Hunger games Au! I really want to know more about hunger games au and the roles/positions you chose for them! I'll only be able to read the full fic if Gewis survive but I just love the premise. Or if you want to post a snippet I'll take that too <3
I posted a little snippet from it here, though I think I've reworked that scene since then. Hunger games au is essentially me putting my blorbos + a random assortment of other drivers into the 75th Hunger Games! it's too combat heavy to finish quickly because I'm an angsty-flashback-person at heart. but I've built such an incredible backstory and dynamics in my head that if I don't finish this Sometime I'll be so sad. anyway I love this au. here is another scene from it that I've shortened to avoid any obvious spoilers:
He’s turning his left shoulder, trying to take up less space as he ducks past the crowd, feeling unusually timid, when something hits his right shoulder.
“Hey!” someone says, a blur of light pink, “Watch where you’re going, man—”
And then he turns and looks up at George, his face immediately softening, his lips blooming into a smile, “Hey, George, I didn’t know you were here, too—” Lewis Hamilton, his fellow victor, cuts himself off again, eyeing George. George inwardly curses himself. He must look a mess: a creased shirt, messed up hair and bruised lips.
Lewis’s dark brown eyes are fixated on him now, not moving even as more people pour out of the club he was just leaving, grumbling about him taking up space. “You alright?”
The genuine concern of the question baffles George for a second, the weight of Lewis’s voice, the focus in his eyes. That’s not usually how they ask it in the capitol, where they’re all cream and sugar, that ridiculous, overzealous accent they have, are you alright, darling, barely moving their jaws with a smile and a dismissive glance. George gathers himself, opens his mouth to say, yes, splendid, I was just getting home, see you at the next party. He doesn’t get much farther than a croak, the slightest suggestion of a vowel that gets stuck in-between his vocal cords. He shuts his mouth with a click, his face burning hot with shame, wishing the heavy anchor that’s just docked at his stomach would sink him into the ground so he could disappear, wishing he’d broken that vase after all, fuck, anything but this.
He likes Lewis. He likes that Lewis is gentle, yet as outspoken as he can be. He likes that he dresses the tributes when other victors ask, that he tries to raise their chances when their own stylists fuck up, even though he works for the Capitol like the rest of them, even though he has a mother, a father, a stepmother and so on and so forth until the weaknesses all tangle themselves into a tightrope that all the victors try to walk without slipping. Panem, their country is called, from the old phrase panem et circenses. Bread and circuses: Keep your balance, keep your head, keep your family fed.
“Hey, that’s alright,” Lewis says as he gently steers George to a corner. George flounders for a moment, leaning away from the touch, then remembers: Lewis asked him if he was alright. “Did you take something?”
George shakes his head. He never eats or drinks anything they give him when he visits, afraid that it’s dosed with god knows what.
George blinks at him for a moment, shakes his head no. He’s not bleeding, or cut at all, and he can walk just fine, so. Then he realizes that he can’t speak, can he, so he lifts a hand, shakes it from side to side like ship in a storm, meaning, eh, a little.
Lewis’s face clouds over as he glances back the way George came, where crème de la crème of the Capitol reside, “Your throat?”
George nods, lets Lewis put a hand on his arm and rub, trying to give comfort.
“Alright, we’ll get you home, okay, George? I’d take you to yours, but I don’t want to leave you alone, you okay with going to mine?”
George links his arm with Lewis’s in response, mouths, okay.
(the wip list is here if anyone is curious <3)
