#Gelatin Price | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

uhohdad · 6 months ago

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THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN

KONIG X READER [HUNGER GAMES AU]

You & Konig have been chosen to participate in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.

18+, NSFW, 183k WORD COUNT, AO3, Virgin!Konig, Outcast!Konig, 18yo!Konig, GentleGiant!Konig, Mentor!JohnPrice, Fem!Reader, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Use, Slow Burn, Konig Pines Hard, Sexual Content, Porn with Too Much Plot, First Time, Dirty Talk, Size Kink, Smut, Fluff, Angst

CHAPTER ONE | PREV | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

➤ THE AFTERMATH I

Something is wrong.

This sentence swarms your brain at each resurface into consciousness.

It’s a feeling that drops on your chest and steals the breath from you before you can even pinpoint where you are, where you’ve been, what’s going on.

But you know that something is wrong.

Even through the haze, there is a pool of dread lapping up the sides of your guts, a blaring alarm behind the static.

You don’t know where you are, but you know that you are not supposed to be here.

You have no idea how much time has passed, drifting in and out of a dazed, miserable, confused state. Faceless figures poking and prodding and blinding white from all directions, assaulted with the feeling of extreme unease that consumes your entire being.

At one breech into consciousness, there’s a knock on the door, and your sprung eyes shoot to the rattling door knob. For a moment you are still, shallow breaths and darting, wide eyes as the figure steps into focus.

“Hey, Sunshine,” Price says, a worried softness to both his features and tone.

It takes all of three blinks of your eyes for it all to come flooding back to you.

“You son of a-“

At once you’re on your knees, weak legs and gelatinous limbs springing yourself in the direction of his body, tearing needles and tubes from your flesh as you swing at him before he’s even in the range of your hands.

“It should have been me! It should have been me!”

Your shrieks froth as you close distance, pounding on his chest while he holds you back by your biceps. Your legs can hardly hold up under your weight, so he’s both holding you back and keeping you from collapsing on the ground in a heap.

“I told you you should’a restrained her,” Price says flatly.

“Give it to him! It’s his!” You yell, voice ripped to shreds, animalistic cries tearing from your throat and weak fists flailing.

“She seemed docile!” A nurse calls frantically.

“Well, she’s not.”

You feel a sharp prick just above Price’s grip on you, and you are out before you can even turn your head.

The next time you wake, your body tries to spring to attention, moved to action by an unknown desire, but you are held down by thick, white restraints on your wrists and ankles.

Something is wrong.

When you come to, when you remember, you thrash violently against the bed you’re restrained to, grunting and foaming to the empty hospital room.

There’s a knock, and they don’t wait for a response before they open the door.

You’re met with Price again, dawning uncharacteristically gentle features.

Immediately you are screaming at him, futilely attempting to swing at him from across the room while tied to a bed.

“How could you?! How could you?! It was supposed to be him! It was supposed to be him!”

“Easy now, Pluck, easy now.”

“Kill me!”

The voice that leaves you is not your own. It is the voice of a rabid creature, shredding the back of your raw throat.

“It’s his!”

“Stop, stop,” He says, approaching with careful steps, displaying his palms.

“I don’t want it! I don’t want it! It’s his!”

Your teeth are clenched, spitting at him, every pitiful muscle fighting against the bed.

You gasp his name as if it’s your first breath of air after nearly drowning.

“Konig!”

“It’s going to be okay,” he says in a soothing tone.

“Konig! Save him! Kill me!”

“Easy.”

“Fuck you!” You spit through clenched teeth, “Kill me!”

“Easy,” He shushes, “It’s alright. You did it, Pluck. You did it.”

“No!” You object, “I didn’t!”

He nods at you, “You did.”

“I didn’t! It’s not mine!”

“Easy.”

You still, heavy breaths through grit teeth as you stare him down like a dog snarling on its taut leash.

“It’s all going to be okay.”

He puts the back of his hand to your forehead, and he pulls away once you snap your teeth in the direction of his fingers.

“You feeling alright?”

“No,” You sneer, voice low and frozen before it flips to white hot without warning or transition.

“I’ll kill you! Do you understand?! I’ll do it with my own two hands! I’ll rip that bucket hat off your head! I’ll fucking kill you!”

He laughs at you, actually laughs at you, and you begin to thrash under the restraints again, frothing obscenities and threats.

“Plucky,” he says, dropping his voice and tilting his head forward. He says the words slowly, carefully, “You did it.”

“I don’t need this! Just let me die! It’s his! It’s his!”

Price sighs, and leaves you be.

You succumb to unconsciousness shortly after.

Something is wrong.

You don't know how long it’s been when Price returns, trapped in a miserable limbo as you fade in and out, hardly registering the sterile white prison you’re in.

“You ready to talk?” He asks.

“Yes,” You hiss, forcing your body to be still, forcing your breaths to be even, but there’s nothing to do about the way your teeth grit through the affirmation.

His brow raises condescendingly, sturdy arms crossing over his chest when he tilts his head down, as if he’s speaking to an unruly child after a tantrum.

“Are you going to be calm?”

“Yes,” You say.

Hardened blue eyes study you with a drawn-out, doubtful look. He’s trying to decide whether or not he believes you, and it’s clear by the sigh he makes that he doesn’t. And yet, he still steps closer and carefully undoes your restraints.

You wait, motionlessly until you are free.

There’s a short pause before you bring yourself to a stand, feet sinking into the hospital mattress.

Price puts out his hand to help you down, but instead of taking his offer, you spring at him, flinging your entire body into the square of his chest.

It’s your new signature move.

Thanks, One.

Your weak legs scramble to lock around his waist, fists swinging wildly.

“Motherfucker! You motherfucker!”

“Plucky- Fuck!”

Price’s sturdy arms shoot up to peel you off from your upper half, but the grip of your legs around his core stays surprisingly firm.

Price is stumbling around on his feet as he tries to rip you off him and block your weak blows, both of you sent wobbling as you knock over medical instruments with harsh clatters and tings of metal. You kept your word on ripping the bucket hat off his head.

“How could you?! How could you?!” You grunt, ripping at his hair as you swing with your other hand, controlling the direction of his stumbles with flings of your body weight in his arms.

“That’s it-“ He says with frustrated authority, his hands coming up to grab you by your middle. He pushes you away from him, folding your core, but your legs and arms extend, clawing and kicking at him, scratching anything your fingernails can reach. He might as well be fighting off an octopus, clinging to him with your suckers for dear death.

Price’s grunts, his joints popping when he lowers himself. He shows you the crown of his head before you’re thrust into the air with a bounce. He nestles you snug over his shoulder, one hand locked around the back of your flailing knees to keep you in place. Your gut digs into his shoulder as your fists pound on his back, feet kicking viciously.

“Oh you son of a bitch, you son of a bitch, let me down!” You froth, following it up with a windstorm of obscenities, a hailstorm of fists on his back, and fiery demands for freedom.

“I’m not gonna be gentle with you like Romeo,” Price says gruffly.

“Good!” You spit, “Kill me you son of a bitch! Fight me! Fight me!” Your words punctuate with particularly hard pounds against his back.

As your legs attempt to rise high enough to kick him in the gut, he lets out a laugh, your entire body shaking with the lift of his shoulders.

“It’s not funny!”

“It kind of is.”

Ignoring your kicking and screaming, Price keeps you firmly over his shoulder, carrying your flailing body out of the hospital room and down the hall.

He hauls you to a sterile sitting room where he drops you onto a plain couch, pinning you in place by your biceps and planting his feet firmly on the floor between your legs. Your fists still swing at him, arms flying and legs curling up on the couch to kick.

Price catches one of your ankles, his core creasing to evade your kicks as you sink into the crevice of the couch, your legs taking the center stage, feet flying in his direction.

“Kid, stop it.”

Price doubles over to keep you from kicking his stomach until he manages to catch your other ankle.

Your grunts become twice as frothed as you try to free yourself from him, shoulder blades digging into the bench of the couch and your lower back hovering parallel to the floor.

“You old fuck, you old fuck! Fight me!”

Price chuckles, but it’s cut short with a harsh grunt when the sole of your foot jams into his gut.

He lets out a sputtered breath while you flail, jerking your upper half forward to throw more swings and scratches without even bothering to think about where they’ll land.

“Alright, you’re done. You’re done.”

Price closes in, swallowing your blows so he can grab you by your underarms. With another grunt he hauls you off the couch and onto the floor.

He forces you onto your side, pinning your forearms to your chest with one hand and restraining your lower half with a sturdy arm slung just under your stomach. His knees are dug into your back to keep you from rolling over, so you just end up thrashing and kicking your legs across smooth tile.

“Kid,” He says from behind you, “Listen to me.”

His forearms tense to keep you in place as you flop around and throw limbs wildly.

“I’m proud of you.”

You still at his words, chest heaving and breaths cutting through a momentarily silent room.

The whine that starts in the back of your throat is pitched high enough to shatter glass, and by the time it explodes from your mouth it’s a full wail.

It’s like Price had just ripped open your chest and squeezed your heart as hard as he could, because everything behind your sternum tightens beyond comfort. Your sobs are loud and powerful enough to choke on, your entire body shaking in his hold. The tears flow at once and mercilessly, droplets replacing themselves before they can even crest the height of your cheek.

“He’s gone! He’s gone!”

Your wails are truly haunting, deep from within and not even bothered to be stifled, riding out your sobs and elongating each syllable. Your entire body is shaking in Price’s hold, back twitching against his knees.

“Sh, sh, sh,” Price’s voice has gone more than soft, “It’s okay, Pluck.”

“No!” The objection catches in your throat, heaved through hysterical breaths.

Even your gasps for air are choppy, nasally and cut short by the stutter of your lungs. Your face is entirely pinched and distorted, streaked with heavy tears, your hair stuck to the generous flow of snot leaking from your nose.

Price gives you a squeeze, the closest equivalent to a hug he can manage in this position.

“He’s gone!”

“Pluck, I need you to listen to me. Can you do that? Can you listen?”

“Just let me die!”

There’s a beat before he picks up a gruff, annoyed mumble.

“I don’t care for quitters much.”

You suck in a breath, your shoulders tensing. You crane your head to meet his squint eyes, to show him how much you fucking hate him right now.

His brows raise, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening, “There you go, can you listen?”

“Can you?!” You shoot back.

“I just need you to hold it together for a couple days, yeah?” He squeezes your arms, “And then we’ll be back home and you’ll be free to cry your heart’s content.”

The mention of home has your jaw clenching, thrashing against his restraint once again.

“I don’t want to go home!”

“Will you just trust me, kid?”

You slow again, taking a moment to consider his words. The last time he asked you to trust him, he didn’t let you down. He kept you alive in that arena without you even knowing about it, and in the moment you were too angry to see he was just trying to help you.

