[ MDNI ] [ word count: 9.268 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; VERY dark content; NSFW; Strong Language; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; a lot of overly complicated situationships; Sejanus is a loverboy and that is CANON, don’t come at me; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar/context mistakes you might find find.
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | Life in District 12 never was easy. But after your old friend Lucy Gray comes back from the Hunger Games, bringing with her two strange Capitol boys in peacekeepers' uniforms, you might discover that there's more to fear in your district home than the horrors you were already accostumed to.
Likes, asks reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. This chapter is a little heavier than usual. Please read the highlighted warnings and proceed accordingly. PUT YOUR MENTAL HEALTH FIRST.
It’s always dark inside the wolf’s stomach.
Every night since Lucy Gray came back, you’ve been having the same dream, night after night: You’re in your sleeping clothes, watching over your flock. The dog’s rushing by your side, weaving in and out of the wayfaring sea of wooly backs and ringing bells, when, from far away, you see a wolf—white as the pure driven snow, and covered in blood— Its yellow eyes pierce into you, shimmering white and gold with something like humor, as if he'd found the easiest prey a predator could hope for, and was amused by that fact.
Frightened, you pull the lambs in by your shepherd’s crook, and whistle to the dog, rounding up the sheep you can reach towards their corral.
But the wolf’s already moving.
You look down to pick up a lamb that has stumbled, and when you look up again, the wolf’s gone.
The dog runs, barking, guiding, and the sheep scatter, their bells jangling loudly as they rush towards you, filtering into the corral like water through a dam.
You don’t feel any better.
You're standing up to your hips in grass, uselessly looking around for a predator that might as well be right in front of you, waiting to pounce.
A shiver runs down your spine.
You close the corral, and shout for the dog.
No barks ring out as answer.
You climb on the fence, count the heads, call again. “Ori! Ori!” Nothing. Your heart races. “Ori! Heel, boy!”
Your command rings hollow into the darkness, empty and fearful. No answer is heard.
The silence that follows presses down on you like the weight of the world.
You hop off the fence, landing hard, and stumble through the tall grass, ears pricked for any sound—steps, growling, a bark, anything.
You tell yourself to leave him, that he’s a dog and he’ll find his way back. You tell yourself this isn’t the first time he’s run off and that it won’t be the last. You tell yourself that you love him, but that your family can't afford for you to die.
But you know the wolf is out there.
And not only do you know that, but you know that you could never stomach the thought of Ori, sweet Ori, that licks at your heels and sits at your feet, wagging his tail, dead, desecrated and dismembered by some soulless beast.
Your father might get another of him, but he couldn't get you another conscience, much less relieve you of your guilt.
So you step out into the grass, not brave, but worried, and get six steps from the corral before you look over your shoulder.
The sheep watch you with the placid blankness of a child that watches its father head into war, hoping, though not believing, that he'll give up on honor and turn back around— It’s not honor, though. You tell yourself. Ori's my dog. He's my responsibility. I can’t let him die, out here, alone, without even trying. He'd try for me.
You step further out, brushing through the reeds, letting them slap at your bare legs.
They’re wet with dew, or blood, or both. Something dark stripes the cotton of your nightdress, metallic and pungent, soaking through the fabric like a sin. The whole night smells like it. Like danger. Like endings.
Wrong.
The sky above is heavy with clouds, bloated and grey, and the moon flickers behind them, milky and bruised like the blind eye of God.
“Ori,” You call out again, the word barely louder than breath. “Please.”
The grass is taller now—Up to your chest as you ease down the slope, parting through it with your stock—your field of vision growing dimmer as your lamp burns out in the distance, hanging from the pole by the corral, and the green beneath you just begins to brush your chin as the soil turns slicker and less trustworthy.
Something buzzes through you then: a weird feeling, a sixth sense.
You're frozen on the sloped ground for a moment, heartbeat pounding in your ears. “Ori?”
The word echoes out, murky, as if it had been said underwater. But your eyes sharpen for a moment as you set your sights to your side.
A shape in the field.
Motion amidst the grass.
The wind howls.
The shape moves.
Ori bursts from the grass like a hummingbird, barreling toward you with his tail wagging.
You fall to your knees, arms already outstretched, laughing even as you’re crying, your voice trembling with something close to hysteria.
But Ori isn’t alone.
He’s carrying something in his mouth. You think, a rabbit, or a squirrel. But he trots closer and you see the snout. The eyes. The little teeth.
It’s a wolf’s head.
A cub’s.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Ori drops it at your feet, proud, tongue lolling out of his mouth like he expects praise.
But you can barely breathe, let alone move to pet him. You stare down at the severed head, at the fur and the blood and the eyes, laying cold against the grass that swallows you whole, unsure whether to keep frozen or to make a break for the safety back at top.
The head looks up at you with its glassy black eyes empty of life, frozen in the terror of its last seconds. Its mouth is open, the little razor-sharp teeth still stained with the blood of the last meal its mother must have fed him.
It’s tiny. Too tiny.
What are the odds that it was alone? That Ori found it circling, that he ripped its head off of its little body for no reason at all?
You look at your Ori. At his dark, loving eyes. His long soft fur, black and brown, perfectly dry.
There's no blood on his mouth.
No blood on his fur.
He's clean as he's ever been, soul uncorrupted. This wasn’t a sacrifice. This was a find.
Your gut churns.
You reach down with trembling fingers, parting the little wolf's fur.
The bite mark on the neck is clean.
Too clean.
The bone cut straight, not even broken.
Everything stinks of copper.
Of rot.
Of something wrong, and half-alive.
Something dangerous.
You don’t hear footsteps.
You feel them. Like thunder through the earth.
Ori’s ears perk up. His teeth peek out from under his lips in a growl, soaked in a sort of anger you've never seen in him.
You stand and turn at the same time as the world falls silent.
A shadow rises at the edge of the field, parting through the tall grass like a battleship emerging from the foggy waves. It moves like a thought. Like grief. Silent, steady, huge.
Its fur is white, impossibly white, but its mouth drips red, and you realize then, despite all logic—the blood on its fur isn't the cub’s, or Ori's or any other thing's.
It's yours.
Your hand flies to your throat.
You feel it now. Wet. Warm. Pulsing. A bite mark. A sting. You hadn’t felt it before. You hadn’t seen it. But now it sears, agonising.
You fall to your knees.
Ori barks down at you—sharp, desperate. You try to push him, hands flapping aimlessly across the grass. “Run!” You beg. But he doesn’t move. “Ori, run! The sheep!”
You try to crawl away, try to put some distance between the beast and the dog —between the beast and you— but the pain around your neck overwhelms you, the blood on the grass consumes you, and your eyes are still caught on the wolf.
On its bright yellow eyes.
On its pristine white coat.
On the blood that drips from its mouth and down its chest, not like he's stained with the mark of a kill, but as if it's frothing from the mouth with disease, an illness neither of you can place.
The thing bares its teeth, but doesn’t growl. It holds your gaze for a moment, eyes shimmering white and gold once again.
When you see it huff, you almost think it's laughing.
But it doesn’t give you too long to ponder.
It lunges before you can think any more.
You don’t scream. Don’t try to run. There’s no time. Only the weight of it on your chest, the hot breath, the snapping of bone.
Teeth bracket your neck. Your chest. Your torso. Then—snap.
Silence again.
Your body floats.
Weightless.
But not free.
Because in the flick of an eye you’re falling down its throat, swallowed whole, but not unharmed.
The world around you pulses red and black. Dark. Lost. Repulsive.
You’re in the belly of the beast now, surrounded by heat, slick walls closing in, pressing against the searing around your neck.
You try to breathe and choke on blood. Your arms don’t move. You feel yourself slipping. Slipping deeper. Being digested.
You don’t know how long you’re there.
Only that you're bleeding.
Getting weaker.
And that the end is near.
The dark closes in.
You're pulsing.
Soaked in your own blood, being corroded by stomach acid, your wounds reeking with the saliva of a beast that barely bothered to sink its teeth into you before pulling you in.
This can't be how it ends, God. You think to yourself. Let this thing choke on my bones and die. Let the weight of me bring it down to the point it can't run anymore. Let it be devoured as it has devoured me.
You feel the movement around you.
The wolf keeps walking.
Breathing.
Huffing.
And you're wasting away.
Until you wake up.
In your bed.
At daybreak.
The sun is barely visible through the window of your caravan, the slightest bit of light bleeding from beneath the hill it hides behind, but you stumble out of your bed so fast you nearly tumble into your grandmother’s.
Your breath is haggard.
Your skin is damp with sweat.
Your ears are ringing.
You sink your face into your hands and sit, exhausted, and yet so completely horrified that you can't bear to keep your eyes closed.
The feeling lingers against your arms—the warm, overbearing wetness of that wolf’s stomach lining, squeezing at you, trying to dissolve you down into a meal and nothing more. Trying to reduce your whole existence to the little that he needs from you: fats, fiber, nutrients. When all is said and done, you suppose that’s all you really are.
The thought tears a shiver down your spine, quick and painful like an electric shock.
You jerk upright, standing again.
You need a bath.
The acrid smell of bile, blood and drool still clings to the inside of your nostrils as you step out of the caravan, bringing the first blanket you can find to dry yourself with as you go about your way. The wind howls outside, low and warning, cold as you imagine heaven must be.
You take a deep breath, heart still racing.
Grass.
Rain.
Mud.
Petrichor.
The air is as fresh as the rain that must’ve just fallen. You stare out at the horizon, at the tall grass your dreams had you being hunted through, at the sheep, still sleeping in the makeshift corral you locked them into last night, at all the other caravans standing guard around yours—your father’s, your uncles’, your cousins’, your grandfather’s— and for a second, it’s like you’re waiting for death.
The stillness consumes you, same way you think it must have consumed Lucy Gray, in those long days hiding inside air vents and underground rooms during the games. That frozen horror that comes from half-dreading, half-hoping that death comes at you quick.
You think about your brother and his air gun.
