#treech thg x reader

[f0rlorn]

days spent in the sun → treech

a/n → making coral’s moodboard sent me into a spiral and now i have moodboards for every district 😭 is it worth it to post?

notes → in which nature is the perfect place for treech to show his love for you. feminine intended reader (though not sure pronouns are mentioned)

warnings → not edited & upload via iphone

     your hands were wrapped around treech’s arm as he carefully lifted his axe up to the tree, beginning to carve the shape of a heart. he was prudent in his work, meticulously shaving the bark off of the tree from inside the shape he had formed. you watched him silently, in awe of his handiwork. the result was a perfect heart shaped carving, permanently engraved on the tree. beaming, you pressed a quick peck to the boy’s cheek, then pulled him along with you as you walked atop a tree trunk bridge back to the lake. currently, the two of you were clad only in your undergarments, having gone out with the intention of swimming for the whole day. your clothes were strewn over the branch of a fallen oak, basking in the sun. the water was freezing, a stark contrast to the midsummer heat that lingered in the air. treech held your hand as you stepped in, prepared to catch you if you accidentally slipped. at first, you sunk into the shallow water leisurely, but as the water reached your hips, you let go of treech’s hand, completely submerging yourself in order to get used to the temperature. as you arose, your teeth chattered, but a grin was still plastered on your face.

     “get in, the water’s great!” you invited treech to join you with a sarcastic remark as he stood to the side, opting to just watch you. you could tell he contemplated it, but he denied, shaking his head. “where’s the fun in that?” you whined.

     “i’ve gotta do something first.” he simply replied, a roguish glint in his eyes. you were suspicious, but let him do his own thing as you bathed in the water and sunshine. the gravelly sand that covered the bottom of the pond indented the skin on the underside of your legs, adding a soothing pressure as you sat down, letting the water ripple around you. many minutes passed, and you grew restless the more time you spent alone in the water. venturing further into the pond, schools of minnows could be found darting rapidly. they brushed past your skin, maneuvering around your moving form. all was quiet aside from the waves of the water as you forded through. a rustle in the bushes from behind you startled you, causing you to jump and turn around quickly. treech had come back, his hands behind his back.

     “whatcha got there?” you queried, swimming over to him as he kneeled by the water. he just smiled, pulling out a bouquet of colorful wildflowers from behind him. vibrant pink poppies, orange lilies, mauve colored petunias, a few orchids scattered here and there, and yellow wallflowers galore all seemed to bloom from his hand. you were in complete and utter astonishment at the bundle of flowers and the work he had gone through to pick them for you. they were tied together with a loose stem, and you delicately took them from his hand. mother nature’s sweet scent wafted from the stunning plants, instantly soothing you. “these are beautiful, treech,” he grinned, eyes lighting up with pride. his smile always made you melt, and the way his hazel eyes, speckled with green and honey tones, glowed golden in the sun made him seem ethereal. laying the flowers down gently on the grass beside treech, you draped your arms around his neck, placing a tender kiss on his lips. treech gradually joined you in the water, but not before you plucked the sole, pale blue morning glory from the bouquet and tucked it behind his ear, brushing his curls out of his eyes. he took your hand as you guided him further into the pond. the two of you splashed around, laughing for hours until your fingers pruned.

     treech had to drag you out of the water as the sun got lower and lower, the sky growing a burnt orange. you groaned playfully, but shook the water out of your hair anyway, allowing it to drip on the grass below you. the earth felt cool and damp under your bare feet, and the wind blew against your body, making you shiver. quickly, you slipped your shirt over your head, and tied your skirt around your waist, hoping to gain some warmth from the items of clothing that had been strewn out in the sun all day. it seemed to work, but your arms were still bare and the wind was picking up. treech noticed the goosebumps that had formed all along your forearms, and he helped you into his wool coat. smiling, you thanked him, grateful for the extra source of heat. gracefully, you picked up your dainty bouquet of flowers. intertwining your fingers with his, treech led you out of the familiar woods, taking you down the roads of district seven, back to your home. like the gentleman he was, treech walked you to your door, waiting to make sure you got inside safely before leaving. he was just about to leave as you slipped through the front door, but you called his name before he could go any further. he raised his eyebrows, urging you to go on.

     “i love you,” you professed, coyly.

     “i love you more,” treech declared with a smile, before promptly turning and bidding you goodnight, the flower still adorning his hair. 

[imsofuckingdonewiththisgoddamn]

When Our Stars Cross Paths; Treech x Mentor!Reader

Pairing: Treech x Mentor!Reader

Word Count: 1.55k

Warnings: None

“You alright, DuPont?”

You was snapped out of your thoughts as Clemensia entered the bathroom you were currently brooding in. Her eyes were fixed on the rim of the sink you were currently stood over, glossy red nails digging into the sleek marble. It was reaping day, and unlike most of your peers, the games didn’t elicit boredom or disinterest. They evoked anger.

As much as your parents wanted to believe they had raised a Capitol sweetheart, you were as passionate about the cruelty of the Hunger Games as your dear friend Sejanus, maybe even more at times. You had cried yourself to sleep the first year the games were broadcasted out of sheer disgust and heartache, not being able to stomach the sight of all the gore and death. From that day forward, you had spent every reaping day locked away in your room, silently mourning children you would never be able to save. This year however, you and a handful of your fellow classmates had been asked personally by the Dean to make an appearance at the school’s broadcast of the reapings. Most had quickly came to the conclusion that the annual winner of the Plinth Prize, a hefty sum of money that Sejanus’s father annually awarded to the highest performing student, was going to be announced. The prize money failed to excite you as well. While you were one of the top scoring students of your class, you had more than enough money to put you and half of the student body through University. You assumed however, Coriolanus, another one of your classmates, would be eyeing that award.

You turned to face Clemensia, who had grown worried by your prolonged silence, Opting to stare aimlessly into the gold rimmed mirror instead of answering her. Your hands released the cool stone of the sink, and instead twisted together and wrung out, as if there was an invisible towel in your hands. Lips pursing together, attempting to force some form of a smile.

“Never better Clemmie!”

Your eyes grazed over the clusters of people as you entered the main hall. Clemensia had split off from you to go join Coriolanus and Festus Creed, who were having what appeared to be a rather one-sided conversation. Across from them you could see Dean Casca Highbottom trying to not-so-subtly intoxicate himself with morphling drops. Despite him being the creator of the Hunger Games, you were shocked he was still allowed to make public appearances, let alone give speeches. Your eyes finally landed on Sejanus, who was standing off in one of the corners of the room, a scowl prominent on his face.

“Sejanus!” You called to him, as you made your way over to where he was standing, being careful to not let your velvety black dress get snagged on anything as you weaved between students and staff members.

“Ms. DuPont, to what do I owe the pleasure?” His voice dripping with over sophisticated sarcasm as you approached. What was likely his first smile of the day creeping onto his tan face.

“How are you holding up?” Your voice lowering down to what was just below a whisper. Unlike you, Sejanus was born in the districts, only moving to the Capitol after his father made a risky bet, siding against the district rebels during the war. As a reward, the Capitol offered him and his family a place in the city, with an income that put even yours to shame. Although he was only eight when he left, part of Sejanus had always resented his father for making him and his Ma leave District two. Here he was ostracized by the majority of his peers, and merely tolerated by the rest. The reapings were just another reminder of another thing he had lost when he left. His sense of belonging.

“I don’t understand…” The boy’s former smile was quickly replaced by a grimace. “How can they all act so nonchalant about all this?? Like this is just any other day?”

You knew deep down he was feeling guilty, for the money he had, the immunity he was granted, all of it. While he was safe in the Capitol, all his former classmates from district two were at risk of being selected as tribute, most of whom were even at their young age dropping out of school to work, just to support their families. You wanted to comfort the boy more than anything, to tell him he wasn’t alone and that you understood the agony he was going through. But the words refused to leave your mouth, already choked up at the sight of your friend in front of you. Instead you chose to gently place a hand on his shoulder, tracing the intricate detailing of his suit as you tried to collect yourself, so you would be able to console the compassionate boy. “It’s going to be fine Sejanus, we’ll figure out wh-”

Your attempts at comforting the boy were cut short by the sound of a throat clearing at the front of the hall. Dean Highbottom had taken his place in front of a large wooden podium, where a woman with graying hair and cold dead eyes stood. A shiver was sent down your spine as you caught a glimpse of them, the one milky white eye contrasting against the electric blue one. The woman had a sinister aura and you could feel yourself backing away out of instinct. On either side of her TVs displayed the beginnings of the reapings, cameras giving brief flashes of each of the twelve districts, where children were standing in fenced off sections. Your heart sank as the grainy footage showed a cluster of twelve year old girls from what you believed to be district eleven. All wide eyes and jerky movements, this was the first year that they were at risk of being reaped.

“I’m assuming you all are waiting for news of the Plinth Prize?” The Dean was clearly more than just a little inebriated by the sound of it, yet his words inspired an excited buzz to fill the hall, with many of your fellow peers speculating on who would be this year’s recipient.

“I’m here to inform you that the prize will work a little differently this year.” Highbottom’s voice echoed off the walls as an anticipatory silence fell over the crowd.

“Twenty four of the top accomplished students will each receive a tribute that is reaped today, to mentor and guide throughout the games. Whichever mentor gets their tribute to…perform the best, will receive the prize. Winning will be taken into consideration, but will not be the deciding factor.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. You turned to face Sejanus to see if he was in as much shock as you were. How were a group of capitol kids who had no experience whatsoever with fighting or survival skills supposed to “guide” their tributes?? Considering what the Capitol was forcing them to do, you would be surprised if any of them would even speak to you.

Sejanus returned your stare, a look of imminent dread appearing on his face. Knowing his father, he had probably already bribed the dean to give him a tribute from District two.

Highbottom then began to roll of the names of students who would act as mentors, coinciding with the reapings from each district, as photos of the tributes appeared on the TVs, their names listed below them.

“District two male, Sejanus Plinth…” Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Sejanus sink lower into his seat. You silently reached over to grasp his hand as a photo of a well built eighteen year old boy appeared on the TV to your left. He had wide set shoulders and a scowl smeared across his face as a group of Peacekeepers ushered him onto the stage, nudging him in the back with the butts of their riffles. In large text below his figure you could read out the name Marcus. From the apparent misery plastered across your friend’s face, it was easy to assume that the two had known at each other at one point.

As the Dean went down the list of mentors, you found yourself zoning out, trying to think of ways in which you would be able to help your tribute. You would need to find out whether or not they were of any use with a weapon, and if not, where would they be able to hide and lay low. As your mind raced with all different types of scenarios you would need to prepare your tribute for, you almost missed Dean Highbottom calling out your name.

“District seven male, Y/N DuPont…”

Eyes bolting up to the screens in front of you, you were met with the sight of him. He was well built like Marcus, with dark curls peeking out from under a worn out hat. He looked like he was your age— seventeen or maybe eighteen, yet his eyes were those of a young child, filled with fear and terror. His olive skin seemed to have drained of all its color as he was marched to the platform, Peacekeepers on either side of him.

Your eyes trailed down the screen to where his name was listed…

‘Treech’

A/N

I haven’t seen enough fanfics for this man, so I decided to make one myself! Let me know if you would like a part two!

xoxo

[ballad-of-birdy-lamb]

I keep seeing that white twink only. I’m tweaking the fuck out. Write for the other characters for the love of GOD

[venusbyline]

Omg can you imagine Treech holding your hand and talking you through it😭 he’s such a sweet boy, and his sweetheart’s comfort and pleasure is above everything else to him.

💌 -> omg that's so sweet 😭😭 i'm really obsessed with soft treech scenario

⚠️: Smut, Praise Kink, Soft Treech, Riding, Mentor Treech x Mentor Reader (female).

Treech's more of a giver than a receiver. The most important part of sex was seeing how good he makes you feel. Your moans, your face... You were so pretty that he could easily cum just by watching you.

“Such a good girl…” Treech intertwined his hands with yours as you chased your orgasm, your pussy squeezing his cock every time you rolled the hips.

You were so lost in the feeling of being fucked so deep that you could barely keep your eyes open. Your brain was completely blank, the only thought being about how good it felt having Treech inside you.

He groaned when you bit your own lip, just trying to prevent the volume of your sounds from increasing even more. Disturbing the other mentors on the train would be a very embarrassing and unnecessary situation.

"You look so gorgeous, my sweetheart..." It was his turn to bite his lips. He was ecstatic as he admired the sight of your bouncing boobs and the sound of your whimpers. "Such a good girl for me."

[bimb0fy]

the heart wants what it want; treech

pairings: mentor!treech x reaped!reader

warnings; angst, super short (i have exams T-T)

summary; treech, the 10th hunger games victor, and most importantly, your boyfriend came back from the hunger games in your honor. he has killed for you, done anything in the world only to return to you and your comfort, only to go through the same pain again.

word count; 382

a/n; i made treech the winner of the games and also set it two years later, like snow became dr gaul's mentor after the first games and he suggested having the tributes as the mentors to keep things in control n stuff.

ᵐᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡⁱˢᵗ!! | ⁿᵃᵛⁱᵍᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿ!!

— You stood in your place as you watched Treech stand up on the stage, being the only mentor as he was the only victor. You stood in your brown dress overalls and his shirt, the shirt he had worn during his games. A token of good love he always said.

Just as the announcer placed her hand into the bowl, your heart beated faster, and faster, then suddenly stopped as she opened the paper. "Y/n L/n!" She announced. You couldn't comprehend with had happened, standing still as Treech's eyes widened, he searched for you, finding you frozen as he attempted to stop the tears in his eyes.

