A/N: Tumblr prompt- Killian is a man of money and power in the Capitol and Emma is a victor.

Obviously I took creative liberties and while this story takes place in The Hunger Games setting, I made changes where I saw fit. Enjoy!

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Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT or Hunger Games.

"Emma Swan."

The curvy brunette draped on his arm, her body pressed close, whispers the name into his ear, a hint of awe woven into her breathy tone as she motions across the room, her gaze on the woman who has so clearly stolen his attention—dark eyes glimmering with hunger and shining with just a hint of unmasked envy.

Emma Swan.

It's a name that rings familiar in the way that most of the victor's names do—images of golden hair, a smudged and dirty face, and small and sure hands wielding a trident nearly twice her size, flashing in his head as his eyes continue to take in the sight of her as she moves her way through the hordes of the privileged and extravagantly dressed attendees gathered to celebrate President Mill's birthday.

The Swan Girl, they had called her, the crowds both murmuring and shouting the name with whispered adoration and high-pitched enthusiasm.

She'd won the games a couple of years back at the age of seventeen. Fierce, strong, and beautiful, she'd been every high-ranking sponsor's dream; the gifts bestowed upon her in the arena almost unheard of—a sharp pointed trident, life saving medical supplies, and intricately woven nets.

And if he remembers correctly, sipping on his goblet of sweet red wine, a slight scowl pinching his features at the syrupy and too sugary taste; she'd also lost him a small fortune that year. His favor had lain with a particularly brutal tribute hailing from District One—and it had been a bloody shame, watching his favorites fall as his money slipped away. As a respected and highly regarded captain in Panem's army, somewhat known for his luck in playing the betting boards near flawlessly—often boosting about his skill in reading those in the arena—to see a mere wisp of a girl cunningly and calculatingly bring down her fellow tributes with an efficiency he's seen some of his most skilled men lack, had been somewhat shocking and a little unnerving to say the least.

Still, as with most victors, after the hype of the games had faded and died down he'd forgotten her almost completely, hearing about her and a few of the other younger and more desirable victors only fleetingly—their names murmured throughout the different hierarchy of social circles, mentions of nightly prices coupled with the promise of lewd and decadent activities discussed in hungry and knowing tones.

Claiming a night with one of the glamorous and elusive victors…

One of the Capitol's favorite pastimes for those who could afford to pay the price.

An activity while tempting, something he's never taken part in, the figure always a little too high, the appeal a little too low.

After all, he's a proud and confident man and where's the fun and challenge in paying for a woman's company when there were plenty waiting for his attentions for free? Not that he hadn't enjoyed the occasional prostitute or two back when he'd been an up and coming officer; but now, now, he has status and wealth and a warm and willing body in his bed nearly every night.

And it's how he prefers things...

Usually.

Body draped lavishly in silks of sparkling gold and sleek silvers, blonde hair cascading loosely down her back in a wave of soft curls woven with hints of flashing green gems, and a pale and flawless face nearly untouched save for a few intricate golden stencils delicately placed near bright and piercing jade eyes, with a mere glance it's easy to see how she so quickly became one of the Capitol's favored and pampered darlings.

Almost completely forgetting about the woman on his arm, watching as The Swan Girl makes her way through the crowds, head held high and movements somewhat stiff and rigid, Killian continues to study her curiously, noting as her lips tilt upwards into a cool and somewhat designed smile; her emotionless smirk faltering only slightly when men and women alike stop to gawk, grope, and stare. Her calm composure slipping briefly, something in her eyes—intense and steely—flashes hotly with each and every familiar touch and adoring look sent her way before her distaste is covered up expertly, her impassive smile stretching slowly across her lips as she easily detaches herself from the prying eyes and loose touches, side-stepping the crowd gracefully; measured expression in place and eyes cast down and away as she effortlessly keeps the greedy fanatics at bay.

Clever girl.

