Training Outfit Hunger Games Novels & Stories

The trace of a long night—and an even longer morning. In her suite, the room was dark and cool. Morning light filtered in through the cracks of the drawn curtains. Her suitcase waited by the wall, half-open. Every item folded with military precision—just the way she always did. Because when there's a war inside, there must at least be order outside. She pulled out a new outfit. Grey-black training set, long-sleeved top with a reflective strip down the center—not for fashion, but so she could track body alignment in motion. Every piece was functional. Like her. Designed for use.

The first light of dawn seeped through the cracks in the wooden shutters as Emma dragged herself toward the trunk at the foot of her bed. She lifted the lid slowly, pulling out the clothes she had been given—dark trousers, a long-sleeved tunic, and thick boots meant for training. She hesitated, running her fingers over the rough fabric. It felt foreign. Heavy. Women in the pack didn’t wear things like this. Even the ones who trained wore looser, more delicate versions of the warriors’ uniforms. But she wasn’t just another pack woman anymore. She wasn’t even sure what she was. Swallowing down her unease, Emma pulled off her nightdress and slipped into the training clothes. The tunic hung loos

And I see this knowing that I hated being forced to dress identical to my brothers. The boys are in navy long shirts, sweaters, and a patchwork turkey with H and R's initials on its belly with khaki pants. The girls were in long-sleeved navy ruffled dresses with similar patchwork turkeys, but they have bows on the turkey’s head and their initials S and A on their individual dresses.

And why the hell does he have to look like that? Zane isn’t dressed for training the way the rest of the pack is. No loose tank. No standard issue gear. He’s wearing fitted black combat pants that sit low on his hips, clinging to thick thighs like they were designed specifically to remind women why self-control is a myth. And that outline of his package… holy hell. I’m fucking salivating. I swear my beast is purring in my head. A dark long-sleeve compression shirt moulds to his torso, stretched tight over his broad shoulders and chest. The pack sigil is stamped over his heart.

she descended the platform. The indicated packs’ main fighter, the substitutes and supports headed towards the ring. The main fighters were shirtless and wearing shorts and wristbands while substitutes wore transparent crop tops and loose pants along with their armbands. The supports wore white t-shirts and black joggers along with various coloured ribbons tied around their heads. Erion’s substitute fighter, a tall, slim and dark-skinned man with dyed golden, braided hair, was the first to go up.

With a wistful sigh, she turned back to me, “Darrien is strong and he’s a great guy, but my family won’t let us be together unless he passes the warrior exam and begins his official training. Here, try this on first.” I took the clothes she offered; a simple black turtleneck with dark wash jeans and a black lacy underwear set. I opened my mouth to protest. The jeans and turtleneck I might do, but new undergarments were out of the question as far as my budget was concerned. I would make do with my old sports bra and continue to go commando if it meant spending less money. However, before I could get a word out Ava cut me off again. “If you buy the full outfit I can bundle it and make it cheap

‎ ‎An hour later, we stood by the camp exit. ‎ ‎We looked... different. ‎ ‎Rhea had raided the "Human Donations" bin, clothes scavenged from the city dumpsters or stolen from clotheslines. ‎ ‎Kaelen wore dark jeans and a black hoodie that hid his face. Vexa wore a long trench coat to conceal her sling and her weapons. Jinx looked like a normal, scruffy street kid in a beanie cap. ‎ ‎And I wore a simple black dress and boots, my hair loose to cover the Mating Mark on my neck.

It promises a slow, painful death from someone capable of such violence, and someone who revels in it. “That ‘peach’ is your future Luna,” he growls. I hear the gasps and then the judgmental looks from the warriors and even the Beta. I realize that while I’m dressed in a bright sparkly dress with diamonds around my neck, everyone here is dressed in utilitarian clothing, all browns, blacks, and dark greys. I stand out like a sore thumb. The only thing that would have made me more of a ‘peach’ is if my dress was the color of the fruit.

They could choke on it. I turned to the wardrobe in the corner of the office, pulled out my black training gear, tight pants, cropped top, the thigh sheath for my favorite daggers and started changing. Thirty minutes. Time to remind this pack exactly who they were dealing with. And maybe...just maybe start earning a little respect instead of hate. One bloody spar at a time. ----- I took in a deep breath after dressing up and headed out of the office. The black training gear hugged my body like a second skin, tight pants that didn’t restrict movement, cropped top that left my midriff bare and showed off the fading bruises and bite marks Ryker had left last night.

The following day, Rowan watched his warriors train on the field. Their grunts and gasps for breath along with the scent of their sweat and blood whirled around with the chilly breeze. The Alpha stood there, muscular arms crossed, wearing nothing but a black vest and tracksuit bottoms, expression stern. Droplets of sweat kissed his shoulders from where he’d trained and fought earlier, a good workout with his Gamma and aiding with demonstrations to the younger warriors.