Think of the first time you saw him put down one of your flock: a black ewe you called Yawwie. Barely done weaning litter, she'd caught a fever, and started crying. Baaing. Screaming day and night. She was bothering the lambs, so your father sent Isaac down with the air gun to cull her, and you'd come along, still clinging to his tunic, too young to understand it's better not to see certain things.
He put the gun to crying Yawwie's temple, and told you not to look.
You closed your eyes, and promptly opened them. The pellet was quicker than your eyes could flick. But you saw how the light went out of Yewwie's eyes. Heard how the baas’ died in her open mouth. And stared at the wound left there, gaping and bloody, at the center of her head—You could never look at a black sheep quite the same again. Maybe it was a given that you and Lucy Gray wouldn't last. But when you had watched the games to see her, you found yourself hoping someone would go out and do her the mercy your brother had done Yawwie that day, and put her out quick, before she could think of it.
Despite it all, when she won, you were relieved.
And when you realized that meant you'd have to see her again, all that relief went out the window.
She'd already been the living ghost of your friendship before she left. Now she was the living ghost of the girl she had been. Just as charming and twice as empty.
The airgun is sitting above the door, heavy and threatening even in stillness as you pick it up.
Maybe you could still do her the mercy. You think.
Blood on the ground.
Empty eyes.
Heaven.
But you shake your head.
Or maybe you should take a plunge before you think anything even stupider. Your mind snaps.
You shake your head.
Breathe out.
Keep walking.
You're wading through the grass, the reeds clinging to your nightclothes, smearing it with dew that seeps through the fabric and through to you like sin—It's routine, you tell yourself. you do this everyday, have done since you were a child. But you can’t help but be unsettled.
It's too similar.
Too still.
You blink rapidly, as if it could clarify to you whether you've actually left the dream or not, and though you know instinctively that you have, you keep looking over your shoulder to see if you can spot a blur of white fur coming your way.
Your fingers are tight around the airgun. They remain like that until you're standing at the lake, ankle-deep in ice-cold water, and still hesitant to let it go.
Wolves can't wield guns. You tell yourself stupidly, as you peel the nightgown off of you and set it above the blanket. They can't laugh either, Another voice counters. but here you are.
Yes, here you are.
You barely feel the cold anymore.
The lake’s still as glass, your movement starting the only waves that move across its surface as you enter.
Your breath comes out in clouds even though you’re only half-submerged, drifting to where your feet can’t touch the lakebank mud—You swim a little farther, sink a little deeper, and sit up on a big rock until the water's coming up to your chin. The loose ends of your hair brush the water's surface even as most of it is up in the same style you had on the previous day, but you don’t care. You want the cold to consume you, to pierce through your skin and settle into your bones, even if just for a moment, hoping it'll somehow erase the half-hearted warmth of sitting inside a wolf's stomach from your memory.
But the nightmare clings to you.
You can’t shake it off. You never do.
Your clothes sit folded on the shore, your blanket, wrapped around the gun, draped over a flat stone to catch what little sunlight there is. You could swim to them, if you wanted to. Wrap yourself up in wool, retreating into a cocoon to stretch back into the ‘comfort’ of childhood, and pretend you’re safe right there. But there’s no use in pretending when even your fantasies are tainted by fear.
Nothing here is pure.
Not your thoughts, not your dreams, least of all your reality.
Nothing has ever been pure since the peacekeepers rounded you up and tore you out of Eleven.
This wolf you're dreading never really goes away, only changes coat: First it was those peacekeepers. Then it was the fear of being called into the games. Now it's Lucy Gray Baird, back from the dead in another coat of fur.
You should just accept you'll never have peace and be done with it—Resign yourself to your life of nightmares and paranoia, hoping neither one nor the other comes true. But your chest burns with the idea.
You've buried your head on the sand for as long as you can remember. And it's never helped you —worse, on more than one occasion, discretion was what got you bruised.
Somehow, you're always in the crosshairs of whatever disaster happens to befall the people around you.
Somehow, everything always crashes on you.
Your eyes shift towards the bank—From under the fabrics on the rock, you can see the faint outline of the airgun sitting there, unprotected, unwatched— Maybe something else could crash against you.
You look around for a moment, watching the hill you descended from, trying to spot any faces amidst what you can see of the caravans from over the tall, tall grass.
The only movement is born from the wind, falling from the hilltop and down towards you, light and forgiving, like a kiss. It feels like encouragement.
You think of Yawwie.
Of her screams, her pain, gone in a fraction of a second.
silent, almost bloodless.
Your mind wanders.
You think of the end. Of peace. Of no longer feeling guilty as you walk along your family, burdened with their worry for you.
Of your younger brother inheriting your shoes, walking comfortably in your absence, the cost of your living subtracted from their finances.
Of your older brother finally going out to get married, having children, forgetting there was ever a sister to weigh him down.
Maybe it would be for the best.
You turn your body towards the shore, swimming slowly. The water laps at you with the ease of an embrace, as if its saying its goodbyes to you.
– Goodbye, – You murmur, the breath making small waves across the surface where it brushes the water.
Your toes scrape softly against the stone.
You're at peace, for once.
In the silence, your mind is empty.
Until a crack breaks through the silence. Sharp. Close.
A gunshot.
The sound echoes loud around your surroundings, seeping into your mind and bouncing off the walls of your skull.
Your heart drops.
Your body reacts before your mind does—muscles tensing, legs folding up instinctively. You rush back to your solid footing and sink lower, lips just above the surface, eyes scanning every leaf and tree bark on the bank. The mist hangs low, curling densely around the treeline beside your family's hill like it’s trying to hide something, but the sound gives it away.
Another gunshot rings out, and this one meets its target, the sound suddenly interrupted as the bullet meets something else.
Your eyes lock closed.
Nobody's dead. You pray to yourself. It's just some moron with a shotgun pretending to hunt. Nobody's dead. Nobody's dead. But your mind rushes. You think of Sammy, only ten years old. Of Isaac, not even married yet. Of your father. Your uncle. Your little cousins. God, please let them not have wandered into the woods again. Let them be safe and asleep and alive in their beds, as they should be.
A voice follows the second gunshot, muffled but clear in tone—irritated, frantic. A second one laughs in reply, louder, looser. Careless.
You can’t keep your eyes closed for long. Terrified, they peek open, scanning the extension of the water before you before drifting through the treeline once again.
Low and behold, there's movement.
You spot the hat first.
Dark blue, frayed at the edges, tugged low over blond curls that haven’t been brushed in days. Spruce. There’s a shotgun in his hands, and he’s pointing it skyward, grinning as a flock of startled birds scatter from the trees.
Your heartbeat slows.
It's just a moron with a shotgun.
You breathe out slow and shaky, so relieved you feel your muscles loosen.
Then someone else steps into view.
Taller. Broader. Wearing the stiff blue-gray uniform of a Peacekeeper, but holding himself like the suit doesn’t quite fit. You catch the back of his dark buzzed hair and the sudden fearfulness in his eye as he turns suddenly.
You freeze up again.
The peacekeeper's hands reach for the barrel of Spruce's gun, brows furrowed more in worry than in anger. His first words are too low to catch across the water, but the terror on his face carries all the way to where you float.
You can’t hear every word, but you hear enough to know this isn’t a friendly hunt. Nothing about peacekeepers is friendly. Nothing about Spruce is friendly either.
He jerks the gun away, laughing, and the Peacekeeper glances back toward the slope that leads to your hill.
Your stomach knots.
They’re looking that way.
Spruce swings the shotgun behind his back like it’s a toy, the strap crossing lazily over his shoulder. He hums something off-key—something you don’t really hear, but recognize before it even comes out of his mouth. Billy Taupe's song. The one you made for him, long, long ago—and kicks a stone near the water, where it skips once before falling flat.
– Spruce, – The other one says, voice low and tight, terrified in that way dogs are just before attacking. – You can’t just shoot into the trees like that! There’s people over the hill, they're gonna hear us!
He looks like a dog.
Dangerously harmless like one. All big eyes and panicked demeanor. Hair damp at the temples. Tension lining his back like he’s trying not to hunch under a weight he can’t name.
You'd almost pity him.
But that uniform? That tells you all you need to know.
– The hillbillies? – Spruce laughs, shrugs, casually, like the mere suggestion is ridiculous. – They ain't gon’ do none. Birds were loud, either way. I like the quiet. Got one of them, too. – He grins, all teeth and pride. Lifting the little dead thing in his hand like some sort of prize. – Soon as we get back, I'll put it in the pot to cook. I'll tell you, you ain't never had a stew like the one the Covey make.
– Cook it? – The peacekeeper repeats, appalled. – We’re supposed to ration—
– Ration? – Spruce laughs, slicing the air with his hand like he can cut off the conversation. – What we’ve got barely goes down as it is. I'm sick of it. You want to eat chalk for the rest of your life, be my guest, Capitol boy. But that ain't gonna be me.
The peacekeeper's hands are clenched now, flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them. – What if someone heard?
You hear it too—the crackle of his fear, delicate as ice underfoot.
– No one heard. Ain’t no one out here but us. – Spruce glances over his shoulder, his voice dripping smugness. – Unless you think your little girl ghost is still watching us from the bushes.
Your heart jolts.
They know you’re out here. Or they think you are.
The boy doesn’t respond right away. His jaw ticks. He looks down at the ground—at the mud on his boots, the grass Spruce stepped through—avoiding Spruce's gaze like a devil avoids the cross.
– Spruce, – He warns. There’s real heat in his voice this time. – I mean it.
But Spruce just rolls his eyes, back already turned. – Fine, fine. Pretty lil’ sad girl from the trees is off-limits. – He pauses, smirking. – For now. Who knows, maybe she is around here. Maybe you're the one who's gonna have to put her in the pot.
The older man breaks out in a fit of laughter. Cruel. Crude. Reckless.
You can see the peacekeeper's jaw tick, but when he turns away to avoid Spruce's mocking, he looks over to the lake where you're at. And his eyes widen.
You sink further until the water reaches your chin, pulse beating in your throat. Your eyes dart to the blanket on the stone, the wool folded over the outline of the airgun. It’s not much. You’ve never fired it well enough to hit anything that wasn’t practically in front of you. But if they reach it before you—if they see it—it’s just one more reason to come sniffing around the caravans. And even when you had nothing to hide, it never led to anything but blood.
