her, pulled her in. She let him. She always did. Her sobs came in soft, broken waves against his chest. "Oh, baby. It's nothing," he soothed, stroking her hair. "Can't have me throwing her out of our hut for some dumb crush, right?" A pause. His voice dropped to something coaxing. "Come on. You never eyed some hot older hunter when you were younger?"
That earned the faintest of a smile, then a wet, shaky chuckle. "...Yes."
"And weren't you just a girl during that?"
A slow nod against his chest. Her fingers curled into the fabric at his chest piece. She was just a girl when you two mated.
He kissed her cheeks. Then her forehead. Led her to the hammock with careful hands. "See? Just a dumb crush. I'm not into her. Not even a little."
Liar.
They slept in the same hammock that night. Actually cuddled after—his arm slung over her waist, her breath evening out against his collarbone. And for a short time, he convinced himself it was true. Excused his attraction as a lapse in judgment. Grief and anger warring with his morals.
But his hand tightened around her in the dark.
Liar.
It was such an easy excuse, until life hit again and he was back to square one with it.
Another fight.
He didn’t even remember what the argument was started by. It had to be something stupid, silly, because he couldn’t grasp at straws at why everything blew over.
Something about Spider—probably. The kid left his mask somewhere, or tracked mud, or laughed too loud. Something small. Something a kid does. And Neytiri had made that sound in her throat, the one that meant something without saying it aloud.
Demon blood makes him careless.
He was so fucking tired of that sound.
Neytiri was pacing, the kids were outside. And he was over it, slumped and exhausted.
"I'm going back to the commune." The words came out flat. He was already moving, hands gathering the hammock in jerky motions. Muscle memory from a hundred other times he'd done this exact thing.
Neytiri hissed—spraying saliva. Her good arm shoved him. "You run." Her voice cracked down the middle, splintering. "You run away again!"
He didn't look at her, just kept rolling.
"Just as you ran when the sky-people returned—" Her breath hitched. Outside, he heard the shuffle of small feet. Kiri's soft murmur to Tuk. Lo'ak's feet dragging across woven floor. Spider had already vanished. Smart kid. "—just as you ran to this place because you could not be Toruk Makto!"
The hammock dropped from Jake's hands.
He turned.
Slow.
Neytiri's eyes went wide. Her hands grasped her lips, just as they parted, some apology forming, but it was too late. The words were already out there—everything she felt alongside it.
Jake stared at her for a long time
I loved you.
He wanted to say. He wondered if she saw it, unspoken. He wondered if she was thinking the same thing.
I loved you and now I don’t think I can again.
But he didn't say it. Instead, something in his face went smooth. Apathetic. The kind of blank that came from too many firefights, too many bodies, too many times he'd had to shut it all down just to keep going.
He lifted both hands, palms out in surrender. "Alright." He couldn’t bare to look at her. "So I'm a coward. And you're unhappy."
That's right, Jake boy. You're getting it now. Always been slow—but you're getting it.
"No—ma Jake—" Her hand reached for him, fingers grasping. Desperate. Her face was breaking apart.
He shrugged her off.
He bent, picked up the hammock, slung it over his shoulder. Tuk's small hand caught at his wrist. "Daddy..."
He kept walking.
Kiri stood in the doorway, one hand pressed to the frame. Lo'ak beside her, jaw tight, tail lashing.
"Fuck," Lo'ak breathed.
"Mom..." Kiri turned back toward the hut.
Jake's feet was in a shamble.
Go to the outer communes, some rational part of him insisted. The ones far from center. Don't make that left turn.
He made that left turn.
Why are you going to her?
His jaw clenched.
Jake. You're making a mistake.
But hadn't Neytiri been a mistake too? He reasoned. That's what the People thought—what they'd whispered when they thought he couldn't hear. She was promised to another. Unhappy, yes, but promised. And he'd taken her anyway—Carved his name into her life with bloody hands and a bloody conscience. She'd been unhappy. He was unhappy now. Married now.
Was it different?
You were asleep when he arrived. You, along with several others scattered throughout the commune—bodies curled in hammocks, breath soft and even. More full than last time. That's what he'd wanted. What he'd asked for, and he got it.
A place for the lost ones. The displaced.
He found hooks along the far wall and started working the strings. His hands fumbled. The knot wouldn't take. Too much tension, or not enough—he couldn't tell anymore. Couldn't think.
Strong heart.
You have a strong heart.
Jake.
Jake.
The cord slipped through his fingers and he dropped it, fists clenching until his nails bit crescents into his palms.
Breathe.
"Jake?"
Your voice came soft, full of sleep. He heard you shift, the rustle of fabric as you sat up and scanned the dim interior. Your frown deepened.
"What are you…" Understanding flickered across your face, and you stopped. "...Do you need help?" A whisper now, careful.
He huffed—a sound caught between breath and sob—and felt the hot sting of tears gather at the corners of his eyes. And then the wetness came, hot and humiliating, tracking down his face before he could stop it.
"I uh..." His throat closed around the rest.
He was unraveling here. In some commune in front of a girl old enough to be his daughter. He just wanted Neteyam back. He wanted to hug his son and tell him he’s sorry and tell Neytiri he was sorry too.
God—he wanted to go back to the forest and pretend for a moment he just landed on Pandora.
His shoulders shook in silent sobs, covering his face now.
This embarrassment felt hotter than any shame he’d known.
I didn’t cry when Grace died. Or Trudy. Or Tsu’tey. I didn’t cry when Neteyam died, either. And I am crying here. I am crying here—
You rose then, bare feet silent on the woven floor, and reached for his hand. Your fingers curled around his.
"Come."
He followed. Stumbled, really.
You drew him toward your hammock, lower lip caught between your teeth. Those wide eyes watched him in the half-light.
He hesitated at the edge, then lowered himself in. The hammock dipped and swayed under his weight. You settled beside him, body angling just slightly away—giving him space.
But Jake didn’t want space. He wanted the warmth of a body, the peace of innocence and the carelessness of youth.
He wanted you.
His hand lifted. No hesitation this time, though his vision blurred at the edges. You didn't pull away, that should’ve been his first warning.
"I'm sorry," he said in english—the demon language. You wouldn't understand, and maybe that made it easier.
His palm found your jaw first, thumb tracing the hollow of your throat before sliding lower. Shoulder. Lower. Collarbone, then lower still. The notch between ribs. His other hand rose to mirror the first, both settling at your waist now, learning the dip and flare of your hips. "You're beautiful," he murmured. "A goddamn vision."
He wasn’t crying anymore, but his eyes had gone hazy and the tear tracks tacky.
He flickered his eyes back at you.
You hadn't moved. Eyes wide, lips parted until he saw the barest hint of pink. He caught the way your breathing had changed, shallow and quick, how you leaned in without meaning to. Your fingers twisted in the cloth at your hips, worrying the fabric.
"J-Jake," you managed, barely audible.
He stared a moment longer. I need this. Then drew you in and kissed you—slow, until he felt impatience at his own patience. "Shh," he whispered against your mouth.
Your eyes fluttered shut, tilting against him. You two were all whispers now, touching and feeling. “You are sad, Jake…”
"Yeah." He exhaled, and the sound was almost a laugh. "Yeah, I'm sad." He pressed another kiss to your temple, lips lingering there.
He should've let you go and stepped back, put distance between your body and his hands and the want that was coiling low in his gut like something needful. But he didn't. Instead, he drew you closer. One hand slid to the small of your back, fingers splaying wide. The other cupped the nape of your neck.
"Can't tell you," he said quietly. "Wouldn't understand."
"M'not dumb." You grumbled against his chest.
"Never said you were." His thumb traced small circles against your spine, and he watched your lashes casting shadows against your cheek. "You're too damn smart. That's the problem."
“Problem?” You kissed down his neck now, fingers finding his shoulders.
You. Me. This. He thought it but didn't say it, not yet.
Instead, he leaned in, slowly. Giving you time to pull away, to hiss at him, to do any of the things you should've done. But you didn't. You stayed, frozen like prey caught in some thick black sap, and he felt the exact moment your breath stopped.
"This," he whispered against your mouth, barely touching. "This is the problem."
He kissed you again, this time to savor all that you were. Your lips were softer than he'd imagined, and he'd imagined them plenty.
Too much, maybe.
He felt you tense. Felt the small sound you made and swallowed it down as he angled his head and kissed you deeper.
Your hands fisted his loincloth, tugging. “Oh Jake…” You breathed against him when he pulled back for air. Your eyes were huge, pupils blown wide, swallowing the green.
"Shh." He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard. His hands had moved—one tangled in your hair, the other splayed across your ribs, thumb brushing just beneath the curve of your breast. "Don't talk. Don't... just don't."
"But—"
He kissed you again. Harder this time, less gentle, and the sound you made was different now.
you were pulling him closer. Your hands had found the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair—his hair, not his queue, and thank Christ for that because if you touched his queue right now he'd be done for.
"Feel that?" he murmured against your jaw, your throat, the delicate arch of your collarbone. "Feel what you do to me?"
You glanced down at the bulge straining against leather and looked away just as quickly, ears flicking back into shyness.
You didn't answer. Couldn't, probably. Your head had tipped back, exposing the long line of your neck, and he took advantage—pressed his mouth there. Soft little suctions that came violet.
Just like her breasts…
He pulled back to see your face. Your eyes were glassy, unfocused. Your lips were kiss-swollen and your breath came in short, sharp gasps. You looked wrecked.
You looked young.
Realized it now, huh Jake? You little creep?
"Shit." He let go of you immediately, catching his breath. Oh god. His hands shook. "Shit, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—fuck."
You blinked, confusion replacing the haze. Your tail curled uncertainly. “Jake… please. Did I…?”
"It's not about what you did." The words came out harsher than he meant. "You don't understand what this means. What I almost—" He cut himself off. "I gotta go..."
He was already rising.
Then you gripped his wrist, hard. As if you had any strength to stop him. "No."
Jake stared. "No?"
“You can’t just… I…” You were flushed now, eyes wide like saucers, desperately clinging to him. “I… like you Jake.” You said softly. “You have…” You stopped yourself, looking around. Everyone was still sleeping. “You have her.” You whispered. “But…”
"You don't understand—"
You guided his hand back to your waist, placed it there deliberately. "I do. You feel lonely. I know you do. I feel the same way, every single day. Please..”
"Jesus Christ," he breathed.
You frowned, ears flicking back. "Do you not want me?"
"Want you?" He laughed, and it sounded broken even to his own ears. "I want you so much it's killing me."
"Then why...?" You tilted your head, a look of pain across your face.
He couldn't answer. Couldn't explain the guilt and the grief and the way you looked at him like he was something good when he knew—knew—he wasn't.
So instead, he kissed you again. "Gonna take care of you. Gonna make it good."
It'd been desperate from the start.
He shifted, already moving you beneath him, hands tugging at the ties of your loincloth. "Lift your hips," he grumbled against your mouth.
You obeyed. Of course you did. Hips rising, hands threading through his locks to find the leather tie binding them back. They spilled free, heavy and thick, and you kissed him—each small press of your lips—bridge of nose, slope of brow, hollow of cheek, that soft place where his ear met skull…everywhere your lips and tongue could reach.
He made a sweet sound between a grunt and a laugh from his chest.
"Ngh, fuck." The curse wasn’t really a curse. He grinned through each lazy kiss, pleased. "You're really affectionate, huh?" He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in.
Neytiri was far from his mind now. Miles away, perhaps in another life entirely.
Your knuckles traced circles at his nape. "You came to me," the reminder soft yet pointed.
Look at her. He huffed. Getting confident.
His palm cracked against your ass—hard, and when your mouth opened to squeal, he clapped his other hand over it. "Shh, baby girl." he breathed against your temple, gaze sliding toward the sleeping forms scattered throughout the mauri. "Wake them and this ends."
Both of you froze. A body nearby shifted, grumbled something barely coherent, then turned their back toward you.
You glanced back at him.
Then you started sucking on his thumb.
He jolted, surprise flickering across his features before something darker replaced it. His grin widened as he finally unhooked the strap from your tail, pulling the loincloth away in a snapping motion. "Really...?" he breathed, voice dropping an octave.
You only continued the slow lap and swirl, eyes half-lidded in something that might've been innocence if not for the way you held his gaze. He tasted like salt and metal, and underneath it all that undefinable sweetness that belonged to him alone.
You hollowed your cheeks, drew him deeper, let your tongue curl around the base.
Dangerous, He thought. She's fucking dangerous.
"You're gonna kill me," he breathed.
“Then die,” you mumbled.
He looked down, thumb sliding free with a pop, and eased himself upright. Your legs were pressed together, tail curled tight as though you could hide behind it.
But he saw it anyway—that soft crease where your cunt parted.
A sound escaped him, low and appreciative.. He set his palm on your knee, coaxing your legs apart, and watched you open for him. His thumb found the slit, dragged down slow, testing the slick. "So damn wet for me, baby."
Your ears flattened. "Don't—don't say it like that."
"Like what?" His grin was wicked npw. "Like you've been dripping for me?" He punctuated each word with another slow drag of his thumb, just sliding through the slick coatness of your cunt.
"I've been thinking about this..." You admitted.
He glanced up, that smug smile threading through his expression. "Yeah?" He pressed his thumb just barely inside, felt you clench around the intrusion. "How long?"
"Since—" You bit your lip. "Since you touched me. The first time."
"The first time." He said it like he was considering the words. "When I was doing your chores, there baby girl?"
You nodded, face burning.
His eyebrows rose. "That long, huh?" The pleased rumble in his voice made your stomach clench. "And here I thought I was the only one losing my damn mind." He hummed. "So what'd you think about?" His thumb withdrew. One hand remained between your thighs now, rtracing maddening circles that went nowhere, did nothing. The other braced beside your ribs, caging you beneath him. "Tell me."
"Jake..."
"Come on." He kissed your knee, then higher to your inner thigh. "Wanna hear it."
You covered your face with your hands, tail lashing behind you. "Your hands," you mumbled. "And your mouth. I thought about—about this."
"This?" He nuzzled closer, breath hot against your cunt.
"Yes—"
Your hands moved to your top, tugging it off, and he could see the soft hills of your breasts, the way they rose and fell with each shaky inhale. Then your hips lifted, impatient and unsubtle. He chuckled. "Easy."
"You're slow…" you whisper-yelled, heat flooding your face.
He gave a soft, mocking pout. "I'm savoring you. You look..." His gaze dragged over your body with deliberate slowness. "Really damn good."
He rose once again, frustratingly claiming your mouth first. His thumb found the tender rim of your entrance, feeling without entering while his lips mapped the column of your throat. He kissed the slope of your breasts, nuzzled into the warmth there. "Smell like flowers…" he murmured against your skin. Something sweet and green. Yovo fruit, maybe. Or those night-blooming things that grew near the river.
"Thank you—" The word came out breathless.
He smiled against your breasts. "You're thanking me?"
"I don't…I don't know what to say—"
"Don't say anything." His free hand kneaded your other breast, thumb brushing the peak until you squirmed beneath him. He took the bud into his mouth, sucking gently, and your back arched clean off the ground.
A whimper escaped you. You bit your palm, trying to muffle it.
"How many times have you…" He trailed off, kissing down your stomach, tongue flicking over your navel before he nuzzled into the soft mound of your cunt.
"Oh, Jake…" You bit your palm, muffling the sound. "Um… a few… just a few. None like you…" The words tumbled out, half coherent.
He hummed, pleased, low in his throat. "That's good." He gave one long, slow lick, eyes closing as he tasted you. "Fuck…" You tasted as sweet as you looked.
Sweeter, even.
"Jake, please—" Your fingers found his hair, pulling and tugging until you heard the softest groan.
He grinned against you. "Please what, baby?" His thumb joined his tongue now, circling your clit with maddening lightness. "Use your words."
"I—" You couldn't. Could barely think. His mouth was right there, so close, and he was just—just teasing.
"Need me to make you come?" His voice was sap, dark and dripping. He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, suctioning until it left a mark. "That what you need?"
"Yes—"
"Then I better get to work."
He sealed his mouth over you.
Your hips bucked, but his palm pressed flat against your lower belly, holding you down, keeping you still while he worked you over with his tongue.
He licked into you, slow and thorough, like he had all the time in the world. Like this was his only job. His only purpose. He groaned against you, the sound muffled and obscene, and you realized—
He was enjoying this.
Not just tolerating it. Not just doing it to get you ready.
Enjoying it.
"Taste so damn good," he muttered against you, the words vibrating through your core. His thumb found your clit, circling, pressing, and your vision went white at the edges.
"Jake…oh—"
"That's it." He sucked your clit between his lips, tongue flicking over the swollen bud, and your thighs clamped around his head. He didn't stop.
"I'm—I'm close—"
"Yeah?" He pulled back just enough to speak, and you wanted to scream at the loss. "You gonna come for me, sweetheart?"
“Mhm…” You frowned, nodding.
He grinned. He had this look on his face, head tilted as if he was considering something. “Okay, yeah.”
He reached up, one hand cupping your jaw before sliding to cover your mouth. The pad of his thumb grazed your lower lip, tugging it just a bit. "You're gonna be making a lot of noises," he murmured. His eyes searched yours, something fond flickering there. "So here. Bite."
His palm pressed firmer against your mouth, and you felt the calluses, then the taste of salt on his skin. "Don't want you to hurt yourself, baby girl."
The endearment made your stomach flip.
You nodded. Just barely.
Jake latched onto your clit with a deliberate, sucking pressure that punched the air from your lungs. It was different than earlier, more controlled. Your thighs jerked, tried to close on instinct, but his hands were already there—rough palms sliding under your knees, hiking your legs over the broad span of his shoulders. He shuffled closer, groaning low in his throat, and the vibration traveled straight through your core.
Oh.
A whine tore from you, muffled against his palm. Your teeth found the soft part between thumb and forefinger—canines sinking into the meat of it, just shy of breaking skin. He didn't flinch. Didn't even pause. If anything, he pressed closer, tongue flattening against you in a long, torturous stripe.
"Jake—" His name came out garbled, desperate. You tried to look down, to see him, but your vision blurred with tears. Everything was too much. The heat of his mouth, the scratch of his jaw against your inner thigh, the way he looked at you.