Distracted by a sudden commotion across the room, he's just about to turn from her, still somewhat curious by his pull towards her but unsure if it's something he truly wants to pursue that night—the wine fogging his brain a little and the brunette on his arm rubbing against him in the most delicious of ways—when the crowd parts slightly and President Mills makes her prompt and scheduled appearance; the atmosphere changing with her sudden arrival, rousing excitement and buzzing energy thrumming in air.

And it's in that quick and sparking moment that he briefly catches sight of it…

Unrestrained, wild, and raw.

Past the suffocating crush of bodies, above the perfumed air, and beyond the dull murmur of voices rising to enthusiastic cheers; he notices the subtle change in her. A sudden light, an inner flame, he has never seen the likes of suddenly sparks to life within her—around her, surrounding her—practically radiating off of her in silent and near blazing waves; her gaze bright and unwavering suddenly glazing over and hardening as the party shifts into full swing.

And amidst the shouts and laughter, the wine and good spirits, he can see it glimmering in those vibrant and unblinking eyes of hers...

The way she condemns them all.

And he's shocked by it.

Disturbed by it.

Enticed by it.

And suddenly, compulsively, he wants it.

That light.

That fire.

The need to feel it burn and consume him, licking hotly across his skin, nearly overwhelming in its intensity.

And straightening, body standing to attention as those eyes—brilliant and green and damning—look up suddenly, meeting his for a brief moment before moving on quickly, he makes his decision then and there.

Shrugging out of the brunette's grip he prepares to make the necessary arrangements.

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"You don't seem to be enjoying this, do you love?"

He speaks the words softly; and leaning back a little in the overstuffed chair he lounges in, he studies her as he brings the champagne flute to his lips, watching her already tense posture stiffen even more as she rigidly sits at the small circular table in front of him, head tilted downwards and golden hair curtaining her face. She's changed since the party, trading her elaborate and shimmering dress for a simple black nightgown and matching lace robe. The sheer fabric scarcely hiding her delicate and smooth curves, the sorry excuse for clothing leaving very little to the imagination.

"I must admit," He continues casually, his tone conversational, a small part of him curious about her less than enthusiastic display. "I expected more."

He can be slightly cruel and a tad malicious sometimes; playing mind games is something he's not entirely above—using carefully chosen words spoken in a tone as smooth as silk and a voice dark as night to deliver a veiled threat or question one's intent. And as expected, his casually spoken observation hits a nerve as a slight warning slips through his tone. Though whether it's her pride he's just wounded or her questionable virtue he's not entirely certain—a voice in his head whispering the latter even as he chooses to believe the former.

Watching with slight fascination as her eyes shoot to his—a stormy combination of confusion, anger, and surprise clouding her stare before quickly settling back into a look of aloof and composed impassiveness—he arches a brow at her knowingly, a little disappointed as the calm facade quickly returns and the storm inside of her dims and fades.

"Is that so Captain?"

It's the first time she's spoken since he walked through the hotel room door to find her patiently waiting for him, the husky and low sound ringing in his ears and shooting straight to his groin—a small jolt of pleasure spiking through him at the mere fact that she's been made aware of his status, even as her words—the note of fury in her voice—cause him to pause slightly.

It's a curious thing, her barely concealed loathing; and he can't help but consider the talk he's heard filtering down through the ranks lately, the rumors discussed in hushed and anxious tones.

Amongst the stirrings of trouble and uprisings in the districts, there have been whispers about the victors—claims that not all of the winners are content with the extravagant and decadent lifestyle of the lavish and opulent Capitol. But reluctant to concede to cocktail hour gossip and unwilling to give up his hand just yet—still drawn to the fire he saw earlier at the party and confused by the stiff and near regal woman sitting before him now—he shrugs his shoulders somewhat nonchalantly, sipping his wine once again, his eyes never wavering from her face.

"Yes well, I suppose expected more is an understatement sweetheart now isn't? I paid quite a bit for you, had to outbid several gentleman...and ladies...in the process. And to be completely honest, with your price tag so high, of course there are certain expectations that come with it..."