The boy nudges at Spruce.
The image flashes behind your eyes— your mother's hand being torn from yours. Your father trying to reason. Your brother crying in your arms. The peacekeeper scoffs, raises the baton at you, and when your mother interferes— No. You can't even think of it.
It won't happen again.
It can't happen again.
You won't let it. You can't let it.
Spruce says something you can't hear, his voice drifting down over the lake, and your blood chills. He’s grinning at the bank. At your bank. The Peacekeeper doesn’t laugh. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, scanning the treeline, like he’s measuring distance. Measuring pursuit.
They step forward together.
Your blanket—your clothes—your gun—sitting there like bait.
A hundred thoughts rush at once, trampling each other: If they find your things, they’ll follow the trail back. If they follow the trail back, they’ll see someone. And Peacekeepers don’t need a reason to make a target out of one of yours. They just need an excuse.
You push out of the rock, swimming towards the shore. The sound freezes them both, their heads turning towards you again. Spruce blinks, then smirks. The Peacekeeper’s eyes widen, and he hides, pulling Spruce behind the treeline, but watching, fixated, gun in hand.
It could end here, you tell yourself. You could die protecting your family.
But what would stop them from killing all of you, after killing one?
You can't play this brashly. You can't falter—So you pretend not to notice them at first, staring at the ground when you come out of the water, reaching for your clothes before they can get much of a look at you.
Best case scenario, they scatter as soon as they see you.
Worst case, you guide them away from the hill and they follow you for whatever reason.
Either way, your family remains safe and away from view.
The gun almost falls as you lift the blanket. But you turn your back to them, wrapping yourself in the fabric, holding it, hidden, in hand.
A branch cracks.
You look over your shoulder, but it's the peacekeeper's eyes you meet first—dark, accessing, unblinking. You brace for the flicker of cruelty you've come to expect from men like him, the kind that comes before the threats, before the swing, before the sickness and the rage.
But nothing comes.
He's frozen, a deer in headlights, but what you see in his eyes is not fear, not anxiousness. It's a quiet sort of breathlessness, as if he was trying to anticipate you, but got distracted halfway through. His gaze tracks over you—no, through you—slowing in a way that makes your stomach tighten.
It's not the way people usually stare at you—behind your back, with disdain, almost searing— his eyes catch like a fish on a hook, and for a flicker of a moment, you see him forget who he is.
He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Doesn't look away. Just watches you as if you're something he's not supposed to be seeing.
You breathe in.
Look away.
Look down.
Walk away.
A universal signifier—‘whatever it is that I saw, I didn't see it. I won't tell. Leave me alone.’—You stand up, clutching the airgun closer to you under the blanket, and step away slowly, with your head bowed. Your heart pounds against the metal, hands shaking.
You hear Spruce shifting. – C'mon, Capitol. She ain't saw non’.
You breathe a little easier, but keep walking away from the hill.
– She did. She obviously did.
There's a rustle of movement, a struggle. You don't look behind you, but you can almost see what's going on— The peacekeeper's pulling forward, and Spruce is trying to tear him away. – No. – He insists. The boy stutters in his step. – She ain't saw non’. Let's go.
You keep your pace steady, eyes on the dirt, trying not to hear the scuffle behind you.
They’re speaking in low voices now, too low for you to make out, but their footsteps grind in the soil—hesitant, indecisive. You hate that you can picture them without looking: Spruce’s jittery glances, the peacekeeper’s fixed stare still caught somewhere between knowing and not knowing.
A twig snaps under your foot.
You flinch, more at the sound than the sensation, and bite down on the urge to break into a run. You can feel their attention on your back like the heat from a stove, the kind that burns even when you aren’t touching it.
But it's not from far away.
For some reason, they've gotten closer.
They should have just left. Your mind reels in a panic. Why aren't they leaving?!
Breathe.
Another few steps and you’re in the thicker brush, shadows swallowing you, branches tugging at the fabric of your blanket. Your breath is loud in your own ears. Too loud. You focus on the weight of the airgun against your ribs, the cold press of the barrel, the scratch of the blanket against your palms.
A voice calls behind you—low, deliberate, a warning—It freezes you mid-step.
– Capitol. – Spruce rasps.
You close your eyes. The word drags down your spine like a blade, slow and sure. It’s not a command, not quite, but it has the shape of one.
The peacekeeper's standing right behind you.
You can hear him breathing. Hear the rustle of his sleeves against his sides as he presumably lifts the shotgun to your head.
You don’t turn. You don’t breathe. You tell yourself it’s just his brashness. He's young, obviously. He's probably scared. Doen't want to hang. You wouldn't either. But he should've just walked away.
Spruce hisses something sharp, quick, almost panicked.
Silence swells in the gap between them.
You take a step, tentative.
– Stop. – He orders. You freeze.
– What are you doin’ boy, let's go. She won't talk.
– You don't know that. – Spruce scoffs, tries to pull him back, but you can hear him shrug his hands off. You can hear him stepping closer. Something prods at your back. Cold. Harsh. A barrel.– Turn around.
You breathe.
Your hands are shaking. Sweating around the grip of the airgun.
– I won't tell you twice. Turn around.
You turn slowly, still looking at the ground.
The peacekeeper's frozen, looking at you. His hands are on the trigger, but they shake. For a second it seems like the wind's been knocked out of him.
Spruce rushes forward, forcing his hand under your chin. You look up, jaw clenched, trying not to cry.
– You're Billy Taupe's girl aren't you? – He breathes, harsh, impatient. – Sorry. Used to be. – He looks over his shoulder, at the peacekeeper. The barrel of the gun wedged beside his ear, still pointing straight at you. – We can settle this easy. – Hey breathes in deeper. – Billy Taupe!
The shout echoes around the woods like thunder.
The peacekeeper goes pale, faltering his aiming hand for a second: – What— Are you insane?! Stop screaming! You're gonna give us away!
Spruce scoffs. – To who? Those damn ars that live on the hill? What are they gonna do? Charge me for screaming? – You bristle, but bite your tongue, head still bowed. – Billy Taupe!
There's a whistle from beside you.
Three notes you recognize all too well—Your song. His song. The one he's always singing—The mockingjays repeat it as he walks your way: soft, distant, airy. Everything that he is not.
You catch the blue of the old shirt you'd sewn for him from the corner of your eye. The dark weathered boots that used to be your older brother's. The hat Lucy Gray had you making, without knowing she'd give it to him.
– What's going on? – He hums, eyes drifting through the barrel of the shotgun before they stop on you. You don’t look at him, but you know him enough that you can feel his eyes widening. His face warps into a grin. His hand rises to adjust the toothpick in his mouth. – Honey. – He laughs out the nickname, almost in disbelief. – Honey's giving you trouble, Spruce? – His eyes bore into you, leaves crunching underfoot as he circles you like a hound. – You didn't used to be like this, sweetheart. I thought you were a good girl.
You bite back the curse at the tip of your tongue and stare at the barrel.
Spruce looks over at the Peacekeeper, pushing the gun down. – I told you she weren't gonna do none. Ain't that right, Honey? We're friends of the business. You can keep a secret, right? – He pinches your cheek, laughing with his broken yellow teeth stained over with dark saliva like some sort of monster from a children's tale.
Billy Taupe pushes his hand away, but doesn't ease off. – He asked you a question, Honey. – His voice is gruff. His eyes are dark. He smiles like he's the one holding a gun to your head. – Damn, when did you get so disrespectful? Answer. You're not gonna say anything, are you?
You're quiet for a moment, but it's not out of defiance, it's out of fear. You swallow thickly, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself— It just dawned on you that you're not wearing much, and that if you were to scream, nobody would hear you. – No.
– “No” What, Honey?
– No, I'm not gonna say anything. – You clarify.
He lays an arm over your shoulder, his hand sliding over around your neck. His thumb rests just over your windpipe, index pushing your chin towards him. – I ain't heard you. What'dya say?
– Billy Taupe. – The peacekeeper calls. His voice is low, his brows are furrowed, but he still has his hand on the trigger, as if he needs to be sure he could do something if you were to run away. – I think she got it.
– What? You like her, Capitol boy? – He laughs but the sound is hollow. More performative than amused. – I wouldn’t go for it if I were you. Don’t think you can handle it.
His hand closes around your neck for a second, just enough for you to flinch.
This time Billy Taupe laughs with his chest. – What'dya think, huh Honey-bee? – He makes you look towards the peacekeeper, then pulls your face towards his again. – He ain't your type, is he? Nah. You like you some pretty boys, don't you? – He dives into you as if he were gonna bite you, and you turn your head at the last second, his lips landing on the corner of your mouth. – Aww… what's wrong? You don't like me no more?
Your skin crawls where Billy’s mouth brushed, a damp mark that feels more like a bruise than a kiss. You want to wipe it away, but you don’t move. You can’t show him the gun. So you keep both arms frozen around you.
Spruce laughs behind him, sharp, careless, the kind of laugh that doesn't even pretend to hide the rot in his chest. – C’mon, Taupe. Quit playin’. You know these kinda girls ain't worth it. – He scoffs, looking at you, the disgust clear in his face. – She don't want you.
But Billy only squeezes tighter at your throat, pulling you close enough to smell the booze in him. – She always wants me. Don’t you, Honey-bee? Just don’t know how to say it.
You stare past him, past his grin, at the peacekeeper still hovering with the gun.
He’s still looking at you.
Not at Billy Taupe. Not at the way his hand drags down your collarbone like he owns every breath that passes there. Not even at the outline of the airgun he probably can see you clutching under the blanket. His eyes are fixed on your face, wide, intent, his lips parted like he’s caught in something he doesn’t understand.
You almost wish he’d sneer, or laugh, or spit like the rest of them. Anything you could place, anything you could brace against. Instead, you feel the heat of his stare like it’s prying you open.
Billy tugs your chin again, jerking your gaze back to him. – Tell him. Go on. Tell our friend, the Capitol boy, how you like your men.