You walked along the passage, climbing up the stairs as Treech stared at you. He watched as you barely managed to wall correctly, tripping as he quickly caught you, holding you up as you stood waiting for the male tribute.

"Hey baby, it's okay, I won't let anyone hurt you, I promise." He whispered into your ear as you bit back tears. You remembered watching Treech in the games, the Snakes nearly killing him as they killed Lucy Gray and well, you were terrified as he climbed up the wall. You remembered him coughing, almost choking to death, you watched Lamina, your best friend die and Treech blaming himself for it.

You remembered what it was like watching him play the games two years ago, only now you'd go through it. You didn't know if you were as strong or as motivated as him. He placed his hand into yours and rubbed your shoulders as his breaths shallowed. As the male tribute was announced you felt wierry. His breath hitched as he looked at the tribute. You looked beside him to realize it was his best friend. Theo.

It was now clear as day, he had to choose between his lover and best friend, in a way he wished he never had to. You looked up to watch your family weep as his family looked in shock. Treech's mother stared at you, shaking her head as she stared at you then looked over at her son.

"I'm sorry baby." Treech cried as you both walked off towards the train, it was the end, you were going into the games that destroyed him two years ago.

[bumblebugwrites]

chapter 6: bite the hand

Pairing: Victor!Treech x fem!Reader

Summary: Over the next four years, you speak only five times with Treech, each conversation proving more confusing than the last.

Warnings: Cursing, Suggestive Themes, Mention of Injuries, Character Death, Weapons, Violence.

Word Count: 6.6k

Taglist: @nekee-lilac02, @mr-panda357, @yourfavmiki, @blackoutdays13, @dialuvsbangtan, @emgunther

A/N: Well, this is admittedly late, sorry y'all. Also on that note, the update schedule is about to be completely fucked for this fic. As it turns out school is lowkey catching up to me so unfortunately I think I may need to move to posting every two weeks. Either way, I hope you enjoy this chapter, which according to my original outline puts us at about halfway through No Evil Angel But Love!

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“I just think it was a mistake. It should never have happened, and– And it won’t happen again.” And just like that, your heart was shattered, scattered across the floor in a million pieces. Well, maybe not just like that. In fact, for a moment, you’d thought the whole thing was a joke of some sort. But then his eyes had caught yours, cold in a way you’d never seen them before, and you had to stop yourself from staggering back, from hitting the wall, because this Treech, the one standing before you, he looked just like the man who’d put an axe through your heart in a dream you’d tried so hard to forget.

“I don’t understand. Does this have something to do with the fact that you disappeared this morning?” Sure, you had been out of it when he’d left, but it didn’t take long for the panic to set in, waking once more to a cold bed, mind reaching out to a memory formed only an hour ago. A mystery phone call to your room. Treech disappearing out the door.

“No, I– No. Just listen to me. This is it, it’s over.” Not the phone call. Him. He wanted this, and next to that, the phone call felt like something to be forgotten in its entirety.  But why?

“You came here last night. You showed up at my hotel room, saying you couldn’t take it anymore, and now, what? You’ve changed your mind?” Anger was quick to follow confusion in those fleeting moments, and as you surged forward, hands tangling desperately in his shirt, you weren’t sure if the intent was to pull him in or push him away.

“You’re just not–” And his hands were on yours, brushing a sweet, delicate pattern across your knuckles, bringing you that soft, quiet feeling he always had. And for a moment, you could feel him leaning in. To hold you? To kiss you? You weren’t sure. “I don’t want you.” 

It was like a punch in the gut.

“I was enough last night.” Tears clouded your vision as you held steady willing him to look at you, to pull his gaze from the ground, to wrap his hands around yours once more. They were limp now, hanging uselessly at his sides.

“Maybe you weren’t. Maybe you never were.” You wanted to scream. To cry. To lash out and disappear and explode with the unmistakable rage inside you. You couldn't. You could barely speak.

“Treech, I–”

“We’re done. Don’t talk to me. Don’t touch me. Don’t even look at me.” And with that, he pushed you away, spinning to exit out the door just behind you. Leaving you to crumple to the ground. Alone. Unwanted. 

Over the next four years, you had five more conversations with Treech alone, each leaving you more confused than the last.

The first time you spoke was just over two years after he told you that night had been a mistake. That you were a mistake.

It was harder to stay away in the beginning. Hardest at night when you could hear his screams, telltale signs of the nightmares you knew he fell prey to. The nightmares that formed mirror images of your own. Several nights, you found yourself frozen outside his door, compelled for some unearthly reason to stand guard, to make heavy, unyielding eye-contact with the painted number 7 as though waiting long enough might make it open without any necessary action. You knew then what you really wanted. To go inside. To assure him it would be okay. To offer him the same place in your room you always had. But then, he didn’t want that. He’d made that clear enough. And so after minutes, or sometimes hours of waiting, you would escape back to your own room before your presence could be noted. Afraid of the harsh words he might have stored up this time, lashings for your petty emotions.

It was one of those nights, the first time you spoke, although the nightmare was yours, not his. It had left you in a cold sweat as you jerked yourself from the duvet, still sobbing, and you found yourself wondering when the room had become so unbearably large. A glass of water, you’d thought. A coffee, maybe; chances are you’re done with sleep tonight anyway. You’d wondered how Treech was. You always did when your own nightmares exceeded their typical limits, and the thought had infiltrated your mind until the minute you’d pulled the door open, revealing his seated form just outside, back pressed to the wall. Alert. Awake, as though certain his presence alone might ward off any oncoming evil. 

He appeared nearly as shocked as you at the reveal, quickly launching himself to his feet and plastering a grimace across his features, darkened by the little light in the hall. And just as you’d opened your mouth to speak, to question his attendance at the foot of your door, he’d bit with words of his own.

“Could you try not to be so loud? Some people here are sleeping.” You did not populate the hall outside his door so much after that. You did not populate his presence at all.

The second time was out of necessity. It was that same year of the 13th Games, and you had found yourself down a tribute, the girl, Rhea, having lost her life in what was beginning to be known as the bloodbath. Skinner was older, the boy. Eighteen and a walking tragedy, so close to escaping. That was the year before they stopped locking you all in the Academy. Before Lux convinced them that sponsor relations could only bear to improve if mentors were allowed the ability to mingle with the people of the Capitol, within reason, of course. Before the Games grew longer, sometimes lasting over a week. 

The night was young, but you were on your third cup of coffee, unable to tear your eyes from the screen. From Skinner’s restless movements as he sat back to a tree, with eyes that scanned his surroundings in wide, impatient arcs. He was alone, and no allies meant no sleep, so he clung to the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, begging it to carry him to safety. 

On your right, Teff fidgeted with his screen, clearly agitated by an increased sense of anxiety at the prospect of both of his tributes escaping the mess of fighting that began the Games. It was harder that way; you had come to learn. Longer survival meant hope. Hope that will infiltrate your thoughts. Your emotions. Higher risk of attachment. And with two tributes, a higher risk that the death of one would only serve to destroy the other. Or worse, a higher risk that they would be forced to take each other on. You’d seen it happen. In the 12th Games, both remaining tributes came from 2, and while Octavian remained firm and unmoving in his seat, Antonia could barely force herself to watch.

Still, you had liked Skinner, cursed with the gangly limbs of a teenager on the verge of adulthood, with a crooked smile and a biting sense of humor reserved only for Rhea in their short days together, so you pushed on. And if the lingering claws of hope had curled their way around your heart, so be it. Maybe this would be the year you could save one. Maybe this would be the year you saw a kid survive.

To your left, there was Treech. Always Treech, who endlessly invaded your thoughts in those weeks you were forced to travel back to the Capitol. In the years since your first visit, the trips had only increased, with Snow managing to find a reason to gather you all in the ‘Gem of Panem’ at least four times a year. Press, he called it, and Hilarius often assured you that networking of that sort was necessary, but it was hard to believe even from his mouth, and you often felt yourself feeling more inclined to believe Teff’s theories. They just want to remind us who’s in control.

Treech was down a tribute, too; though both had escaped the initial violence, the career pack had managed to track the pair, quickly ending the boy’s life and leaving only his girl to escape. Arbor. It had been some time since you had noted her presence on your screen, but you didn’t dare to even attempt casting a look in Treech’s direction, fearing the rash display of the temper you had come to know as reserved for you and you alone.

And you wouldn’t have had to, really, if it weren’t for what happened next, the crushing of underbrush underfoot, the cacophony of voices infused with a false confidence. Skinner’s head shot up in an instant, fear plain on his features. He stood slowly, pushing himself up from the ground with the bark of the tree cutting into his palm for support. The career pack was coming, and he was as good as dead.

Several low branches stuck out to you, and silently, you begged him to climb in spite of a display earlier that day which assured you he did so with the elegance of a toddler. Still, it was all that was left, and you were clinging to hope. Stupid, useless hope. He turned to size up his route upwards, and the voices grew nearer. It was now or never. The pace was the first problem you noticed as Skinner inched up the tree with the speed of a snail. You realized in passing he’d probably never climbed a tree before. Sure, they weren’t a rarity in 10. There were plenty out on the ranch, and as a child, you often sought solace among their branches when your father had allowed you to tag along with him to work. But for a kid like Skinner, confined to 10’s more industrial parts, spending days cooped up in the slaughterhouse, climbing a tree wasn’t exactly within the realm of knowledge he should possess. 

“Fuck. Come on.”

The second thing you noted was the noise. Certainly, there aren’t many silent ways to climb a tree, with the continual brushing of leaves against the fabric of your clothes, but the footfalls were doing little to help in the way of masking his presence, and though he’d made a bit of progress, you almost wished Skinner would stop moving completely. 

The third and most glaring problem, however, was that you’d finally managed to find Arbor, crouched and observant several branches above Skinner. No weapon. That was good. What wasn’t good was that it would be well within her rights to give him up. And beneficial, too. You sucked in a large breath. 

The pack had reached the foot of the tree, though it didn’t seem to note the two tributes hidden within its branches. Still, they idled for a moment, and your whole body tensed with anticipation. Skinner’s foot slipped. And you knew you shouldn’t, but you shielded your eyes, waiting for the impact, incapable of watching him fall into death’s open hands. It didn’t come. Instead, as you removed several of the fingers obscuring your vision, you found Arbor, hand clinging to the back of his shirt, and her face screwed up into a scowl from the effort of keeping him upright. Skinner’s clumsy hands managed to catch a branch, and he pulled himself up, mouth already opening in a question, but she was faster, pressing a hand to his lips and shaking her head with a vehement look that encouraged only silence.

And so he said nothing, and for a while, that’s how they remained, waiting for the pack to move on, her hand over his mouth, simply taking each other in. It was only once the coast was clear that he dared to speak.

“Why did you save me?”

“Well, I didn’t need you making a bunch of noise and giving me away,” she said, releasing any hold she had on him. For a moment, her face only served to support the harsh words, cold in its regard, but the instant his eyes shifted towards the ground, it softened, revealing the true intention, simple and unbridled care. She reminded you of Treech.

“Are you gonna kill me now?” Skinner sounded almost defeated, and he did not even bother to meet her gaze as he asked. Her expression, safe from his sight, twisted into one of concern before she masked it once more.

“I couldn’t if I wanted to. I don’t have any weapons, and the chances of me strangling you are low at best.”

“I don’t have any weapons either,” Skinner admitted before appearing embarrassed by the confession. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not a threat, so– please don’t try to kill me.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you could kick my ass,” Arbor returned, her tone flat and a small smirk gracing her features. Skinner flushed at the expression before admitting defeat with laughter of his own when she let out a chuckle.

“So where’s your partner?” He asked.

“Dead.” The response was factual, but the traces of pain on her face remained obvious. “Yours?”

“Dead.” It was quiet for a moment, and though neither of them spoke, you noted Arbor eyeing Skinner's rope.

“Maybe we could make a deal?” She asked.

“Like what?” He was slow to respond but less guarded than before.

“Like allies?” And she extended a hand in a truce, only continuing after noting Skinner’s hesitation. “Listen, I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted, and if I’m gonna sleep in this tree, I’d prefer to do it tied down and with someone to watch my back. We could take shifts. Even if it's just for tonight?”

“Okay.”

It was not then that you spoke with Treech. Nor was it over the following days, watching the pair grow closer. Watching them reach the final five with the boy from 11 and the girls from 1 and 2. No. The days registered simple interactions. Nods indicating bread and water would be sent, and curt conversations regarding strengths and weaknesses. It was only on the sixth night that you shared more than a handful of words; even then, it wasn’t much. And yet, it was more. Heavier than any of the terse exchanges you’d held since you stopped speaking altogether.

Because, on the sixth night, Arbor and Skinner shared a kiss. He had fallen earlier in the day. No simple fall either. His leg would only carry him so far, but Arbor remained loyal, and the two traveled as a unit. Under the moonlight and the cover of darkness, she had stopped them to take a look at the injury, steady hands unraveling the makeshift bandage she had torn from her own shirt. Skinner only cringed in pain, regardless of her soft-spoken attempts to comfort him as she poured water from a nearby stream on the wound.

“It’s no use. I’m dead weight. You should go. Get out of here before I accidentally screw you over.” The defeat was evident in his tone, but so was something else, something more. A need for her to make it out. To survive.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Her jaw was tense as she focused on the work before her, but you sensed it was not out of a need to concentrate.

“Arbor, I’m not gonna let you die for me–” He was exhausted, eyes heavy with sleep and glistening with pain. Sweat collected at his brow, and he raised a lazy hand to wipe it away, but she got there first, swiping her thumb across his forehead before speaking again.

“Well, I’m not gonna let you die, period. So, just drop it.”