But you don’t want to be helped. You want him to help Konig, you want him to let you die.

“He’s gone,” You huff.

“It’s okay, Pluck.”

“How can you say that?! He’s dead!”

“Because it is okay.”

“Just because you deal with being a victor doesn’t mean I have to!”

He gives a quick chuckle, “I don’t think you have much of a say, kid.”

“Oh yeah?” You ask, and you can tell by Price’s defeated sigh that he already knows he made a mistake.

Your eyes narrow toward the wall, your voice tightening.

“Watch me.”

“You’re not going to kill yourself.”

A growl leaves you before your useless thrashing starts up again.

“I did it once you old fuck, I’ll do it again!”

“Sh, sh,” He hushes, urgently tightening his grip on you.

“I’ll do it again and again and again! I will not stop until you save him!”

“Okay, okay! Fine!” He says, a desperate attempt to placate you. His voice goes low and confidential, “You can kill yourself. Just wait ‘til we get home, okay? I can’t have you sent to the white room.”

You still with heavy breaths, ribs digging into the tile. There’s a long, drawn-out silence, only filled with the sound of your occasional sniffing.

“Did you do everything you could?” You grit.

“Of course I did.”

The harshness in your voice is sharp and serrated.

“Then why isn’t he here?”

“You don’t think I tried to save him?” Price cuts back.

Ouch.

It’s what you wanted.

It’s what you always wanted. It’s still what you want.

Regardless, knowing that given the very real choice of having to pick between saving your life or Konig’s - Price chose Konig?

I mean, you get it.

But ouch.

Price sighs heavy, his voice resetting to a softer volume.

“I did everything I could. Not just for him. For both of you. And I’m sorry, kid. I am. But I am powerless. It wasn’t up to me but you gotta know I did everything I could.”

You let out a long exhale through your nose, shoulders and chest deflating against tile.

“I know,” You whisper, “I’m sorry.”

There’s another silence, only the sounds of your chests rising and falling as he holds your back steady against his knees.

“You didn’t send me anything,” you say, nasally and stiff.

He didn’t expect that one.

His muscles tense, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

“What did you want, kid?”

You huff, shoulders slumping as low as they go. Your voice is somehow more vulnerable now than it was as you wailed uncontrollably.

“I don’t know. Just-“

You sigh.

“Anything. Something to make me feel better. Something to remind me you were there.”

You finish on a whisper that just barely carries.

“Something to show you actually cared about me.”

You’re deathly still, the air in this room suddenly a thousand pounds. Your lips pull to the side, eyes nearly closed as you stare at the tile.

“Pluck,” he breathes, “Of course I care.”

“It didn’t feel like it.”

He sighs, and it catches in the back of his throat midway.

He gives you one pat on the forearm, “I didn’t think you needed it.”

“Obviously I didn’t need it. It just- It would have been nice. To know you did actually believe in me.”

“I did.”

You huff. He sighs.

“You didn’t think I could do it, did you?”

“No, I did,” He says, “I was the one who told you could do it.”

“That’s what you’re supposed to say to the kid about to die.”

“I’m a lot of things. A liar isn’t one of them.”

You chew on his words, and after a pause he breaks the silence, his voice gentle.

“I’m sorry, kid,” He gives you a pat, “I just knew you were a tough broad.”

You huff a breath through your stuffed nose, “Well, I’m not.”

“Yeah you are,” he says with another pat.

There’s another pause, and his soft voice picks up a reminiscent tone.

“You should have seen me in there, Pluck. I told you I was going to be there with you every step of the way, and I know you didn’t feel it, but-”

He cuts himself off with an amused huff.

“You should ask Ruby. When you threw sand in that boys’ eyes I got so excited I kissed her square on the lips. She still can’t look me in the eye.”

You don’t face him, you don’t speak, but the corner of your lip perks up as minimal as one can.

“Oh - the snare?” He lefts out a puff of air, “Brilliant. I don’t think I would have thought of it myself.”

You stare at the floor, body still.

“And, uh-” He clears his throat, and his voice is quiet when he speaks, “And I thought it was really commendable what you did for Eight.”

You swallow, the muscles in your throat sore and demanding attention.

“You should be thankful I redirected everything to him. Romeo wasn’t quite as resourceful as you.”

“Redirected?”

“Yeah.”

Your puffy eyes meet his.

“I had sponsors?” You ask almost childishly.

“Course you did,” He gives you another pat, “Whole country loves ya, kid.”

You blink, trying to figure out from his expression if he’s telling the truth.

He shows a palm, already defensive to your skepticism, “Don’t have to believe me. You’ll see.”

You let your head rest on the tile again, mulling over this new information.

“They love him, too,” Price says quietly from behind you.

You tense in his hold, the salty taste of your tears flooding your tongue when your lips fold in.

“I know,” You whisper.

There’s a pause.

“You two make a heart of gold and balls of steel, y’know that?”

He managed to pull a nasally scoff from you, and he gives you back an arm so you can wipe your face.

Your faint grin fades and your eyes lull, staring off into tile.

“I don’t deserve this win,” You whisper.

“You’re not gonna believe it, kid, but you more than deserved this win. You’ll see.”

“He’s gone, Price.”

“We’re not going to think about that right now. Okay? Heed it off.”

“Fuck you,” You grit before wiping snot from your nose with your arm.

“Atta girl.”

He sighs and gives you another pat, “Here’s the deal. Victor’s Interview. It’s gonna suck more than the games themselves, but you gotta do it.”

“I won’t. It’s his.”

“You gotta.”

You don’t want to push forward without him. You didn’t want to play the Capitol’s game in the first place, and you extra don’t want to do it without him at your side.

It’s sudden - the sob that makes your entire body twitch around it. The tears flow generously, droplets sliding quickly down your face and splattering on the floor. You can’t stop the sniveling - the way your lungs can’t seem to exhale or inhale a full breath.

Price lets you cry, rubbing your bicep until you wear yourself out. Once settled from pure emotional exhaustion, your breathing long since evened out, he speaks.

“You hungry?”

“No.”

“You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re gonna eat,” he says sternly, and you give in to the tune of silence, too tired to argue for once.

Price stands with a stiff grunt, leaving you curled up on the tile to wave down a Capitol attendant.

He insists you move to the couch, and you don’t make it easy on him, practically forcing him to drag you to the couch where you curl up on the end of the sofa, resting your head on its arm, staring blankly at the wall.

You wish he was here.

Price coaxes a few bites into you, but you can hardly taste it. He lets you get away with barely making a dent to your plate.

You wish you were dead too.

Price sighs and leans back on the sofa, stretching out his arms on either side of the couch.

“Can I have a drink?” You ask.

“Yeah, kid. What do you want?”

“Whiskey.”

“No.”

You give a mixture of a grunt and a whine into the sofa’s arm.

“You need to be on your game for the interview.”

“I’m nowhere near the game,” You mumble.

“Well, I don’t need you any farther away.”

You grunt again.

He sighs, “There will be plenty to drink after.”

The sofa’s fabric scratches in your ear with a weak nod.

The silence stretches out for hours. There’s nothing either of you could say that would make any of it better.

When it’s time, Price escorts you to Mauve to get you ready for the interview. As soon as she sees you, her brows pinch and her arms fling out to her sides. She immediately pulls you into a hug that you don’t return because, well, it’s Mauve, and you’re stunned that she’s displaying any form of physical or even emotional connection.

“You did it. You did it.”

Yeah, you sure did.

You’re such a fuckup that you couldn’t even lose when you tried. Stumbled and tripped the entire way to victory, all while fighting as hard as you could to die.

You don’t say anything, don’t pull away from her embrace, don’t push back on her affirmations. You let her squeeze you, and find your shoulders relaxing into her hold with little thought.

When she pulls away, she keeps her hands clasped around yours and actually gives you a kiss on the forehead, ignoring the way your brows furrow in confusion.

She has tears in her eyes.

“I’m going to make you look so beautiful,” she whispers before letting out a squeak, letting go of your hand to wipe her tears.

You just give a shaky nod and a weak, unsure smile.

She all but runs to the dress you’re to wear for the interview, ripping the cover off it in pure giddiness, beaming at you with a million dollar smile as she drapes it over his arms and shows it off.

You hate the dress.

The dress instills instinctual, immediate panic.

The dress rubs salt in an open wound that hasn’t even had the least of time to heal.

The dress makes you sick to your fucking stomach.

It’s elegant. A brilliant yellow dress that cuts in at the waist under a plain, ribbed bust. Oversized, slightly curved petals with faint grains overlap each other to fill in a large, ridiculously puffy skirt.

Ginkgo petals.

A dress made of fucking ginkgo petals.

The petals that coated the chill dirt your body shivered against during freezing fall nights.

The petals attached to branches that tore up your skin as you sprinted through the woods, running for your life as the corpse of Eleven blinded you.

The petals that were steadily soaked with deep crimson as you watched him die.

Your mouth has gone dry, fists clenching at your sides while your eyes dart around the dress.

You have to close your eyes to stop the crash of your feet on the unforgiving dirt, to keep the branches from tearing into your flesh, to keep him from dying right before your eyes.

Mauve’s face falls.

“You don’t like it?” She asks.

As tears crest your eyeline you push past Price and jog through the forest, no, the hallway - far away from those sickening petals.

You’re not sure where you’re going, but you do find a suitable corner to curl up against, shoving your face into your knees with a sob. You can hear Price’s raised voice echoing from down the halls, but you’re too far away to make out his words, too deafened by the sound of a broken neck.

When he finds you, he sits on the floor next to you with a grunt.

“She’s going to try and put something else together for you last minute. Said she wasn’t thinking,” He huffs, “I’ll say.”

You give a low groan into your knees, and nothing else.

��Sorry, kid. I was too busy trying to take care of you both. I thought she could handle it. That’s my fault.”

You tuck your feet a little closer to yourself.

Price sighs and lets you wallow, wordlessly seated next to you. He doesn’t get up even when it’s clear his back is starting to bother him. He only leaves when he goes to check on Mauve, and returns once she’s ready for you. He extends his hand to help you up, and you take his offer, because your legs have felt wobbly ever since you died.

“Look,” Price says, “I have to go take care of some stuff for the show. Mauve’s going escort you down to stage, but I’ll come see you before you go on, okay?”

You give a faint nod, your gaze fixated on the floor.

“I have something for you,” He says, “A good luck charm.”

Your curiosity gets the better of you in the form of making eye contact. You’re greeted with a faint smile as he digs into his pocket. He gestures for you to hold out your hand, and you hesitantly oblige him before he drops Konig’s token into your palm.

The sight of the golden locket brings tears to your eyes and a lump in your throat. Your lips fold in, and you can’t find the words, so you just throw yourself into his embrace in thanks and let the tears flow.

He holds you in his sturdy arms, rubbing the spot between your shoulder blades. When he pulls away, he keeps his hands on your biceps.