You clench your jaw shut.
– Don’t get shy on me now, Honey. – His grip tightens just enough to make you swallow air too fast, coughing against his thumb. He chuckles, savoring it, pressing in closer.
The peacekeeper shifts—barely, but you catch it. His finger flexes against the trigger. The barrel moves, from pointing at you, to pointing beside you, before moving back. His shoulders stiffen like he’s torn in two.
Billy notices too. He leans back with a crooked grin, loosening his hold just to throw his arm heavy over your shoulders. – See that? He’s gone soft for you already, Honey. The poor little pet.
Spruce barks a laugh. – Can't trust these hillbillies. – He scoffs. – Don't know what witchcraft they're doing up there.
The peacekeeper doesn’t answer. He only stares harder, jaw clenched, like he’s swallowing glass.
You lower your eyes again, hiding in the blanket’s folds, heart hammering loud enough you’re certain they can hear it.
You don’t know what’s worse—that Billy Taupe is drunk, angry and touching you, or that the peacekeeper won’t stop looking at you like you’re something he’s never seen before.
Spruce pushes at the boy, and he stumbles forward, gun still in hand. – What’s wrong, Capitol?
Billy Taupe's looking at him, brows raised. – Go on ahead boy, cat's got your tongue?
Spruce pushes him again. – What’s wrong, kid?
– Nothing’s wrong! Stop it, man!
The other two look at each other, Spruce laughs and Billy Taupe shakes his head, his arm tight around your shoulders.
The air around you thickens.
– You lost something here, Capitol? Huh? Whatcha lookin at?
– Stop it, Billy Taupe.
– Stop what? – He hums, spiteful, jaw ticking despite the neutrality on his face. – Stop this? – He grabs you by the hair on your nape, pulls you into him so hard the gun almost falls from your hand. You crash against his chest, but you don't turn your head fast enough to avoid his lips.
Spruce breaks out in laughter.
It isn’t a kiss so much as it is a punishment, teeth scraping, breath sour with liquor. He presses harder the more you pull away, chasing your recoil, like he’s teaching you a lesson for daring to resist.
Your hands are shaking around the gun, blanket slipping down your shoulders. If he feels the barrel pushing against his chest, he doesn't show it. But you pull it back either way.
You can’t breathe with the weight of him, with the crowd of them watching. Spruce hoots behind you, egging him on. Billy Taupe groans into your mouth, savoring your stillness like victory. You drag yourself back, pushing, fighting. – Stop it! – You cough out, pushing at him with your elbows, gripping the blanket tighter around yourself. – Stop! – He laughs against your face, against your neck, his hands digging into the fabric.
You look to your side.
Spruce is standing there, eyes glazed over, lips open in an expectant smile.
Billy Taupe swipes his foot behind your ankles. You hit the ground hard, air punched out of your lungs in a ragged gasp. The blanket tangles around your arms, useless, a net instead of protection. Billy Taupe’s shadow looms over you, and before you can scramble, he’s already dropping his weight across your stomach, your ribs screaming beneath him.
The twigs and the stones and the dead leaves bite at you from under the fabric. Your skin splits somewhere, you feel the sting of fresh blood across your body, heart pulsing so quickly you can't even tell where.
You twist, choke, push at him with trembling hands. – Please— stop it—please!
He grins, his teeth yellow and sharp, you almost fear that he'd sink them into you.
– You like this, don’t you? Pretending to be a little saint. – The words stick to your skin, worse than the spit shining on his mouth. He pins your shoulders down, his elbows digging into your arms, hands forcing your face straight. – This could have been a lot nicer, Honey. This could have been much better if you weren't such a prude before, huh?
– Stop it! Stop it! Please! – You look away, try to move your head. But apart from the jeering behind him that grows sharper, meaner, Spruce’s laugh cutting through like a whip, the only thing you can sense are the toes of the peacekeeper's boot right next to your face.
Your memory flashes before you can stop it.
Your mother's screams. Your baby sister crying, discarded on the ground next to her, as the peacekeeper's circled her body.
It can't end like this, the same way that happened to her.
You can't.
You don't deserve this.
This isn't fair.
You kick your legs.
Try and shake your arms.
You look up. At Spruce. At the peacekeeper. But they're both standing there, quiet, careless, as you struggle.
– Stop! – You scream, the sound startling even yourself. Panicked. Distorted. Guttural. – Please—Billy Taupe—!
His hand falls against your mouth like a stone, and he presses until you can barely breathe. – Do it again. – He bids. – Scream again. See what I do to you.
You can’t move.
Your throat swells tight, like someone’s hands are already around it. The taste of his tongue is still there, sour and rotten, it makes you gag.
His weight crushes into your lungs, ribs bowing. The gun is trapped between your hip and his leg, useless, unseen. Your finger stutters around the trigger. From where it's pointed, you could shoot at his thigh. He'd never walk again. That is, if he didn't die from blood loss. Without a bullet to keep his entire blood system from spilling out, he wouldn't last very long at all.
You don't pull it.
You don't know what Spruce and the boy will do to you if you do. What they'll do to your family.
– Stop moving, Honey. Just stop. It'll be easier for you.
You try. You try to freeze. You try to lock up. Stay still and this might end sooner. But you can't. You can't stop yourself from struggling, even as you try, it's like your body doesn't listen.
– STOP IT! – He screams.
You shake your head involuntarily.
Something crashes against your cheekbone. Harsh. Sharp. A boot.
– What—Spruce?!
– That oughta keep her quiet. – He laughs. You can't see. Your face is swelling. There's blood in your eye now, your field of vision suddenly red.
– Get out of here, man! What is wrong with you?! Why did you kick her?!
– What? I was just helping you out. Ain't you gonna share? – The bastard laughs. Something cracks inside your head—like glass under too much strain. Your head is spinning. Your ear is ringing. – Get off, then.
– What?! No!
– If you ain't gonna do it boy, then I will!
– Fuck you!
They struggle on you. Spruce tries to push him off. Billy Taupe pushes back.
– Stop. – The peacekeeper finally says. – Stop it. Just—Just get off of her. Leave it.
Neither of them listen.
The noise, the breath, the stink of liquor and smoke—it all blends into one suffocating roar. Your heart isn’t beating anymore, it’s hammering, trying to break its way out.
You hear the shotgun drop to the ground beside you. And you feel the barrels chill nearly brushing your left before you open your still good eye.
A blue-gray blur of pressed uniform and panic rushes across from you to pull the fight apart. – Stop it! – His words are an echo of yours. The panic in them the same, and yet so different.
The peacekeeper pulls Billy Taupe from over you so quickly your brain can barely process your sudden ability to breathe.
The sound of your breath is loud against your ears. A desperate grasp. A stuttered cough. The metallic taste in your mouth is underwhelming against the pain, you barely taste it as you turn in a sudden impulse, your face now laying against the shotgun as you try to compose yourself.
But you don't have the time to.
You're curled into yourself for a single second before a pair of hands tugs at you again.
Your face is smashed against the soil. The palm heavy against the forming bruise.
You make a sound you can barely comprehend—sharp, agonized, animalistic. The same sound you'd heard from the sheep before your brother put them out. Before the pellet went in and out of their skulls. Before they met their sudden end.
Let it be sudden, God.
Let this end before I know it.
– Spruce! – Someone shouts. Whether it's Billy Taupe or the other man, you can't tell. But the blanket is ripped off of you in one sudden tear, and you're left lying there, bare apart from your underclothes, until he rips those apart as well.
You feel the cold air against your chest before you can open your eye, and your hand clenches in shock.
You can't see.
You can't breathe.
But you can feel the gun in your hand and the knowledge that if you don't stop it, nobody is gonna stop it for you.
Your hands move before yourself: The grip of the airgun knocks so violently against the side of Spruce's head as you turn that your single ear still functioning grasps nothing but the soundless yelp of his voice stopping short inside his throat and the deaf bang of his body colliding on the soil beside you.
There's a muffled commotion to your other side.
You open your eyes, and you still see nothing but crimson blots and blurred surroundings, but your hands keep mashing the end of the metal against his skull, over, and over, and over in a blind rage.
Your hands are warm.
Shaking.
Bloodied.
His arms try to push at you.
Weak.
Disoriented.
Powerless.
All you'd been just a minute before.
But you don't stop.
You don't stop until you hear screaming. Until two pairs of arms have to use all their strength to tear you off of the mess of broken bone and mush under you. Until you fall back on someone's chest, still swinging, and hear Billy Taupe yelp as your hand strikes him across the face in your confusion.
– Stop. – You hear, in a hushed plea beneath you. – Stop. It's over. Stop. – The words brush against your ears in a breathless whisper. More agitated than fearful, almost soft. – It's okay. It's okay. Stop.
Your back meets the ground again, only this time not harshly.
You can feel someone hovering over you.
Hands on your shoulders.
An arm around your back.
– It's okay now.
– It damn well fucking isn't! – It sounds like a roar more so than a sentence.
Your eyes part open.
The brightness overwhelms you for a moment. You hadn’t realized you were crying until you saw the watery blur swirling over your already ruined vision. But you can see Spruce stand, stumbling over his knock-knees with a face that's closer to a stomped strawberry than the smug, self-satisfied idiocy you usually see in his expression.
He spits red into the dirt, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and his voice cracks into a scream. – I told you! I told you you can’t mess around with these hillbilly bitches, Taupe! I fucking told you these WITCHES ain't worth a fucking DAMN!
Billy Taupe staggers forward, his eyes flicking between you and his friend in a panic, all that overconfident swagger he had just a second ago drained straight out of him. – Spruce— He calls, but the older man cuts him off:
– No! – He looks at you, pointing his finger like a trigger, beaten face distorted with rage – I know what you are, broad! I fucking know it! You and your— Your fucking people— They should've burned you all at the—
– Spruce!
– Shut up! – He coughs, stumbling on unsteady feet, but coming closer. You recoil on instinct, pressed closer against the peacekeeper's chest. – You fucking people— You and your sheep, and your—your fucking witchcraft! You're dogs! You're SCUM!