“Arbor.” His hand moved to still her own as though begging her to meet his gaze.

“Skinner?” She asked, annoyed by the disruption but looking up nonetheless.

“What happens if it’s just us?” And you could hear a pin drop in the Academy lecture hall; not even Lucky Flickerman bothered to present his input.

“Well, we aren’t– That’s not… I’m gonna get you out of here,” she stated with finality. Beside you, Treech stiffened, the scene beginning to appear all too familiar. Two kids from 7 and 10, with nothing and everything on the line at the same time.

“I wouldn’t let you do that. I wouldn’t be able to let you do that.”

“Why? Why are you being so selfish? Just let me save you–” And she pounded at his chest, but there was no feeling in her attacks. It took Skinner no effort at all to stop her fists, collecting her hands within his own.

“I don’t want to live if it means you have to die. Because I– Well, I know I haven’t known you that long, but I– Well, I–” And suddenly she was kissing him, telling him wordlessly she felt the same. And suddenly, the world was crashing down, fear pooling in your stomach at the consequences you were sure would come, and you couldn’t help it, looking at Treech, who was already looking at you. Your mouth was dry.

“I don’t– I–” Your chest was constricting, and the room felt hot, hotter than ever before, and your mind was spinning at a million miles an hour. You crossed to the entrance in mere moments, not even noting Treech directly behind you until you had shoved your way out, back slamming into the wall just outside as you crumbled to the ground.

“I– I–”

“You’ve got to breathe. You– We have to get back in there. It isn’t something until we make it something.” His tone was cold, but he was crouched before you, and when his hands reached to pull you off the floor, you swore his thumb ran carefully over your arm once. Twice.

“But it is. You know it is. And if those kids die at the Capitol’s hand, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life wondering if it's my fault. If it’s our fault.” And it was true. It may not have been love for him, but for you, the echoes were everywhere. And though you’re sure the Capitol never saw what happened that night, Dr. Gaul knew enough for the connection to be dangerous.

“You don’t know if that’s what they’ll see–”

“Is it what you saw? Because it’s the first thing I thought about. And I know you hate me now, but you can’t be stupid enough to think that Coriolanus Snow could miss it.” His face only grew more tense before it passed to stone once more.

“What other choice do we have?” He was right. Of course, he was right. So you reentered and took your places, fixed yourselves with masks of unbothered poise, and for nothing. They were dead by morning, carcasses wrapped around one another in a pile of bones and flesh once the Gamemakers’s mutts had finished. And as the camera panned away, you swear you felt a lingering gaze on you, but you did not look, only faked a cough as you brushed the tears from your cheeks and fixed your steady gaze ahead.

That was the year Teff’s boy won, Reed, and once more, before you were allowed to return home, you were forced to attend a party at the President’s mansion, this time with the inclusion of a Victor’s dance. 

“Teff, come on, I am begging you–” You began, but the older boy was already shaking his head.

“I can’t, alright. Octavian already asked me if I’d dance with Teresa, and I gave my word that I would. He registered us a week ago,” he sighed, and you wanted to scream; how could you have been stupid enough to forget about this?

“What about Reed?” At this point, anyone would do. Anyone who wasn’t Treech.

“He’s not doing the dance; his leg is broken, remember?” And you did; the boy had fallen off the top of the cornucopia while securing his win, landing on top of the girl from 1, whose neck broke on impact.

“Well, do you think Mags will switch with me?” You were grasping at straws, aware the answer would be no the moment the suggestion passed your lips.

“You know the deal, the only reason we are allowed to have partners from other Districts is because–” But you interrupted him, already knowledgable of your oncoming defeat.

“We don’t have any from our own. I know. I just don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

“It’s one dance, it can’t be that bad.” He reassured, but you knew better.

“We haven’t spoken in years.”

“You spoke the other day–” Teff corrected.

“That was different; I was basically having a meltdown.” You recalled that moment in the hall. His thumb on your arm. Part of you was convinced it never happened at all.

“I don’t know what to tell you; take it or leave it; this is your only option.” He shrugged, and the conversation was over; you both knew it, but not before you vocalized your frustration one last time.

“Fuck.”

That is it, the third time you talk to Treech, at the President’s mansion, surrounded by Capitol citizens. Before you take the floor, you recall your last dance in this place with a certain Heavensbee. Your mind drifts to the events of that night. To what happened after you departed. You shake the thoughts away. Now is no time to linger on what used to be. 

When it is time to go, Treech appears at your side, extending his arm to lead you onto the floor, and you note that he seems to flinch away from your touch, which barely grazes the crook he creates for you. You are already seething. Was it really so painful for him to even touch you? Were you really that deplorable? It is a simple waltz, one your escorts were able to instruct you on with ease, and though the first few steps are taken in silence, as the music continues, you hear the other victors around you begin to chatter. You and Treech remain quiet, your eyes fixed on the floor below, watching the pattern of your steps. Thinking about anything except his hand on your waist and the other delicately gripping yours.

“You’re not supposed to look at your feet,” he mutters, and that gets your attention enough to force your gaze away from its previous target.

“Excuse me?”

“You aren’t supposed to look at your feet. It makes it easier to screw up the steps.” You don’t answer, only fixing your sightline over his shoulder instead, fully expecting the silence to engulf you once more.

“I hate dancing.” He sighs bitterly, and you almost have to resist a smile because it makes sense that the stoic boy before you would loathe the exercise in trust and coordination, ripe with opportunities for embarrassment. For creating holes in his well-kept facade.

“I don’t.” And you aren’t really sure what prompts you to speak, but maybe it is his clear discomfort with the practice, evident in the way his shoulders bunch awkwardly with each turn and his eyes, in spite of his own advice, continue to flit down towards the floor.

“There’s lots of dancing back in 10. Line dances, mostly from a long time ago. But there’s other stuff, too. Once a month, there's a big dance at City Hall. There’s this big open barn connected to the back, and they decorate it, and everyone goes. My dad taught me how, so it reminds me of him.” You can’t help but smile at the memory of your father, pulling the hat from his head and dropping it onto your own before spinning you around the kitchen in preparation for your very first dance. When the day finally came, you’d already forgotten all the steps, but he didn’t mind setting your feet atop his own, the two sets of boots moving in a stilted pattern around the barn, all shrieking laughter and love.

You feel Treech’s shoulder relax beneath your touch, his gaze now fixed on you and nothing else. The movements become more fluid, and by the end of the dance, it feels like flying. That is until something else seems to catch his attention just outside of your sightline. And suddenly, his grip on your waist tightens, ushering you closer, but his eyes grow cold. For a moment, you could have sworn he was shielding you from something until he wasn’t. Until the music came to an end, and he was pushing away, but not before leaving you with a cutting remark.

“Thanks for the story; I’ll remember that the next time I’m pretending to give a shit about you.” You almost gape at him, unsure how to respond, but as rage, hot and untethered, licks its way up your spine, you give into the cruelest thing you can think to muster.

“I hate you.” And he flinches as though the words hurt him. As though he hadn’t spent every moment of the last three years trying to probe that very reaction from your lips. And you know he must not have meant it. That it is nothing more than the residual regret leaving his body, but a part of you relishes it. Relishes causing him pain after the torture he had put you through.

“Good.”

Victory Tours weren’t uncommon by then, so when it was announced the tribute from 11 and his mentor would be making their way to 10, people were well prepared. Lennox in particular seemed to be veritably jumping with joy, unable to sit still after having received the knowledge that you would be hosting the visitors in your new home in the Victor’s Village. Even Fawn, who at the now ripe age of fourteen was determined to allow nothing to faze her, seemed excited at the prospect of the celebration that typically occurred in tandem with the arrival of a victor. 

You on the other hand were simply happy to see Teff, pulling the taller man into a warm hug the moment he set foot off the train. He seemed not to mind, laughing as he pulled you tighter against him and after a long day of festivities including a night of dancing and the best food 10 could offer, you found yourselves sat around your kitchen table, enjoying one another’s company and a couple of drinks.

“Are we gonna talk about what happened at the mansion? That night, at the party? Quite a scene you two caused,” Teff asked, finally digging into what you knew he’d been itching to talk to you about. You allowed your head to slump forward, burying your face within the comfort of your arms with a groan.

“What am I supposed to say? I was being very civil. He’s the one that ruined it.” Teff only nodded in understanding, having come to know the events that made up your rocky relationship with Treech through snippets divulged over the years.

“You know I’m just worried about you is all. Just wish you would fly under the radar like the rest of us–”

“I don’t wanna talk about this anymore. Tell me about you. About home. How’s Harvest?” Teff was quick to relent, never displeased when talking about his favorite subject, his wife of two years. 

“She’s good. She’s– Well actually I’ve been meaning to tell you this– She’s pregnant.” And though the news reeks of joy, there is an uneasy smile on his face. Still, you are quick to rid him of it.

“That’s incredible! I’m so happy for you.” And you are, beaming from ear to ear, but a part of you aches, just as you know it does for him, for that unborn child. For the world they will surely face.

The fourth time you spoke, it was your fault. At least, that’s what Treech told himself. It was the year of the 14th Hunger Games, and in preparation, the Capitol was running a television program highlighting each of the Districts. It was for that reason Treech told himself it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when the small screen in the corner of the hotel bar filled with Lamina’s face, especially given that she was his District partner and, as he was the only existing victor from 7, an obvious choice for closer study. Still, it didn’t stop the shock from cutting to his core like a knife. 

You had taken the seat beside his, though clearly not intentionally. It was the only place left in the whole bar, and upon your arrival, he had watched you hesitate to even stay, but with the Games set to start in two days, you needed a drink, exhausted by the prospect of another year.

It was as though you could sense his discomfort, gaze clearly flitting in his direction and dragging across his tense form. The television program blared out, filling any gaps in conversation left by the bar’s occupants, and you observed it keenly following Treech’s reaction.

“She seemed kind.” And there you were, attempting to comfort him after all he’d done to push you away.

“She cried a lot.” It is easier than telling the truth. Than admitting he had known Lamina long before the Games. That she was family, a cousin on his mother’s side.

He often saw Lamina in you. In your quiet moments of soft kindness and generosity. Even in moments of fear, watching you steel yourself and move forward in spite of the difficulties. Sometimes, he would imagine a world with no Districts or Games. A world where a gentler version of you who had not been left hardened by survival had met Lamina, and the two of you had become fast friends, spending your days whispering confessions among the branches of the tallest trees or stretched out in a field, you with a pencil and paper and Lamina fashioning a crown of flowers.

“You remind me of her.”

“Because I’m weak?” Your brow furrowed as you gazed down into the drink before you, preparing yourself for the harsh words you had come to expect of Treech.

“Because you’re brave.” He couldn’t help it really, the way it sprang forward from his lips, toppling out before he could fight to keep it in. He suspected somewhere in the wide universe, the spirit of Lamina was laughing at him. That she was somehow responsible for the admission. He hated her for it. Hated himself. Your own face revealed little more than an obvious state of shock, blank blinking eyes staring back at him when he finally summoned the courage to fix your gaze with his own. Your mouth moved, jaw seeming to hinge and unhinge, but nothing came out. Nothing until the soft syllables of his name slipped from your lips in a stilted sort of way, like a sharp breath. 

Treech was on his feet before you’d finished, the remainder of his drink easily downed in his haste to depart, but as he turned one last time to eye the television in the corner, he could have sworn your eyes were brimming with tears.

The final time you spoke to Treech, it felt as though he had something more to say. Like the words he wished to express had caught on his tongue like glue, unable to escape. It was the final day of the 14th Games, five years exactly since your own. On days like that, you forced yourself to remember the things that often felt too painful. The names that sunk like stones in your chest, fading each year into more distant memories. Rye, with his eyes like two wide saucers. Orion, who was so close to victory that he had nearly succeeded in having it. Baron, the boy from back home who’d lost his life within minutes, figure slumped and unmoving in the center of the arena for the remainder of the Games. And, of course, there were others. Brandy and Tanner. Bee and Colt. Rhea and Skinner. Kids from home. Kids just like you. Except here you were, not dead, while they lay, presumably rotting in some mass grave deep within the Capitol’s walls. The thought made you sick.

That year, your fourth as a mentor, your tributes hadn’t even managed to outlast the bloodbath. The second Rochelle’s body hit the ground, you knew it was over, but it didn’t keep you from hoping. Hoping against reason, she would find a way to fight it. To get back up. She hadn’t. And that year, as the buzzer rang out and the bile rose in your throat as it always did, you noted that the pain was less. Less intense. Less crippling. And then the disgust was back again, drowning you, with its aim pointed inwards, armed and ready to feast on your heart. How could you be so cruel? How could you allow yourself to become so hardened and unfeeling? 

Because it is easier. Because there has to be a better way. Because you will never survive this if you cannot learn to leave some things behind. Still, you’d never left a single thing behind your whole life, clinging to every passing thought, person, or feeling like it might be the last. So when Rochelle was gone, signaling your Games had finished, you pulled the small notebook from the inner pocket of your vest and scribbled her name just below Gavin’s with its own set of notes. 

Rochelle. Two sisters, no parents. Lived with her father’s brother and worked nightshifts at the slaughterhouse. 15. Kind. Enjoyed the color green. Was learning to knit with some of the excess wool from her uncle’s work at a nearby farm, sheering the sheep.

Your fingers traced over the list, gently passing each name with the pad of your thumb. So many names. It was easier now to write them down. It was easier now to emote, to feel openly without the watchful eye of the Capitol analyzing your every move just behind Lucky Flickerman. Well, at least without it trained directly on your soul.