“One last thing,” He says carefully, “They don’t know it’s you.”

Your brows scrunch, tugging on your dehydration headache.

“They don’t know it’s me?”

“Photo finish. They wanted to drum up suspense.”

You shake your head, your stomach abruptly dropping, “What do you mean?”

You understood what he said, but your panic begs that you simply misheard him.

“No, no,” He insists, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“They’re going to hate me,” You say with a croaked whine.

“They’ll be happy to see you. I promise,” He squeezes your biceps, “Can you do me a favor, Pluck? Can you be good?”

You try to swallow the lump in your throat, and you nod.

“Atta girl.”

Price escorts you to Mauve, who’s whispering frantically with a woman upon your arrival. They stop when they see you, and the woman’s eyes widen before she scurries past you and out of the room.

Once back in Mauve’s hands, you don’t have much to say. You’re so tired, you just let her do what she has to without complaint. She seems a little mopey, guilty even.

Her apology rides a breath while she applies your eyeshadow.

“Sorry, babe.”

“S’okay,” You mutter back.

After a moment you add, “It was pretty.”

Objectively, it was a pretty dress, aside from the yellow so bright it hurt your eyes, but you didn’t really mean the compliment.

To you, the dress was the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen.

But regardless of her ignorance, Mauve is trying. And you really don’t have it in you to be nasty right now.

You’re tired.

The replacement dress is pretty, reserved even for the Capitol standard. A pale pink that comes to your mid-calf. The sweetheart bust is snug on your ribcage and lined with a soft thin strip of white lace. Useless, gently bunched sleeves draped loosely around the middle of your bicep. The skirt starts at your waist, only a slight puff from the modest amount of wide pleats.

Aside from the lace, the dress is entirely plain. She keeps your hairstyle simple. No jewels or flowers pasted to your skin, just a generous layer of glitter on your shoulders that matches the highlights on the height of your cheeks.

In terms of comfort, it’s her best work yet.

You find it in yourself to thank her, and she gives a small smile with a shaky nod in the mirror. Her shoulders straighten a bit, and you can tell the weight on her shoulders has lightened.

Mauve lets you hold her arm to keep steady as you wobble in your matching pale pink heels. She wordlessly leads you to black, dim room beneath the stage. It reeks of sawdust and paint, assaulting your nose with its demanding fumes, and is entirely empty except for a metal platform much similar to the platform that deposited you into the area. The sight of it draws sweat from your pores and has your heart trying to leap from your chest. You have to pinch your eyes shut and turn away from it on shaky legs.

Mauve lets out a sigh, but it’s not like her usual, disinterested sighs. It’s heavy and catches in her throat before clumsily leaving an open mouth smile. She pulls you into another hug, wrapping her arms around your useless dress sleeves and squeezing you tight. You don’t return the embrace, staring blankly over her shoulder.

When she pulls away, her hands linger on your biceps, and you catch the sparkling reflections of your glitter that transferred to her shirt.

She goes to cup your face but pulls away at the last minute, most likely not wanting to smear your makeup, and rests her hands on your shoulders instead.

“You’re going to do great,” she says through a bright white smile.

The door to the space beneath the stage opens, and you don’t have to turn your head to know it’s Price.

“Sorry, sorry I’m late,” He says with a slight jog.

He’s dressed to the nines in his black suit and tie, the most put together you’ve ever seen him. Mauve and Price meet eyes with an exchange of an awkward, tightly pinched smile.

“I better be off,” Mauve mutters. She looks to you one last time, her forced smile blooming into something genuine, and she lets out another one of those new sighs.

“I’ll see you at the party,” She says.

Fuck.

The party.

Price catches your train of thought almost immediately, either he caught the slight widening of your eyes or he’s just that intuitive.

“Hey, hey, don’t worry about it, kid,” He assures with a firm squeeze on your shoulder, “One thing at a time.”

You just give a slow, barely registrable shake of your head as the door shuts behind Mauve.

The last thing you need right now is a fucking party. Full of rich Capitol shmucks celebrating the death of twenty-three tributes so that you could live.

Celebrating the gory, brutal deaths that will haunt you for the rest of your unearned life.

Celebrating the piece of you that died in that arena, the irreversible change of a girl that once was.

Konig’s dead, but hey! At least there’s cake!

Price’s lips fold in, and he lets out a sigh, looking to the floor between you before those sad blue eyes find you again.

“You’ll be alright. It’s just a little while, and then it’s over.”

You can hear the audience from beneath the stage, as loud and boisterous as ever, Price has to raise his voice to be heard.

You don’t bother to raise your voice for him. It’s not even spoken in his direction, it’s spoken to the empty room beneath the stage, spoken to yourself.

“It’ll never be over.”

Price swallows, his shoes shuffle, and he gives a solemn nod.

“It’ll get easier,” He says, a slight break in his words.

You don’t bother calling him on his lie, don’t bother responding or even meeting his gaze.

He looks over his shoulder and sighs. He pulls away the arm slung over your shoulders, and sidesteps to stand in front of you.

He’s less worried about ruining your makeup, cupping your face and tilting your head to guide you into meeting him with your hollow eyes.

“It’s going to be okay,” He says with a raise of a brow, tilting his chin down.

It’s spoken so confidently - there’s a small piece of you that almost believes him. You have to fight the tears welling in your eyes, the sting in the back of your throat.

“I gotta go,” He says, his hands slipping from your face and finding your shoulders, “I’ll meet you after. Be good, okay?”

He doesn’t wait for your acknowledgement, already heading for the door.

A heavy, long exhale leaves your nose.

You have to wait quite awhile for them to actually announce you. Leaving the audience in suspense as they have your team come on stage to accept their praises - the crowd exploding into thunderous applause to welcome each face.

You are not nervous.

You’re not angry.

You’re not even sad.

You’re numb.

You can’t feel anything, eyes in a constant state of shock, fixated on the wall as you digest the truth.

You are alive.

Konig is dead.

You failed to save him.

And you are the victor of the Hunger Games.

You repeat these facts, over and over in your head, but you can’t seem to grasp the weight behind them. The voice is so far away, and the words have lost all meaning.

From beneath the stage, you can hear him, Caesar Flickerman warming up the crowd after clearing the stage.

“Folks, we’ve been waiting for this moment with bated breath. This year’s Hunger Games was unlike any other we’ve ever seen. Never in the history of the games have we had a photo finish, and never have we not known the victor upon completion.”

The crowd has gone silent, hanging on to his every enthusiastic word with bated breath.

“Without further ado, it is my honor to bestow upon you - the victor of this year’s - Hunger! Games!”

The crowd goes absolutely wild at Caesar’s announcement, but your face remains stone cold as your platform carries you up to stage.

When you crest to open air, you are blinded by white hot lights.

The suffocating wave of feelings return like a punch in the gut as you rise onto stage, swallowing you whole with one bite.

Panic, that is what you feel.

Pure, unbridled fear.

Not because of the Capitol audience, but because as your eyes dart around, they struggle to adjust to a hot desert sun reflecting off the pure white coat of snow at your feet. Your heart is hammering in your chest, you can feel your pulse throughout your entire body. Your eyes pinch shut, trying to fight off the shake in your fingers.

The crowd draws in a collective gasp, surely displeased that it was you, because everyone knows it’s a win you don’t deserve.

Heavy breaths leave you as you try and ground yourself, staring out into the crowd to remind yourself where you are.

You are not in the arena.

You are on stage in front of the entire country.

The crowd is silent.

Thousands of people in this theatre, and you could hear a pin drop. As your eyes adjust to the harsh stage lights, you are met with every individual dawning blown stares and gaped lips.

Your fists clench at your sides with a thick exhale.

This is your life now.

Living the life of a victory you did not earn, every person in Panem disappointed that it is you alive and not the rightful tribute.

So you do what you always do when the lingering fear and inadequacy and rage begins to smother you without Konig at your side to placate you.

You roll your eyes and step off your platform, posture disrespectfully slack. Your arms fling out to the side as you lean out to the crowd.

“Oh!”

You scoff.

“Oh! What are we? Are we disappointed?!” You exclaim with a flare of your eyes, an over-exaggerated dip in your voice. You’re shouting at the crowd, a curved patronization torn through your words, hands flinging at your sides to emphasize your enunciations.

You press your fingers to your sternum so hard your knuckles bend backwards.

“How do you think I feel?!”

Your voice has shed its condescension, still engulfed in rage - but there’s a strain that reveals the true emotion.

“I tried!”

Your arm flings in front of you again, your index finger jamming at the floor.

“I tried to save him and I couldn’t!”

You pause, your eyes darting around the bright rainbow sea of Capitol attire to catch a few stares of the audience.

Your arms throw out again.

“So fucking live with it! Because I have to! I have to live with it!”

The crowd is silent as you throw your nationwide tantrum. Tears of unbridled humiliation and frustration well in your eyes. You let out a grunt, fists clenching at your sides once again. The threat of a growl pulls on your lips when you pinch off your vision.

You take a deep breath, and meet the audience again.

“So! You still want me to dance?! Or should I just go home?!”

Your eyes flare before narrowing, your voice suddenly icy and threatening.

“Because I’ll fucking dance, alright?!”

Oh you’ll dance.

You will dismantle the Capitol with your bare hands if you have to.

You will burn this nation to the ground.

And you will dance on the embers and ashes.

And what will they take from you? Your tongue? What leverage is a tongue against a girl who is beyond committed to death? A girl who has long been committed to sacrificing her body and soul - without care for the ramifications to those around you.

“So who wants to fucking see it? Huh?!”

You’re staring out to the crowd, brows pinched as you challenge an entire nation to a fist fight.

If they wanted a nice, agreeable victor -

They saved the wrong fucking one.

Offstage and to your left, you can hear Price’s laugh. It’s the only sound echoing around the quiet theater.

You nearly snap your neck as you whip your head to find Price, shooting him a deadly look. He doesn’t see it, his eyes closed and head thrown back, hands on his stomach.

His hearty laugh is a spark. It ignites the room, a contagion that spreads until the entire theatre is ablaze in a chorus of grating laughter.

Your entire body is scorched with embarrassment and anger.

You grit your teeth at him, a light growl following.

How can he stand by and laugh at you at a time like this? He should know more than anyone what these games do to you.

“You want a rematch, Old Man?!”

He shows his palms, but it doesn’t stifle his laughter.

“Behind ya, Juliet!” Price calls.

You face the silent crowd before turning to look at Caesar so he can close out the show already, but you don’t find him.

Your entire body stills at once, not even the flick of an iris or the rise and fall of your chest. Your breath has been stolen from you, lips parted but not a word nor even a single puff of air escapes them. Your entire body has gone cold, the color drained from your face in an instant.

The only movement that suggests life is still within you is the waver of tears rising in your eyeline.