"Shh…"
His free hand found your thigh, fingers digging in, holding you open. He tilted his head, adjusted the angle, and sucked again—harder this time. Then his tongue pushed inside.
"Ngh—shit…" He cursed.
You felt his jaw working, the strain of it. When he finally pulled back for air, his lips were slick and swollen. He replaced his mouth with a finger, one thick digit sliding in knuckle-deep, curling with a perscrion that spoke of years and experience..
A broken sound escaped around his palm.
Jake's eyes flicked up. Watched you.
Your head had fallen back, throat exposed, the line of it pale and trembling. Your breasts rose and fell in sharp gasps, stomach rolling in waves with every curl of his finger.
"What do you want, hm?" His thumb found your clit, circling with a teasing pressure. The contrast made you sob. "Tell me, sweetheart. Use your words."
He eased his hand away from your mouth, just enough for you to speak.
"Y-You…" It came out broken. "Want you, Jake—"
"Yeah?" A second finger joined the first, stretching you carefully. His pupils were blown wide, almost entirely black. "Want me where, baby? Here?" He curled both fingers, found that spot that made your body jolt. "Or somewhere else?"
"Yes—" You couldn't think. Could barely breathe. "Please, Jake, please—"
"Good girl."
He leaned in, pressed a kiss just above your clit, then sucked a bruising mark into the soft skin of your inner thigh. His fingers kept working, scissoring, preparing.
You were shaking now. Could feel your walls fluttering around his fingers, chasing something just out of reach.
"I think you're prepped and ready," he mumbled against your thigh. Gave one final kiss—right where he'd marked you—before withdrawing his fingers.
The emptiness made you whine. Your hips chased his hand without permission, seeking. "No… Jake, please—"
He released your face entirely now, that hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb—the clean one—brushed away the tear that had escaped. "It's okay, baby. Gonna feel worth it, I promise."
You had tears in your eyes, but you trusted him, always did.
His eyes never left yours as he reached for his loincloth, fingers working the knot with practiced ease. But your eyes—
Your eyes dropped.
You'd seen the bulge earlier. Felt it pressed against your hip as he ate you, but this—
Jake's cock was different from the ones you'd glimpsed on reef men during communal baths, different from the smooth turquoise youths you’ve fumbled with before.
His was large.
Thick and flushed a deeper blue-purple, uncut with veins that traced the shaft like rivers on a map. It looked angry. Heavy. The head was broad, already weeping, and below—his balls hung full and heavy, the skin darker, dusted with the same fine hair that traced his brow and jaw.
You reached without thinking.
Your fingers wrapped around him and gave an experimental squeeze.
"Fuck—" He choked on the word, hips jerking forward into your grip. A breathless laugh escaped him. "Why you do that, huh?"
But you weren't listening. You were too busy exploring. Your thumb traced a prominent vein, followed it down, then patted the base with an almost sweet curiosity. The hair there was coarser than you expected. Strange…so fascinating.
"It's fuzzy," you murmured, tilting your head. "I've never seen…"
The words trailed off because he'd started moving—his hand wrapping over yours, guiding you in a slow pump. You watched, transfixed, as the foreskin slid back to reveal the swollen head, then forward again. The motion was hypnotic.
Heat crept up his neck. His ears flicked back. "Kinda gross, right?"
There was something vulnerable in the question. Something almost boyish, despite the very grown man's cock pulsing in your joined grip.
You looked up and met his eyes.
"No," you said softly, as certaine as anything. "It's interesting. Everything about you is interesting, Jake."
He went completely still.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Then his cock twitched in your hand—hard enough that you felt it, and his breath punched out harsh and disbelieving.
"Right."
The word came out strangled.
Then he was moving. His hand left yours, both palms coming up to frame your face. He kissed you—deep and desperate and tasting of you—before pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
"You're gonna kill me," he breathed. "You know that? Gonna fuckin' kill me, and I'll die happy."
Jake braced himself above you, one arm holding his weight, the other tracing the edge of your hip with something close to reverence. His eyes tracked down to where you were already slick and waiting.
"Hey." His voice came soft, almost shy. "Look at me."
You did.
His hand wrapped around himself, and you watched—transfixed—as he positioned the broad head against your entrance. He just dragged himself through the slick that had gathered there and moved in slow circles, coating himself, letting the tip catch your clit with each roll of his hips.
"Just coating it, baby," he murmured, though his voice had gone rough at the edges. "Gotta make sure you're ready."
Your brows drew together, flushed. "That's... that's fine."
He felt so warm.
The heat of him radiated through your thighs, your belly, everywhere his skin pressed yours. You watched the way his stomach—soft, the human part of him—pressed against yours with each grind. His jaw ticked, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. You could see the effort it took—the restraint. Every part of him wanted to surge forward, to bury himself deep, but he waited.
Just for you, because he loves you.
"Going in now, okay?" His gaze flicked up, locking with yours. "Breathe for me."
Before you could answer, he leaned down and kissed you. Lips pressed firm, no tongue, just the taste of him and the promise of more.
And then you felt it.
You felt him.
The tip stretched you—your lips split around him. You could hear it, the wet sound of your body splitting, could hear your own breath catch and still before you remembered to relax.
"Ngh..."
"Shhhh..." His mouth moved to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your jaw. "I know, sweetheart."
He groaned, low and guttural, and the sound vibrated through your chest.
His hips gave an aborted thrust, and suddenly his arms were around you, locking you against him. Your head tucked beneath his chin, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. You were drowning in his scent.
"That's it, baby. That's it."
He sank deeper.
Inch by inch, your body made room. The stretch burned, but it was the good kind—the kind that made your toes curl and your nails bite into his shoulders. He was everywhere—filling you so completely that you couldn't tell where you ended and he began. His balls pressed flush against you, the tip of him kissing something deep and sacred inside. You both stilled.
Full.
So full you could barely breathe.
"Oh my god," Jake breathed.
Both of you looked down at the same time, and your eyes snagged on the bulge pressing against your stomach. Him. You could see him inside you, the shape of his cock bulging your belly.
"Look at that." His voice was hushed, disbelieving. His hand moved without thinking, palm pressing gently against it, and you felt it. The pressure from both sides, inside and out, and your eyes rolled back. "Pretty fucking cute."
You opened your mouth to respond—
He thrusted.
The first punched the air from your lungs. The second made you see stars. By the third, you were clawing at his back, nails dragging red lines down his shoulders. His hips pistoned into yours, the rhythm building, and he swallowed your cries with his body. His grunts were muffled against your hair, your shoulder, anywhere he could press his mouth. You bit into his neck, tasting him.
"Jake..."
"I'm here. I'm here."
Your nails found his back, dragging down, leaving marks he'd wear tomorrow. Your eyes hazed over. Oh, great mother..."
Jake's hand found your chin, wrenching your face toward his. He kissed you—messy, desperate, all tongue and teeth. "Dirty girl," he grunted, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "Marking me up?"
His other hand slipped between your bodies, fingers circling your clit in time with each brutal thrust.
And oh.
Oh.
The dual sensation was too much. The thick slide of him inside, the rough pad of his thumb outside, the heat and weight and fullness of it all. Something big and meaty and warm, filling you so nice and sweet you thought you might break apart.
"I'm really close, Jake—"
"Me too..." He cursed under his breath, something garbled and human. His hands gripped your hips, lifting, angling you so your back arched off the woven mat. Your breasts bounced with each impact, and his gaze locked there, hungry. "Fuck, look at you..."
He hissed between his teeth, spreading your thighs wider, opening you completely.
"Knew what you wanted, huh?" His voice dropped into something darker, meaner. "Such a fucking tease."
His hands found your throat.
Your eyes widened.
"You guys can breathe a long time, yeah?" His thumbs pressed against your pulse, feeling the frantic flutter there. "Wanna see how much."
You should've been afraid… You quickly realized you weren't.
You smiled. Drool gathered at the corner of your mouth.
He squeezed.
"Ngh—"
Your voice cut off. Breath left you in a rush, and the world narrowed to the pressure at your throat, the relentless drive of his hips, the way your body clenched around him in protest and pleasure. You tried to slow your heart—tried to relax the way you'd been taught—but you couldn't.
His fingers squeezed tighter.
Your hands flew to his, and for a moment he hesitated. His eyes widened, grip loosening. Too much?
But then you were squeezing his hands against your throat. Pressing them harder. Tighter, your eyes said.
And there it was.
That high.
Your voice left you. Your breath left you. Yet you were floating, weightless, caught in total ecstasy. You came—unable to scream, unable to do anything but tremble and milk him with rhythmic, desperate pulses.
"Fuck—fuck—"
Jake sucked in his teeth, hips stuttering through a few last pumps before he released your throat.
Air rushed back in a single, gasping sob.
Then Jake smiled—boyish and a little sheepish—and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Your nose. Your lips.
"You okay?"
You nodded, dazed. Your hand lifted, trembling, to touch his face.
"Yeah," you whispered. "Yeah, I'm okay."
He kissed your palm. Then your wrist. Then he pulled out slowly, carefully, and gathered you against his chest.
Warm.
He was always so warm.
"You're a lot less innocent than I thought."
He blurted, although you did not hear the accusation, nor would you ever feel it—his hands were gentle where they cradled your hips, thumbs tracing idle patterns against sweat-slick skin.
You couldn't answer. Couldn't do anything but pull air into your lungs in these shallow, desperate sips. Your skin buzzed everywhere he'd touched, everywhere he'd been, and the purple blooming across your throat would be proof of it in the morning.
Your fingers found him instead of words. Just a fumble of fingers.
Jake came to you willingly. He always did with you, didn't he? Folded himself around you like he was trying to press into your bones, arms circling, nose buried in your hair. His cock softened, and you felt the slow, warm slip of his cum beginning its lazy descent down your thighs.
You should've been mortified. Should've squirmed away, cleaned yourself, done something other than lie there feeling it settle.
But you didn't.
Instead, your palm drifted down between your bodies, fingers splaying over the slight swell of your stomach.
"You're going to give me my own family, Jake."
It slipped out so soft you weren't sure he'd heard. You had almost hoped he hadn’t.
But he did, and Jake went still.
You felt it—the exact moment his every muscle locked. You'd said something wrong. Of course you had. Stupid, stupid—
His hand covered yours.
He pressed it firmer against your belly where his cum sat heavy and warm inside you, where your skin had gone taut and tender. Just below your naval, there a visible swell of what might already be taking.
"I’m sorry I know—" you started, some apology forming.
"Yeah," he breathed. Then again, stronger: "Yeah."
You twisted just enough to see his face and expected that look he got sometimes, the one that said he was remembering he didn't belong here, that he had Neytiri, children he already bore, a life he’d already built with promises he’s already made.
But he was smiling.
"You deserve a family too," he whispered, and your chest did something complicated and painful. His hand slid up your side, traced your ribs, mapped the terrain of you like he was memorizing it. "More than anyone I know."
He didn't care.
For once in his miserable, guilty, blood-soaked life, Jake Sully didn't care about the fallout.
Your breath hitched. "Don't say that."
"Why not?" He shifted, pulling you with him until you were sprawled across his chest, all that dark blue skin and scarred muscle beneath you. The blanket came next, draped over both of you in lingering heat. "It's true." God help him, he meant it.
You buried your face against his collarbone. "You don't... you don't have to say things like that just because we—"
"I'm not."
The certainty in it made you lift your head.
Jake caught your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. "I mean it," he said again. "You deserve everything. A family, a home, someone who—" He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "Someone who stays."
Oh.
"...Thank you, Jake."
The words felt absurdly small for what was crushing your ribs, flooding your throat. But they were all you had.
He blinked at you. Something confused flickering across his face. "For what?"
What reason did you have to thank him?
He'd corrupted you—at least, he was pretty sure he had. Taken something pure and good and dragged it down into the mud with him, same way he corrupted everything he touched. Pandora. The People. The forest. His own damn soul.
"For everything." And it was as simple as that. He understood you.
With your weight settled trustingly atop him and your hand still resting over that slight swell in your belly—
He didn't care. That's what he gave you. Carelessness.
Right now he was satisfied and happy. He was warm, he felt young, and he was looking forward to a future.
Just like back then.
I love you. He thought.
A/N- Please remember to reblog or like! Much appreciated!!!
had to tell you i am IN LOVE with your rabbit tribute fic!! your writing is incredible and the plot and characterization is so good.
i had such a great time reading it and i can’t wait for more chapters!!
Thank you sm I love you!!! I’ve been tied down with uni work but the 4th part has been started and should be up in the next couple of weeks! Thank you for the love ❤️
AITA for thinking My bf and Daughter/ Niece are being dramatic and ungrateful even though I may have… accidentally murdered some people and emotionally manipulated them?
Bonjour, darlings. Throwaway because My bf reads everything and My daughter has hacked into my accounts before.
So I (…old enough, male vampire) live with my lover, we will call Lewis (also a vampire but in denial) and our daughter, we will call Cat (yes, yes, “daughter,” don’t start—this family tree is already complicated enough).
We have always been a passionate and unconventional family. Yes, maybe I can be a bit much. Yes, maybe I accidentally kill a few people sometimes. And yes, maybe my temper can be flamboyant. I embrace that.
Anyway, the issue:
Lewis has been distant. Moody. Brooding on rooftops. Writing poetry, taking photos etc. that is honestly terrible. I’ve tried everything to make him happier. I bring him beautiful gifts! I sing for him! I murder people for him if I think they looked at him disrespectfully! Honestly, that’s what love is!
But he keeps acting like I’m “controlling.”
Me? Controlling???
Cat, meanwhile, has been encouraging Lewis to “leave me” and “stand up for himself.” I don’t know why I’m suddenly the bad guy. I turned her because I thought it would bring us together! A family project! But now she mutters things like “I will destroy you” and “One day you’ll regret ever meeting us.” Typical teenager talk.
Recently, Lewis and I had a fight (over something small, I think I just called him ungrateful and threatened to destroy the city, I barely remember). Cat took his side—of course—and said I “ruin everything I touch.”
I told her she was being cruel. She said I don’t deserve a family. I said she doesn’t appreciate how hard immortality is. She said I should try therapy. I said therapy cannot help me because I EAT therapists.
Then Lewis quietly told me he needed “space.” Claimed I was “emotionally abusive.” Which is ridiculous because I have been very forthcoming about my emotions. I do nothing but share my emotions, loudly, passionately, with furniture-breaking enthusiasm.
Now they’re giving me the silent treatment. They moved to another part of the house and communicate only through extremely pointed diary entries they leave where they know I’ll find them and through telepathy I cannot hear!!!!
So.
AITA for thinking Lewis and Cat are overreacting and that maybe I’m not the villain here?
I truly feel I’m the most patient, loving member of this family.
TOP COMMENTS
⬆️ 18.7k | u/CoffinBound98
YTA.
You literally kidnapped your boyfriend, turned a child into a vampire without asking her, and keep calling it “family bonding.” That’s not bonding. That’s a hostage situation with extra steps.
⬆️ 15.2k | u/Eternal_Burner
“Sometimes I kill people for him because they looked at him wrong”
OP… babe… that is NOT the defense you think it is.
⬆️ 11.9k | u/diary_of_a_small_psychopath
As a teen girl myself (not a vampire tho), Cat is right to stand up for herself. You did ruin her life by turning her. She just says it poetically.
⬆️ 8.1k | u/SunlightFixesEverything
INFO:
How many times have you actually tried talking instead of monologuing dramatically about your suffering while throwing paintings?
⬆️ 6.4k | u/louis_black_cloud
This is 100% Lestat writing this.
—Claudia
⬆️ 4.8k | u/SwampVamp
Oh no, King, you’re definitely the villain.
But you’re also iconic, so don’t change.
Do you think you could do a platonic Show!Hades and lesbian daughter of Hades user. For context, user is Korean, and was born and raised in Korea for more than half her life. If you don't know already, Korea has a HUGE problem with homophobia, I would know, I grew up there myself lol. Anyway, this greatly affected the user, and now that they're in America, they're figuring things out, and they want to come out to their dad.
Oh and please tag me if you do!
Hiya! Thank you for your request! I assumed it was show Percy Jackson Hades based on your account and what fandoms i'm in! I apologise if it's too short but I hope that you like the fic xx
w/c: 557
The Underworld is quieter than usual today. No restless spirits drifting by, no distant growls from Cerberus. Just the soft, ember-coloured light that always seems to follow your father.
Hades glides into the room tall, dark coat brushing the floor, expression unreadable as always.
He looks at you for a long moment.
“You asked to speak with me. That usually means someone in the mortal world has upset you, or you’re about to tell me something important.”
A pause.
“Should I be preparing myself?” His tone is dry, teasing in that subtle way only he can manage, but his eyes are softer than his voice.
You swallow, hands fidgeting.
“It’s… about me. About who I am.”
Hades crosses the space with that slow, steady walk—no rush, no irritation, just attention. He sits beside you, folding his hands neatly.
“Take your time. Mortals hurry because they think time is scarce. I don’t. I have all the time in the world."
He gives a small, almost-smile.
“You have all the minutes you need.”
Your chest tightens.
In Korea, this was the kind of conversation people whispered, hid, feared. Even now, those memories cling.
You draw a breath.
“I’m a lesbian.”
Silence.
Not cold, just thoughtful.
Hades studies you with those deep, shadow-soft eyes.
He leans back slightly, not shocked, simply absorbing.
“And you were afraid to tell me because…?”
You shrug helplessly.
“Because of home. Korea is… not exactly kind about this. And I think part of me still expects the worst.”
A slow nod.
Hades’ expression softens in a subtle, almost imperceptible way that somehow feels enormous.
“Then let me be clear.”
He shifts closer, voice lowering.
“You do not need to fear me. Ever.”
His hand hovers for a moment before settling gently over yours—cool, steady and grounding.
“Who you love does not change who you are. And who you are has never been a disappointment to me.”
A hint of a smile touches his mouth.
“You could love mortals, nymphs, Valkyries, demigods, women, anyone- well maybe not any of Zeus' daughters if he has more, which between you and me, he will."
You let out a quiet huff of laughter.
I would still claim you as my daughter.”
Your eyes burn not with shame, but relief.