– Back off, Spruce! – The peacekeeper shouts, his arm tightening around you. – I mean it, man. Calm down! You're gonna get us—
– Shut up, Sejanus! – The vitriol oozes out of him, sliding down his mouth along the blood like rabies. Like Venom. – You don't know none—NOTHING—about these people! You don't know what these WHORES be getting up to behind their closed doors—their—their—their little caravans! You don't know it! She's got you in her spell, already! The fucking slut!
– What do you— You stutter, laughing despite yourself. You don't know where the impulse comes from. Don't know why you say it. – What do you do in your caravan, huh, Spruce?!
– Honey—!
– Jerk off. That's all you fucking do. – You scoff. – You can't get a job. You can't fix. You can't mine. You're a good-for-nothing fucking slob crying about people who put the work in to try and live in these places that you don't want us going in!
– They should've— They should've murdered the lot of you back in eleven! They should've rid us all of you fucking dogs when they had the fucking chance!
– For what? – The laughter bubbles out of you, hot and biting and cruel. More defying than you've ever been in your entire life. – To make more space so pieces of shit like you can get off on hassling girls and doing nothing all day?!
– SHUT UP!
– You SHUT UP! – You cry. Your hands are shaking. You can still feel the imprint of his hands on your skin. – Last time I checked, the Covey were being rounded up and torn out of their houses just like us!
– WE AIN'T NOTHING LIKE YOU!
– You're exactly like us you moron, you just DON'T HAVE THE FUCKING BRAINS TO SEE IT! – You spit, growl, kicking at the dirt behind your feet. – LOOK AT ME! I'M BLEEDING RED AIN'T I?! YOU BEAT ME UP, AND I BLEED! I BEAT YOU UP AND YOU BLEED! WE'RE THE SAME FUCKING THING!
– WE'RE NOTHING LIKE YOU DIRTY FUCKING—
– YOU’RE THE ONE WHO'S FUCKING DIRTY YOU PIECE OF SHIT!
He lurches toward the shotgun lying in the dust.
Billy Taupe curses, scrambles after him. – Leave it, Spruce, just leave it—! Stop it!
But Spruce’s hands are already wrapping around the stock. His face is feral now, dripping blood and hate, his whole body trembling with rage. – You are a dirty fucking whore! YOU'RE A DOG!
The boy holding you snaps, pulling you back, his arm tightening across your back, trying to shield you with his body.
– I’m gonna kill you! – He barks, lower, warning, nearly pleased. – The peacekeeper's back at Eleven will be—
– Do it!
Billy Taupe stutters forward, reaching for you. You push him away.
– Go ahead! You'll see what the peacekeepers'll do to you when they get the chance! The same fucking thing! Go ahead!
– Put it down, Spruce.
– Put it down man, you don't know what you're doing!
Spruce doesn’t listen.
He shoulders the gun, teeth bared, and levels the barrel at you. – Say it again if you're bad, Honey.
You're staring at him.
The barrel inches from your face.
– SHOOT ME! – You scream. – SHOOT ME IF YOU'RE HALF THE MAN YOU SAY YOU ARE!
– Say it again you fucking k—
– SHOOT ME!
The blast shatters the air.
Heat sears past your cheek, the powder burning your nostrils before you even realize what happened.
The boy, the peacekeeper, —Sejanus— his body jerks against yours, warm blood spraying across your arm in a sudden hot mist. His gasp is ragged and wet, right in your ear, before he crumples to the dirt, clutching the hole torn through his shoulder.
Panic cleaves through your haze. You reach for him without thinking, hands slipping over blood that’s not your own.
This wasn’t how it should have gone down.
This isn't how it's supposed to go.
Spruce staggers back a step, already racking the gun again, still screaming nonsense through the froth of spit and gore. He points it at you. Cocks it. Triggers it.
But Billy Taupe lunges, grabbing the barrel, yanking it up. Another shot cracks—into the clouds this time.
The noise rips through the valley.
– What the fuck is wrong with you?! Are you insane?! – He looks back, blue eyes glazed over with panic as he holds the barrel of the shotgun. – Shit. Shit. Shit. You shot the fucking peacekeeper! We're dead! WE'RE GONNA HANG!
You're fucked.
Dead.
Gone.
This is worse than anything you could've done.
Billy Taupe paces back and forth, Spruce standing frozen on the ground, staring at the wound on this boy's shoulder.
– Go! – You push at him, taken over by an impulse you youself can't explain. – Get out of here! Go!
– Honey—
– Drop the gun and fucking leave, Billy Taupe! Go!
There's a sharp sound from over the hill. Loud. Rageful. So thunderous even Sejanus's eyes snap towards it.
Ori.
You try to stand, stumble. – Go!
Your name carries next, shouted, desperate. It's Isaac, your brother.
Billy Taupe’s face drains. He jerks at Spruce’s arm, tugging him back, stumbling over words— We gotta go, we gotta go—
Spruce looks between you.
Between the bleeding boy and you.
Some strange expression flashes through his face as your eyes meet. Shock. Relief. Understanding. You don’t know. But you shout again. – GO!
He listens this time.
Turns. Stumbles over his feet, but turns.
The two of them dash into the valley, Billy Taupe pulling, Spruce following best as he can, both of them looking over their shoulders as the barking and the voices grow closer, closer, until you can feel them coming down the hill.
– Isaac! – Your heart is beating out of your chest. With one eye, you see nothing but red. With the other, you don't see much different. – Isaac! – The peacekeeper's still wailing. Crying. Begging in half-mumbled prayers you can barely comprehend.
You see your brother in the distance, his face twisted in horror as he sees you, beaten, half-naked, bleeding.
You see Ori, quick as the wind, rushing towards you.
And from the corner of your good eye as you turn—a blur of white. Gold eyes. The wolf— it stares at you for a moment. You don’t know how long it's been there. If it'd been hounding you. If it would have came closer, to feast on what was left of you, if things had gone down another way.
But it turns and walks back into the bushes, looking over one last time before disappearing.
Ori crashes against you. Warm and worried and loving. Whining as he noses at your side.
You swear you hear a huff, almost like a laugh from its side of the woods. Your eyes are still fixed where the wolf vanished into.
You don't know what it wanted.
If it wanted anything.
But one thing is clear enough—You won't come out of whatever situation you've just gotten yourself into unharmed.
Not Lucy Gray being one of my emotional support characters (back on my Hunger Games Obsession). Rachel Zegler's performance along with my huge crush on her in general fueled these head cannons...definitely not heavily book canon because of obvious reasons. A mixture of lore, Zegler's own portrayal and my interpretation. As always the NSFW portion is for 18 + readers only, hope ya'll enjoy!
SFW:
-You met her years after her "unofficial" tenth Hunger Games win; a woman on the run, lost, brokenhearted and wondering aimlessly without her covey family. She hardly sang anymore. Humming only to herself from time to time or singing to the birds in remembrance of district 12, growing affectionate of them like she did the mockingjays.
-That was until she found you. She wound up in your district, starved, alone and still shell shocked but a smile on her face. Seeing you brought out peeks of her old self.
"Hey gorgeous, spare me a place to stay? Just for a day, that's all I need and I'm gone."
-Of course you allowed her to stay longer, ingratiating her into your district, it's customs and people. She was clever and cunning enough to slip into a new identity, leave Lucy Gray and the covey life behind--finally forget the Hunger Games as it was.
-She couldn't, at least not without being honest with herself. She was covey through and through and being with you made her realize that she wanted to share what she essentially lost years ago.
-When she told you of her covey and district twelve roots and how she won a game in the past, she was a hundred percent honest and up front. In the back of her mind she wasn't as sure, you gave her a second chance at a true, a true family; Lucy Gray didn't want to lose something--someone she loved yet again.
"C'mon, sweetheart. Tell me something, anything to let me know you believe me, trust me or even turn me in! I don't care just tell me something!"
-Seeing her teary-eyed got you emotional. Even fathoming turning her in twisted your insides, she was simple to trust, love even; Lucy Gray broke down at your silent, yet heavy reaction, throwing her arms around you.
-After you both calmed down she wrote you a song about your heartbeat. She was sheepish about it, whispering the lyrics while holding her fingers at your wrist. That was when you kissed her, an active thank you for the gesture.
-That's what your relationship with Lucy Gray was: soft gestures and honest, explosive words. Not explosive in the sense of destruction, but bold. Lucy Gray was careful now, but bold was something she never let go of; being district 12's first victor branded her a rebel and she knew that wholeheartedly.
-She was still Lucy Gray with you and your family, her new-found kin to share her covey beliefs but on reaping days and when peacekeepers are less scarce than you'd like them, she'd disappear. At times it hurts. You lost cousins, friends and almost yourself to the reapings when you were a child--Lucy Gray herself was reaped and she couldn't at least be there for you.
-When you returned home from watching a reaping one year, she opened her arms for you and held you as you wept. You begged her not to go, how you needed her and she just wasn't there.
"I know, I know and it kills me, my dove," she whispered against your hair. "It's still too heavy for me to be around all that. I'm sorry, sweetheart. Please forgive me."
-Of course you forgave her after more sweet words and another tune remarking how seeing your tears broke her heart.
-As the years went on Lucy Gray grew bold with you by her side, choosing even to sing in front of your friends and family to much praise and acclaim.
-You were her muse, her reason for living and the true love of her life.
-Calls you sweetheart, gorgeous and my dove. If you ever wanted to learn to sing, Mockingjay would also be a name she'd call you.
"Tryin take after me? I'll make a mockingjay of you yet, sweetheart."
-Protective to a fault. Doesn't want to get involved with peacekeepers or any Capital person, but if it's you at the center of the mess, she's making herself known. Snow can't touch her if you're with her; she can't lose you.
-Very affectionate in public whether she's performing or not. Will sing five albums about you if it's not clear to the audience and threaten any man who would question otherwise. You were her girl and Lucy Gray didn't mind getting proud or even a bit nasty to tell people off.
NSFW:
-When you both first grew more intimate, Lucy Gray was careful, literally viewing you as a fragile being not because she thought you were, but because she never wanted to hurt you.
