#Victor who moves his head for the first (and the last) time

[vierryn]

it doesn't have to be like this

it doesn't have to be like this

[bearambles]

sober (haymitch a.)

words: 3.9k

warnings: 18+, smut, unprotected sex, p in v, oral (f + m receiving) , teasing (?), too much plot 😭

notes: this is so late! i am so sorry to whoever requested, i got super busy and couldn’t post it the day i planned. also, this is my first ever smut! so i am sorry if this is terrible, i’ll get better over time. enjoy!

_

The party lasted hours. Your feet hurt, your stomach is churning, and your head pounds. You've never wanted your district bed more than now. This place reeks of wealth and lies.

Unfortunately, skipping these monthly events would anger Snow. He already dislikes you and your district, so you have to do whatever it takes to please him. If that means enduring long nights of drinking and throwing up, so be it. It's better than death, you suppose.

There's only one other District 12 victor here with you, and he disappeared halfway through the night. Haymitch, despite being a good friend and your former mentor, is possibly the worst person to rely on in these social situations. He's been sitting at the bar for who knows how long, drinking who knows how much. It's only when the host literally announces it's time to leave that you find him, slumped over the counter on a stool.

"Haymitch? Come on, we have to go," you urge, shaking his shoulders.

"What? No, let me stay. I'm sleeping," he mumbles.

"You're not sleeping. You're fine. Here, I have one of those drinks that make you throw up. It'll sober you up enough to say goodbyes," you say, handing him the glass. He pushes it back towards you without even looking up.

"I don't want that Capitol shit."

"This Capitol shit will help you a lot right now. Haymitch, get up!" You push his head to the side so you can see his face. He opens his eyes to look at you.

He's only in his late twenties, but his eyes seem older. He looks as rough as he acts. His hair is too long, and his beard is starting to come in slightly, despite him saying he'd groom himself for this occasion. Still, he looks handsome. Not that it matters; his current state reflects his antisocial night.

"Please. I'm trying to keep us out of trouble. You've been alone all night. At least come say goodbye to people with me. Then we can go home, okay?"

If harshness isn’t working, you'll try being soft with him. Sometimes, just sometimes, it works. It seems to today.

He sighs and sits up, steadying himself with his palms flat on the counter. He reaches for the purple liquid and swallows it like a shot, squeezing his eyes shut and grimacing.

"Okay, I'll be back then," he says, going off to throw up.

You nod and take a seat on the stool next to where he was sitting, waiting. You can't help but feel guilty. You should have stayed with him longer that night before he went off on his own. You knew he'd go drinking, but you didn’t know it would get this bad.

Since you've known Haymitch, he's had a bit of a drinking problem. Mostly under control when he mentored you—never more than tipsy. But in recent years, as more of his tributes lost the Games, it's gotten worse. It's weighing on him, you can tell. You want to help so badly.

"Okay, let's go," he says, returning a few minutes later, running his fingers through his hair. He's clearly sobered up a bit, maybe even washed his face. His breath smells of mint.

The host and his wife are among about a dozen people remaining by the time you leave the bar and walk to the main room together. Nonetheless, you both put on a show, shaking hands and smiling, thanking them endlessly. You never know who's watching, present or otherwise.

As you make your rounds to the last few victors, Haymitch latches his arm closely with yours. The move surprises you; you realize he hasn't been this physical in a while. It seems to come with sobriety or maybe just part of the Capitol's show. Together, you almost look like a couple. It's odd.

When you leave through the doors, he doesn't let go of your arm. It's a cold night, and you shiver, but the warmth of his body next to yours feels weirdly nice.

"Thank you," you say, looking up at him on the train ride home.

"For what?" he asks, furrowing his brows.

"For taking the glass. I know you hate that stuff, but—"

"But I need to get sober," he says, looking away from you into the distance.

"I didn't say that, but it's nice when you are. I mean, it's helpful with the image when you aren't stumbling around—"

He detaches his arm from yours.

"So I shouldn't drink because the President said so?"

"He didn't say so, Haymitch. I'm saying so. You shouldn't drink because I say so."

"And why's that?"

"Because I like you better like this."

He goes quiet, then looks down at his feet, his hair falling in his eyes.

"Yeah, well, it's harder than it looks, sweetheart."

"I know that. I'm sorry," you say softly.

The rest of the ride is quiet. It's just the two of you on the train, and any sound you make seems to echo for ages. Neither of you wants to speak; too much is unsaid.

You care about him; you know that. You just aren't sure how. Though it seems increasingly clear to you in moments like this when all you want to do is tuck his hair behind his ear and kiss him softly. You have no idea how he'd feel about that, though. You have no idea how he feels most of the time.

In fact, just then, it's the first time he's seemed to feel bad about his drinking. And it doesn't seem like he cares about his health or the Capitol's opinion on his image. It seems like he feels bad for disappointing you.

When the train stops, you both get out, him first, then you. He offers his hand as you step down, and you take it with a slight smile. His hands are cold, as is the night.

Your houses are directly next to each other in Victor's Village, making the walk there excruciatingly awkward. You can't tell what he's thinking, or if he's thinking at all. Finally, after what feels like an hour, he speaks.

"That stuff is really nasty, you know that?" he says.

You look up at him. "The purging stuff?"

"No, the desserts they were serving," he says, rolling his eyes and bumping his shoulder against yours. "Yeah, the purging stuff."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. You're right. What you said and stuff. That's all right. You're right."

You smile and look up at him. He looks back at you and smiles softly, then looks away. He clearly hates to admit it.

"Don't be cocky about it, though. And don't expect me to stop. It's not that easy."

"I don't. I just like you like this."

"Yeah, you mentioned that. What do you mean?"

You've reached your house, and he stops in front of your door, feet planted. He looks down at you with a questioning gaze, and his blue eyes seem to dart across your face. Your cheeks flush. You have no idea what to respond.

"You know, just... sober," you say, looking away.

"No, I know, but the 'like' part. What do you mean? Because you got all shy when you said it," he says, swaying a bit where he stands, impatiently waiting for a response.

"I don't know," you say quietly.

"You don't know?"

"No. I think we should go to sleep. You should go to sleep. No more drinks. At least wait until tomorrow."

You try to push past him to your door, but he takes both hands out of his pockets and gently shoves your shoulders back. Not hard, but enough to make you stumble. He gazes down at you and steps forward, closing the space between you.

"Whoa, you're so eager all of a sudden. Look at me," he says, tilting your head up with a hand under your chin. "Why are you so embarrassed?"

"I'm not."

"Yeah, you are. You like me?"

"Haymitch, stop. You're—" You stop, tears pricking at your eyes. He's teasing you, you're sure of it. The last thing you want is for him to figure out your feelings. Not after he's been your mentor, not after he's seen you at your worst, after he's been your friend (?) for this long. It doesn't make sense. You know that. And he knows that, most definitely. That's why you're sure he doesn't feel that way towards you. He can't.

"You're crying. I thought you were all tough?" he says.

He's right. You were tough. Crying makes you weak. You hate talking like this. So honestly.

"Stop it," you jerk away from his hand, which had crept up to your cheek. "Go to bed."

But you don't take a step forward, don't shove past him again. You just stand there, your breath heavy, looking away. He gazes at you like he's seeing you for the first time, his eyes darting from your eyes to your mouth to your body.

"I don't want to. I want to talk to you," he finally says.

"About what?" you say, still looking away.

"Us," he says softly.

"What about us?"

He takes a step forward.

"Come on, sweetheart. You're so good to me. Take care of me. Trust in me. Give me hope."

Your breathing speeds up as you feel his hand stoke your arm gently up and down as he speaks. You’d always been cautious of his words, so used to his drunken thoughts being untrustworthy and sometimes cruel. But this feels honest. Real.

“I know you feel something.” he says as you lift your head to look back at him. “You might not know what. I don’t know either. But c’mon.” 

He starts to lean closer and your eyes drift closed. Before you can even register, his lips are on yours, and you’re kissing back. Your hands hold his elbows and his hold your face. 

His mouth tastes of the mouthwash from the capitol washrooms. He’s so slow with you, like he’s trying not to scare you. You aren’t sure if he possibly could. 

Suddenly you pull away. 

“What’s wrong?” Haymitch asks, his eyes wide.

“We should go inside.” 

“Oh. Yeah.” He registers quickly what you mean. 

All along the village are cameras for the capitol to see what goes on. Although it’s unlikely you’d get in much trouble for a kiss, you never knew what would land you a meeting with snow. Or just become the talk of the next victor event. 

You push past him and unlock your door quickly, before turning back to him, motioning for him to come inside. By the time you close the door, he’s kissing you again, this time the careful act gone. He catches your lips and kisses you like his life depended on it. It’s messy and wet and you’re so turned on it’s insane. 

His hands both reach down to hold yours, and he pushes them up against the door. The motion catches you by surprise and you moan softly into his mouth. He hears you and holds down tighter on your wrists, just enough to feel but not to hurt. 

His knee starts to spread your legs apart slowly as he kisses down your neck, and you let his name slip from your mouth.

“Haymitch~”

He stops to look at you.

“Yeah? You like this?” He sounds like he’s genuinely asking. Like he needs to know. 

You nod, your brain already fuzzy. 

“Okay. Okay.” He sounds out of breath but resumes 

his task, getting down to your collarbone. 

Hes rough with his kisses when he’s below where any marks would be seen. As he unbuttons your shirt, he looks at you, smiling like an idiot. It hits you then that he seems to have wanted this as badly as you all along. He leans in to leave a soft kiss on your lips before pulling your sleeves off your arms and throwing your top to the floor. 

“Jesus…” He mutters as he looks down at your tits. 

You reach behind you to unhook your bra, and let it all forward and land next to your shirt. 

“Holy fuck.” 

You laugh quietly at his words. He looks up at you in awe and with a look of asking as he creeps his hands from your waist up to your chest. You nod and let out a sharp breath when his cold hands hold your tits and knead them slowly. 

You wonder then if he’d ever done this with a woman before. He was younger than you when he won, so probably not before the games. And after…he’d never really seemed the type. But then again, he was attractive and still young, so you couldn’t be sure. 

Besides him, you’d only been with one or two boys from district before you were reaped. They were, however, nothing like this. 

He takes one nipple between his thumb and pointer, pinching slightly. Between the pressure and his cold hands, you let out a noise of surprise and pleasure. 

“Does that hurt?” He asks

“No, just…it’s a lot.” You say through deep breaths. “K-keep going.”

He smiles and does the same with the other, and your hips jut forward slightly in reaction. He doesn’t notice, which you’re grateful for. You’re so eager it’s embarrassing. Every touch makes your stomach flip and your underwear wetter. 

Slowly he starts to kiss down from your collarbones to your chest and takes a breast in his mouth. He looks up at you as he sucks softly, his tongue swirling your nipple. His big eyes looking into yours makes you feel like you could cum then and there. you let out a moan instead. 

He plays with your breasts for a while longer before they’re nice and covered in both his spit and dark, red marks. He knew what he was doing, putting them where nobody could see. you thought of changing in front of a mirror days to come, just looking at them. Knowing it was from him. sober. He wants this. 

He gets to his knees before you can stop him, and begins to pull down your skirt. 

You’re left in your underwear, your slick having left a clear spot in the front. You turn your head in embarrassment as he touches up your thighs and leaves open mouth kisses. 

“All this from that, huh?” he asks, laughing softly 

“Shut up.” you mutter into your hand. 

“You want me to stop?” he asks, his fingers hooked under the sides of your panties. 

“N-no.”

“What was that sweetheart? C’mon, look at me.”

“Don’t stop.” you say, clearer now, making eye contact as he kneels in front of your pussy. You couldn’t be more vulnerable, and yet, you trust him with every inch of your being. 

He looks back at your core for a moment before licking a stripe up the thin fabric. You curse quietly and he pulls them down, the air hitting your heat before his tongue does. But when it does…

He laps at you like he’d wanted to for years, which you’re now sure that he has. The urgency makes your legs buckle and he uses both hands against your knees to hold them open. He switches between your folds and your clit, paying attention to both. Every so often he stops and just admires. 

At some point haymitch sucks at your clit, and your hands fly to his hair, pulling slightly. 

He lets out a groan of surprise against your core.

“Sorry, sorry…” you mutter, loosening your grip. 

“No, keep going, I like it.” he says, stopping to look up at you, his eyes nearly glazed over in bliss. 

You resume your hold on his head and tug as he continues. Between his lips and his tongue, you’re  overwhelmed. before you know it, you feel the coil in your stomach tighten. 

“Stop…stop…” you manage in between moans. 

He gives you one last kiss to your clit before standing up, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“You okay?” 

“Just don’t wanna finish yet.” you say without thinking, before getting flushed. Even after all that, you couldn’t believe you were speaking to him like this. Haymitch. 

He smiles lazily and goes in to kiss you again, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. It should repulse you, but instead, it turns you on more. He's so happy right now, and it’s so hot. 

“Do you wanna go to my bed?” you ask him when you get a breath, his forehead resting against yours. 

He picks you up and carries you. 

Haymitch knows your house as well as his from all the press training, meetings, and late night conversations you’ve had there. He practically lives with you at this point (Besides the sleeping over part. Usually. Unless he’d passed out.) 

He drops you on your mattress and pulls off his own shirt in one motion. Your breath is caught in your throat. 

You knew he was in shape, at least he was when he had mentored you all those years ago. But even now, behind the big shirts he wears and raggedy jackets, soft abs trace his stomach. His arms as big as your thighs. No wonder the pressure on your neck felt so nice. 

He sees you staring and smiles, leaning down to tuck your hair behind your ear. 

“You gonna say anything, pretty girl?” 

You try, but you find no words. Instead, you kiss him, and slowly trail your hands down his chest. you can feel raised scars and for a moment, remember what he’s been through. What you both have been through. 

You reach his belt and whisper into his mouth, 

“Can i?”

He nods against your forehead and you start to undo it, throwing it to the side. You pull his pants down with urgency and run your palm against his boxers. 

He lets out a noise you’ve never heard him make before, a mix between a whimper and a moan. You smile and start to palm him faster, before taking him out of his underwear and looking between you at his length. 

He’s bigger than you expect, and definitely bigger than the boys you’ve been with before. A solid seven inches and thick. Your eyes can’t look away and your breath rises and falls. 

He takes your hand softly into his and guides it to his length. He looks up at you as he does, searching for any hesitation in your eyes. Instead, you look up at him before flipping you both over quickly, so you sit on his thighs. 

He’s strong, but so are you, and he doesn’t resist as you take charge over him. He does, however, look a bit surprised, and reaches to hold your hand again. You take it and kiss it, which he smiles at. Then, you lean down, and let a glob of spit dribble from your mouth to his cock. 

“Jesus christ…” he mutters, as you use your free hand to pump up and down. “When did you…fuck…feels so good sweetheart”

You smile and take him in your mouth, bobbing your head up and down quickly. His other hand still holding yours, he grips at your hair (much gentler than you did his) and makes a make-shift ponytail so he can see your pretty face. 

Despite the view, his eyes flutter shut in pleasure, and your pace quickens. You feel him pulse inside your mouth and you’re sure he’s about to cum. 

You take him as deep as you can before pulling off, leaving his cock hard as a rock and covered in your saliva. You admire your work for a moment before he reaches forward and pulls you on top of him by your hips so you’re right against his chest. 

“C’mere” he moans, fucked out, before taking his cock in his own hand and looking over your shoulder to position himself in front of your entrance. 

“You want this?” he asks, taking your cheek in his free hand and stroking his thumb against it. 

“Please.” you whisper. 

Slowly, he inserts himself into you, catching your moans in his mouth as he kisses you slowly. He stretches you out so well, and your slick helps him move without much pain. Still, you bite down on his lip at the feeling of being full once he’s in. You let out a whimper. 

“I know baby, I know. Shhhh. Tell me when to move, okay?” he looks into your eyes. 

For a moment you just kiss him, his mouth so warm on yours and his cock so warm inside you. You could die like this. 

Then, you pull away, and lift your hips, before slowly moving back down. 

“Fuck…” he moans, before catching into the pace you set and moving you up and down on his cock. “So perfect for me, yeah? You feel that?” 

You nod dumbly at his words. He could say anything to you at this moment, and you’d agree. He feels so good. So right. 

“You wanted this huh? Is that why you want me sober? To fuck me?” he asks, and you shake your head as you bounce on his dick. 

“Hm, but that’s part of it, yeah?” he insists, “You like this. Me. C’mon sweetheart, you’re needy. That's okay, I'm givin’ it to you. I'm here.” 

You fall against him and place your head on his shoulder as he fucks into you like you’re a doll. He knows just what to say to get you so embarrassed and so wet. The words only add to your pleasure and you can feel yourself getting close. 

“Haymitch…” you moan against his shoulder. 

“M’ close pretty thing.” 

He takes one of the arms holding your hips and moves to your clit, rubbing quickly. The feeling sends you over the edge. 

“Fuck, haymitch, i’m cumming~” you mutter, raising your head to look at him as you fletch down and your orgasm washes over you. 

As you come down from your high, he speeds up rutting into you, and you put each hand on one of his shoulders for support. His eyes are closed and his mouth slightly open as he mind your name over and over like a prayer. 

He lifts you off of his cock and back onto his thighs before cumming all over your belly. You reach a hand down to stroke him as he does, but he catches your wrist. He’s sensitive, you can tell, and you laugh softly. 

“Sorry pretty girl. Made a mess.” he says, looking in between the two of you. Between his cum and yours, there’s not a part of either of you that isn’t slick. He takes a finger and swipes a bit of his own before putting it in front of your mouth. Grinning, you take it in your mouth and suck, tasting him.

“Jesus.” he says softly, as you lay down next to him, your face buried into his neck. 

You lay there like that for a moment, breathing. His hair sticks to his face in certain places, and his cheeks are rosy. The reality of what had happened hits you.

“You know, this isn’t the only reason you should drink less-“ You begin, propping your head up on your hand. 

He sighs. 

“I know. I’m too happy right now for lectures though, alright?” 

You consider for a moment before deciding that’s fair. Laying back down, you cuddle into his side.

“You admit this is part of why though, huh?” he says after a few moments, and you can hear the smugness in his voice.

“Was it worth it?” you ask

There’s a pause.

“I’d do anything for you.” he answers.

And for now?

That’s all you need. 

-

tysm for reading! like + reblog if you enjoyed :)

[fluentmoviequoter]

Pretending You Can't

Pairing: Adam Karadec x fem!cop(analyst)!reader

Summary: You're touch starved and wishing to make friends in the LAPD, but you move divisions so often that it becomes difficult. While working with the Major Crimes unit, you find a solution to both problems.

Warnings: depiction of touch starvation, discussion of difficulty making friends, murder case, fluff, comfort, OOC Karadec

Word Count: 4.1k+ words

A/N: I love Karadec so much. Hope someone can enjoy this.🫶🏼

“Melon alert,” someone whispers as they rush past you.

You roll your eyes and turn to the next page of your report. Lieutenant Melon is annoying, but he has yet to request your direct assistance. That is one of the few benefits of being quiet and reserved in a Los Angeles Police station. It is, however, far outweighed by the downfalls. You’re lonely, and you want to make friends at work, even though you are quiet. Each time you meet someone you think could be a friend, you get moved to a new desk or a new division and have to start all over. Maybe, you think, I’m just not made to have friends.

You stand and stretch your arms over your head. The report on your desk must be signed by Melon, but he’s busy, so you walk down the hall to stretch your legs and get something from the break room.

“Sorry,” you apologize as your shoulder hits someone backing out of the elevator. It feels like the skin on your shoulder is on fire, and pain like pins and needles travels down your arm. This would have been a good indicator something was wrong if you hadn’t already known you were touch-starved. Shaking your arm, you see the large box in his arms and ask, “Do you need help with that?”

“Please,” he answers.

You slide your hands under the side opposite him, and he lowers it to rest between your chests.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Detective Osman, right?”

He nods and somehow knows your name, too. You look around briefly as he leads you through the door into Major Crimes. This is one area you have not worked in, but you think you’d like it. The people in this division are kind when you see them in the station, and they do good work. Your gaze hits Detective Karadec, and you look away quickly, telling yourself it’s because you need to watch where you’re going.

“It’s too much,” he says, his shoulders moving up in a short shrug as he nods. Something about his body language disarms many people, but every time you see him, you’re drawn in by him.

Lieutenant Soto exits her office, pinching the bridge of her nose. Detective Osman sighs as he looks at her, then thanks you quietly. You smile and nod, then walk toward the door. Before you reach it, Soto calls your name. Turning slowly, you raise your brows and hold your hands against your stomach.

“Yes, ma’am?” you answer.

“You worked in the gang unit last year, correct?” she inquires.

“Yes, but only for a few months in the spring.”

“Are you familiar with the name…” she pauses to look at a sticky note in her hand, then says, “Victor Kwang?”

Nodding, you explain, “I did the paperwork for his arrest warrant, the affidavit, I mean, and some research into his accomplices and manufacturing.”

“Did you find the factory in Westlake?” a woman in a cheetah-print skirt asks.

“Excuse her,” Karadec interjects as he spins his chair to face you. “This is Morgan Gillory.”

You’ve heard about Morgan, or as Melon calls her, the cleaning lady, but if she already found Kwang’s Westlake factory, she’s better than you thought.

“I did,” you tell her. “It wasn’t operational at the time, but it was searched. Turned up practically nothing.”

“Okay,” Morgan drawls slowly. “It’s not in the report.”

Karadec watches how your brows pinch, and your eyes shift like you’re thinking.

“There’s another report,” he guesses.

“I only worked on one.”

He nods once before spinning his chair to use the computer. Opening the report they’re going on, he scrolls to the bottom of the first page to see who completed the report.

“It wasn’t this one,” he says, looking over his shoulder at Detective Daphne Forrester.

She raises her hands and says, “It’s the only one that came up when I typed in Victor Kwang.”

You focus on your memory of completing the report and ask Daphne, “Are most of his arrests for assault?”

“90%,” she replies.

“Wrong Victor Kwang,” you say. “When that case was open, there was a lot of.. discontent, I guess, in Koreatown. The DA said they had every right to be treated exactly the same here as in Korea.”

Karadec scoffs and shakes his head. You agree; it didn’t make sense, but you complied.

“So?” Osman asks.

“His arrest record and the reports from that investigation have his Korean name on it. Kwang Kyu. Surname first, given name, and everything we have on him is in that file.”

Soto raises her brows at Karadec, unseen by you. He looks between you and his lieutenant, then to Morgan.

“Who are you reporting to now?” Soto asks you.

“Lieutenant Melon,” you reply. Quieter, you add, “Technically.”

“I think it’s time for a change,” she muses before returning to her office.

“Did you do this whole report?” Daphne asks, looking up from her computer. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks,” you answer softly. Without Soto as a buffer and the contained topic of police work, you’re unsure how to talk to the detectives you’ve looked up to for so long.

Soto returns from her office and smiles as she instructs, “Pack up. You’re coming to Major Crimes.���

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Oz asks.

Soto looks away from the door that just closed behind you and levels her gaze on Karadec.

“I think she can help,” he states. “Morgan didn’t catch that the report was for the wrong guy.”

“You didn’t either,” she argues.

“Where does she usually work?” Daphne wonders aloud. “I see her around from time to time, but never in the same place twice.”

“She jumps around,” Soto explains.

“Why?” Oz adds. “Hard to work with? Trying to find where to use a golden ticket?”

“She’s good,” Karadec answers. “She can do close to everything. Chief decided to pass around the talent.”

“And how do you know that?” Soto challenges, her brows raised knowingly.