Hades continues, quieter now:
“I know what it is to be misunderstood by an entire world. To be feared for simply existing.”
He tilts his head, meeting your gaze.
“You are not broken. You are not wrong. You are mine. And that will never change.”
Your breath breaks with a shaky laugh.
“Thank you, Dad.”
He squeezes your hand.
“I should be thanking you. Trust is… not given to me easily. Yet you offered yours.”
Another pause, soft.
“And if anyone, mortal or divine, tries to make you feel ashamed for this?”
His eyes flicker, shadows tightening around him for half a second.
“I will ensure they regret it.”
You laugh, and he smiles, small, but real.
Hades stands and opens his arm in invitation, not demanding, just offering. You go to him, and he wraps you in a gentle, careful embrace, colder than most people but warmer than you’ve ever felt from him.
“You are safe here. With me. Always.”
And for the first time, the weight you carried from Korea feels like it finally, slowly, begins to lift.
a/n: this is how I imagine a lesbian child of Hades.
Synopsis: on the 53rd hunger games you find yourself stuck in the games with an old friend.
Contains: Violence, gore, death, slow burn, mutual pining, Billy is kinda an asshole at parts Fluff, angst.
Friends to enemies (kinda?) to lovers. Not proof read
w/c: 13.3k (ooft i got a bit carried away)
a/n: so I may have only slept 3 hours last night and spent most of my lecture writing this (whoops) anway introducing some other characters from the long walk so we can watch them die again yay!
The room wakes you before the sun does, lights rising slowly, mimicking dawn. Gentle. Artificial. Nothing like the Gray-blue morning that breaks through sawmill smoke and pine needles back home.
For a second you forget.
You roll toward the wall, expecting wood grain. You get smooth glass instead. A reflection of yourself stares back: hair flattened, eyes swollen, cheeks marked faintly from your pillow.
You sit up.
The bed looks like it swallowed half of you during the night. The blanket still carries Capitol warmth, a steady, regulated temperature. Too constant. Too controlled.
You swing your legs down. The floor warms automatically under your feet.
Everything here anticipates what you need before you know you need it.
Which feels like a trap.
Looking in the wardrobe, you see a neatly ironed, about a dozen forest green shirts, with a logo of 07 on the right breast side, along with about a dozen black joggers and a pair of black trainers lying neatly at the bottom.
You quickly pluck off the top shirt and bottoms and throw on your shoes before heading out the door.
When you open your door, you are surprised to see that Billy is already in the hallway.
He doesn’t look at you right away.
He just leans against the wall, arms crossed loosely, eyes half-lidded like he hasn’t slept or like sleeping didn’t help.
His hair is still damp from showering.
He looks too calm.
He always did, right before doing something reckless.
Mara steps out behind him, already composed in a precise black jacket, her hair pinned back, eyes sharp enough to slice the day open.
“Good,” she says, without asking how you slept. “Let’s eat first. Training starts in an hour.”
Billy pushes off the wall.
You fall into step beside him.
The dining room is floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Capitol glowing and towering, almost unreal in the pink-gold morning light. The food is already on the table: eggs, sausage, sliced fruit glistening with syrup, toast with jars of spreads you don’t recognize.
Your stomach is empty but not hungry.
Mara gestures to the seats.
Billy sits.
You sit.
No one speaks.
The silverware clinks softly, too polite, too civilized for what today actually means.
After a minute, Mara breaks the silence.
“Today is about observation,” she says. “Don’t rush to prove anything. Don’t draw attention to strengths until you know who’s worth hiding them from.”
Billy nods like he already knew that.
Mara’s gaze shifts to you.
“You watch faces. Hands. How they stand when they aren’t looking. Who gravitates toward each other. Who isolates. That will tell you more than any arena preview.”
You nod once.
Billy spreads jam on toast, peanut butter and strawberry jam. It’s the way you remember him doing when you were kids in the mill, sticky fingers and sawdust everywhere.
The familiarity hits like a bruise.
You look away.
Mara continues:
“And stay together. Always.”
She doesn’t explain why.
She doesn’t need to.
You’ve already seen why.
Mara leads you and Billy to the elevator — the same gilded cage that carried you up last night, except now the ride is silent in a different way. No anthem, no cheers, just the muffled hum of machinery moving you deeper into the Capitol’s throat.
Billy stands to your right.
Mara on your left.
You’re boxed in without being touched.
The doors slide open into a cavernous training hall.
It’s… huge.
Wide as the sawmill floor, tall as the pines at the edge of District 7, lit from above in a white that feels sterile. The air smells faintly of metal and something sharp, like ozone and sweat. Stations spread out in every direction:
Climbing wall with jagged, uneven handholds
Weapons racks lined with spears, tridents, axes, knives
Camouflage mats and survival stations
Knot-tying dummies
Trap-making benches
No one is running yet.
No one is fighting.
Everyone is watching.
Even the Careers.
Districts 1, 2, and 4 stand in a loose cluster like they were born knowing how to orbit each other. They look polished. Confident. Relaxed in the way only people who have never been desperate can be.
The District 11 pair stands nearby, but separate — present without being absorbed. Rooted. Observant.
Their eyes flick to you and Billy only once.
Recognition.
Not greeting.
Not alliance.
Just acknowledgment.
Districts 8, 9, and 10 hover around the edges — wary, quiet, the way prey animals learn to survive around predators.
Snow’s voice from last night echoes somewhere under your ribs:
This is not punishment.
This is opportunity.
You bite down on that.
Hard.
Mara stops just inside the centre of the room.
“Remember what I said,” she murmurs quietly enough that only you and Billy hear. “Today is not about being the strongest. It’s about being the one no one wants to provoke without good reason.”
Billy’s jaw ticks once.
You breathe slow.
Mara looks at both of you, eyes sharp and steady:
“Stay together.”
Then she steps away just far enough that you are alone in the middle of the room.
Not abandoned but displayed.
Billy angles his head just slightly toward you — not turning, just enough to speak without moving his expression.
“Climbing wall first.”
It’s not a suggestion.
But it’s not a command, either.
It’s strategy.
District 7 knows trees.
Everyone knows District 7 knows trees.
The trick is showing it without showing your whole hand.
You nod once.
You walk toward it together.
Not touching.
Not talking.
Not reconciled.
For now.
The climbing wall is taller up close — forty feet, maybe more, with jagged, uneven grips meant to mimic real rock, not the trees you grew up on. But climbing is climbing. Height is height. You know your hands. You know your weight.
Billy gestures toward it with a flick of his chin.
“You first.”
No challenge.
Just trust.
Or strategy.
Or both.
You plant your hands.
You climb.
Your body remembers before your mind does — feet slotting into narrow holds, arms shifting to pull your weight, hips pivoting the way your father taught you when you were small enough to lift. You move clean, not showy, not rushing to impress — each motion purposeful and quiet.
Halfway up the wall, you stop thinking entirely.
By the time you reach the top, the room feels smaller.
You look down.
Billy is already climbing.
His style is different — less graceful, more force. Controlled power, precise placement, no wasted motion. He climbs the way he fights: not to prove he can, but to prove he’ll win if he chooses to.
You watch him for a moment.
He doesn’t look up.
He doesn’t need to.
When he reaches the top, you both sit for a breath. Long enough to see the training floor again from above — shapes, patterns, alliances beginning like storms forming over water.
No words.
You descend first.
Billy’s still halfway down when someone steps to the base of the wall.
A boy — tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair tied back.
Not flashy. Not tense. Just… present.
District 11.
He nods once, polite but not meek.
“You’re Seven, yeah?” His voice is steady. Warm, even. “I’m Peter. Peter McVries.”
He doesn’t offer a handshake, maybe he understands the weight of touch here.
Maybe he’s just respectful.
You nod back. “Yeah.”
Something like recognition flickers in his expression.
Not pity.
Not rivalry.
Just understanding.
You offer him your name in return.
“That was clean work,” he says, referring to your climb. “Not many know how to use their weight right.”
You open your mouth to answer-
Billy drops the last few feet and lands between you and Peter so smoothly it’s not even a confrontation, just placement.
A statement:
“We don’t trade secrets here”
Peter lifts his hands slightly, palms easy.
“Not looking for trouble,” he says, still calm.
Billy’s jaw tightens, a flash, fast.
“I didn’t say you were.”
Silence folds in, not tense, just sharp around the edges.
Peter breaks it before it can curdle.
“You’ve got a solid mentor in Mara,” he says, glancing between you both. “Saw her games. She was the victor in the 30th games, right?”
Billy’s posture softens.
Not fully.
But enough.
“Yeah,” he answers. “She cuts the bullshit.”
Peter smiles, small and real and steps back, giving space instead of taking it.
“Good luck, Seven,” he says simply.
Then he returns to his district.
Billy watches him go.
You watch Billy.
He finally looks at you.
“What the fuck was that Stebbins?” you hiss, keeping your voice low enough that it doesn’t echo. “He was being nice.”
Billy’s jaw works once, a twitch along the line of his teeth, before he answers.
“We are not here to make friends,” he murmurs back, words clipped and sharp. “Remember what Mara said.”
“Yes, I listened,” you snap. “I have ears. Doesn’t mean I have to act like a—”
“A what?” he cuts in. “A person who wants to survive?”
And your breath stutters not because he’s right, but because of how hard he says it. Like the truth is something he’s choking on.
He looks away for a second- at Peter across the room, now helping the girl from his district tie cord for snares.
Billy continues, lower now. Not anger. Just something rougher.
“You talk. You trust. You start believing someone might be an ally, or decent, or someone you can depend on. Then you’re the idiot with your back open.”
You stare at him.
“And what about you?”
His eyes flick to you are sharp, bright and too clear.
“I volunteered so you didn’t have to go through that, so you didn’t have to watch Tommy die!?” he says, voice quiet enough that it barely exists. “Don’t make me watch you make it for nothing.”
It hits like impact, not loud, just heavy.
You look at him:
His Shoulders are tight, hands not clenched, but close to it, breathing like he’s holding something back, and has been, for a long time
You swallow.
“So what? We just never talk to anyone? Avoid everyone? Pretend we’re already dead?”
Billy doesn’t blink.
“No,” he says. “We look like we’re fine. We act like we’re fine. And we do not give anyone a reason to try us before we have to handle them.”
You want to argue.
You want to tell him he’s being impossible, or dramatic, or paranoid.
But he’s not wrong.
And you both know it.
“You don’t have to be an asshole about it,” you mutter, softer now.
Billy’s expression shift, a ghost of a smile, the thought of one.
“I always have to be an asshole about it,” he says, tone dry. “It’s part of my charm.”
You roll your eyes, too hard, because the alternative is something that feels dangerously close to understanding him.
He steps a little closer.
“Come on,” he says. “Camouflage next.”
It’s not a command. It’s an invitation. And you take it.
The camouflage station is tucked into one corner of the training hall — quiet, almost ignored compared to the glorious shine of weapons and combat platforms. Which is exactly why it’s the smartest place to start.
Most tributes want to prove themselves first.
Show muscle, Show speed, Show power.
Most tributes want to be seen.
You don’t.
You kneel beside the pile of materials with moss clumps, dyed fabric scraps, powdered pigments, bits of bark and shredded cord, fingers moving instinctively. Your hands know what to do in a way your head doesn’t have to.
District 7 kids are raised inside forests.
Camouflage isn’t training. Not to you. It’s breathing.
Billy crouches beside you, quiet and still, his presence settling like a tree trunk at your back.
The trainer who is a Capitol official in shimmering green, starts to explain pigment blending, but you’re already mixing handfuls of it in your palm, pressing it into your skin, changing your tone, changing your silhouette. Making yourself not quite there.
Billy doesn’t say anything. He knows you know what you’re doing. But someone else notices.
A shadow falls over your workspace.
“Whoa,” a young voice blurts. “That’s incredible! How are you doing that so quickly?”
You look up.
The kid is small — maybe thirteen, maybe younger — dark brown hair sticking out in soft cowlicks, eyes bright, full of earnest wonder instead of fear. His uniform hangs loose on him like he grew too fast or too uneven for the Capitol to fit him right.
District Six, based on the patch.
He’s holding a small notebook. Handwritten. Ink smudged at the corners.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, cheeks pinking, pushing up his dark glasses. “I don’t mean to interrupt. I’ve just- I’ve been trying to keep track of how people train. For, um. For research.”
You blink. “Research?”
He lifts the notebook slightly. “I want to write a book. About the Games. Not the propaganda kind. The real kind. What it feels like. I’ve already written the first few pages about the Reaping and the train ride and the moment the doors opened here—”
His voice is breathless.
Billy looks at him like he’s looking at a lit match in a dry field.
“What’s your name?” you ask, because someone should.
“Richard,” he says. “Richard Harkness. My sister calls me Ricky, but you don’t have to.”
His smile is uneven but sincere.
And too much.
Tommy.
It hits you like your ribs forgot how to hold your heart.
Same haircut, Same brightness, Same ability to talk without fear because he hasn’t learned it yet.
You swallow once - too hard - and force your voice steady.
“Okay, Richard,” you say. “Come here. Sit. I’ll show you.”
You give him your name and he furiously scribbles it down.
He beams and plops down immediately, cross-legged, notebook open, pencil poised.
Billy watches — still, unreadable.
You pick up a scrap of fabric, tear off a strip, and hold it out.
“First thing you want to do,” you say, “is stop thinking of camouflage as decoration. You’re not trying to look like something else. You’re breaking your outline. Making your shape blend into the background.”
Richard nods very seriously and scribbles.
“Break shape. Blend outline.”
“Right,” you say. “Watch.”
You smear pigment across your hands, down your forearm, blending it unevenly, never symmetrical, never clean. You add bark dust to your arm. You smear a darker streak on your joints where the shadow fall naturally.
Then you sit back.
Richard gasps softly.
You’re still sitting in front of him, plain as day, but you feel less there. Less readable.
Harder to catch with the eye. And it’s just your hand that is camouflaged
“How—” he starts.
“Patterns,” you say. “The brain looks for shapes. You change the shape, you disappear.”
He tries to copy you. He is terrible at it.
You stop him gently, taking the pigment pot from his fingers.
“Here,” you say. “Let me.”
You touch his face lightly, carefully, shaping shadow, softening his jawline. You smear moss green across his forehead and break the bright outline of his hair.
When you’re done, he looks up at you with young, helpless gratitude.
“My sister would think this is the coolest thing ever,” he says softly.
Your chest tightens. Your throat burns.
Tommy is just like him.
Billy’s hand settles on your shoulder just barely, just his fingertips. Like he’s grounding you without making a show of it.
You don’t look at him.
You nod once at Richard. “Show me your camouflage in the arena training simulation later. We’ll practice more.”
Richard’s smile could light a city.
“Okay! Yes! Thank you! I— I really think if I can make it to the top ten at least I’ll be able to- “
Billy cuts in quietly.
“Richard.”
The boy blinks up at him.
Billy’s expression is calm, too calm.
“You don’t talk about plans for after the arena,” Billy says. “Not out loud. Not even to yourself.”
Richard swallows. The excitement dims in his eyes, replaced by something like dawning comprehension.
“Oh,” he says. His voice is small now. “Right.”
You want to reach for him.
You want to lie and Say it’ll be fine, Say someone his age always gets sponsors, Say someone will protect him.
But you don’t.
Because you are not willing to lie to someone who reminds you of your brother.
“Hey,” you say softly. Richard looks up. “You’re doing good. We’re all learning here. Okay?”
He nods.
He stands.
He returns to his district partner.
He does not look back.
You don’t move.
Not for several seconds.
Billy crouches beside you again.
“You can’t save him,” he says quietly.
You don’t look at him. “I wasn’t trying to.”
“Yes,” he says. “You were.”
You pick up another handful of pigment.
Billy watches your fingers. Watches your breathing. Watches you.
His voice is low, but not cold:
“Don’t make him into your brother.”
You freeze.
Then you stand.
Not fast.
Just final.
The movement of someone who will die rather than be seen crying in front of anyone here.
Billy doesn’t stop you.
He just gets up and walks beside you to the next station.
The knife station is louder than the others. It has sharp clangs and thunks echoing through the training floor. Tributes crowd around here more than anywhere else; everyone wants to be the one who can kill from a distance.
Billy slows when you approach, just slightly.
Not blocking you.
Not leading.
Just watching.
You take a knife from the rack.
It fits in your hand like it was waiting for you.
Not because it’s perfect, Capitol steel is much too balanced, too polished — but because you know what a blade is supposed to feel like.
Weight forward.
Wrist relaxed.
Elbow loose.
You don’t think.
You throw.
The blade hits dead centre.
Not just centre, buried, tip sunk deep into the dummy’s heart marker like it wanted to be there.
The trainer blinks. Careers stop mid-conversation. Someone from District 3 makes a small, impressed sound before realizing they shouldn’t.
Billy’s head tilts, slow and assessing.
You throw the second knife before the first one stops vibrating.
Another bullseye. Now you feel eyes.
District 2 is watching. District 1 is watching. District 4, pretending not to watch, is watching.
Billy murmurs:
“Slow down.”
You ignore him.
You pick up a third knife.
This one is heavier it has longer blade, bad grip, but your fingers find the balance point without thinking.
You throw.
Centre.
A clean line of three perfect hits, stacked like you’d drawn them there yourself.
The room shifts.
Not loud. Not applause.
Just a recalibration.
The girl from District 2 who has a long blond braid, body carved from training since birth steps closer, arms folded.
“Huh,” she says. Not threatened. Interested. “Didn’t know Seven trained that well.”
You don’t break eye contact.
“We don’t train,” you say. “We work.”
Her mouth curves, not friendly, not hostile. Something sharper.
“Maybe we’ll work together later.”
She moves away.
But the impression stays.
Billy steps closer, just behind your shoulder. Not touching. But there.
“You don’t need to give them that much,” he mutters.
“It’s one skill,” you say, tossing another blade into your palm. “Everyone here has one skill.”
“You didn’t show them one,” he says. “You showed them confidence. That’s different.”
It’s almost… annoyed.
No — not annoyed.
Concerned.
You roll your eyes, but your pulse flickers.
“Well, what do you expect me to do? Pretend I don’t know how to use my own hands?”