It’s him.

The boy who had been your friend after all, nearing seven feet tall and an intimidating frame to match.

The boy who loved you so much he would rather die than live without you.

The boy you have loved all along without even noticing - because it was as easy to love him as it was to breathe.

It’s him.

Illuminated by the spotlight shined straight on him, as striking as ever in his matching pale pink suit, those familiar, unsure blue eyes trained right on you.

The world has come to a standstill.

Both of you are frozen in shock on opposite ends of the stage, looking to each other like ghosts that might disappear if you look away, if you so much as blink. Hallucinations as you descend rapidly into madness. An oasis in a desert - too good to be true.

As soon as the tears crest your eyeline, you’re in a full sprint to him across the stage. Konig snaps out of his frozen state and shuffles a few quick steps forward, his shoes squeaking across the glittery stage before he throws out his arms and bends at his knees to meet you.

You fumble at the last minute, tripping over your heels and literally send yourself tumbling into your arms - but he’s got you.

He catches you by the waist, those strong arms wrapping tightly around you as he lifts your feet from the ground and twirls you in a full circle, the beautiful sound of his laugh in your ears. Your lips press to his in a sloppy embrace, tears mixing and smushing between your cheeks.

The crowd breaks into a thunderous applause, but you can’t hear them, the only sound you hear is Konig’s relieved laughs stitched into his fervorous kisses.

The relief is overwhelming - a wave of euphoria that sweeps over you from head to toe, bunching your tear-stained cheeks as your lips stretch into a painfully wide smile you couldn’t hide if you tried. It’s like you’re waking up from a nightmare, relief flooding your entire body and a white hot ball of euphoric warmth in your core. You’re high - high off the feeling of being in his arms once again, high off his scent, high off his kisses.

“Mein sieger, I thought you were- I thought I lost you, I thought I lost you,” He whispers into your lips, his breathy words interrupted by his kisses.

You laugh, light and warm, “I’m not. I’m not. I’m here.”

“I missed you.”

Each breath he takes presses his chest further into you, so full of life. He’s laughing, teeth showing, but it doesn’t stop the kisses. His strong arms are locked around you so tight you’re worried he might just break something.

You hope he never lets go.

“You’re alive,” He says, his hand cupping this side of your face and making wide strokes over your hair. He heaves a sigh of relief, “You’re alive.”

Your hand wraps around the forearm that strokes you as you nuzzle into his touch, “I am, I’m here. I’m here.”

The tears of relief are flowing freely from both of you as you cling - no, claw at each other. Your fingers are trembling, nails dug into him and wrinkling his suit.

He presses his forehead to yours and lets out a laugh, closing his eyes.

“I love you. I-”

He cuts himself off to laugh again.

“I love you too,” You whisper through a hiccup, more tears sliding down your cheeks.

He presses his lips to yours again, his stubble sanding against your cheeks in a sloppy kiss.

“You’re okay, you’re okay.”

He utters this over and over when he pulls away for breath, a relieved reassurance, reminding himself that the impossible is reality. It’s welcome, because you’re having trouble believing it yourself.

You hold each other for what must be ten full minutes, Konig crushing you in his arms while you exchange sloppy kisses.

“Okay! Okay!” Caesar finally chimes in, “Don’t want a repeat of the show you gave us in the arena.”

You ignore Caesar’s cheeky attempt to move on with the show, and when Caesar nears closer, you blindly stick out your palm to push him away with a suggestive nudge, refusing to break the kiss or the embrace.

It draws a hearty reaction from both Caesar and the audience, but you don’t care.

You don’t care about anything but Konig, anything but the glimmer in his eyes, anything but the hold of his strong hands around yours, anything but the rise and fall of his shoulders as he gives an inaudible laugh around a pleased smile.

“Alright now, don’t make us separate you two,” Caesar says with a chuckle.

This threat, while only a joke, is enough to get you to break away and wrap yourself around Konig’s arm like a vice, not daring to let go in fear he will be ripped away from you once again. Neither of you look away, heads turned to stare into each other’s eyes, thankful they are teeming with life and not as you saw them last.

Both of your arms are clasped around Konig’s with a grip strong enough to choke the life from a man. He returns the favor, his hand turned outward at his side, a fistful of your dress balled up in his hand and keeping you close.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Caesar’s tone bobs up and down, dramatically stretching out every word, “May I present - two tributes who would rather die than live without the other - The victors of this year’s - Hunger! Games!”

The crowd erupts, and you and Konig take your opportunity to share another kiss, his stubble scraping against you as you hum against each other.

You don’t let go of your hold on Konig’s arm even when Caesar ushers you both to a plush velvet loveseat and begins the show.

“Wow, wow, wow! What an honor to have you both sitting before us today!” Caesar starts as he settles into his chair, slinging one of his legs over the other and fixing his suit jacket, “I’m sure you both must be more than relieved.”

You both still have not taken your eyes off each other. They’re crinkled from the big smiles you can’t seem to wipe from your faces, the muscles in your cheeks already sore.

“I have to say this year’s games were more than unique,” Caesar’s hand comes up with a slight jazzy wave, “We’ve never seen anything like it!”

“Now,” He continues, “We have a lot to get through tonight, not one, but two victor’s highlights! So let’s start at the beginning, shall we?”

Caesar gestures to the enormous screen behind you that’s being broadcasted to the entirety of Panem. They give a short feature on the arena, which the audience is eating up. Apparently - in the middle of each quadrant was a special feature, each containing a helpful resource for the tributes. The fall quadrant had the field of vegetables that sustained you during the games. The desert held the oasis, both a water source and ‘peace of mind.’

You roll your eyes at that one.

The center of the hedge maze held defenses, armory and gear. And the snow quadrant hid a massive cave system, shelter for the tributes.

When the arena tour is over, they dive into the bloodbath. As soon as the circle of tributes appear on screen, all but two of you now dead, Konig’s and your’s hold on each other tightens.

The high of your reunion has been entirely smothered, wilted into a cruel dread that sinks your heart to your stomach. Under your makeup, your face has drained its color, mouth gone bone dry. Your intestines are twisted into knots, what little content in your stomach doing somersaults.

On screen, you’re hugging yourself, breaths turned to steam as you shiver in the snow quadrant. Konig’s swaying nervously on his platform, arms slightly puffed out at his sides, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. The feed pauses on a split screen of you and Konig staring at each other just before the gong sounds.

Caesar jabs his index finger at the screen, “There! This moment here - I think this moment of connection holds much significance,” Caesar looks to the crowd, “Wouldn’t you say?”

The crowd gives a murmur of approval, and Caesar continues.

“You both are going to be very sick of this question by time I’m through with you - but I must know, what was going on in your minds at this moment?”

You give another swallow, trying to work saliva into your dry mouth. Konig and you raise a brow at each other.

Caesar sees you both struggling and steps in to help out. He gestures to you before saying, “Why don’t you start us off? Ladies first, and all.”

Caesar gives a cheeky raise of his brow, and the audience gives a far too generous laugh.

You give a shaky nod with a purely nervous laugh, looking to the floor. Konig’s hand gives you a squeeze. Both of your palms are already soaked with sweat, but you don’t dare pull away.

“Uhm, well, I- I guess we were just sharing the fear.”

Konig’s brows are furrowed, and he gives an uneasy nod in agreement.

The feed resumes and the gong sounds.

Both on screen and now, you are frozen. Your lungs have stopped taking in air and both sets of your eyes are wide with fear.

The tributes are scattering in all directions, but you and Konig are the last ones to step off your platform. You’re watching the bloodbath, but his eyes are trained on you. Waiting for you to run to safety, his hands on his head and muttering frantically at you under his breath.

Run, he’s saying, Run!

Caesar gives a detail into the bloodbath deaths, and you have to look at your shoes and pinch your eyes shut as the boy from one runs a sword through a male tribute’s neck, who as it turns out, is the boy from three. As the girl from four wrestles Ten to the ground and forces her to stab herself repeatedly. As One skewers tributes with the same spear that killed her. All you can focus on is trying not to throw up all over your heels.

You finally open your eyes when Konig’s bloodbath experience is featured. You’re not sure if it’s morbid curiosity or if you long to share his pain with him, but you find yourself unable to look away.

As he steps off his platform, he’s got his eyes locked on you, but gets sidetracked by the girl from two. By far the fastest runner, she reached the cornucopia before anyone else, and started whipping knives in Konig’s direction as soon as she got her hands on them.

Your heart is pounding against your chest. It’s like you’re watching it live instead of a replay, it’s like he’s actually in danger, as if you don’t already know the ending, as if he’s not sitting right next to you on this couch unscathed.

The girl from two’s face distorts in determination with each blade she misses. You find yourself flinching and sucking in air through clenched teeth with each harsh grunt and whip of her arm. She runs out of knives before she can land a hit, retreating to the cornucopia for more weapons.

You give a deep, relieved breath as Konig is left alone. He resumes his sprint to you, but slows when he sees the boy from Eleven, sprinting in your direction.

You can’t watch, head turning away from the crowd in a cringe. It doesn’t prevent you from seeing Eleven’s neck snapping, his lifeless eyes flashing behind your eyes as the crack of his bones plays far and wide over the speakers. Tears are welling in your eyes, throat aching. Your hand is squeezing Konig’s in a deathly grip, lip caught between your teeth while you beg the tears away.

You do not want to cry in front of all of Panem.

Again.

Konig leans into you, and if you had to guess, he has his eyes closed too. The side of his head rests on the crown of yours.

The crowd cheers at Eleven’s death, and your face twists in displeasure at once, your eyes snapping open and your head whipping from Konig’s shoulder to face the crowd.

How they can cheer for the death of a child -

It’s -

You don’t even have words, they’ve sufficiently left you speechless. Your teeth clench, face igniting with a searing burn. Your tears have turned to those of pure rage.

The haunting of Eleven has eaten you alive from the inside out. It wears you to nothing but an empty husk. His lifeless eyes are etched into your eyelids, the bounce of his corpse steals your breath, his snapping bones deafen you - and it still pales in comparison to his fate.

And they are cheering.

Celebrating yours and Konig’s nightmare, celebrating the death of a child who did not deserve it.

You can’t hold it in, you’re squeezing Konig’s hand with a deadly grip, the fingernails on your other hand digging into the meat of your palms. You can’t be bothered to stifle your hatred of them, your hatred of The Capitol.

“He’s dead!” You shout, “You’re cheering, and he’s dead!”

The life has been sucked from the theatre in an instant, the air constricting around every last member of the audience.

Caesar swallows, and nods at his lap before looking up to you.

“Yes, it’s uh, I’m sure it’s hard to watch.”

Konig’s free arm slings over his puffed out chest. He sits tall, staring daggers at Caesar, those intimidating half-lidded eyes boring into him.