He looks at her from the corner of his eyes, then shakes his head.

“If Kwang opened a factory in Westlake, he probably did it to get away from the suspicions about what he was doing in Koreatown,” Morgan muses. “His factories form a parallelogram with an overlaid pyramid. When you look at those on a map, they center around one place.”

“Being?” Karadec presses, sounding more tired than he had with you.

She moves closer to the caseboard and examines the map briefly. “Hotel Normandie.”

“Koreatown?” Daphne clarifies.

“Yep. 605 Normandie Avenue.”

“And what is that supposed to tell us?” Karadec sighs.

“I…” Morgan purses her lips to trace her nail along the map.

“You’re missing another shape,” you point out as you return with a small tote bag of your things.

Soto’s eyes widen, and she presses her lips together to hide her smile. You’ve been here for less than five minutes, and you’re providing information Morgan can’t. They all know it’s because of how long you spent studying Victor Kwang, but it’s still interesting to see.

“Hotel Normandie is one of Kwang’s favorite spots. It’s less than thirty minutes from the Hollywood Bowl, Griffith Observatory, LA County Museum of Art, Natural History Museum, and Dodger Stadium. That’s a-“

“Pentagram,” Morgan finishes. “He could get around to all of them and back to the hotel in 2 hours without traffic.”

“Add Forest Lawn,” you add, setting your bag on an empty chair. “And you’ve got a hexagon.”

Karadec stands at the word hexagon, and you wonder what they’re working on.

“DB was called in this morning,” he tells you as he slides his cell phone and a bottle of hand sanitizer into his pocket. “It was found at the corner of Wilshire and Crenshaw. There was a note in the vic’s pocket with the name Victor Kwang written repeatedly. The note was folded into a hexagon.”

“And that intersection is in Kwang’s criminal hexagon,” Morgan adds.

“The victim had his visa,” Daphne says as if she’s reading your mind to answer your questions. “ID’ed him as Chang Shirong. Came in from China four months ago, so he likely would have been traveling back within the next few weeks.”

“Six months. He had a B-1 visa?” you realize incredulously. “What business activities was he conducting?”

“I’ve got that,” Oz interjects, holding an open file. “He had a relatively legitimate clothing business and was negotiating contracts with Lids and Fanatics.”

“How long ago did he get approved for the visa?” Morgan asks.

“Five years ago,” Daphne answers.

You fall silent and listen, happy to stay here and complete their paperwork while they go out in the field and put Kwang back in jail. Provided that he’s found guilty, of course.

“When was Kwang released after the sweatshop factory fiasco?” Karadec asks, though his gaze strays to you.

“Five-and-a-half years ago,” Oz reads. “Could have easily gotten in with Chang to move operations overseas.”

“The Government Accountability Office would’ve had Kwang on a short leash,” Soto states. “If Kwang broke that kind of labor law, he wouldn’t have been able to conduct business of any type, not for a while at least.”

“Not necessarily,” Morgan counters, raising her finger.

“Here we go,” Karadec murmurs, holding his fist against his chin.

“AB633 holds California garment manufacturers responsible for sweatshop conditions. It ensures workers are paid minimum wage and overtime. Because of that, the Labor Commissioner can bring lawsuits on behalf of the whole workforce to guarantee wages and – this is the important part – revoke the registration of the manufacturer that fails to pay a wage award. They up new registration fees, but can't legally keep someone from reopening a business based only on wage crimes.”

“Sounds like you need to look into the sweatshops,” Soto says before telling everyone where to go.

You pull a chair to Daphne’s desk to help her trace Kwang since his release from prison, and she smiles as she whispers, “Teach me your ways.”

You send her a small smile and immediately decide that you want to be friends with Daphne Forrester. The longer you sit beside her and across from Oz, the easier it is to open up and offer your ideas and theories.

“Oz,” Morgan calls as she returns a few hours after leaving. “Karadec needs you to throw a phone book at someone.”

“We still don’t do that,” he replies as he exits the office.

“What are we working on?” Morgan asks as she takes Oz’s chair.

“We found Kwang’s quote ‘professional’ activities since leaving prison,” Daphne explains.

“Any theories?”

“I don’t have any.” Daphne gestures toward you as she adds, “This one has some great ones.”

“Lay ‘em on me,” Morgan requests. “Unless you don’t want to.”

“You must be a very good mom,” you murmur.

“I have a teenager,” she says, “I know the signs of someone not wanting to talk to me. I also notice when someone’s eyes wander to a certain detective.”

“Karadec?!” Daphne exclaims, tapping her hand against your arm and igniting invisible flames beneath your sleeve.

You drop your head and wring your fingers together. “I think Kwang met someone in prison who could set him up with an overseas businessman. Your victim flew in on a visitor’s visa a week before Kwang was released and stayed for nearly two months. If they met then, Chang had a reason to get a business visa and make regular trips to visit his business partner.”

“Any idea who could’ve known both of them?” Morgan wonders.

“That’s where we found the hiccup,” Daphne answers.

You have an idea, but it doesn’t make sense, so you stay quiet. Morgan and Daphne look at you, then at each other. Morgan nods before she stands.

“You’re coming to my house for dinner,” she says. “It wasn’t an invitation or a question, you’re coming. Let’s go.”

Daphne nods and tells you to have a good night, so you follow Morgan out of the station. While you walk into the parking lot, she slows and looks toward you.

“You like Karadec,” she begins. “When you’re not incredibly focused, your eyes stray to him. It happens when you’re not confident in your statements, too.”

“I- he-“ you try before deciding to say, “Sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be. I notice a lot, and I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. Maybe you should try to just talk to him tomorrow, share one of those good ideas you kept to yourself today.”

“I thought that was your job.”

Morgan smiles. “If it gets Karadec to smile, I’ll relinquish my duty to you for a day.”

“Why would that make him smile?”

“You can figure that out, detective.”

Morgan begins walking again, and as she opens her car door, you call, “I’m not a detective!”

The following morning, you enter the station early with a mental list of names and information to look into. Walking into Major Crimes, you’re not entirely surprised to see Karadec already at his desk.

“You’re early,” he muses. “You can use Oz’s desk.”

“Thanks.” You lower into Oz’s seat and use your station login to access the police database.

“Help yourself,” he offers, gesturing to a donut box.

You smile and take one of your favorites. If you had to guess, you never would have assumed that Karadec was the one who brought the donuts every week. Maybe they take turns, you think.

As you work quietly beside Karadec, you run through each idea you have. Each search that fails to provide a helpful result discourages you more than the last.

“Pass me the Kwang file?” Karadec requests.

His fingers brush against yours as he takes the extended file. He thanks you, but you don’t hear it as your nerves alight. You try to hide the pain in your hand as you place it back on the keyboard. Failing to remember the last time you were hugged or even simply touched in a way that lets you know someone cared about you, you force yourself to focus. Your hand curls into a fist as the pain subsides, and then you return to work.

With your focus on the lack of touch you’ve experienced recently, you don’t notice Karadec watching you. He’s known since before you joined their team that there is more to you than people think.

As the rest of Major Crimes begins arriving, you log out and pull a chair to the corner of Daphne’s desk to continue working with her. Karadec tries to focus, but when you are close, he finds it hard to do.

“Good morning,” Morgan greets, sitting beside you. She lowers her voice to remind you, “Talk to Karadec.”

“All of my ideas turned up nothing,” you explain softly.

“And?” Oz asks as he approaches the other side of Daphne’s desk.

“She likes Karadec,” Morgan replies.

Your eyes widen as you look over at her. Daphne stifles a laugh, and Oz shrugs as if that isn’t new information.

“Yeah, yeah,” Morgan murmurs. “Et tu, good report maker. Seriously, tell him something. You have more ideas; I can see it.”

“Any new theories?” Karadec asks, turning his seat to face Daphne’s crowded desk.

“I think the order of the hexagon was wrong,” you blurt out.

“Why would the order matter?” Oz inquires.

Karadec watches you, listening carefully. Morgan smiles and shakes her head knowingly before she winks at Daphne.

“If the route matters, then traffic, travel times, and when the places are actual targets changes.”

“Targets?” Karadec repeats.

“I assumed you were evaluating the places based on their proximity to his former sweatshops,” you explain. “So, he could use them as alibis, to recruit workers, or in this case, to lure Chang into his previous enterprise to undermine Chang’s business.”

“Like a sightseeing tour for bad guys,” Oz translates.

“Alternatively, they were on their way to one of these places and Chang dropped some news about taking a larger profit margin or something, Kwang was outraged and killed him.”

“In which case, he’d want to get another shop up and running ASAP,” Morgan comments.

“Let’s run with that theory,” Karadec decides. “We’ll split up and check the different points on the hexagon. Use Kwang’s previous warehouses for ideas about where he’d be holed up or operating a new factory.”

“Someone from Immigration is here with Chang’s visa information,” Soto says.

“I got it,” Oz offers. “Go find this guy.”

“I’ll go with Daphne,” Morgan announces.

“Okay,” Karadec agrees, standing. “Which direction do we go?”

“Hotel Normandie faces east,” you answer. “Most people turn right when leaving a building, so he’d be pretty likely to go South. The art museum would either be first or last because it’s west of the hotel.”

“We’ll take the southern locations starting with the Natural History Museum. Then we’ll hit Dodger Stadium and go around. Daphne and Morgan, go west to the art museum then north toward Griffith Observatory. Overlapping visits should double our chances.”

“Yeah, that’s not how percentage of chance works,” Morgan replies. “I’ll explain it later.”

“Oh, good,” Karadec deadpans.

“So…” Karadec begins as he drives toward the natural history museum. “What did you want to do when you joined the department?”

“At first, I didn’t know. Then I realized I wanted to become a detective,” you answer. “I think it’s too late for that.”

“Never know. What made you decide?”

“A lot of detectives worth looking up to. Including you.”

You realize what you said and chew the inside of your bottom lip as you wait for Karadec to say something. Anything.

“Thank you,” he says after a moment. “Although you had better options.”

“I didn’t know Daphne yet,” you joke, pulling a rare smile from him. “Hey, slow down. That building should be condemned.”

Karadec slows as he steers the car onto the gravel shoulder. He watches the shadows moving in the covered windows and radios for backup.

“ETA two minutes,” dispatch replies.

“Uh, Karadec?” you interrupt.

“Yeah?”

“Door just opened.”

You watch Victor Kwang exit the warehouse in an expensive suit. He notices the car and then runs along the side of the building. You don’t hesitate to exit Karadec’s car and chase him, ignoring Karadec’s yells for you to wait.

As you round the western side of the warehouse, you speed up and push off your right foot to tackle Victor Kwang. He grunts as he lands in the dirt, and you pant through your recitation of his Miranda rights. Karadec approaches behind you and passes you a pair of handcuffs.

“Maybe we should let you carry those next time,” he says. “Is that your car, Mr. Kwang?”

“Lawyer,” Kwang replies as you turn him to make him sit up.

“In that case, I’ll go ahead and get it towed to the station in violation of California Vehicle Code 22500,” Karadec says, pulling his phone from his pocket.

You look at the car and smile. “Section f: A person shall not stop or park on a portion of a sidewalk.”

“It’s my sidewalk!” Kwang argues as sirens approach the front of the building.

“It’s the city’s sidewalk,” Karadec says. He takes your place and pulls Kwang’s arm to make him stand. “So, we’ll be searching your illegally parked car when it arrives at the station.”

After an officer takes Kwang, you take a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” Karadec checks, laying his hand on your shoulder.

Your muscles tense, pulling into a tight knot before immediately releasing to be more relaxed than before Karadec touched you. He feels every movement and realizes by the movement that you are devastatingly touch-starved. Karadec does not like touching things or people, you’ve noticed, but you’re both acutely aware of how well his hand fits on you.

“I’m okay,” you answer quietly.

The moment ends abruptly when Karadec’s phone rings. He removes his hand from your shoulder to answer Daphne’s call, but his warmth lingers as you follow him back to the car.

After Kwang confesses to receive a plea deal and offers up the international crime matchmaker who introduced him to Chang, you return home. Your hand raises to your shoulder, where Karadec touched you. Now that the case is closed, you’ll likely be transferred out of Major Crimes again and lose the four people you think you could have been friends with. Again.

Someone knocks on your door, and you approach it quietly to look through the peephole. Sighing, you open the door and silently invite Karadec into your home.

“Is everything okay?” you ask. “Soto told me I could finish the reports in the morning.”

“No, that’s fine,” he replies, looking briefly around your living room before bending back slightly with his hands in his pockets. “I… I think I can help you.”

Your mouth opens, but you take a moment to find the right words. “Do you mean that the other way? Can I help you again?”

“No, no,” he answers with a smile. “Can I just show you?”

“Sure,” you say slowly.

Adam pulls his hands from his pockets as he steps toward you. You inhale quickly at his proximity, and when his hands raise, you hold your breath. Tensing your muscles as Karadec lays his hands on your waist, you swallow. His thumbs brush wide arcs between your ribs as your body relaxes at his touch.

“Oh,” you realize under your breath.

“You said you looked up to me as a detective. I admire you as a lot more than that.”

The initial pain of his touch fades, and you seem to melt beneath his hands. If you’re going to react like this, Karadec thinks, he may never take his hands off you.

“I thought you didn’t like touching things with germs,” you remember.

“Found an exception.”

Karadec smiles as you argue, “Soto won’t like that.”

One of his hands slides from your waist and catches your hand. You instinctively try to pull away because it hurts, but he holds you tighter, drops his smile, and whispers, “It’s okay.”

You nod and shift your hands to interlace your fingers with his.

“If you want help with this,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb across your knuckles. “I’m here. But you tell me when to stop.”

“Why?” you inquire.

Karadec doesn’t answer, and you admit, “I have feelings for you. Like… feelings. I understand if that makes you feel different and you don’t want me close anymore.”

“Feelings?” he repeats, using the tone you used the second time. “Should it make me feel different?”

Your brows furrow and Karadec returns both hands to your waist.

“It doesn’t,” he assures you, dropping his hands.

“There’s hand sanitizer in my bag, behind you,” you offer.

“Soto sent me over to tell you she wants you in Major Crimes full-time,” Karadec interjects. “It’s up to you, though.”

“Would that… Do you care if I say yes?”

“I’m not going to answer that.”

“You’re not really helping me here.”

He nods in a small circular movement which tells you he doesn’t care about that. His smile, however, makes you smile.

“I have wanted to be a detective for a long time,” you muse.

“Anyone you’d be leaving behind in the other divisions?”

“Oh, yeah,” you answer sarcastically. “I’m just swimming in friends, hence the extreme touch starvation.”

“Give Soto your answer in the morning,” he requests. “I’ll see you there?”

“Of course.”

You watch Karadec leave, and when you wrap your arms around your waist, nothing happens. No pain, no pins or needles, just warmth and the memory of Karadec's touch.

When Karadec enters Major Crimes the morning after visiting you, you’re nowhere to be seen.

“Daph!” he calls. “Where is she?”

“Morgan?” she clarifies.

“She’s finishing paperwork,” Oz answers. “Transfer papers, I’d guess.”

“I need signatures,” Soto says, exiting her office.

“Beautiful,” Daphne whispers as she signs your completed report.

“Yes, it is,” Karadec agrees, though his eyes are up, watching you enter the office with a smile.

“Where’d the grumpy persona go?” you whisper as you place a donut box on your new desk.

“I’d guess wherever he left it last night,” Soto answers, looking between you.

Morgan enters, spouting theories about another case but stops when she sees you. “I told you! You just had to stop pretending you couldn’t do it.”

“Hey,” Daphne calls, pointing at you with a sprinkled donut. “No ‘will they, won’t they,’ okay? Do it or don’t, but I can’t watch my friends dance around each other.”

“We’re friends?” you repeat.

“Duh.”

“So…” Morgan begins. “Are you okay with a group hug or do you need some more time?”

You look at Karadec, who shrugs, and then you nod. As you’re wrapped in warmth and care by your new friends – and Karadec, who you hope can be more than a friend – you realize that you finally found where you belong, and you’re not pretending anymore. You can do this. You can do the job, the friendships, and the openness.

[sweetheartsofpanem]

She Fell First - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

we get to see more of Y/N’s real personality here:’) i think i may love peeta and Y/N’s dynamic better than haymitch and Y/N’s lmao also i literally did a whole mapping of like how old her parents would’ve been during haymitch’s games and how old they were when she was born for it to like make sense that she’s 20 years younger😭 there might be mistakes in here but idk i’ve literally only gotten 3 hours of sleep these last few days, i’ll check for mistakes when i wake up later

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 3.17k

series masterlist | main masterlist

It starts with the ceiling.

Not in any grand, earth-shattering way. Just the way the light hits it in the early hours—soft and golden, stretching across the plaster in gentle streaks. You’ve been lying there for what feels like hours, blanket bunched at your waist, one arm flung over your eyes. Your thoughts are loud. Too loud.

You move your arm. Stare at the ceiling again.

Okay. So. Something’s wrong with you.

Or not wrong, exactly. Just—something. Something you can’t name, and that fact alone is infuriating.

You haven’t slept much since the lake.

Every time you close your eyes, you’re back there again: sunlight skimming the water, Katniss and Peeta laughing somewhere behind you, the cold lake biting at your skin. And him.

Haymitch.

In the water. With his arms crossed and his usual scowl, scar catching the light in a way that made your breath catch.

Not because it was a scar. Because it was his.

You groan and fling your other arm over your face.

Why does he make you feel like this?

It’s not normal. It can’t be normal. Your heart does this thing now—stops, then stutters, then tries to catch up all at once when he looks at you. It’s inconvenient. It’s confusing. You want to be near him constantly. You want to hear his voice, even if it’s grumbling. Especially when it’s grumbling. You want to know what it would feel like if he touched your hand and didn’t pull away.

You stare at the ceiling like it has answers.

It doesn’t.

You sit up slowly, dragging your hands over your face. Your hair is a mess, your heart won’t stop thudding, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to die unless you figure out what this is.

You need Peeta.

He’ll know what to do.

You’re not even fully sure if you brushed your hair. You just pull on a hoodie and stomp across the Victor’s Village lawn barefoot like the ground offended you. The sun’s barely up—early enough that the dew still clings to the grass, that the air smells like wet stone and lavender from Katniss’ herb garden.

You don’t care. You’re on a mission.

Their front door isn’t locked. It never is. You throw it open and march inside.

“Peeta Mellark,” you call, already halfway through the living room. “I need your brain.”

There’s a startled crash from the kitchen, followed by a muffled, “Jesus—Y/N?”

You appear in the doorway to find him in pajama pants, holding a wooden spoon like it might save his life. There’s something bubbling on the stove behind him, and flour dusts his chest like he lost a fight with a baking tin.

He blinks at you. “Do you… want toast?”

“I want clarity,” you announce, dramatically collapsing onto one of the chairs at the table. “I think I’m dying.”

Peeta lowers the spoon very slowly. “From what?”

“I don’t know.” You wave a hand. “Something horrifying. It’s making my heart do this stupid fluttery thing and my stomach’s being a weirdo and my brain keeps playing flashbacks like it’s a Capitol propaganda reel.”

He turns off the burner with a sigh and grabs two mugs from the cabinet. “How long has this been going on?”

You drop your forehead to the table. “Since the lake.”

Peeta pauses mid-pour. “Oh.”

You lift your head slowly. Narrow your eyes. “Why’d you say it like that?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said ‘oh.’ That’s definitely something.”

He sets a mug in front of you. “And who, exactly, is starring in these little mental flashbacks of yours?”

You take the mug and squint at the steam. “No one.”

He waits.

You groan and let your head thunk back down. “Haymitch.”

Peeta doesn’t laugh. He just sips his drink calmly, like he’s been expecting this since the dawn of time.

You lift your head again. “Peeta.”

He hums. “Mm-hmm?”

“What the hell is this?”

“It’s called a crush.”

You stare at him. “No it’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“No. It’s—he makes me want to be near him all the time and also run away screaming.”

“Crush.”

“And sometimes when he says things, I forget what words are.”

“Classic.”

“I think about him more than is legally allowed.”

Peeta sips again. “That’s the one.”

You stare down at your mug, horrified. “This can’t be happening.”

He reaches over and pats your hand sympathetically. “Welcome to the club.”

You sit in stunned silence for a long moment.

Then: “Ew.”

Peeta finally laughs.

You take a long, scalding sip of tea like it’ll burn the feeling out of you. “Okay, but maybe it’s not a crush.”

Peeta leans on the back of a chair, looking entirely too smug. “Go on.”

You gesture vaguely with your mug. “Like—he’s my friend. Right? He’s Haymitch. I trust him. That’s huge for me. It’s probably just a trust thing. Maybe I feel weird around him because of, you know… trauma or something.”

Peeta tilts his head, all faux sympathy. “Because nothing says unresolved trauma like wanting to sit closer to someone every time they breathe.”

You glare. “I do not—”

“You do. You orbit him like a plant that needs sunlight.”

You clutch your mug tighter. “Okay, but maybe I just—like him. As a person.”

“I would hope so. You called him your emotional support grump last week.”

You look away. “That was a joke.”

“Was it?”

You scowl into your tea. “Look, I think it’s just because he gets me. And it’s rare. And it’s confusing, sure, but not romantic. I mean, my heart doing the whole skip-a-beat thing could just be—panic.”

Peeta stares at you.

You nod to yourself. “Definitely panic.”

“Y/N.”

“What?”

He puts his cup down, comes to sit beside you at the table, and props his chin on his hand. “Yesterday you literally said, and I quote, ‘he makes my brain go fuzzy and my limbs feel like pudding.’”

You groan. “I was joking!”

“You were not. You were staring into space like you were watching a slow-motion Capitol soap opera.”

You narrow your eyes. “I think you’re making this worse.”

He smiles. “I think you’re in denial.”

“I think you’re enjoying this.”

“Deeply.”

You slap his arm lightly. “I hate you.”

“I know.”

You sigh, dragging your fingers down your face. “What do I even do with this?”

Peeta shrugs. “Nothing. Just… let it be what it is. Crushes aren’t terminal.”

You mutter, “Feels like it.”

He nudges your foot under the table. “You’ll survive. He’s not exactly going anywhere.”

You lift your gaze to meet his, finally quiet. “You really think that’s what this is?”

Peeta nods. “Yeah. I really do.”

You stare at your tea again, watching the steam curl up from the rim.

“Oh no,” you whisper.

Peeta pats your hand. “There it is.”

You drop your head to the table with a thud. “How am I supposed to see him after discovering this horrifying fact?”

Peeta leans over, peering at you. “Like you always do. With your whole face and everything.”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. “This isn’t funny.”

He smiles. “It’s a little funny.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “I have a crush on Haymitch Abernathy. Haymitch. Haymitch.”

“Trust me, you’ve said it enough times to make it real.”

“I feel like my entire brain just committed treason.”

Peeta rests his chin in his hand again. “You’ve been making heart eyes at him for weeks. I was starting to think you knew.”

“I thought I was just… emotionally unwell.”

“Well, yes, but also—” He dodges the piece of bread you throw at his face. “—and you have a crush.”

You groan again, flopping back dramatically in the chair. “I can’t just casually hang out with him now. He’ll know.”

“He won’t.”

“He will.”

Peeta raises an eyebrow. “Y/N, the man once tried to climb onto your roof to fix a shingle and fell asleep halfway up the ladder. He’s not exactly tuned into nuance.”

You throw an arm over your face. “What if I blush?”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“You definitely will.”

“Peeta!”

He grins. “You’ll be fine.”

You peek at him from under your arm. “You swear?”

“On my bread flour.”