A bit further down the bar, Lux sat by herself as well; Beau tucked into the seat beside Trawl, the two having become closer over the years. Maybe even too close, you thought regretfully, mind flitting to a time you had caught the former making a quiet escape from Trawl’s room in the dead of night. Still, you’d bit your tongue, refusing to lecture someone you were aware already knew of the potential consequences. Besides, words often fall on deaf ears when spoken from a position as precarious as yours.

There were three kids left then, each with no alliance in place to keep them safe. A boy from 2, a girl from 5, and Maple, Treech’s girl from 7. She was ruthless, doing little in the way of preserving any image of humanity with her kills, but you understood that there was more than what appeared to pool on the surface. That those who seemed the most heartless were often the most human of all, filled with an unparalleled desperation to return. For a loved one. For themselves, hoping to go back to some semblance of a childhood they would never see again. Your heart swelled for her. For all of them. Still, you’d been doing your best to avoid her mentor since your last encounter. Afraid that he might snap once more, leaving you frustrated and hollow. Or worse, that he might plant some ridiculous seeds of hope as he had with your fourth conversation, calling you brave before disappearing completely. He was infuriating. Aggravating. Annoying, vexing, and completely incensing. 

He was also sitting directly across the bar, arm draped over the seat of the woman beside him with the same lazy arrogance you had come to register as a part of his Capitol persona, a smirk painted light and unshakable across his face. It was as though you could not even recognize the man before you. Still, he looked good. That much, you could easily admit, curls on the lengthier side now compared to the more cropped cut you’d last seen him with. You wondered if they still felt the same, if running your hands through them would still have the intoxicating effect it had years ago. You want to punch yourself in the face for the indulgence of a thought like that, forcing your gaze away with the heat that rises to your cheeks, and just in time, it seems, as the screen switches to capture Maple, finishing off the girl from 5. It is over in a second, and all of the sudden, there are only two remaining. 

Your heart aches for her, the dead girl from 5, without a mentor or guidance, left in the dark. Still, you cannot stop your gaze from traveling across the bar again to fix on Treech, only to find he is already looking at you. The woman beside him has rid herself of all pretense and is curled into his side, back arched like a cat. And yet, he appears almost regretful, eyes trained on your face with the sort of steely focus that rarely graced his features these days. 

Hours later, when Maple does win, pushed over the finish line with the help of several grandiose sponsorships, you can’t say you are all that surprised, no. The real shock comes as you move to exit the bar when a hand catches your forearm within its grasp. You almost ignore it. Almost push to continue on your steady path toward freedom, but it pulls hard, whipping you around, nearly sending you barreling into the chest of your assailant. Treech. And he stands there, blubbering like a fish, features painted with the unsubtle earnesty of a boy. And that alone is enough to stop you in your tracks.

“I– I–”

But not for long. You’d learned your lesson long ago. Wrenching your arm from his grasp, you spin on your heel before he so much as forms a second word, making for the elevator. You would not fall prey to him again. Not now, not ever. In your eyes, Treech was as good as dead.

It was another month before you saw him again, although, on the morning of the Victory Tour’s arrival, you were nowhere to be found within the awaiting procession. Despite the Capitol’s wishes, you’d continued work on the ranch in your free time, and this morning was no exception. Especially considering you’d requested the shift, putting as much distance between yourself and the upcoming ceremonials as possible. 

Just last night, you’d sent notice to the mayor that you’d been feeling unwell, vomiting, and the like, pleading to be kept from the tour for the safety of those involved. He’d kindly agreed, considering your consistent attendance in previous years, and so you’d spent the last few hours with Bluebell, who had grown over time into as much your horse as one could be, walking the ranch’s perimeter and assessing the different pastures for any sign of intrusion the previous night. Finding none, you dismounted, ridding the creature of everything but her bridle and allowing her to graze within your sightline as you sat in the grass, pencil at the ready and sketchbook perched easily in your lap. 

And so the morning passed in easy silence between the pair of you, only returning to the barn just before lunch due to necessity, though you nearly turned on your tail as the building came into view. The form was clear enough from afar, leaned up against the side of the old building, and at first, you felt your chest fill with anxiety, concerned that perhaps the mayor had caught onto your lie from last night to come get you. But as you drew closer, you noted that familiar head of curls you would recognize anywhere, accompanying the lanky form of a young man. Treech.

[poppinspops]

Dating Coral headcannons!

Divider made by: @/cafekitsune on tumblr

Before the hunger games set back in D4

Coral would SO be an overprotective girlfriend

Corals' love language is definitely touch. One could describe her need to have something touching you as an addiction

She adores holding your hand, having some part of her just touching you in some way, small kisses and things like that

She's not much of a sweet talker, though she will flirt with you from time to time

She's definitely taken you out to watch her fish showing off her raw strength

She LOVES to run her fingers through your hair no matter the lengths as long as she's touching you

Coral would SO flirt with you whilst you two are in the middle of an argument smirking and all when it catches you off guard

She is definitely the jealous type. She thought she's not insecure about your relationship, no, not at all. She just perfers if you stuck near her

Coral would adore your siblings if you had any, especially if they were your younger siblings since she's (I believe) an older sister herself

You definitely had at least once gotten her to walk with you on the beach. Like in those romance books that she so despises, she would have complained the whole time but secretly loved it as it was just her, you snd the ocean

Coral would have given you her jacket if she noticed you didn't have one and eventually you'd have a pile of just her jackets in your room since she refuses to take them back using an excuse like "keep em' they look better on you anyways"

Yes, you two have definitely gotten into arguments over her being protective of you, mainly just her scaring away your friends, your two personalitys clashing at times

Your friends have told you to leave coral at times when your arguments are no longer small petty ones, but you'd always tell them to buzz off they just didn't understand coral the way you did

I dont see coral as one of those people who are fans of pet names, but I could see her liking to call you 'darling or gorgeous' nothing special

During the hunger games

If you two just so happened to be in the hunger games, I feel she wouldn't be as gentle as before putting up a tough exterior, not that she would be cruel to you she would definitely be kinder to you than anyone else

Coral is not the nicest person during the game's, so when you're looking all checking out, the arena coral would have demanded you came over to her, forcing you to join her little group

She needed to have you in her view or at least near her most of the time in the arena, she didn't quite trust any of her members in the pack but if she really needed you to go looking with the other two she would send you off with treech not trusting tanner enough to not try something when she wasn't there

Coral would share her food with you even if you had gotten food from doing stunts in the cage she still would split her food with you making sure you ate enough

Coral would isolate you from the other tributes

Whether she was just being possessive or her just being cautious, she would be mad if you just started talking to other tributes, especially lucy Gray baird. Oh, that one would make her blood boil, seeing you two getting along in front of her.

She would have yelled at you to get back to her side, giving you the cold shoulder for a bit, glaring daggers into lucy grays head

If you just so happend to not get selected with coral, you would boost her need to survive and win the game, making her a little bit more 'bloodthirsty' and ruthless

Well, that's it for now. I'm still writing Tanner, Lamina, and treechs. I just haven't had much free time recently, sorry! I did enjoy writing this. Please do tell if there are spelling mistakes!

[my-heart-beat-for-anime]

HIS BELLADONA PT.3 treech x mentor reader Pt.1, Pt.2, Pt.3

But before I could continue, several peacekeepers roughly grabbed Treech and Lamina and dragged them into a waiting van.,, Hey stop dragging them like that, you're going to hurt them, let them go, they'll go on their own." I yelled at the peacekeeper and shoved him. ,, Hey what are you doing what do you think you're doing you stupid girl.” he yelled back at me but stopped when he realized who I was. Even though my father was a violent drunk, he was still one of the peacekeepers in the Capitol.,, I'm sorry Miss Belladon I..." I cut him off sharply, "I'm not the one you should be apologizing to" I said and pointed at tribute. The man very reluctantly apologized and encouraged the rest of the tributes to get into the car themselves. I wondered where they were going to take them, but before I could come to an opinion, someone quickly grabbed my hand and pulled me into the car. It was Coriolanus, I gave him a confused look, but before I could say anything the truck door closed and the whole truck started moving. Only now did I realize that everyone was staring at Coriolanus and me.,, What happened, doves, you are in the wrong cage." asked a tall boy, I think his name was Reaper. "No this cage is delightful." answered Coryo with irony in voice. However, the tributes didn't like that and Reaper came after us. He slammed us both against the wall and I let out a mad scream as the wall dug right into my wounds with stitches from last night. The scream obviously shocked everyone, so much so that Reaper let go of me.,, Leave her alone.....please." Coriolanus defended me.,, If I were you, I would worry about myself first," Reaper snapped back. "He's right we'll kill you first and then we'll have some fun with this capitol girl." added another boy I think it's Tanner. "Please Reaper, Tanner don't hurt him we just wanted to help you." I rasped. Both boys looked at me with disbelief in their eyes.,, How do you know our names." Tanner blurted out.,, I remember most of your names, how else should I call you Hey you from the tenth district." I replied trying to get up from floors.,, Prove it." someone else blurted out again.,, Okay so you're Coral, Tanner, Dill, Reaper, Brandy, Jessup, Lucy Gray, Mizzen, Lamina, Marcus, Bobbin, Wovey.....and finally my tribute to Treech." I finished a very long monologue. All the tributes looked at me like I was crazy. "Why did lumberjack and songbird get mentors?" Coral exclaimed angrily. "You all got them but only the two of us came earlier." Coryo answered her. "I think the two of us got the best trainers what do you think songbird," Treech said after a while, looking at Lucy Gray who just giggled. Her laughter quickly faded as the floor below us tilted.

[f0rlorn]

kingdom come → treech

treech!tbosas x reader

notes → in which your lover gets ripped away from you, and you’re left with mere memories, a promise, and a locket. feminine intended reader. i am a district seven girly FOR LIFEEE. when i was making a plan for a cato fic on wattpad, reader was ofc from seven ✨

warnings → me giving characters angst alert part two!!! not edited & uploaded via iphone

     “treech!” you giggled as you chased him in the woods you called your backyard. you heard him laugh as he leapt over a stream. attempting to follow him, you slipped, accidentally landing in the shallow water. luckily, you had your rain boots on. the red rain boots with hand painted black polk a dots that reminded you of ladybugs. on the other hand, your ruffly dress was not so lucky, soaked with water, dirt crawling at the hems. treech whipped around at the sound of you splashing, and offered a hand to help you up. you giggled as you took his hand. “thank you, my knight.” you teased, beginning to walk back to your home.

     “anything for m’lady!” treech declared, raising his arm triumphantly. your youth was filled with heartwarming moments like this. days spent playing with treech in the woods when the two of you were kids. and when you grew into your teenage years, long, meaningful conversations filled with laughter and secrets with each other after treech finished working. you had known treech your whole life, best friends for fifteen years and lovers for three, he was a part of you. 

     today, the day of the reaping, your mother had laid out an old striped dress of hers. the once colorful stripes had faded into something dreary, but the dress fit you like a glove. it was common knowledge in the districts that children should dress nice for the reaping. not because it was some momentous occasion, but because what they wear then might be the last thing they wear ever. dressing them up for their funerals, a devastating truth. treech met you outside, and he tilted his hat to you when you stepped out of the door. 

     “m’lady,” he greeted, providing his arm for you to latch onto. “well don’t you look ravishing,” he mused, and you curtsied at his compliment, before looping your arm through his. you were treech’s pride and joy and he made sure to treat you as such. the boy was more than happy to show you off, parading you around the streets of seven. the two of you chatted lightly about the days events as he guided you to the town’s square, located a mile and half from your house. eventually you had to part ways with him, but not before you left a quick peck on the cheek. he wore the kiss on his face boastfully as he joined the group of boys to your left. you smiled, finding your own place in the crowd of girls. the process went as normal, a few small announcements made before the female tribute was reaped. her name was lamina, a beautiful tragedy wrapped in a vest, but not anyone you recognized.

     your breath hitched as they called for the male tribute. it had happened so fast. you had never been this overwhelmed. they called treech’s name. your treech. you allowed yourself to hyperventilate for a few moments before catching sight of the boy slowly walking towards the front of the hall of justice. district seven, being one of the largest districts, had thousands of kids piled into the town square, separated by gender. out of the entire population of seven’s youth, it never occurred to you that your boyfriend could be the unlucky victim to be reaped. 

     struggling to control your breathing, you leaped into action, shoving your way through the crowd of girls to the pathway down the middle of the block. treech, still in shock, made his way down said pathway rather hesitantly, as if in disbelief that he had really been reaped. his eyes were scanning the crowd as he passed, stopping for a moment as he met yours. in an instant, you reached forward and grabbed him, pulling him into a hug before any nearby peacekeeper could intervene.

     “i love you, treech. i love you, i love you, i love you!” you repeated, sobbing into his jacket. his arms wrapped around you tightly, not wanting to let go.

     “i’ll win this, y/n, for you. i’ll see you soon, it’ll only be a couple days, just you wait.” he mumbled his promise to you. you pulled apart, woefully wiping away the lipstick mark on his face, cleaning him up for the cameras. there was no doubt that the entirety of the capital was watching you now. what must they think of the spectacle you had created? were they intrigued? disgusted? at this point, the peacekeepers had made their way to him, dragging him onstage.

     “treech!” you objected, reaching out for him. another peacekeeper lightly knocked you backwards, a pitiful expression adorning his face. the girls nearby, some you recognized and some strangers, held the same expression. none spoke, just stared at you. keeping your eyes on the ground, you creeped back to your spot in the crowd. soon enough, peacekeepers were hauling your boyfriend into the hall, and more were beginning to clear the square, forcing you to make your way back to your place of residence. unbeknownst to you, treech had slipped a token in the pocket of your dress before he was pulled away. it wasn’t until halfway through your agonizing, lonely trek back home that you noticed it. it was a dainty, wooden heart shaped locket. patterns had been intricately carved into the surface, no doubt by the careful hands of your loving treech. you traced the patterns with the pads of your fingers, tears staining the wooden block. 

     you clutched the locket, a newfound hope seeping into you, as you held onto the promise that he would win. for you.

