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Awh I love this! I hope the whole cast gets the matching bear shirts!

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Fr like mabye that’s one of Suzanne Collins’s way of showing us how Maritte and Katniss are similar.

Okay maybe I hallucinated this when reading it, but why is no one talking about the fact that Maritte got an 11????

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I love Clato fanfics where they’re sneaking around, because truly those are the most accurate ones. That’s a teenage boy with a smoking hot girlfriend. No room in the training center is safe.

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I can’t believe there is a snowjanus tag on Wattpad with 20 stories! Like wow! I don’t like President snow at all but the tag does seem interesting…

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I hope if Laura Marcus is going to keep her British accent in the sotr movie because it fits Silka so well!

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I absolutely love all the tiny minor connections in the Hunger Games series like that Sejanus could have been Janus’s ansestor!

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Me when that one Silka Sharp fanfic updates:

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Found this meme on Pinterest it’s so funny 😅

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I’m sorry but I will not be able to post as many oneshots or just post as much in general because school is starting today for me (in an hour 😭).

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Literally why was the force field made in the sotr arena? And why was President Snow so angry about Haymitch winning when he could have known what the force field could do? And killing people that Haymitch cares about was way way too far of a punishment.

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Seriously wtf was up with Titus and the way he went complete cannibal mode? Like no hate but seriously why the hell? He probably came from a whole other demension.

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Training center, day two.

(I’m very sorry there is no sm*t in this. That is because I’m horrible at writing it and don’t want to get in trouble for writing it (I’m only 15))

Haymitch’s pov

Everyone was starting to settle into the same rhythms. The careers had claimed the weapons corner like it was their private palace, doing their usual over-the-top chest-puffing routine. District 2’s girl was chucking spears like she had something to prove, and District 4’s tribute was giving trident demonstrations like we were supposed to be impressed.

I stuck to the ropes and knives. Quiet. Efficient. No need to show off when half the room already thought I was some backward mining kid who didn’t know what steel looked like.

I was halfway through tying a snare when I heard it.

“Hey Haymitch, more like Haybitch!”

Loud. Cocky. And unmistakably Panache.

I turned slowly, already bracing myself.

There he was. Shirt open halfway down his chest—again—hair tousled just right, standing with a throwing knife in one hand like he’d been born with it. He gave me a slow wave, growl, and a wink, grinning like he’d just said the funniest thing in the world.

I squinted. “You’re not gonna stop calling me that, are you?”

“Not a chance,” he said, strolling over like he owned the damn floor. “It’s a term of endearment. A nickname. Like… babe, but better.”

“Babe, but worse.”

He laughed and circled around me, looking me up and down like I was a meal he was considering devouring. “Don’t be shy, Hayb*tch. I know you love it.”

I kept my eyes on the snare, tying it a little tighter than I needed to. “You ever think about how maybe not everything is about you?”

“All the time,” he said easily, hopping up to sit on the edge of the nearest bench. “And then I remember that I’m hot, charming, and objectively entertaining. And that brings me back.”

I gave him a look. “What do you want, Panache?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said, stretching lazily, arms overhead. The motion pulled his shirt even more open, not that he minded. “Just admiring the scenery.”

“Right.”

He leaned forward suddenly, resting his elbows on his knees, his face a little closer than I was ready for. “Bathroom. Five minutes.”

I blinked. “What?”

He smirked. “You heard me.” Then winked. “Don’t keep me waiting, Hayb*tch.”

And just like that, he slid off the bench and walked away like he hadn’t just propositioned me in the middle of the Capitol’s finest murder playground.

⸻

I should’ve ignored him.

I should’ve gone back to tying knots and kept my head down like I’d been doing all week.

Instead, I found myself checking the clock.

Then walking toward the back hallway.

Then pushing open the bathroom door, where Panache was leaning against the sink like he owned it. Like he knew I’d come.

“Took you long enough,” he said.

I didn’t say anything. I stepped in, shut the door behind me, and leaned against it with my arms crossed.

He took a step forward.

“You’re mad,” he said, eyes flicking over my face.