You snort. “That’s sacred.”

“Exactly.”

You sit up slowly, clutching your tea like it might ground you. “Okay. Okay. So I have a crush. I just… won’t do anything about it. Easy. Simple. Fine.”

“Famous last words.”

You shoot him a look. “I’m going to deny this until I die.”

Peeta grins. “I’ll carve it into your gravestone.”

You sigh, leaning back against the chair again. “This is a nightmare.”

He nudges your foot. “It’s kind of sweet.”

You glance at him, eyes narrowed. “Don’t say that.”

“I won’t. I’ll just be here, silently judging.”

You groan again, dragging a hand through your hair. “I hate feelings.”

Peeta lifts his cup. “To feelings.”

You clink your mug against his. “May they die in a fire.”

You sit in silence for all of three seconds before your face twists again.

“Oh my God. He’s literally only four years younger than my parents. This is so gross.”

Peeta chokes on his tea. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

You clutch your forehead like the weight of your revelation might actually crush your skull. “What is wrong with me? There are young people out there. People who don’t make dramatic noises when they sit down or threaten puzzles.”

“He’s Haymitch. That’s what’s wrong with you.”

“I need a lobotomy.”

Peeta raises his eyebrows. “And here I thought you needed therapy.”

“Both. I need both.”

He sips his tea, far too calm for your spiraling. “Hey, for what it’s worth… you seem happier lately. Calmer.”

You squint at him like he just suggested something offensive. “So you’re saying the problem is that he makes me feel good?”

“I’m saying the bar is on the floor and Haymitch tripped over it into your heart.”

You drag a hand down your face. “I’m gonna be sick.”

“You want toast for the road?”

“I want to go back in time and not feel like this.”

“You could just avoid him forever,” he offers, ever so helpful.

You blink. “You’re right. I’ll fake my own death. I’ll move into the woods. Change my name to Pinecone.”

“Pinecone?”

“It’s a strong name.”

“You’ll last three hours.”

You sigh and lean forward again, resting your arms on the table. “What if it doesn’t go away?”

Peeta just smiles at you—soft, kind. “Then it’s not just a crush.”

You groan for the sixth time in ten minutes. “I hate you.”

He grins. “You love me.”

You shove his shoulder. He shoves back, gentle.

And then he says, “Hey.”

You look up.

“It’s not a bad thing. Feeling stuff. Wanting something good. It just means you’re still here.”

You nod, slower this time. “Still here.”

A pause.

Then—

“Still grossed out by the age thing, though.”

Peeta nearly spits out his tea. “Pinecone, please.”

The floor creaks behind you and you both glance up just in time to see Katniss shuffle into the kitchen, hair a mess, eyes squinting against the morning light like it’s personally offended her.

“Why are you guys being so loud,” she mutters, voice gravelly with sleep.

Peeta doesn’t even blink. “Y/N’s in love with Haymitch.”

You make a noise so high-pitched it might only be audible to birds. “Peeta!”

Katniss stops mid-step, blinks once, then zeroes in on you. You attempt to melt into the table.

She frowns. “You’re being weird.”

“I am not being weird,” you lie, instantly and with conviction.

“She’s being very weird,” Peeta confirms helpfully, grinning behind his mug.

Katniss just stares at you, arms crossed. “Your face is doing a thing. The thing where you’re lying.”

You throw your hands up. “I am not in love with Haymitch!”

Katniss raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t say you were.”

You freeze.

Peeta sips his tea. “Oh no.”

Katniss narrows her eyes at you like she’s trying to solve a particularly annoying puzzle. “Wait. Are you?”

“No!”

She tilts her head.

You crack. “Maybe! I don’t know! I came here for answers and instead I’ve been bullied for thirty minutes!”

Katniss stares for another long second, then walks to the counter, grabs a cup, and pours herself some tea like this is the most boring thing she’s heard all week.

You watch her, waiting for her to make fun of you or say something awful. Instead, she just shrugs.

“Could be worse,” she says.

You blink. “…What?”

She glances over her shoulder. “He likes you.”

Your throat makes an uncomfortable, traitorous little noise.

Peeta goes, “Wait, what?” at the exact same time you say, “What?!”

Katniss just sips her tea. “Don’t ask me for details, he hasn’t said anything. You two just flirt like idiots. It’s not that hard to see.”

You cover your face with both hands.

Peeta looks far too pleased. “This is the best morning of my life.”

Katniss yawns and leans against the counter. “I need toast.”

You peek through your fingers. “Can we pretend this conversation never happened?”

Katniss shrugs again. “Sure. But he’s probably thinking about you right now. With your dumb face and your lake hair.”

You groan into the table.

Peeta pats your back. “You did this to yourself.”

You stand abruptly, nearly knocking over your chair in the process. “I have to go. I need to be alone. To process.”

Peeta blinks. “You’re being dramatic again.”

“I’m being normal about a catastrophic revelation.” You clutch your hands to your chest like you’re starring in a tragic Capitol opera. “I’m going to bury myself under a blanket and think about my life choices.”

Katniss, already halfway through a piece of toast, says, “Tell Haymitch hi.”

You point a finger at her, eyes wide. “No.”

She shrugs. “He’s probably outside.”

Peeta stifles a laugh behind his mug. “Good luck with your… emotions.”

You spin on your heel, ignoring the snort Katniss doesn’t even try to hide, and storm dramatically toward the door—because if there’s one thing you’re allowed today, it’s a dramatic exit.

You're halfway to your house when you finally look up from scowling at the ground.

And immediately freeze.

Because of course he’s there.

Haymitch is sitting on your porch, legs stretched out, flask in hand. The chair creaks slightly as he tips his head back against the siding. He doesn’t notice you at first—his eyes are closed, face tilted toward the sun like he’s soaking it in.

You hesitate, already halfway turned back toward Katniss and Peeta’s. Go back inside. Flee. Pretend you forgot something.

Then he cracks one eye open and looks right at you.

“Morning,” he says, voice low and scratchy from disuse. “You look like someone just told you your house burned down.”

You blink. “Uh. Hi.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Something wrong with your legs or are you planning to stand there and stare all day?”

You scowl, forcing your feet to move. “I’m walking. Look at me go.”

“Impressive,” he mutters. “Really showin’ off that coordination.”

You step onto your porch, trying not to look like a person freshly struck by the realization that she might be in love with the grumpy man currently roasting her in flannel pajama pants.

He watches you settle into your porch swing like it’s a normal day. Like you’re not falling apart inside. Like your heart isn’t beating in your throat for reasons you don’t want to examine too closely.

You stare straight ahead, voice carefully even. “I came home to be alone.”

He takes a lazy sip from his flask. “And yet, here I am.”

You glance sideways at him. “You’re always here.”

Haymitch meets your eyes, something unreadable flickering across his face. “So are you.”

Your stomach does something annoying.

You look away first.

You want to go inside. You should go inside. There’s tea to be made, and laundry you could pretend to fold, and an entire house you could pace just to burn off the nervous energy clawing at your ribs. Sitting here on the porch isn’t helping—especially not with him three feet away, looking entirely too comfortable in the morning light.

And yet. You sit.

“You look like you’re contemplating something real stupid,” he says, not even looking up from the flask he’s fiddling with.

You blink, drag your gaze away from his profile, and try to assemble your thoughts into something that doesn’t sound like I think I like you and it’s ruining my life.

“Just thinking,” you say.

“Dangerous habit.”

You hum, forcing a casual tone. “Was debating going inside.”

“You should,” he says. “You look twitchy.”

“I am not twitchy.”

“You’re twitchy,” he insists, nodding sagely.

You narrow your eyes. “Maybe I was gonna go inside. And now I’m staying just to spite you.”

He smirks. “Knew the stubborn streak’d kick in eventually.”

You lean back against the porch railing, folding your arms. “You always this annoying or is it a skill you’ve been perfecting?”

“Oh, honey,” he says, flashing you a grin. “This is me being charming.”

You bark a laugh—short, sharp, unexpected. “Terrifying.”

“Works on some people.”

You do not let your face react to that. You do not let your brain react to that. You simply look out at the road and pretend your skin doesn’t feel too warm, like every word he says soaks a little deeper than it should.

Silence stretches. Easy. Familiar. Murderous to your current mental state.

Eventually, he shifts, glancing over at you again. “You’re not gonna start doing something weird, are you?”

You blink. “Define weird.”

“I don’t know. Like, start crying or confessing your undying love or something. You’ve got that look.”

You choke. “What look?”

He waves a hand. “The talking-about-feelings look.”

“I do not have that look.”

“You do.”

“Take it back.”

“Nope.”

You glare at him. He looks far too pleased with himself.

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter.

“Aw. I missed you too.”

You roll your eyes and tip your head back against the swing. The sky above is clear, soft blue fading into late afternoon gold.

Haymitch settles deeper into his chair, opening his flask and taking a slow sip.

You glance at him, trying to sound snarky. “Why are you even on my porch?”

“This chair is more comfortable than the one on my porch. Plus you usually aren’t awake this early so I don’t have to deal with you being a brat.”

“So I’m ruining it?”

He tilts his head. “Enhancing it. Just barely.”

You exhale, pretending that doesn’t feel like a compliment. “You’re in a good mood today.”

“You’re easy to bother. That helps.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. And when the silence falls again, you let it. Even though your pulse is loud in your ears. Even though your hands fidget in your lap. Even though you could absolutely get up and go inside right now.

You don’t.

You stay.

Next Part

[cheshireliam]

"VILLAIN's FESTIVAL" Collection Event: Featured Card Story — Victor

This is a fan-made translation solely for entertainment purposes with no guaranteed perfection; expect mistakes, grammatical errors, and some creative liberties. All original content and media used belongs to Cybird. Please support the game by buying their stories and playing their games. Reblogs appreciated.

Read this before interacting

There had been rumours about an organisation collecting animals illegally poached from overseas and engaging in illicit trade. 

Upon hearing those rumours, we arrived at a warehouse located in the outskirts of the East End.

Victor: It’s dangerous here, so promise you’ll stay behind me.

Kate: Okay.

I peeked out from behind Victor. 

…

Victor: This is… 

Inside the warehouse, countless cages hung from the ceiling, each containing animals on the verge of death. 

(This is awful… how could anyone do such a thing…) 

Unexpectedly, a dog inside one of the cages noticed us and let out a weak whimper.

I instinctively moved away from Victor’s back and approached the dog.

Kate: Hang on, I'll help you— 

The next moment, 

Kate: Kyaa! 

Victor: Kate!? 

With a loud clang, a cage descended from above and trapped me inside.

???: Only one of them got caught, huh.

Before I could snap out of my shock, the warehouse doors slammed shut and a group of armed men appeared. 

At the center of the group stood a man in a tailcoat, smirking as he looked at me inside the cage. 

Man in Tailcoat: It’s a shame we only caught the woman, but it so happens that I’ve been considering expanding our business into human trafficking. 

Man in Tailcoat: She looks rather healthy too. She's sure to fetch a high price.

Kate: Wha— 

Man in Tailcoat: I don’t know who you people are, but since you’ve trespassed into my territory, I won't let you leave so easily. 

Behind the man in a tailcoat, the armed men closed in with their weapons ready. 

Man in Tailcoat: Give up on the woman and I’ll let you leave unharmed. 

Man in Tailcoat: After all, women sell for higher prices than men.

Man in Tailcoat: A fair deal for both of us, don’t you agree? 

When he heard those words, Victor scoffed— 

Victor: Give up on her? I could never do something so foolish.

Victor lifted his head with his fists clenched.

Victor: Because I swore to never let her leave again. 

Kate: Victor… 

Man in Tailcoat: … What a pity. 

In an instant, the group of men lunged at Victor all at once.

Kate: Victor! 

Victor: I’ll be okay, don’t worry.

He glanced in my direction and gave me a soft smile.

Victor: I may not look like it, but I’m strong. 

With that, he sent the first attacker flying straight into the wall of the warehouse. 

Kate: Oh.

I was left speechless for a moment. 

The other men stared at their fallen comrade in shock as he slid down the wall, unconscious. 

Victor: See? I told you so. 

Victor wore a provocative grin.

Man with Sword: You—! 

He swiftly grabbed the wrist of the man holding a sword, spun him around, and disarmed him in a single motion. 

Victor: Capturing my lover is a grave sin. 

With highly skilled precision, Victor wielded his sword, cutting the attackers down one by one.

However, his blade never landed a single fatal blow. He only severed the tendons in their arms and legs, rendering them unable to fight. 

(He’s not killing them, but instead taking their freedom and leaving them powerless.) 

While dodging the oncoming attacks, Victor swung his sword only at their tendons. 

His movements were so fluid and graceful, it was almost like he were dancing. 

(Incredible…) 

It was my first time seeing Victor fight with a weapon  . 

I was so mesmerised that, for a moment, I completely forgot the situation we were in. 

Man in Tailcoat: S-stop, ahhhhh!

The last man standing, the man in the tailcoat, let out a blood curdling scream before falling unconscious after having his tendons severed. 

At almost the same time, Victor threw his sword aside and ran straight to me.

Victor: Kate, are you hurt? 

Kate: I’m fine, but you…

Victor: I’m alright. Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of here right away. 

Victor operated the mechanism to lift the cage off me. 

Before it even went all the way up, I ducked and threw myself into his arms. 

Kate: Thank you for saving me. 

The tight embrace hurt a little, but the warmth filled me to the brim with relief. 

I pressed my head against his chest, allowing myself to sink into the comfort of his presence. 

…

Under Victor's orders, the captured animals were given proper treatment and arrangements were made to have them returned to their natural habitats. 

As for the poachers who had been illegally capturing and selling them, they were to be interrogated and brought to justice eventually— 

Meanwhile, Victor stood behind me with his arms still wrapped around me and chin resting on my head. He let out a small sigh.

(He’s been acting like this ever since he saved me…) 

From the moment I hugged him when I escaped the cage until now, he didn’t let go of me even once. 

(He must’ve been worried sick.)

Feeling guilty for breaking my promise to stay safely hidden behind him, I turned around in his arms and hugged him back as tightly as I could. 

Victor: Kate?

Kate: … I’m sorry for breaking my promise. 

His arms, wrapped around me, twitched ever so slightly.

Kate: But the little robin is back home now.

I looked up at him and smiled.

Kate: Back in your arms. 

His eyes widened for a brief moment before his facial expression softened into an affectionate smile. 

Victor: This is where you belong, where you’ll come home to.

Smiling in satisfaction, he stole my lips in a kiss. 

Victor: Forever. 

Once more, he pulled me into a deep kiss and gently pushed me down onto the bed. 

It won’t be long before I witness him in battle again. 

[matchpointfaist]

tw;; violence, mentions of death/murder, brief mentions of suicide, the hunger games is a tw in itself i fear. please be nice i was very brave w this!

art donaldson had been kind, once. in his distant memory, he’d been happy, unaware, naive. it didn’t last. nothing ever does in the districts, no matter how rich 2 may have been.

before he even knew who he really was, the training started. long days were spent in a padded room, surrounded by trainers and mentors and past victors, all hammering the same thing into his mind; don’t lose.

the days were followed by even longer nights, nightmares full of the footage of past games he’d been forced to watch on a loop, preparing him for what was to come. by 16, he was more machine than man. he had friends at the academy, of course, but no one he’d get too close to be able to kill when the time came. relationships were measured in vulnerability, and that wasn’t a commodity art had to spare.

the plan was simple- if his name wasn’t called at the reaping, he would volunteer. he’d spent his entire life preparing for the games, to either prove himself or die the coward that his mentor always accused him of being. better him than some poor, unsuspecting kid, he figured.

the process had been easy, too easy, and soon enough art was on the first train to the capitol, for all his primping and interviewing and displaying before he was sent to the arena. he knew, distantly, that this was just as important as the game itself. win over the capitol, win yourself a spot at the top, a chance at security when he came home.

it was all going according to his plan. all until they announced the catch in this years games; twice as many tributes, twice as many winners. he told himself it didn’t matter, he was under no obligation to help his fellow district 2 tributes, after all. as far as he was concerned, it was still every man for himself. survival of the fittest, the entire point of the games. twice as many people he’d have to kill, sure, but he could handle it. or die trying, as the little voice in his head loved to remind him.

he’d met you in the first round of interviews. one of four tributes from district 4, just another career he’d have to take out. and god, you were good. you worked all the right angles, playing up to your strengths through every interview, every prying question answered with the poise of someone who must have done this before. you’d be trouble, he knew. even when the evening was over and his mentor told him you were just some girl, he knew.

you had the same faraway look in your eyes that could be constantly found in his own, like you were already living in the future, safe in a time where you’d already won. the week before the games, when the capitol so courteously let you all train, he’d seen glimpses. you were fast, dangerously so, agile with a blade in a way that he’d never quite mastered. he was fast enough, sure, but you moved with assurance that could never be taught.

he didn't even get a chance to say goodbye to his parents before getting shipped of to the arena. just a pat on the back from his mentor and some cheap inspirational speeches from the capitol's various television personalities. a quick 'good luck' before he was sent away to become forever changed, regardless of the outcome.

it all went so fast after that. getting dropped in the center of the arena, the flash speed of killings just after the games begun, the deadly fight for supplies. he didn't even remember the first tribute he killed, he realized long after. he took someone's life and couldn't be bothered to commit their face to memory. the first, then four more soon after, and by the end of the first night he was in the lead with a staggering eleven tributes, dead by his hand.

the only thing he was sure of, killing all those people, was that you weren't one of them. he looked for you constantly, right at first, glimpses of stranger's faces between fights and screams, checking to see if you were one of the fallen with each canon sound. at the end of the first night, the score flashed across the arena's makeshift sky; art on top, you just behind.

he was immediately filled with irritation, frustration, that some girl from four would be anywhere near him. he found the anger replaced soon after by something like relief. maybe he hadn't wanted anything to happen to you, maybe he'd hoped you'd end up beside him on the victor's carriage.

the second day was long, tedious, hours spent creeping through lush trees in search of any tributes hiding. the canon sounded as he made his way through a grove of trees, one of the boys from seven's portrait flashing through the sky. you were up one.

it went on for days. you'd have the upper hand, then art, back and forth on a loop. he never encountered you himself, though, always one step ahead or behind, always out of line with whatever your plan seemed to be. by the end of the week, there were only seven tributes left. art himself, you, the last girl from 12, a boy and girl from 1, a boy from 8 and girl from 10. he tried to hunt them down, scoured what felt like every inch of the arena to no avail, until he finally went with his last resort plan.

he was headed for the center of the arena when he heard it; a sharp, piercing scream. he chased after the sound, more curious than anything, until he finally found the source. you were pinned to the ground, the district 1 tributes above you. the boy had you pinned, the girl watching in what seemed to be amusement as he taunted you, a blade pressed to your throat just hard enough for a tiny trail of blood to drip down your skin.

he didn't even contemplate his actions, something so unlike himself, before the blade of his axe was sunk into the boy's back, thrown from his spot behind the shadow of trees. the girl gasped, turning with wild eyes for the source of the blade, but before art could reach for his weapon you'd thrown the body off of you and tackled the girl, pushing her facedown into the mud as you reached for your weapon.

he watched in something like an awestruck horror as you slit her throat, dropping her back down to the ground as you stood, eyes on him like a cautioned animal. "i'm not gonna hurt you," he said, despite everything he'd ever been taught until this moment, "you can drop the knife," "no chance," you scoffed, taking one step back. he had the fleeting thought that if you wanted him dead, you'd have done it already, taken things into your own hands while he watched you like some kind of lovestruck idiot.

"if i wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead," the lie came surprisingly easy, "i think we could help each other," "help each other?" you repeated it like it was the most ridiculous idea he could've come up with, "why would you think i'd need help from you?" "i'm sure you don't," god, this was not going well, "but we might as well secure our spots as the victors, don't you think? we're down to three other tributes. we could split up, take them out quicker," "yeah, or i could just handle it myself and kill you, too. i don't need another victor,"

"that's not how it works," god, you were infuriating, "let's just call ourselves allies, okay? truce?" you took a step closer, and he couldn't decide if he was afraid or entranced, "fine, ally," it sounded difficult for you to say, "but if you so much as even look at me wrong, you're dead," "i believe you," he nodded, and he supposed he truly did. you didn't seem like the type to let anyone have the upper hand, especially not here. "i have a camp set up near the tree line. you can come with me,"

you showed him your setup, the small bonfire you'd arranged and a tent sent by your sponsor. it was nicer than what he'd had going, just shacking up in a tree, and he guessed it was safer, too, especially with both of you there. "we can sleep in shifts," your tone was all business, like you'd been trained for this just as much as he had, "do you need to go first?" "no, no, you can go ahead," he shook his head, just grateful for an eventual chance at actual rest, "i'll wait out here, make sure nothing comes this way," "you can come inside if it starts to rain," it sounded, once again, like the niceties pained you, "night,"

you disappeared into the tent, leaving him to sit in his own thoughts, busying himself by sorting through your combined supplies and combing through details of the tributes that remained. 8, 10, and 12 weren't exactly trained districts, he knew, and it wouldn't take much of a fight once you finally found them. they'd run out of food soon enough, come searching and stumble on your camp. he was sure of it.

eventually, the rain started, and he hesitated before unzipping the tent, climbing just enough inside to keep out of the storm. he made the mistake of glancing towards you, all the breath knocked from his lungs as he looked over your sleeping face, every ounce of tension and apprehension drained. you were peaceful, he thought, your cheeks flushed with warmth and your lips parted. he had to force his eyes away, embarrassed of the way something so simple had made him feel. this is the fucking hunger games, he reminded himself, not the time to be stupid.

you woke up after a while, immediately returning to your typical state, grabbing a knife and telling him he could get some sleep. he settled into the makeshift pillow, thoughts occupied by how you had just been there, how you were breathing the same air. he heard someone humming outside the tent as he dozed off, distantly aware that it had to have been you.

you were outside poking at a small fire when he woke hours later, the embers casting an orange glow over your face. "sleep okay?" you asked, glancing up at him. he just nodded, voice hoarse from sleep still, and settled down beside you on the damp ground. "8's dead," you told him, tracing a line in the dirt. "what?" you sounded so nonchalant, he almost thought he misheard you, "did you- or was it someone else?"