He steps closer.
Too close.
Close enough for heat.
“You show enough to be respected,” he murmurs. “Not enough to be feared. Feared people get killed early. No one likes a threat.”
Your chin lifts.
“Then what do you want me to be? Harmless?”
His jaw clenches.
“No,” he says. “Not harmless. Just unreadable.”
For some reason, that lands.
Hard.
You turn back to the knives.
Your breathing is too slow now, too intentional.
Not anger - something sharper.
He watches your fingers.
He always watches your hands first.
“Give me your wrist,” he says.
You hesitate.
But you offer it anyway.
His hand closes around your wrist.
It’s Warm, Stead and Firm, but not controlling.
He adjusts your angle. Moves your elbow closer to your ribs. Slides his thumb along the inside of your palm to shift your grip.
Your skin sparks.
Not soft.
Not romantic.
Charged.
“Now throw,” he murmurs.
You do.
The knife hits the board so hard it quivers.
You’re suddenly very aware of how close he is.
You pull your arm back — not fast, just enough.
His hand lingers a beat longer than necessary.
You were twelve when he held your wrist the same way to stop you punching a bully’s teeth out behind the mill.
It feels the same.
And not the same at all.
You clear your throat. “Better?”
Billy’s expression barely moves. Just his voice does.
“Dangerous,” he says.
You don’t know if he means your aim or the look you just gave him.
Before you can answer, someone approaches.
Richard.
Notebook under his arm again, wide-eyed, hopeful, too young to understand how the air has changed.
“That was amazing!” he says, beaming. “Do you think you could show me how to do that as well!? I mean, not as well as you, obviously, but I want to understand the—”
Billy turns. Not sharp. Not aggressive.
Just full attention redirected at Richard like a shield snapping into place.
And Richard freezes.
Not because Billy glared.
Because Billy looked at him the same way he looked at the arena map on the train.
Assessing.
You move first this time.
“Richard,” you say, gentler than your voice has been all day. “Come here.”
He does.
And Billy steps back half a foot, not leaving, not dismissing, just giving you room.
You put a small throwing knife in Richard’s hand.
Guide his fingers.
Adjust his stance.
You don’t touch him like you touched the blade.
Your hands are careful now — feather-light.
Like you’re afraid he’ll break.
Because he might.
“Don’t think about hitting the target,” you say softly. “Just think about letting go at the right moment.”
He tries.
The knife clatters to the floor halfway to the board.
He laughs awkwardly, clearly embarrassed, but not crushed.
“Again,” you say.
He tries again.
It sticks. Poorly, but it sticks.
He lights up.
And something inside you breaks and stays broken.
Tommy will never learn this.
Billy watches your face.
Not the knives.
Not Richard.
You.
The moment stretches.
Richard goes to retrieve his knife, humming the anthem under his breath because he has not learned to be afraid of it yet.
When he’s out of earshot, Billy speaks.
You close your fist around the next knife until your palm throbs.
“He might not,” you say, and your voice comes out thinner than you meant it to. “He might win.”
Billy laughs, actually laughs, and the sound is sharp enough to cut. It’s not loud. Not dramatic. Just cruel in that quiet, disappointed way.
“Win?” he echoes, like he’s testing the word for a joke he hasn’t told yet. He nods toward where Richard who is currently struggling to pull the knife out of the target. “He can’t even pull a shallow knife out a target.”
“He’s trying,” you snap.
“He’s thirteen,” Billy replies, not unkindly, but the softness makes it worse. “Trying doesn’t mean anything in there. You know that.”
You look at Richard, small shoulders, too-big training vest, knuckles white around the knife. He bites his lip every time he releases, like he’s bracing for the knife to go flying out.
You force the words out anyway. “He could grow. People surprise you.”
Billy’s smile twists. He looks directly at you now, which is always more dangerous.
“Is that what you’re hoping?” he asks. “That someone’s going to surprise me?”
You don’t answer. You don’t have to.
Billy steps closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, even though everything about him is cold right now.
“You’re going to hurt when he dies,” he says, but now it isn’t gentle. It’s almost—almost, mocking. “And you’ll act like you didn’t see it coming.”
Your jaw clenches. “You think I’m stupid.”
“No.” Billy shakes his head once. “I think you’re kind.”
He says it like an insult.
“That’s worse.”
You throw the knife hard. Across the room. Too hard. It sticks, but not where you wanted. Your hand is trembling, and you hate that he sees it.
Billy looks at the target, then back at you.
“There’s no room for kindness in there,” he says, voice low. “There’s no room for believing in people who can’t make it.”
“So what?” you ask. “There’s only room for people like you?”
His smile flickers, barely there and gone.
“Exactly,” he says.
But for a flicker of a moment—a tiny, treacherous second—you see something in his eyes.
And it’s not confidence.
It’s fear.
Richard pulls the knife out successfully finally and holds it triumphantly over his head, scurrying back to his notebook and pencil, thanking you once again before he hurries off.
The dining hall gleams like everything else in the Capitol, too bright, too polished, too loud. But there’s a trick to surviving here: look like you belong, even if your hands are still stained with pine-sap and sawdust in your mind.
Peter spots you first. He lifts a hand in greeting, easy and effortless as if any of this could ever be normal.
“Hey,” he says as you approach. “Seat’s open.”
He nudges a chair out with his boot, casual as breathing.
Maeve, the District 11 girl, sits beside him, elbows tucked in, protective of her space. She gives you a small nod that’s curious but not unfriendly. Her fork moves precisely, like she’s counting each bite.
Across from her, the district 10 male tribute, who you believe goes by the name, Raymond Garraty, laughs at something Lyris, the district 4 tribute with shaky hands, says, though Lyris doesn’t seem convinced her own words are funny. Her hands tremble every time she reaches for her cup. She keeps tucking them under the table, like hiding them will make her seem less breakable. Though the careers have seemingly deemed her useless.
You take the seat.
The food smells sweet and rich and wrong.
Peter smiles. “Training go okay?”
“She did fine.”
Billy’s voice cuts in before you can answer.
He sits beside you like he’s claiming the space, not just the chair. His tray clatters down. He doesn’t look at the others.
Peter’s gaze flicks between you two, thoughtful.
“Good to hear,” he says, steady. “We were just talking strategy.”
Billy scoffs. “There is no strategy.”
Ray raises a brow. “There’s always a strategy. Even losing has one.”
Lyris flinches at the word losing. Her fingers twitch.
Maeve’s gaze cuts to Billy. Sharp. She’s younger, but she watches like someone who’s seen things that don’t get spoken.
Peter clears his throat, redirecting gently. “We were thinking, maybe, an alliance. Not a big one. Just enough to get past the bloodbath and maybe the first few days.”
You perk up. “Yes. That’s—”
“No,” Billy says. Immediate. Flat.
Your jaw tightens. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
Billy looks at you, and there’s that same look, from training, something like panic wearing the mask of arrogance.
“This isn’t about friendship,” he says. “This is math. And people like this—” he gestures to the table, careless, careless in a way that hurts— “they’re variables you can’t control.”
Ray leans back slowly. “And what are you? A constant?”
Billy’s smile is small and sharp. “I’m a guarantee.”
Maeve’s eyes flicker, she understands something about that kind of survival.
You shake your head. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” Billy doesn’t look away. “I know you. And I know you’ll try to save someone who can’t be saved and get yourself killed for it.”
The table goes still.
Lyris’s breath stutters. Ray’s expression softens, just slightly. Peter watches you.
You swallow hard. “I’m not abandoning people because it’s convenient.”
“No,” Billy says quietly. “You’re not. That’s the problem.”
Your chest tightens.
Peter leans in, voice calm but firm. “Nobody’s asking for forever. Just… watch each other’s backs for a few days.”
You look at Billy.
He looks back like he’s bracing for a blow.
“We can’t do this alone,” you say.
His jaw clenches. “We have to.”
“Why?” your voice cracks. “Why is it always just us?”
For a second, for one painful moment, Billy’s mask slips.
‘Because I can’t lose you.’
But he doesn’t say it.
He just stands. “Eat with them if you want.”
You do.
He leaves.
The table is quiet for a moment.
Then Ray exhales. “I’ve seen mules more agreeable.”
You laugh but it sounds like a wound.
Peter nudges your elbow, gentle. “He cares about you. That’s the kind that cuts deepest.”
You don’t answer.
You just try to keep your hands from shaking like Lyris’s.
The rest of training blurs into a mix of noise, movement, and the steady hum of exhaustion.
You start the afternoon at the survival stations, fish hooks and traps with Lyris. She doesn’t talk much, but her silence isn’t sharp like Billy’s; it’s thoughtful. She moves with the quiet focus of someone who’s had to catch her own dinner before. When you fumble the wire for the third time, she reaches over without a word and fixes your loop. Her fingers are quick, sure.
“You’ll want smaller bait,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Fish don’t bite big.”
You smile, small and a little surprised. “Guess I don’t either.”
Lyris almost smiles back. Almost.
After that, you find yourself drifting toward the group from lunch again. Peter McVries is at the weights, showing Ray how to hold a spear properly. He waves you over, grin easy and warm. “Come on, seven. You’ll need to know how to throw one of these when the Careers start getting bored.”
You pick up a spear. It’s heavier than it looks, but Peter talks you through the balance, the way the weight should feel in your hand. He’s patient, the kind of patient that feels dangerous in the arena, steady, capable. You wonder how long he’ll last and hate that you’re already thinking of him that way.
Hank Olson from District 5 drifts by next, all charm and faux arrogance, bragging to anyone who’ll listen.
“Who needs a knife when you’ve got this face?” he says, flashing a grin at the trainer.
“You’ll kill us all with your ego,” Ray mutters, and you laugh, even though it’s not really funny.
You don’t talk to Billy again. Not once.
But you see him.
You see him at the rope-climbing station, arms and shoulders tense, jaw tight. You see him testing a spear’s balance, eyes narrowed, lips pressed thin. Once, he glances your way—just a flicker, fast enough that you almost think you imagined it and then he looks past you like you’re another stranger.
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You’re better off without him.
But your eyes keep finding him anyway.
By the time training ends, your arms ache, your fingers are raw from rope burn, and your brain hums with too many names, too many skills, too many people you might have to watch die. The Capitol escort calls time, her voice syrupy and sharp at once, and the room starts to empty.
Lyris nods a quiet goodbye. Peter gives you a half-smile before nudging Ray and walking off.
Billy walks out without looking back.
You’re left standing in the middle of the room, hands stinging, heart heavier than it should be.
The dining hall of the District 7 suite gleams with silver and glass and too much shine. Every plate looks like it costs more than a month’s wages back home. You don’t touch the food at first, everything smells rich and sweet, and the colours make you think of Capitol blood: bright, careless, nothing like sap or soil.
Mara’s already seated when you and Billy arrive. She’s got that look—the one that could stop an axe mid-swing. Her hands are folded neatly on the table, but the air around her feels like a storm just waiting for thunder.
“Sit,” she says. No warmth, no greeting. Just the order.
You obey. Billy drops into his chair across from you, casual as if he’s back at school, not in a palace built for slaughter.
The silence stretches until it feels like something breaking. Then Mara says, evenly:
“Do either of you plan to explain why you ignored the one thing I asked for?”
You blink. “What thing?”
Her eyes cut to you—sharp, like you should already know.
“A united front,” she says. “You two were supposed to look like you stand together. The Capitol eats that kind of story up. Instead, you spent all day pretending the other doesn’t exist.”
Billy’s fork scrapes the plate as he shrugs. “Maybe we thought it was better that way.”
Mara’s gaze flicks to him, then back to you. “And you agreed?”
You open your mouth, but the words tangle. “We just- we trained separately. That’s all.”
Mara leans back, unimpressed. “Separately looks like divided. Divided looks like weak. And weak doesn’t get sponsors.”
Billy huffs out a laugh. “Didn’t realize we were auditioning for a play.”
“Everything in the Capitol is a performance,” Mara snaps. “And if you can’t pretend to like each other, then you might as well dig your graves now.”
You stare at your plate. The food glistens under the lights, untouched. You can feel Billy’s smirk without even looking up.
“Got that, sweetheart?” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear.
You grit your teeth. “Loud and clear.”
“Good,” Mara says, mistaking your tension for obedience. “Tomorrow you’ll train together. Eat together. Smile for the cameras. If I hear so much as a rumour about you two glaring across the training floor, I’ll have you both scrubbing tables until the Games start.”
Billy’s still wearing that half-smile when he stabs a piece of meat with his fork. “Guess we’re a team again.”
You force yourself to meet his eyes, the same sharp green you used to know by heart.
“Guess so,” you say, and take a bite of food that tastes like ash.
Mara doesn’t speak again for a long while. The only sounds are the scrape of silverware and the distant hum of Capitol aircars outside. Every now and then, a servant glides in to refill glasses or replace untouched dishes, eyes blank behind glittering masks.
You pick at a roll, tearing it apart piece by piece. Billy eats like he’s got something to prove – fast and sharp, as if chewing through anger.
When Mara finally does talk again, her voice is quieter. The kind of quiet that makes you stop pretending you’re not listening.
“I’ve mentored nine pairs,” she says. “Three made it to the top five.” She doesn’t look up from her plate. “Every one of them understood the same thing: the arena isn’t just about killing. It’s about being seen. The Capitol gives you a story, and if you don’t like it, you’d better make a better one before they write it for you.”
You nod, because it feels like the right thing to do.
Billy doesn’t. He just mutters, “Maybe I don’t care about the story.”
Mara’s eyes lift, cold and steady. “Then you’ll die fast, boy.”
For a moment, no one breathes.
Then she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose like she’s tired of teaching the same lesson every year. “You both think you’re different. Every tribute does. But you’re not. You’re tools. Pretty faces the Capitol sharpens and throws away when they’re dull.”
You swallow hard. The roll’s gone dry in your throat.
Mara pushes her plate aside and stands. “Be smart enough to last longer than the others. That’s all you can do.” She turns to leave, then pauses at the door. “Try to look like you don’t hate each other at breakfast.”
She’s gone before either of you can answer.
The silence she leaves behind feels heavier than her words.
You exhale slowly, leaning back in your chair. Billy’s watching you—of course he is. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes that makes your chest twist.
“She’s right, you know,” you say finally, just to break the quiet. “We need to at least try to get along.”
He snorts. “Why? So, we can die holding hands?”
You glare. “So, we don’t die stupidly.”
He leans back, smirk curling like smoke. “You think you can fake it? Smile for the cameras, pretend you don’t wish you’d never met me?”
You don’t answer. Not because you can’t—but because the answer’s complicated.
His eyes linger, searching for something he won’t admit he wants to find. Then he stands, chair scraping loud against the floor. “Didn’t think so.”
He’s halfway to the elevator before you can find words sharp enough to throw after him. But you don’t. You just sit there, staring at the glittering plates and the empty seat across from you, until the silence starts to sound like his laughter.
The Capitol sun rises too bright, too gold. It burns against the glass walls of your suite, turning everything to mirror and glare. You wake to the scent of coffee you didn’t make and pastries you don’t want. Someone’s set out matching uniforms for the day’s training, forest-green, District 7 colours, cut to flatter for the cameras. Even your name tags gleam.
Billy’s already at the table, feet up, half a roll in his mouth. He looks like he hasn’t slept much. Maybe you haven’t either.
Mara stands behind him, arms crossed. Her expression could splinter stone.
“Morning,” she says, voice clipped. “You’re late.”
You glance at the clock — you’re not. But you just nod and take your seat.
“Good,” she continues. “Today’s the last day before evaluations. Every mentor, every stylist, every sponsor is watching. I want them to see strength, unity, and control. Not whatever that was yesterday.”
Billy snorts. “You make it sound like we’re going to prom.”
Mara’s eyes flash. “If that’s what gets you sponsors, then smile for the cameras and dance.”
He doesn’t answer. Just leans back in his chair, that same cocky half-grin plastered on his face. But when he catches your eye, the grin falters for a fraction of a second — quick, but there.
Breakfast feels mechanical. You eat because Mara’s watching. Billy picks at his food, bored, restless. The air hums with tension, not the kind that bursts, but the kind that seeps in like rot.
When you’re both finished, Mara steps between you, fixing your collars like you’re children.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she says. “You’ll enter the training room together. You’ll talk to each other. You’ll make eye contact when you spar. The Capitol cameras will notice every second. If you can’t look like you trust each other, you’ll look like you’re waiting to stab each other. Guess which story sponsors like better.”
Billy murmurs, “Depends who’s holding the knife.”
Mara ignores him, straightening his jacket with a sharp tug. “And if either of you embarrass me again—”
“Scrubbing tables,” you finish for her.
She smirks, just a hint of approval. “Good. You’re learning.”
The elevator hums as it descends, all glass and gold and too much silence. You stand shoulder to shoulder with Billy. Your reflections waver in the mirrored walls, matching uniforms, matching masks.
He’s the first to break the silence. “So, what’s the plan, partner?” The word partner drips sarcasm.
You don’t look at him. “We train together. We act like we don’t hate each other. We make Mara happy. Easy.”
“Sure,” he says, glancing at your reflection instead of you. “You’re good at pretending.”
“Better than you,” you snap.
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “That’s the truth.”
The elevator doors slide open. The sound of the training room floods in — clatter, shouts, the metallic rhythm of blades. For a second, neither of you move.
Then Billy steps out first, casual, confident, like he owns the space. You follow, your pulse loud in your ears.
Mara’s words echo in your head: Everything in the Capitol is a performance.
So, you straighten your back, match Billy’s stride, and smile like it doesn’t hurt.
The second day moves faster, sharper, like everyone can feel the countdown ticking under their skin. You stick to your plan, stay visible, stay together. Which means dragging Billy with you, whether he likes it or not.
It starts at the climbing station. Ray’s already there, grinning as he hauls himself up the rope like it’s nothing. Peter stands at the bottom, arms crossed, watching with that quiet steadiness you’re starting to recognize. He gives Ray a small nod when he reaches the top, and Ray beams like he’s just won the Games already.
“District Seven!” Ray calls down when he spots you. “Finally decided to join the fun?”
You smile, trying to ignore the way Billy hovers a step behind you. “We were told to make friends.”