“I’m not.”

“You are. But it’s okay. You’re hot when you’re mad.”

“I’m going to break your nose,” I said flatly.

“You can. Right after we make out.”

That broke me. I laughed—short, sharp, involuntary. “You’re insane.”

He stepped closer, and the laugh caught in my throat.

“You like it,” he murmured. “You like me.”

I didn’t answer.

Because I did.

God help me, I did.

His hand found my jaw, thumb brushing the side of my face. Gentle, almost reverent. “We’re probably gonna die,” he said. “So if you’re into this, now’s your shot.”

I grabbed his shirt.

And kissed him.

It was messy. Fast. All teeth and desperation and months of bottled-up everything—frustration, fear, tension. His mouth was warm, demanding, matching mine with this kind of practiced recklessness that told me Panache had done this before. I didn’t care.

My hands slid up into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against my mouth. His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me tight against him, and for a second, the rest of the world disappeared. No training. No Capitol. No cameras. Just heat and hands and the thrill of doing something we absolutely shouldn’t.

When we finally broke apart, both of us were breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, I couldn’t help the grin that tugged at my lips.

Panache brushed his thumb across my lower lip. “You gonna call me Panalicious now, or what?”

I snorted. “Don’t push your luck.”

“You liked it.”

“Maybe.”

He leaned in close again. “Wanna do it again?”

I pushed him gently back, still grinning. “You’ll get your chance.”

⸻

Back on the 12th floor, the elevator doors slid open and I stepped into the lounge area like nothing happened.

Effie looked up from her clipboard, blinking like I’d walked in wearing feathers. “Why are you smiling?”

I shrugged and dropped onto the couch, arms stretched across the back. “No reason.”

No reason at all.

Except that I’d just made out with the prettiest idiot in the Games.

And honestly?

It felt a hell of a lot better than tying snares.

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If anyone wants to know what the most accurate real life representation of Cashbaria I’ve seen is, the answer is Erana James and Mia Healey from The Wilds and I won’t accept anything else

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Trying to make a Pinterest collage of Silka’s arena outfit is not for the weak 😭 (for some reason it took me literally 2 hours trying to find a snot green jumpsuit)

I can’t even 💀

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How I feel whenever I use a knife:

I love her!

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Tension (Silka x Maysilee)

Silka’s pov.

The air backstage hums with nerves. Perfume and sweat. Layers of Capitol gloss—powder, glitter, nervousness disguised as elegance. Tributes in gowns and tailored suits line the corridor just beyond the stage curtain, waiting for their chance to sit beside Caesar Flickerman and pretend we’re not walking corpses in silk.

I breathe slow. Still. Poised. One hand rests on my hip, my posture perfect, my chin high. Control is everything. Style is armor. I am dressed in a floor-length emerald silk number, slit high up one thigh and jeweled around the neckline with green stones sharp enough to draw blood if anyone came too close. My stylist called the color “poison ivy with purpose.”

I call it power.

Maritte and Angler from District 4 stand a few steps ahead of me, whispering something under their breath. Probably about which tribute looks weakest, who’ll be easiest to skewer. Behind me, someone shifts, a nervous shuffle. A cough. Then—impact.

Someone bumps into me.

Not a graze. Not an accident. A full-bodied, oblivious smack into my left shoulder, sending a jolt through my body and nearly unbalancing me in my heels.

I whip around, jaw clenched.

It’s her.

The District 12 girl. Maysilee Donner.

Blonde. Clean-featured. Dressed in a yellow gown that looks like it came out of a storybook—but too short for her legs, like her stylist didn’t bother measuring. Her hair is pinned in a messy, uneven updo, and she’s looking at me like I should apologize.

My lip curls. “Watch it, Twelve.”

She just blinks, as if noticing me for the first time. Then her eyes drag down my dress. Her expression doesn’t change—but I swear I see the corners of her mouth twitch upward.

“Nice dress,” she says, voice light, almost lazy. “Is that… snot green?”

There’s a beat.

Then—snickers.