Caesar clears his throat and moves on, going over more bloodbath deaths. He doesn’t ask you many questions as he lets you both collect yourselves.

He brings you back into the discussion once they feature Konig tailing you to the fall forest.

“Now, Konig, we see you following in her footsteps. What were your motivations here?”

Konig swallows, his dress shoes fidgeting against the stage and head ducking and a free hand coming up to stroke his jaw.

“Well, äh, I guess I just want to - to make sure she was safe.”

Caesar tilts his head, his ponytail swaying behind him, “Was your intention to ally with her?”

“Äh, yes,” Konig looks to you and gives your hand a squeeze, “If you’d have me.”

This draws an ‘Awhhh’ from the crowd, and your eyes roll, but you don’t fight it when Konig plants a kiss on the side of your forehead, only encouraging the audience’s gushing.

Konig had lost you to the forest almost immediately, veering down closer to the middle of the quadrant instead of along the snow border. It doesn’t take long until there’s significant distance between you both as the forest expands.

They skip most of the running, but they do feature a conversation between the careers that happens shortly after the bloodbath, which is unfortunate, because the last thing you need right now is to see Titan and the girl from one.

Sapphire, you’d forgotten her name was Sapphire. With her eyes that suited her name and sparkle like the tip of her bloodthirsty spear.

Apparently, once the bloodbath festivities were done and the careers had successfully claimed the cornucopia supplies, their first priority was hunting you down.

“Both of them went that way,” The boy from one says, “Brat ran from him, think they’re going solo.”

“Perfect,” Sapphire says, her cheeks dimpled with a perfect, killer smile that sends a shutter down your spine.

“He’ll be looking for her, we’ll have to beat him to it.”

“It’s too bad Funny Girl didn’t want to ‘ally’ with us.”

Titan punctuates his statement with that cackling laugh that has you pinching your eyes shut.

“Doesn’t matter,” Sapphire shrugs before twirling her spear in her hands, palms coated in the blood of her kills, “We’ll find her.”

“Dibs on making her scream,” Titan says with a sickening smile, those carnivorous canines ready to sink into fresh meat, his hands rubbing together in giddy anticipation.

You swallow at the threats, wide eyes darting around the display. Konig’s fingernails are digging into you, his forearm tensed and shaking.

“Fine, but I want a turn,” The boy from one says, “Brat could be taught more than one lesson.”

“Don’t worry,” Sapphire purrs, “We’ll have plenty of time for play. Got the rope?”

“Yup,” The girl from two says, giving the neat bundle of rope a gentle toss before catching it.

“Perfect. We’ll find her before sunrise. She’s got no supplies, she can’t leave that forest without coming straight to us. We’ll bring her back on a leash.”

The four laugh, Titan’s cackle dominating the nauseating chorus.

The careers were planning not only to make you yell for Konig - they were planning on holding you hostage as leverage against him. Judging by the way Konig is cutting off all the circulation in your hand, it would have worked, too.

Your heart is pounding against your chest as quick as a rabbit’s, a heavy weight in your core you can’t seem to untether yourself from.

Caesar looks to you once the footage has paused unfortunately on Titan’s laughing face, deadly canines displayed far and wide.

“How do you feel knowing the careers were targeting you from the very beginning?”

You give Caesar a look that suggests he just asked the world’s dumbest question.

“Not good?”

The crowd gives a hearty laugh at this, catching you off guard.

“Konig?” Caesar asks.

He nods slow, his jaw tensed and teeth clenched.

“Not good,” He mumbles through his grit.

“I bet,” Caesar says with lighthearted flare, trying to wave away the tension being projected from you both, “Moving on.”

When they cut back to you and Konig, you’re under your maple, buried into the fall forest, camouflaged in your sawed-off branches.

Caesar starts, pointing at the large screen, “I think we all were holding our breaths at this moment.”

On that first night - the rustling you heard and the large boot that flashed through the ginkgo petals in your camouflage - it was Konig. You two were mere feet away from each other and had no clue.

He would periodically hiss your name in a hushed voice, but you hadn’t been in earshot when he passed you.

You scratch behind your ear, looking to the floor.

Ashamed.

They go over the death that happened at the same time - the girl from seven, the girl who was smiling with the boy in her chariot - gutted by a career they stumbled upon in the forest while hunting you down.

There’s a dull ache that pangs in your chest, you can’t help but feel partially responsible. Maybe if you had died at the bloodbath like you should have, the careers wouldn’t have found her while hunting you down.

She probably would have died anyway.

You tell yourself this, but you’re having a hard time convincing the voice in your head.

Not only were the careers hunting you down, but Konig searched for you all night.

You look to him with sloped brows and a lopsided frown. He told you he looked for you ‘at the beginning,’ but you assumed he had called it quits early.

His lips pull to the side as he looks away from you, but he does give your hand a squeeze.

After a pause, you squeeze back. You hope it conveys your apology, for making it so difficult on him.

The screen splits in two, both you and Konig on screen as they show the first night’s faces of the fallen.

As the girl from ten had flashed in the sky, both of you had smiled, breathy relieved sighs into the night to know the other was still alive.

You and Konig share another squeeze, cheeks flood with warmth.

“I must know - what were you both feeling in this moment?” Caesar asks with a tilt of his head.

There’s another awkward pause, and Caesar prompts you to go first. Your free hand comes up to support your unsteady words.

“Well, I guess I was - I was just relieved he was still alive.”

You look at Konig with an unsure crease in your brow, and he nods.

“Now, I think some of us here in the Capitol may be a bit confused. It’s clear you two have cared about each other from the start. What stopped you from having an alliance?”

He stunned you on that one. Eyes wide and lips stammering, you trip ungracefully through your words.

“I, uh, well-“

You swallow, and Konig gives your wet hand another squeeze.

“I guess - it just would have been too hard. Just - I didn’t want to get any more attached to him than I already was, y’know? Because I knew -“

You clear your throat, looking down as the audience waits, hanging on to your every word.

Why didn’t you ally with him again?

You didn’t trust him. You didn’t want to rely on him. You didn’t want to make it to the end together, because what a heart wrenching ending that would have been.

Paranoid and stubborn and a bleeding heart.

It all seems so stupid in hindsight.

You lose your train of thought, and look to Caesar, pleading for his help.

“I think we understand, dear. Only one of you could leave, after all.”

Caesar gives a cheeky look to the audience, who laughs, because clearly, you proved them wrong.

You don’t laugh along, looking down to your lap instead. Your free hand is fidgeting to release a sudden spark of some negative feeling you can’t quite pinpoint. Your heart is heavy, and there’s a simmering heat rising in your core.

It’s rubbing you the wrong way, the way The Capitol is treating it like it’s all some big joke. As if you and Konig weren’t permanently altered by a horrific experience, as if you both making it out of the arena was a cheeky little loophole in a sports game, and not the result of you both committing suicide.

“Yes,” You snap, whipping your head up, “Very funny.”

You’re glaring at Caesar, a pointed stare paired with thick sarcasm.

“Very,” Konig adds, wearing those intimidating half-lidded eyes, his head tilted down as he glares at Caesar.

This throws both the crowd and Caesar off guard.

Caesar swallows, even stammering through the beginning of his sentence as he flits his gaze between you both until he slips back into his stage act and moves on.

As you rose the next morning of the games, Konig had finally succumbed to his exhaustion, having spent the entire night looking for you.

It was the boy from eight who set the snare. He set many, actually, most likely hoping to catch his district companion.

“Now, I don’t know if you remember,” Caesar starts, a loose hand pointing in your direction, “But during your interview, I asked you if you thought your wit would translate well in the arena - and I think in this next moment here we really see your wit shine.”

You’re just a blur on screen. Your voice is helpless and desperate, snatched by your ankles and sent launched in the air. The crowd draws a collective gasp, as if they haven’t already seen this one before.

When the theatre echoes with your desperate cry of Konig’s name, he lurches forward in his seat at once, priming himself to run to your rescue. As if you weren’t sitting next to him unharmed, as if you were in trouble at this very moment and needed his help.

He’s clutch on your hand turns crushing, his brows furrowed and lips parted while he watches you thrash while suspended upside down on screen.

You have to close your eyes. You hate watching yourself be bested, hate that everyone in Panem is watching you struggle.

When you open them again, you’ve stopped fighting the rope, you can see your gears turning as you struggle to think through your clear panic.

Konig’s on the edge of his seat, leaning forward, eyes glued to the screen. Not so much as blinking.

As soon as revelation projects on your features on screen, your fingers fumble for your belt.

“Breathe,” You whisper to Konig with a squeeze of his hand, and he lets go of his held breath with a shaky nod, but he can’t pull himself away from the screen.

You watch yourself fumble for your shoes, climb up your belt, and eventually free yourself with a crash to the ground.

Everyone in the room winces at impact, and Konig hand is giving yours a second-hand shake, his arms tight and trembling.

The screen pauses after you give your weak thumbs up, which the audience seems to enjoy, and Caesar starts.

“That was really something. I have to say, your determination is certainly admirable.”

The crowd gives a hearty round of applause, whistles and cheers filling the theatre.

It makes you raise a brow, that such a humiliating and stupid moment is worthy of such overwhelming praise. You don’t even have the sense to hide your confusion.

When the crowd finally lulls, Caesar looks to Konig, who has relaxed in his seat, his back flush to the couch once more. His brows are still pinched, and he’s gnawing on his bottom lip.

“How do you feel seeing her perform such a daring escape?”

Konig’s free hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, and there’s a tense pause.

“I’m not surprised,” His voice is low, almost pained, “But, äh-”

His body turns to yours, swelled blue eyes flitting around your face. He’s not talking to Caesar or the audience anymore, he’s talking to you.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

You shake your head, “It’s okay- It wasn’t-“

Your words cut off with a squeak and you can’t seem to pick them back up, so you just throw yourself at him instead. He lets go of your hand to swallow you in an embrace, squeezing you tight.

Those big strong arms wrapped around you, his scent, the rise and fall of his chest against yours. You feel so safe, so protected here in his chest. You want to stay here forever.

Of course the crowd has to react. Eating up your romance like it’s just another one of their fancy dishes and not something you both had to kill and die to earn.

You wish the crowd wasn’t here. You wish your reunion wasn’t being broadcasted to all of Panem. You wish you could have an intimate moment with Konig in private for once.

He holds you tight for what must be minutes before Caesar ushers the show along. When you pull away, your sides are still flush together, as close as you can get without sitting in his lap, his arm slung over your shoulder so you can nuzzle into his side.

The feed resumes, starting with you lying on the ground, robbed of breath and paralyzed on the forest floor. When they show the boy from eight approaching, Konig’s hand stiffens on your shoulder. He can’t seem to sit still, shifting his feet and bouncing his leg as he watches the interaction unfold.

Willow.

That was her name, the name the boy from eight yelled into your face while you were paralyzed on the forest floor.