“Smart,” Peter says. “You’ll need them.” His tone’s warm, but his eyes flick toward Billy. They’re measuring. Cautious.
Billy catches it, of course. “Don’t worry,” he says, smirking. “I play nice. When I have to.”
You elbow him hard enough to make your point. “And you have to.”
The others laugh. It’s a light sound that breaks the tension just enough. Even Billy’s grin softens, just a little.
From there, the group moves together — an odd collection that somehow works. You practice with nets and snares, Ray joking through every failure, Peter correcting him with patient amusement. Lyris joins in, helping Richard from your district tie better knots, despite her trembling hands. Richard’s small hands tremble, and he pushes his glasses up his face, but he keeps trying.
When he drops a loop for the third time, Billy mutters under his breath, “He’s going to get himself killed.”
You whip your head toward him. “Then maybe teach him something instead of watching.”
For a second, you think he’ll argue. But he sighs, kneels beside Richard, and takes the rope. “You’re pulling too tight,” he says, voice flat but not cruel. “You’ll never get the loop through that way.” He shows him, slow and deliberate.
Richard’s eyes light up when he gets it right. “Like this?”
Billy nods once. “Better.”
It’s a small thing, but you see Peter notice it — and the way Ray looks between you and Billy, eyebrows raised in something like amusement.
By midday, you’ve fallen into a rhythm. The group moves from station to station, learning, failing, laughing. The trainers glance over more than once; you can feel the Capitol cameras lingering too.
When you pass a wall of mirrored glass, you catch a glimpse of yourselves: six tributes standing together, too mismatched, too doomed, and yet somehow cohesive. It’s almost enough to make you believe the illusion Mara wants you to sell.
Almost.
Billy catches your reflection too. His mouth quirks in something that might be a smirk — or the ghost of a smile. “There,” he murmurs under his breath. “Happy now, partner?”
You don’t answer, but you don’t let go of the rope either.
By the third day, the air in the training hall feels different — charged, impatient. The Careers have stopped pretending to be polite. They’ve claimed the centre of the room now, loud and laughing, their confidence echoing off the walls.
You and your group stick to the edges, working quietly. Peter’s teaching Lyris how to throw a spear without wobbling, Ray’s halfway through a story about wrestling a bull, and Richard’s practicing knots again, jaw set tight with determination.
Billy’s nowhere near you.
You spot him across the room, standing with the Careers, a bright, dangerous cluster of colour and muscle. Their leader, a broad-shouldered boy from District 2, claps him on the back like they’re already allies. Billy doesn’t flinch, but his shoulders are tense. The District 1 girl, all gleam and gold, leans close, smiling that Capitol smile all hungry and false.
You can’t hear what they say, but you don’t need to. You can read it in the way the Careers grin, in the way Billy’s jaw tightens before he steps back.
When he finally walks away, he doesn’t come straight to you, he heads for the axe station instead.
You follow, pretending you’re just passing by.
He notices. “What?” he says, not looking up as he hurls an axe. It hits dead centre, neat and effortless.
“Making new friends?” you ask.
He snorts. “They asked if I wanted to join their little murder club.”
“And you said?”
Billy throws another axe. Another bullseye. “Told them I don’t play well with others.”
You can’t help the small smile that slips out. “That’s the truth.”
“Yeah.” He pauses, finally glancing your way. “They didn’t like it. Guess they’re not used to people saying no.”
You shrug, trying to sound casual. “You’d fit right in with them.”
“Maybe.” He twirls the next knife in his hand, blade flashing in the overhead lights. “But I don’t want to.”
You blink, surprised. “Why not?”
He hesitates — long enough that the silence feels heavy. Then:
“Because I already have someone who’d stab me if I tried.”
You stare at him. He doesn’t meet your eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches — a half-smile, almost soft.
“You’re impossible,” you say.
“And you’re bossy,” he fires back automatically. Then, quieter: “Guess it works.”
The trainer calls for a break, and the others drift toward the meal tables. Billy stays where he is, leaning against the rack of knives, arms folded. For a moment, it’s just you and him, surrounded by the dull thud of weapons and the hum of the Capitol machines.
“You nervous?” he asks suddenly.
“About the evaluations?”
He nods.
You think about lying, but your throat’s dry. “Yeah.”
He watches you for a beat, then says, “Don’t be. You’re good at this.”
You laugh, short and a little incredulous. “You’ve been arguing with me all week. How would you know?”
“Because I was watching,” he says simply.
It’s quiet for a long time after that.
When the break ends, he tosses one last axe, another clean hit, straight through the centre. Then he turns to you, eyes unreadable.
“Come on, partner. Let’s go make Mara proud.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you follow him back into the crowd.
The waiting room is too quiet.
Too clean, too bright.
You can hear the low hum of the air vents, the faint shuffle of other tributes breathing like they’re afraid to make noise.
Everyone’s pretending not to watch the door.
The Gamemakers call names one by one. Each tribute disappears behind the heavy metal door and doesn’t come back for what feels like forever. When they do, their faces are blank — too blank to read.
Billy’s name is called before yours.
He stands, rolling his shoulders like it’s nothing. But his fingers twitch once, a tiny, restless tell you almost miss. He glances your way, smirk crooked but eyes too bright.
“Try not to miss me,” he says.
“You’re not that memorable.”
He grins, but there’s something else behind it — something that looks a lot like fear. Then he’s gone, the door closing hard behind him.
Ten minutes stretch long. You trace the grain in your knee, count breaths, count seconds. Peter’s across the room, quiet as ever. Ray gives you a thumbs-up when you meet his eyes, but even his smile looks thin.
When the door finally opens again, Billy walks out.
He doesn’t say a word. Just gives a short nod, eyes fixed somewhere past you. His knuckles are white around the strap of his weapon belt.
Your name follows his.
You stand before you can think. The door is cold under your hand, colder still when it closes behind you.
The room beyond is enormous, the ceiling lost in shadow. A single table sits high above, lined with Gamemakers who don’t bother to hide their boredom. The scent of metal and oil hangs heavy in the air.
You step to the centre of the floor. Rows of weapons gleam along the wall — bows, axes, swords, things you’ve never seen before. But your hand moves without thinking, straight for the knives.
Simple. Honest. The only thing that’s ever-made sense here.
You line one up, feel the balance, the weight. Billy’s voice echoes in your head -someone like him always does.
You take a breath, then throw.
The knife lands dead centre.
And again.
And again.
The Gamemaker’s finally look up.
You don’t smile, but you let the next knife spin through your fingers, blade flashing in the harsh Capitol light.
Let them see.
Let them remember your name.
Once the last tribute finishes, the escorts herd everyone back to their own floors. The Capitol rule is clear: no mixing between districts after evaluations. “Rest,” they say, but it doesn’t feel like rest—it feels like waiting to be judged.
Dinner that night is quiet. Mara eats like she’s refuelling, efficient and focused. You and Billy barely touch your food. The sound of silverware against glass fills the space between you like static.
“You’ll know by midday tomorrow,” Mara says finally, not looking up. “Don’t waste the night worrying about it. They’ve already decided who they like.”
Billy leans back, staring at the ceiling. “And if they don’t like us?”
Mara gives him a dry look. “They will.”
He grins at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
After she leaves, you and Billy linger at the table longer than you mean to. The Capitol lights outside the window pulse in slow rhythm,blue, gold, red. You can see the reflection of both of you in the glass: two blurred shapes in District 7 green, neither saying what they mean.
Billy’s the first to speak. “You did good today.”
You blink. “You didn’t even see it.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t have to. I heard the Gamemakers stayed longer than they did for half the others. Means they were paying attention.”
You’re quiet for a moment. “What about you?”
He hesitates. “Axes. Targets. The usual.” Then, softer: “They laughed at the end.”
“Because you missed?” you ask, a small smile tugging at your lips.
“No,” he says, meeting your eyes. “Because I didn’t.”
You want to say something, that you’re glad, that you’re proud, that it scares you how good he is- but the words stay tangled.
Instead, you just nod. “Midday tomorrow, then.”
He nods back. “Midday.”
The silence after that feels less like tension and more like a truce.
The morning crawls by. The Capitol suffocates everyone with stylists for fittings for the nights interview, but with everyone stuck in their own suites, it’s hard not to feel isolated.
By the time midday comes, you’re sitting with Billy and Mara in front of the wide Capitol screen. The scores flash one by one:
Cressida Vale, District 1 — 10
Ronan Kane, District 2 — 10
Lyris Shore, District 4 — 6
You recognise Hank Olson who gets a 6, little Richard, who gets a 4 and few other people who you’ve seen about.
Your name follows: 8.
Billy’s after yours: 9.
Mara lets out a single sharp exhale that might almost be satisfaction. “Good. The Capitol will remember you both.”
Billy glances your way. His smirk is small, tired, but real this time.
“Guess teamwork paid off.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling when you do it.
The results finish off with Ray getting an eight as well and Peter getting an astounding 11. You cannot help but feel happy for the first time since you arrived at the capitol.
After the results are announced you and Billy are whisked into the stylist room to prepare before the interviews starts with Mara throwing open the wardrobe doors like she’s unveiling a secret weapon. Inside is a riot of colour and fabric, silk, lace, things that shimmer when the light moves. It doesn’t look like anything meant for District 7.
“Remember,” she says, pacing like a commander before battle, “the Games are half survival, half performance. Tonight, you’re not tributes you are symbols. You’ll make them remember you before you ever step into the arena.”
She gestures to the stylists hovering nearby. “Make her look strong but polished. No tree bark, no lumberjack jokes. We’re not savages.”
You spend the next hour in a whirlwind of powder, fabric, and Capitol chatter. The makeup smells like flowers you’ve never seen , heavy and dizzying. They line your eyes in dark green and bronze, colours that catch the light and make you look older, sharper. Your lips get brushed with a faint copper sheen that glows when you move.
The dress is deep forest green, sleeveless, the material smooth as leaves after rain. Thin gold threading runs along the seams like veins. It’s beautiful….. and absolutely impossible to walk in.
“Heels,” Mara says simply, holding out a pair that look more like weapons than shoes.
You stare at them. “You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I joke?”
Billy, lounging against the wall, snorts. “She’s going to break her neck before she even gets to the stage.”
Mara shoots him a look sharp enough to draw blood. “You’re next, Stebbins. Don’t start.”
His outfit is less ridiculous but still far from home — black slacks, a crisp green shirt rolled at the sleeves, and a vest the colour of polished oak. His blond hair’s been tamed, but not completely; a few curls still fall over his forehead. He looks… good, in that infuriating way he always has.
When you try to take your first step, you almost topple. Mara sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Again. Heel first. You’re not stomping through mud, you’re gliding.”
“I don’t glide,” you mutter.
“You do tonight,” she says. “Smile like you’re thinking of home, not like you’re trying to bite someone.”
Billy pushes off the wall, clearly enjoying this. “Here,” he says, offering his hand. “Before you break an ankle.”
You hesitate. Then take it.
He steadies you easily, one hand hovering at your waist. “Smaller steps,” he murmurs, surprisingly gentle. “You’re trying to fight the shoes. Just let them do the work.”
You glance up at him. “Since when are you an expert on heels?”
“I watch people trip,” he says with a grin. “I learn from their mistakes.”
You try again. This time, you manage a few smooth steps without wobbling. Mara watches with a critical eye, then nods once. “Better. Don’t slouch. Don’t fidget. And if you fall, make it look like you meant to.”
Billy leans closer, voice low enough only you can hear. “You look good, by the way.”
You blink. “What?”
“Just saying,” he says, backing away with a lazy half-smile. “Capitol might actually like you.”
Mara claps her hands. “All right, lovebirds. Enough. You’ve got two hours to rehearse answers before hair and final prep. And remember, charm them. No one sponsors a sulk.”
As she leaves, you glance at Billy’s reflection in the mirror, still smirking, still infuriating, but for the first time, maybe a little bit sincere.
You straighten your back, take another careful step in your impossible shoes, and tell yourself you can fake it.
You have to.
The stage lights leak through the curtain like gold dust. The air smells like hairspray, perfume, nerves. Every tribute stands in a loose line, waiting their turn, pretending not to listen to the applause bleeding through the walls.
The Careers go first, of course.
Cressida Vale from District 1 steps out in a gown that could cut glass, smile sharp as the diamonds sewn into it. The crowd eats it up, laughing, cheering, hanging on every perfectly practiced gesture. When Caesar asks her what she’s most looking forward to in the Games, she says, “Winning.” Simple, smug, certain. The roar is deafening.
Ronan from District 2, taller, broader, so polished he looks carved. He jokes about training since birth, flashes that Capitol-approved grin, and when he flexes his arm, someone in the audience actually faints. You can almost hear Mara groaning from the wings.
Lyris Shore from District 4 goes up, all seafoam silk and trembling hands. She tries to speak, stammers once, twice, then pulls herself together with a shaky smile. The crowd claps harder than they have to, pity, not respect—but she still earns it.
Hank Olson, District 5’s self-declared heartbreaker strolls onto the stage with a wink so big it could power a turbine. The audience howls.
“So, Hank,” Caesar purrs, “you’ve joked about killing with your looks—, hould the others be worried?”
Hank grins, flashing teeth too white to be real. “Nah,” he says, smooth as syrup. “I’ve got someone back home who’d kill me if I did.”
The audience gasps, delighted.
“Someone special?” Caesar presses.
Hank nods, just a little. “Clementine,” he says softly, eyes flicking toward the cameras. “She’s the reason I’ll come back.”
It’s the first time he sounds real. The crowd melts. You feel something twist in your chest.
After him, it’s Richard.
He walks awkwardly to the centre, thin arms swallowed by his jacket sleeves. The lights make him squint.
“What an honour, Caesar!” he says, voice cracking. The crowd chuckles, but kindly this time.
When asked what he does back home, he blurts, “I write.”
“You write?” Caesar leans forward, curious. “What kind of stories?”
Richard clutches his hands together. “I’m going to win the games and write all about the experiences and people I have met and publish it, from a tributes eyes!”
The room goes very quiet. Then the applause rises. It’s genuine, surprised, warm.
You feel your throat tighten.
Then Caesar turns back to the crowd, that polished grin sliding back into place.
“And now our next tribute from District Seven!”
Your stomach flips. The stylist nudges you forward. The lights seem to grow brighter with every step.
Behind you, Billy murmurs, “Go get them, partner.”
You don’t look back. You can’t.
The stage is waiting.
The stage lights are so bright you can barely see past them. The applause hits like a wave, too loud, too eager, and for a second, all you can think about is how every single person in this room is here to watch you die.
You remember Mara’s voice in your head: Smile. Shoulders back. Don’t look like you’re about to bolt.
So, you smile. Or try to.
Caesar greets you like he’s been waiting all night. “Ah! Our lovely District Seven! You clean up beautifully.”
“Thanks,” you say, and immediately hear how small your voice sounds through the speakers. The crowd titters.
“Now, you work with lumber, yes? Hard work! Tell me—does that prepare you for the arena?”
You pause, brain blanking. Say something strong, you tell yourself. Something clever.
“Uh,” you start, “well… it’s good practice for carrying heavy things. And, um, swinging axes. Not that I’m—planning to swing them at people. Unless I have to.”
A ripple of laughter rolls through the audience. Not cruel—just amused. Caesar grins, delighted. “Honesty! I love it! We don’t get much of that up here.”
You shrug helplessly. “I figured I might as well be bad at lying on live television.”
That gets a bigger laugh. Even Caesar wipes his eyes. “You’re refreshing,” he says warmly. “Most tributes try to scare us. You’re just being yourself.”
You tilt your head. “That’s the idea, right? Be memorable?”
“Oh, you are, my dear. Trust me.”
The crowd applauds again, softer this time, fond.
Caesar leans forward conspiratorially. “Now, your partner - young Mr. Stebbins - scored a nine. Quite impressive! Tell us, are you two planning to work together in the Games?”
You blink. “Work together?” You think of Billy’s smirk, the way he said try not to miss me. “If he doesn’t annoy me to death first.”
The crowd howls with laughter. Caesar beams. “Oh, I think we’re all rooting for the two of you already.”
You laugh too, a little nervous, a little real. For a moment, it almost feels easy.
Then the lights shift, signalling your time is up. Caesar stands, taking your hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, District Seven’s heart and humour!”
The applause follows you offstage. You don’t look back until you’re behind the curtain again, heart hammering.
Billy’s waiting there, arms crossed, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Not bad, partner,” he says. “Didn’t even trip.”
You roll your eyes. “Give me a minute, I might.”
He laughs, quiet and real this time. “They liked you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His voice softens. “I did too.”
You blink, caught off guard. But before you can answer, Caesar’s voice booms again, calling Billy’s name.
He straightens his vest, smirk snapping back into place, and walks into the light.
He strides out like he owns the stage.
The crowd loves him instantly, District Seven’s golden boy in green and black, hair a little too unruly to look accidental. He carries himself like he’s already survived the Games and come back to tell the story.
Caesar stands, grinning wide. “Billy Stebbins! A nine! Tell us, what’s the secret?”
Billy shrugs. “Good aim. Bad attitude.”
The audience laughs. He leans on the arm of his chair like he’s sitting in a bar instead of under a hundred cameras.
Caesar chuckles. “And tell me, Billy, are you as competitive as your partner from District Seven?”
“She’d tell you yes,” Billy says easily, “but she’s the one who started it.”
“Oh?” Caesar lifts a brow. “A bit of rivalry between you two?”
Billy’s smile flickers. It’s barely there, but enough that you see it from the wings. “Rivalry’s one word for it. We’ve known each other since we were kids. She used to beat me at throwing knives.”
The crowd murmurs in delight. Caesar plays it up. “Childhood friends! How charming! Should we expect a little romance between you two?”
You see the smirk form before he even speaks. “If you ask her, she’ll say no. But I’ve always been fond of that stubborn streak. My little bunny bites.”
You freeze.
Bunny.
He hasn’t called you that in years—not since you were fourteen, sitting on the edge of the lumber yard fence, daring each other to jump into the sawdust piles below, before the fight. You’d told him once, shy and embarrassed, that you used to watch the wild rabbits near your house, and he’d laughed and said you had their twitchy nose and their heart.