[nemesii]

ANGEL EYES — TREECH!

You were a creator, some would say. During those nights when sleep often managed to evade your grasp, you would sit at your old table in your room, wielding a pencil. The gunmetal grey of it would contrast the blank horizon of the amber-toned sheet. Staining the paper in such an authoritative way, you would mar it with various lines that formed a design of some sort. You wanted to tire yourself out, drain your mind of your ideas and impart them onto paper, in hopes of lulling yourself to sleep.

“Oh, these designs are absolutely gorgeous dear!!” You recalled your mother encouraging you when you had sheepishly showed her the product of your nightly endeavours, “Why don’t you help your father in the workshop and make these beautiful designs of yours a reality, hm?”

The distant echo of your father saying your name slowly drew you back into the busy atmosphere of the workshop.

“Hm?” You replied quickly, acknowledging his attempts to get you to focus.

“Look kiddo, I know it’s been tough since… the new laws, but let’s try get some work done today, okay? You just let me know if you ever need a break.” He looks at you sympathetically and pats your head gently. He’s always done this, no matter how old you were. You were forever guaranteed those comforting head pats from your father, which served as one of the few moments of solace in this harsh reality.

“I’m fine, Dad!! I was just zoning out, that’s all. I’m already used to the workload you know, it has been 4 years you know.”

You’re met with the sound of his hearty laughter and with that, you resume your work momentarily. Your hand effortlessly guides the sharpened instrument across the wood, shaving and smoothing out any imperfections. Raising it up and examining it, you internally approve of your fine handiwork.

“How does it look? Do you think those Capitol snobs would like it?” You direct the question to your father, holding up the wooden carving of a deer head in your hands.

He pauses for a moment and pretends to think carefully, before nodding. “Why, this would be a perfect accessory for our collection of other carved animal heads!” He laughs, and it’s clear he’s joking, imitating the materialistic character of the Capitol.

This impression causes you to laugh along with him. After all, if you had faced the oppression of the Capitol it would be hard to resist mocking them in the safety of your own home.

Suddenly, the door of the workshop creaks. A bell rings, and your father and you instantly put on poker faces. If it were the Peacekeepers, the worst punishment they could legally deal for mockery would be a beating. Perhaps maybe a shot to the head if they were feeling it, because it was common knowledge the Capitol never played fairly.

To your relief, it was just one of your father’s friends and his son. Your father instantly brightened up and greeted the two.

“Hey, you two got some wood for us?” Your father smiles.

“Yeah, and a whole lot of it too. It’s been much easier harvesting all this wood with my son to do most of the work for me!” The other older man jokes, slapping his son on the back. Your father responds with a chortle of laughter and nods approvingly at Treech.

“Same goes for me too. With my kiddo here she’s taken half the workload off my back.”

Three pairs of eyes direct their focus towards you, and you stray your attention away from your wooden deer to meet a set of hazel ones. As the fathers continue their conversation, the boy about your age approaches you. The sun pours into the workshop and illuminates his brown curls, bleaching them a shade of caramel.

“You made this?” He asks in a rather abruptly, but he makes up for his tone with the way he sends you a boyish smile.

You laugh softly and nod, “Yeah, I did.”

“It’s beautiful. I don’t know how you turn a log into a masterpiece like this.”

“Thank you, I try! Just a bit of carving and hard work, that’s all.”

He continues to admire the fine handiwork you’ve done, gingerly running the tips of his fingers across the grooves of your piece. It was almost as if he was scared to break it, but wanted to dare to feel it for himself nonetheless.

“What’s your name?” He asks, his brown locks spilling out from under his hat. Upon asking this question he quickly diverts his gaze back to the deer ornament, but after a few seconds he dares to meet your eyes again with an unfaltering look. As you utter your name, his mouth widens and it’s almost as if he had been entranced the moment you said your name.

“The name’s Treech. Hopefully we’ll see each other more often?” Treech asks and it’s during this that you take the chance to notice his angel eyes. The mixture of hazel and chestnut, sprinkled with hints of sage and the colour of the sky.

You watch him slowly retreat back to his father who is about to exit the workshop and you quickly take in the situation, “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you around?”

Treech looks back, sporting a sweet smile to you before leaving. It seemed he had left as quickly as he had entered, and a small part of you had hoped he would wander in again soon.

just wanted to post the first chapter of my treech fic from wattpad onto here!

here's the link if you want to continue reading it, the 2nd and 3rd chapters feature more interactions between treech and u !

https://www.wattpad.com/story/359118000-district-7-sweethearts-treech

[imsofuckingdonewiththisgoddamn]

When Our Stars Cross Paths; IV Treech x Mentor!Reader

Pairing: Treech x Mentor!Reader

Word Count: 1.71k

Warnings: Swearing, Violence

Sweet Angels🪻: @nemesii @mrsyixingunicorn10 @chmpgneprblem @thxmiss @storiesofmyhead @valdezsttuff @nekee-lilac02 @shykittycat @aceofspades190

🎬Mood boards🎬

Let the record show that you went above and beyond as a mentor.

That was the first thought to pass through your mind as the heavy doors of the van were slammed shut by oblivious peacekeepers, trapping you and Coriolanus in a confined space with around a dozen tributes who wanted you dead.

You kept your eyes fixed at a point on the floor towards the opposite end of the van, scared of what—or rather who you would see if you lifted your gaze. Not that you would be able to blame them. Had you been in their position, you would’ve jumped at the opportunity to seek revenge.

If Coriolanus was as unsettled as you were, he did a damn good job of hiding it. Straightening his posture, he brushed off the dust that had accumulated on his vermillion Academy uniform. While he may have had the confidence, he stuck out like a sore thumb and you were suddenly very grateful for having chosen against such a conspicuous outfit. Coming to the conclusion that you were just as safe, if not more safe than Coriolanus, due to having introduced yourself and offered food to several of the tributes you were currently riding with, you allowed your eyes to slowly lift from the dirty metal floor of the van. Unfortunately for you, the spot where you had previously been fixating at had been right where Treech was standing, with your eyes suddenly meeting as your gaze ascended from the floor. His arm was hanging onto the railing that ran along the length of the van, and his eyes bore into you the same way they had when you had slapped him minutes prior. Behind him you could see a little girl who you believed to be Wovey from District eight. Your few tedious moments of tension were broken by Coriolanus clearing his throat, an action that brought the rest of the tributes attention towards the two of you. If they hadn’t been staring already.

“Hi.” It was barely audible, but the echo of the van carried the single word and let it hang in anticipatory silence. Your face cringed at t he sound of if. Here you two were, a couple of rich Capitol kids who had waltzed into a vehicle with a bunch of exhausted kids who were being held like prisoners, and he was acting like it was some sort of field trip.

“What’s the matter, Pretty Boy? Got in the wrong cage?” The boy from District eleven, Reaper spoke up from where he stood at the opposite end of the van, next to Treech. Clemmie had been assigned as his mentor and had been more than pleased when it was announced, and you could see why. The boy was by far the biggest out of everyone in the van and stood well past six feet tall, with huge shoulders and a square jaw permanently shaped into a scowl, he was downright terrifying.

“No, not at all. This cage is delightful.” It was an awful attempt at clearing the tension, but you had to give your classmate credit for having the balls to make such a statement.

Reaper, however, didn’t appreciate the boy’s comment and suddenly lurched forward, making great strides across the van from where he formerly stood next to Treech. Before you knew it, the dark skinned boy had Coriolanus pressed up against the wall of the vehicle, his large hands fisting the material of his Academy coat.

The van suddenly came to life with action, with variously tributes egging on Reaper to kill Coriolanus. Exceptionally happy for the sudden opportunity to retaliate in the violence that was being imposed upon them.

“Get him Reaper!” You could hear a boy urging from somewhere behind you. Coriolanus’s formerly collected facade was quickly falling apart at the realization of his probable imminent death, his hands desperately reaching out in a feeble attempt to push the much larger boy off of him.

“I’ll kill you right now.” Reaper growled as he somehow managed to push Coriolanus further into the wall. You didn’t take Reaper as someone who was all bark and no bite, and was nearly certain he would go through with his threat if there was no immediate intervention.

“He’ll do it.” A raspy voice piped up from next to you—Dill, Reaper’s district partner. “He killed a peacekeeper back in eleven. They never found out who did it.” The young girl smirked a bit after the past comment, before a cough came over her and she was sent into a fit.

“Quiet Dill.” Reaper turned around only long enough to reprimand the younger girl, but his scolding had already brought all eyes towards Dill, which subsequently brought attention to you.

“Looks like Pretty Boy came with a friend.” Tanner, the boy from District ten, whistled out. He was Domitia’s tribute, and you had been severely disturbed by his reaping, where his hands had been shown to be bloody from what you hoped was a morning at the slaughterhouse. While now there was only faint traces of blood buried underneath his fingernails, the taller boy still wore a particularly wicked grin on his face as he slowly approached you, eyes never leaving yours. You subconsciously took a few steps back, your body now flush against the cold metal wall alongside Coriolanus. “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing in here?” Tanner’s question might have been phrased more nicely than Reaper’s, but it was still laced with the same tone of anger and vengeance. Your petrified eyes left Tanner’s unnerving gaze, and you peered over his shoulder, to shaken to answer the District ten boy. Treech’s eyes were also fixed on you, but in a way that was much more contemplative and pensive, as if he was debating on whether or not he should intervene. However, much to your shock it wasn’t Treech nor Coriolanus who came to your rescue. It was Lamina.

The sullen girl had slipped from her spot beside Treech without anyone noticing and moved to stand between you and Tanner, acting as a barrier to protect you despite her obvious shaking. Lucy Gray also made herself known, appearing from her spot deep in the van to approach Reaper, a silence falling over the riled up tributes as the girl spoke up.

“You got family back home?” The question was obviously intended for Reaper and Tanner, but she looked around the van as if her question was pointed towards all of them.

“They’ll kill them if you hurt either of them, and then they’ll kill you.” Lucy Gray spoke as if it were obvious, and the realization seemed to set in on the two boys and they thankfully backed away towards their respective district partners. Lamina let out a sigh of relief, her hands still shaking in little balled fists. You were in awe at her bravery, not only for confronting a much larger tribute, but also that she did it for you, someone who was virtually a stranger.

“Besides, I might need him, being my mentor and all.” The last part caused Coriolanus’s gaze to immediately shift to Lucy Gray, as if he was shocked that she was coming to his defense.

“Mender? How come you get a mender?” A girl with a bright red bob, Coral, interrogated from her corner of the van.

“A mentor.” Coriolanus corrected, he was always a stickler when it came to grammar and pronunciation. Something that could annoy you to no end when he went of his rants during class. “Each of you get one, to help guide you throughout the games.”

“And were supposed to trust you on that?” Coral retorted, unimpressed with the boy’s answer. “Why does Little Miss Rainbow get special treatment?” The redheaded girl pointed an accusatory finger at Lucy Gray, as if she was responsible for her mentor’s shortcomings. You made a mental reminder to warn Festus, Coral’s mentor, on how much of a firecracker she was before he could meet her for himself. You were near certain he would pleased though, feisty types tended to fare well in the games. Getting her to entertain the Capitol however, would be a different battle.

“She doesn’t get special treatment, you all have mentors.” Coriolanus reiterated, clearly still on edge from his close encounter with Reaper. “Then why aren’t they here?” This time Bobbin, a boy from District eight spoke up, clearly interested in the prospect of having a mentor.

“Just not inspired, I guess.” Lucy Gray added, a smirk forming on her face. She must’ve known her performance at the Reapings had garnered her mentor’s attention. You felt a pang of sympathy for the girl. Little did she know that only a few moments before her singing, Coriolanus had already given up any hope of her winning.

“Who does she belong to?” Tanner inquired, although he had backed a few feet away, his stare had never broken away from you. He slightly licked his lips which was already enough to make you shudder. What was his deal?

“Back of ten.” Your eyes suddenly moved towards the voice, landing on the tall frame of Treech, who had let go of his railing and was moving closer towards Tanner. “You got lucky Lumberjack, I’m honestly a bit jeal-”

Tanner didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. Because before you knew it, the van jerked, knocking everyone to the ground in a wave on shock and confusion. Lamina landed on top of you, which surprisingly didn’t hurt due to her being much smaller. She quickly moved off of you with a soft apology as everyone tried to regain their balance. However, another lurch sent everyone tumbling onto the floor once again. This time you landed next to Treech, your head falling against his chest as the floor started sloping, sending the piles of tributes and mentors into the metal doors with a slam. You tried to raise your head from Treech’s chest to get a grasp as to what was happening, but his arm reached out to wrap around you, holding you in place against his body. Before you could fight against him the metal doors of the van suddenly jutted open, dumping everyone out, and sending them falling towards the ground below.

A/N

We are Lamina stans here!!! Love to see Treech’s protectiveness as well, so stay prepared for that in coming chapters! Hopefully I will be able to post another chapter in the next day or two!

XOXO

[ballad-of-birdy-lamb]

My Tbosas fanfic masterlist!!

My requests are open!!!