Willow.

What a pretty name, for a girl who had met such an ugly death.

While every one of Konig’s muscles are tight and tensed, yours seem to have turned to gelatin.

You’re trying to remember what she looked like, if you saw her in the training center, but you tried so hard not to look at the other tributes under both Price’s instruction and your instinctual fear. The only moments that come to mind are the interview and the opening ceremony. You remember her sounding scared during her interview, her voice - you can remember her shaking, terrified voice if you concentrate really hard, but you didn’t get a good look at her face during the interview. Maybe you did? You were too worried about your own interview. You try to remember what she looked like while they were on their chariot, even just what her hair looked like from the back, but all you can remember is their outfits. The colorful, busy outfits made entirely of weaved -

Ribbons.

Your free hand shoots to your wrist.

There’s a brief moment of panic, where you have to stifle the urge to pat yourself top to bottom to find your ribbon, before you remember you gave it to Konig.

Your eyes find his wrist, and there it is.

Your ribbon, tied into a bracelet. It’s knotted into a bow - you can tell he tried his best to make it neat, but it was clearly tied by someone working with only one brute hand and their teeth.

The sight of him wearing Willow’s bracelet, wearing your parting token to him, rips the tears from your waterline before you have the forethought to fight them. The droplets are replacing themselves before they can even breach your jaw, streaming down your cheeks, but otherwise your face remains emotionless. Maybe dumbfounded, but even that’s a stretch.

You don’t even feel bothered to hide them, you’re just staring blankly at your -

Willow’s -

His ribbon.

Your thoughts have ceased, you’re locked onto that scrap of fabric through your tear-blurred vision, the world falling on deaf ears.

A few moments pass, and Konig gives you a nudge to snap you out of it. He’s looking at you with sloped brows, a glint of worry in his eyes and his free hand reaching over his lap to hold your other shoulder.

“I’m okay, no- I’m okay,” You say as you wipe your tears. You’re saying it just to Konig, but all of Panem is present to hear it.

You’re both facing each other now, and while your words are truthful, he doesn’t seem to believe you, those worried eyes skipping around your tear-streaked face.

You use the inside of your wrist to wipe away your tears while Konig’s hands slide off your shoulders to your biceps, taking you in.

“I’m okay,” You say to him with a nod and a light tone, “Really.”

He gives you a shaky nod, a warm, clammy hand coming up to cradle your cheek.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you,” he says, his harsh voice spread so delicately.

Well, fuck.

Now you do feel horrible, because Konig thinks you’re crying over the memory of your interaction with the boy from eight, over a terrifying, vulnerable moment that he was not there to save you from - and not because Konig has kept what might actually be the most sentimental thing you’ve ever owned exactly where he said he would.

Safe.

Caesar gives a soft tilt of his head, and dawns a soothing tone, “It’s clear this brought up some feelings for you. Would you mind opening up to us?”

Yeah, Caesar, actually, you would mind.

Because you don’t want the audience to own every single little detail of your life, everything that holds significance to you. You don’t want them to know why you cry, and you don’t want them to know what makes you feel what you feel, and you definitely don’t want everyone to know you’re crying over a scrap of fucking textile that means the world to you. And it’s not like you can spin some lie about how you were just oh so terrified in that moment because it’s going to make the love of your life -

Oh, shit.

Konig is the love of your life.

What you wouldn’t give to untangle all of these new emotions and revelations in private, but no.

You’re owned now.

Your thoughts, your feelings, your love, your entire life is now property of The Capitol.

They cannot have your ribbon as well.

You straighten out your back in Konig’s hold, set your shoulders back, take a deep breath, and give Caesar a curt nod.

“I would.”

Polite but reserved.

“Ahh,” Caesar's eyes dart around awkwardly before he gives a scoff through a smile, “Okay, then.”

He tugs on his collar and pulls his lips back in a way that suggests he’s saying, ‘Yeesh,’ to the crowd.

Konig and you linger on each other, though. Speaking to him in stares, a language you two were fluent in. His brows are still creased in worry, his lip the slightest bit bunched.

You just give him a faint nod and a slow blink, to show him you’re sure you’re okay.

What you wouldn’t give to be along with him right now. To tell him how thankful you are he kept your token.

He still doesn’t fully believe you, but he takes your eyes for it, gnawing on his lower lip as he looks back to the screen.

They skipped most of your hobbling journey to the snow district, and before they cut back to you, they feature another death. The boy from ten, another career kill, the pack still combing the fall forest in search of you.

They show you getting gassed, your hysterical cackles echoing throughout the auditorium. Konig’s brows are tight, eyes darting around the screen as he watches you fumble through the forest while your muscles writhe and twist. You crash to the ground, paralyzed by the laughing gas. You weren’t out as long as you thought you were, just into the evening. They don’t show most of your fit, as it mostly consists of you seizing and cackling on the dirt while you hallucinate.

The feed switches back to Konig, who’s risen from slumber, and gets started for the day. He hasn’t done anything to survive. Hasn’t eaten, hasn’t drank, hasn’t fashioned tools.

He just looks for you.

Price caves around this point and sends him food and water.

When the camera leaves Konig, they cut to the careers. Your pulse doubles at the mere sight of them.

“You think she left Fall?” The boy from one asks the group as they step through the forest. Just three of them, the girl from two stayed behind to watch camp.

“There’s no way,” Sapphire says confidently, “She couldn’t have left without freezing or shriveling up. We’d have seen her if she left.”

“We’ve been looking for her for two days,” One says with a roll of his eyes, giving a tug to the straps of his backpack.

“Please,” Titan says with a sickening smile, rubbing his hands together, “The hunt is the best part.”

Titan laughs, not bothering to keep his voice down as they dredge through the forest.

You’d long since stopped laughing from the gas, but it’s at this point you spring up from the dirt, Konig’s name desperately shouted into the forest.

Konig jumps forward on the couch again, ready to run to your rescue, his hold on you bordering on constricting as he watches the careers close in on you while you smash through the forest. He lets out a heavy exhale through his nose when the careers leave you be and continue their hunt further into the forest.

“Close call,” Caesar says with a cheeky grin and a raise of his brows.

Both yours and Konig’s faces pinch, looking at Caesar in disgust. How he is making lighthearted jokes about the torture they put you both through is despicable.

They skip the rest of your uneventful evening, and it’s Konig’s turn to stir up some excitement for once.

The careers had fanned out deeper in the forest to cover more ground. They follow the boy from one as he stretches through the forest, calling for you.

He’s clearly fed up with the hunt, his shouts laced with frustration, as if that wouldn’t have driven you further away from him.

“C’mon, brat, I know you’re here! You can’t hide from us!”

One huffs.

“If you come out now, I might not drag out the torture as long, Nine!”

They cut to Konig, who perks up in the forest at the sound of One’s yelling.

Konig trails carefully over the petal-littered ground, light steps as he nears the calls, fists tight at his sides.

“Nine!” One grits, “The longer I have to wait, the worse it’ll be for you!”

Konig’s boots are silent as he sneaks up behind One, who flinches when Konig’s arm snakes around his neck from behind, folding him backwards until he has no choice but to follow Konig’s unyielding grip.

Your heart is in your throat, forcing deep breaths that threaten to get stuck in your lungs on each billow.

“When you say Nine-“

Konig gives him a shake, tucking him further in the crook of his bicep and forearm with a squeeze that interrupts One’s breath.

“Do you mean me? Or her?”

It’s spoken like he already knew the answer, growled and hissed. He’s wearing those eyes, the one’s you’ve only ever seen when he was beating Titan to death, darkened and devoid of feeling.

“Sapphire!” One chokes out, prying at Konig’s arm and thrashing side to side, but he’s clearly outmatched in strength.

When Sapphire shouts back, her voice is frantic as she closes in, ripping through the trees and tearing ginkgo petals from their branches.

“Who’s the dog now?” Konig grits into his ear.

He threads his fingers into One’s hair and with one harsh jerk, smashes his head against a tree trunk.

You flinch in Konig’s hold, shoulders tensing and eyes squeezing shut.

The speakers assault you with two more skull-bashing thunks before the sound of a limp body hits the ground.

Your breaths are heavy, there’s a weight on your chest that’s making it hard to pull air into your lungs. You can’t open your eyes, trying to rid the dizziness warping your vision by forcing thick, wheezing breaths through parted lips.

Sapphire’s scream is ear-piercing, and all you can see is her bloody eye socket, the the rip of her optic nerve.

When you open your eyes to rid the memory, Sapphire’s whipping her spear at Konig with a haunting cry. The spear would have struck straight through his middle if a tree wasn’t in the way, swallowing the tip in its trunk. He wears One’s backpack, running deeper into the forest.

Sapphire drops to her knees, tears already spilling down her cheeks. Her hands hover over One’s still chest, just as yours did when Konig was bleeding out before your eyes.

The sight makes your brows pinch, a bloodthirsty career acting so emotional, so uncharacteristically human. The ache in your throat is impossible to ignore when you try and swallow the feelings threatening to suffocate you.

Konig’s entirely still at your side, the arm slung over your shoulders motionless and heavy. He can’t look at you, face twisted and wide eyes fixated on his dress shoes. The fingertips of his free hand are rubbing together furiously.

Your stomach is churning, you feel like you’re about to throw up. Your indirect death toll is ticking higher with each of these godforsaken highlights.

Seven, Ten, One.

You’re not even sure how to feel about it, can’t even begin to dig into your feelings about Konig’s kills, because you’ve got your hands full digesting your own.

The feed pauses on Sapphire’s hysterical tears, which is unfortunate, because it’s impossible not to think of the tears that streamed down her face as she fought you, as she impaled herself on her own spear. It’s like you’re right back in that prison of a hedge maze.

There’s a nauseous, bubbling heat simmering just under your skin, your thoughts are swarming like insects. This dress is so hot and sweat is pooling in every nook of your body. Konig’s arm feels like it’s burning you, but you don’t dare pull away from him, because the thought of leaving his side, of putting even the tiniest bit of space between you two, makes you twice as sick to your stomach.

Your breaths are audible, saliva pooling in your mouth as you desperately fight to keep the contents of your stomach where they should be.

“Konig-” Caesar starts, but you don’t even let him. You’re not going to let him force Konig to relieve this memory, a memory that you can’t even swallow watching for the first time from a third person perspective.

“Hey, Caesar,” You blurt, eyes snapping open to find him with a snap of your head.

Caesar’s brow quirks and his head tilts, his ponytail bouncing behind him.

“Yes, my dear?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

The audience erupts into laughter, and you head whips towards them. Your eyes dart around, brows knitted together, because that is certainly not the reaction you were expecting.

This place is so foreign to you. Here, what’s up is down and what’s down is up.

You feel like you’re being laughed at, left out of a joke, but the joke is one you made.