-On days when you were in her lap or as you laid beside her she imagined how you'd fall apart under her fingertips, easy and pliable and delicate as the strings of her guitar. Her kisses grew harder and purposeful as her hands stayed tender at your sides and trembled at the fabric of your blouse as they hovered.
"Lucy Gray--"
"I-I want you, sweetheart--so much that it drives me mad."
"You have me already, you know that."
-During your first time together, Lucy Gray gives. She gives you everything, between your legs like you're the altar she prays and sends tribute to. With every reaction that pours out of you she's gazing up at you with those dark, captivating eyes. They light up each time you tell her to keep going or how good she's doing.
-Praise kink. She loves to receive and give it. That's just how she is, maybe its the performer in her or the constant search of love and comfort after her games but it drives her wild.
-Is a munch. She adores your taste that she has to get creative when she's writing another song about you and the pleasure she's hellbent on giving you. You adore it too, but there are times she overstimulates you.
"C'mon, just one more, my dove," Lucy Gray says, already on her knees for you yet again.
"Let me make you feel good, just one more time," she breathes against your inner thigh as she presses kisses there.
-High-key has a slight voyeurism kink. Pulls you backstage after one of her sets just to hold you against the wall, hunching your skirts up and plunging her fingers inside you.
"Hush now, don't want them to hear us do you?"
"Maybe you'd like that? Want them to see how easy it is for you to fall apart just for me, isn't that right, huh? Don't be quiet while I'm talking to you gorgeous, answer me."
-Falls apart just as easily when you touch her.
-Vocal when you touch her, your songbird always lets you know when you're exemplary.
-Can be a brat. If you want her quiet you'll have to make her.
-Intimate moments are fun with her, never serious, unless you get her jealous.
-Lucy Gray doesn't mind putting you in your place, even shoving her hand down your pants in front of some drunk guy ogling you.
"Think he'll leave you be once I make you come right here and now?"
-Aftercare is just as important to her as sex itself.
-She kisses you everywhere, leaving affirming words in the wake of your sore skin.
-Talks of potential new songs she's written after seeing you in such vulnerable moments.
-Allows you to fall asleep first before she cuddles up and joins you in drifting.
pairings: dark!lucy gray x fem!reader, dark!coriolanus snow x fem!reader, coriolanus snow x lucy gray
summary: you reunite with your dear songbird after the games, but it seems the capitol has followed her home, and taken an interest in the two of you. but it seems lucy gray is willing to share you with a certain peacekeeper, even if you aren’t.
warnings: crazy lucy n corio conspiring like evil doers, manipulation, chasing, primal play?? is that what is called idk corio enjoys hunting your ass down, kidnapping, drugging, forced into accepting a third partner?? nc touching, abuse of power (peacekeeper), power dynamics, kinda cheating (lucy n corio), guilt-trip, jealousy, threatening, self doubt and relationship problems, murder, betrayal
word count: 3.0k
a/n: lol i complain about wanting to write fluff but all my good ideas r so dark 😭 someone needs to give me tips on how to write girls cuz i have no experience would be easier if i was gay boooo!!
he was like a shadow, stuck to your back, always.
you’d complained to lucy numerous times that you didn’t feel comfortable around him when she played at the hob, knowing he’d be there, in the crowd. “sweetie, he was my mentor. he helped me so much in the games, i wouldn’t be here without him. you love me don’t you? so you need to learn to love him too, he’s a good friend a mine. i love you and i gotta get to the stage baby.” she explained as she ran around getting herself and the covey ready.
you were always front row. wanting to be as close to lucy as possible. she looked especially majestic tonight with flowers in her hair. as you listened to her sing you’d managed to forget about the certain blonde peacekeeper near the back. but he hadn’t forgotten about you, nor lucy.
you’d left to get a drink and you’d came back to an unfamiliar tune. you usually knew every song being played off by heart but this was new.
Everyone's born as clean as a whistle
As fresh as a daisy
And not a bit crazy
Staying that way's a hard row for hoeing
she sounded as angelic as usual and the crowd around you seemed entranced.
As rough as a briar
Like walking through fire
This world, it's dark
This world, it's scary
lucy smiled at you once, just once. which threw you off since you usually got a bunch. especially during new songs and songs about you. was this not also about you?
I've taken some hits, so
No wonder I'm wary It's why
I need you
so it is about me! you thought as you closed your eyes, allowing yourself to sway to the music and singing. you’d hoped you wouldn’t miss a smile headed your way.
You're as pure as the driven snow
your eyes flew open as you stared at lucy, she was looking past you and to the peacekeeper. to coriolanus snow. you’d always been a rational person, you prided yourself on restraint but that restraint was hanging on by a thread. you wanted to jam a beer bottle into his neck. lucy was your girlfriend not his. and yet he smiled stupidly towards her as she sang and you could feel your heart clawing its way up. best to leave now rather than stay and hear more of the ever so driven man.
your head was spinning as you slumped to the floor, in one of your finest dresses yet worst mental states. of course, something had formed between the two. she was in the goddamn hunger games and he was her mentor. trauma bonding? he quite literally saved her life, coached her and you did what? sat at home and hoped.
hope could only get you so far.
your hope and faith in lucy gray baird was dwindling as her lyrics swirled in your head. of course she loved him. who wouldn’t? the man was undeniably eye catching. a capitol man. but you’d always imagined lucy staying away from the capitol, despising them. but maybe it wasn’t the captiol part but the man part. maybe she wanted a true life, a home, marriage and children and everything she could wish for.
what on earth could you provide her with?
“y/n?” it sure as hell wasn’t lucy calling out for you and you knew that. coriolanus’s reflection was prominent in the puddle before you as he neared. great, you sneered, would love to get to know you mr peacekeeper. please tell me how you stole my lovely girlfriend from me!
your chest felt oh so heavy as you heard his footsteps in the gravel, determined and unwavering as he made his way to your slumped body. “what do you want? you wanna gloat?” coriolanus stopped in his tracks, gloat? “why would i gloat?” you looked up at him annoyed, “rub it in my face. you practically stole my girlfriend from me.” coriolanus laughed. actually laughed and it made you want to strangle him with his stupid dog tags.
“sweetheart.” vomit. you wanted to vomit. maybe choking and dying on your vomit would be less embarrassing then this. why on earth was this fuck head calling you his sweetheart. “fuck off.”
you didn’t see him coming. and you certainly didn’t expect his demeanour to snap. but the large hand tangled in your open hair was a big slap in the face to your unreadiness. “you of all people don’t get to talk to me like that. do you know who you’re talking to?” you could hear his perfect porcelain teeth grinding at your words. god this man couldn’t handle an insult. wuss.
“what the hell is your- ow! problem!” you yelped as he dragged you into an alleyway. “you need to learn how to respect your superiors. if you’re nice to me, i can make your life easier. doesn’t it hurt? not being able to fully provide for your family? seeing them struggle? do you really think disrespecting a peacekeeper is going to help? i suggest you straighten your act and thank me for even looking your way. there are plenty of other girls here.”
but he didn’t want those other girls. he wanted you. you with the teary eyes and messy hair. you who he’d been seeing in his dreams and during the day. you with the kind smile and curious eyes. you who were so sweet and pretty but mean when need be. the y/n who was stupid enough to spit such hateful words at a peacekeeper. but he’d teach you. whether it be with words and lessons or actions and bruises. you’d learn your place, by his side and lucy’s, and underneath. but with such fearful, brown doe eyes watering up infront of him, the girl he’d heard oh so much about from lucy. how could he refrain from indulging?
his hand reached out to wipe away the few stray tears that fell as his left extended towards your right, which was clutching your head, where he’d grabbed you. “shh, let me help you.” your hand slowly retracted as your heart ran a marathon. the man was obviously unstable, going from a deceptively caring man to violent. coriolanus smiled at your actions, and it freaked you out. he caressed your scalp in an attempt to soothe, “good girl.” he cooed as your apparent saviour approached.
“sweetie?” lucy called out to you as coriolanus withdrew from your personal space. he walked over to her and she let him. he held her hand and spoke with, love? his voice was soft and comforting, his thumb again caressing the back of her hand as they talked, whispered, plotted? god knows, all you wanted was to leave.
was this your chance?
you tested the waters, slow and calculated movements as lucy nodded in agreement with him. but by the time they were done speaking you’d bolted.
but you sure as hell weren’t getting far with these two on your tail, poor y/n l/n. a little dove trying to spread her wings but they were bound to be clipped.
your feet were throbbing and begging for you to slow down. but your brain was in charge for once, your heart which yearned for your dear songbird pushed to the side as your head screamed and urged you to go. she was in league with him apparently. her seeing him corner you and not even batting an eyelash. did she truly care for you so little? did she want to rid herself of you? she could’ve broken up with you and let that be it. maybe the games had twisted her head.
even as you believed yourself to be gaining distance from the two you could hear the not-so distant steps of determined pursuit, headed your way. how would they kill you? slow and intimate? hasty and brutal?
“if you stop running now we won’t be mad little dove!” lucy shouted in warning as you felt yourself momentarily slow at her words. traitor. you thought to yourself as your body involuntary listened, she still had an affect on you. “she’s right, we love you, we won’t hurt you. unless we have to, don’t give us our reasons.”
“shut up!” you screamed. god, i know we haven’t talked in a while. last minute efforts right? maybe he’d listen to you, save you from your tormentors. you should’ve kept your head clear, focused on running. focused on your surroundings and if you had, you would’ve noticed the nearing tree roots, thick and protruding from the ground, ready to knock you down.
you crawled behind the tree, trying to catch your breath as your hands worked tirelessly to provide some form of relief to your aching ankle.
crack.
you’d been found. you fucked up.
