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You were naturally pretty strong but you'd still let him treat you like a lady- carrying your bag, making sure you walked on the inside of the side-walk, opening doors for you, etc. He loved doing them for you.

Whenever he'd see someone ogling you or eyeing you up, he'd have his arm around you- slung over your shoulder or on your waist. It didn't matter that he knew you could hold your own in a fight, he was possessive and protective. No one made his woman feel uncomfortable.

Little did he know you felt the same about him.

During one of the fights with Jabber, you ran into him while trying to find the others and it only took one glance at how Jabber was mocking Zanka for you to see red.

Neither Zanka nor Jabber saw it coming.

One second you were watching from the corner. The next? You were hurling down at Jabber, your vital instrument activated, your eyes glowing with it and intense rage.

“No one fucking touches him!! Understand?!”

Zanka may or may not have thought about proposing that day.

You made sure he recovered well afterwards. Taking care of him while he was getting better from the poison and reminding him that failures only made him stronger. And that this fact was true even for you.

And for once? Zanka believed it. Because it came from you.

Riyo

Oh she's in love.

Even before dating, you both would definitely be friends. Maybe even gotten paired up together for missions randomly.

But the one time she was down and she couldn't get up in time? You were there. Not just defending her but practically thrashing that beast making sure it was completely destroyed.

Then you walked over and extended your hand out to her to help her up, flicks of mud and dust covered your face and you seemed very at ease for someone who just took down a trash beast.

But she didn't miss the way your chest rose up and then down, the fire in your eyes still smoldering from the adrenaline… and she didn't know what she was feeling.

Initially she thought it was a feeling of admiration. Maybe she looked up to you. So she'd follow you around on missions and fights, until you started to notice her too.

And if you've seen her fight? Well… it wasn't long before you realised you liked her. And she liked you too. A lot. You both were always on sync in the field- you had each other's back and knew where to step, what move was next and more.

You never made her feel small though you were stronger than her.

Maybe that's how she found herself in your room, sharing a kiss. Maybe that's why she felt her heart beating faster at every lazy grin you sent her way.

Maybe… she had feelings she needed to address.

Riyo was pretty direct. So before you knew it, you both were a couple. Not just regular kind.

Y'all were the “it couple”. Cool, mysterious, composed and a little unhinged on the outside but completely soft for each other when alone.

You were Riyo’s favorite view and she'd spend hours watching you train or exercise. Any attempts at chasing her away from your muscles were in vain.

Behind closed doors… you were one of the few people she trusted with her past. The secrets she wanted to keep buried in her forever. The reason she still has a gun. Why she's like this.

And you accepted every single part of her.

You were her comfort spot. Someone she trusted enough to be a support for her. She loved your strength, the way you'd always be looking out for her and the subtle ways you'd show your emotions.

She could practically write a book on your micro expressions.

"But (Y/N) looks the same to me..."

"Nah trust me, she's really happy right now."

At night, she'd always find it difficult to sleep and now she always found her way to you.

You also left your door ajar for her. And she crawled in to sleep next to you. She might never admit it… but she never gets those nightmares when she's with you.

You were her person. And her refuge. And she was always gonna love you for that.

Thank you so much for reading! Do check out more of my works! ♡

You’ve never truly agreed with all of your father’s teachings. With him being such an important figure in Panem, it’s not like he was around much to instill his beliefs in you. Your mother would take care of you sometimes as a child, but she had things to do as well. Because of this, all throughout your childhood, you’ve been passed back and forth between family members. 

Sometimes it was your Aunt Tigris, who stayed quiet most of the time but would design you bright and poofy dresses, of which she cautioned you to hide from your father. Before she passed, your Great Grandmother would take you in, but not as often as she couldn’t care much for a young child at that age. Occasionally it was your Great Aunt and Uncle Plinth. Great Uncle Plinth never talked to you much, but you know he’s been decently close to your father. As you grew up, however, you started noticing more and more how much disdain your father has for Strabo. 

Your father’s subtle hatred is even stronger for Aunt Plinth, but she was always your favourite growing up. She’d stuff you full of cookies and cakes, telling you stories about how her son and your father used to be the best of friends. She’d tell you stories about her son, about the ways he would try to fight against the Hunger Games, the strong opinions that he held that led to his death. Now that you’re older, you assume that she was using those stories as cautionary tales. All that she really accomplished, however, was giving you an inspiration in her son. 