He lets the sentence linger and hang in the air, and this time when the anger flickers into her gaze it doesn't fade away, burning bright and unrestrained as a hot blush rushes to her cheeks, coloring them a light and glowing pink—his fingers twitching a little with the urge to reach out, to touch and caress. Sitting up a little straighter, he feels something pull deep in his gut as her hands curl into tight little fists on the table, her eyes holding his unblinkingly, relaying to him everything her clearly stubborn pride refuses to allow her to say out loud…

Misery.

Hate.

Rage.

Fear.

"Do the women forced into your bed usually pretend to enjoy themselves Captain?" her tone is icy, her inquiry clipped and terse; and despite the way her words sit with him—he's never been one to force himself on a woman and loathes the assumption—he can't bring himself to tear his gaze away from her, watching as she struggles with herself, a war raging on inside of her—body trembling with a slight tremor, jaw clenched together tightly with the effort.

It's fascinating.

And he can't help but want to feed the flames, watch them rise and spark and burn into a roaring and unstoppable inferno.

"You enjoy your share of the profits from these little trysts don't you?" he counters softly, calling her out with a slow and lazy grin, his tone somewhat confident and only slightly condescending; his smile faltering a little as her eyes widen unnaturally large, a hissing breath escaping her lips as her mouth drops open fractionally.

"I suppose that's what they lead you to believe isn't it?"

It takes him by surprise; the unmasked incredulity of her tone, how she suddenly gives way to the battle within her—eyes flashing hot and wild and completely untamed.

It's dangerous.

Stunning.

But even so, obvious anger and whispered rumors aside, he still has his doubts about the tempting and intriguing girl in front of him, curious if her barely concealed disdain and frigid aloofness are all part of a very well played act, one he's seen practiced by skilled prostitutes and talented actresses alike—reeling in their clients and playing them expertly, giving them what they think they want while creating illusion after illusion near effortlessly. And he has to admit, there's a certain appeal to it—the troubled and beautiful victor, thrust into a world she's unsure of and unable to accept. Even now a surge of hot energy courses through him at the thought, the need to not only possess and consume but also protect and cherish rushing through him fast. It makes sense, for it to all be a cleverly designed scheme. After all the victors are adored, spoiled and celebrated by all of Panem; it's a lifestyle he can't imagine someone truly scoffing at and condemning so easily, especially someone that hails from one of the outlying twelve districts—he's heard the tales of poverty and hardship, ruin and despair.

"You attend all of the biggest events my dear, you're draped in jewels, dressed in the finest fashions, a—"

"Puppet." The word, grounded out and lethally sharp, cuts him off, her chin lifting defiantly as she steadily stares him down. "You're blinded Captain. The beauty, glitter, and glamor...the intricately woven tales of heroics and bravery. You see only what you choose to. But I'm nothing more than a valuable pawn to the President, constantly at her mercy and completely disposable."

Bringing the champagne back to his lips, he hides his surprise while pondering her words, shocked by the heated revelation, her obvious vehemence and fiery passion; something inside of him sparking to life as a hushed whisper cautions him to tread carefully, the sound of warning bells ringing low and threatening in his ears. "That so?"

"Yes."

Lifting a brow as she practically spits the affirmation at him, he sets his wine down slowly and rises suddenly. Crossing the small distance between them to the table she stoically sits at, he stands over her; watching with slight admiration as she only straightens her spine, head tilting slightly to meet his stare straight on.

"What if I told you I don't buy it?"

"Buy what?"

He gestures between them, suddenly feeling as if he's grasping at straws, what little control he has left slipping away fast as her words continue to echo in his head. "This whole act darling. The cool loftiness for the crowds, the hot anger behind closed doors? What if I told you it seems rather convenient to me eh?" She says nothing at that and somewhat infuriated by her frosty silence he steps even closer, legs brushing against hers as his lips curl up slightly; the scent of something that vaguely reminds him of water, salt and sand, drifting to his nose—images of a vengeful and unforgiving sea flashing before his eyes. "Perhaps it's nothing more than a clever scheme, something to make you more desirable to the hordes..." His voice dips low, a soft and deceiving purr as he leans in even further—her green eyes watching him carefully, chest heaving slightly. "Luring in sorry blokes like myself...challenging them to attain the unattainable. An impressive ploy really my dear."