Barba definitely hears it. Her laugh is low and sharp, and Urchin covers his mouth like a schoolboy trying not to get caught. Even the girl from Seven bites her lip to keep from grinning.

Heat surges into my chest. Embarrassment, white-hot, slides up my spine and into my skull.

“You little—”

I take a step toward her. Maysilee doesn’t back up. Her pale blue eyes meet mine without flinching, and that smug, infuriating little smile is still there, calm and clean and so damn condescending I can hardly see straight.

“What?” she says. “Just saying what we’re all thinking.”

I lunge.

My hand shoots forward, fast, aiming for her arm, her neck—anything I can grip, just enough to shake her or shove her or claw that smirk off her face.

Peacekeepers react immediately. Two white-clad goons catch me mid-motion. One grabs my upper arm, the other wedges himself between us, shoving me back with a grunt.

“Get off me!” I shout, struggling, trying to twist free. “Let go—let go!”

“Stand down,” the taller Peacekeeper barks, arms like steel. “Now.”

“Try that again in the arena,” I growl at her, straining forward. “Do it when there’s no one here to stop me. I’ll make you regret it. I’ll make sure you don’t live past the first night.”

Maysilee doesn’t flinch. She just looks at me like I’m something pathetic. Something loud and messy and beneath her.

“Good luck with that,” she says. “You’ll be too busy checking your reflection to see the axe coming.”

I swear. I swear if they weren’t holding me—

They finally drag me back in line, my chest heaving. My nails have left half-moons in my palms from how hard I was clenching my fists.

I don’t hear the next tribute get called. I don’t see who goes out next. All I can see is her—the pale, soft little nothing from Twelve who thinks she’s clever because she can throw one insult and not cry about it.

I hate her.

I hate her stupid hair. I hate her smug face. I hate her slow, thoughtful voice like she’s above it all. I hate how calm she is. I hate that she made them laugh at me. I hate that she didn’t even try to apologize.

Then it’s her interview

They call her name.

Maysilee Donner.

She walks out onto the stage like she doesn’t even notice the crowd, like she’s walking into a forest, not a lion’s den. Caesar greets her with his usual booming flair, and she gives him a sweet smile that makes the Capitol coo.

Ugh.

But then she starts talking.

And something shifts.

She tells a story about growing up with canaries in her backyard. How they used to mimic the sound of the mining whistles, and how one saved her family from a cave-in when she was little. Her voice gets clearer as she goes, steadier.

She’s not like the other tributes trying too hard. She doesn’t flirt. She doesn’t fawn. She just… talks. Like this is a conversation she’s already had a hundred times in her head.

She’s clever. She’s poised. And when Caesar asks if she has a strategy, she just smiles and says, “I wouldn’t want to give it away.”

The audience loves her.

And—some twisted part of me—so do I.

My throat feels dry. My palms still sting. But my anger’s burned down into something slower, hotter, stranger. Watching her now, I don’t see a soft little flower from the Seam. I see a spark. I see challenge. I see a girl who stood toe-to-toe with me and didn’t even blink.

And I want her.

Not just in the arena. Not just for blood.

I want her close. I want to see if that calm voice gets shaky when I lean in. If those cold blue eyes go wide when I press her to the wall. I want to find the edges of that fire she hides behind all that pale hair and pretty poise.

And when the stage lights dim and the tributes are ushered off one by one, I slip behind the curtain instead of heading straight to the elevators.

She’s in the hallway. Alone now.

I cross to her slowly. Controlled. Calm. The same way I moved when I was pretending not to be furious. Only now, my heart’s doing something else.

Her eyes meet mine. There’s a flicker of confusion. Maybe tension. Maybe interest.

I wink.

Her eyebrows lift.

I lean in, low enough that only she can hear.

“Meet me in the closet.”

Then I walk away—heels clicking, pulse thrumming—and for the first time in hours, I don’t feel angry.

I feel alive.

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How do you think it feels to start school after the reaping? Everyone knows a kid who was reaped, their desk would loom in the corner, their voice absent in the halls. Kids don’t move in and out in the districts. Slowly year by year two more voices silent where there was once space for them among their peers.