You think the Hunger Games are barbaric, and you can’t truly believe your father could send so many children to their executions each year. What if that were you? If he could so easily murder 23 innocent children every year, twice that just three years prior, how would he react if you ended up in the Games? If you ended up dead, and your murder was made into a spectacle for all of Panem to watch?

You’ve always tried to befriend the past victors, tried to show your sympathy, but it isn’t easy when your surname causes everyone in the Districts to immediately distrust you. It’s harder when you’re the one assigned to doll them up before their Games, and you try to befriend them after they come back from what was supposed to be their death. You thought that learning to be a stylist would give you a better chance to talk to the tributes, and it allowed you to learn under your Aunt Tigris and spend more time with Prosie. 

You were tasked with styling the District 12 tributes last year, during the 50th Hunger Games. They were all wary of you at first, of course, other than the smallest girl who never really seemed to grasp what was happening, but you managed to gain their trust. You became closest with Maysilee, who had an eye for beauty and let her guard down when you had done her makeup before her interview.

You watched the Games that year, when usually you would try to avoid it. You watched as children were slowly killed off, including Maysilee’s friends, until she was the only one left. You were tasked with making her pretty for her victory tour, for guiding her through the speeches she would have to deliver. You were also forced to doll up both Maysilee and her sister for magazines and interviews, the Capitol being astonished that not one, but two girls so pretty could come from District 12 of all places. 

You feel bad every time you have to do it, of course you do, but it’s not like you have a choice. This was your form of rebellion, if you refused to do what was asked of you, your father would no longer let you be a stylist. You wouldn’t have your connection to the Districts anymore, wouldn’t be able to help plant seeds of rebellion each year within new tributes. You wouldn’t be able to see Maysilee anymore.

Being the only living victor from District 12, she’s the only one training the tributes each year, which means she comes back to the Capitol every summer. You style her tributes, and then you stay for her. You can tell she doesn’t trust you fully, you never expect her too, but you think that’s what hurts the most. You want her to trust you so badly, but for no reason other than your name, she can’t.

You’re sat in the living room of her Capitol-provided apartment one night, sipping at coffee while her tributes for the 53rd Hunger Games sleep fitfully in their bedrooms. They’re entering the arena tomorrow, and Maysilee is restless. She always is on these nights. You visit her, partially as an excuse to be close to her, but also because you want to make sure she’s okay. She doesn’t want the children to die, you know that, but if either of them live there’s a good chance they’ll be sold like her. Both possibilities were bad.

“How are you feeling?” you ask her quietly, sipping at your coffee.

“How do you think I feel?” she asks, tone as bitter as her drink.

“I know you feel like shit,” you scoff, “but I want to know the specifics. Are you angry? Sad? Scared?”

“I… I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe all three. Maybe something else entirely. I don’t know what I feel other than bad.”

“It’s okay to be scared. I know you’re not allowed to show it anymore but you can with me,” you say, despite knowing she won’t fully believe you.

“Sure,” she says, if only to humor you. 

“What was it like for you? Before your Games, I mean; back in District 12,” you ask.

“I think I was scared a lot,” she says. “I just didn’t want to admit it. Everyone was scared though, you do one thing wrong and the Peacekeepers are out to get you. And the Reaping is terrifying every year, worse for my Games.”

“But other than the Peacekeepers, the Reapings every summer, what was it like?”

“It was… nice,” she answers. “Really warm in the summer and really cold in the winter but nice. My family was one of the few that could afford sugar and cocoa powder. Not as great as actual chocolate, but it meant we could make cocoa in the winter. We’d use the sugar for iced tea or lemonade in the summer. There are lots of places to walk, to have picnics, just to be outside in general. Merrilee and I would go strawberry picking just past the fence to make strawberry candies for the shop. They were my favourite thing to make.”

“Do you like strawberries?” you ask. 

She smiles. “No. But Merrilee does.”

“What did you like?” 

“The lemonade. I never added as much sugar into mine. I liked it sour. It kept me focused, I didn’t want to pretend that life is sweeter than it actually is,” she says. “I know it’s sounds cheesy and stupid, but it’s the truth.”

“What about now?” you ask.

“Now I wish I had used more sugar. That I let myself enjoy life more. I didn’t realize how bad it would become. Now no amount of lemonade could cover this up,” she says.

“We’ll change it,” you say. “You know we will.”

“We’ve been trying for the past two years,” she says. “Who knows if it’ll work this year? It hasn’t ever before.”