"someone else. probably 10, if i had to assume," you shrugged, "down to two, though, if 10 doesn't get to 12 before we do. i'd like to be done by morning," "you're confident," he mumbled, watching you from the corner of his eye, "do you want to go after them? or let them come to us?" "probably just stay here, at this point. we'll hear them coming, at least, and less chance of us getting separated," the thought alone was enough to set him on edge, "yeah, good idea," he nodded, "so what's district four like?"

the two of you stayed that way for hours, idle conversation about your own lives, comparing training stories and tricks you'd learned. you were more like him than he realized, the same sharp lines and realistic thinking. it was like looking into a distorted mirror. where he was raised to be a machine, to forever live this way, you'd only been raised to win, then to live a normal, functional life.

he'd given little to no thought to after, while that seemed to be the only thing getting you through. "when i win this, i'm gonna go home," you told him, the darkness making you look vulnerable, somehow, "i'm not staying in that victor's village. i'm gonna go back to four," you told him about the beaches, about how your family would go out every afternoon and walk along the shore. he couldn't imagine anything more beautiful, more free. he desperately hoped that it would become reality for you. "i'll probably go wherever they put me," he shrugged, "haven't given it much thought,"

you looked at him then, face all serious, "this is your life, art. don't ever let them take that from you," your hand was on his arm, clutching it like that would make him hear you more, "they might have you trapped now, but keep on with that attitude and they'll have you trapped forever," it was staggering, hearing you say such things about the capitol. no one spoke freely that way, no one spoke out or encouraged even the smallest acts of rebellion. it filled him with a strange sort of ache, a yearning for something he hadn't known he wanted. maybe he could run along the beach with you, he thought distantly, maybe he could have a real life.

the sound of another canon pulled him from his thoughts, the girl from 12's face flashing through the night. "oh my god," you laughed, a startling, awakening sound, "i told you! there's just one now!" and then your arms were around him, hugging him like you weren't waiting for the last tribute to come try and kill one of you, like you weren't stranded in a makeshift paradise that existed only for torture. he let himself lean into the fantasy, into you, for just one blissful moment, his arms wrapping around you as tight as he'd allow himself. "we'll be out of here soon," he mumbled, unsure who exactly he was reassuring, "promise,

when it was time for his sleep shift, you'd followed him into the tent, perched at the end of the sleeping bag quietly. "tell me more about home?" he asked, already half asleep. you'd smiled, quick and subtle, but enough for him to catch it. then you'd continued on and on, about the water and the people you missed and the rain that broke through the scorching summers. he listened until he couldn't anymore, and when he fell asleep, he dreamed of it.

he woke with a start, mouth dry, ears ringing, to find you missing. panic crept into his veins, his heart racing as he tore of the blankets, trying to reassure himself that you were just tending to the fire outside. "art!" the scream tore through the night, and he was out of the tent in an instant, eyes searching rapidly for any trace of you.

you were holding your own, but looked horrified as the tribute from 10 fought you, nearly backing you into a nearby tree as he swung again and again with his knife, too close for art's comfort. "stay away from her!" it came out with such force he startled even himself as he rushed towards the two of you with no real plan other than to get the boy off of you. the tribute turned, reaching for art, and in that split second your knife was in his chest, a gasp leaving him as you twisted with a sick, tearing sound. "are you okay?" he didn't care that you'd just won, couldn't focus on anything other than the bruise blooming along your cheekbone, or the tear in your coat, "jesus, i didn't even hear-"

you threw yourself at him, your arms around his shoulders, pressed flush against him as you trembled, "we did it," you exhaled, voice shaky and sharp, "thank you," "what are allies for?" he half joked, one arm coming to wrap around your waist, the other cradling your head, "please tell me you're okay," "i'm fine," you pulled back to wipe your eyes, "asshole came at me while i wasn't looking, elbowed me in the face. i promise i'm okay,"

the final canon cracked through the air as he traced his fingers over the bruise, surveying the damage, and the two of you paused to take one final look around the arena, the place where everything had changed. the next few moments were a blur, peacekeepeers escorting you to choppers and lifting you out, back to the capitol. art's hand never left yours, holding you as close as he could manage through it all, until you were forced to separate by capitol staff and dragged to your own bedrooms to get cleaned up. you may have won the games, but it was far from over, he knew.

he didn't see you again for hours, and had to constantly remind himself that you were safe, you were out. he was tense all over as the stylists did their work, pampering him until you could never tell he'd spent days on end doing things he'd never forget. he was rushed out to the victor's parade entrance, where he'd overheard you'd be meeting him, anticipation adding to his already racing thoughts.

when you finally came, he nearly turned away, ashamed of the way he was thinking about you in the moment. you were a wash of color, a dress as blue as the oceans back in your district clinging to your figure, pale flowers woven through your intricately put together hairstyle, a dusting of silver on your eyelids. you were so beautiful, the picture of resilience and life, of everything he wasn't. art's outfit was a stark contrast of your own, an all black suit with smudges of gold under his eyes, void of any excitement or lavishness.

"hated being away from you," the statement passed between the two of you like a secret, your voice soft, "who knew three days could make someone so attached?" "well we did survive together," his hand settled on your low back as he helped you into the victor's carriage, "i was worried the entire time," you slipped your hand over his along the railing as the parade started, smiling brightly and waving like a true professional, like you were made for this. he caught on after a bit, remembering his role and playing it well, but his free hand stayed with yours the entire time.

two long, painful days later, all the post-game interviews were done, all the press was appeased, you were truly free, or at least as much as you could be. you'd come to art's room that night, knocking lightly, and he'd panicked before discovering it was only you. "i just wanted to see you," you said softly, hovering by the door, "i shouldn't stay, but i needed to thank you. you saved my life," he pat the bed beside him, desperate to keep you a little longer, "there's no one i'd rather have won with," he smiled slightly, and he found that he truly did mean that. you may have been the only person he'd ever had these feelings for.

"i wanted to tell you before someone else did," you looked hesitant, "they agreed to let me go home, so i really won't be joining you in the village. i'll have a house there, i think, just a formality. but i'll be on the train home tomorrow morning," a horrible wave of conflicting emotions settled over him. he was unbearably happy that you'd return to your own district, have some sense of normalcy, but he couldn't ignore the ache at the thought of being away from you after all you'd been through together. "that's great," he hoped it sounded sincere, "really, i know how badly you wanted to go home,"

"i'll see you after the reaping next year," you smiled despite the tears he found forming in your eyes, "we'll be mentors together," "right, of course," he nodded, clearing his throat. "i meant it, when i said thank you," you laid your hand over top his, "i couldn't have survived that without you, art," "you were doing pretty well yourself," a small smile crossed his lips, "but you're welcome. thank you, too. i'm sure i couldn't have made it through the last couple nights without your camp," i was losing my mind out there, he wanted to tell you, you kept me sane.

he rested his palm against your cheek, just over the partially healed bruise, "i had the time of my life winning the games with you," he'd hoped it would come out like a joke, but his voice cracked halfway through, his eyes watering, "please take care of yourself," "you can come visit," you looked hopeful, vulnerable, "you'd love it there," "i know i would," he stroked the skin of your jaw lightly, "i'll come when i can, i promise," "isn't it odd, to go from strangers to-" you stopped, a tear slipping, "to whatever this is, killing together, to strangers again?" "oh, we won't ever be strangers," he gave you a small laugh, wiping your eyes, "you'll always know me,"

your hand moved up, resting on his bicep, and the two of you sat in silence, only your quiet breathing echoing inside the room. "you're more than just a tribute," you whispered, "don't forget that, okay? promise me," it caught him off guard, the breath catching in his throat at the sincerity in your voice, "you showed me that," he finally managed, "what you said about not letting them control me, it stuck," "good," there was a ghost of a smile on your lips, "you're so brave, art. do you know that?"

he let his eyes close, your words warming his chest, "it's just the way i was raised," "you're more than that," your hand worked its way up to his shoulders, then his jaw, resting there lightly, "you're a human being with a soul and a will and a life," a quiet, desperate sort of noise left his throat as he tried to hold back tears, "stop talkin like you're never gonna see me again," "i'm just telling you what everyone else should have been this whole time," you murmured, and he felt something inside him snap at the softness in your tone. he pulled you into his lap, his hands trembling as he rested them on your waist before taking your own to place them on his shoulders, "you make me feel alive," he said quietly, hoping to make you understand the depth of it, "like i'm real," "you are real," your breath was fanning over his lips, "real as anything else,"

you kissed him, finally, and it felt like he was waking up, like he'd been blind and finally saw a sunrise, like everything in him was on fire. his hands wound in your hair, kissing you back feverishly deep, pulling you close and aching for more within seconds. you kissed him like you could pry him open and pour your own soul's goodness into him, like you could heal all his wounds if you just tried. he was gasping into your mouth, his hands grabbing anywhere he could, desperate for more but terrified to push it too far.

you led his hands to the hem of your shirt, pulling back to catch your breath, "i want this," you panted softly, "you can do what you want," that set him off, and both of your clothes were off in a pile minutes later, his lips brushing over your throat as you scratched at his scalp. "never felt like this before," he mumbled into your skin, trailing lower as he spoke, "thank you," "don't have to thank me," you said softly, pulling him back up to kiss him again, rolling off his lap to lay back on the bed, pulling him over you. he was helpless to your commands, desperate to do whatever you wanted. his hands trembled as he slid off your underwear, his own soon after, never pulling away from your lips.

he gripped your thigh as he slid inside you, your choked moan muffled by his mouth, small noises passing between you. "oh, god," your back arched, head falling against the pillow as his hands settled on your hips, holding you tightly as if you might slip away. "you're so beautiful," he whispered, afraid that if he gotten any louder he'd be unable to hold back his moans, "you look like an angel," he thought of the first time he saw you in training, the way you moved like a swan in water, so similar to the way you laid beneath him now. your legs wrapped around him, pulling him down closer so you could kiss him again, whimpering against his lips.

he was gentle with you, taking his time to draw out the moments he had with you, fleeting as they may have been. his head settled in the crook of your shoulder, kissing any spare inch of skin as he fucked you, hands trembling. your cheeks were damp, and for a brief moment he was horrified that he'd hurt you. "i'm okay," you whispered, kissing his jaw, "just a lot," he knew what you meant, this all consuming warp of emotions in his chest, the desperation clawing at his throat.

he intertwined his fingers in yours as his pace quickened slightly, the sound of soft moans and skin against skin filling the room. your free hand rested on his shoulders, nails scratching against him slightly, just enough to pull a groan from his swollen lips. his free hand went between your thighs, gentle even as he pressed against your clit, a surprised gasp leaving your throat, "oh, art, just like that," he was chasing your pleasure with fervor, hips rocking faster as you clenched around him, cheeks flushed and eyes rolled back. he committed it to memory, let the image burn into his mind as you came undone beneath him, muffling your sounds with your hand. he followed soon after, pulling out of you as he released onto your thigh, panting softly.

he took his time cleaning you up after, returning from the bathroom with a warm towel to wipe you down, humming quietly. "you really are beautiful," he said softly, pressing a kiss to your hipbone after he finished, "like a piece of art," you trailed your fingers over his, smiling hazily, "you're like one of the statues from before," you yawned, "like one of those greek men," he smiled at that, kissing your knuckles, "i don't know about all that, angel," "i do," you sounded so sure, he didn't bother to argue further.

he frowned when you sat up, stretching and reaching for your clothes. "you're going?" "my train leaves first thing in the morning," you reminded him, fastening your pants, "i have to be in my room when the peacekeepers come," "right, of course," he nodded, chest aching once again, "i can walk you," "you shouldn't," you shook your head, leaning down to kiss him again, smiling against his lips, "goodnight, art,"

"goodbye," he said softly, and you shook your head quickly, frowning, "not goodbye, just goodnight. i'll see you soon, right? you'll come visit?" "yeah, i will," he nodded, watching you head for the door, thinking of the space you'd carved out in his mind with a jolt, "goodnight, then. please be safe," "you know where to find me," you waved with two fingers, "i'll write you if i don't hear from you soon," and then you were gone, and he felt sick, revolted by the thought of moving into some big empty house in victor's village while yours sat empty next door.

he had the distant thought that he may have been falling in love with you. then, he turned out the lamp and went to sleep. machines didn't love, and you had not changed him forever. you were just a girl, he told himself. but when he slept, he dreamt of seeing you again, of your sunkissed cheeks and salt sprayed hair running along the beach of your hometown. he'd see you soon, after all.

[jetblack4realz]

protector - haymitch abernathy

watched

masterlist

after three months of being in your own districts, you finally reunite in the capitol.

warnings: sexualizing, allusions to sa and gross people, spoilers to sotr, age gap of like 3 years

word count: 1.7k

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

it'd been three months since you'd seen him.

three months of chaperoned phonecalls and secret letters you were always scared would show up opened and read through.

three months of wondering what that last kiss really meant to him.

three months of being watched and preened and coated in different ointments that prevented you from getting sundamaged like the poor fishermen of 4, but still tanned like a "golden goddess" as your stylist put it. it took a lot of convincing to be allowed out of your home and onto the ocean like you were used to - she was convinced you'd get sunburnt, skincancer, and become a tragedy like those old sonnets of the old days.

and now you were headed back to the capitol, all for the entertainment of the sponsors and citizens you were sure. and probably the president too.

he'd spoken with your grandmother soon after you returned the first time. she didn't tell you what he said and she promised she wouldn't.

but haymitch knew. you were sure haymitch knew.

he was headed back to the capitol too, of course. you were both thrilled and entirely too worried for it.

again, you'd spent three entire months thinking over your last kiss, and you weren't sure if you wanted answers to the number of questions you had.

the district 4 train pulled up to the station way quicker than you were expecting, its exterior shiny and new, a striking silver color that blinded you when in the sun.

you stepped out with a small smile, waving politely at the lineup of fans blocked off with a purple velvet rope. you felt inappropriately dressed, in a dark blue satin dress and a large black coat with gold clasps over your shoulders. it was left on your doorstep the night before you left with the instructions to wear it today.

a few other of the more popular victors then stepped out behind you, each moving to approach friends from other districts that were getting off their trains.

"haymitch is here!"

you turned your head to see two tween girls in matching yellow dresses and wigs waving excitedly to get your attention and pointing down the platform.

"haymitch is here!"

"go get him!"

you smiled at them and nodded, offering them a wave as you walked the direction they were pointing. "thanks girls!"

your eyes scanned the area as you walked hastily down the platform towards where you assumed the district 12 train had stopped.

it seemed like everyone else was looking for him too.

capitol citizens, train attendants, and peacekeepers were all watching you watch the platform, and you began to shrink in on yourself.

until you heard your name.

just once.

and you turned to see haymitch.

dressed in a blue coat that fit him perfectly and yet he looked entirely too casual for, and black slacks that also fit him way too well. his hair was slightly too long, like he'd tried to cut it himself and gave up halfway, but still had that shaggy golden shine you were used to.

and he was smiling like usual; a charming, idiotic, mouthy rascal who at the same time was the most genuine person anyone could ever meet.

his eyes were sharp and gray, but as you stepped towards him they shifted back to the baby blue you'd been thinking about for three whole months.

you don't hug.

you didn't expect to.

"you look exactly the same," you told him, a small smile on your lips.

he snorted. "disappointed?"

"honestly? a bit," you sighed, still grinning..

"coulda just told me you missed me," he teased.

"well, i don't believe in lying," you told him, your smile growing as he stepped closer to you.

the air between you was thick as he stared down at you, his hands clasping yours gently. his voice dropped, quieter then. "hi honey."

"hi," you breathed out.

and then the moment flickered and you suddenly realized how many eyes were around, all waiting to see the next moment of the golden couple of panem's lovely reunion.

"i'm not touching you until there aren't cameras," he mumbled quietly.

"you're already touching me, haymitch," you said with a light laugh.

"well," he hummed, a smirk pulling at his lips. "you know what i mean." and then he let go of one hand, pulling you forward off the station with the other. "come on, honey. i've got lots to talk to you."

"oh, you do, now?" you asked with a laugh.

he shrugged, glancing back at you with a lopsided grin. "not really. just want to be off this station and away from public eye."

"oh, i see," you giggled and followed him out of the sea of watching eyes and giggling girls where a light blue limousine was waiting for you both.

you held his hand tightly as he began his usual complaining about capitol attendants, eyes on the specific attendant that was driving you. he kept glancing at you in the rearview mirror and it was unsettling.

haymitch pulled on your hand to get your attention back on him, shaking his head slightly. a short silence passed between you both before he began a new story.

by the time that you reached the hotel that had been arranged for you both, you'd been squeezing his hand so tight that he was trying to peel your fingers off.

"geez, honey, you're cutting off circulation here," he laughed as you walked into the hotel.

"sorry," you mumbled, glancing back at where the driver had rolled down his window to watch.

he leaned against the front counter with a grin. "got a keycard for me pal?"

the frontdesk boy eyed you over haymitch's shoulder before he procured a thin purple card and handed it to the district 12 victor. he didn't say anything, just nodded slowly when he looked back at the other man.

haymitch took the card, brows furrowed as he stepped back. "thanks."

he pulled you into the elevator quickly, glancing around at the various avoxes and peacekeepers who were all watching you unnervingly.

"why are they watching?" you asked as soon as the doors shut.

"honey, they're always watching," he answered gently.

"not like this. not like now," you mumbled, stepping towards him as you held his hands tighter. "it's like they know something we don't."

"like i said, hun," he sighed. "they do."

the doors chimed as the elevator stopped and they opened dramatically slowly. you squeezed his hand and let him walk you out and to the room number matching that of the card he'd been given when you entered the hotel.

you stepped in and shut the door immediately behind you, your hand finally slipping from his as you let out a sigh and locked the handle. he turned to look at you, brows raised.

"their eyes feel like weights," you told him. "i forgot how heavy they are."

"yeah, well, i think they are a bit worse now," he said.

you huffed. "why?"

"because it's been three months and they've all been chomping at the bit to see the two of us together," he answered, running a hand over his mouth. "snow's probably frustrated."

"you would know. you know what he told gigi."

"nothing too important," he told you, shaking his head.

"it's snow - of course it's important, haymitch," you said, furrowing your brows. "what the hell did he say to her? did he say anything to you?"

he hesitated, falling back to lay on the bed as his hands covered his face. "i was going to tell you."

"haymitch."

"he told me he knows what we're doing. he knows and he says we need to perform. people won't stay entertained for too long."

"haymitch..." you breathed out.

he sighed, sitting up as he shook his head. "i'm sorry, honey. i thought we would be fine, but he's always a step ahead, i'm sorry."

"haymitch," you said quietly, pushing off the door and stopping in front of him. "it's not your fault snow's a psycho. we just have to keep going. i mean, we knew it'd be the long game when we got started, right?"

he let out a dry laugh. "right. i just thought we'd have the upper hand."

"from what i've gathered, h, we never had a shot at the upper hand," you told him, hands resting on the space between his neck and shoulders as he looked up at you. you smiled sadly. "but, at least it's still working, and we still have each other. it's working out."

"if we keep them entertained," he reminded with a disgusted scrunch of his nose.

"yeah. well, we will."

he looked up at you and as he did you realized how long his eyelashes were, framing his beautiful crystal blue eyes beautifully. he smiled gently. "i haven't kissed you in three months."

"you've only kissed me once," you hummed.

"that only makes it worse, honey," he said. he stood, which put him awfully close to you. as his arms winded around your waist, this fact became even more clear to you. he leaned down the slightest, just hovering above your lips.

you smiled. "missed me, darlin'?"

"more than you could guess."

and then he kissed you. fully. intensely. with one hand now on your jaw as he tilted your face towards him and captured your lips in his. your arms wound around his neck as you pulled yourself even closer to him, flush against him as he broke for breath before diving back in.

when he broke away the second time, your eyes fluttered open just enough to meet his. you smiled, breathing out a bit of a laugh as he pulled you even closer, kissing down your neck.

"i missed you, honey. i didn't even realize i could miss a person i'd only known for a month so badly-"

a soft red blinking caught your eye.

"haymitch."

he pulled away in an instant, eyes wide. "i'm sorry, was that too much? i didn't mean-"

"haymitch, look," you said, pushing his shoulder to turn him enough so he could see the flashing red light in the corner of the room. you tucked your head into his shoulder. "like you said."

"they're always watching," he breathed out. he huffed angrily and pressed a kiss to your head, an arm around your shoulders now as you hugged him tightly. "always."

[nebulablakemurphy]

The Winner Takes It All (Part 1)

Summary: Moves and Countermoves AU in which the rebellion never happened. This is very sad and potentially triggering, with discussions of forced prostitution, a pregnancy resulting from it, and alcohol/drug addiction. Proceed with caution.

It’s reaping day. The last one that Everest will ever attend, he’ll be nineteen when the next one rolls around. After that he’ll only need to worry about Arista for a few more years…until Honey turns twelve that is.

His parents wanted to name her Daisy, before realizing that it didn’t fit their image. The perfect victor family with their perfect victor names. Some part of Everest wishes they’d stuck with it, his youngest sister, now nearly eight, looks more like a Daisy May than a Honey Bliss.

She resembles their mother, the eyes, her picture perfect nose; but her smile is different. Unlike their mother or father’s, with the deepest dimples Panem has ever seen. If he’s being honest, even though he’ll never say so out loud, Honey looks like Finnick.

Pair that with the fact that anyone named after a flower it subject to Snow’s wrath, for reminding him of Katniss. And poor hypothetical Daisy would’ve had a target on her back. That’s the most sense Everest can make of it anyway.

The year Katniss won everything changed. Rules got stricter, people got hungrier, Y/N and Haymitch got quieter, traveling to the Capitol for business more than ever.

Everest and his siblings have never been made privy to the things that happen there. But their parents were never the same after.

Katniss takes after Haymitch, using booze to numb the pain of…doing what she had to, to get home to Prim. Not that there was anything she could’ve done for Peeta anyway. The nightlock was in his mouth just a second before they announced both of them could go home.

She doesn’t like to talk about it. No one does. Just like Honey and the Capitol, Peeta Mellark is a sore subject.

“Everest,” Honey calls, bursting into his room. “Mom says you have to come downstairs.”

“Where is mom?”

“With Vanity.” The girl, with a head full of ringlet curls, tells him.

Their mother’s stylist has clearly already tended to her.

“She says you have a special outfit.”

“Special outfit,” Everest raises his brows. “Wouldn’t want to miss that would I?”

“You can’t wear your pajamas to the square, the cameras will see you.” Honey reminds him, a hint of fear creeping into her voice.

“I’m coming.” Everest assures her, no reason to get the poor kid worked up. She’s anxious enough, knowing that she’ll soon be standing on the sidelines of the justice building beside Aunt Madge; watching as their parents get carted off with a fresh pair of tributes who probably won’t return.

The gig got easier with time, Everest knows what is expected of him and he doesn’t worry. Arista doesn’t love the cameras, but she tolerates them. Honey is still learning, equal parts nervous and excited for the call of ‘action.’

Everest follows her down the stairs to find Arista on the pedestal. Her hair in soft waves, the way Vanity often styles his mother’s. Her dress is a lime green number with feathers along the trim. A dress from his mother’s victory tour.

“Absolutely stunning.” Vanity rejoices, patting Arista’s cheek.

There is never any mistaking them for normal children from district 12. They are the victors’ kids, born with silver spoons in their mouths, without knowing the cost.

Y/N smiles at her daughter, but there’s a sadness in her eyes that outweighs it. Her dress is a deep blue, sequin and lace monstrosity.

Not something his mother would choose for herself in a hundred years.

Haymitch isn’t much better, in his matching suit, “what do you need, Honey?” He sighs as the little girl tugs at his hand.

She beckons him down to her eye level.

Haymitch never treated her any differently than his biological children. She’s Y/N’s so the rest isn’t important to him. Honey spent the first year of her life in his arms and every year since tugging at the strings of his heart.

“Alright, you’re up.” Vanity waves Everest over. Presenting him a suit he hasn’t been fitted for.

“My dad’s post games interview suit?” Everest frowns, “you shouldn’t have.” She really, really shouldn’t have.

“Only the best for you.” Vanity smiles, “try it on, we can make alterations.”

Everest excuses himself to the washroom with the garments. Reluctantly stepping into them. He looks more like Haymitch Abernathy than his father does, by now.

Aunt Madge has arrived by the time he returns to the living room. Almost showtime.

“Wow,” Madge says, at the sight of him.

“What?” Everest rakes a hand through his hair.

“It fits.”

“Could be taken in just a bit at the shoulders.” Vanity decides, helping him onto the pedestal and pinning the fabric for a quick stitch before deeming them all camera ready.

The trek to the square isn’t long by any means, each of them splintering off to their assigned places. Y/N and Haymitch to the stage. Honey and Madge to the viewing area. Everest and Arista to the check in line.

Everest remembers the first time he was here, twelve years old, heart pounding out of his chest. He swears to this day that the prick of his finger felt like a gaping wound. He didn’t cry though. He hardly feels the needle these days.