Konig gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze and a quick kiss on the side of your head.

“Well!” Caesar chimes, “Anything Plucky wants,”

Your face warps, your arms crossing over your chest.

That’s Price’s nickname for you when you’re being a pain in his ass.

No one else’s.

Certainly not someone who’s so wrapped around the Capitol’s finger he can’t see what these games do to you.

“Don’t call me that,” You mutter.

Caesar doesn’t even acknowledge this, forging on.

The game has entirely changed for Konig after his encounter with One. That backpack is chock-full of career grade supplies. Food, weapons, medicine. The entire arena is at his fingertips, and he’s officially unmatched in deadliness.

He’s digging through his new supplies when the anthem plays.

The screen splits again, and they show both you and Konig simultaneously sighing in relief when you realize the other is alive. Konig closes his eyes, muttering reassurances to himself.

You fall asleep shortly after.

And of course, they have to show you crying out Konig’s name in your sleep, pleading and terrified and desperate.

You can’t help but look away, finding your lap and wishing away the embarrassment flushing your skin. You don’t look at him, but you can feel every one of his muscles tensed at your side. He pulls you closer, the arm slung around you tightening.

Konig and your’s sleep schedule had been out of sync for the majority of the games. During the night, he scoured the fall forest in search of you, and during the day, he used One’s temperature suit to sleep in the desert.

In terms of strategy, sleeping in the brutal heat of the desert is a smart move on his part. He’s right, no one would be able to get to him without proper gear to withstand the searing sun. He cuts holes in an extra shirt he found in One’s pack to keep the sun and sand off him while he sleeps.

While undisturbed, his quality of sleep seems to measure up to yours. He doesn’t wake up as much as you did, but he tosses and turns in the sand, mumbling in his sleep, your name uttered to the hot desert air.

Once Konig’s face is sufficiently twisted and flushed from having all of Panem watch him have nightmares, you give him a squeeze, lulling your head on him, and ignore the audience’s cooing.

When they cut away, they don’t cut to you. They skip your uneventful day, spent eating squash under a tree and wandering back to the cornucopia, and instead feature some other tribute’s activities.

Early in the morning, Titan and Sapphire stumble upon the girl from four - the girl you saw at the bloodbath forcing Ten to stab herself.

Sapphire lets out a huff as she skewers the tip of her spear through Four’s heart before she even wakes.

You pinch your eyes shut, burying your face into Konig’s chest. She’s the one using the spear, but the sound of the blade slicing through flesh has Sapphire being skewered at your hand behind your eyelids.

Konig’s palm comes up to hold the side of your head, wide, soothing strokes over your hair.

“When I find that brat I’m going to-“

Sapphire’s too frustrated to even finish her sentence, cutting herself off to let out an unarticulated grunt as she rips her spear from Four.

“Easy, Blondie,” Titan says, “Just gotta be patient.”

“He killed him!” She objects, punctuating her statement by flicking Four’s entrails from the tip of her spear, splattering it on fallen ginkgo petals.

“These things happen,” Titan coos as he slings a bulging arm over Sapphire’s shoulders.

He leans in close, a sickening grin plastered on his face and his eyelashes fluttering in her direction. He takes on that low and sultry voice that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

“Just means you’re one tribute closer to the crown, Blondie.”

Titan throws his head back in a cackle, and Sapphire growls, giving him a firm shove to his ribs, sending him stumbling backwards in the dirt.

“Don’t be that way,” He tutts once steady on his feet, “It was going to happen eventually.”

Sapphire’s bloody spear head is at his throat at once, a bit of Four’s blood splattering on his face. Titan doesn’t seem to notice or care. He raises his palms in mock surrender, that arrogant smile spread thick.

“What?” He draws, cheeks dimpling with a tilt of his head, feigning innocence on his button-pushing.

“Don’t talk about him anymore,” She grits, eyes narrowed dangerously at him.

Titan scoffs, “You brought it up.”

Sapphire holds her ground for a few more seconds before she lowers her spear, and the two continue through the trees, Sapphire’s fist clenched at her side.

If you’re being honest, it’s kind of unfortunate that Sapphire and you were adversaries. If it weren’t for the circumstances - the strategy to hold you hostage and torture you as a means to get to Konig, her being a career and from an elite district, and of course, you ultimately being responsible for ending her life - you could see yourself being friends with her.

She’s not hard on the eyes, either.

“If we don’t find her soon, someone else is going to. It’s a miracle she even made it this far.”

“We’ll get her,” Titan assures her, a dangerous smile blooming on his face, “Funny Girl can’t run forever.”

“I’m more worried he’ll find her first,” She mumbles.

Titan scoffs and rolls his eyes.

“If she’s this good at running from us, I’m sure she’ll have no problem running from that himbo.”

“Until she doesn’t want to run from him anymore.”

“Oh, come on, do we even need the brat? She’s just,” Titan’s fingers rub together as he searches for the right word.

“Insurance,” Titan shrugs, “He’s outnumbered.”

“You didn’t see him,” Sapphire snaps, stopping in her tracks to whip her head at him.

A cruel smirk grows behind a lick of his lips, his eyes dawning a riling squint.

“Thought I wasn’t supposed to talk about it.”

“Alright,” Sapphire cuts, jamming her spear in his direction, “You’re switching with Sage.”

“Oh, Blondie, don’t be that way!” Titan says through a laugh, “We’re just having fun.”

“Well, now you can have fun watching the supplies.”

“Peh, they’re well hidden. None of ‘em could survive out there. We’ll do better with three, anyway.”

Sapphire is silent, but her displeasure is palpable.

“Alright, fine. But you’re coming too, Blondie. I think baby needs some sleep,” He narrows his eyes at her, “Cranky.”

“I will kill you.”

Titan scoffs, and the feed pauses on his face.

The audience chuckles at Sapphire’s threat, and Caesar smiles before starting up again, meeting your eyes.

“Any thoughts from you, my dear?”

You cross your arms under your chest and shake your head.

“Nope.”

“Konig?”

“Nope,” he grits, his jaw tight and teeth grinding.

Caesar just nods.

“Now, before we continue with the show, we have some interviews I’m very eager to share with you both, as well as some much needed context for our next thrilling highlight.”

Caesar looks to you both, “We spoke with some folks from District Eight - let’s go ahead and play that footage.”

NEXT CHAPTER | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

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auspicioustidings · 4 months ago

Text

Kinktober Day 9

Moniker: Nik Risk Level: N/A. Nik has never been detained and is visiting freely. Brief: Phone sex Safeword: Refer to first brief. Since you’re not in any danger I convinced Price to let me watch for this one. Would appreciate if you can play to the camera ;) - Soap

The room was more like an apartment than it had been before. You almost threw a fit about how much money this place had to throw around because there was a full window looking out onto the moonlit city below. Problem being you weren’t in a city and it was very much morning, so that was a very good screen.

Still, you liked it a lot. You were well and truly exhausted and you weren’t entirely sure you would have been able to go through with anything if you had walked in and saw some sort of sex dungeon. This though? The living space of a penthouse with a tv, sofa, little kitchenette and bar? This you could deal with you thought.

When the phone on the coffee table rang you collapsed down onto the sofa to answer it.

“Hello?”

“You sound tired.”

You did not know this voice, but you assumed it was Nik. Russian accent you thought. A vague pool of unease settled in your stomach.

“Uh yeah, last week was a lot.”

“I bet. Are you nervous?”

You chewed your lip and considered. Nik. Valeria had mentioned him hadn’t she? But he wasn’t here, what damage could he do on the phone?

“Someone mentioned a Nikto…”

The man on the phone laughed a booming laugh that made you smile.

“Easy mistake but I am Nikolai, not Nikto. Both codenames but for different men I assure you.”

“Oh thank God. I mean no offense, but I’m just rinsed today. Not that I can’t-! Y’know. I can, I just uh… slow would be nice.”

You could almost hear Soap laughing at you. God when did you get this embarrassing? Your toes curled almost painfully as you fought the urge to hang up and bury yourself in the blanket hanging over the back of the couch.

“Tell me why you are ‘rinsed’” he said, sounding so friendly and easy that you relaxed a bit.

You glanced at the camera, wondered how much of what you did here was conveyed to everyone else. Soap surely must know about yesterday. The fracture was small and hadn’t been deforming so it was going to be left to heal on its own, but you definitely had two black eyes from it that Rudy and Ale had spent most of last night icing.

“Everyone is… energetic” you said cautiously, not wanting to break NDA.

“Ha! Is Price there? He’ll reassure you that you don’t need to watch your words around me.”

“He isn’t. Um, Soap is here? Well not here here, but watching and listening.”

“Of course he is the little pervert. Do you enjoy hot chocolate?”

“I suppose?”

“Good, go make yourself some, there are provisions in the kitchen. I will work on getting you confirmation that you are clear to tell me whatever you want to.”

He hung up. The man fucking hung up and you just gaped at the phone. What kind of phone sex was this?

“He hung up?” Soap asked, popping his head in the door with a lazy grin.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on cameras?”

“Aren’t you supposed tae be diddlin’ yerself tae the dulcet tones of an old Russian man?”

You rolled your eyes and groaned as you forced your weary body to stand.

“Yeah well he told me to make a hot chocolate.”

“Offt, hot and steamy eh?”

You laughed because it was nice to see him outwith a session. He was goofier than you had thought he would be, less intense. His hair was floppy today, not styled, and he was wearing tartan pj bottoms with his chest bare.

“Well come on in then. Hot chocolate?”

“Dinnae mind if I do!”

You had a bitter fight about the correct ratio of powder to milk and you discovered he was very particular about marshmallows. He got the plant based ones because he said the texture of gelatine based sweets icked him out. You were crying with laughter at how he went on about it. Given how he was in bed, you hadn’t thought he’d be easy to ick out about any sort of texture in his mouth.

It was nice. It wasn’t aftercare to bring you down, it was just… hanging out. It was stealing his marshmallows because he had gotten some of the cream on your face. It was him teasing you because when he asked about your day with Price you had hidden your face in your mug to not give yourself away, but there had been no hiding your soft smile thinking about it.

You both chatted away while people watching out of the “window”. Whoever had chosen the backdrop had a sense of humour because the two of you were able to play where’s wally with one of the people wandering the city street being in an iconic white and red stripped shirt, bobble hat and blue trousers.

By the time you were down to the bottom of your mug you were relaxed, content. Yeah everything still ached, but this was just what you needed. A day to chill out with no expectations on your body.

The phone rang and Johnny took your mug with a smile and went to clean up while you bounced back onto the plush couch cushions to answer.

“I hear you’re an old Russian man” you teased.

“Well that’s a first, I assure you that you’re mistaken.”

The noise of panic and the subsequent flailing to sit up straight and put your professional face on invited curious looks from Johnny.

