Summary: It’s been just over ten years since Emma Swan won the Games, and her growing connection to fellow victor Killian Jones is something leading them into very dangerous territory. OUAT/THG crossover.
Warnings: Implications/mentions of forced prostitution. Alcohol and drug use mentions. Violence and a little bit of graphic imagery. For those used to Hunger Games fic set in the canon world, it’s the usual fare of unpleasantness
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A/N: So here’s my post for the Day 1 of CS AU Week. It’s certainly the first CS AU I’ve ever written, and only my third CS fic total, so I hope I’ve done it all justice here. I’ve taken lots of liberties with THG world to better fit to the Once characters. Also, this is purely Once fic set in THG universe, so sorry my HG followers – no Everlark here. I knocked this fic out in 24 hours and managed to change tenses about twenty different times while writing it, so I apologize for any mistakes I missed in editing (especially since it’s completely un-beta’d).(For everybody who wanted to be tagged on this post, for some reason Tumblr isn’t letting me tag anyone. *sigh*)
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She sips from the glass in her hand, trying her best to not look as uncomfortable as she feels in the thin strips of fabric that are pretending to be a dress wrapped around her body. She is meant to look alluring, as she always has to the rabid sycophants meandering about the lavish room. But after more than ten years of being paraded out for the lust-hungry Capitol masses, Emma can’t muster much more than an elusive grin anytime somebody sizes her up and down. The promise of so much more, if they are willing to pay the right price.
She hates the weeks leading up to the reapings. When the deluded and privileged citizens decide to make the most of their existing crop of victors before they are all swept up in mentoring and securing sponsors for the poor souls entrusted to them. It’s nothing but an excuse for more extravagant parties, even though the same type of parties are held even during the Games.
‘What better way to secure your tribute’s future than a good fuck.’ She thinks bitterly, her mask of fake allure no doubt slipping. She tries to hide it behind another sip, hoping no one is the wiser to the her current feelings of distaste and distrust.
“Careful now, darling,” a lilting voice murmurs in her ear, just moments before the cold sensation of metal brushing up against her bare hip follows. “Some may think you’re not thoroughly enjoying yourself this evening.”
Allies
Published
It All Starts With a Dance 