The woman at the pop up table confirms his attendance and waves him on. He waits for Arista even though he’s not technically supposed to, a privilege no other siblings are afforded.

Arista puts a hand to his back as she joins him. “Last year, big shot.” Next year she’ll be standing here alone.

“You’re next,” he reminds her. Only four more years.

Arista nods, allowing the aisle to separate them once more.

“Make sure we have cameras five, six and seven on the Abernathy kids!” A disembodied voice announces to the film crew.

Must not have gotten enough coverage last year.

Arista shifts uncomfortably in her shoes as the camera lens comes close to her face. “Might want to back up a bit. Widen the shot to see the others but like…center me. Yeah?”

The camera operator nods, “thanks. It’s my first day.”

I can tell. “You’re gonna do great.”

“Cameras one and two on the stage, make sure we have the escort, Y/N and Haymitch.”

Y/N squeezes her husband’s hand.

“You ok?” Haymitch squeezes back.

“Yeah.”

“Cameras three and four on the crowd, make sure we’re ready to tighten up on the tributes after they’re selected.”

The orders are barked until the director is satisfied with the placements.

“New crew for your beauty shots this year, Abernathy?” The boy behind Everest inquires.

“Looks like it.”

“Congratulations on aging out, it’s my last year too.”

“Congratulations to you too.”

“I’ve got at least forty slips in that bowl,”

Tesserae. “May the odds be in your favor.”

“Do you think your name’s in there at all?”

Everest turns to him with a smile, the cameras are watching. “Of course, just like everyone else.”

“But you’re not like everyone else, you’re the victors’ kid.”

“Welcome, welcome.”

Saved by the bell known as Effie Trinket.

Everest was never sure how to feel about Effie. But from what he does know of her, she’s an angel compared to Cordelia Walters; the district 12 escort back when he was too young to stay home with Madge and was annually shuttled to the Capitol with his parents to mentor the games.

The pre reaping propaganda is played on the large projection screens on either side of the stage. It is their great honor to be here after all, year after year, offering themselves up as penance for their ‘crimes’ against the Capitol.

The female tribute is chosen first. Not Arista, but a girl from town named, “Whimsy Tecker.”

She stumbles toward the stage on shaky legs. Fiery red hair tied behind her head in a neat lavender bow.

Poor Whimsy.

“And now for the boys.” Effie says, plunging her hand into the second bowl. Reaching down toward the bottom and pulling out a folded piece of paper. Opening the crisp white parchment and pausing, nearly dropping it to the ground.

Effie never hesitates.

“Everest Abernathy.”

Oh.

Oh shit.

“What?” Arista says, inching toward the stage.

“Let me see that.” Haymitch demands, marching up to Effie and tearing the paper from her hands.

The boys around Everest have begun to clear away, as though he is now contagious.

“Guess the odds were in your favor after all.” Everest nods to the boy behind him. Making his way up to the justice building before the peacekeepers step in.

Y/N meets him on the stairs, “everything is going to be ok.”

Poor Whimy is sobbing. Her chances of winning just dropped below zero. She stands no chance of winning against Everest Abernathy. Mentored by his own parents, beloved by the Capitol and all its sponsors.

Haymitch is still holding the paper with his son’s name on it. Effie hadn’t read it wrong.

“This isn’t fair.” Whimsy’s father protests. “How are they going to help my daughter when it’s her life or their kid’s? Who’s going to look after my little girl? This isn’t right.”

“We are going to take the necessary precautions to ensure that the hunger games are fair to all tributes.” Effie assures him.

But the games aren’t fair. They never have been and they never will be.

Part 2

Series Taglist: @lovely-waves @pookiei-bookie

[der7py]

Yandere Radio host x reader

Victor Rodriguez was the most popular radio host there was to date! He had late night talks shows, was always on the evening and morning radio, and was super charismatic! Only problem? He didn't have a co-star. But you'd make a lovely co-star.

Warnings: Mature language, addresses being leaked (only to yandere), stalking, car tampering, hero complex, mentions of abusive households

You swear that Victor was always on the air! Day and night, on every station. You could've sworn nobody listened to radio anymore! But apparently, with this new hotshot, everybody did now.

It's not that you disliked the man. He didn't do anything wrong. Surprisingly, unlike other radio hosts, he wasn't that boastful. But you were just sick of hearing him all the damn time.

Eventually, you tuned in (your friends wanted you to listen to him for once), and you made the mistake of accidentally calling in.

"Hello, this is Victor Rodriguez speaking! Who do I have the pleasure of talking to?" Oh wow, he answered the radio like it was just a normal contact in his phone!

You two had a surprising, really meaningful conversation! He didn't talk over you, poke fun at you for his listeners, and actually remembered things about you in the short time you talked.

You actually emailed him (he has a work email), and he responded back! You two emailed for a bit before exchanging numbers since you had made plans to hang out with him!

_______________________

Shit! You were running late! Your car just wouldn't start, and now you don't even know if he's still there. But before you could call a mechanic, a black car pulled into your driveway, and a very concerned Victor immediately jumped out of his car. "Are you okay? You didn't show up for a while, and I was worried if you got into an accident!" You felt your face heat up and start to turn pink. No man had ever done what he did. Usually, they just got impatient and left at the first minute. But Victor... he actually went looking for you. To make sure you were safe.

"Yeah sorry, my car just won't fucking start." You explained, pointing at your car which was a pretty old model. Victor cocked his head, peering into the car, before looking back at you. "You got tools so we can pop the hood up? Maybe it's the engine." What happened next you had no control over. It was magic even. You opened the hood, grabbed a toolbox out of your garage, and handed it to him. In the next 30 minutes, he had fixed whatever problem your car had.

Victor turned back to look at you with a goofy smile, and you swore your heart was moving a mile too fast. "All done! But the ice cream parlor is probably closing by now. Do you wanna just hang out here?" He asked, and you nodded your head immediately. It was surprisingly a really nice day with him! You both had a cookout, lounged in the sun, and even had a water balloon fight. You were having so much fun, you let one thing slip your mind.

How the hell did he know where you lived.

_______________________

Okay, so maybe he has every caller's address show to him and only him so he can stay safe. It's not his fault! He didn't know if his step-dad was still looking for him.

After he ran away from his abusive household (promising his mother and little siblings, he'd come back and save them from his step-dad's wrath), he immediately got picked up from a small radio station who needed a new radio host after the last one quit.

Clearly, he was better than what he expected because now he had worked his way up to the top radio station and was on nearly every channel!

So when you called in, he just expected a regular old caller, like always. But you... you were different. You actually talked to him. You made him feel alive in a way he didn't know was possible.

So he may have copied your address down just in case he needed to give you a surprise visit, but hey, who's really paying attention? Not him, and apparently not you either cause you did not have a care in the world when he showed up at your house.

You didn't even know that your car was perfectly fine the night before. But it's okay! Because he got to come to the rescue when your car wouldn't start! Even if he was the one who fucked up your engine so he could play hero.

But it's fine! Cause you didn't care, and let him play the hero. You let him be your savior! And that was perfect for him. You were perfect.

Just let him keep playing the hero. You need a hero in this world with someone as perfect as you. Just keep tuning in, and let him save you.

[sweetdispatch]

Creme brulee, pineapple, 6, cotton candy. Your writing is amazing. I love it

First time - V. Mancini

v' bakery pairing: Victor Mancini x fem!reader summary: Before Victor, you had never been in a relationship and you never had a sexual contact with men, Victor understood that you want to wait but his drunk confession made you feel ready warning: NSFW, graphic sex (+18), mention of thigh riding, oral (f receiving) note: thank you so much love for the words! and i hope you'll like it❤️honourable mention to @hockeyboistrash who showed me the slutty photo of victor' thigh that made me feel like i have to mention it here haha

The relationship between you and Victor was perfect. You loved him madly and were willing to do everything for him. His schedule was busy but you were always finding the gaps to spend together with his free time. He always appreciated that you’re managing yours and his calendar because he was an awful person with the concept of time. 

Mostly, you were spending time at night. You were always showing up in Victor’ apartment to have dinner and movie night. He always hoped that this time you’ll be ready for something more than just kisses and making out but you always stopped him before the things went further. 

Before you started dating Victor, you had never been in a relationship. This also meant that you never had sex. When you met him, you were embarrassed about it but he never laughed at you because of that. He reassured you that he can wait until you're ready. You felt comfortable with him but still, you were scared. 

In every situation when you felt that you’re ready, the stress was taking over you. It was like something was blocking you from having sex with Victor. He never pushed you but deep down you knew that he won’t wait forever for you to be ready and you were right about it. 

You took Victor to a party with you. Your friend had a birthday and she told you that you can bring your boyfriend. It was summer time so both of you could get drunk without consequences of the responsibilities the next day. After midnight, you got back home intoxicated and sat on the couch. 

Victor pulled you on his lap but you sat on his thigh. You two were making out when you were slowly moving on his thigh. You could feel the pleasure from the stimulation. You thought it’s nothing much and it wasn’t the first time you were doing this but Victor’s words made you stop. 

“I want to ruin you. You don’t have a clue how much I want to fuck you” Vicor said with drunk voice. 

When the words left his mouth, you froze on his thigh. You didn’t know if you should be mad at him or yourself. You felt sobered when he said it. After a moment, you stood up and went to the bathroom. You cried your heart there, feeling like an awful girlfriend. You didn’t realise how long you were sitting there until you heard Victor pounding on the door. 

“You good there?” Victor asked you and you replied quickly yes. 

You left the bathroom and went to the closet to change into pajamas. You didn't care about the makeup on your face. You desperately needed to get some sleep before you start overthinking Victor’ words. He was already asleep next to you and you looked at his peaceful figure and his chest rising. 

The next morning, you woke up with a glass of water and painkillers on the nightstand. You sipped the water and went to the kitchen. You saw Victor making breakfast there. When he spotted you, he kissed your cheek and asked you how you were feeling. Your answer was short and this took him by surprise because you were always elaborating. 

“What’s going on in your pretty head? I can tell that something is wrong” Victor sat next to you and put his hand on your thigh.

“I’m thinking about your words from yesterday and feel like a bad girlfriend” You told him truthfully. 

“What did I say?” Victor was shocked by your confession because he didn’t remember anything from last night. 

“You said that you want to fuck me” You told him ignoring the eye contact.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Before Victor could finish the sentence you stopped him. 

“No, you are right. I should let you fuck me. I’m ready but I never said anything because I was scared but I know that I’m ready and it made me feel like a failure because it’s girlfriend’ job to please her boyfriend” You said in one breath. Victor placed a hand on your chin and forced you to look at him. 

“Baby, it’s your decision and not mine. I might say it but that doesn't mean you have to do it. You’re not a failure, never say it. Never even think of it. It’s your feelings and it’s normal to be scared. There’s nothing like girlfriend’ job is to please her boyfriend. The only job I need from you is to love me in my good and bad days. This is also my job” Victor told you and you believed him. 

“What if I’m ready to do it?” You asked him. 

“Then I’m ready too but I want you to be your decision” Victor said and with his thumb caressed your cheek. 

“I am ready” You whispered and kissed him. 

Victor grabbed your hand and led you to the bedroom. He kissed you passionately and took off his shirt. You felt the redness on your cheeks at the view. No matter how many times you saw him shirtless, you always felt shy. 

“Can I?” Victor asked you and grabbed the end of your shirt. 

You nodded your head and in quick move, Victor got rid of your shirt. You were standing in front of him only in your panties. Your hands covered your boobs and you felt how your face was burning from embarrassment of being so vulnerable in front of him. He placed his hands on top of yours. 

“You don’t have to be shy in front of me. You're a gorgeous baby and nothing will change that but if you don’t feel it, put the shirt back on. I don’t want to do this if you don’t feel comfortable” Victor said and you wanted to cry at how cute and patient he was with you. 

“I’m sorry but I don’t think I’m ready to lay naked in front of you” You said and put the shirt back on.

“Don’t apologise. If you don’t want to do it, I can wait” Victor told you and caressed your arm. 

“I want to do it but I’m just not ready to be fully naked” Victor didn’t say anything, only nodded. He knew about your body image issues and he didn’t want to push you to do something against you. 

Victor pushed you lightly on the bed and kissed your lips. His hands took off your panties but you were still covered down there with the shirt. He kneeled in front of you and parted your legs apart. His finger slowly went through your folds and you moaned at the contact. 

“Before I do anything more, if any action will be too much for you, just say stop alright?” Victor asked you and you agreed. 

Victor licked his lips and put his mouth on your pussy. His tongue was slowly moving on your lower lips and you felt incredible. You were moaning at every little contact of his lips on you. He was slow, didn’t want to rush you or scare you away. He took all the time to give you pleasure. 

When Victor felt that you’re relaxed, he sucked your clit. You were surprised by this move but loved it. By instinct, your hands went to his hair and pulled them slightly. His hands were firmly on your thighs to keep your legs apart and have better access. He was eating you out and you felt incredible. The orgasm hit you by surprise. You arched your back and moaned loudly his name. He stood up and kissed your lips. 

“How are you feeling?” Victor asked you. 

“Great, a little bit overwhelmed but overall great” You told him with a smile on your lips. 

“Do you want to continue or we stop here?” Victor asked you again. 

“Can we stop here? I don’t think I’m ready for real sex” You told him embarrassedly. 

“Of course, I’ll be waiting for you to be ready. I love you and thank you” Victor told you and hugged you. 

“I love you too but for what are you thanking me?” You were confused. 

“For trusting me. It might sound stupid but for me it’s a huge thing that you felt comfortable enough with me so I could give you your first orgasm” Victor said and you felt your face burning. 

You didn’t say anything, just laughed nervously. You knew that this was the first step in opening to Victor fully but the little panic you had when he took off your shirt showed you that you weren't 100% ready. That’s why you were grateful that he understood it and didn’t push you for sex.

[reccyls]

Victor's Main Route: Chapter 18

< Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter >

His POV Story - spoiler warning

Like Chapter 9, the POV story for this chapter is unlocked on a second playthrough so it has spoilers for later chapters in it. Therefore I am posting it separately but it will be linked above.

-----

Kate: They’re done!

As I held up the completed schedules in triumph, Victor, who had been leaning against the back of the sofa, looked up.

Victor: Good work.

Kate: It’s thanks to your help, thank you so much.

He had stayed with me for the entire night. As I worked on the schedules, he quizzed me about the guards’ positions and the names of the guests that would be arriving. We’d spent pretty much the entire night like that, until he moved to lean against the sofa a little bit before dawn. He hadn’t been asleep, but I’d still felt bad since he was resting with his eyes closed. Our shoulders had been touching, and the warmth from that had spread all the way to my fingertips. His languid posture made him seem a dozen times more seductive than usual.

Victor: It’s thanks to your own diligence, Kate.

His soft, sultry voice was bad for my heart. Everything seemed to be hitting me harder than usual because I hadn’t gotten any sleep last night. Even the way he stood and looked at me made my heart skip a beat.

Victor: I’ll head back first. There’s still some time, so you should get some rest.

Kate: But you–

Victor: I’ve gotten some rest already. I’ll be fine. Victor: I can sneak in a nap while waiting for the parade to start.

As he was about to leave the common room, I hurriedly stood up too.

Victor: I’ll see you later, Kate.

He smiled gently in the doorway, as morning light streamed in from behind him.

…

A few hours later, I was in the foyer handing out the schedules to the others.

Kate: Here’s everyone’s schedules. Kate: I adjusted your locations so they won’t overlap with the regular guards, so if you need to use your abilities you don’t have to worry about them. Kate: As Victor stated, William, you’ll be placed at the rear of the parade so you can keep Her Majesty in view. Kate: Everyone else will be stationed—what’s the matter? Is something wrong?

As I was explaining the schedules and the map to everyone…

Liam & Harrison: …

Elbert & Alfons & Roger: …

Jude & Ellis: …

Everyone stared at me in surprise.

William: Haha.

I stared back at them, trying to figure out what was going on.

William: Excellent job. As expected of our robin.

I couldn’t stop my smile at William’s praise, and collected myself again.

William: We’ll act as per Kate’s schedule. William: Kate, you’re fine coming with me, right?

Kate: Yes, that’s fine.

After I nodded, William clapped once and began giving out instructions.

William: Well then, let’s be off.

And with that, everyone began moving to their positions, leaving just me and William behind.

Kate: Shouldn’t we be going too?

William: Of course, but before that, there’s somewhere we need to go first.

…

Though William didn’t elaborate further, I began to follow him. We made our way deep into the palace, eventually stopping in front of one particular door.

(What is this room?)

I looked around the unfamiliar area.

William: This room’s occupant has some business with you. William: I’ll wait out here, so make sure you have a nice chat.

Leaning against the wall, he turned to look at the door.

(I don’t know who’s waiting for me, but…)

There was no reply when I knocked on the door.

When I glanced back at William, he had nothing to say, and was looking out the window.

(...I guess I should just enter?)

Kate: Pardon me.

As I slowly swung open the door and stepped inside…

Victor: Hello again, Kate.

Victor stood inside the room.

Kate: Victor! So this room is…

An elaborate chandelier hung from the ceiling. The exquisite canopy bed was surrounded by equally luxurious furniture & decorations. And lying on the bed was a very familiar set of clothing. It was the outfit that I helped Victor finalize for the queen to wear during the parade.

Victor: This room is where all monarchs traditionally stay. Victor: Therefore, Queen Victoria also lives here.

Kate: Huh!?

I never thought that I’d step foot in a room like this. My legs began to tremble out of shock and sudden anxiety. But…

(‘Queen Victoria’ lives here?)

Something about the statement caught my attention.

Kate: Do you not normally stay here?

Victor: That’s right, I have a separate bedroom normally. Victor: I only use this room when I must attend official events as Queen Victoria.

As he slipped on a pair of gloves, he continued speaking.

Victor: Her Majesty dresses herself and eats alone, and keeps no servants with her. Victor: So nobody knows that this room goes unused more often than not.

I’d heard something back when I was still working at the post office.

Female Coworker: Did you know? Her Majesty apparently doesn’t have any attendants. Female Coworker: She can do everything herself, so she doesn’t keep any servants with her. Male Coworker: No way, she’s the queen. She must live all fancy, right? Female Coworker: But according to the rumors–

(At the time I had agreed with him.)

But now that I knew the queen’s true identity, it turned out that the rumors were true after all.

Victor: I’ve called for you because I would like to ask for your help with something.

He laid the outfit out and gave a slightly sheepish smile.

Victor: Would you help me get dressed?

…

Victor: Like this?

Kate: The sleeve is over here.

(I wasn’t sure what to do with myself when he asked me to help him dress.)

Helping the person I liked get dressed? I didn’t think my heart could handle it. But now that it was actually happening…

Victor: …I feel almost like a child.

He said exactly what I was thinking. I didn’t want to admit that I had the same thought, so I smiled awkwardly. The queen’s usual white robes were billowing enough that they disguised his figure entirely. But this outfit had been prepared specifically for the parade, and was so complicated that I felt like I deserved a medal for helping him to put it on properly.

Victor: I’d even requested that it be kept on the simple side, so that it would be easy to put on alone.

Kate: So the reason why the queen never wore any fancy outfits before is…

Victor: Is because I didn’t want to bother putting them on.

He looked so defeated I couldn’t help but laugh.

(Who would have thought that was the reason.)

The parade’s start was quickly approaching, so we hurried to put on all the finishing touches. After most of the accessories were in place, Victor reached for a jewelry box.

Victor: Which brooch do you think I should wear on my chest?

Kate: You’re letting me choose?

Victor: I want you to.

All of the brooches in the jewelry box were gorgeous.

(Which one…?)

In the end, I reached for–

The diamond brooch.

The opal brooch. (+4/+4)

The iolite brooch.

Kate: I think the opal brooch is best. Kate: …And, um, it’s just like the one you gave me before…

Victor: Now that I think about it, I may have chosen that brooch to give you because I subconsciously thought it would match this one. Victor: I’m sorry to keep asking you for favors, but might I ask for another one?

Kate: Of course.

Victor: Could you fasten this brooch for me?

He placed the brooch in my hand and gently wrapped his hand around mine, then shut his eyes. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was almost as though he was praying.

Victor: Will you do it?

Kate: …I will.

I pinned the brooch above his chest.

Kate: Done.

Smiling as the gem sparkled in the light, Victor picked up the veil.

Palace Guard: Your Majesty, it’s time.

At the voice calling from outside, Victor and I exchanged a look, and then hastily finished the last of the preparations.

Victor: Thank you for your help, Kate.

Kate: I’m glad I was helpful.

(So the parade is going to start now…)

I hoped I wouldn’t have to fulfil my role as messenger.

(I’d be in charge of communicating to the others if anything big happened.)

I don’t know why, but I had a bad feeling.

Victor: I’ll be going now.

He put on the veil and began to make his way to the door. But I found myself grabbing his sleeve.

Victor: Kate?

Kate: Oh, sorry. I…

Maybe it was something about the fact that I��d never seen him fully step into the queen’s role like this before. But I felt as though once he left, I’d never see him again. When I hesitated to speak, he gently placed his hand on my head and stroked my hair.

Victor: You’ve worked so hard, all the way until this morning, Kate. Victor: You still have the guard positions, the guest list, and Crown’s schedules memorized, don’t you?

Kate: Yes, but–

I looked away, but his hands cupped my cheeks and lifted my face. Beneath the veil, his eyes were the same as ever, filled with warmth and kindness, and focused entirely on me.

Victor: Everything will be okay, Kate.

Kate: Victor…

The warmth in his gaze equaled the warmth in his palms as he cradled my face.

Victor: You do your part, and I’ll do mine.

(His touch always makes my worries disappear.)

As if I had known him for a long time, the warmth of his hands put my heart at ease instantly.

Kate: …Okay.

(I have to do what I must.) (And what I have to do now, is to let him leave.)

I let go of his sleeve. The warmth of his palms against my face vanished. He stroked my hair once more, then turned around.

Victor: I’m off now.

Kate: …Good luck.

I watched him walk away, until he disappeared beyond the open door. Then I stepped outside myself. Joining up with William again, we began to move. But my fear never disappeared entirely.

-----

Flower petals were raining down on the streets of London. The sound of guards’ footsteps as they patrolled served as accompaniment to the music drifting through the air. From her carriage, the queen waved to the gathered masses. The streets were crowded as everyone surged forward to try and catch a glimpse of the queen. But the Yard were holding them back, and there were no major issues.

William: How does it feel to watch a parade from up close?

We were near the rear of the parade, stationed amongst the other guards.

Kate: It’s so amazing I don’t know how to describe it.

What expression did Victor have on his face, as he looked out over his people from within his carriage? I didn’t know.

(But I’m sure he’s smiling.)

He must have been looking out at everyone with the same kindness and affection in his eyes as he did when he looked at me. Everyone, whether adult or child, had joyous expressions as they enjoyed the parade.

(This peace is what Victor sacrificed his own happiness for.)

If he had never taken the throne, this bright future may never have happened.

(But I…)

Because I had fallen hopelessly in love with him, I wanted him to live and be happy as himself, instead of as the queen.

(...He’s so far away.)

Every time I saw and brushed up against the world Victor lived in, I was reminded of the fact that, no matter how close we were, I was just an ordinary person. And he was the queen. I would never be able to fully understand the burden and responsibility on his shoulders.

(If I’d been born as a noblewoman instead…) (I’ve thought about it a few times ever since I fell in love with Victor. But, I don’t think I’d ever have known him the way I do now if that was the case.)