“Ma’am, sorry I thought you were someone else” you said, still intimidated by Kate Laswell more than you could ever say.

“At ease. I’m calling to explain that your NDA pertains to those not involved in the Kennel. While you are there you can speak with anyone about whatever you would like. Hell, they have clearance to know about every top secret op you’ve ever been involved with.”

Well that was both reassuring and low key terrifying. Jesus who were these people? Johnny had wandered over to ask who was on the phone since he had sussed out that at the very least it wasn’t Nik.

“Soap is there? While you are allowed to tell him anything, if you do it will get back to Ghost. And Gaz. And Price. And whoever else he comes across that day. The boy is an insatiable gossip. Nik isn’t, so you can be comfortable with him. Put me on speaker.”

You put her on speaker while squinting in suspicion at Johnny. How much of your time together did everybody else know about? God, that was embarrassing and yet kind of hot to think about, him giving other people a play by play.

“Soap.”

“Yes ma’am?”

“The brief today does not involve you. You can look, but no touching.”

“…yes ma’am.”

She hung up and both of you relaxed your shoulders.

“That wummin’ scares the shite out of me on the phone. In person I dinnae feel it, but when I cannae see her face I feel like I’m in trouble all the time.”

You laughed at him and he grinned back. The phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Did you have hot chocolate?”

“Nik! You nearly gave me a heart attack having Laswell call! I called her an old Russian man!”

“Did you now? Who has been calling me old?”

Ah. Shit.

“Uh… nobody?”

“Strange way to pronounce Soap. I hope he is being good to you.”

“He is” you said with a stupid smile on your face as you glanced over to the man in question who was now minding his own business and looking out of the not window.

“I am glad. He is a good boy when he wants to be. Now, would you like to talk about the rinsing?”

You wanted to. Even with Laswell’s warning that Johnny was a terrible gossip so everybody would know, you wanted to.

“I was with Sin Nombre yesterday.”

“Ah, she is a viper.”

“Oh my God she is! Did you know I have two black eyes and a nose fracture? She was so mean about it as well! So much worse than Keegan was and he was a right wanker. I’m actually really mad at how easily she took me in a fight, I do have training. And she beat the shit out of Ale which felt uncalled for, he’s been nothing but nice. Also do you know why the hell Rudy of all people was detained? He’s such a sweetheart. It makes no sense that he’s been recently detained and Gaz hasn’t y’know? Like don’t get me wrong, Gaz was so nice and he was clearly cut up about going as hard as he did, but he definitely could hurt a civilian carrying on like that.”

Well that certainly got away from you. It was just a lot. The last week had been a lot. You had never had this level of physical intimacy before, but you also were suffering from a lack of friends. They were hard to keep in your line of work and being able to get on the phone and just rant and rave and gossip was something you had always wanted for yourself which felt silly, but at the end of the day the longing for it was there.

And oh he gave it to you. Nik laughed with you about the idiosyncrasies of these people and commiserated on your aches and pains. You wound up talking about everything and anything. No confidentiality, no ‘can’t tell you or I’d have to kill you’. You were free to tell him whatever the hell you wanted and it was wonderful.

You liked him a lot. He had dry wit and took life with no seriousness at all. He told you about Gaz hanging out of his helicopter and you couldn’t believe it was the truth. He had stories upon stories, each more outrageous than the next.

“So… I actually did put on nice underwear today thinking you’d ask about it.”

It was shocking that you were the one propositioning him. You had walked in here thinking phone sex wouldn’t be your cup of tea at all but would be doable. Now? Well you sort of wanted to try it because he was nice and playful and you liked his voice. And yes, maybe because your body was sort of craving a little release. Fuck, your whole system was turning into a needy mess now that it had gotten a taste of hedonism.

“Tell me about it” he said, a raspy sort of purr to his voice that sent a spark straight between your legs.

“It’s pretty. Light blue, little pink flowers embroidered in the mesh.”

“And how much of it is mesh?”

“Most of it. It’s see through.”

“I will have to visit one day to see it in person. Would you like to know about mine?”

“Yes.”

“I will have to disappoint, I don’t wear underwear. And now that I have put my hand down to check, I find I am rather comfortable holding my cock. He seems eager for you tell me all about what’s underneath that pretty underwear.”

You had to clear your throat as you wriggled a little, your pussy very much waking up and interested. You had never done this before and you were flooding with nerves about it.

“I um… well” you mumbled, trying to find any of the fire you had slowly been finding the past week. “My pussy feels needy.”

“Oh miyala, we must deal with that. I want you to put the phone on speaker on the table and get yourself comfortable.”

Your breathing was a little too fast to convince him that you were totally confident in what you were doing, but you put the phone on speaker and gently laid it down before sinking into the corner of the sofa, moving around until you were nice and comfortable.

“Are you good?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to take your clothes off so that Soap can tell me exactly what it feels like looking at you in that pretty underwear you mentioned.”

Oh God, you had forgotten he was even in the room, but there he was, leaning against the not window and looking at you. He gave you a nod that said ‘go ahead’. You swallowed and took your t-shirt off before wriggling out of your pants, letting both items of clothing lay in a heap on the floor.

This felt so sensual. Like you weren’t you, instead you were some confident woman who lounged in lingerie in her lux apartment, unbothered by having one man talk you through touching yourself on the phone while another got him off by describing it.

“She wisnae lying. Very pretty. Can see her nipples through it.”

“Are they hard?”

“Aye, could be harder though.”

“Well then, play with your tits. Don’t go under the bra given it’s so pretty, squeeze over it, nice and soft and slow.”

You let yourself relax back, gaze drifting to the ceiling and softening. The first soft brush of your hand over your breast felt nice, comfortable. God you had been mean to your body, pushing it so hard. Time to be nice with it.

When you rubbed at your more sensitive nipple you whined low and languid.

“Oh that’s beautiful. What happened there?”

“She played with her nipple. Right one is more sensitive” Soap explained, leaning against the back on the sofa at the opposite end from where you were and just watching.

“Give the left some love miyala. She may not be as sensitive but she still deserves to be played with.”

You switched to the left, lazily played with it until it was just as peaked as the right.

“Ah, you must tell me you understand when I give instruction.”

“Yes, I understand sir.”

“Good girl.”

You’d never played with your breasts like this since you couldn’t cum from breast play alone so it felt like a waste of time. Why hadn’t you? This was nice, it just felt nice. Slow pleasure for the sake of it, just because you could. No other plans but this.

“Hmm I can hear the pleasure in your breathing. Just that has me very hard miyala. I’m playing with my balls nice and soft and slow the way you are playing with your tits, but my cock is getting impatient. Will you put your lovely hand down those pretty panties for me?”

“Slow” Soap added.

You gave your tits a firm, loving squeeze before letting your fingers trail sensually down your bare undercarriage, leaving little patterns as you worked over your stomach to the hem of your panties. Fuck, had you ever touched you body like this? No thinking about if it was attractive, no worrying about how you looked, just enjoying the feeling of touch.

“She’s dipping into them now Nik, dinnae think I’ve seen a bonnier sight.”

“Hm I don’t often find myself feeling envy, but I feel it for you today. Fingers on your clit, gentle, slow. Is it slippery already from how you’ve been rubbing your legs together? Gather some more wetness from your hole and make sure it’s so slippery getting friction is difficult.”

“God Nik, sir, I’m so wet already” you moaned, loving how the lightest touch had your body warming and happy. “Please can you touch yourself while I play with my clit? Want you to feel as good as I do.”

Who the fuck said that because surely it wasn’t you. You who had been a virgin until a week ago. Fuck it, it was. And you loved it. And that was ok.

“I’m wrapping one hand around my cock now. Pumping so slow, but I’m leaking so much miyala. You make me feel twenty years younger, I fear I won’t last long with your pretty moans in my ear.”

Your little moans and sighs had nothing on the deep grunts coming from his end. You could hear his hand pulling at his cock, hear how he got faster and the sound turned wetter. It was the most erotic thing you had ever heard and you found yourself speeding up as well, trying to find purchase in the flood of arousal.

“Can I cum?” Nik asked with a groan.

Him asking you that zapped through you with the force of a lightning bolt and you cried out.

“Yes, cum Nik! Fuck, I’m going to cum!”

Your hips bucked off of the sofa and you thrust up against your hand as you rode it out, closing your eyes to focus on the sound of his choked shout as he went flying with you.

When you slowly came down you couldn’t help but breathlessly laugh as you took your hand from your panties and rested it on your belly, the other forearm draped across your forehead. Fuck, that was good. That was so good. Nothing harsh for your body, just a nice, lazy orgasm.

“I made a mess miyala” Nik laughed.

“So did I. The mesh on these feels awful this wet.”

“Go get cleaned up, comfy underwear on. Babushka panties.”

You howled with laughter at that.

“Thank you Nik, this was… really nice. I enjoyed speaking with you.”

“Anytime. Even if it is just to complain, you can call me and I will listen. Good-bye miyala.”

“Bye Nik.”

You heaved up to hit the button to hang up, but Soap beat you to it. You went to thank him and your whole body tensed. Danger. You were in fucking danger. His eyes were blown out, focused on your wet cunt sticking uncomfortably to your panties. There were little half moons dug into his palm from his nails and they were bleeding from how hard he had went.

“Johnny? I don’t want to do anything else today.”

His palm came too quickly for you to get a shout out, grabbing your own that had been laying on your forehead and crushing it to your mouth.

“Dinnae say something ye might regret” he said, as if in a trance while he crushed your other hand to your stomach with his knee.

You couldn’t shout out the word, you couldn’t give the hand signal and nobody was on cameras because you were supposed to be safe with it just being phone sex. He started to lean over you, the knee on you painful and his eyes crazed.

There was a sharp whistle and he snapped his head to the doorway before scrambling off of you.

“I wisnae-”

“Out.”

You expected him to fight, but all that aggressive energy just drained right out of him as he started towards the door. You shakily rolled over to look. You didn’t know the large man standing there. His face was heavily scarred, one cut through his upper lip that made it hitch, but he was handsome with a strong jaw and messy blonde hair cut short.

Soap looked well and truly chastised as he walked out past the man whose eyes stuck to yours.

“Laswell called as soon as she confirmed he was in the room. You weren’t in danger from him princess, I was right here the whole time.”

“Is he ok?”

“He’ll be fine so long as you keep your mouth shut about this. He wouldn’t have hurt you.”

You didn’t believe him, but you did believe that he wouldn’t have let him hurt you.

“I won’t say anything.”

You knew it was stupid and destructive. Soap was a danger to you, at least he had been just now. You should tell Price, get him detained so he didn’t wind up hurting someone. But you were selfish and you selfishly really liked him and didn’t want to see him caged.

“Good.”

The man left, the door closing with a snick behind him. You took a few minutes to calm your racing heart and then went to clean up and have a quiet night.

#mhairi'skinktober

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