Now he’s said it here, under the Capitol lights.
The crowd explodes with oohs and laughter, cheers for a romance they think they understand. Caesar fans the fire. “Bunny, is it? Oh, you’ll have the Capitol swooning!”
Billy just shrugs again, but there’s something softer in his grin. “Guess I like reminding her where she came from.”
Caesar chuckles, leaning back. “Well, District Seven might have just won a few extra sponsors tonight! Anything else you’d like to tell us before the Games begin?”
Billy looks out at the sea of faces, and for one moment, the swagger drops.
“Just that some of us don’t plan to make it easy,” he says. His voice isn’t loud, but it carries. “Not for anyone.”
The audience hushes, caught between admiration and unease.
Then the music swells, applause roaring again as Caesar stands and clasps Billy’s hand. “Strong words from District Seven’s Billy Stebbins!”
Billy flashes one last grin before striding offstage.
When he passes you, he doesn’t look right at you, just murmurs, “Didn’t think you’d still remember, huh?”
And before you can answer, he’s gone, swallowed by lights and noise.
You’re left staring after him, heart knocking against your ribs, wondering if the Capitol cameras caught the look on your face.
The dining hall smells of rich food you don’t want to eat. Mara sits at the head of the table, arms crossed, surveying you and Billy like a hawk finally satisfied. Tonight, she isn’t scolding. Tonight, she’s beaming.
“You two did exceptionally well today,” she says, voice sharp but with the tiniest hint of warmth. “The Capitol will notice. Sponsors will remember. I’ve never been more pleased with your performance.”
You bite back a sarcastic, Oh, great. Just what I wanted to hear and force yourself to sit up straighter. Mara’s approval means something but right now, you can’t think about that.
Billy smirks at her praise, sitting back in his chair with all the confidence of someone who knows they’ve just stolen the show. Your stomach tightens, but not because of his performance but because of that word.
Bunny.
You can’t let it slide. Not here. Not after he’s reminded you of years old secrets in front of the entire Capitol audience.
“Bunny,” you say sharply, cutting through Mara’s praise like a blade. “Really? That’s the best you could do now?”
Billy freezes, fork halfway to his mouth. His grin falters. “What?”
“I heard you,” you snap, pointing at him. “You think it’s funny, calling me that—after all these years, in front of the Capitol. Do you have any idea how insulting that is?”
Billy leans back, eyes narrowing slightly, a little corner of his mouth twitching. “Insulting? I was just—”
“Just what? Reminding me I’m a child?” you cut in, voice rising. “Or proving how clever you are?”
Mara clears her throat, sharp enough to silence the servers in the hall. “Careful, both of you,” she says. “Keep your tempers in check. You’ll need to be presentable tomorrow, and this is exactly the kind of drama the Capitol eats up.”
You glare at Billy anyway. “I’m not presentable for him.”
He raises his eyebrows, smirk returning—but softer this time, like a half-apology. “Relax. I was teasing. Didn’t think it’d land like that.”
“Well, it did,” you fire back. “Congratulations.”
Billy shrugs, as if shrugging off your anger is a sport, but there’s a flicker in his eyes—something you’ve seen before, when he actually cares. “Fine. I’ll behave… for now.”
Mara claps her hands, cutting through the tension. “Good. Eat. Rest. Tomorrow, you step into the Games. And remember: no distractions.”
You pick at your food, eyes still burning at Billy. He catches your stare for a moment, just long enough to make your chest tighten, then looks away like nothing happened.
You bite your lip, frustrated, furious, and, if you’re honest, confused.
He’s impossible.
But you can’t stop thinking about him.
Mara stands abruptly, brushing her hands off her skirt. “Enough excitement for one night,” she says sharply, though the hint of a smile lingers. “You two need rest. Early night. Tomorrow the Games begin, and you’ll need every ounce of focus.” She glances at Billy and you, her stern gaze softening just slightly. “Try not to let the Capitol see your nerves.” With that, she leaves, and the suite falls quiet, the weight of the upcoming arena pressing in
The suite is silent, save for the soft hum of Capitol air systems and the occasional creak of the building settling. You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, stomach tight, mind spinning. The word bunny echoes in your head, twisting with every thought of Billy: infuriating, familiar, impossible.
Sleep won’t come.
Finally, you throw the covers back and pad down the hall, bare feet silent against the cold floor. The living area is empty at first, dimly lit by the city lights spilling through the windows.
And then you see him. Billy. Leaning against the counter, knives laid out in front of him, glinting softly in the low light. He doesn’t notice you at first.
You clear your throat. “Can’t sleep either?”
He glances up, smirk half-formed, half-guarded. “Guess not.” His voice is quieter than usual, stripped of bravado.
You sit on the edge of the couch; arms wrapped around your knees. “I’m still… mad about earlier.”
“Bunny?” His smirk falters, replaced by something heavier, almost ashamed. “Didn’t mean-”
“I know you didn’t,” you interrupt. “But it wasn’t funny. Not then, not in front of everyone.”
He runs a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at you. “Yeah.” A long pause. “I don’t know why I said it. Old habits… stupid jokes… trying to act like it didn’t matter.”
“It did matter,” you whisper. “It still does.”
His gaze finally meets yours, soft and unguarded. “You’re not supposed to let people get under your skin.”
“I never said I wasn’t,” you murmur. “And you? You’re supposed to be impossible.”
He laughs quietly, the sound low and real. “Guilty as charged.” Then, softer: “But… I don’t want to be impossible with you. Not tonight. Not… ever.”
The words hang between you. You want to ask him what he means, but the fear of the Games, the tension of everything to come, makes your throat tight.
He takes a cautious step closer. “I know we’ve… drifted,” he says, voice rougher than he intends. “But I don’t want that anymore. I don’t want us to be strangers in the arena, not after all these years.”
You swallow, heart hammering. “Me neither.”
For a moment, silence isn’t uncomfortable. It’s relief. It’s recognition.
Then he smirks faintly, that familiar edge back, teasing. “Still going to kick my ass in the game tomorrow?”
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You bet I am. But…” You pause. “…I’m glad you’re here.”
He nods, the smirk fading just enough to let the honesty show. “Always.”
You sit there a few minutes longer, just breathing, just being, before retreating to bed. The city outside is bright and endless, lights flickering like a thousand watching eyes, but inside the suite, for the first time in days, the world feels… quieter.
You get up but pause at the doorway, glancing back. Billy’s still sitting there, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the glittering skyline.
“Good luck, Stebbins,” you whisper.
He doesn’t turn around, but you hear the faintest smile in his reply.
“Good luck, bunny.”
The morning air in the suite feels different, heavier, like even the Capitol knows what’s coming. The sun hasn’t fully risen, but the sky outside is streaked pink and gold, a cruel kind of beauty. Breakfast is laid out untouched; no one’s really eating.
Mara stands by the table, arms crossed, eyes sharp as ever. For once, she isn’t scolding. She looks… tired.
“All right, listen to me,” she says. “The moment those doors open, it’s chaos. Don’t get sentimental, don’t freeze. The Cornucopia looks tempting, but that’s where the killing starts. The bloodbath isn’t a legend, it’s a pattern.”
Her gaze flicks between the two of you. “If you see something you can grab without running into a blade, fine. Rope, water, a small weapon, something you can use. Otherwise, you run. Head for cover. The arena will be your friend if you let it.”
You nod. Billy leans back in his chair, spinning a fork between his fingers, but his jaw’s tight. “And if we can’t avoid it?” he asks.
Mara meets his eyes. “Then you hit first.”
The silence that follows is long and heavy.
Finally, she sighs, softer. “You two are better than most who walk into that game. You think, you adapt, and you’ve got heart. But heart doesn’t keep you alive out there unless you use it wisely.”
Her voice catches just a little. “Don’t die trying to be heroes. Win by being clever.”
You can’t tell if she’s speaking to both of you or just trying not to let her own voice break.
Billy clears his throat. “We’ll make it count.”
Mara gives a single nod, then turns to the window. “Your prep teams will be here in twenty minutes. After that… it’s out of my hands.”
You stare down at the untouched food, appetite gone, pulse hammering.
Billy nudges your elbow. “Guess this is it.”
“Guess so,” you whisper.
He hesitates, then offers a small, almost uncertain smile. “See you on the other side.” You don’t answer, but when he walks away, you find yourself hoping—really hoping—he’s right.
The prep team enters, moving like ghosts, silent, efficient, their smiles brittle with practiced cheer. They help you into your arena clothes: forest-green jacket, fitted enough to move in, heavy boots meant for running and climbing, gloves stiff with new leather. Everything smells faintly sterile, faintly wrong.
When they finish, you’re alone for a moment. The silence hums in your ears. You glance at the dresser and see it, small, rough, and worn smooth from years of being carried. Billy’s old rabbit carving. You don’t remember putting it out, but there it is, like it found its own way out.
You pick it up, thumb tracing the groove where one ear chipped years ago. A gift from a time when things were simple. When you still believed “forever” meant something.
Without thinking, you slip it into the inside pocket of your jacket. Just in case.
The knock comes soft but final. “Time to go,” someone says.
The elevator takes you down to the landing platform, your stomach lurching as the floor hums beneath you. Outside, the morning light is white and cold. A sleek Capitol helicraft waits, engines purring like some caged beast. Billy’s already inside, staring out the window. He doesn’t say anything when you step in—just gives a small nod, the kind that says ready or not.
The door seals with a hiss, and the city falls away beneath you. From up here, the Capitol looks unreal—glass and gold and glittering lies. No forests, no dirt, no sky that feels real. Just light.
Halfway through the flight, the escort hands each of you a small device. “Tracker,” she says briskly. “Standard procedure.”
You nod, roll up your sleeve, and watch as the needle slides under your skin. A small pulse of heat blooms in your forearm—quick, sharp, gone. Billy winces beside you but doesn’t comment.
When it’s over, you rub the spot where they injected it, the skin already bruising faintly purple. The mark feels heavier than it should—like the Capitol just claimed another piece of you.
Billy leans back, eyes half-lidded. “Well,” he says quietly, “no turning back now.”
You look out the window, at the endless stretch of clouds, and whisper back,
“There never was.”
The helicraft touches down with a soft, mechanical whine. The doors slide open, and the air that hits you is colder, sharper- different. The ground here smells like metal and rain.
Peacekeepers are waiting, blank-faced behind their helmets. One gestures toward a corridor branching off from the landing pad. “District Seven. Separate rooms.”
You catch Billy’s eye for half a second before they lead you away. No words. Just a look, something between don’t die and see you out there.
Your room is small, square, and blindingly white. The tube in the centre gleams under harsh lights, waiting. The glass platform above it is your last glimpse of safety, your last step before the arena.
Mara’s already there, standing beside the control panel. For the first time since you’ve known her, she looks… uncertain.
“They’ll take you up soon,” she says. “You’ve got sixty seconds before it seals.”
You nod, but your hands are shaking. The reality hits all at fast and hard, like a kick to the chest. This is it. The Games. No practice rounds. No do-overs.
Your breathing starts to stutter, shallow and uneven. “I can’t—” you start, but your throat closes. You press a hand to your chest, trying to pull air in. “I can’t—Mara, I can’t—”
Mara’s beside you before you realize she’s moved. Her grip is firm, steady. “Breathe,” she orders. “Look at me. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. That’s it.”
You try. It doesn’t feel like enough. Your whole body is trembling, vision tunnelling. “What if—what if I don’t—”
She cuts you off. “You might.” Her voice is low, fierce. “And that’s all that matters right now. You might. You hear me?”
You blink up at her, the edges of the room sharpening again.
“You’ve survived worse than you think,” she continues. “You’re quick, you’re clever, and you’ve got more heart than half those killers combined. Use it. Don’t waste time on fear- it’s already done its job.”
You swallow hard, forcing a shaky nod. “Okay.”
“Good.” She glances toward the tube. “They’re ready.”
You take one last look around the room- walls too clean, air too cold. Your fingers brush the inside pocket of your jacket. The small rabbit carving presses against your palm like a heartbeat.
Mara’s voice softens. “Make me proud, kid.”
You manage a smile. “I’ll try.”
“Don’t try,” she says quietly. “Do.”
The glass door slides open with a hiss. You step inside the tube, heart hammering, air thick and sterile. The platform hums beneath your boots.
The platform beneath your boots vibrates, humming louder and louder until it drowns out your heartbeat. A cold, mechanical voice begins to count down from ten.
Ten.
The walls around you start to glow, pale blue light crawling upward like water filling a tank.
Nine.
You grip the side rail, knuckles white. You can still feel the warmth of Mara’s hand on your arm, still hear her voice - You might.
Eight. Seven.
Your chest tightens. You force a breath through it.
Six.
The tube is rising now, pressure pushing against your ears. The air tastes of dust and metal.
Five. Four.
Your fingers close around the rabbit carving in your pocket. Small. Solid. Real.
Three.
The light above sharpens, turning gold, burning through your eyelids.
Two.
You think of home. The smell of pine. Billy’s laugh.
One.
The platform locks into place with a sharp hiss.
Blinding light. Cold air hits your face like a slap, carrying the smell of rain and rust.
When your eyes adjust, the world isn’t a forest at all. It’s a city, or what’s left of one anyway.
Crumbling towers lean like broken teeth against a washed-out sky. Streets are split open by roots and time, and a wide, rushing river cuts straight through the centre, the current snarling over collapsed bridges and twisted metal. The Cornucopia gleams like an alien artifact at the city’s heart. It’s a polished curve of silver and steel among ruins.
You take it all in in seconds, your brain scrambling to make sense of it. Every sound is too sharp: the wind howling between empty buildings, the creak of scaffolding, the faint hum of the Capitol machinery that built this graveyard.
Your gaze sweeps across the platforms. To your left — a flash of green and brown — Billy, standing perfectly still, eyes fixed forward, unreadable. A few platforms down, you spot Peter from District 11, tall and steady despite the tension in his shoulders. Ray stands near him, jaw tight, shifting his weight like he’s ready to bolt the second the horn sounds.
But there’s no sign of Richard. No sign of Lyris.
You can’t think about that. Not now.
Your hands flex, feeling the weight of the moment. Every heartbeat, every breath is too loud.
You find Billy again. For just a second, he glances your way, a flash of blue eyes, a flicker of something like understanding and then his gaze snaps back to the Cornucopia.
The horn hasn’t even sounded yet, and the world already feels like it’s ending.
Synopsis: on the 53rd hunger games you find yourself stuck in the games with an old friend.
Contains: Violence, gore, death, slow burn, mutual pining, Billy is kinda an asshole at parts Fluff, angst.
Friends to enemies (kinda?) to lovers. Not proof read
w/c: 7.8k
a/n: here is part 2 it has been such a fun ride so far! pls let me know how you guys are finding this so far lots of love! I couldn’t find a great previous winner to mentor so I just created an oc who could help balance the story! xx
The train is too smooth. It rides like it’s gliding instead of moving, and that alone feels like a lie. Back home, everything was rough edges - bark that splintered, sap that stuck under nails, soil that got into your teeth when you fell. Here, the air is filtered and perfumed with something artificial and citrus-sweet, like someone tried to recreate fruit from memory and got it wrong.
You sit stiff on a velvet cushioned bench that feels like it should belong in some museum, not under you. Across from you, Billy lounges like he owns it, an elbow hooked over the backrest, boot propped on the seat edge. He’s taking up space on purpose. He always has.
His axe-calloused fingers tap a slow rhythm against his knee. Thoughtful. Controlled. Not restless. He’s never restless. Just waiting.
You focus on the window instead. Trees flicker by — real ones, but too far to touch now. Too far to matter. The train is already dragging you toward the Capitol like meat toward the butcher.
The silence between you is a living thing. Heavy. Shaped like every word you didn’t say three years ago.
Billy clears his throat. “You don’t have to—”
“Don’t.” Your voice cracks like a twig underfoot. “Don’t start.”
His jaw works. Not clenched, just thoughtful. He watches you in the reflection of the window because looking directly would be too much like admitting something.
“You think I did it for you,” he says, low. Not accusatory. Just stating a truth he already knows you believe.
“I think you did it for the attention.” You don’t look at him. Looking would mean feeling and you can’t afford that. Not now. “You always liked a crowd.”
He huffs something that could almost be a laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “Right. That’s why I jumped into a death match. Because I love applause.”
“You said it yourself” You respond “One clean match over this ‘slow dying’”
He shifts, leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees. It’s the first time he’s moved like he doesn’t have total control of the space.
“Your brother was shaking,” he says softly. Too softly. Like he’s talking about something fragile.
Your throat tightens. Hard.
“Shut up,” you say, but it comes out a whisper.
“He was trying not to cry,” Billy continues. There’s no cruelty in it. “Trying so hard. But his hands were—”
You slam your palm on the table between you. The sound snaps through the cabin like a branch breaking.
“I said shut up.”
Billy stops but his eyes don’t leave yours. The intensity is boring into your soul.
Your hands shake so you hide them in the pockets of your dress. Fingers tangle around the small carving. The rabbit. The one he made. The wood is smooth from years of your thumb rubbing the curve of its back whenever you were scared or alone or angry.
You don’t pull it out. You don’t need to. He sees the motion, and he recognizes it instantly. His eyes flick down. It’s a tiny movement but in him, that’s a shout.
He swallows. His voice, when it comes, is rough. Unsteady. Not Billy. Not the Billy he pretends to be now.
“You kept it.”
You finally turn toward him, and the look you give him is a weapon.
“Yeah,” you say, steady now. “I keep a lot of things I shouldn’t.”
The train hums. The world passes outside, indifferent.
Billy leans back slowly, jaw tight, eyes darker now. Something bruised sits in the silence between you. Something neither of you touches.
When he speaks again, it’s almost too quiet.
“I didn’t do it to be a hero,” he says. “I did it because I couldn’t watch you lose him.”
Your breath stutters - barely - but it’s enough that he sees it.
You hate that he sees it.
You look back out the window. “You’re still going to die.”
Billy doesn’t argue. Doesn’t reassure. Doesn’t promise.
He just says, with the kind of certainty that sounds like a curse:
“Not before I make sure you don’t.”