If I was a noblewoman, maybe I would have encountered him at some social event or the other. But I would never have gotten the chance to know him as a person, or his secrets.

(When I think about it like that, I’m happier as I am now.)

I reached out my hand to try and catch a falling petal, but it slipped through my fingers as it drifted this way and that on a breeze it couldn't control. Just like my feelings.

-----

With our mission over, we returned to Crown’s castle.

(When the palace came into view again, it was time to leave it up to the palace guards.)

The banquet would be starting soon, and Victor would be attending as queen. I probably wouldn’t be able to see him again until tomorrow.

William: The banquet will begin in the palace, and meanwhile the people will rejoice and celebrate in the streets long into the night. William: I have to attend the banquet, but you should spend the night relaxing in the castle.

(I’ll write up everything that happened in my report, then I’ll go to sleep early.)

With a plan in mind, I began climbing the stairs to head towards my room, when–

Liam: Will, Kate!

Kate: Liam? What’s the matter?

Sweat ran down Liam’s brow as he and Harrison, pale-faced, raced in.

Harrison: The queen’s been kidnapped!

My mind went blank.

[uhohdad]

THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN

KÖNIG 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, Protective!Konig, Mentor!JohnPrice, Fem!Reader, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Abuse, 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 WARNING I

While you haven’t let go of him, you and Konig still haven’t shared a word since the dressing room. Savoring the short break on the ride to The President’s mansion, letting Ruby do all the talking as she coaches you on party etiquette.

Neither of you are listening.

You’re both worn out, fixated on your shoes, eyes hollow and thoughts a million miles away. Your headache is pounding, every last muscle in your body aches, and with each blink you have to fight to reopen your heavy eyelids.

It’s when you try to take the crown off your head that Ruby cuts through.

“No, no! What are you doing? Leave that on.”

“But-“

“Oh, no, young lady! The victors wear their crowns - You earned it!”

You release a weighty sigh, too tired to argue, and let your crowned head lull back on the luxurious leather seats.

Once you arrive at the mansion gates, Ruby stops you when you move to open the door, insisting you wait for an attendant to do it. You and Konig step from the limo linked at the elbows, and are immediately blinded in all directions by flashing, white lights.

What must be a hundred cameras snapping photos, Capitol elite overlapping in grating shouts.

You and Konig turn in on each other, raising your hands to block out the harsh flashes from all directions. Ruby skips over and gives you both a gentle shove on your backs.

“Well, go on you two!”

She lightly swats your bicep.

“And don’t cover your face! They’re taking pictures. You’re going to look ridiculous!”

You can hardly hear her over the buzz of the crowd, too busy trying to keep your heels planted on the red carpet and not on your tribute pedestal, deafened by the sound of Eleven’s snapping neck at each shutter of a camera lens.

You cling to Konig’s arm with both hands as you wobble on your heels through the golden gates of The President’s mansion, heart pounding in your chest, wide eyes catching a hundred cheering, smiling faces. You both flinch and draw in a sharp breath at the sound of an explosion, only to look up and see candy-colored fireworks sparkling in the shape of your names.

The President’s garden is so off-puttingly perfect, neatly sculpted hedges and bushes of roses, not a single leaf or petal wilted or brown. A large fountain sits in the center of the garden, the flow of water glowing with a rainbow of colors as they cascade to the shimmering pool below. Soft, twinkling lights seemingly float and bob in the air, casting a dim, ever-changing glow onto the guests. Paths designed with patterns of colorful river stones sidewind around the garden, and a stage hosts musicians, playing a triumphant song on your debut.

Konig’s eyes meet yours, both of you exchanging a look of hesitance as you’re led to the stairs up to the mansion, swarms of people lined up on either side of the riverstone path.

Every eye at this party is trained in your direction. You feel like you’re on display, a prey with hundreds of hungry eyes on you just waiting for their opportunity to pounce. As they clap and cheer loud enough to be heard miles away, Ruby guides you to the mansion’s marble stairs where she gives you a gentle shove and struts off.

Maybe you’d know what the hell is going on if you’d bothered to listen to Ruby in the limo, but you’re guessing you’re both to make your way to the balcony and meet The President, standing tall and towering over the party from his perch.

You cling to Konig’s bicep, keeping careful watch of your shaky heels with each step.

You give The President a weak smile with sloped brows as you near the top of the stairs, a shaky peace offering. The eyes that meet yours are unforgiving and entirely cancel out his perfect smile. You’re too weak to hold his gaze for long, watching yourself kick up your sparkly dress hem with every step instead.

You can still feel it, his stare. It’s burning your skin, piercing straight through to your core and melting your insides to a heavy sludge.

By the time you both make it to the top of the stairs, your legs have turned to gelatin and your muscles are trying to vibrate their way out of your skin.

A Capitol attendant extends an intricately-rimmed silver platter to you both, two long stem wine glasses filled with a yellowish, bubbling drink placed neatly in the center.

“Is this alcohol?” You whisper to the attendant, who gives a curt nod in response.

You and Konig gently pluck your glasses off the tray. You go to take a sip, but stop when the attendant widens his eyes and shakes his head at you.

The crowd laughs from down in the garden. Your head snaps to meet them, brows tight in confusion and cheeks flushing with heat.

Your eyes nervously flick to The President. His smile says amusement, but those dangerous eyes are flickering with a flame of pure hatred.

You swallow and look down to the floor as Konig’s arm sneaks around your waist with a tug into his side.

The music ends in a grandiose flourish, and in its absence you can hear a few straggling chatters and hushes from the guests down in the garden.

You flinch as The President’s slow but powerful words broadcast over the speakers.

“A toast. To a truly inspiring year of the Hunger Games.”

The crowd has their glasses raised, and you follow their lead as discreetly as possible, hoping anyone won’t notice you’re late to your cue or the shake in your fingers.

“And to two victors who beat all the odds, and overcame great adversity.”

The President’s stare flits in your direction without warning.

It reminds you of the snake from Price’s games, like you had thrown a fruit square into his neck, those sharp eyes narrowed and slicing straight through you. You’re worried he might just slither over and swallow you whole.

“May your dedication to each other remain unwavering.”

The crowd gives a one-note cheer, playing a symphony with their glasses, exchanging hundreds of clinks and tinks before collectively drinking. You follow their lead, the drink sloshing and bubbling furiously against the glass in your jittering hands.

The President’s eyes are still trained carefully on yours when he tilts his glass and sips his drink with his wrinkled lips.

His stare seems to paralyze you, you’re unable to look away, in shock from the gashes he left behind with his cutting eyes, your guts spilling out and filthying his pristine balcony.

You finally break the stare when the crowd laughs again, taking a strong gulp of air as you pull away your empty glass to wipe your lips with the back of your hand, smearing lipstick on your skin.

“What? What’d I do?” You ask.

Konig leans into you and speaks from the side of his lips, trying to keep his words discreet.

“I think you were just supposed to take a sip.”

You look down to the empty glass in your hands, and then to everyone else’s glasses, still bubbling with the yellowish drink.

You close your eyes and force a deep breath through your nose, fighting the urge to cover your burning face as you wish for this balcony to swallow you whole.

You can’t bring yourself to check in with The President, afraid you’ll once again be frozen under his surely displeased, no - loathsome stare.

The Capitol attendant has sensed you and Konig have absolutely no idea what’s going on, and wordlessly guides you both to make your way down to the garden once again.

So many stairs, such unsuitable shoes and dress hem. The only thing you can focus on is how terrified you are that you might fall face first down these elegant stairs in front of the entire country.

Oh, and of course, the eyes burning holes in the back of your head.

You take it out on Konig’s arm, your grip on him so tight your knuckles are shaking. It takes you both far too long to descend the marble stairs, but the crowd waits patiently with brilliant smiles and clapping hands.

As soon as your second heel makes contact with the garden’s riverstones, you’re surrounded.

Trapped by a blur of chests and pushing arms and touchy hands, the open air robbed from you and replaced with suffocating drunken breath. They’re ruthless, elbowing each other out of the way to get pictures with you both where you will surely look horrified and confused. There must be ten hands on you, hundreds of voices speaking to you at once.

Grabbing around your arms, your free hand, someone puts their hands on your hip and squeezes.

“Hey!”

You whip around, keeping your grip on Konig as you try to wiggle and shove your way from their hands, but as soon as you swat a pair away, another comes to replace it.

You catch sight of Konig, flinching at your side, trying to get away from much too adventurous touches and insistent questions. He’s trying to shake away the women clinging to his bicep and feeling up his chest.

The rage that engulfs you is instantaneous and red hot.

You bare grit teeth, elbowing to put yourself in front of him and shove away the outstretched hands reaching for him.

Konig’s arms close in on you, though, and with a stiff yank he pulls your front into his in an useless effort to hide you. You gasp and flinch into Konig’s chest when someone’s hand melds far too low on your back.

Before you can swivel to find the culprit, Konig’s arm whizzes over your shoulder, and Titan’s pulpy, caved-in face blinds you when he makes impact. You and the flock collectively gasp, followed by the sound of a body lifelessly collapsing onto the river stones.

Your eyes are screwed shut, trembling fingers clawing into Konig’s suit as Sapphire rips her own spear from your hands with her dead weight.

You snap.

Each flash of a camera, each grabbing hand, every grating voice a build-up of pressure in your skull until it explodes. There is no time for thought, your body moves without permission.

You snatch a long-stemmed wine glass from a guest’s hand, and duck to a squat to smash it against the river stones. As soon as the shards burst in all directions, the drink foaming and lapping up your dress, you’re on your feet to bring what remains of the jagged crystal to Titan’s throat - jabbing Sapphire’s bloody spear at him in threat. With heavy breath you hold your ground, swiveling on your feet and thrusting her spear at anyone who dares to near you.

The circle of heels and dress shoes finally begins to make room, gasps and shouts of horror from all directions. You think a few people have actually fainted.

You can make out Ruby’s shrills somewhere in the crowd.

“What on earth?! What happened?!”

You can see her hair bobbing as she excuses her way through the crowd, skidding on her heels to a stop when she breaks the growing clearing.

Her hand shoots up to her mouth as she eyes up the mess - shattered glass and an unconscious body lying in foaming drink.

“What did you do?!”

As soon as you lock on to her face, you suck in a sharp breath, your face transitioning from rage to horror.

You are not in the arena.

You are at the fanciest party in the country, being broadcasted live to all of Panem, attacking Capitol elite at The President’s mansion.

You choke on a squeak as you meet the silent crowd, staring on with gaped mouths and wide eyes. The wine glass stem is tossed from your hands as if it was burning you, a violent shake in your fingers and tears in your eyes.

You’ve been angry before, but nothing like this. Ever since you left the arena you feel like an rabid animal, teeth bared and relying purely on instinct.

Ruby sees your face, drained of color and mortified, and she forces herself to rid her shocked expression as she smooths two hands over the front of her dress.

Her glossy heels side step the puddle of drink and broken glass before she puts a gentle hand on both your shoulders, guiding you both to turn and walk.

“Excuse us, excuse us for a moment. Yes, yes, you’ll all get your photos, dears!” She says with her charming, bright white grin, ignoring the shocked faces and the humiliation you just know is burning her skin.

Every eye is trained on you, the guest’s murmurs to each other drowned out by the upbeat music.

Your entire body is shaking, face simmering with a nauseating heat as Ruby leads you along the pathways out of the garden, paraded in front of every last guest until you’re out of sight.

She’s trying to stuff it down, but the hysteria in Ruby’s hushed voice is certain.

“What is going on?!”

“They were - they were touching us,” You stammer.

“Of course they were! They want photos with you!”

Konig’s bicep hardens under your clammy palms when he crosses his arms over his chest.

“No touching,” He says, “Or we leave.”

“You can’t leave!” Ruby chirps, “This party is for you! Do you know how rude that would be?”

“As rude as grabbing her ass?” Konig grits.

Ruby’s pacing now, her heels clicking on the ground and her hands rubbing out her temples.

“As rude as downing your glass of champagne during The President’s toast?! As rude as attacking Capitol officials?!”

She shakes her head at you both in disbelief, her eyes wide with bewilderment.

“What has gotten into you two?!”

You sputter, your brows pinching and hands flinging out at your sides.

“We died, Ruby! That’s what happened! We died! And we killed! And you can’t just-”

You cut yourself off with a growl before continuing.

“You can’t just expect us to go back to normal!”

Ruby sticks a ring-adorned finger in the air, and the thick superiority in her voice immediately triggers your eyes to roll.

“May I remind you, the people at this party spent large sums of money to send you gifts, which kept you both alive in that arena.”

“I didn’t get anything from them,” You spit.

“Well, if it weren’t for them, Konig would not be alive - and I seem to recall him saving your life quite a few times.”

“I didn’t realize that meant we were giving them a pass to grope us,” Konig says.

“They’re just being friendly,” Ruby says with a dismissive wave, “You two are victors! The whole country wants a photo with you! And you two are acting like animals!”

Ouch.

“I guess that’s what happens when you’re treated like one,” You mumble, scraping pebbles under your heels.

Ruby sighs.

“Can you play nice for one evening? I told you you’re on strict orders! You’re going to give John a heart attack!”

Your brows immediately pinch, the hostility drained from your voice and replaced with confusion.

“Where is Price?”

You can’t help but feel a little abandoned. You’re certain if he was here this whole mess wouldn’t have happened.

“Oh, who knows,” Ruby dismisses with a roll of her eyes and a smack of her lips, “That brute is probably off drinking.”

Ruby launches into a rant about Price’s lack of respect, and you and Konig both take your opportunity to relish in another breather, prying the feeling of wandering, drunken Capitol hands from your unwilling bodies.

The open air is nice, a moment of respite, even. The air in the theatre was so stuffy, cycled through thousands of lungs and fried by stage lights. The air at the party, while open, is suffocating. Distorted and tight with grating voices and hundreds of prying eyes.

This air, the air outside the gates, - it’s resetting, crisp and begging for your attention. The breeze is soothing on your face and arms, almost painful as it passes through your nostrils with each crisp breath.

“Now can you please show an ounce of decorum?”

“We’ll show them as much decorum as they show us,” Konig says flatly.

You tilt your head up at him, and give his bicep a squeeze. He’s wearing those bored eyes, standing tall with his chest puffed out.

“You’re victors now,” Ruby tutts, “You have a standard to uphold! Please do not embarrass me any further!”

You just sigh.

Tired.

When the three of you return to the party, stiff and so clearly uncomfortable, your crown hangs low. You stare only at your dress hem dragging along the walkways.

The silver lining is everyone keeps their distance, whispering to each other and sneaking glances in your direction instead of crowding you both.

It’s humiliating, and you feel like there’s a spotlight on you, but at least you have free rein of the buffet.

And you are starving.

The food may just be the best thing that’s happened to you all day.

Wait, no - second best thing.

It smells so good.

There are too many dishes, there’s no possible way you’ll be able to taste them all, but it’s not going to stop you from trying. Creamy soups and meats draped in flavored, savory sauces, potatoes cooked in just about any way you can imagine, an entire table lined with only desserts, all of which look more like art to be admired than food to be devoured.

Oh, and the drinks.

You truly thought all booze tasted terrible, so the drinks they serve, fruity and sweet and barely tastes of alcohol, only makes you wonder why Price drinks whiskey.

You and Konig take your assigned seats just in front of The President’s mansion, giving him a perfect view of his aberrant victors.

There’s hundreds of circular tables, each one draped with a pristine, pure-white table cloth. A flame sits in the center of perfect centerpieces, and it must be a fake, because it’s ringed by flowers and a nest of twigs that sit far too close to the realistic flame.

It feels weird to be eating.

Too normal, too routine, so out of place after the nightmare you woke up from. You can’t help but feel like you’re not worthy of it. Like there’s twenty-two tributes sitting with you at this table, watching as you gorge yourself with their lifeless eyes and empty plates.

You push through it.

It helps that the food tastes too tempting for you to convince yourself to put your fork down.

The silence has continued between you and Konig as you eat, too tired, too guilty, too raw to talk. Your chairs could not be closer, though, your thighs flush together and arms bumping as you eat.

You sneak glances at him from your peripheral throughout your meal, and it hurts. Everytime you look at him, it is a new reminder of the horrors - gruesome kills and sacrificial deaths.

It doesn’t hurt to rest your head on his bicep once your stomach is bursting at the seams, though.

Mauve joins you three at some point, and aside from Mauve’s gushing paired with plenty of cheek kisses, and Ruby’s pointers on table etiquette paired with light swats, you couldn’t repeat a single thing either of them said if you tried.

The booze is making you sleepy, drowsy eyelids fluttering shut as you embrace the cozy warmth the alcohol brings to your skin. You give in to its whim, using Konig’s arm as a pillow and forcing yourself to only think of the music and the scents of extravagant dishes.

The atmosphere of the party has lightened by time you’ve both finished eating, the drinks coursing through the guest’s veins and rowdy conversation lending you both a hand.

As the guests get drunker, the more courage they have to near, and one of them finally breaks the barrier and asks for a photo with you both.

When not greeted with punches and shards of glass, the others steadily trickle over with caution, until you’re both swarmed once again.

With every snap of a photo, you have to stifle the image of the boy from eleven. His lifeless eyes stare back at you from the center of each bright white flash, every shutter of the camera lens slurred into the sound of a broken neck.

Your already forced, uncomfortable smile becomes more warped with each photo, and you’re sure you’re yawning in at least ten percent of them.

Konig doesn’t make any effort to keep up appearances. He stares forward, features hardening as the night drags on. He can’t seem to hide his rightful disdain, eyes projecting hatred and superiority. Like everyone at this party is beneath him.

The first person that dared to put their hand on your shoulder made you flinch and instinctively pull away under their hand, launching back into Konig’s instinctive brace as you face the culprit.

And of course, it’s just about the oldest woman you’ve ever seen, hunched at the back and walking on a cane. Capitol elite or no, she immediately evokes pity, and then guilt. It was surely an innocent and functional touch, and the look of embarrassment on the little old lady’s face burns your face with a matching shame.

“No, no,” You assure her, “I’m sorry, just scared me.”

She gives a laugh, showing her perfect, pearly white teeth. Not a single one of her teeth is rotted, missing, or even the slightest bit brown. You can’t help the way your head shakes in confusion, because you’ve never seen an old person with perfect teeth before. Not a whole lot in District Nine can even live long enough to reach the definition of elderly, let alone do so while maintaining perfect teeth.

The old woman puts her fingertips just under her collarbones.

“Oh, my, can you imagine? A little thing like me?”

You can’t find it in you to laugh with her, only able to conjure a weak smile and faint nod.

These people are so out of touch.

After what you just went through, you’d be startled by the blow of the wind. They’re not treating you like someone who lived the past week as prey, entirely glossing over the fact that your two hands have ended lives, that you’ve just woken up from being dead.

And it coming from just the seemingly innocent, tiny, crippled old lady just makes it all the more eerie.

You’re not supposed to be wiser than someone four times your age, but you can’t help but feel as if you are.

Once everyone sees the little old lady get away with touching the victors without getting knocked unconscious or threatened with broken glass, it’s free reign, and the drunker the guests get, the touchier they get.

They don’t seem to notice your discomfort or annoyance, and the only thing keeping you both from wigging out is Ruby, smiling proudly as she sips her drinks and accepts her congratulations a few feet away. And of course, The President, who you can’t see, but know is watching.

You can’t help but feel like you owe it to Ruby, too. Her very first victors. She’s probably been dreaming of this moment her entire career, and year after year of watching her kids die, maybe she should get to enjoy her moment without dealing with insolence and embarrassment. Especially after she gave you her fancy locket.

So you suck it up.

For hours you deal with the hands on your shoulders, on your back, smoothing over your arms and grabbing your hands.

The hardest part is watching Konig get the same treatment.

In most every photo since the little old lady, your stares are focused on each other, faces twisted as you watch each other get felt up.

It’s when someone other than Mauve or Ruby finds it appropriate to kiss you on the cheek that Konig’s fingernails start to dig into your skin hard enough to make you hiss, your interlocked fists trembling with his rage.

He’s about to lose it again.

“Ruby?! Breather!”

Ruby’s brows pinch, a slight confused jerk of her head as she rips her focus from her conversation.

After a moment you add a stiff, “Please.”

It takes her a moment for it to click.

”Oh, oh! Yes!”

She excuses herself from her conversation, sets down her drink, and waves the crowd away in her standard pushy-but-polite fashion, assuring them they will get their photos, just not now, dears!

When it’s just the three of you, Ruby gives you a proud smile and a nod. Maybe for asking instead of exploding, maybe because you actually used the word, ‘please’ for once, or maybe it’s just because you made her the escort of a victor.

“Oh, my victors,” She hums.

You actually smile a little when you notice it.

Ruby’s drunk.

She’s got a slight sway in her upper half, her cheeks are flushed rosen, and her smile is wider than ever.

It’s incredibly endearing, but Konig does not find it so.

His stance is wide, arms crossed over his chest, and the bicep you cling to is entirely tensed. You give him a squeeze, but he can’t seem to meet your gaze, his half-lidded eyes staring off into the distance. His hand does shift on his own arm to graze a finger over your knuckles, but it only soothes the sting a little.

You know your face is a reminder of the horrors he just went through, and the thought makes your throat swell and ache. As you look down and attempt to swallow the thought away, tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

He’s right here, you’re clinging to him, you went through it together, you are together.

But you feel so alone.

Konig’s head tilts towards the ground, and he speaks through grit teeth as he scrapes the sole of his glossy dress shoes on the river rocks.

“Did you see them?”

You perk up, an instantaneous wave of relief washing over you.

Even better that it’s trash talk.

“They’re awful, I wish they’d just stop-“

”No,” He cuts, “On their wrists.”

Your brows furrow as you wait for explanation, but he gives none, continuing to avoid your stare.

You carefully look to the guests, and once you notice one, the others practically scream for your attention. More people are wearing them than not.

Your ribbon.

For a solid five seconds, you stare blankly, bouncing around from wrist to wrist. A momentary calm as you process what the fuck you’re seeing.

That is your ribbon.

You earned that ribbon.

It was your gift.

It was your token to the love of your life.

Turning your gruesome kill, Willow’s suffering, and your parting suicide token into a fashion statement!

You are literally shaking with rage, tears of frustration well in your eyes and threaten to spill over your exaggerated lashes.

When you realize you’ve been holding your breath for far too long, you push a long exhale through parted lips.

You wonder if maybe it’s a good thing. If the ribbons spread far and wide mean that Willow’s pain will not go forgotten. Maybe her suffering is acknowledged through these ribbons.

You know that’s not what it means to them.

But you’re too tired to be angry.

“You have the original anyway,” You croak with a shrug, “That’s all that matters.”

While Konig doesn’t turn his head, he does look at you from the corner of his eye.

After a beat, he lets go of a heavy breath, his arms untensing under your touch.

“You know,” Ruby sings, leaning forward a little too far before she whispers her secret, “If you don’t dance at these things, people will talk.”

Without really meaning to, you adopt a patronizing but soft tone while speaking with her. That of a parent trying to gently let down a child who wants to play outside in the dead of winter.

“We’re not really in the mood for dancing, Ruby.”

“Well, it doesn’t have to be good dancing!”

She smiles mischievously and gives a sloppy wink.

You wear a weary smile, another scoff behind your closed grin.

“I don’t think we’re in the mood for bad dancing, either.”

“No, no! Can’t have that! The victors always dance! I’ll show you!”

”Maybe later,” You say.

”Definitely later!” She beams.

She then raises her brows at you both.

“Don’t tell anyone I told you this-“

She looks over her shoulder to make sure no one’s listening in on her scandalous advice.