“But we’ve gotten close,” you say. “And we’ll make it one day. Even if we have to be old and grey before we see the end of the Games, but they will end. I know they will.”

“Maybe,” is all she says, sipping at her coffee again.

“I wish I could see it,” you say.

“See what?”

“District 12,” you answer.

Maysilee scoffs. “No you don’t.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you’ve lived a life of luxury. You can have anything you want whenever you want. You can have running hot water in the winter and ice cream in the summer and you don’t even have to churn the milk yourself. You actually get cow’s milk instead of goat’s milk. You wouldn’t survive a day in District 12.”

“I haven’t had ice cream since I was a child,” you say. “My mother didn’t allow it, said sweets would cause me to gain weight. The First Daughter of Panem has to have a becoming figure, of course.”

“But that’s not the point. The point is that it’s there, waiting for you. All you have to do is hand over a few bills and you have it in your hand, ready to eat. No work or labor or anything needed,” she says. 

“It looks really opulent here,” you say. “All the lights and the costumes, the parades and parties and everything, but it’s not really like that. Not all the time. It’s all just… black and white and gold and sterile. It’s pretty on the outside but really it’s just cold and lonely.”

Maysilee frowns, giving herself time to stall by sipping at her mug. “Why are you like this?” she asks after a long silence.

“Like what?”

“A good person,” she says. “You’re helping me and the past victors, you seem to genuinely care about the tributes— not just the ones you style but all of them. But, well, you’re a Snow.”

“They’re not tributes to me, they’re just children,” you say, quietly because you know that’s not the point.

“Why are you like this?” she asks again.

“My great aunt was District,” you admit. 

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Your brow furrows, confused for a bit when you realize you said was. Maysilee thought she was dead. “She’s still alive,” you correct. “Just not District anymore. You ever heard of the Plinths?”

Maysilee shakes her head no; you didn’t expect her to know who they are.

“They were a family from District 2. Strabo Plinth helped the Capitol a lot during the Dark Days so his family got promoted by former President Ravinstill to be Capitol citizens. I’m not directly related to them but my father was practically their second son, so Mrs. Plinth babysat me a lot when I was little. She would always tell me about her son who died for the rebel cause. He got so close and I always wanted to finish what he couldn’t,” you explain.

Maysilee just looks at you, studying your face, but doesn’t give an answer, so you continue. “I know it’s stupid. The ideal Capitol girl, the First Daughter of Panem, trying to be a rebel. I have no reason to be one, the Districts don’t trust me enough to be sure I’m not a double agent for my father, but I’m trying anyway. I don’t know if it’ll ever be enough, though.”

“You’re a good person,” Maysilee says, leaning against you ever so slightly. She doesn’t fully put her weight on you, but it’s enough pressure for you to get the sentiment. She doesn’t trust you either, but she wants to. At least, you think she does.

“How do you know that?” you ask. “Like you said, I’m a Snow.”

“There’s this play Haymitch’s girlfriend told me about,” she begins. “It’s about these two people from opposing families but they fall in love and end up killing themselves for each other. There’s this line- ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet’ or something like that. I didn’t get it at first but Lenore Dove explained it to me. It means that no matter what your name is, where you’re from, or who you’re related to, you’re who you are. Whether you’re a Snow or not, whether you’re Capitol or District, you have the capability of becoming a good person. I think you are a good person.”

“It’s Romeo and Juliet,” you say. “We get to have books from before the Dark Days here, they want to keep us educated. It’s a really old play, but I have a copy. Would you like to borrow it one day?”

“Yeah,” she says with a smile. “I think I would.”

“They fall in love,” you say, repeating what she had said earlier. “Romeo and Juliet. Even though their families hate each other, they fall in love and end in tragedy. Do you think that’ll happen to us?”

Maysilee looks confused. “We’re not in love.”

You freeze, pulling away slightly now. “Right. No, you’re right. We’re not in love. Why would we be?”

“We can’t be,” she says. “Even if we wanted to—” Her eyes search yours, trying to find the answer to an unspoken question. You know what it is and give the slightest nod in response. 

“We’re just friends,” you say. “Not even that. Co-workers.”

“Co-workers who care for each other very much,” Maysilee says, leaning against you once again, her full weight on you this time. 

“Co-workers who will end this,” you say, ever so softly. “Together.”

a/n: bro i love my doomed yuri. anyway unedited bc i got sick right when i wanted to edit