“our little dove, ever the sprinter.”
his words had you lurching forwards in an attempt of fleeing but lucy’s cold hand on your ankle dragged protests and cries from your throat as well as you, back to them. “you should’ve listened before, we would’ve been nice. given you some time to adjust, but you can’t sit and think for a second can you?” coriolanus mocked as his hand trailed up your un-injured leg, “that’s okay, you won’t be doing much thinking from now on. we’ll be taking care of you, since you obviously can’t take care a’ yourself baby.” lucy’s voice was saccharine, like honey, and her smile was even sweeter. the familiarity and comfort of her presence was intoxicating, you felt at peace on one side and the other wanted to jump off a cliff. she lowered your guard and coriolanus slithered right in.
the prick in the side of your neck wasn’t painful, but their words were. “you’re with us now, we’ll take care of you, we promise.” and you were stuck, stuck with them for god knows how long.
you blinked away the sleep in your eyes, adjusting to the room. maybe they had killed you? in their own twisted way they’d keep you forever, in their memories and soul. coriolanus and lucy’s voices swam around your head and blended together. you were wrong. yay.
“it’s a bit early for katniss, even if it’s one of her favourites.”
“she should eat something better.”
“better? don’t go all capitol on me now corio.”
he was smiling, you could tell.
“never lucy gray. but she’ll be weak for a few days, proper meals will help her regain some strength.”
you picked your head up and looked through the window, the lake was evident.
“alright, you go grab it and i’ll stay here.”
“why? so you can get more time with her? if anyone should get extra time it’s me.”
“now who was her partner first? oh that’s right, me. you’re acting as if i’m gonna pick her up and run away. if you’re that scared than we’ll both go. take her with us.”
coriolanus’s head whipped towards the cabin and you quickly flopped back down on the bed. you shut your eyes as you heard the door creak open. “gosh, doesn’t she look pretty?” lucy asked, knowing the answer already. “so calm, i liked her better when she was crying.” lucy hit him, “coriolanus snow!” he stroked the side of your face and you had to resist from turning your head and biting his fingers off.
“little dove.” your eyes opened again, turning your head his way tiredly. “we need to get some supplies okay?” you nodded as lucy went outside to gather the baskets she’d left out earlier on to dry. coriolanus’s hand dug into your cheeks as he forced you to look at him, “i told you i’d make you respect me. now listen, if you try anything when we’re in town i will never let you forget it. you’ll know who you belong to every single day. maybe i’ll pay your family a visit? an appointment with the hanging tree for being rebels? stealing?”
you shook your head violently as you began to cry, “you don’t want that? didn’t think so. you listen to me and everything will be fine. your family will get daily help and weekly groceries. they’ll never go hungry again. all thanks to their sweet little girl. lucy’s too nice, but don’t think for a second she’ll save you from me. you’re mine and if you try anything.” he leaned in to whisper, “i’ll strangle her with my bare hands infront of you.” his words were meant to scare you, and they did. but don’t you know? coriolanus snow doesn’t need a reason to do bad things.
coriolanus was wicked and ruthless when it came to what he wanted, if you had any hope of trying to get through this then you’d need lucy’s attention and help. so you nodded. “words sweetheart.” you swallowed your pride, your dignity, and you shook hands with the devil.
“yes, i’ll do what you say.” he straightened up, his white shirt a contrast to his dark thoughts.
“y’all ready to go?” lucy questioned as coriolanus grinned, “yes, yes we are.” he lifted you up and helped you dress, you hadn’t realised the fact that you were only dressed in his own white shirt, dress to you. he handled you like you were the most delicate object. as if he wasn’t hell bent on breaking you, over and over again. till you were fit to his standards. the captiol standards. the snow standards.
his, his, his.
with how obedient you were, he figured you’d do well in the capitol. which was exactly where he was meaning to bring you.
lucy walked in front of the two of you as you made your way through the woods. coriolanus’s hand was glued to your waist as he held you close, afraid to let go. you were at flight risk of course. his grip was tight and bruising. lucy’s humming distracted you at times, if you were delusional enough you could imagine it to be the two of you. your brothers far infront and the covey following. after an amazing afternoon at the lake, heading home for dinner, maybe a performance or the night shift.
your daydreaming was interrupted when you clocked coriolanus’s missing hand from your waist, and his arm now around lucy grays throat.
don’t you remember? you’d do well in the capitol! you were his! but not entirely, no.
not with her in the way.
you were frozen in place as lucy clawed at him before reaching out for you. a plea, a cry for help and aid yet you stood stuck in fear. a minute, two. she’d put up a strong fight, especially when you ran towards the two, pushing and shoving at coriolanus to let her go. but again, you fucked up.
here lies lucy gray baird, singer, victor, psycho.
obsessed? madly in love? you couldn’t think of another word, and as much as you wished to forget her, forget how she’d practically allowed another man into your relationship and let him kidnap you. her lifeless face and hollow eyes made your heart clench. but soon enough she was rolled over, thrown in a pre-made hole and buried. she’d survived the games but no one survived coriolanus snow.
“don’t forget what i said. don’t forget what you agreed to. you said you’d do as i say, i’m telling you to get up and follow me. we’re leaving district 12.” your face was painted with confusion as coriolanus clutched your face, “i’m going back, and you’re coming with me. don’t ask questions, just do as i say.”
and you did.
when he had you say goodbye to your family, a courtesy, a privilege he’d granted you. you kept it short and sweet, no questions just hugs and false promises of return.
when he ushered you onto the train and he wanted you to sit and be silent, you did.
through his time at the university, he wanted you close to him, living with him. and you did.
through his presidency campaign he wanted for you to charm sponsors and entice newcomers. you did.
when he wanted to marry you in a grand spectacle infront of the captiol and dress you up, you did as he asked.
when he held you down on your wedding night after tearing your dress off, biting and marking you down all over, pushing you down to your knees and took you all over the house, asking you to give yourself to him as if he didn’t take you anyways, you did.
you had no idea why at this point.
for your family? who hadn’t reached out in so long, even when they promised to talk to you every day? coriolanus had them all arrested, punished and hung for inciting riots and uprisings.
for your friends whom listened to your concerns of the capitol peacekeeper who hovered and didn’t make you feel crazy? each of them ended up dead in many different ways, hung, shot, a mugging gone wrong.
you didn’t know at this point and when you looked in the mirror you didn’t recognise the girl who stared back. a captiol sheep, dressed up in the finest silk dresses and slick heels yet the filth underneath the finery, jewels, and makeup weighed you down. each time he touched you, kissed you, fucked you, it felt like a peace of yourself was thrown away.
and as you clutched your swelling stomach, you couldn’t help but feel pity for baby number four.
maybe you’d grow up and find love.
maybe i’ll be able to take you all away from him.
maybe we’ll heal.
you thought, but in the back of your head, a little voice wouldn’t shut up.
would you believe if i said she’s my fav character? slight nsfw
473 words
-The moment she sees you she files you under “special“
-She loves to observe you, the way you move, the way you listen, the way you react to her songs..
-She treats filrting like a performance
-”Sweetheart sit with me, you make the air feel lighter“, ”Careful lookin at me like that, darlin i fall fast“
-Her compliments are so genuine it makes your heart melt
-She loves gift giving, a wildflower tucked behind your ear, a ribbon tied around your wrist, a small carved charm from the covey, a lyric scribbled just for you
-If she starts giving you small trinkets that´s how you know you´ve won her over.
-She will write you songs but not right away. Once she´s sure you´re safe in her heart, the song pours out of her.
-You´re the only person she´s ever been nervous to sing to.
-Lucy Gray is genlte in how she touches you
-Fingers brushing your jaw, hands sliding into yours, leaning against you when she laughs, linking pinkies, resting her head on your shoulder while she hums
-She touches you like you´re something delicate
-But she´s bold when she kisses you
-She´ll grab you by the waist, pull you in, and kiss you like she´s daring the whole world to watch
-Then she´ll grin against your lips, "Told you I´d make you blush."
-Loyal in a way that shocks people
-Once Lucy Gray loves someone, her loyalty becomes a steel thread.
-She´ll defend you, sing for you, protect you.
-It´s very important for her that you get along with the covey
-When it comes to jealousy, Lucy Gray doesn´t get angry
-If someone is flirting with you, she´ll slide an arm through yours and take you away from the situation
-She trusts you with everything, you are her bestfriend
-When you´re sad she´ll sit beside you, pull you close, and hum a slow covey tune until your breath even outs
-Her voice is soft and peaceful like sunlight warming through leaves
-Freedom is important for her, she will never hold you down or trap you
NSFW STARTS HERE
-She is the one who usually initiates
-Huge praise kink, loves both giving and receiving it
-Sex with her usually involves laughing too, she wants you to feel comfortable with her
-Goes down on you like there´s no tomorrow
-Soft dom, she loves to guide you
-She´ll pin your wrists above your head and grin down at you
-"Let me take care of you sweetheart"
-If you want to take control she´s equally undone by that
-Lucy Gray loves slow, exploring touches; fingers tracing the inside of your thigh, hands running through your hair, nails dragging gently down your back
-Aftercare is heavenly, she strokes your hair, kisses your forehead and sways you gently while humming
Request: Could you do a Coriolanus Snow x fem! Reader where the reader volunteers as tribute for her younger sister Maude Ivory and they reunite later in either the hob or in the meadow?
Pairing, Coriolanus Snow x fem!sister, platonic!lucy gray x fem!reader, sister!maude ivory x fem!reader
Word count: 2.4k
Warnings: violence, ptsd, flashbacks to the games, blood,
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The meadow was alive with music, laughter, and the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. Your family—The Covey had gathered, as they always did when the weather was nice like this, playing their instruments, singing old songs, and letting the melodies dance on the breeze. Maude Ivory twirled barefoot through the grass, her laughter high and sweet as she tried to teach Shamus, their old goat, to follow her lead.
You sat a little apart from them, Maude Ivory’s yellow dress spread across your lap, needle and thread moving instinctively through the fabric. The dress had torn near the hem—probably from one of her many adventures climbing trees or racing through the Seam. Mending things had always been your way of keeping the world together, even when it threatened to fall apart.
Your hands stilled. The stitch was uneven. You’d never made mistakes like that before.
The memory crept in, unbidden, as your fingers trembled over the fabric. Your mind replaying the moment she was almost taken from your family. Taken from you.
“Maude Ivory Baird.”