“But the drinks help!”

She bursts into laughter, and when you look at Konig, he looks back.

You didn’t realize how cold your chest was until it floods with a sickeningly sweet warmth. He gives a soft roll of those comforting blue eyes, but your favorite is the grin he bites back.

You’re actually eager to follow Ruby’s advice for once.

You hardly have to move, as soon as you lock eyes with a Capitol attendant they step over to you, a tray of drinks in hand. It’s one of the sweet drinks you tried earlier, and as you take a glass you can’t help but ask - hoping you’ll never have to deal with the repulsive taste of whiskey ever again.

“Hey, what is this stuff?”

The attendant's brows raise, and she transfers her tray to one hand to bring a finger to her lips.

“Secret?” You ask.

Konig gently nudges you with his elbow.

“What?”

His lips are twisted when you meet his face, and after studying the woman for a few moments longer, the realization hits with a heatwave of embarrassment.

“Oh. Oh!” You give a nervous laugh at yourself, “I’m so- I’m sorry, I’m a little-”

You cut yourself off, the hand raised to your forehead begging her for grace. The attendant gives a polite curtsy before scurrying off.

You lean into Konig’s, quieting your voice as your eyes pick out the various attendants in their white and black uniforms, doting on guests.

“Are all of them-?”

Your question trails off.

“I think so,” He says.

“This place is fucking insane. It’s insane. I feel like I’m in- I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“They’re despicable,” he says.

As your eyes dart around, you can’t help but wonder if one of the attendants is the girlfriend of the boy from eight.

You shake away the thought as quickly as you can, but she lingers.

Does she hate you?

She must.

You’re the girl who foiled her boyfriend’s revenge plan, the girl that led a pack of bloodthirsty careers straight to the love of her life.

You try to imagine what it must be like for her - forced to serve the Capitol elite day in and day out, knowing her boyfriend’s back home, but having no way to reach him.

If it had been you - taken away for speaking out about the Capitol, knowing Konig is back in District Nine, but having no way to check on him.

And then to see him for the first time, the boy you broke by leaving, so clearly unwell, lurching forward to volunteer in the games and hellbent on getting gory revenge against the girl that ratted you out.

You have to stop the thought there, it’s making you sick to your stomach, and you find your grip around Konig has turned deathly.

That girl, wherever she is, wins the suffering game.

The drink goes down quickly, and as soon as your glass is empty, an attendant rushes over to take your glass and offer a replacement.

It’s welcomed.

Between sips, you rest your weary head on Konig’s bicep and close your tired eyes.

“I want to go home,” You whine into his arm.

“It’ll be over soon.”

He says this with a reassuring kiss on the forehead, but his hoarse tone betrays him.

“I wish we could be alone,” You whisper.

After a few moments of consideration, his grip tightens on you.

“Want to sneak away?” He asks.

You whip around to face him, looking up to find a goading raised brow and a faint, sly grin.

“Yeah?” You ask.

“Ja,” He says.

Those pretty blue eyes are sparkling with a glint of determined mischief that you couldn’t resist if you tried.

“Okay,” You say.

It’s an incredibly arduous task to sneak away.

Every few feet must be earned by a new wave of introductions, photos, and grabbing hands.

One woman pinches your cheeks, and you’re just thankful it’s the ones on your face.

“Oh, you really are just the cutest thing! I don’t usually, well, you know, but I’d make an exception for you!”

“Hey,” A nervous laugh crosses your lips, “What?”

She just laughs, the pungent smell of alcohol on his breath.

“Such a feisty little thing,” She chimes with a wink, her form swallowed by the crowd before you can get an explanation.

“Did she just make a pass at me?”

You shoot a look at Konig, but he’s too busy trying to placate a gaggle of elite gushing over his size. Hands reaching out to touch his chest, arms, shoulders.

What’d you like to do is start dishing out black eyes, but the booze, and of course, Ruby’s pride, make it easier to be semi-agreeable.

“Alright,” You say with a playful wave, “Step back, he’s already spoken for.”

This is a somewhat effective approach, because the guests seem to adore your ‘joke,’ and plently oblige with their rowdy laughter.

It doesn’t seem to discourage whoever is taking their turn with a picture, though. As if taking a photo gives them a pass to grope you.

When you both finally manage to shuffle your way over to a maid’s closet, you have to wait patiently to cycle through more photos, congratulations, and drunken introductions before there’s a lull.

You’re just about to throw in the towel on the whole thing before the perfect moment arrives for you to both awkwardly slip into the maid’s closet.

When the door shuts behind you, the music and rowdy party chatter muffled the moment it clicks shut, you find you’re nervous to be alone with him. Butterflies in your stomach and a shaky laugh on your lips. Your hands fidget in front of your core, and it’s difficult to make eye contact with him.

He nears with slow, daunting steps, each one making your heart beat a little faster. His hands caress down the sides of your abrasive, sparkly dress to find their home on your waist.

For a moment he studies you with a look in his eyes that you can hardly decipher, an intense stare that pulls a glow to your cheeks and turns your thoughts obsolete. His fingers tighten on your sides as he leans down to press his lips to yours in a long, lingering kiss. Your heart is both pounding furiously in your chest and ablaze with a cozy warmth that blooms throughout your torso and trickles down your limbs.

And suddenly you’re not thinking about the horrors. You’re only thinking about the prick of his stubble on your skin, the strong hands on your waist holding you close, the hint of alcohol on his breath, the vibration of his low hum on your lips.

With little warning, his hands slide down the curve of your hips to the back of your thighs. He scoops you up without so much a grunt of resistance, awkwardly bunching your dress in the front and resting your inner thighs on his waist.

He doesn’t break the kiss even when you gasp into his mouth. He deepens it instead, keeping you firmly on his front with one hand and another pressed to the back of your neck to keep you from losing focus.

He rests your back against the wall, and with a tilt of his head, his eager tongue intertwines with yours. The grip on your thighs is assured, his fingers indenting the soft flesh beneath the scratchy dress.

He pulls away for a moment, his lips inches away and pretty blue eyes staring straight into yours.

“All mine,” He says, low and breathy.

“All yours.”

The front of Konig’s suit pants rock against your front through the layers of your bunched dress, forcing a hitched, breathy sputter from you. You find your nails are digging into the lapel of his suit and tugging him close without thought.

There is little time to react between the jiggle of the doorknob and the door opening, looking over Konig’s shoulder to find Price slinking into the gap just big enough for him to sidestep into the storage closet, wasting no time as steps over to you both.

Konig immediately lets go of the back of your thighs and raises his palms in surrender, backing away from you the moment your heels find the floor with a huff.

You and Konig speak at the same time.

“I didn’t - ”

“Can we have five minutes of privacy?”

“No,” Price says sharply, seemingly not fazed at the display of canoodling he walked in on.

“Where have you been? These people-“

Price ignores you, boring into Konig with stern eyes and pinched brows.

“Did you really knock out a Capitol official?”

Konig shrugs.

“Are you out of your fucking mind? Do you have any idea the amount of work you just gave me?”

Price’s voice is rising, but Konig doesn’t buckle.

“He grabbed her ass,” He says flatly.

Price winces, and for a moment you can see his face go through a range of emotions as he tosses a thought around. He groans, grumbling something at the ceiling before he turns to you, his voice urgent.

“They’re already not happy with you. And you being disrespectful at the interview, at this party - is not helping!”

You go to speak, but Price raises a finger to silence you. His words pour out quickly but as clear as crystal. Intense, careful eyes take turns between holding either of your stares.

“You didn’t play their game, you didn’t follow their rules, and you used their arena like it was a fucking playground.”

“So what?”

Price grumbles again, his shoulders tossing in annoyance.

“You took what was supposed to be a punishment for rebellion - and had fun instead. Get me? Your deaths meant something more than just losing a bet to these people. People aren’t supposed to root for breaking the rules, but they saw you as more than tributes.You were way too human, and Capitol folk are starting to see you for what you are.”

Price shrugs, his voice going soft for just a moment.

“As kids.”

He draws a long sigh and rubs out his beard.

“It probably would have been fine if Romeo took the hit, but you,” Price points his finger at you, “Of course you always have to have the last fucking word. The way they see it, you might as well have spit on the games themselves by opting out of victorhood.”

“You're saying it would have been better if Konig died?”

“No!”

Price grunts in exasperation, his muscles tensing, literally fighting back his annoyance.

“What I’m saying is - the rule is that there is one victor. And two outer district kids finding the loophole, breaking that one rule by rejecting their offer, and getting away with it? Well, how do you think they feel about it?”

“You know what?” You start, “If they didn’t want human, maybe they should have fought roosters instead. And I’m tired of everyone pretending like winning the games is some - “

Price barks your name, and it stuns you in the form of a choke, catching in the back of your throat and fighting you when you try to swallow it.

“This is serious,” He hisses, “Two outer district kids aren’t supposed to be above the rules. You think they wanted to pull you both out of there?”

Price snaps his fingers three times in rapid succession.

“They wanted to let you both die, hear me? You both are a spitting distance away from being rebels as it is - and you telling Caesar to go fuck himself, knocking out officials - “

Price cuts himself off with another frustrated grunt.

“This would have been nice to know sooner,” You mumble, rubbing out your bicep in hopes to relieve the nauseating unease creeping over you.

“This is the first time we’ve been alone and off tape since you both entered that arena. Do you have any idea what this week has been like for me? And you two-”

“For you?!” You snap, “We died!”

“And who do you think brought you back to life?!” Price hisses at you.

“I didn’t ask for that!”

“I remember someone asking me to save Romeo.”

Price jams his thumb in Konig’s direction, and while you blow a huff of air in dismissal, you both know he’s right.

“Isn’t this a good thing?” Konig asks, “If people are seeing the tributes differently?”

“Yes,” Price answers.

Your brows furrow, and Price gives a forced, mocking grin.

“That’s the problem. So do me a favor-“

His tone suggests it’s not a favor, but a demand, and with each sentence his frustration thickens.

“You go out there. You play their game. And you behave!”

You can’t pin why, but the hissed ‘behave’ makes you flinch. Your shoulders tense, your fingers adopt a sudden shake, and blood rushes to your ears in one instantaneous whoosh.

Price sighs, and his eyes find the floor. A hand comes up to his forehead before smoothing over his hair, rubbing out the back of his head.

When he speaks again, his voice is soft.

“One more thing,” He says, “I don’t want to worry you both, but the - ”

Price sucks in a breath, his next word riding a heavy exhale, “Tape.”

“Tape?”

“The tape,” He repeats, “Of you two, uh-“

Price clears his throat and looks away.

“Got it,” You say.

“Well, it-“

He lets out an exasperated grunt.

“It’s popular.”

Both you and Konig share a hesitant glance.

“The, uhm-“

Price can’t make eye contact, can hardly get the words out.

“Look, it’s been passed around.”

“What?” You sputter, “But that- that’s-“

“It’s not like these people have ever been moral.”

Price clears his throat again, and he can’t seem to stand still in his spot, restless in the way you’ve only ever seen him the night before the games.

“So everyone at this party has seen us fuck?!”

“Well, not everyone,” Price mutters.

Your burning face warps under the forceful pinch of your own hand.

“I don’t need this, I really don’t need this right now.”

“There’s a lot that you kids don’t know. And- and I’m hoping they’ll cut you some slack, considering the circumstances.”

Price gestures between you and Konig.

He sees both of your blatant confusion, and another sigh leaves his lips. He looks over his shoulder at the door before finding you both.

“The victors have always been,” He pauses, his eyebrows raising, “Desired.”

“Desired?”

“Desired,” He repeats.

“They want to fuck us?”

Price smacks his lips, his voice lowering.

“They don’t want to fuck us, they do fuck us, you understand?”

You really don’t.

“It’s not like you have much of a choice. The payment is just,” He thinks for a moment, “A bonus, get me?”

It takes you a moment to digest this.

As it dawns on you, you squeeze Konig’s arm a little tighter, and make a baby sidestep to close what little distance there is between you.

“And that tape only got them - More excited.”

The thought of someone forcing prostitution on Konig, the thought of Konig fucking some rich Capitol -

You are at risk of throwing up again.

“So it is crucial that you do - Exactly. What. I. Say. You understand? If we play our cards right, I think I can get you both off the hook.”

His loose wrist swirls in front of you, gesturing between you and Konig.

“The whole - romance thing.”

You nod, and shift on your feet as your eyes find the floor.

Price sighs, a palm covering his forehead.

“I’m sorry, kids, I really am. It’s all bullshit, I know it. But I am trying my best.”

Your brows furrow, and the strain in his voice seems to be contagious.

“I know. Thank you.”

He nods slow, face more than weary, his eyes pinching closed for a moment.

“Now, please - I am begging you both to be good. Don’t make this any harder on me than it already is. Please?”

Price is throwing all sorts of curve balls at you today. Price does not call you by your name. Price does not beg. Price orders.

You give a shaky nod, and find you’re digging into Konig’s arm so tight your knuckles are turning white.

“You’ve got two minutes. Make ‘em count.”

Price turns on his feet, heading for the door. Without looking back, he waves a hand at you both over his shoulder.

“And don’t make me come back in here and drag you both back out. I got enough of a show last time.”

As soon as the door closes behind Price, you and Konig face each other.

His hands find your biceps, sliding down your arms until he tightens his hold around your forearms.

“I won’t let them,” He says, “I won’t let them.”

You nod, quick and assured, your hands gripping his forearms in return.

“I know. I know. I won’t let them either.”

You pull each other into a deathly tight embrace that you’re sure would have lasted the entire two minutes, but it’s interrupted by the door opening again, this time much less gentle. The doorknob crashes into the wall hard enough you both jump, holding each other tight at your sides.

At once you’re both blinded by flashing, white lights, ears assaulted with the sound of camera lenses shuttering and the rowdy chatter of the Capitol folk, squeals and shouts overlapping in a nauseating chorus. You have to pinch your eyes shut, teeth grit, arms raised to shield your eyes.

Blinding sun.

Pure white snow at your feet.

The sound of a broken neck in your ears and Eleven’s lifeless eyes staring at nothing and right at you all at once.

You cling to Konig’s suit, fingers shaking as you bury your face into his chest.

A sharp whistle commands attention, Price’s sturdy arms forcing his way through the crowd, extended at his sides and forcing them away from the door.

“Alright, alright, back it up! Nothing to see.”

He whistles again, and you know that’s your cue to wriggle through the part in the crowd. Both you and Konig hold each other tight as you run, run like you’re ripping through the trees of the fall forest, branches tearing into your skin to escape the gory slaughter, to escape from the boy you love after he killed for you.

Your face is burning, flushed with humiliation and fear, breaths heaving and your pulse pounding against your temples.

“How much longer? How much longer?” You ask Konig, as if he knows the answer.

“I know, I know,” He says, “It’s okay.”

It’s starting to feel like this party will never end.

It’s your hell, your punishment for killing and dying and stealing someone else’s victory. Trapped in this shameless extravagant world with people who don’t get it.

Konig positions himself behind you once you’re steady on your feet, and drapes his arms around your collarbones. He hunches over to rest his chin on your head, and puts a bit of his weight on you.

Just a little.

It’s weirdly soothing. Grounding, something to focus on. After a few minutes you begin to trace little hearts on his suit jacket sleeves as you cling to his forearm.

Throughout the embrace he leaves periodic kisses on the top of your head, and you both ignore the guests not-so-sneaky sneaky photos.

“All mine,” He whispers.

“All yours,” You whisper back.

You stand like this for a while, mostly thinking about how bad your feet hurt, the ache starting to travel up your ankles in an all too familiar fashion.

You’re seriously considering ditching your heels.

Your dress is so long, they surely won’t notice if you walk around barefoot.

“Time to dance!” Ruby chimes from behind you.

You groan as Konig stands straight, his hands finding your shoulders instead.

Ruby gives you both little choice, pushy-but-politely ushering you both to the space in front of the live band, which is unfortunate, because what you crave most right now is some peace and quiet. To her credit, though, she keeps you at the edge of the crowd on the dance floor. The last thing you want right now is to be surrounded.

“It’s easy!”

Ruby is touchy with her demonstration, but you don’t mind it as much as you do the rest of the guests and their touching. You know it’s innocent, and it’s hard to say no to her in this state. Coming from her specifically - her acting like everything is fine is making it a bit easier to pretend like it is, which is weird, because usually her ignorance is nothing but grating.

She takes your hand and practically slaps it on Konig’s shoulder, and guides him by the wrist to put his hand on your waist. She circles you, and on the other side, she prompts you to intertwine your fingers.

“And now you sway.”

“No, no, don't bend, stand straight and use your whole body!”

“I thought it was allowed to be bad dancing,” Konig mumbles.

“Graceful bad dancing,” She corrects.

And so you sway, rolling your eyes and shaking your heads at each other, because this is ridiculous. Dancing after what you just went through just to appease these abhorrent people.

You’re glad he’s connecting with you again, at least. Sharing in the hatred.

And it’s not the worst.

Getting to look at him and not think of what has happened, soaking him in and feeling his touch under your fingers.

At one point you close the distance, resting your head on his chest instead, his silken tie on your cheek. You wrap your arms around him in an embrace, and in return he holds you tight.

You close your eyes and take another break, here in his chest. Breathing him in to ease your nerves, putting a little weight on him to relieve your poor ankles, melting into his strong arms.

“Would you mind if I had the next dance?”

The spine-chilling, unfortunately familiar voice comes from behind you, and immediately twists your intenstines in knots.

You both perk up, and you watch as Konig’s brows raise.

“Ach, of course.”

Konig lets go of you, palms displayed as he takes a few steps back. You beg him with your eyes to come back, but you both know that’s not an option, so he offers a wince of apology.

You don’t have the sense to hide your horror as The President steps in and offers his hands.

A sneaky, stealthy, slithering man he is.

His hand feels dead in yours, cold and sagged, like if you’re not gentle enough the meat might just slip off his bones.

“Congratulations, my dear,” He says.

The President gives a polite nod of his head. Those icy eyes are piercing, staring straight into yours and not so much as blinking. You’re convinced he can see your very soul, every thought and fear and secret binded into a book for him to skim over at his leisure.

“Thank you, sir.”

He gives a hearty laugh that makes your skin crawl, your stomach threatening to send bile to lap at the back of your throat.

“None of that ‘sir’ nonsense.”

His head tilts up, and he looks to the evening sky as he speaks. Slowly. Carefully.

“I can’t help but feel as if I know you personally. As well as I know a friend.”

You have to stifle the sharp inhale you instinctively draw when his eyes meet yours again. The hint of a cruel, cautious smile tugs on the corners of his lips.

“Quite a show you put on for us all.”

Your throat is so tight, if you could find the words, they would surely have come out wavered. You nod instead.

“I have to say I admire that young man’s dedication to you.”

His eyes crinkle.

“Do you think he would still be as infatuated with you if he knew you wouldn’t repay the favor?”

A choke catches in your throat. Your eyes dart to Konig, standing just out of earshot to keep an eye on you. His face is twisted, brows scrunched, asking you with just a look what’s going on.

“I- I’m sorry?”

The President’s smile doesn’t falter. He speaks as if he’s clarifying a step on a recipe, and not drilling you with the most bone-chilling, unhinged questioning you’ve ever had the displeasure of being on the end of.

“If he knew that his dedication was not returned.”

You don’t have the sense to hide your nervous, confused laugh.

The President’s eyes remain locked onto yours. They’re just a little too open, his smile a little too wide.

Inhuman.

“I- I- gave up my life for him. I don’t-”

“Did you?” He cuts with a curious perk of a brow.

You blink twice, your awkward sways coming to a halt.

“I beg your pardon?” You stutter.

“Did you give your life up for him?”

The President lowers his chin, his brow raising.

“Or did you do it for you?”

He leans in closer, his voice just a frosted whisper. While his words are terrifying, his face upholds appearances. Refined and cheerful, as if he were recounting a lighthearted story around his surely exotic dinner table.

“Death is easy, my dear. There is no pain. There is no consequence. There is no ‘aftermath,’ as you like to put it.”

You try to work up saliva into your dry mouth, but it’s no use.

“I don’t understand.”

The President gives a low, calculated chuckle that tapers into a hum.

“Nothing to understand,” He says through a smile, “It’s notional.”

You have to coax the words out, each one spiked and slicing your throat on its ascent.

“Forgive me, for being blunt - “

Your unsure voice takes on an unnaturally high pitch when you find the courage to make eye contact with him.

“Is- Is this blackmail? I - What do I have to do?”

For the first time, the President’s face falls, and his expression finally matches those loathsome eyes.

“It’s notional,” He repeats, “And if you’d like to keep it that way, then I’d suggest you listen to that mentor of yours.”

You look down to your shoes before giving a shaky nod.

He reinstates that perfect smile, and you can tell, even in his perpetually loathsome eyes, that he takes great pleasure at the way you cower.

He hums and finally looks away, watching the evening sky as he slips back into his act.

“That John-“

He chuckles with a shake of his head.

“He certainly is a sentimental man, isn’t he?”

The air being pulled into your lungs is useless, you can’t breathe, bordering on hyperventilating.

“It’s clear he cares quite a lot about you both.”

The President’s face drops suddenly again, and his annoyance is clear.

“A thorn in my side.”

“He’s a good man,” He continues with a resetting breath, “But that big heart of his is going to get him in trouble one of these days.”

The President might as well have Price under his thumb, and he’s deciding whether or not to smush him like a bug or go get lunch.

When the song ends, his eyes narrow dangerously at you.

“I hope you enjoy your evening,” He says.

The President leaves you frozen in your spot, stepping over to him and reaching up to give him a hearty pat on the shoulder.

“She’s all yours, my boy. Not a scratch on her.”

Yet.

The President gives a hearty laugh as he walks away.

Konig all but runs over to you, wrapping his hands around your biceps.

“What was that all about?”

Konig’s brows furrow when you shrug unconvincingly.

“Just wanted to congratulate me, I guess.”

Konig nods slow, a concerned pinch of his face and lips weighed down, but he doesn’t push.

When you go to dance again, you rest your head on his chest. You close your eyes and let him lead, the hands on your back guiding you into a loose sway. Your entire body has gone limp to his, bones made of jelly and a stomach made of lead as you try and make sense of The President’s ominous words and not-so-subtle- subtle threats.

You can’t, and to be honest, you’re so exhausted you’ve turned numb. Once the shake in your fingers goes away, you’ve decided - in the simplest of terms, you’re not going to give a fuck until morning.

“My feet are killing me,” You mumble into Konig’s tie, “And I just want to go home.”

“Want to sit?”

You nod into his chest, and are subjected to another round of photos and touching hands, which is even more unnerving after learning that these people know what your naked bodies look like, have seen you be intimate, and are eager to force you both into their bedrooms to get a live version of the show.

After you quell this round of eager elite, you take a seat next to Konig on the cluster of patio couches along the mansion gates. His arm slings over the back of the couch to invite you to nuzzle into his side, and you happily take his offer, closing your eyes as you cozy up to him. You hope you can sneak in a break, here in the safety of his chest.

Your attempted break is interrupted, though, when Konig squeezes your shoulder to alert you that someone’s approaching.

A sole woman, mid-thirties, you think. A plump build and wavy brown hair.

“Hi there,” She says.

She’s lacking in the Capitol effectuations, and she leaves moderate distance between you as she extends her hand in your direction.

“I’m sure you’re both, uh,” She gives a weak laugh, “Sick of people by now.”

You give a polite but tired hum as you carefully accept her handshake.

“I’ll make it fast, promise,” She says with a quick wave of two palms.