The silence that follows is heavy and tense. Billy’s composure and control falls back over him as he leans back into his velvet chair. Your mind does the stupid thing it always does , it fills the silence with a hundred different endings and none of them are good.
‘Not before I make sure you don’t.’
The words loop like a thorn. It should be simple: he volunteered, he’s reckless, he wants to die for some stupid reason. But instead, his voice lands like a promise and a threat. He’s not offering comfort. He’s offering control. Protection. A claim. And that should make you hate him more, but it only yanks at something raw and stupid inside your ribs.
You picture my Tommy’s small hands, imagined how they trembled when he was called. You picture Billy taking your place like he always did when we were kids, jumping in front of some imagined danger, smiling like it was a game. You picture the rabbit in your pocket, the little body worn smooth by your thumb, and for a second the past and the present slide together and you can almost hear the two of you laughing under the trees. Then the laugh becomes a broken thing, and you hate yourself for letting it last that long.
He says he won’t let you die. Does he mean it? Or is it bravado, the kind that keeps men alive for a minute longer before the fall? Or something darker — a plan, a bargain he hasn’t told me about, a debt to someone he owes I don’t know yet? Every possibility becomes a blade and every possibility cuts.
You want to ask him what he meant. You want to accuse him of grandstanding and cowardice and whatever else will make this feel tidy. Instead, you continue to press your fingers harder against the rabbit and pretend your steady. Pretend that you not counting how long it will take before his certainty has to back up his words.
Because if he is serious, if he really means it, then everything you thought you knew about him is wrong. And maybe that’s worse than losing him.
Your spiralling thoughts are interrupted as the train door hisses open and an older woman, Mara you think her name is, steps in like she owns the place.
She’s tall, all edges and angles, her cheekbones sharp, shoulders straight, hair pulled back so tight it looks like it hurts. Deep lines cut along her mouth and across her forehead, not from smiling but from surviving things that weren’t funny. She is wearing loose cargo trousers with a form fitting white shirt. You vaguely remember seeing her at the market. She doesn’t waste time looking at the scenery or at the velvet seats or the silver bowls of sugared fruit left untouched.
Her eyes go straight to you.
Then to Billy.
She reads the room in one second. You can tell because her jaw ticks once in irritation or disappointment or the exhausted understanding of someone who has watched too many kids try and fail to hide how scared they are.
“Wonderful,” she says flatly. Her voice is gravel dragged over concrete. “You’re both sulking. Lovely start.”
Billy doesn’t look away from the window.
You don’t look away from the floor.
Mara lets out a humourless huff. “I’m going to be very clear, and you better listen because I do not repeat myself.”
She steps closer, hands clasped behind her back like a drill sergeant.
“You are not friends. You are not enemies. You are a pair now. Your job is not to like each other but to convince the Capitol that keeping you alive is entertaining.”
Billy’s eyebrow twitches, not quite amusement, not quite defiance.
You lift your head just enough to meet Mara’s gaze. “We understand.”
“No,” she says immediately. “You don’t. But you will.”
She studies both of you one more moment.
Decides something about you she doesn’t say out loud.
Finally, she turns toward the adjoining cabin.
“There’s food. I suggest you eat. We’ll discuss strategy in the morning when you’re not about to cry or murder each other.”
She leaves.
The door slides shut.
The silence returns heavier now, if it’s even possible. And this time, it stays.
Billy gets up soon after without so much of a glance in your direction, picks up an apple before leaving into another carriage leaving you alone.
Later that night you find your room after barely stomaching a bowl of fresh fruit.
Your room is too nice.
That’s the first thing you notice.
Soft lighting. A real bed with a quilt that looks hand-stitched, not machine-made. A sink with water that runs clear instantly. A mirror. A chair. All ordinary things — but here, they feel obscene.
You stand in the doorway for a long moment before stepping in.
Across the hall, Billy’s door clicks shut.
Just that sound sends something sharp crawling up your spine.
You sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees, hands tangled in your hair. The train hums steadily beneath you but underneath it, your heartbeat is loud enough to feel in your wrists.
You pull the rabbit carving from your pocket and set it on the bedside table.
It looks small here. Too small.
Something made for another world.
You lie back.
Stare at the ceiling.
Try to breathe.
Sleep does find you but not easily and that night you dream of home. Dream of the future you will never have.
🙤 · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ꕥ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · 🙦
The train smells different in the morning — coffee, warm bread, something sweet that doesn’t belong in a world where children are sent to die. You dress in silence; the rabbit carving tucked back into your pocket before you realize you’ve reached for it. Habit. Muscle memory. A wound that remembers how it was made.
When you step into the dining car, Billy and Mara are already there.
Mara stands at the window with a mug of black coffee, staring out like she’s waiting for the world to disappoint her again. Billy sits at the small table, forearms resting on the polished wood, a half-eaten slice of peanut butter and jam toast in front of him.
That’s new.
Billy used to hate sweet things.
But he’s eating it anyway in steady, methodical bites. Like food is fuel, not pleasure. Like he’s already preparing to go to war. In a way he is.
He glances up when you enter and nods in your direction. No smirk. No comment. Just… acknowledgement. Quick and controlled.
You sit across from him because there are only three seats and because standing would look like weakness.
Mara doesn’t look away from the window. “Congratulations. You two managed to not kill each other overnight.”
You don’t answer. Billy doesn’t either.
Mara finally turns, sets her mug down, and drags out the chair between you. Her joints make no sound. Her presence does.
“Good,” she says. “Now we talk strategy.”
Billy wipes a smear of jam from his thumb with the edge of his toast — slow, almost lazy. But you notice his posture change. He’s listening.
Mara points at you first.
“Your strengths: plants, tracking, moving quietly, reading landscapes and he says you’re good with a knife. You are not flashy, so don’t try to be. Your power is subtlety. You survive by not being seen until it’s too late.”
You nod. Because she’s right. And because she respects truth over comfort.
Then she looks at Billy.
“Your strengths: strength, endurance, hand-to-hand combat, throwing accuracy, and a face the Capitol will like.”
You stiffen, but Mara doesn’t soften it.
Billy meets her eyes without flinching. “So, the cameras stay on me.”
“Yes,” Mara says. “You will draw attention. Sponsors will like your confidence and your willingness to volunteer. They’ll write stories about you. They’ll try to make you a hero.”
Your stomach twists.
Billy’s jaw tightens- just a small muscle near the ear. But you see it.
Mara leans forward.
“That means you,” she says, turning to you, “do not openly resent him. The Capitol loves drama, not hostility. They want longing. Tragedy. Nostalgia. Use it.”
Your fingers curl around your knee under the table.
Billy watches you. Not waiting for approval. Just watching.
You exhale slowly. “So, we play childhood friends.”
Mara shakes her head. “No. You play childhood friends who could have been more. Capitol audiences eat that alive. Let them think you’re a story.”
Billy’s gaze flicks to your pocket — where the rabbit carving always is.
He looks away before you can call him on it.
Mara continues, tone cutting clean through the air:
“You two are not going to win by force alone. You win by being unforgettable.”
Billy sets his toast down. Finally speaks.
His voice is low. Controlled. Dangerous.
“Then they’ll remember us.”
Mara smiles. It’s thin and humourless. “Good. Make sure they remember you for the right reasons.”
Your heart hits your ribs.
Billy meets your eyes, openly this time.
Not a threat.
Not an apology.
Not a promise.
Something in between.
Something that scares you more than all three.
Mara claps her hands once, sharp enough to cut through whatever was forming in the space between you and Billy. “Eat,” she orders. “Both of you. You are on display the moment we get off this train, and it is never good to perform on an empty stomach.”
You take a piece of toast because disobeying her feels like a bad idea. The bread is too soft, the jam too sweet. Everything here is too much, but you eat anyway. Billy finishes his plate without hesitation, efficient and quiet, like he’s fuelling for something he already sees coming.
Mara watches both of you with a predator’s stillness. When she finally speaks again, her voice is lower. Straighter. No room for misunderstanding.
“Listen carefully. You don’t have to trust each other. But you do have to look like you might. The Capitol will try to pull you apart. Let them try. Use it. Make them think they’re watching something fracture in real time.”
Her eyes move between you, pinning both of you to your seats.
“People love to watch a story break.”
The words settle heavy.
You swallow the last bite of toast. Billy wipes his hands on a napkin. No one says anything else.
Outside, the scenery shifts the woods are thinning, replaced by distant gleams of metal and glass. The Capitol’s skyline rises like something out of a nightmare and a fairy tale stitched together wrong.
The train begins to slow.
Mara stands. “Showtime.”
Billy pushes his chair back, stands, and for a moment his eyes meet yours again, not tender, not soft, just certain.
Then the train doors slide open, and the world you knew ends.
8 YEARS EARLIER
You were nine the summer the older kids decided they didn’t like you.
It was something stupid maybe someone’s dare, maybe someone else’s boredom. The kind of cruelty that grows like fungus when no one bothers to scrape it off. They cornered you behind the mill, where the sawdust fell in soft heaps and stuck to your clothes like pollen.
You didn’t cry. You just locked your jaw and waited for it to be over, because that’s what you were taught: endure, don’t break, don’t make a sound.
Then Billy showed up.
He didn’t call out or ask what was happening. He just stepped in front of you and looked at them like they were something he needed to scrape off his boot.
“Back off,” he said.
One of them laughed. Said something about you needing a bodyguard. Something about how you were “small,” “quiet,” “jumpy.”
Billy didn’t hesitate.
He hit the boy once, clean, fierce and unthinking, and the kid went down in a burst of sawdust and shock. The others scattered like deer, and suddenly the clearing was silent again except for Billy’s rough breathing.
You just stared at him.
Not scared. Not surprised. Just… unsure what to do with the fact that somebody had chosen you. Out loud. In front of everyone.
Billy wiped his knuckles on his shirt, then turned to you, hair sticking out in every direction, eyes bright and wild with the rush of it.
“You, okay?” he asked.
You nodded, but your throat felt tight.
He noticed anyway. He always noticed.
“You looked like a bunny,” he said, a little breathless. “All… still and watching. Like you were deciding whether to run.”
You blinked at him, thrown. “A bunny?”
He went a little red. Looked away. Kicked at the sawdust.
“I mean—yeah. A smart bunny. One that doesn’t let wolves think it’s scared.”
He said it like it mattered.
You didn’t know what to do with the warmth that bloomed in your chest, so you didn’t do anything at all.
Billy cleared his throat. Tried again, lighter this time.
“You okay, Bunny?”
And the name just… stuck itself into your ribs.
Warm at first. Then sharp, when you were old enough to understand what it meant for someone to choose you like that.
His expression changed then, something flickering behind his eyes, something too old for a kid who should’ve still been climbing trees and staining his palms with sap. His voice dropped, low and steady, like the words were carved from the same wood as the trees surrounding you.
“You don’t let people treat you like that,” he muttered. “Ever.”
Not comfort. Not pity.
A rule. A law. A lesson.
One he already lived by.
You remember opening your mouth, to argue, maybe, to say you didn’t let anything happen, that the world wasn’t that simple but the look on his face stopped you. Not anger. Not arrogance.
Fear.
Not fear of those boys.
Fear for you.
That was the part that lodged under your skin and never left.
Billy wasn’t stronger than everyone, but he wasn’t invincible.
He just refused to lose anything he cared about.
Including you.
You didn’t understand that at nine.
You do now.
And it makes everything so much worse.
🙤 · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ꕥ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · 🙦
The train slows long before you see the city, a gradual drag like something enormous exhaling. The trees thin. The sky widens. And then the Capitol rises up in the distance—white marble, glass, impossible angles that look like they’re reaching for something only they can see.
Your stomach knots.
Mara stands just inside the doorway, hands clasped behind her back, eyes sharp as cleavers. “Deep breaths,” she says. “Chin up. They don’t want fear. They want fascination.”
Billy is already at the window, jaw tight, shoulders squared. He doesn’t look afraid. He looks like someone bracing for impact.
The train pulls into the station, and the platform explodes in color and noise—cameras flashing, cheers rising, Capitol citizens waving signs and fabric and things that glitter too much. The brightness is so overwhelming it feels like someone has scraped the inside of your skull raw.
The door hisses open.
Mara doesn’t move. She waits for both of you to choose to step forward.
Billy goes first.
Not with a grand gesture. Not to lead. Just because hesitation has never been something he tolerates in himself.
The air outside smells like synthetic flowers and metal. Noise swallows you whole.
And then—without looking, without announcing it, without making it anything—Billy shifts closer. Half a step. Just enough that his shoulder is near yours. Not touching. Not protective in a way that would draw attention.
Just there.
Like he’s still twelve, stepping between you and something with teeth.
Mara walks in front of you, poised and crisp. “Remember,” she says softly, but the softness is razor-sharp. “The Capitol doesn’t love winners. They love stories. Give them something to watch.”
A group of Capitol citizens rush closer to the barricade, their voices a frenzy of bright delight:
“District Seven! Look how young they are!”
“He’s handsome, isn’t he?”
“She looks hmmm strong?”
Your skin crawls.
Billy’s head turns just a fraction.
Just enough to hear.
Just enough to decide something.
His eyes flick toward you, fleeting and unreadable just before he looks forward again.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t wave. He doesn’t soften to make himself likable.
He meets the Capitol’s gaze like a challenge.
And the cameras love it.
Of course they do.
The path to the Tribute Tower stretches ahead—sleek white stone, banners fluttering overhead, the symbol of the Games carved three stories high like a warning.
You walk.
One step. Another. Forced stillness, forced grace.
Billy moves beside you in perfect unintentional synchrony.
Not touching.
But undeniably with you.
Mara presses a hand to the elevator panel. “Good,” she says. “Don’t look scared. Don’t look impressed. Don’t look grateful.” Her eyes narrow. “You look like you survived once already.”
The doors slide open.
The Capitol swallows you whole.
You don’t get to walk the halls.
You’re herded.
A Peacekeeper steps between you and Billy the moment you cross the Tribute Tower threshold. No warning. No explanation.
“Boys this way. Girls that way.”
Billy doesn’t look back.
You don’t, either.
You’re escorted down a hallway that smells like bleach and flowers, the lights far too bright. A door slides open and suddenly hands are on you. They are professional, brisk, and impersonal. Not gentle. Not cruel. Just… functional.
Your clothes are taken. The dress your mother patched. The boots that belonged to your father before you. They gather everything you were and fold it into a neat stack like it means nothing.
Then the scrubbing starts.
Hot water. Harsh soap. A brush that feels more like sandpaper. Your hair, your skin, the calluses on your palms, everything is cleaned until it feels like they’re trying to wash away the part of you that belonged to the woods.
You don’t speak and neither do they.
It’s humiliation.
It’s erasure.
When they’re finished, they wrap you in a robe that is too soft, too white, too Capitol, and lead you into another room.
Your eyes are immediately Billy.
He’s standing near the window, arms crossed loosely, his dark hair damp and pushed back, skin clean in a way you’ve never seen. The sawdust is gone. The dirt. The half-healed scrapes. The rough edges that made him Billy.
He looks…
He looks like he belongs in the Capitol.
And somehow that is worse than all of it.
He looks up when you enter.
And stops.
Just a flicker—barely there—his eyes scanning you in your too-white robe, your hair still damp, your hands fisted at your sides like you’re bracing for something.
He doesn’t make a joke.
He doesn’t make a comment.
He just nods. Once. Small. Almost respectful.
Like he recognizes the version of you who survived the scrubbing.
You and Stebbins are directed into another room.
The room they lead you into is all glass and light — glittering surfaces, bright colors, sharp edges. A studio made to look artistic, though it feels like a cage with flattering lighting.
Two people sweep toward you immediately.
Your stylists.
They’re dressed in Capitol fashion that looks like it took too many hours and not a single thought — one in layered silk the colour of wet moss, the other in a suit patterned like tree rings. Their skin is powdered, their eyebrows jewelled, their hair shaped into impossible curls.
They gasp in unison like someone blew glitter straight into their throats.
“OHHHH! Our tributes!”
The moss-dressed stylist claps, delighted.
“You are just darling, both of you. So earthy. So regional.”
The tree-ring suit nods vigorously.
“Yes, yes, yes — District Seven is wood, and we want to embrace wood. Amplify wood. Become wood.”
Billy’s mouth twitches.
Not a smile.
Something closer to disbelief.
Mara stands in the corner, arms folded, expression blank enough to be legally classified as hostile.
“Just,” she says, “don’t make them look like toddlers’ craft projects this year.”
“Oh, relax!” Moss says, fluttering her hands. “This is art.”
Tree-Rings beams at you.
“Now, clothes off! Let’s get you in costume.”
You are too tired to protest.
🙤 · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ꕥ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · 🙦
They dress you first.
The outfit is… a lot.
A bodice made of overlapping panels meant to look like carved bark — but polished to a shine that makes it look almost plastic. A skirt of green silk strips, dyed in gradients from forest to springtime neon. Leaves — fake, of course — stitched in patterns that feel too “storybook forest.”
It doesn’t feel like home.
It feels like a parody of it.
Billy turns when they step back from you and his jaw tightens very slightly.
Not mockery or judgment.
Just like he’s seeing what they did to you, and he recognizes that it’s not you.
Then they move to him.
His version is similar with a bark-texture vest, dark green trousers, bare arms (which the stylists swoon over because Capitol people always love the idea of “rough labour” as aesthetic and not survival). A belt engraved with leaf patterns, ridiculous fingerless gloves meant to “evoke the working spirit of the lumber industry!”
Mara massages her temple.
Tree-Rings steps back, hands clasped dramatically.
“You will look splendid together. A matched pair! Nature embodied!”
Moss squeals, “We’ll add FAKE IVY to the chariot! And a fog machine! And—oh! Perhaps a live bird!”
“No birds,” Mara says flatly.
“Fine,” Moss sighs. “But fog stays.”
Billy finally speaks low and Dry.
“Do we get axes?”
Tree-Rings’ face lights up. “Oh, YES! Props are everything. But shiny fake ones — not heavy - the Capitol gets nervous about edge weapons in crowds-”
Billy nods once. He can carry fake. He can make fake look real.
He always has.