Eyes flashing and then narrowing slightly, she shifts forward in what he can only deem a clear and a silent act of rebellion. "Then I'd say your ignorance astounds me Captain."

"Killian. My name is Killian."

He's not sure why he says it, why he wants to hear her say it; but before he can truly consider it, she raises a sharp brow, dismissing his name silently and saying nothing when he moves slightly closer; her fingers clenching together tightly—knuckles going white with the action—the only show of her discomfort as he hovers over her.

"Wealth, fame, security...these are things you take lightly princess?"

She visibly tenses at that, and whether it's because of his question or the mocking pet-name he's thrown at her he's not entirely certain; her expression, if possible, hardening even more, her eyes lowering for a moment before shooting back to his.

"All at the price of my freedom."

It hits him straight in the gut, his world quite suddenly bottoming out as she quietly confirms what he suddenly realizes he so desperately didn't want to believe; content with turning a blind eye and playing this game of cat and mouse without ever acknowledging or accepting its true and ugly rules—her claim of his ignorance, taunting and true, ringing in his ears as the truth behind the whispered rumors sink in with those few damning and fervent words.

Freedom.

A notion, an idea, the Capitol tries hard not to define; the frightening truth too terrifying to even consider.

And even though he suddenly feels sick and entirely out of his element, he can't stop himself from poking and prodding her more. Letting out a short bark of laughter, he tempts the fire further. "So you consider yourself a slave then, is that it?"

She doesn't answer him right away, surprising him instead with her own soft little laugh—the sound low, bitter, and undeniably miserable—before with a sad smile and helpless little shrug she nods, once again confirming what a part of him still wishes her to deny. "Yes."

"Careful darling."

His tone holds a warning, and he realizes with only the faintest hint of unease that they've rapidly shifted into very dangerous territory, something inside of him demanding he put a stop to the conversation, even as something else urges him to continue on.

"No. You pushed...you asked. And I'm sick of being careful. I'm tired. I'm—" her voice cracks and breaks, and it takes her a moment to compose herself—body trembling and eyes glimmering—before she barrels on, disregarding the way he raises a hand to cut her off, not wanting to hear anymore of what she has to say—the delicate balance of his world quickly fading away. "You think I speak lies and weave clever tales of contempt and anger to entice you into my bed?" Her smile is slow and toxic, tone now steady and clear. "If my disgust and lack of freewill tempts you Captain, then that is your burden to bear alone. But don't you dare try to pawn your depravity off on me. I do as I'm told because I've no choice in the matter. My freedom, everything I am, has been taken away from me and placed into the hands of men and women like yourself. By winning the games I've earned nothing. I'm a slave, a mere whore to the masses. The Capitol owns me and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it." Standing suddenly so that her body pushes and presses against his as she rises to her feet, she tosses her head back, squaring her shoulders and holding his gaze—green eyes bright and flashing and threatening to burn him alive. "The only thing I enjoy from these little trysts is the knowledge that with each man and woman who put their hands on me, with each violation I'm forced to endure, my family, the people I love, remain safe from President Mill's wrath for at least another day. At least...at least until something sparks a change!"

Change.

Whispered rumors flooding him fast, disturbing thinly veiled warnings ringing in his ears, the word causes his blood to run cold as it echoes loudly in the large and quiet room, hanging menacingly in the fractional space between them.

Unease.

Upset.

Rebellion.

"Change?" his voice sounds distant, croaked, and disbelieving.

This time when she smiles, it's genuine; her voice hopeful, soft, and only slightly defiant. "Revolution."

There's a roar in his head, a low buzzing in his ears, and for a moment he's afraid that perhaps he drank a little too much wine, his vision dimming out a bit and his body feeling weak and unstable as a cold numbness slithers its way through his veins.

She's not lying.

And he's in too deep.