Of course, my request list/rules:

Request rules and list

Coriolanus Snow:

Romantic headcanons with Gender neutral reader

Coriolanus comforts gender neutral reader who is a tribute

Crush headcanon with Plinth! Female reader

Coriolanus looking through District Twelve for female! reader

Spending time with gender neutral! reader at the lake near District Twelve

Hurt comfort headcanons with male! Victor! Reader

Fluff to hurt/comfort headcanons with male! Reader

Lucy Gray:

Comfort fic in the arena with gender neutral reader

Romantic headcanons with female reader

Romantic poly headcanons with shy! Gender neutral! reader (ft. Billy Taupe)

Romantic headcanons of Lucy Gray exploring the woods with female! reader

If you were a boy - Lucy Gray x Fem! Reader fic

I'll hide you in my poetry - Lucy Gray x Fem! Covey Member! Reader headcanon & small oneshot

Sejanus:

Basic romantic headcanon with female reader

Female reader comforts Sejanus while he's in District Twelve

Sejanus Plinth x Fem! Snow! Reader romantic headcanons

Gender neutral reader angst with Sejanus after he's caught

Making peace with my inevitable death - Sejanus Plinth x fem! Reader romantic oneshot

Billy Taupe:

Romantic poly headcanons with shy! Gender neutral! reader (ft. Lucy Gray)

Mayfair:

__

Jessup:

Jessup Diggs x Fem! Affectionate! Reader x Reaper Ash separate romantic headcanons

Reaper:

Sejanus Plinth x Fem! Reader x Reaper Ash separate romantic headcanons

Jessup Diggs x Fem! Affectionate! Reader x Reaper Ash separate romantic headcanons

Basic romantic headcanons with gender neutral! reader

Fluff headcanons at a party with gender neutral! victor! reader

Are you sick of me? Would you like to be? - Reaper Ash x Fem! Crush Reader romantic crush headcanons

Dill:

__

Coral:

Coral x Gender neutral! Reader romantic headcanons

Intermixed romantic headcanons with gender neutral! Reader within District Four and in the arena

Mizzen:

Platonic headcanons with Male! Reader

Treech:

Romantic headcanons with friendly! Gender neutral! Reader

Won't you stay with me, my darling? - Treech x Fem! Tribute! Reader romantic hurt comfort fic

How pretty it is, I think I'm in love - Treech/Tanner x gn! Reader separate romantic headcanons

Lamina

Romantic headcanons with friendly! Gender neutral! Reader

Clemensia:

__

Tigris:

Basic romantic headcanons with female! reader

Dr. Gaul:

__

Brandy

__

Tanner

How pretty it is, I think I'm in love - Treech/Tanner x gn! Reader separate romantic headcanons

_______

This is all at the moment, there will be more added later when I get through the eight requests I have going already!!

Thank you all for your support, it's been very fun writing for this fandom!!

[venusbyline]

Omg I see that you write for Treech and like 😭😭😭 yes I love him sm you are doing a service to this community I salute you bestie

tysm bestie!!! <3 i luv him so much, he's so pretty and babygirl i caaaan't :(

i wish more thg/tbosas stans could notice our pretty boy too

[bimb0fy]

bruno is orange -> a treech series

pairings; treech x covey!reader

synopsis; you were a winner, so was he. you were placed into the hunger games, so was he. you killed, so has he. so why was it so hard to not understand his motives, to him, it was pure hatred, to you, it was justification.

contents

— 00; prologue

[jjmaybanksdomgf]

Chapter 1 - The Reaping

Y/N was filled with anticipation as she sat in the crowded hall, waiting for the Dean, Highbottom, to announce the mentors for the tributes.

The air was thick with tension as the speaker's voice boomed through the room, his eyes scanning the sea of faces before him.

Finally, he began to speak. "District one," he announced, his tone grave. "The boy goes to Livia Cardew, and the girl goes to Palmyra Monty."

As the words left his lips, the room erupted into a flurry of activity. The two mentors standing on either side of the speaker broke out into wide, triumphant smiles, no doubt thrilled to have secured what they considered to be the "best" tributes.

It angered her, why did they get the pick of the litter? They did have the best tributes, obviously they're the best. Why wouldn't they be? They're in District one. She sat there and glared at the two who just grinned widely.

Highbottom had coughed, surprisingly loudly which made everyone quiet down. "District two." She crossed her fingers tightly and looked up at the screens.

"Boy goes to Sejanus Plinth and the girl goes to Florus Friend." 

She sat there and groaned but something caught her eye. She watched as Coriolanus congratulated Sejanus, everyone knew where Sejanus was really from. Sejanus didn't grin nor did he look happy, he looked angry. Was he angry that he had gotten a tribute from a good District?

"District three. Boy goes to Io Jasper and the girl goes to Urban Canville."

She sat there, waiting for her name to be called, hopefully next.

"District four." And he paused. What was wrong?

He coughed, loudly, yet again.

"Boy goes to Y/N L/N. Girl goes to Festus Creed." She knew everyone was now looking at the two of them but she ignored them and instead looked up at the screen to see her tribute. 

It was a young boy who looked no older than thirteen, he was wearing a discoloured sweater vest, a pair of dirty jeans, a long-sleeved shirt and a blue hat. He has brown, medium-lengthed hair which was styled into a messy middle part.

She then quickly turned to the other screen to look at Festus' tribute, it was an older girl, probably around sixteen, and she looked a lot tougher than her tribute. She snarled at her classmate, hating how she got the weaker tribute. She quietly muttered a curse under her breath.

Highbottom started again. "District five. Boy goes to-"... he trailed off. She wasn't listening anymore, she sat there thinking about her tribute and how he was going to be the reason she won't win the plinth prize. She sulked.

"District 12. Boy goes to Lysistrata Vickers and the girl goes to... she goes to Coriolanus Snow." Her head snapped up at the name and she looked at him. He looked displeased, almost provoked. She had a small smirk on her face as she watched him tense up when he looked at his tribute on the screen.

... Was she an idiot? Why would she put a snake down that girls dress? A fool. I winced as she got punched to the floor. She quickly got up, though and walked up to the microphone on the stage.

"...Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping. Nothing you can take was ever worth keeping." The girl shakily sang to the crowd, following on from a younger girl in the crowd.

My head turned away from the screen due to the sound of Arachne mocking Coriolanus and the poor girl. Sure, I didn't like Coriolanus but God did I despise Arachne. 

My head turned back to the screen. "You can't take my charm... can't take my humour. Can't take my wealth cause it's just a rumour. Nothing you can take... was ever worth keeping. You can't take my sass, you can't take my talking."

She stopped for a few seconds, looking at the camera.

"You can kiss my ass!" She screamed as loud as she could. And just before she left, she did some kind of bow. How weird...

[bumblebugwrites]

chapter 3: oh, children

Pairing: Victor!Treech x fem!Reader

Summary: With the passage of time comes the day of the Reaping, and your involvement in the Games begins to feel more and more real as you prepare your tributes for their probable deaths.

Warnings: Cursing, Suggestive Themes, Mention of Injuries, Character Death, Weapons.

Word Count: 7.6k

Taglist: @nekee-lilac02, @mr-panda357

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

The morning of the reaping is hot in 10, though any month past March usually is.  You had stayed at home the night before, foregoing sleeping in the bunkhouse for the bed you share with Fawn, and as the first rays of light begin to peak through the blinds, you fight the urge to roll back over. Today is the day.

Pushing the covers off only your side of the bed so as not to disturb the mess of hair and limbs beside you, you allow the soles of your feet to soak up the heat of the floor for a moment before moving to stand. 

There is movement in the kitchen. You can hear it as you approach from down the hall. Though it does not surprise you, your mother is always up early on reaping day, flitting about the house nervously, ironing the same outfits she painstakingly selected the night before. This morning, it is Fawn’s dress, and you watch as she turns it this way and that, passing the iron over each fold and wrinkle with unwavering concentration. When your father was still alive, he would say it was as though she thought her efforts could keep the day away. That if she kept on ironing, the reaping would never come. You knew better. Knew that her shaking hands and furrowed brow were only indicators of love. A love that she pressed into every seam with each careful pass of the iron, like a final plea to the Capitol. Please, you don’t understand; these children are loved by someone. They are loved by me. Why can’t that be enough?

It is Fawn’s first reaping today. The thought has clouded your mind for weeks. And though you reassure yourself that it is nearly impossible that you could both be reaped, there is still a sick feeling pooled in your gut. You attempt to shake it off as you pour yourself a cup of coffee, nabbing a piece of toast from the table. Whether Fawn’s name is pulled or not, you are headed for the Capitol today, and who knows the next time they will remember to feed you. 

As you shuffle over to the table, you note the letter from Teff that had arrived just yesterday, still sitting out from last night. You fold it neatly, placing it back in the envelope before standing to file it away with the others. Two from Trawl, four from Teff, and a single letter from Treech. Your fingers reach out to gently trace his handwriting on the back of the envelope before closing the drawer. You’d already read it enough times to have the damn thing memorized. Besides, you would see him soon enough, back in the Capitol for the Games. The Games. You feel yourself flood with guilt for the indulgence of your line of thinking. Two children will be reaped today. That is what’s important. That is where your attention should be. You shake away all thoughts of Treech, returning to your coffee and toast and observing your mother as she finishes her work on Fawn’s dress.

“It’ll be okay. She won’t be picked,” you assure her over the lip of your mug.

“Like you were okay?” She doesn’t look up as she responds, but there is a cold tinge to her voice, and you feel the sting of her words; the sting of knowing the ghost of your Games still haunts your mother. Before you can respond, there is shuffling from down the hall, and you rise from your seat to grab some of the honey you’d bought from the local bee farm just last week for today’s breakfast. Something sweet to ease the pain. Fawn emerges, her hair stuck out at odd angles with Lennox hot on her heels. At only six, it would be years before your brother’s first reaping, and you help him into your lap, beginning to spread the honey onto a piece of toast just for him. 

“Fawn, when you’re finished eating, go get your brush so I can braid your hair.” Your mother has moved on to pressing Lennox’s shirt as attendance at the reaping is required for all citizens of the Districts no matter their age, and you note your own outfit, hung from a handle on one of the cupboards. A long jean skirt paired with a leather vest and a nice button-up. The vest you recognize from your father’s own wardrobe, though the fit now looked suited to your own shape, and you realize your mother must have made some adjustments so that you might wear it. The skirt surprises you, though you suppose it makes sense. In previous years, your mother had opted for jeans, knowing the chances of your survival in the arena were only increased by the mobility they would provide. But those years were over, and with the Games behind you, there was no chance of your name being drawn. With no tesserae taken out in her name, Fawn would only have one slip in the reaping barrel, and you know your mother is relying on the dress to draw out her youth and innocence should she be selected. There is a strategy to it. To all of it, you think, and though it feels calculated, it is the price of survival.

Fawn scampers off to retrieve her hairbrush after virtually inhaling her toast, and you remove Lennox from your lap, sending him in your mother’s direction to get changed. 

As you comb through the mess of hair before you, you feel the spirit of your mother overtake you, pleating love into each and every fold like a prayer. This child is loved. This child is loved by me. Why can’t that be enough?

A letter had arrived several days ago, notifying you that you were to remain on the stage throughout the reaping. A display of your new role as a mentor. A reminder of your victory. An echo of every child from 10 who had and would succumb to the Games. You approach the steps and spot Calpurnia situated beside an empty seat, the stage teeming with Peacekeepers, and you feel your brow furrow at her presence.

“What are you–” “I’m here to do the reaping,” she says, delivering a curt nod in your direction.

“But the mayor does the reaping,” you respond, thoughts returning to this day just two years ago when his sweaty hand had dipped into the barrel and fished out your name.

“Not anymore. Capitol orders.” As you settle into the seat beside her, you recall an incident from last year in 12, projected onto the screen above the stage. A girl who slipped a snake down the dress of the mayor’s daughter. You nod in understanding before taking the seat beside hers, hands clasped tightly in your lap. You search the crowd for Fawn, stiff in her place among the other twelve-year-old girls. She does not look up, eyes fixed on the ground before her. 

The kids from 12 are reaped first. The girl is older, lean but with muscle you recognize must come from work in the mines. The boy can be no more than thirteen, and you swallow hard at the look of fear plastered across his face, forcing your own gaze downwards. Eight comes next. Then 6 and 11. You note Teff in the corner of the screen as the two tributes from his District are drawn. His features remain tight and unmoving. District 10 goes seventh, as it does every year, and as Calpurnia rises from her place beside you, your jaw locks into place, eyes drilling holes into the sides of the barrels as though looking hard enough might allow you to see the names drawn before they even pass through the opening. As though it might allow you to breathe. Not Fawn. Please, not Fawn.

“Ladies first,” Calpurnia states, and there is little showmanship to the affair as she wastes no time plucking a carefully folded parcel from the barrel to her left. 

“Bee Shepley.” The name rings out across the square, and your relief at not hearing Fawn’s name is short-lived as you watch the section of fourteen-year-old girls begin to shuffle. It is not hard to pick her out, a skinny little thing with a face full of freckles. Her mouth moves as though rigged to do so, opening and closing without any sound coming out. Around her, girls begin to shy away, leaving a cold, empty space with Bee at its center. From within the surrounding crowd, there is a horrible, shuddering cry, followed closely by the babble of what you can only assume to be a toddler. With a push from the girl beside her, Bee advances towards the stage. 

She is crying, you note, as she makes the slow journey to the stairs, but before she can take the first step, she presses two firm hands against her face, wiping the tears from her eyes. By the time she takes her place, the fear on her visage begins to meld with determination, a steely look passing over her features. 

“Now for the boys.” Calpurnia moves to snag a second paper, though there is something different in her tone, which for the first time sounds strained and watery. You realize with a start that this woman has probably never before seen the districts, and now here she is, damning two of 10’s children with their own probable deaths.