“My name’s Mabel. Just - wanted to thank you, I suppose.”

You eye her with a crease in your brow, brain already scrambling to figure out her intentions. She sees your confusion, and jumps to explain herself.

“I’m - I’m one of the District Eight mentors.”

Your breath catches in your throat, eyes snapping open.

Mabel gives a solemn nod at your horrified recognition, before she carefully looks over both her shoulders. Her gaze flits to the ground, and her lips barely move when she speaks again.

“I wanted to tell you that it’s never easy to do the dirty work. And we thank you for making that sacrifice.”

You exchange a glance with Konig before giving her a hesitant nod.

“Yeah, uhm-”

You’re really not sure what to say to that one, and your brain is too foggy from the drinks and too scrambled with exhaustion to find an elegant response.

“Yeah.”

Mabel smiles at you, and takes a few steps closer. Her core creases when she leans over and sets a rectangular card on the drink table in front of you, and her voice returns to a normal volume.

“If there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate.”

She gives the card two taps before she turns and leaves you both be.

You and Konig share another look before you carefully pry the card from the table with your nails.

You flip the card over in your hands, expecting to see contact information, but the sloppily printed capital letters makes your blood run cold.

DISTRICT EIGHT UNREST

Your head shoots up to find Mabel, but she’s disappeared among the party goers.

The world has fallen upon deaf ears, unfocused eyes blur the vibrant colors that surround you into a gross, brown swirl, the music and drunken chatter suddenly a million miles away.

Because of you?

Is it because of you?

If it has nothing to do with you, why would she go out of her way to pass on a message of treason?

She could be executed for spreading district intel, and for her to give it to a strange victor so brazenly, when you are surrounded by elite at The President’s mansion and being broadcasted to the entire country -

Because of you?

It can’t be.

Why is she warning you about it?

If what’s on this card is true - then you know why there’s unrest in District Eight, and it’s not because of you.

But you are the only player left standing from a very recent incident heinous enough to potentially make an already discontent district reach its boiling point.

Because of you.

The flinch that tears through you when Konig nudges your shoulder snaps you back to reality, the music and chattering flooding your ears once more.

“What is it?” He asks.

You just shake your head, an unconvincing croak in your voice as you stuff the card into your bust, right next to his token.

“A contact card,” You say.

Konig’s stare lingers for a moment before he nods slow.

You move to a stand, rushing over to the nearest Capitol attendant, and snatch two drinks from the tray with a quick thank you.

When you turn, you bump into Konig’s chest, apparently at your heels. The bubbling drink sloshes up the side of the glass, splattering and foaming onto the hem of your dress and the river rock path below.

He steadies you by your shoulders with a worried look in his eyes.

You just nod at him as you bring the glass to your lips and down the entire thing, stifling a burp when you finish the glass.

“Oh, phew, sorry.”

You bring the other glass to your lips and begin to down it as well, but stop when you catch Konig’s pinched frown.

“Oh, sorry,” You say, gesturing what remains in the second glass in his direction, “Want some?”

He shakes his head.

You finish out the second glass and take a sharp gulp of air when you pull away.

“Ja?” Konig asks.

“Yeah,” You croak.

“Okay,” He says.

And so you get fucked up.

Everytime feel the prick of Mabel’s card on your chest, everytime you think of The President’s threats, everytime Price’s voice echoes through your thoughts, everytime you wonder if one of these attendants is Eight’s girlfriend, everytime you think of a suicide, of a gory kill, of the injustice of it all -

You take a drink.

It’s not long before your unpleasant thoughts are beyond fuzzy and your cheeks are pooled with warmth.

The drinks make the photos and the touching easier to bear, but it doubles the weight of your already heavy eyelids and drapes your body with a cozy blanket that’s hard to resist.

Finally - finally, the party ends. So late into the night the sun must be close to rising. It takes you an unbearable amount of time for you and the rest of your team to make way to the golden mansion gates.

More photos and grabbing hands and drunken breath.

When you finally make it to the limo, you slip your shoes and your crown off almost immediately, and curl up into Konig’s arm on the leather seats. You even doze off on the ride back to the tribute suites.

You don’t bother putting your shoes back on before climbing from the limo, holding them at your sides as you stumble to the elevators.

Ruby’s in a similar state, and she seems to have gotten over the whole kissing situation, or at least is too drunk to care at the moment, because she has no trouble linking her elbows with Price to keep herself steady while she gushes over the party and all the praise she received.

Price is off.

You can feel it, even through your intoxication. He’s radiating a tense, stiff aura, his features tired and expressionless. He doesn’t even tease Ruby about her particularly rowdy behavior. Just guides her along, silently.

You’re more than relieved to see the sickeningly extravagant suite, knowing you’re mere yards from a comfortable bed and having Konig all to yourself.

Price lets out a heavy sigh behind you as you breach the entrance of the hall.

“Kids?”

He clears his throat.

“A word?”

Konig and you slow, already uneased and hesitantly turning to face him.

“You’re not gonna like this, but ah-“

Price sighs again.

“You’re sleeping in your own rooms.”

NEXT CHAPTER | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

[queuestarter]

imbrued

(finnick odair x reader)

cw: stab wound, vomit, mentions of prostitution, murder, blood, death

link to the request → reader and finnick are in the quell together and reader gets injured. finnick does everything he can to protect her

open to submissions/asks !!

You never expected to be back.

Why would you? After winning the 68th Hunger Games, you thought you were free from the torment, but that was never the case. After winning and gaining the favor of the capitol, you were immediately thrust into the spotlight, being sold off to those who could afford you. You were given a slot each week on television, showing off baking recipes that you had no interest in making. 

And now, your name was called once more from the pool of victors, placing you back to where you started when you were just sixteen years old, only this time with your boyfriend Finnick by your side.

The events of the weeks leading up to the start of the Quarter Quell passed in a blur. Things only start registering with you when you’re finally in the arena, eyes searching frantically around your surroundings to try and figure out what’s going on.

You can see water immediately in front of you with trees just beyond it, which is more than ideal since you’re from District 4. In your first games, you had to trek through fields of tall grass for miles before there was a place to take shelter.

After you find your bearings on the platform, you immediately begin to search for Finnick. You spot him across the water, the distance upsetting you, but Johanna is on your other side which is slightly comforting. 

When the gong sounds, you immediately head for the Cornucopia. You thrived in the bloodbath in your last games and you plan to do so again. Finnick didn’t want you to put yourself at risk, but you have a reputation to uphold. You know the only way that you’re going to get any sponsors is if you put on a show.

Due to your strong swimming skills, you and Finnick get to the golden Cornucopia first. You barely have time to send a smile his way before you’re grabbing weapons- small knives to strap onto your body and a metal spear to hold. You feel a sick sense of satisfaction when you’re forced to use your newly acquired spear on another tribute, proud that you protected Finnick from a man that was going to kill him.

It’s only when you are finally forced away from the Cornucopia by Finnick’s strong hold on your upper arm that you have the time to talk to him. You can tell by the slight frown on his face that he’s not very happy with you.

“What were you thinking? I told you not to go to the Cornucopia.” He’s still holding onto your arm as you make your way through the jungle, Katniss and Peeta in front of you.

You roll your eyes and smile at him. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Finnick only frowns at you more. “I’m trying to protect you, here. Something bad could have happened.”

You actually laugh at that. “I know you remember my games, Finn. The Cornucopia was mine in the last games. Don’t worry so much about me.”

He sighs, but drops the subject. The two of you fall silent.

The next few hours are terrible. Peeta’s near death, the acid fog, the monkey mutts that killed the poor morphling from District 6 and claimed your spear. The Quell is moving at a much quicker pace than any of the games have in the past and it’s worrying you. 

Things only start to look up after Katniss uses Wiress’ cryptic words to discover that the arena is set up like a clock.

Finnick, ever inquisitive, says, “I’d like to go to the Cornucopia and watch. Just to make sure we’re right about the clock.” You all decide that it’s a pretty good idea and walk the short stretch over to the golden horn.

The others begin to talk mindlessly as you and Finnick branch off into your own conversation while you patrol the border of the Cornucopia. “It’s interesting that there’s nothing but weapons here this year. They’re really trying to get this over with,” you comment.

Finnick nods. “They want us dead. Good thing we know how to fish,” he smirks.

You shake your head in slight amusement, carefully toeing closer to everyone else. As you get closer to the group, you look up from your feet to see Gloss creeping up on the rock wedges, getting closer to an unsuspecting Wiress.

“No!” You scream, pulling a small dagger from your belt. “Wiress, move!” You try to close the gap between you and her.

But it’s too late. You watch in horror as Wiress’ throat gets easily cut by Gloss. Without much thought, you finish the sprint to Gloss, your blade swiftly leaving your hand and ending up in his neck. His eyes widen as he grabs at the handle but before doesn’t pull it out, instead he jumps towards you.

You almost don’t realize what happens. As Gloss lands on top of your body, the same knife he used to kill Wiress ends up in your lower abdomen. You scream, but in the chaos of trying to kill the rest of the careers along with the rapid shifting of the Cornucopia and surrounding waters, the sound gets lost.

It’s only after Finnick grabs your hand and begins to drag you off the island that the reality settles in. You were stabbed in the abdomen and you are losing blood. You put your hand over the wound and keep walking.

“Are you okay?” Finnick asks you once you are back on the beach. “Are you hurt?”

You debate lying for a second. The last thing anyone needs right now is another injured tribute. Beetee is barely hanging on as it is and Peeta is constantly slowing down the group, there doesn’t need to be another liability. But Finnick knows you and he would know if you lied to him.

“I think Gloss stabbed me,” is what ends up coming out of your mouth. You almost wish you lied when you see Finnick’s reaction.

His face twists up in a look of sheer panic, pupils blowing. His hands run across your body until they meet your own hand, holding firmly onto the meaty flesh of your lower torso. “Here?” He asks, gripping your red fingers. “This is where he got you?”

Tears welling up in your eyes, you nod. You can’t help but feel like a disappointment. You thought you would be able to absolutely dominate in these games based on your last ones, but you completely overlooked the fact that everyone else here is a victor, too.

“Okay, baby, let me look,” he gently commands. His eyes turn even wilder when you shake your head. “I need to look. I can’t help you if I can’t see it.”

Your hand drops from your side. Finnick wastes no time in unzipping your jumpsuit, pulling it below your sports bra and to your hips. He bites his lip as he assesses the damage. With a gentle hand, he prods at the tender flesh. A second later, you push him away and throw up.

You can hear him cursing behind you as you continue to retch. You don’t know why you’re sick, but you know that it cannot be good. 

When your sudden sickness is over and you turn back to Finnick to assure him that you don’t know what that was, that you’re fine, you see the rest of the group staring at you, Katniss hands Finnick a mound of what looks like moss in one hand and a small tube.

“I know this isn’t the best option, but it’ll help. I’m sure someone will send us something better soon,” he sends you a small, still panicked smile.

You just nod your head. You’re embarrassed and tired and you want everyone to stop staring at you. You allow Finnick to lead you to where the spile has been hammered into a tree, rinse your wound, apply the medicine, and pack it with the moss. After a few minutes, you feel as good as new.

“Thank you, Finn,” you smile at him. He wraps his arms around you tightly.

“Of course,” he breathes into your hair. “Anything for you. I can’t believe I almost lost you.”

You press a kiss on his collarbone. “That was nothing. I’m not going anywhere.”

“We need to get out of here. You need a real doctor.”

You nod into his shoulder, not too worried anymore. “Soon.”

“Soon,” he repeats back.

And he keeps his promise. The rest of the plan plays out, although not perfectly. You and Finnick are both evacuated and he makes sure you see a doctor, for both the stab in your stomach and the gash in your arm where you cut the tracker out.

You know there’s still more to do, but you feel safe knowing Finnick will be there to protect you.

-

[dorabellingham]

Beach or?....

warnings: none

characters: jude x fem!reader

summary: when you go for a walk on the beach and end up flert with him

may contain spelling and translation errors!

The day was perfect, mild sun, very clear blue sky, that good wind coming from the sea and the warm sand under your feet. Jude had planned the morning carefully: he carried the backpacks, chose the quietest beach in the region, put Leo's small board in the car just in case he wanted to play on the side and even separated a snack with cut fruit! -he barely knew how to cut tomatoes when you met.

You only laughed when you saw his excitement, thrown into the passenger seat with sunglasses, with the bikini under the light dress and the loose hair dancing with the breeze.

-You look like a first-time father on a school outing.

-And you look beautiful.

He replied, without even thinking.

You gave a corner smile. It was impossible to fight with him when he said these things in that automatic way, as if your beauty was an absolute truth and not something you were still rebuilding little by little.

The beach he chose was not so famous, but it was beautiful - with clear waters, few families, almost no paparazzi (miracle of miracles), and a strip of sand good enough for your baby to play and both of you to relax without worry.

You installed the towel, the umbrella, put on a protector to avoid any discomfort later and sat cuddling while he ran to wet his feet.

-This is my kind of perfect day, did you know, babe?

You said softly, your head resting on his shoulder.

-You, me, Leo and the sea?

Jude asked casually, caressing your face with the tip of his nose.

-And your hand holding mine, with no one to judge.

But the peace lasted... well, enough to look like a dream. Because it was only when your boyfriend got up to get more water from the backpack and walk to the back of the beach that the unusual situation began.

The woman was more or less the same age as you two. White, tall, sculptural body, tiny bikini and a floor that clearly knew it drew attention. When shw crossed paths with Jude, she smiled widely and didn't stop there.

You, lying on your side on the towel, with sunglasses and hat, watched everything in silence. That woman ran her hand through her hair, laughed at something she clearly invented to bring up the subject, and put her hand on his arm as if they were childhood acquaintances.

To you who meditated, did therapy and repeated mantras mentally tried to breathe. To you jealous, dramatically and emotionally committed to monogamy, I wanted to get up and pull the girl by the blonde strands.

But you didn't move. Still.

Bellingham, who was nice by nature and blinded by you even on a cloudy day, answered something briefly, smiled politely and pointed out where he was with his family. But the woman didn't seem to understand limits or education. She gave one last giggle and touched his shoulder again. You squeezed the canga as if it were the girl's neck.

-Wretth. -You murmured through your teeth, low enough for anyone to hear. -Go laugh to your grandmother, bitch.

-Look at this, my God, she touched again. Again! Jude, I swear by everything that is most sacred—

You were grumbling alone like a crazy in love, looking like an owl with sunglasses, with your eyes sparkling behind the lenses. And that's when he finally came back, with a bottle of water in his hand and a wide smile on his face.

-Is everything okay here, darling?

He asked, as if he hadn't left a trail of hormonal tension on the way.

-Oh, everything is great. I was here enjoying my life as a betrayed girlfriend.

-What?

He laughed, sitting down again and handing over the water.

-I'm talking about that one over there, the Victoria's Secret model with a crisis of need. She touched you about three times. Three. You should apply alcohol gel.

-Darling...

He started laughing, even more so when he saw that you were really angry.

-Don't laugh, Jude Victor. It's not funny. I was here being a sucker, seeing you all handsome, and the woman thinking you were a bingo prize.

—Bingo prize, Y/n?

-Yeah, like that microwave that everyone wants, but only one takes.

He laughed, he really laughed, throwing his head back, with the bottle of water falling on the sand and his eyes shining with so much laughter.

-You're jealous.

-I feel like throwing sand in her face, that's different.

Jude approached, leaned his forehead against yours, still smiling like a fool.

-I love you, just you, even with a ridiculous hat and swearing in a whisper.

-She laughed too loudly. No one laughs like that at someone they just met.

- I didn't hear.

- I heard. And I have proof. My soul heard it.

He put his arms around you and pulled uou into a hug full of affection. Leo, on the other side, was still trying to set up sand castles and sing some "Cocomelon" song at the same time. What about that woman? He had already left, probably in search of another less married and less loved victim.

-You know what? -You said, with a little smile now, your nose leaning against his neck. -I'm going to walk with a little plate. "This one is mine. Leak."

-I support. Even if you want to get a tattoo, I'll pay.

- Tattoo?

-"Property of Y/n", on the forehead.

-You laugh, but I really tattoo.

You laughed together now, jealousy turning into a joke and the day returning to what it was: calm, light and completely yours.

And from then on, Jude only approached the tent if he was accompanied. Because even if it was just to get water, you always said:

-Go there, my award-winning microwave. But if any woman tries to touch your digital panel, I'll come back with a frying pan.

[slippinmickeys]

Keva sent me a Funfetti prompt on Bluesky, which was fun because it was just a picture. Of...you'll see.

A February day like the world cracked open, crystalline and pure. There was snow in the air, there was frost on the glass. 

“Gonna need to replace those windows,” said Mulder into his pillow, though Scully couldn’t help but admire the paisley hoar, the delicate whorl of paper thin crystals. “Item 161 on the Shit The House Needs List.”

“You’re the one who begged to buy this house, Mulder,” she reminded him, rolling toward him and shoving her feet under the warm meat of his legs. From beside the bed, the baby monitor hissed quietly.

“You agreed to it.”

“The price was right.” 

“I paid for it.”

“It’s only redeeming quality,” she said jauntily, rolling closer to him and pushing the cold tip of her nose into his neck. “And now you get to pay for its upkeep.”

The first eleven months of William’s life had been a slow merging of their individual ones, until the night of Mulder’s fortieth birthday when he wondered aloud why he was still paying for his apartment when he hadn’t set foot in it in months. Upon blowing out the candles on his Snoball, he declared the desire to buy them all a house. 

She pressed a kiss into his skin. “It’s hideous,” she murmured into him. 

“It’s got good bones.”

“It’s got zero curb appeal.”

“There are cathedrals everywhere for those with the eyes to see,” Mulder said, then rolled over quickly, pinning Scully beneath him in one slick move. 

She looked up at him with surprise. With interest. 

“I won’t sit idly by while you lay there and burgle my warmth,” he said, a sly grin creeping up one cheek. 

“I was once told that the best way to regenerate body heat was to crawl naked into a sleeping bag with somebody else who is already naked.”

Mulder smiled. “Sleeping bags aren’t necessary Scully, I intend to get lucky,” he said, lowering his mouth to the curve where her neck met her shoulder. She felt the flick of his tongue. 

And then from the baby monitor, the dulcet tones of “Dada! Dada!”

They both groaned, and Mulder thunked his head into Scully’s shoulder. 

“Well…” she said, giving his back a conciliatory rub. “Maybe tonight.”

Mulder lifted his head. 

“Here me out,” he said. “I think we have time.” He thrust himself almost experimentally against her once. 

Scully considered for a moment, turned her head so she could better hear the smaller noises William was making over the baby monitor when:

“DadadadaDADADA!”

Mulder fell to Scully’s side in defeat. 

“I’ll keep the bed warm for you,” she said, checking to make sure she didn’t need to change into a different pajama top for easier nursing. 

Mulder made a whining sound. 

“Why do I have to go when it’s you he wants?”

“He’s not calling for me,” Scully said innocently. He was one hundred percent correct. The boy would be thrilled to see his father walk into his nursery, but the second Scully came into view, he would attempt to tip himself out of his father’s arms with all the strength he could muster until he found himself in his mother’s.

“‘Dada’ is the only word he can say.”

“A fact I recall you bragging about to anyone within earshot for the better part of the last week.”

“Scully…” he whined. 

“To the victor go the spoils,” she said, and shimmied herself further under the covers. 

Knowing he was fighting a losing battle, Mulder rose from the bed and quickly donned sweats and a tee shirt, shuffling out of their bedroom in a leather pair of slippers ‘William’ had gotten him for Christmas. 

“Good morning!” Scully heard him say good-naturedly over the monitor before she leaned over and switched it off, smiling to herself. 

A few minutes later Mulder came shuffling back in carrying their son, who squealed happily upon seeing his mother. 

“Good morning, William!” she said with a happy smile. 

As they approached her side of the bed, Mulder grinned. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mom,” he said, then turned to look importantly at their son. “Want to give her her present?” 

“Da!” the baby babbled, and leaned out of Mulder’s arms and into Scully’s. 

Scully sat him on her lap briefly, and in the hand that had been tucked into Mulder’s side appeared a small red and yellow plushie that went directly into his mouth. 

“My goodness!” Scully exclaimed happily. “What’s this?” 

Mulder flopped into the bed next to them and propped himself up on an elbow.

William took the opportunity to tilt himself forward and reach for Scully’s top. 

“Breakfast first, huh?” she said, and adjusted both baby and herself so the boy could nurse. 

He waved the plushie about as he latched, and Scully finally got a good look at it. 

“Wait,” she said. “Mulder is that a…” She turned to look at him and he grinned. 

The plushie was a bee. Slightly anthropomorphized with an adorable chubby face, smile, and antenna, holding a heart that said “BEE MINE” in looping cursive. 

“You’re kidding.” She turned to Mulder, who chuckled. “Where’d you two find this?”

“The grocery store,” he answered airily.

“My Valentine’s Day gift is from the grocery store?” Mock outrage. 

“Your birthday is in nine days and I’ve got a mortgage to pay,” Mulder breezed. “Besides, he really liked it.”

“That much is apparent,” Scully said, looking down at her son who was happily suckling, his hand wrapped around the bee in a death grip. 

“You like it?” 

“It’s charming,” she answered. “And as inside jokes go, it’s very…you.” 

Mulder leaned forward to press a kiss to her cheek and then one to the side of William’s head. “I think of it less as an inside joke and more a message of devotion.” 

She quirked a look at him. 

“I’d go to the ends of the earth for you, Scully,” he said simply, then rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom, leaving her in a state of rather stunned emotional tumult. 

She sat in silence for a moment, her equilibrium shaken. Mulder chose that moment to bring her back to herself.

“Oh,” he said, reappearing in the doorway with a toothbrush sticking half out of his mouth. “Be careful. I think it’s got a lot of drool on the one antenna.”

[see-arcane]

As I looked, the eyes saw the sinking sun, and the look of hate in them turned to triumph. But, on the instant, came the sweep and flash of Jonathan's great knife. I shrieked as I saw it shear through the throat; whilst at the same moment Mr. Morris's bowie knife plunged into the heart. It was like a miracle; but before our very eyes, and almost in the drawing of a breath, the whole body crumble into dust and passed from our sight. I shall be glad as long as I live that even in that moment of final dissolution, there was in the face a look of peace, such as I never could have imagined might have rested there.

I don't know what's getting to me about this scene this time around, but I can't help imagining a cinematic beat in which Dracula, head cleaved from his shoulders, steel through his heart, looks to Jonathan. Fire-eyed, white-haired, triumphant against his personal nemesis and would-be keeper at last.

For just a moment, Dracula is whoever he was before he was an inhuman monster. A great man? A warlord? A hero or a horror in human flesh depending on the history. But a man again, whatever else. He looks at Jonathan.

Maybe he sees him.

Maybe he sees someone else. Some long ago youth who lived and died and was remade in profane immortality for the sake of supernatural strength, taught by ancient Powers beneath a distant mountain. A youth who would sell his soul to accomplish his goal.

As the sun sets red, Dracula sees that long-ago youth victorious but not yet damned--the man conquering the monster--and, for the first time in centuries, thinks he sees his reflection. The hunter, the warrior, the victor. How strange not to see him in armor. When did you change your sword? Ah, well.

You did it just the same. You did it...

(What was his name before all this? Memory is cracking, turning to powder in his mind. His name is...his name was...)

((No, no, old man. He is not you. You know. You know he is--he's--))

Voiceless, his lips move. Red a final time as his throat's foam bleeds up and out of the stained mouth.

Thank you, my friend.

There is time enough to smile before he crumbles away to sleep.