You stand side by side now — the two of you reflected in a wall of golden glass — polished into something the Capitol can point at and say woodland charm, young innocence, easy to market.
But beneath the costumes, the scrubbed skin, the shine—
You still look like the two kids behind the mill.
Just older.
Harder.
Sharper.
A handler clears their throat. The moment shatters.
“District Seven. Let’s move.”
Billy steps forward first. He’s not dragging you, nor leading - just moving, and you fall into step beside him like you always did before you learned better.
They guide you down a long corridor that grows louder with every meter, brighter and hotter, until the space opens beneath you into the staging bay beneath the Tribute Tower: a cavernous hall alive with motion. Chariots roll across polished stone. Horses stomp and snort. Stylists swarm in glittering swaths of colour. The air smells like oil, perfume, and nerves.
This is where the Games stop being talk.
This is where the world starts to watch.
The chariots stand in a row, each decorated to scream its District like a billboard. Yours is near the middle. It’s draped in faux ivy, polished wood that’s too smooth to have ever come from the forests you grew up in. Fog seeps around its wheels, pumped by a hidden machine humming nervously under the platform.
Billy approaches first, placing one hand on the side of the chariot. His jaw is set. His shoulders loose, but deliberate. He looks like someone preparing to walk onstage instead of into a death show.
You climb up beside him. The wood is cold under your hands, too perfect, too fake.
Capitol workers swarm, tightening straps, adjusting leaves, fixing your hair back into neat, curated wildness. You keep your eyes forward.
The bay is already full with tributes from other districts.
That’s when you see them.
District 1 — Luxury
Their tributes look like something sculpted: tall, shining, wrapped in metallic gold fabric that glitters harsh under the lights. The girl smiles like she’s already won. The boy looks bored, already scanning for competition he doesn’t think exists.
They don’t look scared.
That’s what makes them terrifying.
District 2 — Masonry, Military
A pair of broad-shouldered tributes in stone-gray armor-like outfits. Muscles carved from years of training, not hunger. The boy meets Billy’s eyes across the hall. There’s recognition there but not familiarity, just the recognition predators have of other predators.
Billy’s gaze does not drop.
He meets it. Holds it.
The District 2 boy looks away first.
Mara, watching from behind the railing, nods once to herself.
District 3 — Technology
Smaller. Thinner. Suits lined with faintly glowing wires. The boy’s hands twitch, counting patterns only he can see. The girl looks sharp, quiet, dangerous in the way people are when they’ve learned to think faster than they speak.
They look like they survive with their minds.
You can respect that.
District 4 — Fishing
Sea-sleek, confident, bodies built for swimming. The girl tosses her hair back like she was born on a magazine cover. The boy smiles easily a bit too easily as if charm is just breathing to him. He winks at someone in the crowd.
They will have sponsors from hour one.
District 5 — Power
Pale, tired-looking, but their outfits crackle faintly with something electric. You can smell ozone. The girl’s hands shake- not from fear but probably something medical. No one offers her help.
District 6 — Transportation
Forgettable. That’s the terrible truth of it. They’re dressed in sleek silver, but their posture is resigned. Lost already.
You look away.
District 8 — Textiles
Their chariot is draped in layered cloth, dyed in too many colours, like the Capitol thinks “fabric” means “chaos.”
The girl is sharp-eyed, her hair pulled back, posture straight.
The boy beside her looks worn thin — not frightened, just used up.
Their costumes are clever, sure but the patterns meant to resemble. Nothing about them feels wasteful or soft.
They look like kids who have already worked a lifetime.
They look like they don’t have time to die here.
District 9 — Grain
A light dusting of flour or fine chaff hangs in the air around their chariot, catching in the floodlights.
It’s unintentional.
And that makes it real.
Their costumes are gold and pale brown. The “fields,” the Capitol would say but the bodies inside them are narrow with hunger.
The girl lifts her chin anyway.
The boy’s jaw is set in the way of someone who hasn’t surrendered, just accepted the math.
Bread never made it to their houses.
Everyone can see that.
District 10 — Livestock
Their chariot smells faintly of hay and leather and sweat no cleaning could scrub away.
The Capitol stylists tried to turn that into spectacle. Fur trim. Ropes tied like harnesses. Boots too shiny to be useful.
The tributes themselves are solid and work-strong, not gym-trained.
Hands that know how to hold a kicking animal still.
Shoulders made from effort, not meals.
They don’t wave.
They don’t fidget.
They stand like people who don’t rely on luck.
District 11 — Agriculture
Sun-deep skin. Straight backs. Quiet fury.
Their costumes are simple with green cotton and linen, dyed with dignity.
And maybe that’s why they look more like people than performers.
The girl’s gaze moves slow, deliberate, like she’s taking inventory of every threat in the room.
The boy beside her stands like a tree, rooted, steady and unmoving.
No one cheers yet.
But the air shifts around them.
They are not here to be pitied.
District 12 — Coal
Last, always.
Their chariot is dusted with black shimmer meant to mimic soot — #except it only makes them look smaller.
Hungrier.
The girl’s hands are clenched on the railing.
The boy beside her looks like smoke- thin, pale, but not gone.
Capitol eyes linger on them the same way people stare at dying fires.
“Tributes — prepare for procession.”
Billy offers a hand up onto the chariot but you ignore it and pull yourself on.
“Remember what Mara said” he mutters harshly in your ear
The horses in front of each chariot stamp their hooves, restless, sensing tension. The lights dim overhead. Every heart in the bay seems to stutter at once.
Billy shifts his stance beside you — just enough that his shoulder brushes yours. Not protective. Not claiming.
Steadying.
The gates open.
The roar hits first.
A wall of sound , cheers and screams and gasps, the Capitol pouring its attention onto you like boiling water. The avenue ahead is lined with thousands of people, glitter shimmering off their skin, feathers, jewels, neon fabrics, engineered beauty that feels unreal.
The horses lunge forward.
Your chariot glides into the street.
District One is already halfway down the avenue, glitter catching on the breeze like falling glass. District Two follows, metallic and monstrous. You can see people leaning so far over the balconies to watch them that Peacekeepers have to shove them back.
Then it’s your turn.
Your horses surge forward with a yank of reins from the handlers — and suddenly you’re moving.
The world becomes motion: wheels rumbling over stone, fog trailing behind, cheers rising in waves you feel in your teeth.
“Smile,” Billy mutters without looking at you.
You don’t.
But you lift your chin.
Lights flash. Confetti falls. A massive screen projects your faces a hundred feet high.
You freeze.
Billy doesn’t.
He steps closer, not touching, but close enough that you feel the heat of him through the ridiculous bark-texture vest. His chin lifts, his spine straightens, and he looks out at the Capitol like he’s staring down something that’s been hunting him his whole life.
Your stylists had told you to wave — gracious, approachable, sweet — but your hand stays still on the chariot edge, fingers clenching the carved wood hard enough to lock your wrist. You’re not giving them sweetness. You’re not giving them anything.
Beside you, Billy raises one hand in a slow, deliberate salute not friendly nor flashy.
His expression is not warm.
It’s not charming.
It’s controlled.
Cold.
Powerful.
And the crowd loves it.
Your name screams through the crowd. His name. District Seven. The forest pair. The quiet girl and the sharp-eyed boy.
Someone throws petals. The fog machine around your wheels pumps harder, surrounding you both in a drifting cloud of pale smoke.
To the Capitol, it probably looks romantic. Ethereal.
You know better.
It looks like smoke after a fire.
You force your chin up. Mara’s voice echoes in your skull: Don’t look afraid. Don’t look impressed. Don’t look grateful.
So you don’t.
Your heartbeat is loud, but your face is still.
The chariot passes District Four’s; the beautiful swimmer boy turns and gives you a lazy smile. Billy’s eyes track him. Not jealous- you don’t think anyway.
Your chariot draws closer to District Two’s. The boy from earlier looks at Billy again, longer this time. Challenging. Testing.
Billy’s lips curve, not in a smile.
A warning.
You remember the mill. Sawdust. The boy who fell.
You exhale.
The avenue curves toward the City Circle - the President’s mansion looming like a white ghost at the far end. The lights intensify. The music crescendos. The smell of perfume thickens until it’s almost suffocating.
And then you hear it:
“Look how he stands beside her—”
“He’s protective—”
“No, no—possessive—”
“Tragic childhood friends!”
Your stomach twists.
Billy hears it, too.
His jaw tightens.
Not in anger.
In decision.
Slowly — very slowly — his hand lowers to rest on the edge of the chariot beside you. Not touching your hand. Not forcing anything.
Just there.
Visible.
Claiming space, not ownership.
A gesture that says: We are not separate pieces.
The crowd roars.
You don’t look at him.
But you don’t move away.
Not yet.
The trumpets fall silent.
The crowd follows, the roar collapsing into a hush sharp enough to cut. A breeze sweeps across the plaza, lifting banners the colour of blood and bone. And then:
President Snow steps forward.
White suit. Red rose. Smile like a blade honed on centuries of obedience.
When he speaks, his voice is soft.
Soft, and everywhere.
“Citizens of Panem.”
The quiet is total.
“Once again, we gather to honour a tradition that has preserved our peace, our order, and our unity for Fifty-Three years. A tradition forged from sacrifice… and sustained by strength.”
His eyes sweep the tributes- a slow, patient survey.
It lingers nowhere. And everywhere.
“Each of these young men and women stands before us as a symbol. Of district pride. Of resilience. Of hope.”
Hope.
The word feels like something left to rot in the sun.
“But hope, like all things of value, must be earned.”
A ripple of unease rolls through the lower districts.
Not fear exactly.
Recognition.
“In the days to come, the Capitol will witness bravery. Ingenuity. Loyalty. Love.”
A pause, smile deepening.
“And betrayal. Loss. Transformation.”
Next to you, Billy’s jaw tightens once - small, controlled - as though he hears something in those words you don’t yet understand.
Snow continues:
“Only one of you will rise victorious. Only one will carry your district’s honour home. Only one will prove worthy of survival.”
He spreads his hands- benevolent.
Like he’s offering mercy, not spectacle.
“This is not punishment.”
“This is opportunity.”
The crowd applauds, obedient and ritualistic.
Not a celebration.
A confirmation.
Your stomach twists.
“So let the world watch, Let the world remember and let the world be made stronger.”
Then, with a final, ringing command delivered like a blessing:
“Let the Fifty-Third Hunger Games begin.”
The anthem crashes over you — triumphant and suffocating.
Fireworks bloom overhead.
Billy does not look away from Snow.
And Snow…
Snow does not look away from Billy.
🙤 · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ꕥ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · 🙦
The moment your chariot crosses back under the archway, the sound dies.
Not fully but enough that the sudden quiet rings in your ears.
Handlers rush forward to calm the horses, stylists scramble to catch falling accessories, attendants chatter in high, frantic pitches
and you just stand there.
Breathing.
Your legs feel like they’re still moving. Like the avenue is still beneath you. Like the crowd is still watching.
Billy jumps down first.
Not gracefully but rather efficiently.
He turns, hand half-raised to help you but you ignore it again.
You hop down on your own, boots hitting stone harder than you meant to. Your knees lock. You don’t let them buckle.
Someone is talking at you.
You don’t hear them.
Your pulse hasn’t decided whether to slow down.
Billy exhales once it’s sharp as if he’s forcing oxygen back into his lungs.
He leans in, voice low so it doesn’t carry:
“Don’t let the adrenaline crash hit yet. Stand up straight.”
You want to tell him you are standing up straight.
You want to tell him he doesn’t get to tell you anything.
But you don’t say anything.
Because he’s right.
Tributes are still everywhere some are shaking, some crying, some laughing too loud. Cameras still hover. Capitol attendants still watch. Strength is still currency.
You school your breathing.
In through your nose.
Out through your mouth.
Billy watches you do it.
Not smug.
Not soft.
Just making sure you do.
Your stylists swarm you both then, tugging at clasps, removing fake leaves, unwinding vines, unclipping shimmering accents from your hair and shoulders. They chatter about “impact” and “visibility” and “iconic imagery,” words that feel like they’re being spoken through glass.
Billy endures it.
You withstand it.
The District 11 girl watches you from across the bay.
She holds your stare.
Doesn’t break it.
You don’t break first, either.
Then a strong voice of a peacemaker sounds:
“District Seven!”
A Capitol escort waves you toward the elevators.
The crowd of tributes parts like a tide.
Your costumes are half-off, your skin still glittering underneath, sweat drying, heart still echoing like hooves.
Billy falls into step beside you, not leading this time.
Just close.
Close enough that if your arm slipped by a centimetre, your sleeves would brush.
But he still doesn’t look at you.
You don’t look at him.
But the thought arrives anyway:
You didn’t look like prey out there.
Neither did he.
And the Capitol saw.
The moment the elevator doors slide shut behind you, the noise dies.
Not slowly but all at once like someone cut a cord.
Your heartbeat is still racing, the cheers still echoing under your ribs, but the space around you is silent. Carpeted. Warm. Wrong.
The elevators door ding open on the 7th floor. The floor dedicated to your district.
Mara stands in the centre of the room, arms folded and expression unreadable.
She doesn’t congratulate you.
She doesn’t smile.
She just looks between the two of you, her eyes flicking from your raised chin to Billy’s deliberate, unbothered posture.
“…You didn’t wave,” she says finally, and it’s not an accusation. It’s a diagnosis.
“I wasn’t told I had to,” you answer.
Mara huffs through her nose. Something almost amused. Almost approving.
“And you,” she turns to Billy, “the salute. That was calculated.”
Billy shrugs. “I know how to hold an audience.”
“No,” Mara corrects, stepping closer, voice lowering, sharp as flint.
“You know how to dare one.”
There is a long, still moment.
Then:
“Good.”
She gestures toward the dining table. It is long enough to sit eight, though there are only three of you. The plates are already set. Silver so polished it almost hurts to look at. Food piled high and glistening: roasted meats, fruit you’ve only seen in pictures, bread still steaming.
Your stomach twists not hunger, exactly.
Memory.
Your brother should have been eating this. Not in this setting of course but his malnourished body needs this. He’s only thirteen.
You sit because Mara watches you until you do.
Billy sits beside you, not across.
Mara pours water, not wine.
“Listen carefully,” she says. “Tonight, the Capitol is talking about you. Two tributes who didn’t simper. Didn’t play coy. Didn’t pretend to be grateful.”
She pauses.
“That’s good. There’s power in mystery. But if you want sponsors—and you do want sponsors—your mystery must look intentional. Not accidental.”
Billy tears a piece of bread. “Meaning?”
Mara leans forward.
“Meaning you two are a unit now.”
The bread stills in Billy’s hand.
Your pulse jumps.
You don’t look at each other.
You don’t need to.
Mara continues:
“You stand together. You train together. You speak to the press together. No cracks. No distance. No history. Whatever happened between you before the reaping?”
Her gaze pins you.
“Leave it buried in the woods where it belongs.”
Your jaw tightens.
Billy doesn’t move.
“Tomorrow,” she says, “you step into training. The other tributes will test you immediately. So you will not go in alone.”
Her gaze sharpens, cutting the table in half.
“You will watch each other’s backs. Publicly. Consistently. Without fail.”
Silence settles. Heavy. Dense.
Billy speaks first.
“So we’re pretending we’re friends.”
Mara’s smile is thin.
“No. You’re pretending you could be. Keep that mystery going.”
Her eyes flick to you, pointed.
“And if you’re lucky the audience will want it enough to save you.”
🙤 · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ꕥ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · 🙦
You force yourself to eat.
Not because you’re hungry — you aren’t — but because Mara watches you with that flinty, unblinking stare that means you are being assessed. The food tastes like nothing: roasted meat tender enough to fall apart under a fork, fruit so sweet it borders on unreal, bread warm and soft. It sits heavy in your mouth, heavy in your throat, heavy in your chest.
Billy eats quietly beside you.
Not hurried.
Not savoring.
Just… steady. Like he’s refueling, not indulging.
When you finally push your plate away, Mara nods once. Approval, or something that pretends to be it.
“You did well today,” she says. “Not perfect. Not controlled. But memorable. That matters.”
You don’t ask if being memorable is the same as being safe.
Because you already know.
Mara dismisses you both, sharp flick of her hand. The room falls into a tired hush — Capitol city lights glowing cold against the windows, the night outside pulsing with neon and noise.
You stand.
Billy stands a second later.
For one moment - one breath - you think maybe he’ll say something. Something smug. Something cutting. Something about how you ignored his hand getting onto the chariot. Something about how you almost shook when the crowd screamed.
But he doesn’t.
He just steps back.
Gives you space.
It’s almost worse.
You walk down the hallway alone.
The air changes as soon as your door opens.
Your room feels like it belongs to someone else, someone who is softer, someone untouched. The walls are warm wood and soft lighting. The bed is enormous, draped in quilts that look hand spun, but when you touch them they are Capitol-synthetic and impossibly smooth. A panel of glowing glass beside the mattress shifts the temperature when you brush your fingertips over it. Another dims the lights. Another closes the curtains.
It should feel luxurious.
It feels wrong.
The silence hits hardest.
No sawmill hum.
No forest wind.
No mother moving in the kitchen.
No little brother breathing in the next to you.
Just quiet.
And the quiet is unbearable.
You sit on the edge of the bed.
The mattress sinks beneath your weight.
You don’t mean to take the carved bunting from your pocket.
You don’t mean to run your thumb along the soft-worn carving.
You don’t mean to feel it like a bruise.
But you do.
You tuck your knees up.
Rest your forehead against them.
Let the room blur.
Your throat aches.
Your chest aches.
Your brother’s name hurts like a burn that hasn’t blistered yet.
You do not cry.
Not at first.
But the silence does not break. And the bed is too big. And the air is too clean. And the world is too far from where you left him standing in the square.
The tears start slow.
You don’t sob.
You don’t shake.
You just… leak.
Quiet.
Salt.
Grief.
You shudder into your knees as a sob finally rips from your throat, the reality sinking in.
You press the bunting to your sternum like maybe it can stitch you back together.
It doesn’t.
But you hold it anyway.
Outside your door, down the hall, you think that maybe, just maybe, you hear heavy footsteps stop. Just outside your door, like whoever on the other side is contemplating entering,