“Colt Harrier.” You know Colt. He had been a few years behind you in school and looks to be about seventeen as he moves from his place among the boys. Your fathers had worked out on the ranch together, and for a while, you’d worked side by side in the slaughterhouse after leaving school at around fourteen. He was only twelve then. He is bigger than you remember, no longer so boyish. With dark hair and piercing eyes, he towers over Bee as he takes his place beside her. Still, his face betrays nothing, and had you not recognized his sister among the cluster of fifteen-year-old girls, you might have thought his gaze was simply trained ahead, unfeeling. 

What comes next hits you like a bag of bricks. Four Peacekeepers emerge to collect the tributes, and a look from Calpurnia indicates to you that it is time to depart. No goodbyes. No final moments. They might as well be branded: property of the Capitol from this day forward. You enter the arched doors of City Hall, and they slam heavy and unmoving behind you. It is all so fast. No.

“No.” Calpurnia startles beside you at the sudden outburst, but you pay her irritation no mind. “No. They should get to say goodbye.”

Ahead of you, the Peacekeepers continue to guide your tributes toward the exit that will lead the group of you to the train station. You do not care, planting your feet in refusal.

“That is not in the instructions–” Calpurnia begins, but you stop her soon after.

“Instructions? They might never see their families again. They should be allowed to say goodbye.”

“It’s just never been that way,” she chides, moving her arms as though trying to usher you forward. Down the hall, the Peacekeepers begin to slow, having noted your absence.

“Well, this year is different. It’s already different. There are mentors and escorts, and they should be allowed time with their families. Ten minutes, that’s all I’m asking. Calpurnia, you’re the only one who can–” 

“We are going to be late.” And her tone is sharp, but her eyes dart towards the ground, and you can feel her caving to your request.

“Well, they’re not gonna leave without us.”

“I– Will you stop this nonsense if I ask?” You nod solemnly, and she sighs, leaving you momentarily to speak to one of the four men. There is a back and forth, and he seems displeased, but eventually, he begins to guide Colt in a different direction, another Peacekeeper following suit with Bee, while the remaining two make towards the stage you have only just left.

“Five minutes,” Calpurnia hisses as she returns to your side, “It’s all they would agree to.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, alarmed by the heavy sincerity of your own words, and you see it, in that moment, something soften deep within her eyes. She nods before spinning around to face the other direction, her heels punctuating each step with a sharp click.

“Well, come on then. We’ll meet them on the train.”

It is twenty minutes later when the doors to the train open, and Colt and Bee stumble inside. Lighter than her District partner, Bee takes the impact of the Peacekeeper’s shove worse than Colt, skidding onto her hands and knees before looking up to eye the table where you sit beside Calpurnia. You are on your feet in an instant, moving to help her up, but Colt bars your way with a glare, dipping to lend her a hand. Your heart sinks deeper into your chest. 

“Right, if you could both take a seat, we have lots to go over,” Calpurnia states, sorting through the array of files spread across the table before her, and Bee takes a hesitant step forward. Colt does not move.

“What is she doing here?” He is looking at you.

“I am your mentor for the Games,” you explain, resisting the urge to shrink beneath the look he gives you.

“So you work for the Capitol then?”

“I suppose technically I do,” you answer, and even Bee’s eyes trace over you, guarded by a layer of skepticism. “But I’m here to help you. We both are.”

“Okay, we really don’t have time for this. We have a schedule to go over, people,” Calpurnia huffs, making an ushering movement with her hand to urge both tributes to take a seat. Bee slides into the seat beside yours, and after several seconds of silence, Colt follows her lead.

“Alright, so, upon arrival in the Capitol, we will meet with the team of stylists for District 10 who will get you fitted for tonight’s tribute parade as a part of the Opening Ceremonies–”

“Parade?” Colt’s brow furrows, and a mixture of confusion and anger begin to darken his face.

“The parade will take us to the newly built Training Center, where you will be staying until the Games commence. Tomorrow, after being allowed a day to determine your own strengths, you will be assessed on your skills, and we will close out the night with individual interviews. Are there any questions?” Calpurnia finishes, looking up.

“One day that’s not enough ti–” Colt begins.

“What do you mean interviews?” Bee asks quietly from beside him.

“Why are we doing all this shit anyways? If they want us dead so badly, just put us in the fucking arena; why waste the energy?” Colt demands, his steely gaze fixed on you.

“Because this year is different. The Games are changing. Now, why is none of my business, and frankly, I don’t know if I could answer that question myself.” A small lie never hurt anyone. “But what we do know is how. All this ceremonial bullshit–” Calpurnia shoots you a look of warning, and you clear your throat.

“--Stuff is so that the Capitol can get to know you. Starting last year, a system was put into place, one that allowed Capitol citizens to sponsor their favorite tributes so that their mentors could send them gifts in the arena: food and water. Things you need for survival. We know that the arena is different this year, which means that these gifts could be more important than ever in helping you survive.”

“So putting us in the Hunger Games wasn’t entertainment enough for them? Now, we’re supposed to make them like us before they send us off to die? Fuck that, I’m not doing it.”

“This is not a matter of choice. You will participate,” Calpurnia cuts in.

“Or what? You gonna kill me again?”

“Not you. But your sister, maybe. Your mother. The Capitol does not take kindly to refusal. Trust me,” you speak, your voice harsh like it’s never been before, and your thoughts travel to Hector. Hector who is dead for his defiance. Colt crosses his arms, sinking back into his seat and you feel yourself nearly jolt in surprise at the sound of Bee’s voice.

“What do we have to do?”

Arrival in the Capitol is certainly not a calm affair. The moment the train stops, the four of you find yourselves being ushered into a car that takes you to a building just off the City Circle. While Calpurnia wrangles Colt and Bee, guiding the two down the hall straight ahead, several Peacekeepers meet you at the entrance, taking you in a different direction, presumably to meet up with the other mentors. 

To meet up with Treech. No. You shake the thought from your head, urging your brain to remain focused. You don’t have time to think about him. Not now, not ever. 

It is not long before the two men leading the way stop outside an ornate wooden door, one stepping forward to tap a key card to the pad on the wall before opening the door.

You seem to be the last to arrive, likely on account of your request that Colt and Bee be given a moment to speak with their families, and your eyes flit across the room, decorated with a large couch, a television, and an open bar. Trawl is the first to spot you, a boisterous greeting bursting forth from his lips as he rises from his spot at the bar to wrap you in an embrace, Teff only a few feet behind. The handshake he extends to you bears a more solemn tone, but his eyes dance with the familiar light of the friendship you have come to know from his letters.

“How are you?” He leans in to whisper, concern evident in his tone.

“I’ve been better.” You shrug, attempting to plaster an easy smile across your face, and he nods in return, traces of sympathy in his eyes. Turning, you cast a wave over your shoulder at the victors from 1 and 2 who populate the couch, and from his place beside Antonia, Octavian gives you a nod. You spin back around, expecting to encounter Teff once more, only to find he has been replaced.

“No hat today?” Treech.

“No, hello? It’s nice to see you?” You joke, and your eyes rake up and down his figure, taking him in for the first time in months. He looks nice, still in the outfit you assume he wore to the reaping. It is similar, you note, to the one he wore in his Games, and you decide it must be considered the fashion back in 7. “Besides, I see you’ve got one on for me.”

He reaches up to grasp at the brim, tipping it in your direction, and you feel your features split open into a smile, nearly forgetting the reason you are here. Nearly. Your grin fades at the recollection, and you suddenly remember another thing.

“You never answered my last letter.” It isn’t a question. Not really. There is no explanation demanded of him, but you fail to disguise the disappointment in your words, and his face seems to fall as well.

“I–” he begins, but then seems to think better of what he was going to say, instead clearing his throat before continuing. “I must have forgotten.”

“Hm.” You nod before skirting around him to rejoin Trawl and Teff at the bar.

“Trouble in paradise?” Trawl teases, raising his drink to his lips to take a sip while his eyebrows lift suggestively, head tilted in Treech’s direction. The boy from 7 stays standing where you left him for a moment, gaze still trained on you before opting to take a seat beside Beau on the couch.

“Are you fucking serious?” Trawl’s mouth opens once more as though he intends to quip back but quickly shuts upon further consideration. After several moments of silence, he speaks again, caution evident in his tone.

“Yes?” You only glare in his direction, further discouraged by the soft snort from Teff. 

“Okay, I just don’t understand why you both seem so resistant to the fact that you clearly wanna fuck each other,” Trawl shrugs, and you feel your mouth fall open in shock.

“Are you ill?” You demand, reaching out to press the back of your hand to his forehead. He only swats it away.

“Am I saying something untrue?” He asks, looking to Teff for help.

“Ill-timed, insensitive, inflammatory, could probably get us all killed for encouraging collusion or friendly mingling among the Districts, you know, given that the Capitol wants us to hate each other–” Teff begins, marking each new point by lifting a finger.

“Thank you, Teff,” you cut in, breathing a sigh of relief, and beside you, Trawl’s smirk begins to form a pout.

“I wasn’t finished. All those things are true, of course, but he’s still not wrong–” Your look of thanks turns to a glare, and from beside you, Trawl lets out an excited yelp, causing the people on the couch to look in your direction. 

“Yes!” You are sure to reward him with a swift elbow to the stomach before turning to mouth an apology at a rather annoyed-looking Lux.

“And if we can see it, I promise you they can too,” Teff continues, pointing to the emblem of the Capitol decorating the mirror behind the bar shelves. Trawl’s look of victory quickly disappears.

“No! That’s not– You’re supposed to be backing me up here–” he whines, but you only sigh, allowing yourself a glance in Treech’s direction. When your eyes reach his face, you find him looking right back.

“He’s right, Trawl. It’s too dangerous. Even if it is true.”

The Opening Ceremony goes about as well as you could have hoped. Both Colt and Bee appear to be dressed as cowboys of some sort, and you make a mental note to thank Tigris for what you assume to be her intervention, guaranteeing your tributes are not costumed as unidentifiable roadkill. Bee even manages a small smile, coached by Calpurnia, no doubt. Still, you feel yourself fill with gratitude at the sight, knowing it might just be enough to charm at least a single sponsor. 

Each set of tributes stands on a chariot, and as the procession makes a particularly wide turn, you note the chains keeping their ankles bound to the mode of transport. Your shoulders sink at the sight of them. 

The parade continues throughout the city, each block lined with Capitol citizens, and it soon becomes clear that it has no intention of returning to City Circle, where you remain with the other mentors. Instead, it pulls to a stop before a grand hotel you quickly recognize from your last stay in the ‘Gem of Panem.’ It is not long after that a group of Peacekeepers enters the room, escorting the lot of you to an awaiting vehicle, likely headed in the same direction. 

You expect to stay with your tributes, so a jolt of surprise runs down your spine as you are all led to the same suite as last time, with the assurance that you will be given the privilege of visiting them in the morning. The place remains virtually untouched, aside from a single wooden box set plainly at the center of the coffee table beside the couch. Trawl is the first to approach it. As he lifts the lid, you catch sight of ten slim cases, and he dips his hand inside, pulling out the first one. 

As he cracks the case open, you spy an almost iridescent disk with a hole directly through its center.

“What is it?” You ask, noting that most of the other victors seem to bear the same look of confusion.

“It’s a DVD,” Lux supplies suddenly, a look of excitement on her face. “We used to have them back in 1 when I was a kid, before– Well, you know. They play things on the television.” 

She moves quickly to stand beside Trawl, taking the case from his hands before turning to observe the television at the front of the room. After a couple of minutes of fumbling with the remote and a slim black box below the display, the screen springs to life. And suddenly, your heart feels as though it is free-falling through your chest. 

The footage is distant, clearly that of an old security camera blurred with age, but you recognize it immediately. The arena. The slow pan across twenty-one individual tributes. It is a feed of the very first Hunger Games.

Your eyes flit to the remaining nine cases in the box and you feel as around you, the other victors seem to come to the same conclusion. Octavian remains frozen, eyes glued to the television. He looks as though he might be sick. 

“Turn it off,” Antonia urges from her place beside him, and Lux returns once more to fumbling with the remote. On the screen, the countdown begins. “Turn it off!”

The screen goes black, but your mind is racing. Who else has access to these DVDs? Who else has seen them? You had known during your Games that the Capitol insisted on streaming them to the Districts. To send a message. But here they were again, immortalized on a flimsy piece of plastic, readily available for consumption, seemingly for no reason at all.

“Why–” Beau begins, voicing the same question lurking just behind your lips.

“To study,” Treech answers, taking a hard swallow before beginning again. “To help us strategize and find weaknesses to extort.” He looks tired as you study his features, shoulders slumped and head bent towards the floor. Your own mind swirls with memories, consuming you in horrible waves of terror. Beside you, Teff is shaking, with rage or fear you can not tell.

“They can count down in that arena all they like, but these disks mean the Games have already begun.”

Your room feels empty without Treech’s mattress populating a part of the floor, but you do not invite him to stay. Nor does he ask, trekking down the hall, following the discovery of the box before slamming his door behind him. You sigh, readying yourself for bed before descending into a restless sleep.

To say you do not often have nightmares would be an outright lie, but tonight’s is worse than any you have experienced in a long time. You are back in the arena, the count ticking down from ten, but the boy from 5 is no longer beside you, as he had been in your own Games. Instead, Trawl looks back, eyes pooling with a fierce hatred. Your head swivels, taking in the other tributes, and you note that no more than ten people surround the cornucopia. To your other side, Beau bears his teeth, an animalistic hiss emitting from deep within his chest. Your eyes scan the arena with desperation, and without really knowing why, you are looking for him. Searching for Treech.