He wants to run. He wants to forget her; forget this whole bloody conversation, go back to the party and throw himself into the arms of the curvy brunette he gave up so that he could spend a night with the famed and golden Swan Girl.

But he can't.

She's ensnared him.

He's lost, trapped, and unable to turn away. And he's furious with her for it; irritated to have been bested by a mere slip of a girl and confused by the part of him that's ashamed by her words—the sharp pang in his gut and the stirring of his conscience nearly unraveling him completely.

"Why tell all of this to me?" he hisses it at her suddenly in a harsh and brittle tone, leaning towards her and invading even more of her space; his anger only spiking when she refuses to flinch away. "Why throw your contempt in my face, why speak words about disgust and fear, revolution and change...to me? A bloody captain in Panem's very own army! Do you have a death wish? Are you actively seeking the President's wrath? Are you looking for a way to finally put an end to your claimed and dreadful misery?"

His voice breaks off on a low growl and he watches with some perverse sense of satisfaction as she falters and blanches before him, her guard dropping briefly and barriers threatening to fall. She looks small, vulnerable, and far too young. Eyes softening and expression falling, she shakes her head and frowns, her gaze far away and posture drooped as his hissing question hangs heavy and loaded between them.

For a moment she appears defeated.

For a moment he's afraid he's lost her.

For a moment he wonders what exactly it is he thought he had with her in the first place.

"Because I'm tired." she says simply, a small laugh escaping her lips with the words, the sound lacking its bitterness from before, this time wavering a little around the edges, ringing out sad, exhausted and beaten. "Because I'm tired."

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It's only after he pours himself something a little stronger and she wordlessly takes the glass he offers, throwing it all back in one go, that she takes him slowly, refusing to allow him to leave without getting what he paid for, claiming she's not going to let him or anyone else hold that kind of power over her.

For now this is how she survives.

This is what she's been reduced to.

And while he's no saint and never claimed to be otherwise, he wishes—past the greedy selfishness that he's more than aware lurks inside of him and beyond the desperate need and the terrifying want—that he were more of a man, strong enough to deny her, capable of ignoring the way she fluidly slips out of her robe, allowing her nightgown to fall and pool at her feet.

But he can't.

He's enraptured.

Completely at her mercy.

Like a siren she calls to him, lures and traps him.

And for a moment he wonders who the actual slave in the room is.

She's calculated and talented in her actions, pressing him down onto the bed with sure and swift movements, deftly undoing his pants and letting her fingers play across his body in soft and gentle touches. And when he tries to refuse, suddenly feeling dirty and debauched—words of status and slavery ringing in his ears—she merely shakes her head with a light slightly manic laugh, hovering over him and slowly putting an end to his useless objections with a tilt of her hips and a dark little smirk; the way his body shudders beneath hers as she rises over him again and again belying his halfhearted protests.

She has him.

And in that moment, golden hair spilling down her back, eyes alight and blazing hot and free, he knows he'd give her the whole bloody world if she asked him to.

And later as she lays next to him, her features so much softer and more innocent in sleep, he wonders as he watches her—whispers of war and revolution echoing over and over again in his head, the thin gray veil over his eyes having been lifted and tossed aside forever—if perhaps she'll be the spark that will ignite this whole bloody mess around them, setting the only world he's ever known ablaze and spiraling downwards into a hot and unforgiving fire.

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It's not Emma Swan that sparks the rebellion but a young boy named Henry.

The only tribute to ever win the games without killing another; his gentle demeanor, inherent kindness, and unwavering faith in those around him, send a revolution decades in the making into fast and unyielding motion.

But she is there, by the young boy's side, pledging her unwavering allegiance to him with her trident in hand, ready to tear down anyone who dares to stand in her way—her face, along with the faces of several other victors declared traitors lighting up the screens of Panem as the Capitol's hold weakens and war is acknowledged and declared.

And as the battle rages on, lines are drawn, sides are chosen, and loyalties are brought to light, it is her he thinks of—bright and golden and fierce—as he finally leaves the Capitol behind him, fiery green eyes forever haunting him even as the world collapses, crumbles, and burns around him...

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