The name rang out across the square. A sharp intake of breath. A beat of silence. Then the wind carried the sound of her quiet, startled gasp.
Before she could even step forward, your voice rang out, clear and unwavering.
“I volunteer!”
Maude Ivory’s small hands clutched at your skirt, her pale curls wild in the summer heat, her face twisted in confusion.
“No—no, you can’t—”
“It’s done, Maude Ivory,” You bent down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You have to take care of everyone while I’m gone, alright?”
You hadn’t let her see your fear. But it had been there, deep in your bones, setting your blood cold as the Peacekeepers took you away. Away from your family, your home. You swore you’d never be back.
The sound of a tune box brought you back. You exhaled shakily, forcing your hands steady as you returned to the stitches. One thread at a time, one piece at a time—keep the world together. But the past still pulled at the edges of your mind, unraveling everything.
The Capitol had been too bright. Too loud. Too cruel in its beauty.
You had stood stiffly across from your mentor, chained to the table. He was there supposed to ask about you, interviewing you.
Him. Coriolanus Snow.
He was only a student, but there was something in his pale blue gaze that made your stomach turn. He smiled, polite, charming, watching you like you were an instrument waiting to be played. And you couldn’t help but flush under his gaze.
“You’re a musician?” he’d asked, sipping his wine.
“I am,” you’d answered carefully.
“Then play for them. That’s how you win their favor. That with how much you love your sister. They’ll eat it up and sponsor you,”
You’d wanted to snap at him, to tell him you weren’t there to put on a show. But your mind had screamed at you to survive, to do whatever it took. So you had. You played. You sang. The Capitol had eaten it up like it was nothing more than another performance.
But later, before he left the zoo where you were being held, you had found him in a quieter moment. Your hands grasping for his through the bars as the desperation clawed at your throat.
“Coriolanus—please.” The words had felt foreign on your tongue, your pride screaming at you to stop. But Maude Ivory’s face, safe at home, had been more important than pride. “They’ll be watching me. They like me. That has to mean something. Just—just tell me what to do.”
He had studied you for a long moment, as if weighing his options. “Preform,” he said, “charm them as you charmed me,”
Your breath hitched as you remembered everything. The crowds. Barely being fed. Coriolanus coming and giving you what scraps he could bring. And the night the games started.
Bright lights, roaring crowds, extravagant feasts that made you sick. The dress they put you in sparkled under the stage lights as you played your guitar, your voice smooth, your smile charming. Because you had to make them love you. That was how you survived.
That was what Coriolanus had told you.
He watched you differently than the others did. Where the Capitol saw entertainment, Coriolanus saw something else. He saw you as a person to help, not an animal. He cared. He cared for you.
You had fallen for him slowly, then all at once.
He wasn’t kind, not in the way you had always imagined love to be. He was sharp edges and careful ambition, but with you, he softened—just enough. When no one was watching, he touched you like you were something fragile. He had kissed you in the dim light of a Capitol, whispered promises you wanted so badly to believe.
“Win.” He had said so firmly. His hands had cradled your face, his forehead pressed against yours through the bars of the zoo. “Win, and we’ll find a way. I’ll find a way.”
You blinked hard, pushing the memory away as your stitches blurred.
Maude Ivory called your name, drawing you back to the present.
“You’re almost done, right?” She plopped down beside you, eyes bright, oblivious to the ghosts that haunted you. And you’ve never been so grateful to take something on.
Who knows what would’ve happened if your little sister went in instead of you. You’d never want her to experience what you had. The nightmares and reminders that plagued you each day.
“Almost,” you murmured, but your fingers curled tightly around the fabric.
Almost wasn’t the same as whole.
The meadow was safe, the music was warm, but the arena still lived in your mind. The blood, the fear, the way your hands had gripped a weapon meant for survival.
The first time you killed someone, you hadn’t even realized what you were doing until it was over.
It had been instinct, a moment of blurred desperation. The other tribute had lunged, and you had reacted. The knife in your hand had sunk deep. Their eyes had gone wide with shock. Then empty.
The cannon had sounded.
You had stood there, shaking, your hands wet with something warm and red.
And then you had done what you had always done. What you had learned in the Covey. What you did for your family—for your sister.
You had stitched yourself back together. Piece by piece. Pretended you weren’t breaking. Because if you didn’t, everything would just fall apart.
You had sung when they asked. Smiled when they wanted you to. And when the final cannon echoed through the ruins of the arena, you had stood alone.
The lone victor.
The needle slipped in your grasp, pricking your finger. You hissed, staring at the tiny bead of blood welling up on your skin.
“You’re here now.”
Maude Ivory’s voice was quiet, but firm. Her smaller hand rested over yours, grounding you. As if she saw what was replaying in your mind.
You swallowed hard, looking at her, at the soft yellow dress she loved so much, at the meadow where she danced and laughed like she hadn’t almost been lost to the Hunger Games.
The past could not be undone. The stitches would never be perfect. But Maude Ivory was here. Safe. Alive. And that was enough.
You took a steadying breath and picked up the needle once more.
Maude Ivory squeezed your hand again, pressing a kiss to your cheek before she skipped back to the others, her laughter echoing in the meadow.
You watched her go, your fingers still working on the dress, but the weight of the memories clung to you.
You watched Lucy Gray disappear into the distance, her teasing laughter still echoing in the air, and your fingers continued their work on the dress, though your mind was far from the task at hand.
The weight of the past, the Games, and everything that had led you here lingered like a shadow, but it wasn’t long before a familiar voice broke the quiet, drawing your attention.
“I swear, I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be so focused on mending a dress. Look at you—like the whole world is in those stitches.”
Your heart leaped in your chest at the sound of that casual, teasing tone. You didn’t even need to look up to know who it was.
Coriolanus Snow. Coryo, as you’d come to call him, stood there, leaning against a tree with that mischievous grin playing on his lips. His sharp eyes held something tender, something rare, that made your chest tighten in a way you hadn’t expected. He hadn’t just shown up by coincidence. No, this had Lucy Gray written all over it.
But you didn’t dare question it. Or your grinning cousin who was standing just a few feet behind him.
You hadn’t expected to see him here—of all places. District 12. The Meadow. In this moment, in the calm after everything had felt like chaos. Like the worst storm and he was the light to bring you back.
For a moment, you couldn’t move. You just stared at him, surprised, but then a relief so deep flooded through you that it left you breathless.
Without thinking, you were on your feet, the dress abandoned on the grass as you rushed toward him, the world around you blurring into the background.
“What are you doing here?” Your words were a mix of disbelief and joy, the laugh that escaped you carrying all the weight of the relief you felt.
Coriolanus chuckled, stepping forward as you closed the distance. His eyes were playful, but there was something else in them now, something softer.
“It’s my day off. They caught me cheating in the games…the snakes….anyways they decided time as a peacekeeper was enough. I asked them to send me to Twelve. So I could see you again, make sure you were safe. ” he said, shrugging slightly, as though this was the most normal thing in the world.
His words hit you like a punch to the chest, the promise he’d made ringing in your ears. It had seemed like another hollow thing, another Capitol lie, but here he was, standing in front of you, as real as the ground beneath your feet.
You didn’t waste any more time. You threw your arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug, your chest pressed against his, and you felt his breath hitch, surprised at first, before he embraced you back.
You didn’t care that he was a Peacekeeper. Didn’t care that he was once just a student in the Capitol. Didn’t care as to what brought him here.
All you cared about the warmth of his arms around you, the way he smelled like the quiet of a place far from the noise of the Capitol. Secure. And safe. Warm.
That’s what Coryo meant to you.
You pulled back enough to look at him, still in disbelief. His gaze softened when he saw you, and that rare smile of his—a real one, not the carefully crafted one he wore in public—spread across his face.
“I missed you.” The words left your lips before you could stop them.
Coriolanus tilted his head slightly, raising an eyebrow with that playful smirk.
“Careful, birdie. I might start to think you actually like me.”
You laughed, shaking your head, the tension in your shoulders finally easing.
“I don’t care,” you said, quieter now, your hands still resting against his chest. “It’s good to see you. Really good, Coryo.”
He smiled again, this time with something more genuine, more raw, than you had ever seen.
“I made a promise didn’t I? I told you I’d find a way,” he murmured softly, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow down.
You hugged him tighter, as though afraid the moment might slip away. But for now, it was just the two of you, standing in the meadow of District 12, away from the Games, away from the Capitol. Just two people who had found each other when everything else seemed lost.
The moment stretched on, neither of you moving, neither of you wanting to break the fragile peace between you. Behind you, Lucy gave a quiet cough, reminding you both of the reality that had been pushed aside for a few precious minutes.
“Well,” Lucy said with a teasing smile. “I see the reunion’s going well. I’ll leave you two to it.”
You couldn’t help but laugh, despite the embarrassment. When Lucy was around, nothing was ever too serious. She had a way of making everything feel less daunting. And you watched as she left back over to the other side of the meadow with your family.
Coriolanus gave you a playful glance as Lucy Gray disappeared into the distance. “Your cousin’s something, isn’t she?”
You nodded, still a bit flustered, trying to compose yourself. “She’s relentless. But you get used to it.”
He smiled, his gaze softening as he looked down at you. There was a quiet understanding between the two of you now, a bond forged in the chaos of the Games, and here, in the stillness of the meadow, it felt more real than ever.
Without a word, you took a small step toward him, your heart racing again. He didn’t move away; instead, he stepped closer to you. The distance between you seemed to disappear, the world around you quieting in that moment. Your breath hitched, your hands lightly brushing against his chest as you stood face-to-face.
And then, as if it had been waiting for this moment all along, he leaned down, gently cupping your face with his hands, his lips brushing against yours.
The kiss was soft, hesitant at first, but it deepened as the tension between you both eased. It was everything—the relief, the emotions you had been holding back, the connection that had been building since the first time you met.
When you pulled back, you found yourself breathless, his forehead resting against yours.
“About time,” he whispered, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
You laughed softly, shaking your head, the last of your nerves melting away.
“Yeah, about time,” you murmured, feeling like you were exactly where you were supposed to be, with him.