He is several places away, eyes narrowed in concentration, and you spy the axe on which his gaze is fixed, determination weighing down his every feature. The countdown hits three, and without meaning to, you stoop to run. Only then it is at one, and you are stuck, frozen in place, watching, stiff with fear as the Games begin. Antonia is the first to go, eyes glinting with betrayal as Octavian spears her through the chest. Then Teff, struck by Trawl’s trident. Your eyes move to Treech, and he is already looking at you, taking slow steps in your direction, axe at the ready. He is three feet away now. Two. One. Your noses are so close that it feels almost like intimacy, but his gaze is hard and resentful. He lifts his axe to kill you, and you find the movement to sink back, away from its blade. An arrow pierces his chest, sudden and sharp. He looks almost surprised. He looks like a boy. He looks like he hates you, and you are not sure which is worse: that he is dying or that he wants you dead.

He begins to sink to his knees, but his hand darts out to grasp your arm, pulling you forward into the blade of his axe. And you are screaming. Choking on your own blood but unable to stop yourself from falling further forward into the pain. Into him. 

There is a hand on your arm, and someone is shaking you awake. Your eyes peel open, and you fly into an open embrace. It smells like cedar. He smells like cedar, whispering words you know are meant to soothe, but the panic rises like bile in your throat at the sight of the boy who, only moments before, had looked at you as though you were nothing. Scum. You pull back, hands stretched out before you in defense, nearly tumbling off the other side of the bed. Treech reaches out to steady you but thinks better of it as you cower further into the duvet.

“I won’t touch you. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, but you have to breathe.”

He is right; the choked gasps for air are doing you no good, so you steady your eyes on him as he takes a deep breath, hand rising and falling with the action as though he is instructing you. You do the same, and as your gaze bores into his, you note no hatred within the look he gives you. Only concern and care. The emotions split his face open in a way you have only seen once before: that first night with his smile. You inch closer.

“You were screaming,” he says, huffing the words out like a breath. “I thought something was wrong– I thought–” 

“I’m okay. I’m okay now,” you reassure, noting the familiarity of your situation. “You can go now if you want to.” 

And you look away, not wanting to watch him leave.

“Do you want me to?” Your eyes dart up, meeting his gaze, vulnerability plastered plain and simple across your visage. You pause, considering his question. Considering the fear you had felt only moments ago as the same curly hair and soft eyes had attempted to end your life. Only that was not him. No. This boy is looking at you as though you are something to be protected, something worth saving.

“No.”

“I can sleep on the floor if you want, if–” he assures you.

“No.” You shake your head, moving over to allow him room, and he slides into the bed beside you.

“Could you–” you begin to ask almost absently, the way you would of Fawn.

“Of course.” And he reaches a gentle hand out to trace simple patterns into the fabric of your shirt, just as you had done for him. After a while, you turn to face him. Treech’s gaze searches your face intently. 

“You never answered my letter. You wrote me first, and then you just–”

“Don’t do this,” he asks, but it’s more like begging.

“I wanna know why. Tell me why,” you reply evenly, and a piece of hair falls into your face with a slight movement of your head. Treech reaches out automatically, brushing it behind your ear.

“You know why.”

“No, I–” “I heard your conversation with Teff and Trawl. You know why.” And the embarrassment of his admission has your cheeks feeling hot. Until you make a second connection.

“You also–”

“Stop.” You do. But you do not turn away, instead pressing in. Closer. He pauses for a moment before wrapping you in his arms, his voice merely a whisper against your forehead.

“Just for tonight.”

You are up early the next morning, though this time Treech is already awake, features hardened in comparison with last night, but his arms still locked around you in a tight embrace.

“I have to–”

“Go,” he answers, unraveling himself from you, and you stand, ushering him out the door so you can prepare to meet with your tributes for the first time since yesterday.

A Peacekeeper lets you into their suite after you make the journey down to the tenth floor, and when you enter, you see Calpurnia, already present, a spread of papers before her. There is food in the kitchen spread across the counter and a fresh pot of coffee, which you gladly indulge in before joining her on the couch. It is then that you see it. The small wooden box beside the television. You note with relief that it appears untouched and sip your coffee while waiting for the clock to strike 7:00 am, at which point you rise to knock on each of your two tributes’ doors. They exit not long after, picking at the food on the counter before settling onto the couch to hear you speak.

“Today, you will be taken to a training center to hone any skills you might have before being assessed tonight. Now, you may think the most important part of today is preparing yourself for combat, but I want you both to look at it as an opportunity to make allies.” Colt huffs from his place on the couch, and you attempt to level with him.

“Allies will be important–” you begin once more, but he cuts you off.

“We don’t need allies.” There is a finality to his tone, and you sense that this battle will not be an easy one.

“Well, then, you’re being arrogant,” you respond. The truth is harsh, but it is the truth. “Now you’ve got each other, and that’s a good start, but if you manage to align yourselves with another District–”

“Why should we listen to anything you have to say?” He cuts you off again, and this time, the disrespect in his voice is blatant. You look to Calpurnia, but her brow is furrowed in equal confusion at the sentiment.

“I– I’ve done this before. And survived, which is more than most people can say,” you tell him, doing your best to keep your voice from shaking.

“Yeah, barely. And if we’re being honest, it was probably just luck.”

“What?” You really aren’t sure what else to say. Where is this coming from?

“We watched your Games last night. Parts of it,” Bee speaks up for the first time from her place beside Colt.

Ah.

“My Game–”

“We need to get ready. For the Training Center, but we’ll see you there,” Colt states, standing from his place on the couch before stalking off to his room. Bee only gives you an empathetic nod but follows all the same. You remain stood in place until Calpurnia’s voice manages to pull you from your thoughts.

“Well, that could have gone better.”

“It’s official. My tributes hate me,” you mutter to Teff, who stands to your left. You are arranged in order of District, stood against the back wall of the Training Center as Coriolanus Snow delivers several opening remarks to the twenty-four tributes. Something about using the equipment and their time to the fullest. You do not listen. Instead, your thoughts swirl with concern. If you can not make your tributes trust you now, they never will. And in the Games, trust is everything. Colt’s face haunts your every breath. The frustration in his eyes. The words he so clearly longs to say. You’re pathetic. You’re not cut out for this. You will never be good enough to bring me home.

You are too distracted to hear Teff’s response. Too distracted to notice Treech’s eyes on you. And definitely too distracted to hear Snow the first time he speaks in your direction.

“So, any volunteers?”

“What’s happening?” You whisper to Treech, who fixes his gaze ahead. 

“Demonstration. He wants two of us to spar, to give the tributes an idea of how they should be training.” You swallow hard, mentally kicking yourself for not being more suspicious when Calpurnia provided you with training clothes as well this morning. Still, you say nothing.

“No one? Alright then, let’s just have our two most recent victors.” He smiles in your direction, and his blue eyes light up with a warning. The two most recent victors means you. You and–

Treech steps forward, making his way towards the wall of weapons without much hesitation, and his face, which only moments ago held concern for you, has morphed into something different. Something you recognize from the glimpses you had seen of his Games. It is as though he is playing a character. You follow his lead. 

You are not surprised at his decision to take the axe and you take your time in considering the possibilities offered by the wall. Your eye catches on a small knife hung beside a bundle of rope, and you take the rope first, unraveling it before tying a single quick knot and snagging the knife on your way toward the mat. 

Treech stands on the opposite end, his eyes glinting with something unreadable.

“You will go until one of you taps out,” Snow calls from off to the side, and you adjust your shoulders, loosening your frame. Across the makeshift ring, Treech speaks.

“Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you.” 

It’s a bit like a slap in the face, and though there is a lightness to his voice, a teasing edge, you sense that there’s some truth in it. You’re pathetic. You’re not cut out for this. You will never be good enough to bring me home. You can feel Colt’s gaze hot on the back of your neck. You need this win. 

Treech blinks back at you, unmoving, before taking a step forward. He is confident. Too confident.

You toss the lasso in a loose arc across the ring. It lands just before Treech’s feet and he gives a quiet huff of laughter, eyes glinting at the prospect of an easy win.

“You missed,” he says, his face splitting open into a sly sort of smirk. One, you could imagine him donning in the arena before cleaving his axe clean through your skull. You only shrug, posture loose and unbothered. He steps forward as though baiting you, placing his foot inside the open loop of your lasso.

“Come on, you can do better than that,” he teases once more. And this time, you can’t fight it, the laughter that bubbles from your lips at his ego, the way it blinds him entirely. Then, you pull. Hard. 

The panic in his eyes is evident as he hits the ground with a thud, and you give another good yank, dragging his body closer within reach before lunging forward to pin him with your knee and bringing your knife to his throat. You pause for a moment, allowing yourself to soak in his surprise, before leaning forward to press your lips to his ear, speaking in a whisper meant for no one else. 

“Just because I didn’t go out of my way to kill anyone in my Games doesn’t mean I wasn’t capable. Remember that next time you’re thinking of going easy on me.” Treech gives the mat a series of three taps, and you pull back, releasing your grip on him before moving to stand.

His brow is furrowed as you lend him a hand, and you sense that you’ve revealed too much with your words, the insecurity you’d been battling to keep hidden gushing out in a moment of weakness. He says nothing. Only shakes your hand with a nod before moving off the mat. 

You turn to face the tributes, but your eye goes directly to Colt, his eyebrow still raised in a look of surprise. Beside him, Bee allows the beginnings of a smirk to grace her features. You will win them over, you think. You don’t have a choice.

Assessments go off without a hitch, and though Bee scores relatively low with a six, Colt manages to pull a nine, leaving you feeling a bit better about their initial odds. Several tributes stand out, including those from 1 and 2 and a boy from 8. There is also Trawl’s girl, Mags, who receives a ten, and you make a note to keep an eye out for her. With interviews on the horizon, you find yourself tucked away in the corner of Bee’s dressing room, doling out several last-minute pieces of advice, confident Calpurnia will have a much easier time convincing Colt to listen to her than you might. With Tigris and her team gone, it is just the two of you, and in her absence, you advance to fret a bit over Bee’s hair, tucking several pieces behind her ears and adding pins here and there.

Your thoughts travel briefly to Fawn, but you shake the connection, aware of the fact that it will only serve to weigh you down.

“And just remember to smile, and–”

“He doesn’t hate you, you know. He’s just worried, I think,” Bee says suddenly, eyes searching yours through your reflection in the mirror.

“But he doesn’t hate you. Calpurnia told us what you did, letting us see our families. He’s grateful; I know he is. And he remembers you. From when you were young together, he says. I know he’s mean sometimes, but promise me you’ll still help him?”

“Bee, I–”

“We both know he has a better chance and when I’m gone, you can’t just leave him to die. Please, promise me.” She is so young, you think. Sitting here, begging you to save Colt’s life. You crouch before her, grasping both of her hands in yours. 

“I know Colt is not evil. He’s just a kid. And I am going to do everything in my power to protect you. Both of you. I promise,” you nod at her, and she gives you a nod in turn. 

“Will you braid my hair? Before the Games tomorrow? I don’t want it to get in my face, and I never learned how.”

“Of course,” you say, but you look away, no longer able to conceal the tears in your eyes and wishing more than anything you could change the world. If only so that this little girl might go home.

It is nearly midnight when you arrive back at the hotel, and you decide to stay with your tributes for the night, sneaking up to your room for a blanket and pillow before returning downstairs. At 2:00 am, you have yet to go to sleep, working on some final paperwork assigned by the Capitol, when down the hall, you hear a creek. From the shadows, Colt emerges.

“Late night?” He asks, and for once, there is no malice in his tone.

“Just finishing a few things. You?” You reply, looking up to take him in. 

“Can’t sleep.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?” 

“No,” he huffs, and the guard is back up, but you will not allow this opportunity pass you by.

“Look, I get it. You don’t trust me. You think I’m a traitor. A sellout. That I have nothing to teach you. So, let’s start over,” you offer, and he gives you a long look, expression hard, before taking a seat on the other end of the couch.

“I am here as a job, yes. But not one I chose to do. It isn’t exactly a coincidence that the only victors who aren’t here are dead. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not gonna do my best to get you through those Games.” Colt looks down at this, and you sense his guilt before you see it written across his face. Still, you continue.

“I didn’t win by slaughtering my opponents because I knew I couldn’t do it. Physically, I was capable. I knew all the right tendons to cut, all the places that hurt the most. You don’t learn nothing working in a slaughterhouse. But I knew, when it came down to it, that I couldn’t do that to another person for the sake of my own survival. So I outlived. I hid, and I survived. After 12 and 11 were gone, I knew that most of the other tributes had probably never gone for as long without food or water as I had before, so I waited. And eventually, the kids from 1 and 2, they hunted the rest of the tributes down. They were so hungry and dehydrated, I don’t think they could’ve remembered me if they’d tried. And then they started killing each other until there was only him. The boy from 2. Orion. The girl from 1 got him pretty good. And he was just laying there heaving and dying. Suffering. So I came out, and I could see it in his eyes. He thought he’d won. That it was over. I remember he just closed his eyes and nodded. He didn’t have to ask; I knew what he– Anyways, there is more than one way to win the Games. And if you will let me, I’d like to help you try.” 

By the end of the story, you are shaking, fighting hard to keep from crying. Colt’s expression reveals nothing, and you begin to sink in on yourself, certain that it's over. That you’ve lost him forever. 

And then he nods.

“I believe you. I believe in you,” he says, standing from his place across the couch. You breathe a sigh of relief, the weight on your chest lighter than it has been in days, only to return the moment he reaches the hallway, spinning back around to face you one final time.

“Don’t make me regret it.”